"We will work in parallel", Neniel explained. "We will be faster that way, and I do not think it will make a big difference pain-wise." She smiled wryly. "It cannot get much worse than excruciating."

Thranduil squeezed his son harder at the thought of what they were about to put him through. There was no response, but he had to believe he could feel him.

Fairnathad was busy attaching the restraints to the frame of the bed. Restraints that Thranduil could not decide whether he preferred to prove necessary or not. They were going to reset the bones in Legolas' legs, a procedure that both healers agreed needed to happen as soon as possible if he wanted his son to have any chance of walking again. The injuries had already been left untreated for far too long. Night had fallen since they had returned, and it was highly unusual for a surgery like this to be performed at night, but Fairnathad had assured him they had the necessary lights, and that it really could not wait. Thranduil knew Legolas, and knew he would be devastated to lose the use of his legs, and with it, his ability to fight and protect his realm and his people. He was almost certain his son would choose to leave Middle Earth should that come to pass, which would mean losing him in a different way. He just hoped his decision to let the healers perform this procedure on his son in his sick and weakened state would not rob Legolas of any choice he had in the matter. And even this way, the healers told him they could not guarantee how well his son would recover. If he even got to the point where his ruined legs became the biggest issue.

Right now, Legolas was lying limply against him, his naked torso draped over his own. He felt painfully thin, and was burning with fever, and yet even the burning seemed weak. Thranduil's own body was folded around that of his son, and he was holding him tightly, trying to cover as much of his hot skin with his own cooler body temperature. Fairnathad had said this might be effective in stabilizing the fever, and that it was the best way to lend comfort to the younger elf right now, to show him he was not alone. But Thranduil knew they also needed him to restrain Legolas should the violent and unmedicated procedure rouse him from his unconscious stupor. The only herbs the healers dared to give him were for fighting off fever and infection. They dared not risk further weakening the connection between his rhaw and fae by administering even so much as a pain-numbing tea, let alone the milk of poppy they would normally use for this type of surgery.

"Still, it will take time", Neniel continued. "How long remains to be seen."

"What if he wakes?", Thranduil asked.

Neniel simply looked at him for a moment, her dark eyes filled with empathy. "I will pray that he does not, aran-nîn, at least not until we are finished."

"We will have to see, Thranduil", Fairnathad said gently. "As we have explained, all of this is far from ideal. But I believe it is the right decision. Now we must trust in it."

Thranduil did not know what would be worse; if Legolas woke during this surgery, or if he did not. According to the healers who had transported and cared for him over the last two days, he had shown no signs of regaining consciousness since he had been found, they had not so much as seen him stir. And this deep unconscious state could not be explained by his injuries, there did not seem to be a medical reason for it. He did not wish for his son to have to consciously go through the pain of surgery, but if cutting into his flesh and bone was not enough to rouse him, Thranduil feared he would lose all hope. No, he firmly answered this thought. He would not give up on Legolas. No matter what happened.

"I trust it. I trust you."

Fairnathad forced himself to hold the level gaze. "We will do our utmost", he promised quietly.

And they began. The bed had already been pulled closer to the center of the curtained section, so that a healer could take their place on either side. Other healers hovered in the background, ready to assist if necessary. Legolas' legs were lying exposed before them. They appeared to have been battered by some heavy, mostly blunt force, the brunt of which had been taken by his left thigh, where the infected puncture wound was. The skin was not broken anywhere else, but the swelling and bruising, and especially the crushed-looking areas on both shins, made for an altogether awful sight. Thranduil clenched his teeth. He found it impossible to imagine that the limbs were salvageable. But they had to try.

Fairnathad, the older and more experienced of the two healers, was working on the left leg, which seemed, though it was hard to tell, to be more extensively damaged; the prince's right thigh, at least, appeared to be intact. Neniel was on the right. They each had a tray of surgical instruments on a table next to them. From what they had explained to Thranduil, their main task would be to extract splintered bone matter and then attempt to reconstruct the bones using metal rods and splints. The limbs would then have to be immobilized completely while the missing bones regrew. They would not be able to tell how much they would have to remove until they opened the skin, but they had not seemed overly optimistic.

