Post by Admin on Jan 1, 2021 21:34:07 GMT
Author: Mirrordance
Ranking: 3rd place
Summary: A simple injury becomes something more, and father and son sit together in the healing halls, caught in the mounting, dreadful knowledge that things will get worse before they can get better.
Rating: T
Characters: Thranduil, Legolas
Warning: Descriptions of injury and illness
His name physically appears before my eyes most very evening, when the report highlighting the events of the past day makes its way across my desk. The precis which I read nightly, helps form my agenda for the day to come. It is never more than two pages long, comprising only the key issues and developments that merit a King’s attention.
The reports are brief, allowing me to know enough but not everything about any given matter in our Realm. For specific details that capture my interest, I inquire further with my ministers and councilors.
When Legolas was younger, his inclusion in the reports was clearly a bid to humor me. The King, as was rightfully suspected, would be interested in the progress of his son, even in its theoretically irrelevant minutiae. The early reports said things like:
Legolas Greenleaf (Cadet) – Southeastern border assignment. Credited with the near-wounding of an enemy scout. Scout escaped.
Legolas Greenleaf (Cadet) – Southwestern border assignment. Credited with one kill, arrow through the eye.
A King’s objective eyes know these for the regular things that they are, barely worth the ink it is written in, listed only on account that it is about the Prince. My father’s heart, however, swelled with every brief mention of my son’s random achievements, the trajectory of which was steep and high toward greatness.
Report after report showed Legolas’ increasing prowess and honorable conduct over the years. There was a period in which Legolas’ kills had been so many they just stopped mentioning the tally. There was also a point in time wherein his heroics merited a thrilling paragraph, then half a page, which I read hungrily and repeatedly. But soon these became the norm too, such that eventually the reports turned away from his achievements and focused only on events of exception.
Lately and distressingly, these notes usually spoke of injury. His achievements are the norm now, and his hurts have become the notable event. I wonder if one day, these would be so regular that they are no longer mentioned, too.
The acquisition of a miscellany of cuts and contusions on patrol, for example, is nothing to write home about. Legolas certainly gathers them regularly. But his negligible injuries made the daily report recently, for he had been subject to the attentions of an overeager apprentice field healer practicing both his medical skills as well as its tangential reporting function. It was a single innocuous line:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – minor injuries; released for regular duties.
My son returned to the field and made it to the daily reports the following day, for two cracked ribs which merited little more attention than the hurts of the previous incident:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – moderate injuries; released to restricted duties, one week; return to regular duties upon healer’s approval.
The irony of it all – and Legolas, I think, appreciates this macabrely more than anyone else does – is that the more hurt he gets, the more he is needed on the field. As one of the kingdom’s most gifted warriors, the Prince getting injured usually means the fighting is extraordinarily rough, thus necessitating his expertise all the more, even if he isn’t always able to provide it.
But he is often well enough to try.
In this specific case, he was two days into his week-long restriction and assigned to the weapons stores, when a returning patrol brought in two soldiers near death along with a request for immediate reinforcements. And so healer’s orders be damned – off he went running out again.
I was duly informed of his actions, but by that time it was too late to stop him and he was well past crossing our gates. Cracked ribs are not to be taken lightly, and I was annoyed and worried by his rushing off to battle while thus injured, but it is not the first time he’s done it and I very much doubt it will be the last. When I re-read of his disobedience in the evening reports, however, it still drove me to renewed anger:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – abandonment of post at weapons stores, in direct violation of standing orders to restricted duties due to injury; last reported in active combat on the southwestern borders.
He came home after this venture triumphant – some say his timely arrival with a small squad spelled the difference between victory and doom – but not without a price. Because as surely as he was needed in the fighting, he was also not expected to emerge from it unscathed... because any warrior worth the name knows, if you go out hurt, the less likely you will be able to defend yourself and the more likely you are to get injured more or worse.
And so two cracked ribs became three broken ones, and my anger over his recklessness flared anew at this news.
It still burns within me now, as I stand in eager wait for him to face my ire. I’ve been spoiling for this fight since he left, and I wait outside the healing halls of his first stop, for him to emerge.
The corridor before the hall is usually busy with comrades, family and other well-wishers, especially with the return of many injured soldiers. But my steaming presence here has sent many scampering away, and I notice but I do not give a damn. I was told my errant son arrived on his feet earlier, clearly hurting but strong and aware enough to be allowed out of the wards and released to his own rooms after treatment. He is therefore well enough to handle the consequences of his behavior.
He steps out into the hall. He sees me waiting and the hand he had pressed to his broken side lowers defensively, as if his instinct is to deceive me into thinking he is well. But then he bows, and he resignedly brings the hand back to support the injury. He emerges from the gesture gray-faced and sweating and I am deeply and profoundly unimpressed.
“You abandoned your post,” I begin.
“The weapons stores hardly had any need of me compared to-“
“You defied an order to restricted duties.”
“There was no time to negotiate a change to those orders when the clearer imperative-“
“You endangered your comrades by going into a mission in the condition you were in. And no, princeling, orders are by their nature not for negotiation.”
“With all due respect, aran-nin, I did not endanger my comrades and if anything, I believe I helped-“
“Save them did you?” I snap, “That arrogance of yours, Legolas, will be our undoing. You endangered a mission in your condition, even if by incident you had succeeded in your objectives. But more than that, you endanger the succession of our Realm if you go out injured, recklessly, in the way that you had done here and have done before. You misunderstand your responsibilities if you think you are needed only for soldiering, Prince.”
“I couldn’t very well stay back and do nothing!” Legolas’ own temper dances on the surface of his struggling composure, pulsating, ready to burst forth. I can see it in his eyes.
“Do nothing, is it, to serve in our stores?” I retort, “Dare you minimize the efforts of our non-combatants-“
“You know that is not what I meant!” he protests, “I could not just stay back and serve any less than my abilities allowed-“
“-which are directly impacted by the physical state of your body!”
