"Alright. Good. Further."
"I – can't –", Legolas choked through gritted teeth. His head was swimming with pain, his vision blurred. There was no getting used to this.
"You can", came the calm reply. "You can when I do it for you. And you got this far. There is no reason why you cannot keep going."
Legolas clenched his jaw and tried to angle his knees further. The right one rose slightly higher, the left refused. Everything pulled, tore, ripped, burned, stung, stabbed. It was impossible. Nothing had ever been this hard.
"I can't!", he growled angrily. His fist slammed into the floor, hard, again, and again, before he was caught sharply by the wrist.
"Enough of that", Fairnathad scolded gently. He kept a firm grip on the prince's arm until he stopped struggling against his hold. And fell back onto the mat in the miserable heap the healer was now so familiar with. A guttural cry of pain and frustration forced its way through his closed lips. Fairnathad placed a calming hand on his clammy forehead, waiting for his breathing to even out.
Fairnathad was at a loss. He had been with these injuries from the start, and it was getting worse. Every week that went by without improvement left him more doubtful of his decision to try to save Legolas' legs. As far as the healer could tell, they were actually even worse than useless appendages because of the terrible pain they caused his patient simply by being attached to him. He was growing more inclined to free him of the things with every wretched therapy session he had with the prince, but had so far not dared to mention it to Legolas, or worse, Thranduil, who he knew would have his head for suggesting such a thing, or for speaking to Legolas about it without his knowledge. There were numerous disadvantages to treating the son of the king, he thought wryly.
Legolas opened his eyes, blinking them into focus, looking at him miserably.
"I can't do it", he repeated, his voice little more than a dry, cracked whisper. He blinked again and a tear trailed down the side of his face. He averted his eyes, staring at the ceiling instead, swallowing thickly.
Fairnathad sighed, as quietly as he could. He had known Legolas for the prince's entire life, and was, as the royal family's healer, well placed to know how he reacted to injury and rehabilitation – and he knew from experience that he was generally just as cooperative when it came to restorative exercise as he was insufferable when forced into inactivity. The healer was used to having to slam the brakes on him to keep him from pushing too far and risking reinjury. The pitiful, broken elf lying crumpled before him was a far cry from the unstoppable warrior prince he had watched grow up.
Thranduil was convinced that his son was making progress. Or was at least trying very hard to convince himself of that. And in a way, he probably was; Fairnathad had to admit that the wheelchair certainly seemed to have changed his outlook and returned some life to him. He had finally moved out of his father's chambers, though this was more due to their location deep underground and the numerous stairs that led there than a desire to be away from Thranduil; Fairnathad knew for a fact that Thranduil still spent his nights at his son's side. Legolas had not moved back into his own rooms either, since they were at the top of the overground part of the stronghold and were also only reachable by staircase. Instead, he had chosen an empty guest chamber near ground level, from which he could push his chair outside independently and, now that the snow had mostly melted, finally be close to the trees. The forest was still difficult for him to navigate, since most of the paths, if existent, were anything but smooth, and though he had regained enough strength in his arms to be able to wheel himself over uneven terrain, the resulting jarring of his legs was painful enough to dissuade him from doing so. Still, there were some areas right outside the stronghold he could reach with minimal discomfort, and he could often be found there.
When he was neither in bed nor outside, Legolas worked in the armory. He could not get there by himself, to his immense displeasure, but his need to be of use was stronger than his aversion to accepting help. Being royalty had its advantages, he discovered; there was never a shortage of servants to help him up and down the accursed stairs, and the commands he was reluctant to give himself, the king had no problem giving for him. He hated burdening others with himself, literally, but once he was in the armory, the work itself and its results were more than enough compensation. He had often spent time there before, when his schedule allowed it, and had enjoyed the testing and tinkering with weaponry, mainly archery material. Thurinel and Meron, who were in charge of the armory, were glad of his expertise in this area, and managed to convince the prince that they were not merely humoring him. After a few weeks, he was so much a part of their team that they began asking after him if he did not turn up.
And there were still days when he was not able to. Days where he only shook his head and stared, grey-faced, at the ceiling when Thranduil made to help him into his chair; days where the only thing he seemed interested in was pain relief, in copious amounts. Sometimes he seemed inexplicably feverish, but mostly he was colder than any elf should have been even outside in the snow. The bad days. On those days, Legolas spoke little, sharing his pain, be it physical or emotional in nature, with nobody, not even his father. These days were often preceded and followed by particularly bad nights, that was the only pattern he could discern, but whether either of these caused the other he could not say, and Legolas remained stubbornly reluctant to discuss it. He said he was weary, and left it at that. Perhaps this was an accurate summary. But what Thranduil witnessed on those days was certainly no ordinary weariness. It was the kind that made him doubt whether his son would make it through, terrifying him for days on end, or however long these spells lasted. But then, sometimes after no more than a day, sometimes after several, he reemerged, himself again, or as close to it as he could get.