The healers were now looking at each other, each holding a scalpel. They nodded briefly, then both began cutting. Thranduil tightened his hold around his son and pressed his face into the nape of his neck. He had to do something, and since he could think of nothing else, he began to sing, barely audibly to the others, into his ear. All the lullabies he used to sing to his elfling, yéni ago, suddenly remembered as though it had been yesterday. They flowed from his throat like the silent tears from his eyes, one after the other, and he clung to the limp body, lifeless as an empty shell, and burning up against him.

He looked down to check on the healers' progress. Both shins now bore long, wide incisions; both healers were immersed in their task. Thranduil looked away, shuddering. How was it possible that Legolas slept through this? The only possibility was -

No! He ordered himself. He would not despair, he would not give up on his son. He could not.

"Stay with me, tithen las", he whispered urgently. "Come back, lasseg-nîn. I need you. Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me …"

His steady stream of pleading whispers was interrupted when he felt Legolas stir. He froze, unsure whether or not he had imagined it.

"Legolas?", he whispered.

The low moan that escaped his son was unmistakable. The healers stopped dead and turned to look at him. Another sound, slightly stronger this time.

"Hold him", Fairnathad sharply ordered his king, throwing protocol out the window. His expression was grave. As encouraging as the life signs were, they now had another problem altogether.

Thranduil did not need to be told. His arms were tight and strong around his son's tensing torso. Two other healers on standby in the wards rushed into the curtained area and held their hands ready lest they be needed to keep the prince still.

"Sssssshhhhhhh, tithen las, sîdh." He kept up the stream of quiet soothing in Legolas' ear, fighting to keep his voice calm. The moans and groans were getting louder, Legolas was starting to struggle against Thranduil's grip.

"Legolas, can you hear me?", he asked quietly. He was unwilling to tighten his grip more for fear of frightening the semi-conscious elf, but the struggling was getting stronger. Thranduil sensed the beginnings of a fever-induced panic rising in his son. So far, instinct seemed to be keeping him from trying to move his legs, but there was no guarantee that would last. The grim faces of the healers told him that he was right in suspecting that the wrong movement now could very well undo all of their hard work.

"Breathe, ion-nîn", he said softly. "Stille nu. I am here. Sssshhhhh."

Thranduil tried to rock him ever so slightly back and forth, without disturbing his lower half, resorting to all the long-forgotten soothing mechanisms he had used on his elfling. His body remembered. He felt the struggling slowly lessen, his head fell back against his cheek.

"Ada", Legolas whimpered, barely more than a whisper. Thranduil's heart skipped a beat. He brought his head forward so his cheek was resting against his son's, careful to continue the light rocking movement, humming and singing and murmuring calming nonsense into his ear. Legolas kept on moaning softly in fever and pain, but he did not resume his struggle. Thranduil's heart swelled with pity, but he also felt as strong as a dragon. His son had come back, and there was no way he would let him go again.

Careful not to change anything in the rocking and humming pattern he had fallen into, he eventually looked up at the healers. They were obviously quite a lot less thrilled at this development than he was, and he felt some of his relief start to wane. He quickly turned his attention back to Legolas, sensing that any change in their connection could cause his precarious calm to change back to fear. At that moment, he was perfectly in tune with his son, knew exactly what he needed (though not necessarily how to give it to him), and he reveled in the renewal of their bond which had so very nearly been severed. He could not bring himself to regret bringing him back.

Still, he knew the timing was bad, and that the interruption of the surgical procedure was a problem that he would have to become involved in. When he felt Legolas to be more stable and less likely to panic, he turned toward the healers once more. They were both turned toward him, with almost identical dour and exhausted expressions on their faces. Thranduil asked himself suddenly, with a guilty pang, when they had last rested.

"What can we do now?", he asked quietly. He kept up the rocking motion, but felt it safe to cease the humming.