The head of the healing halls approach us with a pointed look softened only by his imploring hands, poised together in prayer. He dares not tell his King or Prince to lower their voices and take their argument away from the ailing, but he needs to do his job, too. I nod at him curtly in understanding and dismissal, and he walks away from us looking relieved.
Legolas and I both sigh in frustration at the same time, except his merits a hiss and a grimace on account of his injury, and I barely restrain a wince in sympathy. He is well enough to be scolded, but there is really no sport in being angry for very long at someone who is injured.
“Ada,” he says, tone more tired than conciliatory but certainly I detect some of that as well. “I am too weary to defend myself eloquently of all this now. All I can say of my actions is this – I beg the king’s indulgence of my own experiences and judgment. Please give me the benefit of knowing when to stay and when to go, of when to push forward and fight and when to stop for healing. I was well enough for fighting when I left, but now our victory has purchased for us some time for rest, and I will do so earnestly for I understand the potential severity of my situation. I will follow all that the healers have commanded. All that my King commands. I will live with the consequences of my actions and I will wait for proper reinstatement.” He gives me a weak, wry grin, “Contrary to popular opinion, my King, I am not trying to kill myself – or worse, vex you.”
I dismiss him and his horrible sense of humor for rest in his own quarters. He ambles away more or less steadily though not near his usual, casual power and grace, and I wonder if he feels me glaring at his back. Not all is well between us yet, but that is not new either and never beyond remedy.
I go about my day, and thoughts of him crawl into my head only sporadically, centered on the hope that he is resting as was prescribed, and as he has told me he would do. His injury really is minor if well-tended.
By evening, his name crosses my desk again:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – moderate-to-severe injuries; suspended from all duties until further notice. Released from wards for bed rest and mild activity, one week. Will subject self for daily healer’s visits and examination. Moderate activity expected in two weeks. Moderate exercise in three. Return to duties of any kind pending healer’s approval...
But the notation does not end here and is much, much longer this time. I had spoken in anger, I think, on dictating my thoughts to my attentive assistant, Galion. He’d written them all in that euphemistic way of his, and had merged it with the other reports of the day such that Legolas’ usual paragraph also included:
...pending commanding officer’s decision on appropriate disciplinary measures for disobedience (in reference to me, for who else had real command of this delinquent Prince than his father?).
...pending judgment on charges of abandonment of post (as if the weapons stores had real need of him – was I this incensed earlier?).
...pending judgment on charges of obstruction of operations (ah but this one is fair; he really did endanger others by going out to work with injury).
...pending – Well. This one is not my doing.
... pending a decision on the accused’s petition that the required period of medical convalescence, be concurrently spent with any future sentence of punitive suspension stemming from any of the charges herein mentioned.
That one is Legolas’ doing. I roll my eyes up to the heavens in consternation, wishing for some intercession from the gods or an enlightening visit from my late wife. Legolas, that clever wood-elf, has done this dance before, after all. He wants to limit his time away from the field, and wants me to consider his required recovery time to be the same as his punishment of suspension from duties for his misbehavior.
If I wasn’t so incensed I would be impressed.
# # #
I go to Legolas’ suites to join him for lunch the next day, which is arranged resplendently in the anteroom to his sleeping chambers. It is a rare instance that we are both here and free at the same time for the midday meal. I sit in wait, however, for I arrived while he was still ensconced with the healer within. I make a placating signal for his attendant not to announce me, for I want them to take their time. I lean back in my chair, have a glass of wine, and listen to the conversation on the tail-end of the visit.
“I know it hurts, hir-nin Legolas, but the occasional deep breathing and coughing when you hear a rattle in your chest or feel thickness in the back of your throat are necessary for recovery. Do the exercises as I have taught and take the pain medicine as prescribed. They will make the discomfort as minimal as-“
Legolas coughs and covers up the rest of the advice, and the sound of it is deep, wet hacking that makes me wince. He finishes hissing, and I can imagine the pain from his ribs to be significant. But his voice is strong when he finally speaks.
“I will do exactly as you say,” he promises the healer, “and I thank you for taking the time to see me.”
He is even on his feet to usher the healer out, who jumps slightly at the sight of me. He bows and hurriedly moves away, with murmured, half-unintelligible apologies for having kept the King waiting. My son, on the other hand, welcomes me with a broad grin. Our thorny conversation of the previous night did not have a satisfactory conclusion and we are not in the best of terms yet, but he wears his affection on his sleeve. He either has a convenient memory, or an open heart.
“To have you for lunch with me is a rare honor and pleasure, adar,” he says cheerfully.
He steps forward, opening up my view to his sleeping chambers beyond. His bed is unmade and wrinkled. This, coupled with the light sleeping shift of a convalescent that he has on, allows me to believe he is so far keeping to the prescription of staying off his feet and making himself available and cooperative to the healers. I approve of these wholly, but there is a breakfast tray on his bedside untouched, and this displeases me. He needs to eat if he expects to get better, and I know plenty of the healers’ potions, especially when it comes to dulling pain, could be unforgiving on an empty stomach.
We settle down for lunch. He tries to swipe some wine but I am quicker, and he frowns at me playfully. I do not laugh but I almost do, and he catches it. He latches onto it as a signal that we are on well enough footing, and over our meal he regales me with amusing stories from the road and of the gossip amongst his friends, who are of course the children or grandchildren of my own peers – courtships among this soldier and this daughter, failed romances and the like.
He thinks he is successfully distracting me from the fact that he is barely eating anything. When he pauses to cough – again with that sick, wet, grating hacking – and catch his breath, I take over the sudden quiet.
“You need to eat if you are to get better,” I tell him firmly.
He nods in agreement. “I am aware, father, and I swear will endeavor to do better later. My stomach is unsettled and I dread the thought of being sick with these ribs as they are, so I will partake in moderation for now. I’ve broached this with the healers and they think it is from the heavier medicines of last night.” He beams at me, “I expect you will be fighting me for even the barest of crumbs, come dinnertime.”
I actually have a set of engagements for dinner, but do not have the heart to say so while he looks at me like this. Galion, my attendant, would simply have to find a way to free me to join my son for the evening meal.