Fairnathad could see instantly what was wrong with Legolas, as anybody with eyes and a brain should be able to. Perhaps that was why Thranduil had stopped sending for the healer when his son was in this state, preferring to weather it alone, or enlisting the help of Galion or Tawaren, who were kind enough to let him fool himself in peace. The king wanted to believe that now that Legolas was allowed and able to get out of bed and had structure to his days, he was doing much better. The first time he had found his son unresponsive after the first few good weeks with the chair, Thranduil had sent for Fairnathad, who had told him, rather too bluntly it appeared, that it was the illness of his fae resurfacing. Renewed signs of fading. Thranduil had coldly dismissed this diagnosis, but Fairnathad had seen the fear in his eyes. The king knew it too. Legolas was trying hard; his joy and will to live were abundant, but here he was scraping at the bottom of his reserves. Unless something changed, it would only be a matter of time.
Fairnathad looked back down at the elf on the bed before him. He was still staring at the ceiling, making a visible effort at composing himself, massaging his sore right hand with the other. And this was one of the good days. Fairnathad decided to let up on him, there was no point. Legolas had a generally high pain threshold, was accustomed to dealing with injury. If he said he could not go on, Fairnathad would take him at his word. This was more torture than therapy.
"I think that is enough for today", Fairnathad said.
Legolas looked at him and nodded slowly.
"Goheno nin", he said quietly. "I am not trying to be difficult. It just – I do not understand how it can hurt this much."
Legolas looked back at the ceiling. Fairnathad blinked, surprised. Legolas rarely spoke of the pain his legs caused him, even with the healer. He showed it, because he could not help it, but still mostly downplayed it when asked. Perhaps for Thranduil's benefit; it was certainly for the king's benefit that Fairnathad downplayed the seriousness of his injuries. He was tired of it. Thranduil was not with them to hear any of this.
"Has there been any improvement at all?", he asked the prince softly.
Legolas shrugged. "Hardly."
"Legolas", Fairnathad said earnestly. "If you can no longer bear it, there are options."
The prince laughed softly. "Iston", he said. "I do not like any of them."
"You have considered them?", Fairnathad asked.
Legolas looked at him again and smiled wryly. He struggled to rise from his prostrate position; Fairnathad helped him up enough so he could lean back on his elbows while Legolas muttered his thanks.
"Of course", the prince said, when he was at least partially upright. "I did not injure my head, Nath. I never really expected to recover from this, at least not entirely. I knew that the moment it happened."
Fairnathad swallowed, unsure what to say.
"Neither did you", Legolas continued, raising his eyebrows slightly.
Fairnathad lowered his eyes. "It was a gamble", he admitted. "I would not have tried this path for anyone else."
Legolas blinked at this last statement, but said nothing.
"There is still a chance it may improve", the healer continued. "You would have to be very patient, but you are Firstborn. We do not stop healing."
"That is what my father says", Legolas commented dryly. "How long would it take for me to improve enough to not be useless?"
"You are far from useless, ernil-nîn", Fairnathad said emphatically. "The kingdom needs you."
"You mean the king needs me", Legolas answered bitterly. "I am aware."
"You must make your own decisions, regardless of that", Fairnathad said quietly. "Thranduil will understand."
"Understand, perhaps", Legolas muttered, looking doubtful. "That is not my greatest concern. Only what it will do to him."
"Thranduil has lived with the very real possibility of losing you for yéni, Legolas", Fairnathad said. "Seeing you sail would be easier for him than having you brought back dead. He is no stranger to loss. It would not be easy, but he would manage."
"There would be no one left to get him through it", Legolas murmured.
"No family, perhaps", Fairnathad corrected. "That does not mean he has no one. Galion is here. I am here. Tawaren. Do not underestimate us. Or your father."
Legolas nodded slowly. "No", he sighed. "You are right. He would be alright. I just … I do not want to leave."
Fairnathad reached for his hand, took it in his, gave it a gentle squeeze. "You do not have to", he said.
"I have to do something", Legolas murmured.
