Aragorn was only alone with his daughter for a few minutes before three elves entered the waiting area, gathering quickly around him.
"How is Legolas? When can I see him?" Aragorn asked, standing. The elves exchanged uncomfortable glances, but one of them—Haldir's brother, Rúmil, if Aragorn remembered correctly—was quick to speak up.
"I'm afraid we have no information on the prince's condition. We were sent to make sure you received a bath and fresh clothing."
Aragorn couldn't suppress the frustrated sigh that left his lips, though he quickly regretted his rudeness when he saw the apologetic looks on the elves' faces. They were only trying to do as they were told, after all.
"Forgive me, I don't mean to reject your hospitality. But I'd rather stay and wait for news of Legolas," he said.
"With respect, Dúnadan, this is a place of healing," Rúmil spoke again, looking even more uncomfortable than before. "You wouldn't even be allowed into our recovery ward in your current…condition."
"My—?" Aragorn cut himself off and looked down. Spatters of orc blood, troll blood—Legolas's blood—stood out starkly against the browns and grays of his trousers and tunic. It was a wonder they had even let him hold his own daughter.
"Fine," Aragorn muttered with a curt wave of his hand. "Just—quickly, please."
Rúmil nodded briskly, and the three of them led him to a nearby room filled with tubs for communal washing. There were other elves there, unashamed of their nakedness as they methodically washed and dried themselves. The room was filled with steam, and there were several elves regularly refilling tubs with hot water.
Several of the elves looked Aragorn's way when they arrived, but they quickly averted their gaze, keeping their focus on their own tasks. This was clearly not a place to socialize or lounge about in comfort; it was where the healers prepared themselves to work.
Aragorn was relieved when his guides led him to a more private corner of the room. There was a smaller tub there, intended for only one bather at a time, its water still steaming from a recent top-up.
"The child, Dúnadan," Rúmil said, holding his arms out. "May I hold her?"
Aragorn only hesitated a moment before handing her over, then he jolted in surprise when one of his attendants began unlacing his boots and the other unbuckled the belt his sword and dagger hung from.
"I don't need your help to undress myself," he protested.
"Perhaps not, but it will go faster if you allow us to assist. You asked us to make it quick, didn't you?" the elf tugging at his boots said.
Aragorn sighed in frustration, but decided not to bother arguing, instead focusing his energy on at least removing his own tunic and shirt. He was soon fully undressed, his weapons, belt, and other supplies placed out of the way and his clothing tossed in a pile for laundering. He stepped into the tub of steaming water and lowered himself down, submerging his head just long enough to soak his hair. One of the elves set to work washing his hair, while the other began scrubbing him from head to toe with a sponge.
Aragorn felt distinctly like a child who was being punished for playing in the mud—indeed, this was not the first time he had been undressed and scrubbed by elves, but it had been a good seven decades or so since he had last borne the indignity of it.
Some of the elves who had already gotten dressed began to linger uncomfortably close, but Aragorn quickly realized their stares were not focused on him, but on his daughter. The elves whispered to each other, some even laughing quietly, but their smiles were joyful, not malicious. Rúmil smiled back at them, turning to give them a better view of the sleeping child.
Aragorn could not grudge them their interest; it was possible some of them had never even seen an elf-child before.
"Mae govannen, Lassig," one of them whispered in greeting, inclining her golden head.
Aragorn had already heard several of them calling her "Lassig." It was the same name that Nenna had called her last night. Little Leaf—or better yet, Leafling—it meant; she was Greenleaf's child, after all. It was a natural nickname that several of the Galadhrim seemed to have reached on their own, unless one of them had perhaps spoken with Nenna and word had spread.
"Lassig," Aragorn found himself murmuring under his breath, testing the feel and sound of it. Gimli would probably like it—he could see the dwarf happily calling her that.
Rúmil looked back at Aragorn, apologetic.
"I can ask them not to call her that, if you wish," he said.
"No, it's all right," Aragorn said, wincing slightly as one of the elves gently scrubbed the dirt out of a scrape on his knee. "It suits her well enough for now. Legolas will give her a proper name when he is well again."
Rúmil quickly buried his look of surprise, but not quickly enough.
"What is it?" Aragorn demanded.
"I had thought her name was already known to you," Rúmil said, looking more uncomfortable than ever. "Only a handful of us heard him speak it, and Nenna swore us to secrecy until Legolas had a chance to formally introduce her."
"Legolas was awake?" Aragorn asked, feeling both hopeful at the news and furious that he hadn't been informed.
