The Elvenking strode through the halls of the palace, his flowing robes streaming out behind him. Chalia and I followed. I stole a glance at her, but she was staring straight ahead now, focused on our task.
I wondered what King Thranduil had meant when he'd said the company needed me. I was no healer, that was certain. How could I help?
The room where the Prince had been deposited was teeming with activity. Elves of all stripes, Silvan, Sindar, high-born, common, ellith and ellyn alike filtered in and out, bearing fresh cloths and bowls of warm water.
Upon entering, I fought the urge to instantly flee. It felt so wrong to be present. Legolas was unconscious still and had been stripped from the waist up so the healers could see to his wounds.
It was an arrow, I realized—staring stupidly over at the bloody stump of wood protruding from his chest. It made me sick, and I looked away, unwilling to watch the way the snapped bolt rose and fell with his breath.
At that moment, a low moan issued from the corridor outside, and I saw more elfkin staggering in from the Mirkwood, bloodstained and battered.
So the Prince had not been the only casualty.
It was then that I thought of the warning Chalia had given me weeks earlier. It was the spiders, Fil, she had said. They were abducted and debased by spiders. They'd been drained of blood. Who knows what happened to their fëa!
I shivered. This was a known threat. And it had gone unmarked.
As I stared back down at the prone form of the Prince, I grew suddenly angry at the needless injustice of it. I felt my face colour and chanced to look up into Thranduil's cool, blue eyes.
He wore a worried frown, but when he noticed me turn to look at him, he met my gaze, canting his head at me curiously. We held there for a long moment and I willed the thought at him.
You knew.
His eyes fluttered as if I'd struck him, but I did not turn away. We'd never spoken of the infestation openly, but the whole populace knew of it—knew of his apathy on the situation, on the way he'd dragged his kingly feet and found every reason on Middle Earth he should not act immediately. It was treason to criticize the monarch; we'd all just hoped that this day wouldn't come and that we'd never have to face what it brought. He'd done it to himself. And to us.
You knew, I thought savagely at him. And you would let these beasts roam your forest—your own, dear Mirkwood—and attack your own people. Your son! Look at what has happened to your son!
The King cast his eyes down and I drew a surprised breath, wondering if he'd actually heard my thoughts.
He knew that look. That was reproach, and righteous anger. He'd only ever seen one elleth give him that look, and he'd hated every second of it, never wishing to invoke it again.
What had he done? Sweet Valar, he thought.
The bard was staring at him and would not stop, and his son lay unconscious and bleeding before them all.
More quickly than he could have imagined, it all built up inside of him and became too much. Any feeling so intense that it poured out of his psyche and into the room became palpable anger. Sadness, when he could not control it, turned into anger. His fear often masqueraded as anger. Confusion—anger, of course.
"What?" he snapped suddenly at the elleth before he even knew what he was doing.
Filauria's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and the elleth from the patrol turned to look at him with concern.
"Why do you look at me like that?" he demanded, knowing this was dangerous, knowing that there was a better time and place to do this.
The bard gave him an incredulous scoff. "You're joking, yes?" she asked.
That further irritated him.
"Please," begged one of the healers quietly. "Not now, Your Majesty…"
"What am I not to do just now?" he snipped at the older elleth. "Speak? In my own palace?"
The healer shrugged her shoulders and kept her eyes down on her task. She was mixing a set of tonics—topical or oral, he did not know, and the stirrer clinked relentlessly in the fragile glass container.
Another healer, an ellon with an apron tied around his waist, strode confidently into the room. He put a hand on the Prince's motionless legs and breathed a healing prayer before beginning.
The distraction was a welcome one, but Thranduil could not escape the judgement in Filauria's eyes. He remembered then that there was something, perhaps, between his son and the bard.
And that also made him angry.
"If you need assistance," he growled at the ellon, indicating Chalia and Filauria. "Use them. One's in the King's guard, and the other has fine, flexible fingers. She manages to control herself well. Generally."
