Thanks for the feedback!  I really enjoyed reading them.  Hope you like this latest chapter!

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The Third Age

September 12, 1421

"He isn’t showing any signs of improvement," Elrohir muttered disheartedly as he stood straight from over Legolas’ bedside. No different then when he had first been brought into the House of Healing, the elven prince lay unmoving and totally unresponsive to the world around him, lost in a deep, dreamless sleep. Nothing stirred beneath the thin slits of his eyes as they continued to lifelessly stare upwards through a thick tangle of dark eyelashes into nothing. Elrohir shook his head in helpless frustration. "His cuts and broken bones are healing, but still he does not show any signs of regaining consciousness."

"Is there nothing else you healers can do?" Gimli demanded almost accusingly from the foot of Legolas’ bed as he watched Elrohir abandon his examination of the comatose prince. "For almost three weeks now he had lain here in this death-like sleep and still you healers cannot find a way of waking him. How much longer can he possibly stay like this? There must be something else you can do!" Frantic helplessness tainted the dwarf’s deep, baritone voice.

Aragorn stood beside his elven foster-brother near Legolas’ bedside. The man’s once proud shoulders sagged forward with exhaustion and waning hope as he stared down at Legolas’ placid face with weary grey eyes. Dark circles of fatigue ringed his eyes and aged his face in a shadow of growing despair. "Gimli, there’s nothing else we can do," he said in a low voice of admitted failure, "Legolas’ injury is beyond our power to heal. There is nothing more we can do for him except to wait and hope that he awakens on his own..." Much like his bearded companion, Aragorn felt completely helpless, and he hated it. It was veritable torture for the man and dwarf to have to sit there day after day by their friend’s bedside, unable to do anything more than helplessly wait and pray for some change in the elf’s condition.

During those first few days in which the elven prince had laid there lost in his world of dark unconsciousness, the two had been unmovable from Legolas’ side. Not even when Arwen and Eowyn had rushed to the House of Healing after hearing of Legolas’ accident to join Aragorn, Gimli, and the elven twins in their silent vigil at Legolas’ bedside were the two able to be convinced to seek rest while the others continued to watch over the injured prince. In their hearts, they still held onto the belief that Legolas would soon awaken out of his coma. But that had been almost three weeks ago, and hope was beginning to slowly dim as each day was met with no change from the comatose elf.

Standing by himself off to one side of the room, Elladan stood thoughtfully gazing out one of the room’s many small windows, passively listening to the conversation going on behind him as he looked out over the sprawling white city beyond. "Perhaps we should send for father..." he said in a low voice that nevertheless seemed to ring out like a shout in the still silence that had followed in the wake of Aragorn’s admission of helplessness. The dark haired elf slowly turned around to face the others in the room. A glimmer of renewed hope shined in his ancient grey eyes. "Maybe father will know what to do," he said with mounting excitement and conviction, "He is the most knowledgeable healer in all of Middle-earth. Surely he would know how to help Legolas!"

"Yes! Oh gods, why didn’t I think of that!" Aragorn exclaimed, his haggard expression of despair and helplessness shattering with a surge of renewed hope. He knew it was a dangerous thing to believe Elrond would actually know how to free Legolas from his dark prison of unconsciousness, but it was the only hope he had to hold onto, and he was not about to let it go. "Quickly. We must send a messenger to Rivendell as soon as we can. If Elrond can help Legolas in any way, the faster he gets here the better." Aragorn was about to turn towards the door to summon a messenger when he was abruptly stopped by the sound of Elrohir’s voice calling after him from Legolas’ beside.

"It might also be wise to send a messenger to Legolas’ father, Aragorn," the elf called softly. The man slowly turned and looked back at his elven foster-brother. Elrohir met Aragorn’s gaze and held it for a long moment of silence, a storm of unspoken fears swirling in his ancient grey eyes. "We cannot wait for Legolas to wake up on his own any longer, Aragorn," he said in a low voice of painful realism, "Thranduil must be told of what happened to his son. We must accept the fact that if father cannot help him, Legolas might never wake up. We cannot keep this from Thranduil any longer."