Fairnathad closed and reopened his eyes. "We could continue the procedure as is, and hope that you manage to keep him still enough", he said doubtfully. Neniel raised her eyebrows at him. "Or perhaps try to rouse him further in order to explain and hope that he cooperates … but this kind of work requires absolute motionlessness, and I do not think that would be possible for anybody conscious."

"Or we can give him a very diluted solution of milk of poppy, mixed with some pain-relieving herbs", Neniel suggested. "Just enough to numb the pain enough that he will be able to hold still."

"I do not want to give him milk of poppy", Fairnathad said, shaking his head. "Not in his condition."

"What about the herbs?", Neniel asked. "Can we give him enough herbs that he will be able to keep himself under control?"

"Only if he is coherent", Fairnathad said. "He needs to understand what is happening and what he must do. Right now he may be conscious enough to react to pain, but that does not require a very high level of consciousness. And he has a fever that is high enough to cause delirium."

"Can the procedure be interrupted?", Thranduil asked quietly.

"Not without significant risk to his legs", Fairnathad said. "Which is the only reason we are doing this now in the first place. And we cannot just stop, we would have to at least stitch the incisions."

"Then we must wake him", Thranduil said.

Both healers looked at him earnestly for a moment. Neniel turned to Fairnathad. He sighed, then nodded.

"Aye. We must try."

Thranduil felt a calm and confidence in his soul that he could not logically understand. The bond between himself and his son was vibrating forcefully, and though he could feel that Legolas was weakened, his own energy was coursing through the connection with a strength that he knew would be enough to carry him through. All he had to do was to stay with him.

"Legolas", he said quietly into his son's ear, not abandoning the rocking motion. "Legolas, can you hear me?"

There was no reaction, but Thranduil kept trying. He stroked his son's hair, face, and hands in what he knew would be familiar gestures, speaking softly to him.

"Echuio, las-nîn. You are safe. I am here. You must wake."

He repeated this again and again, unwavering, until finally he felt Legolas' head turn against his cheek and his hands come to life. A split second later, his whole body tensed in what he assumed to be pain.

"Legolas", he said gently, calmly. "You are safe. I am right here with you. I need you to listen to me."

Legolas' breaths came heavy and shallow at once. Thranduil gently rubbed his chest and arms, which were growing slick with sweat in record time. He felt his cheek grow wet where Legolas' was resting against his. Gasping sobs were beginning to wrack the body in his arms; he reached up and stroked his face, catching a few of the tears that were leaking out.

"Legolas, can you hear me?", he asked again, softly, though he was sure that he could. The head against his nodded.

"Ada", he choked out hoarsely between heaving breaths.

"Yes, tithen las, it is over, you are safe", Thranduil murmured.

"Tuia …"

Oh no. Thranduil closed his eyes as a heart wrenching sob tore through his son. He was becoming agitated again. Thranduil resumed the rocking motion and placed a gentle hand on the sweat-soaked brow, trying to shield his eyes from the bright lights. He felt the tears streaming down the side of his face, his torso heaving with sobs. Thranduil kept rocking and started singing again softly. He wished desperately he could simply lie to his son, to tell him that Tuialeth and the rest of his patrol were also safe, that everything was alright. But Legolas was lucid, and he knew; Thranduil could feel the grief radiating off him in almost palpable waves.

"Legolas", he said again. He moved his head away from his son's and tried to turn towards him so he could see his face, at least from the side. Legolas' head lolled back against his shoulder at the movement, but he could see him now. His face, somehow simultaneously flushed and pale, was contorted in pain, eyes closed, tears streaking down his cheeks.

"Legolas", he tried again. "Look at me. Look at me, penneth."

The head turned slightly toward him, the blue eyes cracked open. Thranduil almost gasped at the raw agony emanating from them. He swallowed, placing a hand on his cheek.

"Listen to me, Legolas", he said quietly. "You are hurt, and we are trying to help you. We can only do that if you lie still. You cannot move your legs. No matter what, you must hold them still. Do you hear me?"

The ghost of a wry smile crossed over Legolas' face. His eyes began to close again.

