Thank you to sage-serendipity for the kind words! I'm glad you are enjoying the story!
Content warning here loves - there are some spooders (spiders lol) showing up in the story with hairy legs and bitey mouths, all nine. If that would upset you, maybe skip through this part, and possibly the next.
He awoke, startled by the abrupt ending impact of some obscure nightmare. And he knew something was terribly wrong.
He felt it deep inside his kingly chest.
Thranduil Elvenking sat up, pulling slick strands of his white-blond hair out of his face and trying to control his breathing. Even now, the impulse to leap out of bed gripped him, and he kept repeating silently to himself, It was just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. All is well.
But it wasn't. He felt strongly that he should rise; take a look around.
There was nothing amiss in his rooms. He strode to his bathing chambers and lit a candle or two. Nothing.
Not a single robe, furnishing, or implement was out of place. Just as he liked it.
It was the middle of the night. He frowned.
Then a terrible thought crossed his sleep-addled mind. What about the rest of his household?
What about… about Filauria?
That thought was enough. He threw on a floor-length robe, loose fitting and comfortable even around his broad shoulders and left his quarters, stalking the dark, empty corridors like a panther. They could call him overly protective if they liked—he would see for himself that she was well.
He heard the commotion before he arrived at it.
Servants, panting and calling to one another. Cries of, "Here! More cloths over here!" and "Stop them!" rang out through the wing of the compound.
Someone dashed past him and he followed the source of the panicked cries, terror rising in his chest.
It was her room. Whatever it was—was happening in her room.
Scads of servants and courtiers alike had mobilized and were layering cloths along the sill, jambs, and lintels of her door frame, as if to stop a poison or other deadly fume from escaping.
He clamped his hand on someone's shoulder—he didn't see who—and the ellon yelped in surprise.
"Where is she?" Thranduil rasped, hardly recognizing his own voice.
"Who?" the ellon cried, frightened.
"The bard!" he growled back.
Wordlessly, the servant pointed in the direction of another room, and the king released him as he scampered off.
"Keep it contained!" he heard someone shout as he made for the nearest guest room door.
He was not prepared for what he saw upon peering inside.
It was as if his life splintered then—splintered and broke into two different pieces.
There was the original Thranduil, the Thranduil who was born and lived and had married and lost his wife and yielded part of his face to dragonfire and met a fascinating bard who worked in his court. And then there was this Thranduil, the Thranduil who beheld Filauria—the elleth he had come to think of as his Filauria—like this.
He could never unsee this. Would never stop seeing this.
He knew, somehow, that his nightmares to come would feature this very scene, with him frozen and unable to enact any change or comfort.
She was still alive.
She was held, insensible, between two servants, inside of a bathing tub with thin, soaking underclothes covering her body.
Her thick, coppery hair had all been shorn off at the roots, and her skull stood out starkly in the light of the flickering flames in the fireplace.
As if held in a trance and unable to look away, he moved closer.
There was a clean nightgown for her waiting on a nearby chair. One of the servants was cleaning down Filauria's legs with a bit of cloth, eyes searching relentlessly for anything out of place. The bathing water smelled strongly of citrus, cinnamon, mint, and rosemary, and a nearby bowl held similar, soiled cloths—speckled with something. He peered closer. With spiders. Dead spiders. Hundreds of them.
"The rest of her clothes?" one ellith murmured to the other.
"Burned," was the reply. "They are taking no chances. Air magics are being wrought in the suite to keep them from spreading. I think we were just lucky they were all so small."
The first elleth nodded, and shifted Filauria's silent form so as to be able to reach under one of her shoulders. The bard's head fell back, and suddenly, Thranduil was there, catching her tenderly in his hands and looking down into her still face with utter horror on his own.
The servants paused just momentarily to adjust to his presence.
"Let's dry her off," one of them said. "One, two, three…" And they all shifted her out of the tub and toward the guest bed.
He moved with them, unable to form sentences, unable to contribute in any significant way. Her hair. Gone.
"Have you tried to wake her?" he found himself asking finally.
Two heads bobbed. Yes.
"...And—what has been done? Has anything been—administered?" His voice broke a little, and he cleared his throat.
As the two ellith arranged Filauria in the bed, carefully tucking the covers around her, one of them answered, "Yes, my king. Something for the pain, and an antidote to attempt to counteract the poison. Healers should be coming imminently to see what else can be done."
A deep wine-colored rash had appeared over her chest and on any exposed skin that Thranduil could see.
"She's—poisoned?"
"Yes, majesty."
And then there was a long moment of silence. Of adjusting and fussing and moving and shuffling. A great deal of care was taken to see to the bard's comfort, and then the two servants whisked out, promising more assistance momentarily.
He was left staring down at her unconscious body, and the room became quiet—so very quiet.
"Don't. Please. Don't do this," he choked.
She didn't—couldn't—answer.
So he scraped a chair over from one of the corners and situated it near the headboard. Took one of her limp hands in his own warm ones. And waited.
What I remember most about that night was the screaming.
I was asleep when I was attacked, but the venom didn't rouse me at first.
It wove itself in among my dreams, turning them monstrous.
My breath caught, and I saw the face of every person who'd ever hurt me. Anything that had ever scared me.
And then I heard… screaming.
At first I thought it was only happening in my mind. Or that it might be a neighboring elleth—Valar! What could provoke such a sound? Murder?
Murder.
I was sweating and twitching when I finally shook myself awake and realized the sound was coming from me. Conscious but unable to stop, I sat up in the dark.