At first Aragorn did not respond and only stared back at Elrohir in tense silence. But as his eyes shifted onto the still, blond form of his friend laying motionless in the large bed on the other side of the room, the man finally gave a small, barely perceptible nod of grim agreement. "Father will know what to do," he said in a low voice, as if trying to subconsciously convince not only his brother or anyone else there but himself that there was still reason to hold onto hope, "He has to..." With that, he then turned and disappeared out the door.

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October 5, 1421

"Father!" Aragorn cried as he quickly stood from his chair and rushed towards the tall, dark-haired elf entering the room. Unmistakable relief stormed his haggard features at the long-awaited appearance of the ancient elf-lord and healer.

"Aragorn, I came as soon as I got your message," Elrond said, meeting his foster-son half way across the room. The regal elf-lord’s travel clothes were dusty and caked with dirt, it obvious that Elrond had gone straight to the House of Healing upon his arrival to the imperial city of Minas Tirith, and had not yet taken the time to change or rest from his two week long journey from the northern elf kingdom of Imladris to Gondor. "Has there been any change since you sent for me?" he asked, not wasting time with any superficial preamble as he glanced over Aragorn’s shoulder towards the large bed that lay draped in shadows on the other side of the room. He already had a sinking suspicion of what his answer would be.

"No," the man answered, confirming Elrond’s unspoken fears. As if his foster-father’s sudden appearance after so many weeks of hopeless waiting had finally given cause to open the proverbial floodgates to all of Aragorn’s pent-up and brutally tried emotions, the man’s facade of calm aplomb seemed to literally crumble away before Elrond’s eyes. Aragorn suddenly looked old and tired to Elrond, wearied by despair and abandoned hope. "He’s been like this for over six weeks now," he said in an hollow, tired voice, "Elladan, Elrohir, and I have tried everything we could, but Legolas still won’t wake. It’s like he died, but his body still lives on like some empty shell." Aragorn glanced back over his shoulder towards the still blond figure laying in the large bed on the other side of the room with unshed tears of helplessness beginning to shine in his eyes. "Please," he begged, looking back at the one who, as a child and even as a grown man, he had come to believe could solve almost anything, "Can you help him?"

Elrond looked at Aragorn for a long moment of hesitant silence. He felt himself torn by what to say. In his heart, he truly wanted to give Aragorn all the reassurances and guarantees he knew the man so desperately yearned to hear. But he knew to do such a selfish thing would only fill his mortal foster-son with false hopes and empty promises he knew he had no right to give. From the minute he had first read Aragorn’s urgent message telling him of Legolas’ accident and condition, the ancient healer had had grave doubts about his ability to do anything for the comatose prince.

The state of deep unconsciousness in which Legolas had fallen was not something that could just be so easily broken with some magical concoction Aragorn expected him to pull out of his pocket. The brain and its functions were almost a complete mystery to healers, even to one as skilled as himself. But despite his personal doubts, Elrond was not about to dash whatever frail hope Aragorn might still have been holding on to. "Let me examine Legolas first, and then I’ll see if I can do anything for him," he said, trying to sound confident in his equanimity.

Side-stepping his foster-son, the elf-lord slowly approached Legolas’ bed. The first thing he noticed as he neared was the unsettling stillness of the elven prince. The blond archer lay perfectly still amongst the sterile white sheets of the large infirmary bed. His eyes rested partially open in two narrow slits as if he were caught in some elven sleep. But Elrond knew the dark unconsciousness that had claimed the younger elf went much deeper than that.

One of Legolas’ hands had been gently folded up over his chest while the other lay lifelessly at his side. Faded, greenish bruises spotted Legolas’ exposed skin, standing out against the pale alabaster of his skin as the last visible testaments to the violent abuse the archer’s body had suffered. A thick green blanket covered the lower half of his body to ward off the drafty chill of coming winter that had already begun to penetrate the thick stone walls of the House of Healing. The unconscious elf’s head lay tightly wrapped in a long white bandage. His long golden locks lay splayed out across the pillow beneath his head, loose and unbraided.

