The night air in the forest outside the healing rooms was frosty. The veiling of the stars hinted at the possibility of winter's first snowfall. Thranduil studied the skies from his seat on his cloak beside Elluin. He had thought to invite her to sleep there beside him, tempted by the idea of tucking her to his side with a tree at their back and his shoulder as her pillow. If rumor among the Silvans was to be believed, their closeness would be no surprise to any Elf that might see them. But he conceded that having their clothes and skin dampened and chilled by snow during the night would be unpleasant, and counter to his goal to see her well rested.
He also worried that snowfall might hinder the progress of his soldier, Maluven, on his mission to retrieve advice from Lord Elrond on how to care for Soronume, still suffering from the effects of the poisoned Orc arrow. Despite the keen eyes of the Elves, they could not see through a flurry, and his progress would be slowed. Thranduil calculated that it would be another day before Maluven reached Rivendell, and another three at the very least before he could be expected to return. The remedies that the palace healers of Greenwood had tried were thus far successful in preventing Soronume's death, but they had seen no improvement.
Thranduil turned to look at Elluin, who was just finishing with the meal he had brought for them from the kitchens. Worry and her constant vigil had taken their toll on her, the fatigue evident on her face. Wordlessly, he handed her a water skin. She obediently drank, recognizing the wisdom behind it after her recent tears. Then he started to pack away the empty dishes.
"Thranduil, let me—" she began to protest.
"No, my heart," he said, cutting her off. "You are excused from all duties except to your family, until your father recovers."
He could see she was not entirely pleased with this command. And she was also uncertain about the optimism in his words.
"I know you would like to feel useful," he continued sympathetically as he finished his work. He had lost count of how many times he had felt this himself, and given this same counsel to others, when fellow soldiers had been wounded. "But you must rest first."
At that, he slung the satchel over his shoulder again and rose, helping Elluin to her feet. He picked up his cloak. With his free arm, he pulled Elluin into an embrace. He placed a kiss on her forehead as she returned it. "I will take you back to the healing rooms now, to sleep in one of their spare beds by your mother," he said with a note of reluctance. "Daylight is still hours off. We need to rest. They will wake us if there is any change."
Elluin was too tired to argue, and allowed herself to be led back. Another healer directed them to the room where Linalda was already asleep. Thranduil left her at the door, placing a last fond kiss on her cheek and promising to see her in the morning.
~.~.~
Maethon was unable to completely conceal his grim expression when Thranduil reached his chambers, despite his attempt at a cheery, "Welcome home, sire." The servant was obviously also concerned for his friend's father.
"Has any word been sent from my aunt?" the king asked, allowing Maethon to help him undress and settle into a warm bath. He forgot to be surprised at how his servant seemed to know when he would arrive and always had the water ready.
"Not yet, sire," Maethon replied. His hands worked quickly over the king's skin, eager to see him to bed. "Galion has many messengers about tonight," he mentioned, knowing the king would appreciate some reassurance about preparations. "News of the arrow wound arrived at the palace by messenger bird—the first success of Turiel's project. The bird had to be sent from the outpost where it had been kept, of course; Turiel's eventual goal is for the bird to come to the palace to notify us of events without being sent by any Elf."
Maethon took the king's hair in one hand and pressed lightly down on his head with the other, prompting him to lower further into the water for more effective washing. "Lady Elluin was nervous, at first, about the stock of healing herbs, since much had been given in trade with Chieftain Borgel's Men," the servant continued, working soap through Thranduil's tresses. "She had just to speak the word, and half the kitchen staff and all the healing assistants were out, under a score of guards that General Cembeleg sent along, searching the woods for all the supplies that could be had now in winter. Fortunately, the frost has been kind thus far and Lady Anarrima reported a surplus of the regular stock long before the company returned from Rivendell."
Both of them guessed that the cure possibly did not lie in the regular stock, but neither had enough knowledge to confirm their worries.
"On that note, I was ordered to offer you chamomile tea before bed, my king." Maethon nodded his head toward the hearth, where a kettle was waiting slightly withdrawn from the flame. Thranduil was immediately distracted from the sight when Maethon dug the pads of his thumbs into the tense muscles of his shoulders. Thranduil's wince soon turned into a sigh of relief as the servant continued with an expert touch. His eyelids felt heavy by the time Maethon finally withdrew and held up a towel.