"Legolas!", Thranduil said, more urgently. "Stay with me!"

The eyes opened again. Thranduil could feel with absolute certainty that right now, he was the only thing that was keeping Legolas from giving in to the darkness that was so close. He could see that the younger elf was completely aware of what had happened, and of his condition, and that at some point during the week he had spent concealed in a tree, he had surrendered to the blackness. And he knew the feeling, knew how welcoming that darkness could be… but he would not let him.

"Legolas", he said. "You have to stay awake, and you cannot move. Do you hear? You must do this. I command it of you. You must do this for me. I am here, and I will not leave you. Do you understand?"

Legolas held his gaze this time. His eyes glittered with fever, but he was all there. "Yes, Ada", he murmured. "Avaro naeth. I do not think I can move my legs."

"Well, you may not try", Thranduil said, ignoring the pang he felt at his son's words.

Legolas nodded, calm now. "Aye", he murmured.

Thranduil turned back to the healers, who were sitting very still, watching.

"Fetch a screen, please", he said quietly. Legolas did not need to see what they were doing to him. The healers hovering in the background scurried off and came back with a curtained wooden structure that they placed over the bed, shielding Thranduil and Legolas from the bright lights and the gruesome spectacle.

Fairnathad got up and came over to their side of the screen. He blinked at Legolas, as though unable to believe the level of consciousness the elf, whom he had not seen so much as stir for days, had regained in so short a time, and how calm and lucid he appeared, despite the fever and the tremendous amount of pain he must be in.

"Legolas", the healer said. He seemed unsure how to continue. Neniel joined them, holding out a cup to the prince.

"This will help", she said gently. "But it is still going to hurt. We have no other choice."

Legolas tried to raise a trembling hand to take the cup, but did not get far before it dropped right back down onto the bed. Thranduil wordlessly took the cup and slowly fed the brew to his son, holding his head up enough so he could swallow. He could smell honey in it, and hoped it would give him enough energy to get through what was coming.

Once he had made sure he had taken every last drop, he eased the sick elf's head back against his shoulder.

"Now relax for a moment", Thranduil said softly. "But stay with me, Legolas. When I squeeze your hand, like this" – He took Legolas' limp hand, laced his fingers through his and showed him – "I want you to squeeze back. Always. No matter what. Do you hear me?"

Legolas squeezed his hand weakly in response.

"Good", Thranduil said.

He then resumed lightly rocking and singing to his child. Legolas' body was lying draped over his own, his shallow breathing the only discernible movement in him, but whenever Thranduil squeezed his hand to check if he was still conscious, an answering squeeze came back.

When the healers deemed they had waited long enough for the pain relief to take effect, Fairnathad looked gravely at Thranduil and placed a thick strip of leather on the bed next to him. Thranduil knew what it was for. He tried to send his old friend some kind of encouragement; he knew that Fairnathad cared deeply for his son, and that causing people pain bothered him immensely - he had, after all, chosen this profession to relieve pain. But the best he could do was a benevolent look, he did not want to distract himself from the connection with Legolas, which he was still forcefully channeling his own strength into.

Then the healer disappeared behind the screen again. Thranduil was glad he could no longer see exactly what they were doing. In any case, he felt them take up their work again through the instant reactions of their patient.

The procedure stretched on and on. It was excruciating. Within minutes after they started, the light sheen of hot fever sweat that had covered Legolas' body before had turned cold and clammy. Thranduil placed the strip of leather between his son's teeth, but was not sure it made any difference. Legolas clawed at his arms, all traces of his previous weakness gone. He thrashed and writhed against his father's grip until he was sure that he too would be covered in scratches and bruises, but this was infinitely preferable to the times he tried to tear into his own skin. Thranduil managed to stop him from getting very far, but only just. The moans of pain were interrupted only by strangled screams that brought tears to Thranduil's eyes and made him feel like his heart was being torn out of his chest. It was all he could do to not scream along with him. But, amazingly, none of the struggle going on behind the screen impeded the healers' work. Thranduil knew that, although it seemed that his son was lost in the throes of a fevered panic, he was in complete control and concentrating even harder than his father.

