Ch. 12
Aldeon stared down at the sleeping face of his youngest brother and once again touched the cool skin of the still colourless cheek, as he had done countless times before, to reassure himself that the heat of the fever was really gone. The fever had broke only that morning and Kala, with cautious optimism, had told them that Legolas’ broken body had at last began to heal itself. They had moved Legolas to his own room after that as Kala deemed that the young prince no longer required the constant scrutiny of the healers. Legolas had not once waken, but Kala had assured them that the young elf was now sleeping the deep sleep of healing. In time, Legolas would open his eyes.
Earlier in the day, Aldeon had finally succeeded in persuading an exhausted Thranduil to take rest. The king had stubbornly refused to leave his wounded son’s side since Legolas had been brought back. It was only after Kala repeatedly assured his liege that Legolas’ life was no longer in danger and Aldeon himself had promised not to leave his brother unattended even for a moment that Thranduil had at last acquiesced to their urgings of rest. Aldeon knew that his father had slept little, if at all, in recent days, his mind wrought with worry for the missing Legolas and the imminent attack of the orcs. Aldeon himself had not fared much better, but he had managed to snatch a few hours’ rest last night when exhaustion finally overcame him and Thranduil had ordered him to bed.
In the quiet of the room, Aldeon’s mind drifted over the events of the past days. The orcs had been defeated, but not without a price. Many of their warriors had perished in the battle and the funeral pyres had been burning incessantly. Aldeon had been in attendance for many of these funerals and had comforted the bereaved families with heart-felt sympathy and gratitude, for these brave warriors had given their lives to defend Mirkwood. Many more had been wounded. Among these were Feren and Tavaro, his own brothers who had led the battle. Aldeon’s heart tightened at the thought that he had nearly lost all three brothers in this one battle.
Tavaro was the first of the two to return with a deep slash to his thigh that had almost touched the bone. With his usual stubbornness, he hobbled into the healing room with the aid of two others, brushing away concerned healers until Thranduil himself intervened and ordered him to lie down.
He was still protesting the seriousness of the wound when his eyes caught sight of the still form of Legolas on the pallet next to his. All words left him and he looked beseechingly at Thranduil.
"He lives," Thranduil answered the unspoken question with a weariness that his sons had seldom seen. "Barely, but he lives"
"What happened to him?" Tavaro at last found his voice.
"We do not know yet. He has not awaken since we brought him back." It was Aldeon who answered him this time. "Lie down, Tavaro, so we can tend to the wound."
"Feren, has he returned?" Tavaro asked and hissed in pain as the soaked bandages were cut away. "I last left him with Legolas sleeping safely in his arms."
"No, Feren has not returned yet," Aldeon said quietly as renewed fear gripped his heart. Was Feren injured also? Where was he? Brushing aside the dark thoughts resolutely, he held a cup to his brother. "Drink this tea."
"What is it?"
"A sleeping draught. The healer needs to stitch your leg."
"I do not --" Tavaro began to protest.
"Drink it, Tavaro. I do not need to see another son in pain." Thranduil ordered flatly.
Tavaro threw one look at his father’s weary face and drank the tea without further protest.
Aldeon found himself smiling a little as he recalled the scene between his father and brother. Tavaro may be a fierce and accomplished warrior on the battlefield, but Thranduil’s orders were not something that one could counter or ignore. Unless, of course, if one happened to be Legolas.
It was not that Legolas purposely ignore or counter his father’s orders, but his young brother would more often than not end up at the opposite spectra of what Thranduil had precisely ordered, complete with reasoning and excuses against which even Thranduil himself could not argue. Most of these had been harmless escapades, but on occasions, Legolas had caused more than a little concern for the Royal family and Aldeon was certain that his father had more than once wanted to throttle his youngest. He wondered how Thranduil would deal with Legolas once the youngling finally recovered from this near brush with death.
His thoughts strayed to his other brother, Feren. The latter was among the last of the warriors to return, which was expected as he was, after all, the commander of the troops. He too had been wounded, but the injury had been no more serious than a sword cut along the arm that did not even require stitches. Of more concern to his family was Feren’s reaction upon seeing Legolas in the healing room.
At the sight of his comatose brother, Feren turned deathly white, prompting instant fear in both Thranduil and Aldeon of poison in the sword wound. Their hovering concerns and queries went unheeded as Feren abruptly dropped to his knees by Legolas’ pallet. For an endless moment, he stared at the colourless countenance, oblivious to all that was around him. Then with a trembling hand, he reached out and touched that deathlike face. He snatched his hand back with a sharp intake of breath.
"He burns," he said to no one in particular. Then slowly, as if lifting a great and invisible burden, he looked up at his father, his eyes filling with tears. "I am sorry, Adar. I am so sorry."
"What do you mean?" Thranduil gripped him firmly by the shoulder. "What are you trying to say?"
"That arrow was meant for me, but Legolas jumped right into its path and shielded me. He risked his own life to save mine," Feren whispered as the tears fell freely.
Thranduil’s stunned gaze wavered from the silently sobbing Feren to the still form of his youngest.
"I am his older brother. I should be the one protecting him," Feren continued tearfully, shaking his head side to side as in denial. "That arrow was meant for me."
Thranduil drew his weeping son into a hard embrace. "Feren, you protected Mirkwood. You were the one who led the troops to victory. You have nothing to be sorry for."
"But Legolas--" Feren looked at his father through tear-blurred eyes.
"Legolas did what he did because of his love for you," Thranduil said firmly. "You are brothers." He paused briefly and then continued, "Feren, you are exhausted. You need sleep. You have fought a long, hard battle and Mirkwood is grateful to you for its continued existence. I am proud to have such an accomplished commander as my son." He embraced his son once more. "Aldeon, take him to his room and ensures that he rests."
"Come, Feren, Adar is right. You need rest," Aldeon put an arm around his younger brother.
Feren pulled away. "No, I need to stay with him. He needs tending." His eyes were once more drawn to Legolas. "I left him once already when he needed me. I cannot leave him again."
"Feren, he will be in my care. Do you not trust me?" Thranduil asked gently.
His son stared numbly at him as he struggled against the waves of exhaustion that were crushing him like unwanted armour. In the end, Feren let out a long and shaky breath and allowed his brother to guide his weary body from the healing room.
Aldeon sighed. His heart ached at the memory of a tearful Feren, once in the quiet sanctuary of his own room, recounting to him the perilous events that had brought Legolas to the brink of death. He heard for the first time how his youngest brother had succeeded, against all odds, in getting the warning to the troops of the advance of the enemies upon the palace. He heard also how it was Legolas who ultimately led the warriors back through the deepest part of Mirkwood in that desperate race against time.
His heart had been bursting with pride for his youngest brother as he listened to Feren’s tale, but it had also been heart-rending to see Feren, the most disciplined and stolid of all brothers, so broken. Even as he tried to console his devastated brother, fear had grown within Aldeon’s heart. He had been certain that should Legolas succumb to his wounds, then it was unlikely that Feren could ever be free of the guilt that so consumed him.
He studied the sleeping Legolas and reached out with a gentle hand to stroke the still head. "Legolas, you must wake soon. Feren needs you," he said softly and then added, rather desperately, "And I also need to see your guileless smile again."
TBC