Maethon was not as talkative as Sulros, and said nothing further as he helped Thranduil dry and dress. The promised cup of tea was pressed into the king's palm as his hair was brushed. Thranduil hardly felt it necessary anymore, fatigued from the distress and the hard pace of the previous two days, and lulled by the memory of Elluin's warmth within the circle of his arms earlier, along with Maethon's attentions. He still drank the tea, more to show his appreciation than anything else.
Maethon soon drew back the covers of Thranduil's bed and watched him slide in. The king was asleep even before the servant had doused all the lanterns.
~.~.~
Maluven knew it was useless to be impatient with his horse's need to rest. The sharp incline of the High Pass over the Misty Mountains was not easy for his woodland mount to navigate, and she had done remarkably well. But after many hours, the usually nimble mare had started to stumble, fatigue sending quivers through her muscles. It was just past noon, and they had been moving since the clouds had receded enough to reveal the gray just before the dawn. The light snowfall overnight had reflected the poor light enough to give the horse a clear enough path.
Now that they had climbed this high up the mountain, snow was ever present, hiding hidden stones or cracks that could betray the mare at any moment, leading to injury they would not have time to treat.
Maluven took a deep breath, resolved to rest his own taxed body for a while. He dusted the snow off a boulder close to the loosely tethered horse and lay against it. In his head, he rehearsed the recipe for the remedy as the Half-Elven lord spoke it, and tapped a hand against the pocket where he kept it in written form.
First, a strong brew of hawthorn, chamomile, and honey to regulate the pulse and calm the stomach. Then a paste of oil, egg, and ground flax seeds to raise the body temperature. He will reject much of it, but keep forcing it, and keep him as warm as possible. There is no cure for wolfsbane, but he may survive if you help him weather its effects until it has run its course.
And then the hopeful afterthought:
If he prevails, support his recovery with milk thistle and apples, along with plenty of water.
In the barracks, Maluven had heard that Turiel had begun to train birds to be messengers. He wondered if any would be tracking him. Suddenly, he worried that one would drop down before him and he would have to explain the cure to it somehow to bear back, and wondered if he would have the heart to tell it that Soronume needed to consume an egg. The Elf's muted laughter bounced between the snowy peaks around him. He definitely needed to sleep, he thought, recognizing his weary mind's ridiculousness, and was quick to follow his own advice. Fervently, he hoped no evil thing would interrupt him.
~.~.~
Thranduil had been too distracted by worry to give Galion adequate praise for his maneuvering that morning. The steward had commandeered one of the empty healing rooms and had a desk set in it so the king could see to some administrative duties that morning while within shouting distance of Soronume's room, where Elluin and her mother were once again installed. Galion had obviously known that without this plan, he would have his palace messengers run into the ground, sending updates between the healing rooms and the king's chambers at every moment. And Thranduil also knew that completing these tasks at his desk made him feel far more useful than he would have if he were to spend the whole day sitting with Soronume alongside Elluin, no matter how it ached him to be apart from her during this trial.
This was the fate of the Elvenking. He remembered well how his father always seemed to be pulled between his duties and his desires, despite how often these coincided. In Oropher's heart, the appeal of collaboration with other Elven kingdoms weighed against his and his subjects' wish for independence. A safer fortress, against distance from threats. A council meeting, against a sparring session with his son. Oropher's life was so often a series of compromises, and he had passed this legacy onto his son.
Fixing his seal onto another document and setting the relevant stack of reports aside, Thranduil finally sat back from the desk that had been brought in for him, and rolled his shoulders. He found this compromise, at least, quite agreeable — he was close to Elluin and her family, available to them, and kept informed directly and regularly by the healers. And though he was not meeting with the council as he should have, he still spent the morning fulfilling some of his other duties. He wondered suddenly, in a rare burst of optimism, if having Elluin by his side as Elvenqueen would require an increase of compromises, or whether her help would decrease the need for them.
Anarrima interrupted his thoughts as she entered the room. Thranduil was set quickly at ease by her calm demeanor. She bowed her head and stepped close to place a kiss on his temple.