When Thranduil felt the agony about to overwhelm his child, he would grab his hand and squeeze it hard. Legolas squeezed back without fail. It was a meager form of support, but it was all he could do, and seemed to help somewhat nonetheless.

Several other healers remained in the room with them, mostly watching from a distance. Thranduil only noticed them when they came to check on Legolas, though they mostly just watched from a bit closer in those instances; Legolas was not in any state to be examined. Thranduil was glad they did not try to intrude. Once more, they paused the procedure in order to get Legolas to swallow some more of the pain-numbing herbal infusion. That gave Thranduil some idea of how long it must have been going on.

After what felt like hours, Legolas started to show signs of impending exhaustion. His loud protests to the pain slowly died down, becoming low moans and then mostly just the occasional whimper. His wild struggling lessened and finally died down, leaving just a tense bundle of contracting muscle resting in his father's arms. He was also beginning to shiver. Thranduil was just about to point this out to the healers when Neniel appeared on their side of the screen, next to where Fairnathad had been working. Her face was drawn and ashen, and though she made an effort to smile at the king, it came out rather dejected.

"It is nearly done", she said quietly. She looked closer at Legolas, then turned around and left, returning with a thin wool blanket. She draped it lightly over them both, careful not to startle her patient while the procedure was still going on. Thranduil nodded his thanks to her, and drew the blanket closer around his son. Neniel stepped back around the screen, presumably to see how Fairnathad was faring. Thranduil could hear them talking quietly, but knew he could not stop singing to listen to them. He was starting to feel quite drained himself; he had not rested properly since the trees had started whispering tragedy to him and Thûl had shown up riderless at the stronghold what seemed like ages ago, and the deep focus on their bond, along with the constant impartion of his own energy towards Legolas, were beginning to take effect. But he would not stop or lessen anything until this was over and his son could rest, not to mention the healers, who had both been tending to Legolas for days before this.

The shivering was getting stronger now, and no more than an occasional hiss escaped his son's lips. But his face remained a mask of pain, the trembling body taut with tension. Thranduil could tell that even his last reserves of stamina were very nearly spent. He wanted to tell Fairnathad to hurry, but knew he was already doing whatever he could. He closed his eyes and sent his son strength; he could almost feel its bright warmth seeping into the weakened elf. He pulled the blanket tighter around them both and squeezed the clammy hand in his, making sure it squeezed back.

Finally, when he thought it could not possibly go on for any longer, Fairnathad and Neniel both appeared on their side of the screen. Fairnathad looked like he was about to collapse, and his face, like Neniel's, was grave and drawn.

"We have done all we can", he told Thranduil, pulling up a stool by the side of the bed. He sank down onto it, his posture betraying his fatigue.

Thranduil held out his hands to the healers; they took them – Neniel with some trepidation as she was not used to such a gesture from her king – and he gave them the same squeezes he had been giving Legolas.

"Hannon le, mellyn-nîn", he said quietly. "For bringing him back, for this … your efforts are greatly appreciated."

Fairnathad's expression remained grim.

"No matter the outcome", Thranduil added softly, seeing that his friend was worried. He ignored the knot that formed in his throat at his own words.

Fairnathad nodded, offering no words of encouragement. He placed the back of his hand against Legolas' brow.

"Mae cannen, Legolas", he murmured, smiling sadly. "Goheno nin." Legolas, in the absence of being cut into and having his bones moved around, seemed to have succumbed to the exhaustion. His eyes were closed and he was motionless, apart from the light trembling still running through his frame. Thranduil gave his hand another squeeze, which was answered immediately, albeit weakly. He felt a sudden wave of relief wash over him; that his son was alive, that he was being taken care of, that the surgery was over. He closed his eyes and felt silent tears stream down his cheeks. He turned his head and placed his lips against the side of his son's head.

"Mae cannen, ion-nîn", he repeated, stroking his damp hair. "Mae cannen."