"Where is everyone?" Elrond asked absently as he sat on the edge of Legolas’ bed beside the lifeless prince, "I had almost expected to find half of Minas Tirith here at Legolas’ bedside when I arrived."

Aragorn slowly came to stand on the other side of Legolas’ bed across from his father. "Elrohir and Elladan no longer stay in the House of Healing," he answered softly as he watched Elrond gently fold back the blanket from over Legolas’ body and begin his slow, methodical examination of the unconscious elf, "They have done everything they can for Legolas and now only come to check on him sometimes in the evenings. Arwen sometimes comes with them, but she is often too bust to find any other time to leave the palace. And Gimli is attending to matters with the some of the other dwarves in the city today. He has spent much of his time at Legolas’ side since the accident, but lately has been too preoccupied with trying to finish reconstruction on one of the eastern gates of the city before first snowfall of the season to stay with Legolas for more than a few hours a day."

Elrond listened quietly to his son then nodded sadly. It was as he already feared and suspected but knew Aragorn was still too stubborn to acknowledge or accept: the others had begun to lose hope of Legolas ever regaining consciousness. "And what about you, Aragorn?" he then asked, "It has been almost two months since Legolas’ accident and still no change. I can tell you still have yet to truly leave Legolas’ side. Why do you stay here when you know there is nothing else you can do? Surely your presence would be better spent in the Hall of Kings where I know you are still needed as king..."

"I stay here because I have not yet given up hope for Legolas," Aragorn snapped defensively, anger rising in his tone, "I still believe he will wake from this. I know it may seem to you that I am neglecting my duties as king, but I refuse to leave my friend here alone. What if he should suddenly wake? I do not want Legolas to wake up disoriented and confused with no one here with him. I only stay with Legolas until I am sure someone else is here to watch over him. Faramir is looking after concerns of state in my absence, but no matter what you may think, I have not abandoned my country or responsibilities."

For a moment, Elrond said nothing, too stunned by the man’s violent reaction to his words to speak. "I am sorry, Aragorn, I meant you no offense," he finally managed to say, "I am only concerned for you. I can tell you are taking Legolas’ condition very hard. I am just worried that you are beginning to exhaust yourself by constantly staying here with Legolas waiting for some change that might never happen."

Aragorn stood perfectly still, stiffly staring at his father with hard, steel-grey eyes as if ready to challenge the elf to a duel for insulting his honor. But then, with a long weary sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of Aragorn’s soul, the man dropped his eyes and seemed to literally droop before Elrond’s eyes. Contained in that single, empty sigh was all the helpless frustration and waning hope of a man unable to do anything to help his friend. "I- I am sorry," he said as he brought a slightly trembling hand up to his forehead, "I don’t know what came over me. I had no right to speak to you like that. Please forgive me." Hanging his head, Aragorn dropped into a nearby chair that had been positioned close to Legolas’ bedside and held his head tiredly in his hand as if suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

"It’s alright, Aragorn," Elrond said softly, "I understand how you must feel right now." The man gave no answer and just continued to sit with his head in his hand, his face hidden from the elf’s worried gaze by a thick curtain of dark hair. Elrond wanted to say something else to his foster-son to comfort him or at least give him some kind of hope to hold onto, but did not. He knew there was nothing he could say that would not sound hollow and empty to the man’s ears. A gulf of uncomfortable silence formed between the two.

Unable to do anything for his son, Elrond turned his attention back onto the unconscious prince laying beside him. Working in silence, the ancient healer deftly ran his hands along Legolas’ rib cage and limbs. "The broken bones you said Legolas sustained seem to have healed properly," he said in a low professional voice. Leaning down over Legolas’ body, Elrond gently peeled back one of the elf’s eyelids and stared into the empty blue orb. No reaction came. "His pupils are unresponsive," the elf murmured with a small stirring of dismay in his heart. He had not really expected anything else, but this did not bode well for the comatose elf. Either Legolas had fallen into such a deep unconsciousness that his body had fallen into some kind of state of hibernation, or there was the most probable chance of brain damage. Or worst yet, it was a combination of both.