Fairnathad was sure, now that his suspicions that Legolas had no illusions about his condition had finally been confirmed, that he had given all the options he had a lot of thought. But, unsure when or if another chance to speak openly would arise, he did not hold back.
"Have you considered amputation?", he asked earnestly, before he could change his mind. Legolas winced slightly at the word, but did not seem surprised or show any other reaction. "You would not walk again, but it would get rid of the pain. You would probably be able to do lots of things you cannot do now."
Legolas shook his head slowly. "It is too permanent", he said thoughtfully. "If it had happened in battle, that would be one thing. But I do not think I have the heart to agree to it willingly. I am not in any mortal danger that would force anyone's hand enough to see it through … And I admit that I quite like having the option of being hale again, if all else fails, in the Undying Lands. Surely I would heal there, at the latest?" He looked at Fairnathad questioningly.
"Aye", the healer said quietly.
Legolas nodded. Then he shrugged. "It is reassuring to have that option", he said. "I do not want to leave, but I know I can if I must. But I doubt my legs would grow back even there." Again he looked at the healer questioningly.
"Unlikely", Fairnathad agreed.
"And are there any other options you had in mind?", Legolas asked.
Fairnathad shifted in his chair. "Well", he said. "Those are the two simplest. I am sure there are powers in Middle-Earth that might aid you, but I cannot say for sure, and they would be more difficult to access."
"Mmmhhh", Legolas acknowledged thoughtfully. Again Fairnathad was sure that the prince had already gone through all the possibilities and scenarios in his head, this one included.
"And would take a diplomatic effort from your father", he continued. Legolas grimaced. This was probably the reason he had not yet mentioned any of this to the king.
"Unless", Fairnathad went on, "We were able to locate Mithrandir. That would be the easiest option. He is not on particularly bad terms with Thranduil, no worse than usual, and he could come to us. And he is fond of you, from what I have heard. Lord Elrond or Lady Galadriel of Lórien might be able to help you, but as far as I am aware, they do not leave their realms unless unavoidable. And I would not recommend you undertake any long journeys through dangerous environs. Not to mention the fact that your father has cut all ties with Imladris, and has not entertained any with Lórien in ages."
"Ai", Legolas sighed quietly.
"If it should prove necessary", Fairnathad said, folding his hands under his chin, "I am certain Thranduil will reach out to them. And you are on good terms with some of the Imladris elves in any case. I should not worry about that. But I believe your best chance is still Mithrandir. I will speak to Thranduil about getting a message to him."
"Hannon le", Legolas murmured. He let his head roll back and closed his eyes. Fairnathad placed a hand on his upper arm.
"I am glad that we spoke of this, penneth", the healer said gently. "It is very helpful to me when you are … forthcoming. You should not always hide what you are thinking and feeling."
Legolas laughed coldly, and turned his gaze back to Fairnathad, another wry smile playing on his lips.
"You say that now, but I doubt you want me to be forthcoming all too often", he said. "I imagine it would quickly get rather whiny and irritating."
Fairnathad withdrew his hand and raised his eyebrows. "I cannot imagine anyone ever finding you whiny", he said. "And I already find you irritating, so no risk there."
Legolas huffed indignantly, but smiled despite himself.
"Is there anybody you talk to though, Legolas? About any of this?", Fairnathad asked, his expression growing more serious. "I have been meaning to ask."
Legolas' face froze for a second. Then he shrugged. He looked down, and Fairnathad noticed his hands clenching and unclenching. He winced inwardly as he realized he had unwittingly touched upon the only subject Legolas wished to discuss even less than his disability. Most of the elves he had been close enough to discuss personal matters with had passed into Mandos' care. Under his own command. Sighing, the healer forced himself to endure the silence without offering Legolas a way out though. It was not healthy, all this repression.
Legolas did not answer immediately, but it appeared he was simply thinking about how to answer.
"Beleghîr, sometimes", he said finally, smiling sadly. "He is very nosy. And very persistent."
Fairnathad nodded. "Good."
They sat in silence for a moment. Fairnathad watched the worrying in Legolas' hands slowly lessen and then subside.
Legolas broke the silence after a few minutes, looking up at Fairnathad. "If you were going to suggest I speak with Thranduil next", he said. "I shall need you there to protect me. I do not think I currently stand much of a chance against him, if I ever did."
"Ai, penneth", Fairnathad sighed, running his hands over his face. These royals were hopeless. "Come." He stood up and prepared to help the prince back into his chair. "Let us get you to the mess hall. It is nearly time for the evening meal."