Disclaimer: Tolkien owns all, I own nothing.

                                                           Chapter 8

                                   
                                    Weder inhaled sharply at Thranduil’s revelation. He had guessed that the elves were of no small importance, but never did he consider this. Thranduil held his gaze, waiting. Weder appeared to gather his thoughts for several moments, continuing his ministrations to Legolas all the while. After a time, he looked up again and smiled ruefully at  Thranduil.

                                    “ You do have a fine sense of the dramatic, Your Majesty.” Weder remarked wryly. “ Be at peace, I will tell no one unless you wish it. I am glad that you did tell me, because I now know exactly what is at stake here.”

                                      “ And for that I thank you, on both counts,” Thranduil replied. “I do not trust mortals easily, but I do trust you with my son. I have no choice but to do so. You and Mistress Letha are my only hope of saving his life.” The Elven King’s mouth twisted briefly in grief as he added softly, “ And my own as well, for if he dies so will I.”

                                       Weder watched his face in shock as he spoke, at first unwilling to believe his statement.  As the impact of this sunk in, Weder suddenly felt as if he carried all the weight of the vast number of years Thranduil had lived. He was more knowledgeable in the ways of elves than most humans, but never had he believed that the tales of elves dying of grief were anything more than tales. Faced with the knowledge that they were truth shook him to the core. He took a deep, steadying breath then faced Thranduil again.

                                       “ My lord King, I am not about to lose one patient this day, much less two.  We will keep him with us, he will not go while we both hold him here. I will do everything in my power to see you both through this, I swear it!” Weder’s intense stare bored into the elf’s grey eyes. He held out his hand in pledge in the manner of Men.  Thranduil swallowed hard, touched beyond measure by the fierce determination in the human’s gaze and his words, and clasped his hand like a lifeline completing the pledge. Weder smiled, then returned to his task of sponging cool water on Legolas’ torso.

                                      Thranduil drew a ragged breath, then turned his attention back to his son. Legolas had calmed considerably. He was no longer mumbling or moving restlessly and he seemed to be breathing more easily. Thranduil wiped his son’s pale brow with the cool, wet rag  again and was pleasantly surprised to see the silver-blue eyes flutter open. Legolas’ eyes darted about, searching the room. He started visibly when his eyes landed on Weder. Weder smiled and hastened to reassure him.

                                    
                                      “Peace, Prince Legolas, you are among friends and your father is right here. You have been giving us quite a fright. How do you feel?”

                                       “Like I have been dragged behind a horse through Mordor,” Legolas replied, too weary and ill to be tactful or polite as he usually was. “Do I have to drink another vile brew?” he asked as plaintively as an elfling.

                                         “I am afraid that the answer to that is yes, but after the “vile brew” will come broth and that should help a bit, I should think,” Weder replied with a grin. “Wait just a moment and I shall fetch it.” He levered himself off the stone floor.

                                           Legolas tried to twist around to look at his father, but Thranduil’s hand on his uninjured shoulder stopped him. His father moved from his seat at Legolas’ head to sit beside him. Legolas was shocked to see how weary and worn his father looked. Thranduil actually looked older than Legolas had ever seen him look, even after long and difficult battles with orcs. He frowned as he examined the face above him minutely.

                                         “How long have I been ill, Ada?” he asked solemnly, clearly upset that he was the cause of the weariness and pain in his father’s face.

                                          “Long enough for me to worry, ion-nin, and you are not to upset yourself over it. I am your father, it is my occupation to worry over you.” Thranduil brushed a stray strand of Legolas’ hair from his brow. “You are not to concern yourself  with anything besides recovering from your illness. Do not fear for me, I will be well when you are.” Thranduil glanced up as Weder approached with the dreaded “vile brew” and the promised broth. He accepted both from the healer with a nod of thanks. “Now, let us get this into you, then you may have the broth.” He chuckled at the expression of distaste on his son’s face. Legolas drank the potion as he was bidden, grimacing in disgust as he swallowed the last of it.

                                               “Feh! Why can healers not brew out the foul taste? It is enough to choke an orc.” Legolas groused as grumpily as a troll.

                                                “Hmmph, I heard that, you scamp.” Letha spoke from behind Thranduil. “One might think you would be grateful for anything that would speed your recovery.” The twinkle in her eye spoke of humor that belied the gruff words. “ In all seriousness, how are you feeling?” she queried.

                                                 “Ill and weary and very tired of terrible tasting potions, Mistress Letha, but for all of that I do appreciate all you have done. Both of you.” Legolas belatedly remembered his manners. Even in the condition he was in, he was still the Prince of Mirkwood.

                                                  Letha clucked her tongue at him, “Tsk, worry less about courtesy than about your recovery. I am no fine lady for you to charm, and well we both know it. Fine words to me are as useful as lace on a horse blanket, so save them for the elfmaids. Besides, your father has as much to do with caring for you as Weder and I do. He has not left your side since you were brought here.” With that, she smiled at both elves and left to fetch herself , Weder and Thranduil something to sup on as it was an hour past noon.

                                                 Thranduil assisted his son in drinking the broth that Weder had brought to them. Legolas was able to take a little more than half of it before laying back on the pallet wearily. He lay quietly, taking in the large room for a few minutes before drifting back into sleep. Thranduil was relieved to see that Legolas truly was sleeping this time rather than unconscious. He got up, stretching like a cat, and made his way to the table. He was surprised to find that he was very hungry.

                                                  The meal passed in relative silence. Both the humans and the elf were tired beyond measure, and could barely manage to feed themselves without dozing off in the process. They were just about to leave the table when Legolas woke with a groan, rolled quickly onto his side, and Violently expelled the contents of his stomach. Thranduil was at his side before the humans had a chance to move, supporting his head and holding his hair out of the way. Sobbing for breath, the prince tried to speak, but his father hushed him and eased him back onto the pallet. Taking up the wet cloth, Thranduil gently washed Legolas’ face, noting that his skin was very warm to the touch.

                                                   “Weder, the fever has returned.” Thranduil stated flatly.

                                           “Damnation, I was afraid that was going to happen. Well, let us bathe him with the water again. We had some success with that last time.” Weder picked up a cloth and made good on his words while Letha cleaned the floor next to them. It was necessary to change the bedding as well and Legolas' clothing. After that was accomplished, Weder and Thranduil resumed sponging Legolas with cool water to bring the fever down again.

                                            They continued to treat the fever in this manner throughout the afternoon to no avail. Even worse, Legolas was unable to keep even water in his stomach. It had become obivious that they were losing the battle with the orcs' poison. Thranduil had begun to feed his own strength into Legolas at an alarming rate. He had been doing this from the beginning, all elves could to varying degrees, but now as his hope waned he had made the decision to give Legolas all the strength he possessed. He was doomed if Legolas were to die, and now it was unlikely that he would survive even if his son did. Thranduil reasoned that his life mattered little at this point, if by his death he could manage to give his son the strength to survive it was worth the sacrifice. If not, he would die within minutes of his son and that was better to his mind than fading slowly.