# # #
Galion pulls through and I am relieved I join Legolas because his optimistic projection is proving inaccurate. Come dinner time, his appetite has shown no signs of improving, and he sits across from me looking wan and miserable. He nibbles on pieces of bread and he sips on thinned soup in between stifled coughing, and I think he is eating only because I am there. He is quieter too, more introspective. I watch him carefully, and wonder where his thoughts go.
“Are you feeling unwell?” I ask.
Whatever is bothering him is suddenly shuttered from me, and he gives me a small, jesting smile. “I can’t believe you are charging me with abandonment and obstruction.”
I snort at him. “I do not believe for a moment that it sincerely bothers you.”
“Mostly I am surprised you did not include mutiny.”
“You shouldn’t tempt me so.”
He laughs, but this disturbs his breathing and he coughs harshly. He turns away from me, presses a hand to his injured side with one hand and with the other, covers his mouth with a table napkin. It muffles the sound of his miserable hacking, but it is still painful to hear.
“Excuse me,” he manages between coughs, and the politeness of it is almost endearing, except he is taking a while to recover and the coughs turn into deep, dry heaving. I sit anxiously on the edge of my seat, and was near to springing forward when he took a deep, fortifying breath and straightened. The effort of it all has drained him, and he pushes away at his plate with his lips pressed together grimly. He looks sickened, and he swallows repeatedly and thickly.
“Have the healers been by since this morning?” I ask.
“The prescription was once daily,” Legolas says, and he clears his throat for his voice is thick and broken, “They should be by again first thing tomorrow. At any rate, I do not believe they saw anything out of the ordinary earlier, adar.”
“But you sound worse, not better,” I point out.
“I was told that is not unexpected.” He sighs, and stifles another cough.
“Have you been following all that was ordered of you?”
“Believe me, aran-nin,” he says breathlessly but fervently, “No one wants this done and over with more than I do. I’ve barely moved, I’ve taken all medicine required, I am eating as much as I - ” He cuts himself off at the thought of food. He turns a shade of green and he clamps his mouth shut as he looks away from the table. He closes his eyes and takes careful inhales and exhales.
I hurriedly motion for a servant, and wave away at the setting so that it may be cleared and away from my son’s sphere. He opens his eyes and looks at me gratefully.
“Have you taken anything tonight?” I ask, “Something to ease you into sleep?”
“Some wine would be nice.”
I shake my head at him in amused dismay, and he grins again. It lightens his drawn features, but it does not dissuade me from the certainty that he is weary and in need of his bed.
“You will take rest now,” I say and I rise to go. I watch critically as he presses his palms to the table between us and push to his own feet. His hand drifts to his side protectively, and I realize what he intends to do. “Do not bow.”
It is such a small thing, but his eyes shine with gratitude, and they rake over my face in a hungry sort of way that I’ve never seen on him before. I do not know this expression, but for some reason it jars me. I wonder again at what is on his mind, and if he means to speak of it with me.
“Legolas...” I hesitate, and the sound of his name dances in the space between us, small and thin and uncertain.
He shakes his head at himself, as if discouraging a line of thought. He is my son and I know I will not understand him at all times, but I wonder if I should press this time, or let him speak his own mind when he is ready.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he says, “Thank you, adar, for making time to eat with me. Good night.”
# # #
I leave my son to his own devices and head for my own rooms. The usual nightly precis awaits me at the desk outside of my sleeping chambers, and I glance at it before turning to the valet attending me.
The elf frees me from my court robes and folds them carefully before taking them away for the wash. I divest myself of my own top undershirt as he prepares scented water and cloths for me to freshen up before bed.
I glance again at the precis, sitting benignly on top of the desk. It looks the same as it does every night, and considering Galion’s precision, it is probably laid out in the exact same manner - bottom orientation inward facing to the seat pulled out from the desk, ready for the sitter to slide into and immediately read. But there is something about the paper that nags at me tonight.
I run the wet, scented towels over my face, arms, neck and chest haphazardly, distracted by the papers, while my attendant works on my hair behind me. I finish before he does, and I hurry him along with a few moves of impatient shifting. He is quick to the hints, and scurries away with the used towels and the bowl of water, out of my chambers.
I slip on my sleeping shirts as I stride to the desk, but do not bother sitting. I snatch up the offending sheets of paper and read through them quickly to satisfy my unease.
Mild incursions, troop movements, mapped and destroyed spiders’ nests, advancements in a new crop of trainees, fluctuating market rates for Dorwinion, a supply issue with grain, repairs to the plumbing systems, farming revenues, emerging trade in herbal medicine with neighboring settlements...
I read through it again. There is nothing extraordinary in it that should discomfort me so.
I read through it one more time, and I realize it is not its contents that disturb me. It is a notable absence within it.
There is no mention of Legolas.
But why would there be? He is here, safely in our halls, recovering. He should be absent from the reports.
I read it again and wonder if that is indeed what bothers me, for it makes no sense. But my nagging unease, coupled with how he had looked at me earlier this night, is making my stomach feel cold and hollow. I think on his expression again, as if there was something he wanted to say.
I’ve not survived this long without listening to instinct. I grab my robes and put it on quickly, and stalk back toward my son’s suites.
# # #
I storm inside unannounced, and find my son surprisingly similarly attired as myself. He is in robes over sleeping clothes, as if he had meant to head to bed but changed his mind. He is standing in front of his bookshelf with two dog-eared books in his hands. He looks up at me with weary surprise. His eyes are sunken and he looks more ill than he did when we parted just earlier in the evening.
“Adar?” he asks in confusion. He puts his books down on a satchel on his desk, which is already half-filled with his personal effects, and he places a hand there and leans heavily upon it.
“Are you headed somewhere?” I ask him, confused myself.
He looks down at the satchel, and then back up at me.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he replies carefully, which is clearly the worst thing he could possibly say. I feel my eyes widen to saucers, which is probably his impetus for explaining himself quickly.
