The gates opened and Thranduil fought to maintain his calm exterior and not launch himself at full speed at the small party that had stopped right before the narrow bridge to the entrance of the stronghold. He settled for a brisk walk, his heart clenched in fear and anticipation. Fairnathad dismounted and held Thûl's reins while Neniel leapt off her horse. Both elves seemed to be avoiding his eyes. His heart clenched tighter and he hurried to join them by the litter they were currently unlashing from the horses it had been borne here between.
"Aran-nîn", Fairnathad acknowledged him quietly, but did not pause in his actions. He turned to make sure Neniel was holding the back end of the litter securely and nodded to her before detaching the last bind from Thûl's neck and taking the front end himself. Only then did he meet Thranduil's gaze.
Thranduil looked his old friend in the eyes, afraid to look away, afraid to look more closely at the litter. Fairnathad's expression was grim, and he was making no effort at hiding it. Thranduil blinked, then braced himself and looked down at the elf the other two were carrying.
He was prepared, he had been prepared for days. And still the lifelessness of the prone form tore at his heart. The elf's fair face was sunken, pale, and shadowed, not even the fever that was apparent in the light beading of sweat on his brow was enough to return any color to it. But more than appearance, it was the feeling that the body before him was nothing more than an empty shell. He could not feel his son's fae, not even this close to him. He swallowed, forbidding himself to despair. Legolas was alive, and he needed him.
Nobody spoke on the way to the healing wards. Thranduil followed the other two, briskly, and in silence. They met nobody, Thranduil had made sure the path was clear when he had felt them approach the stronghold. The healers had been prepared, and everything was as ready as possible. But it all did little to assuage the helplessness Thranduil felt.
They entered the healing wards quietly, and carried the prince into the private, curtained area that had been prepared. The two elves placed the litter on the bed, and two other healers carefully lifted Legolas off it and onto the clean sheets.
"We need to bring down his fever", Neniel was saying to the other healers. They set about feeding the already prepared herbal infusions slowly to his unconscious son, while Neniel undid a bandage around his thigh, revealing a badly infected wound. She immediately began gathering supplies and set to work cleaning it.
With enough other healers tending to his patient, Fairnathad turned to Thranduil.
"What of the others?", Thranduil asked apprehensively, though he felt he already knew. Fairnathad simply shook his head.
"We found them. All of them", he said. "They are being brought back."
Dead then. All of them. No cause for hurry. Thranduil's heart clenched for his warriors, for their families, but most of all for his son. He closed his eyes before looking back at the healer.
"And Legolas?"
"We found him under the roots of a tree, well out of sight. The tree was hiding him, and doing a good job of it. We had to convince it that we meant no harm before it shifted enough to let us reach him. It was sending all its energy towards you."
Fairnathad paused. Thranduil felt a surge of gratitude toward the tree that had so carefully sheltered and protected his son. It reminded him what all their fighting and losses were for. It also gave him a painful stab of déjà-vu, conjuring up images of another time he had found Legolas hidden in a tree. He shuddered, pushed the memories as far away as he could.
The healer continued. "Tuialeth was with him", he said quietly. "We were too late for her, by no more than a day. All the others must have died at the site of the battle. Legolas could not have made it away from there without Tuialeth, let alone survive for a week. She must have fetched water for them at least."
"She was wounded?"
"A stab wound in her side. She had already lost a lot of blood when the infection set in."
"And Legolas?"
"I do not know how it happened, but his legs are broken. Badly." The healer looked down for a moment, then back up at Thranduil. "Very badly, aran-nîn. I am not sure he will fully recover."
Thranduil bit his lip. "Is that all?"
"There is a wound on his thigh that is badly infected. That is the most critical, what is causing the fever. We will see what we can do."
Thranduil forced himself to stay collected. He did not like the graveness of Fairnathad's expression, the clipped way he was speaking, the way even one of his oldest friends seemed to be having trouble holding his gaze. Fairnathad had never been one for sugarcoating, but he could not remember a time when he had been given quite so bleak an outlook. He swallowed to try to contain his rising despair.
"What else, Fairnathad?", he said, knowing the answer in his heart. It was what he had felt.
He saw Fairnathad's adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed. He looked down briefly before answering, his voice slightly hoarser than before.
"I fear his physical wounds are not the worst of it", he said quietly. "He is fading, Thranduil. He is almost gone."
Thranduil should not have been surprised; he had known this for days. The connection between himself and his son was strong, just like his connection to the forest. Both had sent him the same signals. But to hear an experienced healer say it, leaving no room for doubt and little for hope, was like a physical blow. His throat closed up in panic. He couldn't breathe. The room flickered; he took a step back to maintain his balance but he was wavering …
Fairnathad caught him hard by the arm, clawing his fingers into his flesh.
"Almost, Thranduil", he hissed at the king. "I said almost."
Thranduil felt his breath return. Tears shot into his eyes, but he stayed upright. He looked back into his friend's face and saw the same tears mirrored in the urgent gaze. He blinked. He breathed. His son lived. And Thranduil was going to keep him that way.
"What can I do?"
