Shoutout to leelee202 - thanks for reading and reviewing! And thanks, readers, for your patience with this story. I know some time tends to slide by in between updates, but hopefully the story is enough fun to offset that. Happy February!
The elleth was as good as her word. She stood by grim-faced that whole afternoon, assisting the healers as they tended to the prince.
Thranduil focused on the steady rise and fall of Legolas' chest and tried not to think of poisons doing their slow and terrible work, nor of arteries and veins and the diminished and feeble way they pulsed at his son's throat.
The initial healing took hours.
While several ancient spells were invoked, the lead healer removed the shaft of the arrow. The elleth from the patrol—Chalia was her name—held the prince down, while he, the healer, dug about mercilessly until the head could wriggle about in the wound. Not only was the apex of the arrowhead sharp, the two side-edges ended in wicked points as well, and Thranduil thought to himself that pulling the thing from the prince's body might well be doing him just as much injury as when it had originally gone in.
As the lead healer worked, fresh blood welled up in the wound, and an aide stood by to mop it up with fresh cloths and speak healing prayers over it.
Finally, the shaft and head came free with a horrible squelching noise, and someone in the periphery of the room was quietly sick.
Any pieces of splintered wood or debris, the healer gave over into the bard's waiting hands, and several times, he asked her to peer into the wound to check for more foreign objects. Her thin fingers were soon coated with blood, and Thranduil saw her blanch. But she seemed determined to hold fast until the session was over.
Legolas was happily unconscious the entire time, either from sheer loss of blood or his body's own need to numb itself.
When the initial healing was mostly over, the ellon in charge turned to dismiss them. "Now that the danger of the puncture has been seen to," he explained, "We fight the infection and attempt to strengthen him."
Thranduil shot a glance at Filauria, who nodded unsteadily at the healer.
"Thank you for your help," the ellon added. "You are a good elleth to have about in a crisis."
She smiled gamely and then swayed where she stood.
The king took a quick step forward, the sleeping form of his son momentarily forgotten. "Here," he said softly, and offered the bard his velvet wrap, settling it gently about her shoulders. Dazed, she took it and pulled it more tightly around herself.
Their eyes met for a moment, and something passed between them—Thranduil was not sure what. Something kindled in his chest, a need to do—what? "You need rest, and water," he stammered at her, and she nodded again.
As they left the room and he watched the bard make for her quarters, he missed the raised eyebrows and glances exchanged by others in the room.
I returned numbly to my apartments and fell into my bed, losing consciousness almost instantly.
I know not how long I slept, but when I next awoke, it was early twilight. I sat up groggily and surveyed the room, disoriented. My throat was parched, my mouth dry.
I listened to the silence for a while. The palace seemed to be holding its breath. How fares the prince? I wondered. Then the terrible thought followed: Does he live?
It was then that I noticed the deep brown bloodstains on my hands and forearms. I had neglected to wash when I'd left the others, and now my stained skin forced me to accept the immediacy, the severity, of what we'd all gone through the night before.
Tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them away and tried to swallow down the lump in my throat.
I resolved to get up, if only for a moment.
Quietly, I padded out into the hall. It seemed I floated like the most solitary and forlorn of ghosts as I made my way to the kitchens. I asked one of the cooks for watered wine and drank it down slowly. When it was gone, I asked for another cup and then made to return to my quarters.
I thought I might bathe. I smelled of blood and my own fear sweat. My hair was bedraggled and my face felt grimy. Manwë, I'd worn the same clothes for nearly three days! The more I considered it, the more welcome the idea of sinking gratefully into the steaming water became. My pace quickened and I headed that way.
I had turned a corner and was entering one of the open scroll libraries when I was startled by a dark form waiting in one of the armchairs. My body tensed and I bit back the scream that threatened to burst from me.
The figure started.
"Valar," he cursed, and it was the king.
