It was the middle of the night when Legolas began to stir.
His tossing and turning wakes me from sleep where I had taken rest in a cot next to his bed. He had thrown off all the covers and was drenched in sweat. I can almost feel the heat radiating from his skin. A healer hurries over with a tray, piled high with folded cloths and a bowl of cool water.
"We will try to bring down his fever as much as we can, my lord," the healer explains.
Legolas cannot bear even the touch of a hand on him, as that seems to add extra warmth to his already feverish body. All of a sudden, he wakes and looks at me, but there is no recognition in his eyes.
"Legolas, can you hear me?"
He does not answer me. Instead, his gaze slips off my face and he makes as though to rise from the bed.
"No, son, you have been gravely injured. Do not try to move," I say to him, holding him down.
His breath quickens as he moves about in discomfort.
"It's so hot," he moans.
I realize the mattress must be unbearably heated, reflecting his fever back to him. I turn him to lay on his right side, making sure to avoid pressure on his wound. This way, the air can cool his back and the mattress. The healer and I lay as many cool clothes on him as we can. He stills with the brief respite this gives him and falls back to sleep.
I release the breath I do not even realize I was holding.
"How long will the fever last?" I ask the healer.
"At this point, we do not know for certain, my king. We generally expect improvement within two days."
It has hardly been a night, much less a whole day, since I brought my son to the healing halls. If only worry can make time speed along faster.
"My lord," the healer says softly. "It would be best to take some rest now while the prince sleeps. We will keep watch over him."
I nod in agreement as I lay back down, but I know I will not be able to rest until my son is on his way to recovery.
The next two days pass in a similar fashion. When they change his dressing, Legolas wakes briefly, with no awareness of those around him. They douse him with tea to still his feeble attempts to fight them. His fever rages unabated. At certain points, he mumbles and cries out in his delirium, but I cannot understand what he says. There is so little I can do for him, aside from stroking his hair and his brow, and telling him I am there with him.
The healers start to exchange glances. They do not think I notice, but I see the slight frown when they inspect his wound and how they are using different herbs in their preparations than they had before.
"Is something the matter?" I finally ask.
"The healing is not progressing as we would expect, and the infection is stubborn," the head healer answers.
Fear clenches my heart. What could be causing this? A previously undetected poison?
As though he hears my question, the head healer continues, "We do not think it is poison. I suspect it is more likely a chronic, long-term demand on the body's restorative ability, and his reserves have been depleted."
The healer shows me a slightly reddened and raised scar on Legolas's back, and another on his left arm.
"These are not recent, and yet they have not healed fully," he explains. "I will need more collateral information to be completely certain, but my concern is that the prince has been fighting with little rest during this last patrol, and it has taken a toll on his ability to heal."
"He's gone out on much longer patrols than this last one," I counter. "Why now?"
"Perhaps he was resting even less than usual. We have noted Prince Legolas has been taking slightly longer than before to recover from his wounds, but never to this degree."
My eyes narrow.
"You have noticed this and did not tell me?"
Some of the apprentice healers back away, but the head healer is not intimidated. He meets my gaze steadily.
"Yes, my lord. We see this in all our warriors of late. They are more prone to infection, heal more slowly, and injure more easily. We have discussed this with the war minister. We warned that the prolonged patrols without respite cannot go on without repercussion. I believe the decision made was to coordinate the patrol schedules to ensure each warrior had sufficient rest."
"This is not any warrior," I growl. "This is my son. The prince."
"I understand, sire. I apologize that I did not directly inform you," the healer states calmly. "I did not intend to exclude you from what was happening."
I recognize it is unreasonable for me to be angry at the healers. They did their duty by communicating their concerns through the proper channels. I know my anger is because I fear for Legolas, and also because I feel guilty that I did not notice this deterioration in my only son or in our soldiers. I am supposed to be the king. I am supposed to know the conditions of my kingdom and my subjects, yet I have failed to see what was in front of my eyes. I am supposed to be his father.
"Is Legolas stable for now?" I ask. "I must attend to some business."
"Yes, sire," the healer nods.
It is now the fourth day since his return. I continue my vigil at his bedside while turning over recent conversations in my mind.
I had spoken with, or rather interrogated, the war minister and the soldiers who patrolled with Legolas. The soldiers were loath to impart details, but I got my way. Some required a steely gaze, while others were persuaded that their information would help with a swifter recovery for their beloved captain and prince.
I found Legolas took the deaths of two warriors particularly hard in the patrol prior to this one. One was a warrior who had just graduated from training, and the other was the veteran partner of the young graduate. The pair was assigned to guard the camp while other scouts went out for the day. Spiders descended on them, and the rest of the patrol returned in the evening to find the young elf dead from spider venom, his body covered by the older elf's, who had evidently died defending his fallen young comrade's body. In the aftermath, it was said that Legolas did not rest until all the spiders were scoured from that part of the forest. He assumed more watches than the others, examined the ground and trees incessantly for any evidence of the creatures, and pored over reports when he should have been taking rest.
When he returned home after that patrol, I recall his spirits seemed low but I did not question him about it then. He was uninjured and accomplished his duties ably. With the benefit of hindsight, I realize that during our mealtime conversations, his voice was soft and he looked away from me frequently, lacking his usual confidence. A week later, he had gone out on this most recent patrol during which he acquired this injury that now ails him.
Why did I not catch these signs of unease in his spirit? But more importantly, I need to find out why he has been driving himself to the ground.
As if the fates now align with my will, he shifts in bed and seems to be more asleep rather than unconscious. A healer examines him and confirms my observations.
"His fever eases, my lord. I believe he will wake soon."
