A/N: I'm still here! Sorry for the late (and rather short) update! Please enjoy the small bit of Aragorn-Thranduil interaction. :D
The broken and bleeding Fellowship was quiet in their collective grief, pain, and worry as they made the journey from the edge of the forest toward Caras Galadhon, the heart of Lothlórien. The joy they had felt at welcoming their newest member seemed as distant as she and Legolas now were, leaving a shadow of fear for what had become of them.
Both Frodo and Sam had been reluctant to be carried on the litters, but quickly gave in when it was made clear to them that their walking would only prolong the journey. Neither wanted to delay Aragorn's reunion with his treasured ones any longer than was necessary.
Boromir had yet to wake from the deep sleep that had taken him shortly after their arrival at the edge of Lothlórien, but the elves seemed confident that his life was not in danger. Nevertheless, they were particularly careful not to jostle him, choosing only the smoothest paths to walk upon. Aragorn had told them how the man had received his wound, and they seemed determined to show their gratitude.
Aragorn had taken up his usual position as rear guard, but it was clear he was struggling to walk slowly enough to stay behind their group. Pippin and Merry had the opposite struggle; Haldir led the group through the wood at a brisk pace, and neither he nor the elves bearing their wounded seemed aware of how difficult it was for the two youngest hobbits to match the pace of their great strides. It was only after Pippin stumbled and took a bad scrape to his knee that their company paused, both Aragorn and Haldir deciding it would be best that they carried the two of them on their backs the rest of the way. Neither Merry nor Pippin complained about the arrangement.
Gimli walked near the middle of the company, more quiet than he had been the entire journey as his thoughts sprang between his grief for the loss of Gandalf and his fear for his friend's life. He realized that, despite himself, he already felt more deeply bonded to this elf than any dwarf he had known in his near century-and-a-half of life. He had been the first to hold the little elfling after her parents, an honor he did not take lightly.
"Be well, my friend," he murmured under his breath before reciting another prayer for healing in Khuzdul.
Legolas woke up in the slow, confused haze that often follows great illness, injury, or grief. A flurry of motion met his eyes, tall forms moving about him, an alto voice giving clipped orders from the foot of the soft bed he lay upon. A warm hand was on his brow, combing his hair back from his face in an achingly familiar way.
It was all so familiar, yet everything was still slightly blurred as he struggled to fully awaken. He searched the room for a face he could recognize, their features slowly coming into focus.
Elves, he realized with relief. Lothlórien. His kindred. He had survived the journey to their healing halls.
But where were the others? Where was—?
"He's waking," the elf woman near his feet said. She gave a grim nod to someone just out of Legolas's view. He blinked several times until her dark features finally sharpened into clarity.
"Nenna," Legolas called to her softly. "Where is my daughter?"
Nenna's face softened into a gentle smile.
"Well met, Legolas. Your little leafling is right here; Rúmil is feeding her," she said, shifting slightly over and gesturing toward an elf who was seated on a bench against the wall, a bundle in one arm and a waterskin in the other. Legolas recognized the elf from their brief confrontation at the edge of the forest.
"She has quite the appetite," Nenna continued. "That is a very good sign."
Legolas reached out toward the child and felt an uncomfortable tug in his left arm. He looked down to see a small, red cord attached to the inside of his elbow. He followed its path to a glass vessel filled with blood. A separate cord led from the vessel to—
"Ada," Legolas said in a breathless whisper. His father was standing by his side, the cord hanging down from the bend in his arm, dark with blood.
This could not be. Legolas had hallucinated an image of his father before while weakened by blood loss from grievous wounds. Was it happening again? His eyes filled with tears.
"I'm sorry, Ada. I did not know—I would have told you. I'm sorry—"
"Shh, be still, my lassig, you have no reason to be sorry," his father assured him. "Though it grieves me to see you hurting, I am yet overjoyed to meet the one you have brought forth."
"It is time to sleep again, Legolas," Nenna said. She was looking beyond him again, and Legolas felt something brush his right shoulder. He turned to see another elf holding a small, tightly folded cloth.
"Try to relax and breathe normally, your highness," the elf said, holding the cloth near to Legolas's mouth and nose. Legolas flinched back from it, already feeling its effects pulling him under.
"Wait," he said, sudden panic causing his heart to pound in his chest. "What of the others? Where is Aragorn?"
"They are safe, and they will be here soon," Nenna said, soothingly. "Deep breaths now, Legolas."
"Maeryn!" Legolas gasped out. He reached for his father, who took his hand, his skin warm. Not a hallucination. "Her name. If I do not wake again…Her name is Maeryn."
Legolas felt the anesthetic quickly taking hold. He could no longer keep his eyes open, his grip on his father's hand falling slack.
"You will tell her name to her when you awaken." His father spoke with the same assuredness and confidence he always had. Nonetheless, the hand holding his trembled.
The blanket was already being tugged off him, his legs pulled back, knees bent and pushed apart. Legolas flinched, dreading the painful intrusion between his legs.
