Ch. 11
In his haste, Aldeon almost collided with a servant who was just coming around the corner. Only with a desperate twist of his body was he able to avoid the impact, but it nearly cost him his precious hold on his brother.
"I am sorry, my lord," the servant stammered an apology as he stumbled back a step, eyes widening at the sight of the bloody and battered form cradled in Aldeon’s arms.
"Get word to the King. Tell him we have found Legolas. Tell him to come to the healing room!" Aldeon was already running even as he issued the order to the stunned servant who stood staring at the trail of bright red droplets left on the ground in the prince’s wake. Coming to himself, the servant turned and ran in the direction of the throne room, his heart cringing with trepidation at the prospect of delivering such ill news to his liege. How could the young prince be alive when there was so much blood?
The healing room was in a state as Aldeon had seldom seen it. Elves, with varying degrees of injuries, laid upon rows of pallets that crowded the normally spacious and pristine floor. Harried healers, their customary calm demeanor notably absent, moved swiftly among the wounded with bowls of water and armfuls of herbs. The scent of healing herbs filled the room, but mingled with that was also the unmistakable reek of spilled blood. Aldeon faltered at the doorway, momentarily at a loss as the sight before him once more rammed home the viciousness of this one battle.
"My lord," a quiet voice drew him back to the current desperate situation. "Bring him this way."
Almost in a daze, Aldeon followed the healer to an unoccupied pallet at the far corner of the room, his heart tightening at the sight of so many wounded.
"I am sorry, my lord, that I cannot provide a better spot. I will go and notify Kala that the young prince requires his skills." Kala was the head healer.
Aldeon nodded his thanks and gently eased his brother onto the pallet. He laid a trembling hand against the side of Legolas’ throat, closing his eyes in relief when he at last found a weak and stammering pulse. Pushing back his fears and forcing a steadiness to his hands, he began to strip the blood-soaked clothing from his brother’s limp body.
"Does he live?" His father’s voice sounded beside him. Thranduil had silently joined him by his side and was gazing intently at the deathly still form of his youngest son.
"He draws breath yet," Aldeon answered, his voice thick. "But he is gravely wounded."
"Where is Kala?" Thranduil demanded.
"I am here, my lord," Kala had silently appeared at their side. "Allow me to tend to him."
Thranduil and Aldeon moved aside quickly and watched with unblinking eyes as the healer rolled the inert body to its side and began cutting away the soaked and ruined bandages. At the first sight of the gaping wounds, both father and son gasped. Kala, after the briefest hesitation, pressed cloths firmly to the wounds and turned to his assistant with quiet orders for the preparation of the necessary poultice and brewed tea.
"How is he? How is my son?" Thranduil asked.
"As you can see yourself, the wound is grave. He has lost much blood and is still bleeding. He also burns with fever," .
Thranduil reached out and touched his son’s stained cheek. "Will he live?"
Kala frowned. "It is too early to tell, my lord. The most important thing right now is to stop the bleeding. The wounds are infected and that is what is causing the fever. The poultice that I am having prepared will help with the infection and tea is being brewed right now that will help to ease the fever."
"Is there poison?" Thranduil could not keep the hint of fear from his voice.
"I can detect no sign of poison, thankfully. The young prince has enough as it is to contend with at the moment." The healer lifted the cloth carefully and peered at the wounds. "The bleeding has eased." With infinite care, Kala began to bathe the wounds with water steeped with herbs, wiping away the clotted blood and crusted stains.
Through it all, Legolas remained distressingly unresponsive which only heightened the cold fear that had such a stranglehold on the hearts of his father and brother. Both Thranduil and Aldeon had taken up cloths to help cleanse the inert body of blood and dirt. It was unnerving to feel the heated skin under their gentle hands when Legolas himself remained so remotely still. Unnerving, but at the same time, reassuring. As long as there was heat, albeit the heat of fever, then Legolas lived. It was all they could cling onto at the moment.
When he had done all that he could, Kala straightened and bowed slightly to his liege. "My lord, there is no more that I can do right now. He is in a deep sleep that is beyond my ability to rouse. We will continue to give him the tea for the fever. Until the fever abates, it will be difficult for his body to begin the healing process. I will have one of my assistants bathe him with cool cloths."
"Nay, I shall do that," Thranduil said abruptly.
Kala nodded with quiet understanding. He too, was a father and could identify with Thranduil’s need to take part in any process that might aid in his son’s healing. "I will ensure that you will always have basins of cool water available for your needs."
Thranduil barely acknowledged the healer’s words; his attention already riveted to the still face of his youngest son once more. Aldeon pressed a gentle hand to his father’s shoulder.
"I will see to the advisers and find out about the state of the battle," he said quietly to his father.