“I think I am unwell,” he says quietly. He takes a fortifying breath but ends up stifling a cough. He looks away from me uneasily. “I’ve had this injury before and I know what to look out for. I was told to seek the healers if there is anything amiss, and I am following just that. I am headed there now, unless you have need of me for something else? Why have you returned, adar? Not that it is unwelcome.”
“I was worried,” I reply, and I step toward him. “Legolas, ion-nin. Look at me.” He does, and I stare into his glassy eyes. “Have you been feeling ill all the while we were together? Why did you not tell me?”
“I felt ill and I did tell you,” he replies wryly. Sometimes I admire his spirit and other times I want to shake him until he gives me a straight answer. More seriously he adds, “But I wasn’t certain if it merited the immediate attentions of a healer. I was already told to expect pain and discomfort and at any rate, I knew I would be seen to in a visit scheduled in just a few hours. What more would I want of them?”
“And now?” There is a pit in my stomach as I wait his reply.
He shakes his head in dismay, and even now he hesitates to speak freely. “It could be nothing of course,” he disclaims, “But I had begged the king’s indulgence to be given credit for my own judgements of the limitations on what I can and cannot do. It is part of my job to understand this body, so to speak. I did tell you, contrary to popular belief-“
“You are not trying to kill yourself, I know!” I prod him along.
“I am cold, ada,” he admits softly, finally, with a kind of sadness in his eyes. “I’ve never been this cold before. And my heart feels... funny.”
I reach for the side of his neck. His pulse is fluttery, and his skin is so hot it is like a brand in my hand. I let my hold linger until I realize my touch must feel freezing to his burning skin. He shivers, and his hand snakes to his injured side again, strained now by fine tremors.
“Lie back down,” I tell him, trying to stay calm. I know what a fever of this magnitude means for a soldier with broken rib bones. It is a complication met when there is infection in the lungs. He knows it too, and he is miserable with the anticipatory dread of it. “I will call for someone.”
“I can still walk to the healing halls, adar,” he tells me determinedly. “Where all their wares and medicines are. They will be bringing me there at any rate, I think, I might as well go while I have the strength to. It will be faster.”
It is the ‘faster’ that convinces me. We may have caught this complication early enough to stem the worst effects of it – he was, after all, seen to by a healer yesterday and by one earlier today. He has also kept to his promise of limited movement, ate whenever I instructed him to, and took his medicines as instructed. He has also wisely decided to seek help when he began to feel worse.
Perhaps all he needs is some extra care from the wards, and he would soon be back to all the errant, reckless behavior I suddenly find I miss.
I sidle up beside him, and he willingly accepts the guiding hand I grip his arm with to steer him forward. He hesitates only for a moment, and I realize it is because he has forgotten the satchel he has prepared and paused only to reach for it.
“I will bring it,” I say, snatching the item from the desk. I realize suddenly that he has prepared books to bring for his time in the wards – he is expecting to be kept there for a while. The extent of that self-awareness is jarring for me, but also its implication. He is feeling so poorly that he suspects he is meant for lengthy confinement.
I propel us forward as fast as I think he is comfortable with. He is, as he earlier promised, able to walk without difficulty. But he is a thin presence beside me, quiet, light. Functional but drifting, barely really there.
The halls are empty save for my son and I, and the occasional servant or guard prowling the ways. I assign one as a runner to inform the healing halls of our approach, and I gather a couple of them to walk with us, in case Legolas is mistaken in his assessment of his abilities and collapses along the way. I will need others with me to aid him. I keep them close but I otherwise keep a possessive hold of my son for myself. He makes it on his own steam, just as he knew he would.
Our escorts disperse at the entrance to the healing halls, where we are met by almost the entirety of the night shift. They are well-prepared for us, with the private alcove set aside for members of the royal family already well-lit, warmed and ready for use. I deposit my son to sit on the bed, and he looks at me wearily but gratefully while he subjects himself to examination.
I find my hands, suddenly so emptied of him, clutching at his small bag of books.
# # #
Neither of us get much sleep.
Legolas is plied with glass after glass of fever and pain-reducing tea and in tandem with the very affliction they are fighting, he is drowsy and his limbs heavy. But he is kept in an upright position on the bed with pillows at his back, and while it helps to ease his breathing, it is uncomfortable to sleep in. He does not know where to put his head, and he tosses and turns it restlessly. His blankets also keep slipping down from his shoulders, and he shivers and tugs at them irritably.
Whatever shallow doze he manages to steal along the length of the night is interrupted by healers who keep waking him up for deep breathing and coughing exercises to rid him of the congestion in his lungs, which is the source of his infection to begin with.
We are both duly informed that this is all we can do – control the fever, control the pain, keep his breathing clear. Keep him fed and drinking, keep him warm. The temperature will come and go and things are likely to get worse before they can get better, but the Prince is young and strong and well-cared for. The healers have every reason to be optimistic that this setback is not too severe, even if it promises to be unpleasant.
By early morning Legolas is fully awake, and while irritable from discomfort and lack of sleep, seemingly in better health. The fever is almost gone, and he is much more in possession of himself. He looks at me seated on his bedside.
“There is really not much use in both of us being miserable here, aran-nin,” he tells me wearily. “I beg of you to get what sleep you can in your own bed. You can snatch an hour or two yet. You have a long day ahead as you always do, and I feel much revived already.”
He is right in everything he says, but I find myself hesitant.
“Please, adar,” he continues, “I will be here a while. If you stay too long you may tire of me.” He smiles to put me at ease, but he looks exhausted and this is what moves me more. “I cannot rest properly with you hovering there at any rate. You’re so grim. Your soldier will be kept quite adequately entertained with a book, you know.”
I realize I am still hanging onto his satchel. I yield it to him, and he takes it gratefully. I do not want to leave and I worry for him in spite of his marked improvement, because as the healers say, things are likely to get worse. But I think I have to take my leave. There is work to be done, yes. There always is, but especially so in certain instances. There is some irony in this too – that the more hurt my son gets, the harder our Kingdom’s situation must be and the more I am expected at my work, so the less able I am to stay by his side even if I am needed there too.