He came to his feet, and as the paltry light touched his features, I could see he was in much the same state I was. Deep circles edged his eyes as though he had not slept. His robes were wrinkled and stained, and his already pale complexion had taken on an unearthly tone. The blackness of his strong brows stood out in sharp relief as he knit them together, regarding me.
"Are you—well?" he asked.
"I think so," I replied. "Only exhausted. But how is the prince?"
The king looked both relieved and somehow sad as he answered me. "He will live," he said brokenly. "He will live. His recovery may take some time, but he is strong. And," he said, giving me a strange look, "He has much to live for."
"That is true," I agreed absently.
We stood there for sometime, both lost in thought.
"You look terrible," he said finally, and I cracked a smile.
"I could say the same, your majesty."
Slowly, he took a few steps closer to me, his eyes locked on mine. "Why don't you?" he asked.
"You look terrible, too," I replied, almost whispering.
With a small smile, he drew still closer. "Have you slept?" he asked gently. "Eaten? Do you need water?"
"I—" I could not look away from those hypnotic blue eyes, and an unexpected warmth began to spread through my body, beginning at the apex between my legs.
Thranduil Elvenking reached me and offered his hands in the dark. I took them.
At his touch, I reeled.
His fingers were long and his palms rough. He was warm. Unconsciously, almost, his hands cradled mine and mine responded, finding a comfortable resting position immediately. "Whatever you need," he continued. "Name it, and it is yours."
I nodded dumbly.
With his thumb, he tenderly stroked the back of my hand. "Thank you," he added.
I looked at him, unable to do much else. I am not sure how long we stood that way as the light of the Mirkwood continued to darken around us in the scroll library.
Outside, one of the first brisk snows of winter had begun to fall. Well, not fall. Blow, more like. The wind was harsh and changeable, and flurries rode the frigid air like darts seeking to gouge their victims.
Finally, I muttered something about bathing and Thranduil nodded.
He brought my right hand up to his mouth and slowly turned it over until the sensitive flesh of my palm was exposed. Then he lowered his head and pressed warm lips to the skin there.
The touch seared and I tried not to gasp. My mind raced. Just this one interaction suggested much about the kind of lover Thranduil King might be in a private setting, and the idea was heady, threatening to overwhelm me.
Slowly, slowly, he lowered our hands and his fell away.
I gave him a deep, respectful curtsy, and he seemed to flinch at it.
Then I made my way to the baths.
He could smell her. Valar, but he could still smell her.
Thranduil lay in his enormous bed with the sheets twisted in all manner of chaos about his own substantial frame.
She hadn't bathed since the attack, and the smell of her sweat was both sweet and spicy. He groaned. He could have taken her right there. He had wanted to kiss her so badly.
As it was, he had the feeling he'd erred. Had he gone too far? The royal bard, he thought, trying it out for the thousandth time. A courtier and a king.
Seemly it was not. But it was also not impossible. Worse had happened at the court of the Greenwood.
He wanted her. She had seemed to respond, he thought, but it was difficult to tell. It was dark, and she had been careful—and good for her. But how did the elleth really feel about him? And what of his son? Then Thranduil cursed himself, cursed his own selfishness. There were unspoken feelings there, he knew. This was dangerous.
This was dangerous.
I awoke late the next morning.
After breakfasting and refreshing myself, I donned some more comfortable clothing and then slowly made my way to the music library under the audience chamber.
Everything that had happened in the scroll library the night before seemed like a fantasy.
Was it a dream? I thought. Or did it all truly happen? Was my perception of the events skewed at all? The image of the king himself lipping at my palm struck me like fire and I hesitated on the stairs for a moment, swaying a little.
What had that been about?
He could have been trying to express deep gratitude. He must have noticed how I'd collected any stray elfkin I could find and led them back through the paths to the compound. Was that it? Or was it the hours I'd spent with the healers tending to the prince?
The prince, I thought then, guiltily.
I had no idea what to do next.