The other healers were busy around them. The bright lights were extinguished, leaving the area they were in lit only by the warm light of the fires. A young healer whose name Thranduil did not recall pushed a cup of something or other into his hand and said something that Thranduil did not quite take in, but the cup was warm, and he held it to Legolas lips, getting him to slowly sip the liquid. The screen was lifted away, revealing two heavy casts that covered Legolas' legs from foot to thigh, the one on his left leg even going up all the way to his hip. There were several holes cut into the thick white material, the biggest one around the infected wound on his left thigh.

Fairnathad looked wearily at Thranduil.

"You should rest", the king told him gently. "You have earned it."

"You should rest too", the healer answered. "I know what you have been doing, and I am sure it has helped him greatly. Saved him, most likely. But there is no reason to continue now. It is over, you can let him sleep. He will need you again, and you will not be of any use to him bled dry."

"I can rest here", Thranduil said firmly.

"At least freshen up and eat something then", he said. "You need your strength."

Thranduil knew there was sense in this, not to mention that the healer would not back down. Arguing with him would only delay his friend's own rest. He rolled his eyes for good measure, then started to ease himself out from behind his son's limp body. He had not gotten very far when a clammy hand closed around his arm.

"Dortho, Ada", Legolas murmured, his voice cracked and hoarse from screaming.

Thranduil immediately stopped moving and folded his arms back around him. "Oh, penneth", he whispered back. "I will be just a few moments, then I will be back with you." He planted a soft kiss on Legolas' forehead and quickly slid out from behind him. Fairnathad put a steadying arm around Legolas' back and started to ease him back onto the mattress. To the healer's surprise, he caught himself on his elbows in order to keep himself partially upright. His eyes were open and focused on Thranduil making for the curtain to exit the area. Fairnathad saw pain flare up in them as his father disappeared from his sight.

"He will be right back", Fairnathad said, moving his hand to the prince's shoulder. "Rest, penneth."

Legolas stayed stubbornly upright, his eyes fixed on the curtain. He remained that way, ignoring everything the healer said to him, until his father reappeared, holding a bowl of food and dressed still in leggings only, having obviously hurried to get back.

Fairnathad laughed wearily at the impressive collection of gouges and bruises that covered the king's bare chest and arms.

"Ai, aran-nîn", he chuckled wryly. "There is strength in your elfling yet."

Thranduil crossed the area over to them and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.

"Of course there is", he murmured fondly, stroking Legolas' cheek. Legolas' eyes closed briefly at the touch, relief apparent on his face; he leaned his head ever so slightly into his father's hand. They sat there for a moment, looking into each other's eyes, the father gently caressing his son's face. Then Legolas broke eye contact and looked away, fresh tears suddenly streaming down his cheeks. Thranduil could tell they were not tears of pain, at least not of a physical nature. He kept his hand on the younger elf's face.

"Legolas", he said softly. "You should eat something. You look half-starved."

Legolas did not answer, and did not move. The tears continued to flow silently from his closed eyes. Fairnathad rose and left the room, returning several minutes later to the same unchanged scene and carrying a cup of broth.

"Here, ernil-nîn", he said, holding it out to the two.

Legolas ignored him again, and Thranduil took the cup. He wrapped his free arm around his son's shoulders, and slowly fed it to him. Legolas, uncharacteristically, complied without protest. When the cup was empty, Thranduil slid back behind him in the bed and drew the blanket back over them. Legolas relaxed against him at once and his eyes drooped shut. Thranduil finished his meal in bed, then leaned back into the pillows and let his own mind and body rest for the first time in a week, the reassuring weight and shape of his son cradled in his arms.

aran-nîn - my king

rhaw, fae - body, soul

tithen las - little leaf

las(seg)-nîn - my leaf (diminutive)

sîdh - peace

Stille nu - quiet now

Echuio - Wake up

Hannon le, mellyn-nîn - Thank you, my friends

Mae cannen - Well done

Goheno nin - Forgive me

Dortho - Stay

ernil-nîn - my prince