"For scarcely more than a minute, but yes. He revealed her name to us because he was afraid that… that if he didn't…" Rúmil's words dissipated like the steam around them.
He was afraid her name would die with him, Aragorn's darkest thoughts supplied.
"So you know her name," Aragorn said. Before me.
Rúmil nodded, his face still apologetic.
"And who else knows?"
"Only Nenna, two other Galadhrim whom you haven't met, and…"
"And?" Aragorn prompted, his patience beginning to wear thin.
"The prince's father. Thranduil."
Of course.
Aragorn flinched as one of the elves poured a bucket of water over him, rinsing him off. Oddly enough, the shock of it helped clear his head a bit, his darker thoughts dispersing. He reached out to accept the towel offered to him and stepped out of the tub.
Thranduil already knew her name, Aragorn considered as he dried himself off. And yet he hadn't taunted Aragorn with the knowledge. It was nice to know the Elvenking wouldn't stoop to that level of pettiness.
He quickly dressed in the clothes the elves had provided for him; simple black trousers and a loose cotton shirt dyed a rich, deep blue, along with a pair of light elven shoes much like the ones Legolas wore. He was annoyed to find that his clothes, belt, weapons, and boots had already been removed from the room, though he knew he could trust that they would eventually be returned to him in better condition than he had brought them.
As soon as he had the shoes on he reached for his daughter, and he didn't fail to observe the reluctance with which Rúmil handed her back over.
Aragorn's companions were silent as they led him back to the outdoor waiting area and took their leave of him with deep bows and wistful glances toward the elfling.
When he was alone again he looked out at the view of the horizon, neatly framed in the large archway of the gazebo. Most of the stars had faded from his sight as the first glimmer of bright gold began to show over the tree-covered hills in the distance. Now only Eärendil remained in view, its light still cutting clean and sharp through the shades of rose and gold taking up the morning sky, heralding the sun's imminent arrival. The sight of it lifted some of the weight from Aragorn's heart, if only by a fraction. There was a reason many still called it the Star of High Hope.
He felt a sudden wave of dizziness and exhaustion, and he quickly took a seat on one of the cushioned benches. It seemed the small amount of energy he'd gotten from the lembas bread was rapidly running out. No matter. He could just rest here while he waited for news. It had to come soon.
He looked down at his daughter, studying and memorizing the contours of her face. It wasn't difficult; her chin, nose, and even the shape of her mouth were all Legolas. He was grateful for that. Though he was proud that his daughter looked like him, he still felt a bit guilty that her most striking features—her hair and eyes—were Númenórean rather than Silvan.
His own eyes began to feel heavier and heavier as he gazed at his daughter's face, her sleep still unbroken and peaceful as the moment Thranduil had placed her back in his arms.
It was the soft sound of footsteps approaching that pitched Aragorn from his half-waking reverie.
His heart sank when he looked up to find that it was only Sam, but he made a valiant effort to keep his disappointment from showing. He could only hope the thin smile he plastered on his face didn't more closely resemble a pained grimace.
"Good morning, Sam," he said, though he couldn't quite manage to make the words sound sincere.
Sam started a bit at the greeting, his gaze jolting to Aragorn with a look of surprise. He apparently hadn't expected to find him sitting here.
"Huh, so it is," Sam said. He shifted his gaze from Aragorn to the large archway that now perfectly framed the rising sun, the light of Eärendil no longer visible. "That is, uh, good morning, Mr. Strider," he quickly added, turning his attention back to Aragorn.
The young hobbit was wearing a clean set of clothes Aragorn had not seen before, and his head wound had been freshly dressed with a clean, white bandage.
"How are you feeling? You can't have gotten much sleep since you arrived," Aragorn said.
"No, not much—none at all, really. They only fussed over me for a half-hour or so before leaving me be, but I couldn't sleep. Didn't feel right, not knowing where Mr. Frodo was, or how he was faring. He was hurt worse than he let on, you know."
"I know," Aragorn said, quietly.
"But I don't think we should need to worry; those elves sure know their craft," Sam said, continuing his string of nervous chatter. "I had the most splitting headache before we got here, but I feel fit as a fiddle now—though an overplayed and slightly flat fiddle perhaps."
Aragorn gave a slightly more genuine smile at that.
"It's a bit of a maze here," Sam spoke again, suddenly sounding embarrassed. "I was looking for Mr. Frodo at first, then just for any familiar face." He paused, looking around. "It's dead quiet though, isn't it?" he added, unnerved.