"We have tried all we know, and exhausted the potential remedies in our healing books," she said gravely when he asked for news. "Soronume has shown no improvement, though I know we have slowed his deterioration significantly. He is still unconscious, and has managed to keep down only a small amount of water since he was brought in. I fear for him."
Thranduil did not wish to ask, but did so anyway. "What do you believe is the likelihood that he will survive until Maluven returns from Rivendell?"
"I cannot say," Anarrima said sadly, attempting to lessen the sting of her words with a comforting hand on her nephew's shoulder. "And even if he does, it is not certain that Elrond will have a cure, or if he does, that we would be able to replicate it with our supplies. And Soronume has already weakened considerably…" She trailed off, turning her head slightly and looking toward the floor in an attempt to prevent Thranduil seeing the depth of concern in her eyes.
Of course, he sensed it, anyway, and gripped the hand she had placed on his shoulder firmly in his own, accepting the strength it lent. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat.
"What can I do?" he asked hoarsely, avoiding her gaze.
Anarrima's heart broke for him. Thranduil had seen countless of his fellow soldiers dying, and often had the terrible privilege to be joined by that soldier's closest friends as it happened. To go through that awful ordeal as a leader among warriors was one thing; it was quite another as a courting ellon.
The elleth sniffed softly. "Support Linalda however you may," she said resolutely. "Strengthen her spirit, to which Soronume's is bound. Her strength may lend him enough time until an antidote may be administered."
Thranduil recognized it the near-impossibility of the situation and felt despair well up inside him. It burst forth in a desperate gasp as he considered the implications. Elluin's spirit would be fractured by the loss of her father, and more if her mother were to fall to sorrow. She would eventually be released from her grief, but the scar would remain. Thranduil knew from experience how long it could take to feel whole again — he was still feeling the effects of his father's death over three centuries ago. Thus, the image flashed in his mind of what the future held: Elluin walking past him on some errand or other, year after year, perhaps casting him a fond smile that never quite reached the dimmed blue of her distant eyes, with all his attempts to draw her to him ending in sorrowful sighs and an abysmal coldness in his heart.
"No," he panted, his hands starting to tremble even as he clutched his aunt's. "No, there must be something more."
Anarrima blinked away her tears at seeing her nephew's pain, but forced her mind to work. "Send word to the old Silvan healers," she suggested. "We have already consulted with the healers in the closer villages, but they did not have any other recommendations. I know that some of the southern villages have healers that have been practicing since before your father brought us here. Perhaps—"
"Do it," Thranduil said sharply.
Anarrima wasted no time in conveying instructions to a messenger in the hallway. She returned to her nephew's side. "I would still advise to go to them a little while," she suggested gently. "Ensure that Linalda and Elluin do not resign themselves to despair, which is a poison just as potent, and harms more than just themselves."
Thranduil bit back a groan of frustration, still struggling to prevent his quick breaths from becoming sobs, bitterly aware of the truth of his aunt's words and the irony of the circumstances. As was prophesied, Elluin had come into his life as a balm to his spirit, helping him start to heal from the many wounds his long life had dealt him. So many were marks of the poison Anarrima described. And now, Elluin was the one at the brink of brokenness, and he felt powerless to return her aid.
Yet, his heart compelled him more forcefully than his woe. He took several deep breaths. Once he felt in control of himself again, he nodded his assent to his aunt's suggestion. She followed him out silently.
~.~.~
Soronume's room was kept warm with heated stones continually refreshed by assistants, and steam rising steadily from pots of water infused with lemon balm and lavender. Elluin and Linalda, while their faces still held carefully contained worry, looked much better than they had the night before after he had obligated them to take a few hours of sleep. And yet it was obvious that Soronume's lack of improvement had begun to gnaw at them. They continued their vigil, each holding one of his hands, occasionally rubbing his arms to ensure they were still warm.
Thranduil had seen Elluin that morning, to greet her and ensure she and her mother had eaten a morning meal. She had, predictably, been somewhat distracted but still happy to see him, which lightened his heart. And her eyes held gratitude when he told her he would be working close by for the day. But now, Elluin's face had become drawn once again, and as Anarrima had predicted, with each passing hour, the worry in her eyes was slowly morphing into despair. The Elvenking steeled himself for this next battle.