But Legolas is also right in that he would be too embarrassed to close his eyes and find true rest while being so closely watched by me. He is like a wounded animal sometimes, and he just prefers to keep to himself until he is better. Besides that, he is a grown elf and a strong, independent soldier – there are some battles he prefers to fight on his own. These are all perfectly normal reasons to want to be alone while hurting, but there is one more reason that only applies to us.
The fact is, the only times I’ve ever really sat with him in the healing halls was whenever he was so far gone that he was not of any mind to notice me. His father is a King, and unless the Prince was practically at death’s door, the King seldom had the luxury of time to sit with him. The moment he starts recovering, I am usually compelled to return to my other duties and I visit only when I am able. Thus, sitting together at length while he was awake but feeling increasingly poorly was a habit we have never acquired.
“I will visit later,” I promise him.
# # #
I steal away minutes of my day to sit with him, especially as I slowly come to realize the morning’s revival was a temporary rally. He is breathless, cold and shivering again come lunch, and the fever returns with a vengeance by supper.
It saps at Legolas’ energy hungrily, and even the coughs the healers make him do every so often are lacking in vigor. His tiredness is more terrifying than the previously loud hacking, and from the looks the healers exchange amongst themselves and the increasingly stern commands they issue for my son to try harder, I know they are becoming more worried.
After one such session, I watch them leave as Legolas lays back against his pillows exhaustedly. When we are alone and I turn to face him, I find his fever-bright eyes staring at me in that disconcerting way again, like he has done the previous night, when he was so ill that I had to bring him here. I still do not know what the look means, but something about it sickens me. It tears at my insides. I open my mouth to inquire, once and for all, what goes on in that mind of his. But he beats me to speaking.
“All the times I defy the healers for worse injuries and emerge well,” he says with a weary grin, “This one time I follow everything to the letter, everything, and for so mild a thing - I end up like this.”
“Strictly speaking,” I contend because I cannot resist the earnest levity he attempts, “All of this is the consequence of an earlier defiance. You should not have gone out with cracked ribs. If you didn’t, they wouldn’t be broken now and you wouldn’t be so ailing, would you?”
He waves this argument away, “Then I should not have been assigned where I was, perhaps I should not have been a soldier, perhaps I should not have been born in Mirkwood... we could go on and on. So I prefer direct causalities.” He is tiring I think, for the longer he speaks the thinner his voice and the more winded he gets.
“You prefer whatever argument lets you win.”
“It is a good rule to live by.” He smiles wider, before he drags in a breath, and winces at the pain in his ribs. His hand has been there on his side for hours by now though, no longer moving away. “Adar...” The sound of my name dances in the space between us, small and thin and uncertain...
I meet his eyes squarely.
“Do you not have somewhere else you need to be?” he asks earnestly. He knows I do. I always seem to.
“You can leave you know,” he tells me with a small, reassuring smile. “This is hardly the most serious injury or ailment I’ve ever had.”
At least it wasn’t, yet.
“You’ve left before for worse and I still emerged well. In the meantime I know you have much to do.”
He says it without meaning to hurt. He says it bare-faced, factually, without malice, without weight. But perhaps that is why it pains more. I’ve left him before for worse injuries, that is certainly true. It is this thought that drives me away, the shame of it that I do not wish to contemplate for very long.
“I will return later this evening,” I promise. “Earlier if I can. But you may well be asleep by then.”
“If you do not catch me awake,” he says softly, “I wish you a good night.”
My guilt at leaving is assuaged only because upon my exit, there is a small crowd of his friends and comrades waiting for their turn to see him. Word of his worsening health has come to light, apparently. Some of these soldiers are injured themselves, and I suspect they are among those Legolas helped relieve when he had taken the hurts that ultimately brought him here. It happens regularly; soldiers visit Legolas when I leave. I do not know if they are driven by their love and friendship of him, or by gratitude, or by some other impetus. When I am feeling maudlin as I am now, I let myself wonder if they stay with him because they pity him. Because he has no one, because he is alone, because all he has is me and I am not there.
Whatever their motive for visiting with my son, all of them part to let me pass and in this way, they line the narrow halls on both sides of me. They all bow as I walk past, one after the other with every step I make, like a house of falling cards. I wonder sometimes, what they think of me when I leave Legolas in his sickbed in favor of my other work.
I wonder if they think I am a good king or a bad father.
# # #
My days are spoken for from the time I wake to the time I sleep, and this is the norm even without the occasional crises presented by the orc and spider incursions into our forest, which I suspect is part of a larger war rather than the straggling remnants of an old one.
There have already been engagements I eschewed in favor of sitting with or sharing a meal with my ailing son these last two days, and so some of them have been moved back and squeezed into the night. It is on one such meeting that a harried Galion walks up to me with wide, purposeful strides. He lowers his mouth to my ear, and I lean in closely to hear what he has to say.
“They cannot wake Legolas, aran-nin,” he says without preamble, “They cannot wake him.”
# # #
I walk into a nightmare.
There are healers surrounding Legolas, one in front of him with smelling salts to revive him on his nose, one at his side to hold him upright in support of his injured ribs, one slightly behind him rubbing insistently at his back, and one on his other side holding his head and patting at his cheeks. He is limp in their arms, wan, eyes closed and sunken, with a tinge of blue to his half-open mouth as he sucked in small, soft, shallow breaths.
“Make way for the King,” Galion says, and while all of the healers’ activity stops for a moment, not one of them knew who ought to yield, as they all worked on waking my son. I decide to take over the position of the one holding Legolas’ head. I find his skin burns. His skin burns badly, and any longer of this will break his mind even if he can survive it.
“His fever runs too high,” one of the healers explain to me. They act with urgency but without fear - yet. “And there is fluid tightening his chest. He needs to wake for medicine, and to cough out. But he sleeps too deeply, aran-nin. We are hoping he may respond and wake to a more compelling voice, someone he cannot deny, before we resort to more invasive measures of bringing his body some relief.”
I nod in understanding and hold Legolas’ head in both my hands. I press my brow down to his, and will him my strength. I reach for his fea, and hum for him the song of our woods, the song of his family, the melody of his naneth that I like pretending to have forgotten. He remains elusive to me, and while this strikes me with fear, I resort to other means of calling him. Perhaps he does not know me in desperation, or, or in gentleness.