Aragorn flinched at Sam's choice of words, but nodded in agreement.
"Most healing halls are. I have visited many such places, of both Elves and Men. It is well-documented that healing cannot occur without rest." He gave Sam a meaningful, but not unkind look.
Sam blushed slightly.
"I understand your meaning, sir. I just couldn't sleep without knowing where he is—if he's all right or not. Gandalf meant for me to look after him, you know." His voice had begun to tremble.
"Oh, my friend," Aragorn said, softly. He patted the cushion beside him. "Come and sit for a moment."
Sam sniffled and wiped his cheeks before using both hands to hoist himself up next to Aragorn, who wrapped a comforting arm around him. Sam seemed to cheer up a bit at having such a close-up view of the elfling held in Aragorn's left arm.
"For such a little thing, she sure has caused a good deal of excitement these past two days," the hobbit whispered.
"Her timing is certainly poor, a shortcoming I'll endeavor not to hold against her until she is old enough to defend herself," Aragorn said with a soft smile. He unwrapped his arm from Sam's shoulder and shifted his daughter into his hands, offering her to the young hobbit, who took her eagerly, if a bit nervously, into his arms.
"She don't look much different from a hobbit newborn," Sam said. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Strider," he added, quickly. "It's her dark, curling hair, you see. Most hobbits are born with it. We don't see hair like Mr. Legolas has very often."
"I doubt you would. The elves I was raised with were all dark of hair as well. Legolas is special indeed."
"He's special to you," Sam said, quietly, his tone not quite a question, yet seeming to prompt an answer anyway.
"He is. Very much so."
"I didn't know you were her father until Frodo said it while you were treating his wounds yesterday evening." Sam shrugged, offering an embarrassed grin. "My old gaffer always told me I'd be the last to notice if the sky fell."
"We had thought to hide it at first," Aragorn said, "but we eventually realized it was a pointless thing to conceal from friends—especially friends who have our trust."
Sam nodded, a thoughtful look on his face as his finger traced the outline of the little Lassig's pointed ear.
"I've been wondering," Sam said, hesitantly, "Since you're her father, I suppose it means she's both a princess of Mirkwood and of Gondor?"
"She is a princess of Mirkwood," Aragorn said, his voice tightening ever so slightly. "I would need to formally claim her for her to inherit my own birthright."
"But you will, though, right? You'll take your throne, marry Legolas, and claim your daughter, won't you?" Sam asked, a hopeful—if naïve—gleam in his eye.
Aragorn gave a soft, mirthless laugh.
"It seems you were raised on the sorts of stories Bilbo likes to tell. Our paths are not that simple, my friend. A lot is dependent on whether there is even a throne to claim…or indeed, a land to rule." Or whether Legolas will even be alive, his mind added before he could gain control of his thoughts.
Sam went pale and still, and Aragorn gave his shoulder a soft, apologetic squeeze.
"Forgive me, Sam. I wish I could feel joy and hope on the day of my child's birth, but I cannot seem to keep my thoughts from turning dark."
"You're worried about Legolas," Sam said, gently.
"I am. Both for him and for the Quest. I had gotten used to falling back on Gandalf's counsel. Without him, nothing seems certain anymore."
"If Gandalf were here, he'd tell you Legolas is going to be fine," Sam said with a confident nod.
Aragorn's grateful smile didn't meet his eyes.
"Perhaps so," he said.
"There you are, Sam," a kind, if slightly exasperated voice called from the other end of the gazebo. Aragorn and Sam looked up to see Nenna, her braids no longer tied back but flowing behind her as she swiftly approached them. Aragorn's heartbeat quickened in anticipation of news of Legolas, and his stomach suddenly felt like it was tied up in knots.
"You gave one of my healers quite a fright by sneaking from your room like that," Nenna said, smiling gently at Sam. "I had to assure him he wouldn't get in trouble for 'losing' one of you."
Sam grinned sheepishly.
"I was only looking for Mr. Frodo, to see if he was all right. But I found Aragorn and his little one instead."
"I see that," Nenna said with a nod. "Go on and give her back to him now."
Sam quickly complied, setting the elfling back into Aragorn's arms. Nenna pointed back toward the great hall she had emerged from.
"Take the path all the way to the round room with the skylight, then turn left. Frodo is in the second room on the right. If you get lost, just shout. Someone will find and help you."
Sam squeaked out a quick "thanks" and gave an awkward half-bow to each of them before hurrying back the way he had come. Nenna's gaze followed the hobbit for a long moment before she turned back to Aragorn, her smile gone.