Your job, came the thought reproachfully. Perform the office you were brought here to fulfill, and think no more on this. I was only a courtier. The idea that something more was expected of me from these two ellyn in my life made me a little angry. Though half of my fëa found the attention pleasing, the other half wanted to be left alone.
I sighed and resolve to stay busy. I would attempt to withdraw from them both and see if we couldn't just carry on the way we had been.
They'll forget, I told myself. If there is interest there, they will both forget. I am the royal bard, and I will continue to do my work until there is none left to do or until I am unequal to it. As much as I can, I will hold myself apart.
I wondered if I could confide any of this to Chalia. I missed her.
The music library awaited, and I put my mind on that for the time being.
This was a place I was coming to know almost as well as my own spacious apartments. Over the months that I had been at court, a slow transformation had occurred in the dark, dingy rooms. The staircase leading down into the inner sanctum was clear and free of debris now, and many of the shelves were—miraculously—in order. There was still much to do, though, and sometimes during long days of cleaning and organization when a great stack of scrolls might tip over or the work didn't progress as quickly as I felt it should, I left the library near frustrated tears.
It was a project that would take some time, and it appeared there was no way to expedite that.
Today, I moved silently about the room, breathing in the smell of the dust and the ancient scrolls and enjoying that feeling deep in the pit of my stomach that one gets during moments of intense quietude.
I'd unearthed a few old volumes recently that I'd set aside and was planning to give to the court historians—more ancient tales of elven heroes, and I considered them now.
Ragnaril the White, one read. The other was called Hedrian: A Life. With a finger, I traced the spines of each.
I was aware of Ayduin coming down to fetch me long before he announced himself. "Lady," he said pleasantly. "Good morning. Are you well?"
I nodded, but the screams of my elven kinsmen came unbidden to my mind, and my nostrils recalled the smell of hot blood and fear that had so pervaded the prince's chambers some hours before. Then the image of Thranduil King kissing my hand and my resultant reactions to this rose up and joined all of that. I gulped.
The older ellon seemed to understand, somewhat. "I hesitate to ask," he began.
But I gave him an encouraging smile, sensing a task ahead of me. One that might clear my mind of the past day's events. "Ask away," I told him. "I am at your service!"
And he smiled back. "I thank you," he answered, relieved. "But it is not for me. The prince…"
"Prince Legolas?" I asked, alarmed now. "How fares he today?"
"Oh, better than last evening," Ayduin said slowly. "To be sure, much better. Only uneasy. The wound pains him, I think, quite a bit. And he calls for his bow, and says he will leave and go to hunt."
I found myself shaking my head. Impatient as ever.
"I wonder," continued Ayduin. "Would you—might you consider... entertaining the prince?"
Before I could stop myself, I'd quirked an eyebrow at him. "Meaning?"
And the advisor cast about a little desperately before settling his gaze on Ragnaril the White and Hedrian. "You might read to him, you know. You are the royal bard. Music may not be appropriate at the moment, but while Prince Legolas attempts to rest and heal, a few epic poems or stories might be effective. It could take his mind off of the wound—and he might be less tempted to try the will of his healers, which I understand is a problem just now."
There were about a hundred things I would rather do. I was supposed to be slinking away, becoming invisible and avoiding the royal gaze, at least for a time. I gave Ayduin a long, steady look. "Is it your belief that my presence would be welcome in the royal chambers? And during such a fragile time?"
He did not hesitate. "It is. You cannot be ignorant of how his mood lifts when you are around in general…"
I felt myself colour slightly.
"Indeed, I have seen your voice shift the very current of the audience chamber of an evening!" he finished. "Of course, you have been taxed as well, poor thing. If you are too fatigued, there is no shame in admitting it."
"I am only a little tired," I replied. "And if bardic services are requested, they shall certainly be proffered. My mother was not stingy with her bedtime stories when I was ill as a younger elleth, and I believe myself the better for it."
I stood and dusted off my hands.