“Legolas,” I say, as sternly as my tightened throat could muster. “Legolas. Wake. Do not defy me again, princeling.” I shake him a little, and grip his face tighter. “Thranduilion! You begged of the King’s indulgence, did you not? To give you leave of judgment in knowing your own limits? Of knowing when to push forward and fight? Did you not say – you know when to stay and when to go? Were these not the very words from your mouth? I hold you to that claim now. I invoke that arrogant certainty of yours. Wake up!”
If you know when to stay...
... then you know to stay with me.
“Legolas!” I call him insistently, and I am struck by the sudden thought that if I lose him, I might lose my mind. “Legolas!”
One of the apprentices arrives running, and she has a miscellany of tools with her, wrapped in a clean, white cloth she unfolds before their chief-most healer. I do not know what they mean to do with them, but there is a slim, hollow tube amongst them and a set of sharp, glinting knives of various sizes that catch the light.
“Legolas!” I call upon my son with more impatience. I have no desire to see any of these instruments cut into his flesh if there were other ways.
I do not know which of all the means we employ finally wakes him, but waken he does. His brows furrow and he frowns at the disturbance to his slumber. His eyes flicker open, his breathing speeds up, and as he gathers more air, his eyes widen in awareness at the need for more. He jerks almost violently against us, doubling over in the coughs we had all fought so hard to wake him for. It is loud, wet, deep and long, and almost certainly torture to his ribs. But he releases stale air, and rids his clogged lungs of blood-tainted fluid that stain spots of his crisp white blanket red. It feels like an eternity before he stops and lays back upon his pillows with his eyes tightly closed. Tears leak from their corners from his strain.
We all catch our breaths and the apprentice puts away her master’s menacing tools. But I note with dread that they keep it near, now.
I step away and let the healers continue with their good works. Legolas is pushed back to the upright position leaning against his mountain of pillows. There is medicine pressed to his mouth for the pain, and tea to swallow it down and to manage his fever. There are cold compresses upon his head to lower his temperature quicker and offer him comfort.
The healers check the injury at his side, feel for his pulse and secure his blankets beneath his shoulders before leaving us with each other. His eyes are closed and he is exhausted but I know he is awake, just gathering himself.
I let him take his time, and sit upon the chair at his bedside, where a nearby table also holds his books. It is an odd selection. There is a tome on languages, one on history, and a thick book of a single epic poem. These are small and light editions made for the road, like that sometimes carried by soldiers and messengers, both of which my son functions as. They are far from the hard, leather-bound, rare, illuminated books of our expansive libraries, but they are dog-eared, well-loved, and I think liberally passed along amongst his comrades. I touch the cover of one, and I surprise myself with the reverence by which I behold it.
I look up to find Legolas’ eyes open, and he stares at me again in that disconcerting way of his.
“Why do you do that?” I ask. I think he is too weary now to dodge me cleverly.
“Your face,” he responds, voice barely more than a whisper. He clears his throat and he reaches for me. It is not our way, but I find I cannot deny him anything now. I might not be able to deny him anything ever again. I lean forward and let his hands, heavy and overwarm, brush my cheeks, my nose, my head. He is, I realize, committing it to memory. He is memorizing me, taking in every line and plane and shadow and hollow.
“Why...?” I ask, as I think back to all the times he’d settled that searching gaze on me over the last few days. He was feeling unwell both times, and we were saying our good nights.
“I wasn’t sure,” he murmurs, “I wasn’t sure if it was only good night or...”
Saying goodbye.
It hits me like a well-placed (perhaps well-deserved) kick to the chest. Some part of him had known it would come, the slow failing of his body. He knew what to watch out for and he knew when to ask for help. What he did not know, was what to expect from his own father in such circumstances.
I’ve seen him at death’s door and sat with him in wait of him getting better, yes. But I’ve never sat with him for its converse – to be with him and watch helplessly as he progressively got worse and worse. They are drastically different things. The former, improvement, is premised on hope and patience. The latter, brutal deterioration, is premised on uncertainty and fear.
I take the hand he had rested on my cheek and enclose it with my own. It is so warm, even with all the medicine he had taken. It is so heavy, and I know now that things are far from over for us. Legolas has only been here for two days - this affliction has only begun its crippling, insistent hold. It will take more days like this, and perhaps worse days than this, for him to really improve. If he is to improve... but the opposite is a possibility I will not consider.
I clutch his hand tightly, and lower it to the bed at his side before I release it. He closes his eyes wearily, and his whistling breaths dominate the silence of the room. He tosses his head, unable to find a good position for rest.
I cannot make him better.
I do not know how to be with him like this.
I do not even know how much he really wants me here while he hurts, and I do not think he knows it either.
But when his blanket slides off his shoulder amid his restless tossing, I know to reach for it and place it back. His eyes open a sliver and the corner of his lip turns up in a smile of thanks.
And when his head lolls in sleep and he keeps jolting awake at the sensation of falling, I know to stand from my chair and sit beside him on his bed, giving him my shoulder. He rests his head upon it and leans heavily against me until he falls into an easier rest.
And when the healers return to wake him for more coughing and drinking, I know to pat his back. I know to hold his cup.
And when they leave him again to rest, I know to return to the place where I can offer him my shoulder. He leans into me, and there we both know to stay and wait and weather this out together.
# # #
It is both boring and unnerving to sit with someone so ill.
For long stretches of time he rests easy and so do I, and we are left alone. But in the intimacy of our position, I feel all too well when he begins to shift in discomfort, heralding the beginnings of a rising fever that also brings radiant heat to my own skin. He shivers and shakes and moans and mutters mindlessly, and sometimes he hears and heeds me and other times he does not. The healers come in with their potions and cool cloths and commands for him to wake, to drink, to cough. When they finish they leave him exhausted and drained, and I take my place again. And he sleeps again.
And we wait for the worst to come, again. And go over the same things, until we begin again. And again. And again.