Swallowing his misgivings, Elrond looked to Aragorn. "Help me, Aragorn. I need to see his head."

For a moment, the man did not seem to hear Elrond’s request, but then finally broke out of his melancholic state of silence and moved to the aid of his father. "What do you want me to do?" he asked softly.

"Just lift his shoulders up and support him in an upright position so I can unwrap the dressings."

Doing so, Aragorn gently cradled the lifeless body of his friend up off the pillows as Elrond began to unwind the long white bandage from around Legolas’ head. Finally unwinding the last fold, Elrond motioned for Aragorn to lower Legolas back down onto the bed.

"Oh, gods..." Elrond breathed in horrified revulsion as he leaned back down over Legolas’ body and finally saw the full extent of the prince’s injury for himself. Aragorn said nothing, but turned his eyes away from the grisly wound that even after two months still made him sick to look at.

The wound had almost completely healed by now, but it was still a revolting sight to behold. A wide, twisted knot of pinkish scar tissue had formed over the impacted area of Legolas’ skull. All of the elf’s proud, golden hair that had once been there was missing, brutally torn from his skull along with that section of scalp by the merciless stone that had sent him spiraling out into a dark world of unconsciousness.

Although Elrond had seen many grisly wounds over his countless years as a healer, he could not help but be momentarily taken aback by the devastation wrought on the younger elf’s head. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and gently probed at the inflicted area, stretching out his healing powers that were able to be amplified and focused by the elven ring Vilya. After a few moments, the elf finally leaned back and sighed deeply.

Aragorn looked at him expectantly. "Well? Can you help him?" he demanded, "Is there anything you can do?"

"I am sorry, Aragorn," the elf said, unable to meet his son’s eyes. Sorrow shined in his ancient grey eyes. "There is nothing I can do. Legolas’ injury is beyond my power to heal. I have only ever seen one other case like this before in all my long years, and that person only lived for several days after the accident before finally passing on." An anguished look of despair and shattered hope fell over the man’s already wearied face like a dark shadow. "I am sorry, Aragorn, I truly am. I wish I could do more for him, but I honestly do not understand how Legolas even survived this. It is a miracle he still lives!"

"What miracle is it if he is just to lie here like this for the rest of his life, trapped in this deathlike state to only slowly wither away to nothing?" Aragorn shot back bitterly, "Legolas would not have wanted to live like this."

"Aragorn, there is still hope," Elrond tried to reason, "Legolas might yet awaken on his own. His brain is still in shock. We must give him the time he needs to recover."

"That is much of what Elrohir and Elladan have already said. But what if he ever does wake up? Will he suffer any permanent damage?" Aragorn asked, finally voicing the gnawing worry that had been festering in his head since he had first seen the grisly wound inflicted upon his friend’s head.

Elrond sighed deeply. "I do not know. The head injury Legolas sustained was very severe. We cannot assess the extent of any brain damage he might have sustained until he wakes..." Aragorn slowly turned away from his father and sat back down in the lone chair positioned next to Legolas’ bed. He again seemed to take on the persona of a tired old man, wearied by the world and all its cruel injustice. A heavy, stagnant silence filled the air.

"Have you sent word of this to Thranduil yet?" the elf-lord finally asked, his sonorous voice laden with suppressed grief.

"Yes. We sent a messenger to Mirkwood the same time we did to you in Rivendell," Aragorn replied softly in an empty voice.

Elrond nodded grimly. "Then he should be arriving here within the next week or so..." He could not even begin to imagine what heartache Legolas’ condition would cause his father.

******

October 17, 1421

Fallen leaves blew across the empty stone courtyard of the House of Healing as the chilly breath of coming winter rustled through the dead remains of the once green leaves. In the street beyond, the clatter of horses on cobblestones could be heard, rapidly approaching the quiet house of rest and healing.