"Legolas?" Aragorn asked, his voice trembling despite himself.
"The bleeding has slowed significantly, and we believe he is out of danger," Nenna said. Her tone had a clinical edge to it that unnerved Aragorn, despite the relief her news had brought him.
"Is he awake?" he asked, already on his feet.
"No. He has been through a great trial, both in body and spirit. He may not wake for some time."
"Will you take me to him? I want to be by his side when—"
"Aragorn."
The sudden, strained way she said his name struck fear into Aragorn's heart, giving him pause.
"What is it? What's wrong? You said he is out of danger," Aragorn said, his tone pleading. Whatever it was, she clearly hadn't wanted to speak of it in front of Sam.
"He is out of danger," Nenna repeated, "but he has suffered severe damage to his womb. There will likely be some permanent scarring."
"Speak plainly, Nenna," Aragorn begged. "What are you saying?"
Nenna's voice was very gentle when she spoke again.
"I don't think Legolas will be able to carry any more children," she said.
Aragorn shook his head, his breath quickening as he sank back into the cushioned bench behind him, trying to absorb the new information.
Legolas was alive. He was out of danger. He was going to be all right.
No, not all right. He had been damaged. Permanently damaged.
"How?" Aragorn asked, the word sounding like a whimper on his lips. "Did I hurt him when I helped pull the afterbirth out? He was so exhausted from pushing, I didn't know what else to do. Then I had him stand to change out the cloak beneath him—I shouldn't have made him stand—it made his bleeding worse, didn't it?" His eyes were bright with tears as he gave Nenna a pleading, desperate look.
"That's enough, Aragorn. That line of thinking is pointless at best, and deadly at worst," Nenna said with a stern shake of her head. She took the seat beside him, her black braids falling elegantly over her shoulders, framing her face. "Listen to me. Carrying and birthing a child is one of the most physically and spiritually demanding things an elf can do. It is…draining, and costly. A part of our very life force must be given up to create a new immortal. And sometimes the birth doesn't go as smoothly as it should. Sometimes an even greater sacrifice is required. It is no one's fault."
Aragorn swallowed, raising his head to meet her eyes.
"But what do I do? What do I say to him?"
"Of this? Nothing. He does not have the strength to spare for more grief, not with the loss of Mithrandir still fresh in his heart—in all of our hearts." Her dark eyes shone with tears as well. "For now, just love him, and let him feel your love. It will be enough."
Nenna stood, smoothing her gray healer's robes.
"Rúmil will be here shortly to show you to the room," she said, her tone evening out again. "He is almost done preparing another meal for your daughter. You should leave her with him so he can change and feed her."
Aragorn's jaw tightened. He wished it could be any other elf looking after her, if only because he didn't like the obvious attachment Rúmil had to her. As if she had read his mind, Nenna spoke again.
"Rúmil told me about the misunderstanding of your first meeting last night. I assure you, he and his brothers regret the undue stress it brought upon you and your own. Rúmil was the one who ran here to make sure the healers were ready to receive both Legolas and your daughter. He is the reason Legolas was able to receive his father's blood the moment he arrived, saving precious minutes. You can trust him to care for her."
"At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I only fear that he seems to care for her a great deal," Aragorn said, carefully.
Nenna gave a solemn nod.
"That is true, and to his own detriment. Rúmil has more reason than most to wish for time with her, and I have already warned him to guard his heart. But you need not fear for your daughter. There are few elves in this wood I trust more than he. And you will find there is no evil harbored within the borders of this place, save that which you have brought with you."
Aragorn looked sharply at her then, and he did not miss the knowing look in her eyes.
"Ah, here he is now," Nenna said, standing and turning toward Rúmil, who was quickly making his way across the large waiting area, a small waterskin held in one hand. She looked back at Aragorn, who had also gotten to his feet. "I have other wounded to attend to," she said, "but I will be around to check on the three of you later this morning. I hope to find you all in peaceful rest." She gave him a short bow before turning and quickly taking her leave, inclining her head toward Rúmil as she passed by him.
Rúmil's smile was gentle as he greeted Aragorn with a bow, his eyes shining as they alighted on the child.
"Come with me, Aragorn," he said, kindly. "I will take you to Legolas."
AN: Agh! So sorry for the lack of Legolas and Thranduil in this chapter. It had started to run long, so I had to push the reunions (both happy and decidedly not-so-happy) to the next chapter. The Thranduilanche is coming. Thanks for reading!