While a set of flames leapt up in Filauria's eyes, the healer frowned and glanced over at her hands in an appraising manner.
The Elvenking took this opportunity to escape. "Excuse me," he murmured, his temper just about to spill out over everyone in the room. He shouldered past the patrol elleth and ducked out into the corridor.
He was headed for his own private quarters to try and regain some of his composure when he heard a feminine voice say simply, "No."
He knew who it was without turning around.
"Do not do this," he warned her. "I cannot vouch for my temper at this time."
"Do not do what?" Filauria asked him. "Follow you?"
He turned to face her, feeling his nostrils flare with the effort of keeping himself in check.. "Whatever it is you are going to do or say, just stop it," he snapped. "My heart is heavy with worry and regret, and I'm in no mood for one of your fits."
A wash of incredulity came over her face. "One of my fits? Are you referring to those fleeting moments when I remind you to be decent and courteous?"
Thranduil moved very close to her and looked down into her big, brown eyes. "I tell you again, bard," he warned her quietly. "You tread on dangerous ground. This is not the time to make a statement regarding my behavior. I am King of the Greenwood, and you owe me your respect and honor."
She looked steadily up at him.
Fearless, he thought in grudging admiration.
"You should not leave your son," she said, and that surprised him. "He needs you. The healers are going to pull the arrow out and you should be there if he awakens."
He looked away from her, trying in vain to relieve some of the tension. "He has all the healers he could ever need," he replied. "What could I do for Legolas that they cannot?"
"Be his father," she returned without hesitation. "And be present for him. None but you can hold this office."
There was a pause while he peered out the window at the bare forest outside.
"My King," she said, and it was a soft sound this time, but he could not look at her. "It is a frightening time for everyone," she went on. "Which is all the more reason none of us should face it alone."
Thranduil's great brows knit together in consternation. He desired only to wander off and seek solace in drink. Why did this young elleth seem to have such a good case against that?
She placed one of her little hands on his arm, then worriedly prodded, "My King?"
But he jerked away from her touch as if burned. "What," he snarled, glowering at her, "Did we learn last time about uninvited physical touch?"
Filauria shrank from him.
He was just thankful she had not seen the shiver that had coursed through him a moment before.
"I thought you might be unwell," she explained, "And I was worried."
There was a slight pause while he considered this. The thought did not displease him. "I did take a small scratch in my side," he murmured. "But it does not pain me overmuch. I can see to that later."
Clouds of worry were gathering behind her eyes, and she straightened. "You must have it looked at right away," she said evenly to him. "Even the smallest cut can be rendered fatal where poison is administered, and I heard from one of the guards that these goblins dip their arrows."
Thranduil turned to face her. She was a head shorter than he was, and looked up at him with her wide, concerned eyes. Her hair was a tumbling array of golden, coppery brown strands, and her chest was flushed. She ran all the way back here, he remembered suddenly, and then a quick flash of her raced through his mind—Filauria, gathering the scattered elfkin on foot and instructing them to follow her back to the gates, to run…
Lost in thought, he stared into her face. Brave, he thought. She is a brave elleth. Strong.
"You will go to him?" she was demanding. "Thranduil King?"
He quite liked his name on her lips.
"My King!" she said again, and he realized she was flushed because she was angry.
Here he was, lusting after this—this courtier, and his son lay dying a mere room away. It was unforgivable.
"You will have your wound seen to, and then you will go back to attend your son?" she was demanding. "To assist the healers? If you are worried, I will be there with you. But this is important. You must not leave him!"
"You have made your case," he replied hoarsely.
"It's about time someone did," was her sharp retort. It was so like something she might have said hundreds of years ago that he was struck dumb and could not reply.
The elleth left to return to the Legolas' chambers, calling over her shoulder, "I will be attending the Prince. Come if you are so inclined."
Thranduil watched her for a moment. Then he followed.