Riding into the House of Healing’s courtyard, a large company of mounted elves entered. Banners of green and gold rose up from amongst their ranks and snapped in the chilly breeze above their heads. At the head of the long column of riders rode the impressive figure of the group’s lord and master, King Thranduil of Mirkwood.

The elf in question barely even reigned his horse to a halt before leaping off the moving animal’s back to the ground. Thranduil’s usually calm and stoic features were a jumbled confusion of emotions, all some varying form of apprehension and dread. Dirt and mud caked the hems of the regal elf’s riding clothes, testifying to the countless miles transversed from the distant forest realm of Mirkwood to the imperial city of Minas Tirith.

Without so much as a parting glance at his men, the elven king turned and all but ran for the House of Healing’s doors. Charging inside the darkened building, Thranduil found himself standing in a large entrance hall. On either side of him along the length of the grand hallway stood several stone staircases, all leading up to different wings of the huge building. Multiple smaller hallways also branched off from the main chamber, creating a complex maze of twisting corridors to the elven king’s eyes. Looking around in bewilderment, Thranduil suddenly realized he had never been inside the House of Healing before and had no idea where the one he searched for could be.

A small cry of dismay escaped the elven king’s lips. But before his confusion or distress could escalate to panic, a calm, familiar voice called out from behind him. "Thranduil!"

Spinning around, the elven monarch choked back a gasp of surprise. "Lord Elrond!" he exclaimed as he watched the darker haired elf appear from out of one of the smaller hallways leading off the main entrance hall and walk towards him, "What are you doing here?" he asked, confused as to why the Lord of Imladris was to be found so far away from his home in Rivendell.

A small flicker of despair seemed to pass over the elf-lord’s ageless face. "I received a message several weeks ago from my foster-son, Aragorn, asking me to come here to Minas Tirith and lend my healing skills to the young prince Legolas," he answered softly, closely watching the other elf’s face for reaction.

As if suddenly remembering his mission, Thranduil felt his heart gripped by renewed urgency. "My son... Please, where is he? Is he still here?" the proud elf questioned, gripping Elrond’s shoulder desperately, "Is he alright? Were you able to help him? Has he woken yet?"

Elrond felt his heart break in two at the sight of desperate hope shining in Thranduil’s eyes. Never before had he seen the proud and stoic king reduced to such helplessness and panic. Obviously, the weeks of complete uncertainty concerning the fate of his youngest son spent since hearing of Legolas’ accident and traveling to the distant city of Minas Tirith had done nothing for the elven king’s equanimity. But he could not fault Thranduil for this. He could not even begin to imagine how he himself would have handled it if it had been Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, or even Aragorn in such an accident.

"Peace, Thranduil," he said calmly, quieting the other elf’s barrage of questions. "No, I am sorry. I was unable to do anything for Legolas. He still remains locked in his coma. If you wish, I will lead you to his room, but I must warn you that it may be difficult to see him as he is though he carries no more visible signs of the accident on his body except for a bandage around his head. I feel I must also strongly advise you now as one father to another to not lift it to inspect the wound..."

Thranduil eyed Elrond for a long moment of speculative silence, trying to gauge the meaning and depth of the other elf’s warning. Finally with a resolute shake of his head the golden-haired elf said, "Please, just take me to my son."

***

For whatever terrible scenario Thranduil’s ramped imagination had concocted to try and mentally prepare himself for what he might see when he finally saw his son, the sight he beheld when Elrond swung open the large wooden door to his youngest son’s room was nothing like he had expected. Though it was now over two months since Legolas’ accident was said to have occurred, Thranduil had still for some reason in the back of his mind expected to find his son’s slender body covered in bloody cuts and bruises and his fair face twisted in pain.

But instead of the horrifying scene Thranduil had expected, he instead found his son laying in what seemed to be peaceful sleep. Golden sunlight streamed in from the many windows lining the far side of the room, spilling over the unconscious prince’s motionless form and illuminating the pale blond hair laying fanned out over the pillow beneath Legolas’ head into what looked like a golden halo of light.