But I know now, not to leave.
# # #
Galion is at my disposal at any point along my stay with Legolas at the wards. He is always just beyond Legolas’ room in wait of my command.
He has taken to bringing me a sheaf of papers relating to my most immediate work here these past few days, topped with two pages of the daily report for ease of perusal.
I’ve learned to incorporate the demands of the world outside with my commitments to my ailing son here, in both the big things and the small things. The big things come in learning to delegate better – after all, I do have a bevy of competent subjects at my disposal. But the small things could be something as simple as learning to go through papers only with my more inferior left hand, for Legolas had commandeered my entire right side.
There he remains slumped, exhausted, heavily asleep and slack-jawed, but finally suffering only a mild temperature and breathing better after so many days. The healers say he will feel tired and weakened for a while yet, winded for weeks afterwards, and would need to make special efforts before he could return to his old strength. But he is finally on the mend, and I was so pleased by the news that -
Legolas shifts slightly, but I think he has also learned the planes and hollows of my body by now, and he finds his ideal position with a contented sigh. I look down at him and shake my head with amusement, before turning back to my work.
- I was so pleased by the news that I gave instructions to Galion and the war minister with regards to Legolas’ pending disciplinary cases, and the outcome of these are to be found now in the day’s highlights:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – guilty on charges of abandonment of post. Guilty on charges of obstruction of objectives. Sentence of suspension from duties to be served concurrent with required period of medical convalescence. Reinstatement to duties of any kind pending healers’ approval.
“You should have dropped the charges altogether,” came a breathy murmur from beside me. Legolas is awake, and apparently reading my papers from the vantage point of where he still rests his heavy head on my right shoulder. I smile in the simple pleasure of his voice, but he does not see it.
“I think it is a fair compromise,” I say sternly. “You’ve won your petition on the sentence. And you are guilty.”
“For excellent reasons.”
“That do not change the fact.”
“But mitigates them. Puts things into better context.”
“Enlighten me if you will, young Prince,” I tell him. “Do you mean to say you are willing to venture out into battle injured and that you are willing to risk your life so eagerly for your land and your brother-soldiers, yet you refuse a few lines on paper saying what all of us already know to be true: that you are disobedient?”
He gives it a thought.
“Yes.”
I laugh, and I feel him quaking from the same mirth, beside me. He is irrepressible, and I am a fool for him. But he has done the deed, and so the charges and their consequent verdict must stand.
At least, for now.
THE END
Ranking: 3rd place
Summary: A simple injury becomes something more, and father and son sit together in the healing halls, caught in the mounting, dreadful knowledge that things will get worse before they can get better.
Rating: T
Characters: Thranduil, Legolas
Warning: Descriptions of injury and illness
His name physically appears before my eyes most very evening, when the report highlighting the events of the past day makes its way across my desk. The precis which I read nightly, helps form my agenda for the day to come. It is never more than two pages long, comprising only the key issues and developments that merit a King’s attention.
The reports are brief, allowing me to know enough but not everything about any given matter in our Realm. For specific details that capture my interest, I inquire further with my ministers and councilors.
When Legolas was younger, his inclusion in the reports was clearly a bid to humor me. The King, as was rightfully suspected, would be interested in the progress of his son, even in its theoretically irrelevant minutiae. The early reports said things like:
Legolas Greenleaf (Cadet) – Southeastern border assignment. Credited with the near-wounding of an enemy scout. Scout escaped.
Legolas Greenleaf (Cadet) – Southwestern border assignment. Credited with one kill, arrow through the eye.
A King’s objective eyes know these for the regular things that they are, barely worth the ink it is written in, listed only on account that it is about the Prince. My father’s heart, however, swelled with every brief mention of my son’s random achievements, the trajectory of which was steep and high toward greatness.
Report after report showed Legolas’ increasing prowess and honorable conduct over the years. There was a period in which Legolas’ kills had been so many they just stopped mentioning the tally. There was also a point in time wherein his heroics merited a thrilling paragraph, then half a page, which I read hungrily and repeatedly. But soon these became the norm too, such that eventually the reports turned away from his achievements and focused only on events of exception.
Lately and distressingly, these notes usually spoke of injury. His achievements are the norm now, and his hurts have become the notable event. I wonder if one day, these would be so regular that they are no longer mentioned, too.
The acquisition of a miscellany of cuts and contusions on patrol, for example, is nothing to write home about. Legolas certainly gathers them regularly. But his negligible injuries made the daily report recently, for he had been subject to the attentions of an overeager apprentice field healer practicing both his medical skills as well as its tangential reporting function. It was a single innocuous line:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – minor injuries; released for regular duties.
My son returned to the field and made it to the daily reports the following day, for two cracked ribs which merited little more attention than the hurts of the previous incident:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – moderate injuries; released to restricted duties, one week; return to regular duties upon healer’s approval.
The irony of it all – and Legolas, I think, appreciates this macabrely more than anyone else does – is that the more hurt he gets, the more he is needed on the field. As one of the kingdom’s most gifted warriors, the Prince getting injured usually means the fighting is extraordinarily rough, thus necessitating his expertise all the more, even if he isn’t always able to provide it.
But he is often well enough to try.
In this specific case, he was two days into his week-long restriction and assigned to the weapons stores, when a returning patrol brought in two soldiers near death along with a request for immediate reinforcements. And so healer’s orders be damned – off he went running out again.
I was duly informed of his actions, but by that time it was too late to stop him and he was well past crossing our gates. Cracked ribs are not to be taken lightly, and I was annoyed and worried by his rushing off to battle while thus injured, but it is not the first time he’s done it and I very much doubt it will be the last. When I re-read of his disobedience in the evening reports, however, it still drove me to renewed anger:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – abandonment of post at weapons stores, in direct violation of standing orders to restricted duties due to injury; last reported in active combat on the southwestern borders.
He came home after this venture triumphant – some say his timely arrival with a small squad spelled the difference between victory and doom – but not without a price. Because as surely as he was needed in the fighting, he was also not expected to emerge from it unscathed... because any warrior worth the name knows, if you go out hurt, the less likely you will be able to defend yourself and the more likely you are to get injured more or worse.