His entrance had not been noticed, so he offered a brief greeting and again raised a hand to prevent the ladies from rising. He knew better than to ask whether there had been any change; he would have been informed by the healers if there were. Instead, he took a seat beside Elluin with a huff that hinted at impatience.
"Greenwood's new soldiers have settled into their patrol routes by now," he observed. "There is none better than a Silvan for making a bow, and these are readily available. But I fear our stock of daggers is now severely depleted." Thranduil noticed the blank looks the ladies now turned to him. That was something, at least — he had provided a distraction. "The finest daggers are, of course, made completely from metal, with leather on the handle. But we do not outfit our soldiers with the finest weapons until they have been earned."
Thranduil then moved his hand to Soronume's, intentionally setting it beside Elluin's. He deliberately ignored his shock at the coolness of the ailing Elf's skin in contrast with his daughter's warmth.
"I had hoped to discuss this matter with Soronume as soon as we returned from patrol," Thranduil continued in a tone suggesting mild disappointment. "I have seen some of the dagger handles he has carved for our soldiers; they are just what we need. But it appears that now I will have to wait at least another few days before I can broach the subject with him."
He shifted his gaze to Linalda across the cot. Her eyes shone with unshed tears as she stared back at him, but he also detected a hint of determination strengthening there.
"I appreciate your efforts in aiding him in his recovery, Linalda," he told her, keeping an easy tone. "Please inform me if there is anything I can do to make the task easier for you."
It took her several moments before she managed to respond. "I shall, thank you, sire."
Thranduil gave her a business-like nod. His eyes softened as he turned to the elleth at his side. Now he intentionally moved his hand to hers as he searched her face. "Elluin, is there anything you need?" There it was: the adoration he had come to expect, barely overshadowing the despair. While his intention was primarily to instill hope in her, he also wished she could think past her emotions to give him a useful response.
"We have been most attentively cared for, sire," Elluin answered steadily. She looked again at her father's face as he muttered, shakily and unintelligibly, under his breath. "If I may, my king, who is your body servant on duty?"
Thranduil blinked in surprise. "Maethon. But as I have not had need of him, he was dismissed this morning. Why do you ask?"
Elluin turned to look at him again. "My father has always enjoyed his playing on the harp. I was wondering—"
"Send for him," Thranduil immediately called to a healing assistant coming in through the door with another heated stone. The elleth murmured a quick assent, obviously having heard the relevant part of the conversation, and turned right back around to seek out a messenger.
"It would lift his spirits, I am sure," Thranduil said, turning back to the carpenter, "as long as Maethon chooses an adequately animated tune."
The corners of Elluin's lips barely rose in acknowledgment of the mild jest, as they all knew Maethon to be generally reserved and serious.
"If he would but rest," Elluin lamented suddenly, stroking a gentle hand across her father's shoulder, jerking unevenly with his erratic breaths.
Elluin bowed her head in sorrow as the phrase hung in the air. Then suddenly, she stiffened. She turned teary eyes to Anarrima, who still stood silently behind her nephew.
"My lady Anarrima," she began, "I had assumed that we should not administer any tranquilizing herbs because his heartbeat is so weak. But if it is weak because it tires from its erratic pace, would slowing it help maintain my father's strength?"
Anarrima considered the question for several moments.
"I am not certain," she concluded, "but as things stand, it may not be ill-advised. I will have chamomile brewed." She left swiftly.
A/N: Kudos to my reviewer for guessing belladonna. Though that wasn't it, it is also a historically common poison. The remedies I've listed for wolfsbane poisoning are legit according to the symptoms as understood now. Milk thistle is for liver health and apples are for kidney health, since the toxin tends to travel to these organs as the body attempts to process it. Wolfsbane was historically used to poison spearheads and the like, and there has never been a cure, even now, though modern medicine is able to save those exposed in some cases. (I'm hoping nobody shows up at my door asking why I've been looking this stuff up.)
Another side note: from the beginning, I made the decision to include only plants and herbs that are native to Europe/the British Isles in this fanfic, since that was likely what Tolkien was envisioning with regards to environment, despite the existence of other healing herbs that would serve the same purposes (like garlic and ginger). By the way, that is also why you won't see me referencing herbs like rosemary or foods like tomatoes (sorry, Denethor) that come from the Mediterranean regions.
Is it obvious to anyone yet that I am the hugest nerd?