Thranduil slowly approached Legolas’ bedside, suddenly reluctant to see the lifeless shell of his youngest son. As he neared, he immediately noted the large white bandage Elrond had warned him about tightly wrapped around his son’s head.

Finally reaching the side of Legolas’ bed, Thranduil then stood there, dumbly staring down at the motionless body of his son. The young elf looked no different than the last time Thranduil had seen him, except for the inevitable weight loss of his already slender frame. Empty sapphire eyes stared lifelessly up into nothing between the narrowed slits of his eyelids, unaware that his father had finally arrived to be with him. He could not place it, but he thought it was the disturbing stillness of his son that so greatly troubled him about the whole scene.

"Here, Thranduil, sit down," Elrond directed gently as he pulled a wooden chair up to Legolas’ bedside and motioned for the elven king to sit in it. Thranduil wordlessly sat back in the proffered chair, unable to take his eyes off his son’s placid face.

"Is he always this still?" he asked as he gingerly took one of his son’s lifeless hands into his own and held it as though it were a fragile piece of glass.

"Yes," Elrond answered softly, "Because of this, we’ve ordered that Legolas’ muscles be massaged and stretched everyday to try and prevent deterioration. It is hoped that since he is one of the Firstborn that his muscles will not deteriorate as quickly as those of a mortal’s, but we are taking no chances."

Thranduil nodded dumbly, feeling dazed and overwhelmed as if everything was only now beginning to hit him now that he finally saw his comatose son with his own two eyes. "What are his chances of waking after this long a time?" he hesitantly asked.

The dark haired elf-lord sighed deeply. "I cannot say. It is still possible that Legolas might still wake from under this spell, but I cannot give you any estimate as to when that may be. His head injury was very extensive and severe."

"But there is still hope?" Thranduil asked, turning slightly in his seat to look at the elf-lord out of the corner of his eye. A pleading look now shined in the elven king’s eyes, as if begging for reassurance from Elrond much like Aragorn had done several weeks before.

Elrond remained silent for several long moments. "There is always hope," he stated non-committingly, refusing to give the young elf’s father any false hopes when he knew the truth of Legolas’ chances for recovery.

Thranduil did not seem to catch the hesitant tone of Elrond’s reply, and instead nodded quietly to himself. "Then I shall stay here in Minas Tirith until he wakes," he said softly, as if trying to reassure his comatose son that he was not about to leave him.

Elrond shook his head sadly. He had already seen this coming but had hoped Thranduil would have see the futileness of such actions and just accepted the stinging reality of Legolas’ fate. But no matter what he felt, he knew deep down if it had been one of his own children in question, he never would have given up hope so easily either. It was just that in holding out for such a frail hope, he knew it would only cause Thranduil more pain in the end when he would finally have to accept fate and move on with life, much like the rest of Legolas’ friends had already had to do.

"Is it safe to hold him?" Thranduil’s voice suddenly broke Elrond from out of his thoughts.

The stoic king’s request slightly surprised Elrond. "It could do no harm. His broken bones are now completely healed. I would just warn you to be careful with his head," the ancient elf-lord cautioned.

Nodding, Thranduil moved to sit on the edge of Legolas’ bed. Being wary of his son’s bandaged head, the elven king gently gathered Legolas’ limp body into his arms and settled him in his lap up against his chest. He gently tucked his youngest child’s head up under his chin, and sighed into the thick mane of golden hair.

Elrond immediately saw this as his cue to leave and let the grieving father have a moment alone with his son. "I will be nearby, Thranduil, if you should need anything," he said before making his way towards the door and softly closing it behind him.

Finally left alone with his son, Thranduil leaned down and softly whispered into the unconscious elf’s ear, "Come back to me, Little One. I know you can hear me somewhere in there. You are stronger than this. You can overcome this. Just come back to me..." But Thranduil did not know that it would be almost five more years to the day until his youngest son would finally rouse from out of the darkness and return to his family and friends.

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To Be Continued...

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