Finally, the council session is at its conclusion. Councilors agree to a compromise, all sides partially dissatisfied and partially satisfied. I dismiss those seated around the table to their evening rest. I myself have one other matter to attend to, something I wish to discuss with my son. It is a small matter involving one of the outer villages, not significant enough to bring before the entire council, but I wanted to see what Legolas thought before I implement my plans.
"Legolas," I call. "Come with me to my study."
He is still seated at the table, gathering the papers scattered on the table. The other attendees have since left.
"Yes, my lord," he replies. "I will be there shortly."
I had expected him to come with me immediately. He remains seated, and this provokes my suspicions. Legolas had returned from a patrol earlier today, on his own two feet and able to make a report. He has not always returned in this manner, and I had been thankful that at least this time, he was not carried into the healing halls unconscious. He had then attended the evening meal and the council meeting. He seemed well. Had he been wounded? Poisoned?
He avoids my scrutinizing gaze, shuffling the papers into a pile much neater than is necessary.
I give him the benefit of the doubt.
"Very well," I respond.
I make the short walk to my study. Once there, I pour two glasses of wine, one for my nerves and another for my son. After a few minutes, there is a knock on the door.
"Come in," I say.
Legolas enters and sits in one of the chairs across from my desk. I scrutinize him again. I look for any paleness to his skin, any abnormality to his breathing, any stain on his clothing, any tremors, any wincing, any knitting of the brow.
He suffers my silent examination for a while, and then grows impatient.
"Father, is there something you wish to discuss?"
Perhaps he is only tired, and wishes to retire to his bed.
"Yes. I wanted your opinion on whether to continue to extend our patrols to the far outer northern villages, or if our soldiers are stretched too thin to protect this area," I say, indicating on the map on the desk in front of us. I explain about my plan to ask the villagers to move closer to the Great Hall, perhaps providing compensation and aid in their relocation, in order to reduce the area our patrols would need to cover.
He listens to my words and follows my finger with his eyes. He has crossed his left arm over his body, and used his right hand to prop up his chin. Others may be fooled into believing he is deep in thought. But I am not fooled, because I am his father, and I have studied him for millennia. I see how the left arm is tightly pressed against his torso. I see how he is taking slow, measured breaths. I see a slight sheen to his skin. Wordlessly, I stand up from behind the desk and walk around the desk until I am standing close to him. He leans back in the chair to look up at me, but otherwise does not move his arms. I take his right arm and gently move it out of the way. He does not resist me. I grasp his left forearm, and this is when he resists me. It is not out of disobedience or disrespect, however, for I now perceive a growing stain on his tunic. I am displeased, and it shows on my countenance. He looks me in the eyes now, uncertainty in them, uncertain what I mean to do.
"Let me see," I command.
He hesitates. His arm is holding pressure on the now apparent wound, and to remove that pressure is to let the bleeding flow more freely.
"Very well." I once again find myself saying this evening. "We are going to the healing halls. Now."
He rises from the chair. I see now why he waited to stand in the council room until everyone had left. He manages to stand, but must push on the chair with his right hand to stand. He sways for a moment. He makes no effort now to hide from me. His father has seen through his guise. I consider letting him walk under his own power to the healing halls, but I quickly discard the idea. I support him around the waist, and he leans heavily against me. I throw his arm over my shoulder. I very nearly carry him to the healing halls.
When we enter the healing halls, two healers look up from where they were preparing herbs and rolls of bandages. Their eyes settle on my son, the stain on his tunic, and his mouth pressed in a thin line against the pain.
"Place him on the table here, my king."
I reluctantly place my son on the examination table and relinquish my hold on him. They convince him to move his left arm, murmuring soothing words. His tunic and undershirt are cut off. He has a wound dressing underneath that has been soaked through. This they remove. On his left side, cutting across his lower ribs and abdomen, there is a jagged cut that is oozing blood, and the wound edges are an angry red.
"My prince," asks one healer. "When did this occur?"
"Three days ago," Legolas groans. "Ambush. We won. It was a wounded orc. I… didn't see him in time. We cleansed the wound the best we could, and stopped the bleeding."
"And when were you planning to have it seen to?" I demand, exasperation and an edge of anger in my voice.