The last thing he heard was Nenna's voice demanding they wait a moment longer—then he knew no more.
It was in the very early hours of the morning that the remainder of the Fellowship entered into the capitol city of Lothlórien. The Lord and Lady met them at the gate, offering only the briefest of greetings in the interest of seeing to their guests' immediate needs. Haldir and the other elves stopped just long enough to formally greet their rulers before whisking the wounded off to their healing halls, Aragorn close on their heels. Merry, Pippin, and Gimli were led to private rooms where stewards had prepared hot baths and fresh clothing, as well as food and drink.
Orophin met Aragorn at the entrance to the healing halls, blocking his path once the elves bearing the litters had gone through.
"He's alive," the elf said, his expression sympathetic. "The healers are still working to stabilize him. Come. I will take you to your daughter in the meantime."
Aragorn clenched his fists but followed without complaint. As much as he longed to be at Legolas's side, he hated the thought of his daughter being separated from them.
Orophin led him to a large, round gazebo built on the forest floor, its edges furnished with cushioned benches and pillows. Clearly an elvish waiting area, much like the room right outside of Elrond's surgery in Rivendell. Aragorn found himself hating it.
There was a tall figure at the other end, standing in the great arch of an opening, his gaze pointed toward the stars still visible on the purple blanket of the early dawn. Aragorn looked back to find that Orophin had already left. Swallowing nervously, he stepped toward the figure.
Thranduil wore only a light robe made for sleeping, his hair smoothly combed but bare of any of his usual adornments. He was cradling his newborn granddaughter in his left arm while his right rested at his side, his sleeve rolled up halfway and his elbow wrapped tightly with a white bandage.
"She is a beautiful child," the Elvenking said. "Dark, curling hair and pale eyes. She reminds me of your ancestor, Elwing."
He kept his back turned, his head tilting down toward the bundle in his arm. His tone was amiable, almost conversational, which only made Aragorn all the more wary.
"Have you been to see Legolas?" Aragorn cautiously asked.
"I have. They are…scraping out his womb now, as they put it." The words seemed to pain him to speak.
Nenna promised he would feel nothing, Aragorn reminded himself.
"They did not want me in there," Thranduil continued, "So they handed me the babe and ordered me out—once they had collected a sufficient amount of my blood, of course."
"I am…thankful that you were here for him," Aragorn said, still choosing his words carefully.
"As am I. Such a pity your own blood is of no use to him."
Thranduil finally turned to face Aragorn. His cold, piercing gaze was only slightly weakened by the redness of his eyes, the tearstains on his cheeks. His voice was ice when he spoke again.
"If he dies, I suggest you quietly slip away before I see you again. That is my only warning."
Thranduil pushed past him to leave, and Aragorn stood frozen for a long moment, his fingernails biting into his palms before he suddenly turned and called after him.
"Give me my daughter, Thranduil."
Thranduil whirled, not bothering to hide the fury from his expression.
"You forget to whom you are speaking," the Elvenking hissed.
"My apologies. Give me my daughter, your highness."
Neither moved for several seconds, their eyes locked in a battle of wills. It was Thranduil who finally gave a soft, annoyed huff before stepping back over to Aragorn and settling the baby into his arms, his movements surprisingly gentle, smooth, and delicate.
"Thank you," Aragorn whispered, holding his daughter close to his chest.
He sagged into one of cushioned benches, relieved to find his child fed and safe, relieved to know her other parent was close by, receiving the best possible care from his kindred. But his fear and worry yet remained, unrelenting even in his exhaustion. He noticed a drop of water on the elfling's forehead, and automatically wiped it away with his thumb before realizing it was his own tears when two more drops replaced the first. His next trembling breath became a soft sob, and he began to weep in earnest, uncaring of the company he kept.
He did not notice when Thranduil left, nor when he returned. He only looked back up when the tall, slender form sank into the seat next to him and unwrapped a small, flat loaf, holding it out to him.
"Lembas bread," the Elvenking said. "Prepared by the Lady herself. It will help you regain your strength."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're dead on your feet, you senseless brute."
He sounded so much like Legolas just then that Aragorn met his eyes with a soft, surprised laugh. He accepted the lembas with a nod of thanks and took a small bite. Though he had tasted elvish waybread many times before, the burst of energy that flowed through him still came as a shock. It was only then that he realized it had been more than a day since he had last eaten. He took another larger bite, and Thranduil nodded in approval. The Elvenking stood again, setting a full waterskin beside Aragorn.
"We will speak again once Legolas is out of danger. For now, eat, drink, and rest if you can. My son will only worry if he wakes to find you weak as a kitten." Thranduil glanced down at Aragorn with a look of mild disgust, then added, "A bath and a change of clothing would not be remiss."
Thranduil left without another word, leaving Aragorn both relieved and utterly confused.
A/N: Is Thranduil being...nice? Haha, not to worry, the wrath you are waiting for is in the next chapter. Please let me know your thoughts, I love hearing from you!