Then came the pain—horrible pain that wracked me and stole my breath. I couldn't pinpoint the source. I should be on fire, fully aflame, to hurt like that.
It took a full five minutes for me to realize that there was something in my bed that shouldn't be, and then I was screaming in terror for a different reason.
The spiders. The spiders had come to the Court of Mirkwood. All the way up from the deep dark of the forest to prey on us. In our homes.
They were everywhere. In my hair. Near my eyes. Tangled in my sweaty sheets. Crawling up inside of my ears.
I stumbled out of bed and fell instantly to the floor, gasping, slapping at my skin. They were so small that it wasn't difficult to kill them, thankfully. But there were so many! Hundreds, I thought to myself. Thousands, maybe. Like mist. I wasn't cognizant enough yet to wonder about the potency of the bites.
I became aware of other sounds in the compound, others asking what the matter was, or crying out to send help to our wing.
A few servants rushed into my room and I was able to warn them away from me, even as the attack continued, the brutal, fiery stings of tiny, venomous mouths on my tender skin. It felt slippery—with sweat or blood? I couldn't tell.
"Spiders!" I gasped. "Poison!"
It seemed they knew what to do. My room was secured, and someone who understood air magics instantly began diffusing oils and speaking spells of healing. Valar help me, one of the serving elleths was also wounded by the beasts and had to be seen to.
My clothing was stripped from my body and I was rushed to a corner of the room, where someone lit some candles.
I realized I was still screaming, and clapped a hand over my own mouth in an effort to spare the others. "I can't breathe," I remember sobbing. "I can't breathe."
About eight minutes into the attack, I must have lost consciousness. I welcomed that quiet blackness however it was afforded me.
And then it was up to me, I suppose. To fight.
He startled awake when Ayduin and Lord Elrond accompanied a pair of healers into the room. They all bowed to him, which he understood, but didn't care much about at the moment. Dawn had yet to break, and it was still dim in the guest quarters. Candles and lanterns lent a soft glow to the space.
"My friend," he said wearily to Elrond. "Have you come to help us?"
The Lord of Rivendell frowned down at the unconscious form of the elleth. "I will certainly try. Though I've not seen magic like this in some time. May I?"
The king nodded, then stood and made room for the newcomers.
One of the healers moved to the other side of the bed and lifted Filauria's arm to spread a thick salve over the exposed skin. The cloying scent of peppermint filled the air.
Elrond approached the bedside. In an unexpectedly familial and tender gesture, he sat on the edge of the bed and spread his palm wide over the elleth's forehead. To Thranduil, it seemed he was doing nothing so much as listening. But to what? He thought. Her breathing?
The healers continued to administer the salve. The bites were so small, Thranduil could barely pick them out from one another. Rather, that wine-colored rash continued to deepen on her cheeks, and he could see it on her neck, inside of her ears. Even all over her shorn head. Lord Elrond's hand on her forehead made her look even smaller, almost like an elfling.
He needed a moment. Thranduil excused himself into the bathing suite and gulped a few cupfuls of water, then looked up at himself in the mirror, a little surprised to see the old wound showing through his glamour—just a bit. Tired, he thought. Just a little tired.
When he walked back into the bedroom, the others turned to look at him.
Elrond's face softened, and he spoke. "We have a problem, your majesty."
He moved closer, peering down at the sleeping bard. "A problem? Beyond the thousands of venomous spider bites?"
"I'm afraid so. This is rather novel, so please forgive my plain speech. It seems—something is wrong. With her fëa."
That frightened Thranduil. "Wrong? With her fëa?"
Lord Elrond nodded. "Yes. It is barely perceptible, but I feel her…slipping. Her fëa is growing slowly weaker as time passes."
Thranduil shook his head, trying to understand. "And her hröa?"
The lord nodded. "Her hröa is weak but stable. It is the fëa I am concerned about."
He hadn't needed to think about anything so dire in a very long time. What could one do to strengthen their fëa? Especially when they were unconscious?
As if divining his thoughts, Elrond Half-Elven pressed his lips together in a flat line before adding, "I'm not sure what there is to be done. If anything I've read about this process is true, I believe the elleth's own emotional reserves will figure into this."
Thranduil's eyes flickered in confusion.
"I have heard rumors of… Mind Quests," Elrond went on. "Forgive me, I'm not as familiar with it as I should be. They are… very vivid, fevered dreams. Elfkind who struggle with potential loss or even death of their fëa are said to struggle very hard mentally. They may see and hear things that are not there, experience internal battles that we know nothing about. If this is the case with your Filauria, we need to be patient and present with her while she… works it out."
On the words, "Your," and "Filauria," the healers' eyes darted to him in silent question. He didn't care.
Slowly, he approached the bedside once more, fascinated in spite of himself by the movement behind her eyes. He hadn't noticed it before now, but there was a slight twitching underneath her closed eyelids. Back and forth… back and forth. Spurred on by some Unseen Force.
He looked up at the others present. At poor Ayduin, who looked like he might be sick. At the healers, preparing bottles of tincture, fresh cleaning cloths, and water. And at Elrond himself, whose clear eyes watched him with informed compassion.
"I will oversee her care myself," Thranduil offered. "Will you all support me in this?"
Murmurs of "Yes, my King," and "Of course, Highness," filled the room.
He looked back at her, replying reverently, "Le vilui. She deserves everything we can give her."
Translations:
Le vilui - "Thank you / you are kind."