Thranduil looked up at his eldest. "Thank you, Aldeon." And almost immediately, his eyes returned to the still figure beneath him. "I cannot bear to leave him in this state, not even for a moment." There was a huskiness to his voice that few in Mirkwood had ever heard.
"I understand, Adar. I will attend to the needs of the realm. Your place is here, with him. Our people will understand." He gripped his father’s shoulder once before straightening. "I will be back as soon as I can. Take care of him, Adar."
Thranduil nodded, not daring to risk his voice again. A healer brought forth a basin of cold water and set it at his side along with a neat stack of folded cloths. He wetted one of the cloths and began to bathe his son’s face and chest with infinitely gentle strokes, his thoughts straying faraway to memories of a golden-haired elfling splashing bath water joyously over himself and his ada, the infectious childish giggling prevailing over the half-hearted scolding of the king.
Time became still for Thranduil as he continued his vigil by his son’s side, tirelessly bathing the hot skin with the cold cloths and patiently coaxing tea down the unresponsive throat drop by drop. And still, Legolas remained silent and unmoving. More than once Thranduil had wanted to shout out his helpless despair as he struggled to contain the near manic temptation to rush out and personally cut down the orcs that had so hurt his child.
Years ago, when he had first laid eyes on the newborn Legolas in all his fair delicacy, Thranduil could only marvel at the wonder of such sweet innocence being brought forth at a time when Mirkwood was slowly being eclipsed by the growing shadow. It had brought renewed hope to his then despairing heart and as he held the precious warm bundle in his arms, he vowed that he would protect this tiny elfling with all that he had. When those dark creatures of the shadow killed his beloved queen, his protectiveness of the golden elfling grew even fiercer with the realization that the immortality of elves was no longer infallible against the growing evil.
His need to protect Legolas from all harm paralleled his tireless struggle to keep the woodland realm from being taken by the shadow. If he could shelter his youngest from the this growing evil, then hope remained for Mirkwood. It was a sentiment shared by Legolas’ older brothers, who were no less diligent in their efforts to protect this youngest sibling. Looking down at his deathly still son now, Thranduil was forced at last to acknowledge the futility of his efforts of all these years. He looked about him in near despair. These were his warriors who had fought so bravely for Mirkwood and had paid the price. Was there hope yet for his woodland realm or was this to be the end?
You are a king! Act like one! He berated himself harshly. How could he give up hope when at this moment, warriors beyond the palace walls were fighting the very evil that threatened their realm? Among these were his own sons, two highly skilled and accomplished warriors who would not let Mirkwood fall. Mirkwood would not so easily cede victory to these foul creatures.
***
"How is he?" Aldeon asked as he took one of Legolas’ unresponsive hands into his own.
"He has not awaken. The fever has a stubborn hold on him," Thranduil replied. "At least he no longer bleeds. What news of the battle?
Aldeon allowed himself a small smile. "The tide has turned for us, I believe. The orcs are dispersing in all directions. Our warriors are giving chase."
"Good!" Thranduil nodded in cold satisfaction. "I want them destroyed, each and every one of them. We will light up the skies when we burn their foul bodies. Let this be a warning to others who seek to destroy Mirkwood!"
The skies would not be lit up with the burning of only orc bodies, Aldeon sighed. Many of their warriors had also perished in this battle. Victory, if there was to be one, would be bittersweet.
"Adar, I have not yet told you, but Salque was killed," Aldeon said quietly. Thranduil froze, the damp cloth forgotten in his hand.
"How?" Thranduil asked brusquely.
"He had just found Legolas and had signaled to the rest of us. His whistle drew the orcs to him. He would have survived if not for the one orc that he thought he had left for dead. His mind must had been preoccupied with worries for Legolas."
Thranduil closed his eyes. Salque had been more than a protector to his youngest child. He had also been a life time friend. He forced himself to ask, "Legolas knows of his death?"
Aldeon nodded grimly. "He tried to warn Salque, but it all happened too quickly. Salque breathed his last words in Legolas’ arms."
"Oh, my little one!" For a brief moment, Thranduil lost his composure and Aldeon gripped his father’s arm tightly. The king looked at his eldest in despair. Aldeon returned the look.
"I know, Adar, that is why I fear for him."
Thranduil stared at his youngest child and said fiercely. "We will not let him succumb to his wounds or his guilt! He will come back to us!"
Aldeon wanted to share his father’s fierce optimism but he could not dispel the cold fear from his heart each time he looked at his brother’s colourless and still face. At this moment, immortality was precariously distant So many lives had been claimed already. Aldeon’s grip tightened over Legolas’ unresponsive hand. Dear Elbereth, let his brother be spared.
TBC