"Tonight, Adar. I promise. I was going to come here after the council meeting."
After the council meeting. He would have been in the healing halls if only I had not detained him to discuss the outer villages. I feel guilty, but I am still exasperated and angered.
"Why did you not come directly to the healing halls after arrival?"
"I—"
He closes his eyes as the healers help him to lay on his back and begin to examine the wound. Using cloths soaked in warm water and healing herbs, they begin to wipe away the dried blood, for they must examine the wound for any foreign matter. I know they must also ascertain there are no internal injuries deep to the cut.
"I was just trying to get everything done and completed," he tells me through gritted teeth. "Finish the report, sign out to the next patrol, attend the banquet, attend the council meeting. And then I could finally rest and receive aid."
His eyes are open now and pleading with me. Please understand me, Father. Do not be angry.
I fight the urge to shake him by the shoulders, to tell him those things could have waited. What was he thinking? What could have been more important than his wellbeing? But I can tell now, he is exhausted. His patrol was supposed to have been two weeks long, and instead he had been away for a month. His mindset was survival, to live until the next day, one foot in front of the other. This type of mindset, while critical in crisis, impairs the ability to think and plan. He probably plodded from one task to another, hoping that eventually the list ends and he can stop for respite. I cannot condone his actions, but I do not condemn him with my words.
"Well, at least you are here now," is the best I can manage.
Legolas cannot respond to me right now. They are forcing a pain-relieving and infection-fighting tea down his throat before they further explore the wound. I hope there is a sleeping draught mixed into the liquid. He drinks the entire cup and then lays back down. His body is tense, and I can tell he is nervous about the coming pain, but is trying to hold himself still.
The first touch of a healer's hand on the inflamed skin around the wound makes him recoil into the bed with a gasp.
"I'm sorry," he whispers hurriedly.
The healer nods to an assistant, who moves to hold his prince's wrists down. This makes Legolas even more tense.
"Wait," I say.
They pause and wait for me.
"Can you examine him if he is leaning against me? I can hold him."
The healer nods.
I sit behind him, my back against the headboard. I hold my son in my arms, one arm across his shoulders and upper arms and one arm across his lower torso, below the cut, leaving open access to the healers. I can feel Legolas's quick breathing and rapid heartbeat.
"It is alright, I am here," I tell him in his ear.
He leans against me, and calms slightly.
They are rinsing the wound with copious amounts of water. They examine as gently as they could for any retained or foreign material. Then they look for any break in the muscle and fascia, to see if the weapon penetrated to the bowel. The healers seem satisfied. He trembles through the whole ordeal, but I hold him fast, whispering reassurances.
"We will not be able to stitch the wound close, due to infection and the duration of time since the injury," the healer tells me.
They apply an absorbent and then a pressure dressing. Legolas hisses and groans, but allows them to complete their ministrations. He is fighting to remain conscious.
"Sleep now, my prince," the healer instructs. "You will need to rest to heal and recover your strength."
He nods in acknowledgement and lets his eyes slip close.
"My king," the healer gestures to me. We walk a few steps away from the bed to not disturb my son's rest.
"The wound has become infected," the healer explains. "We have cleaned it and given him medication for pain, sleep, and infection. However, they take time to take effect, and it may be a day or two before he improves. We will likely expect fever, more pain, and worsening tonight and tomorrow. I want you to be prepared."
I thank the healer and settle myself into a chair at the bedside. I gaze at Legolas, my only son and heir. I hate how often he lays here in the wards, his blood shed once again for our forest. He has never once complained to me, nor refused any assignment. He goes out willingly, and the only time he has been unwilling is when he has been recalled from duty or been restrained from returning to duty too soon after injury.
Sometimes, I wish I can take his place. Any parent would wish to take the pain of their child upon themselves instead. But I am constrained by my position. The king cannot be patrolling the forest. The king must be in his throne room. He must send others in his stead. He must send his son in his stead. I am king, and yet I cannot do what I wish most, which is to protect my child from hurt and pain.
As though he senses my foul mood, Legolas shifts uneasily in his sleep. I put my feelings aside for now. I softly stroke his hair and his brow, humming a healing melody. Rest now, my son. Adar is here.