And so two cracked ribs became three broken ones, and my anger over his recklessness flared anew at this news.
It still burns within me now, as I stand in eager wait for him to face my ire. I’ve been spoiling for this fight since he left, and I wait outside the healing halls of his first stop, for him to emerge.
The corridor before the hall is usually busy with comrades, family and other well-wishers, especially with the return of many injured soldiers. But my steaming presence here has sent many scampering away, and I notice but I do not give a damn. I was told my errant son arrived on his feet earlier, clearly hurting but strong and aware enough to be allowed out of the wards and released to his own rooms after treatment. He is therefore well enough to handle the consequences of his behavior.
He steps out into the hall. He sees me waiting and the hand he had pressed to his broken side lowers defensively, as if his instinct is to deceive me into thinking he is well. But then he bows, and he resignedly brings the hand back to support the injury. He emerges from the gesture gray-faced and sweating and I am deeply and profoundly unimpressed.
“You abandoned your post,” I begin.
“The weapons stores hardly had any need of me compared to-“
“You defied an order to restricted duties.”
“There was no time to negotiate a change to those orders when the clearer imperative-“
“You endangered your comrades by going into a mission in the condition you were in. And no, princeling, orders are by their nature not for negotiation.”
“With all due respect, aran-nin, I did not endanger my comrades and if anything, I believe I helped-“
“Save them did you?” I snap, “That arrogance of yours, Legolas, will be our undoing. You endangered a mission in your condition, even if by incident you had succeeded in your objectives. But more than that, you endanger the succession of our Realm if you go out injured, recklessly, in the way that you had done here and have done before. You misunderstand your responsibilities if you think you are needed only for soldiering, Prince.”
“I couldn’t very well stay back and do nothing!” Legolas’ own temper dances on the surface of his struggling composure, pulsating, ready to burst forth. I can see it in his eyes.
“Do nothing, is it, to serve in our stores?” I retort, “Dare you minimize the efforts of our non-combatants-“
“You know that is not what I meant!” he protests, “I could not just stay back and serve any less than my abilities allowed-“
“-which are directly impacted by the physical state of your body!”
The head of the healing halls approach us with a pointed look softened only by his imploring hands, poised together in prayer. He dares not tell his King or Prince to lower their voices and take their argument away from the ailing, but he needs to do his job, too. I nod at him curtly in understanding and dismissal, and he walks away from us looking relieved.
Legolas and I both sigh in frustration at the same time, except his merits a hiss and a grimace on account of his injury, and I barely restrain a wince in sympathy. He is well enough to be scolded, but there is really no sport in being angry for very long at someone who is injured.
“Ada,” he says, tone more tired than conciliatory but certainly I detect some of that as well. “I am too weary to defend myself eloquently of all this now. All I can say of my actions is this – I beg the king’s indulgence of my own experiences and judgment. Please give me the benefit of knowing when to stay and when to go, of when to push forward and fight and when to stop for healing. I was well enough for fighting when I left, but now our victory has purchased for us some time for rest, and I will do so earnestly for I understand the potential severity of my situation. I will follow all that the healers have commanded. All that my King commands. I will live with the consequences of my actions and I will wait for proper reinstatement.” He gives me a weak, wry grin, “Contrary to popular opinion, my King, I am not trying to kill myself – or worse, vex you.”
I dismiss him and his horrible sense of humor for rest in his own quarters. He ambles away more or less steadily though not near his usual, casual power and grace, and I wonder if he feels me glaring at his back. Not all is well between us yet, but that is not new either and never beyond remedy.
I go about my day, and thoughts of him crawl into my head only sporadically, centered on the hope that he is resting as was prescribed, and as he has told me he would do. His injury really is minor if well-tended.
By evening, his name crosses my desk again:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – moderate-to-severe injuries; suspended from all duties until further notice. Released from wards for bed rest and mild activity, one week. Will subject self for daily healer’s visits and examination. Moderate activity expected in two weeks. Moderate exercise in three. Return to duties of any kind pending healer’s approval...
But the notation does not end here and is much, much longer this time. I had spoken in anger, I think, on dictating my thoughts to my attentive assistant, Galion. He’d written them all in that euphemistic way of his, and had merged it with the other reports of the day such that Legolas’ usual paragraph also included:
...pending commanding officer’s decision on appropriate disciplinary measures for disobedience (in reference to me, for who else had real command of this delinquent Prince than his father?).
...pending judgment on charges of abandonment of post (as if the weapons stores had real need of him – was I this incensed earlier?).
...pending judgment on charges of obstruction of operations (ah but this one is fair; he really did endanger others by going out to work with injury).
...pending – Well. This one is not my doing.
... pending a decision on the accused’s petition that the required period of medical convalescence, be concurrently spent with any future sentence of punitive suspension stemming from any of the charges herein mentioned.
That one is Legolas’ doing. I roll my eyes up to the heavens in consternation, wishing for some intercession from the gods or an enlightening visit from my late wife. Legolas, that clever wood-elf, has done this dance before, after all. He wants to limit his time away from the field, and wants me to consider his required recovery time to be the same as his punishment of suspension from duties for his misbehavior.
If I wasn’t so incensed I would be impressed.
# # #
I go to Legolas’ suites to join him for lunch the next day, which is arranged resplendently in the anteroom to his sleeping chambers. It is a rare instance that we are both here and free at the same time for the midday meal. I sit in wait, however, for I arrived while he was still ensconced with the healer within. I make a placating signal for his attendant not to announce me, for I want them to take their time. I lean back in my chair, have a glass of wine, and listen to the conversation on the tail-end of the visit.
“I know it hurts, hir-nin Legolas, but the occasional deep breathing and coughing when you hear a rattle in your chest or feel thickness in the back of your throat are necessary for recovery. Do the exercises as I have taught and take the pain medicine as prescribed. They will make the discomfort as minimal as-“
Legolas coughs and covers up the rest of the advice, and the sound of it is deep, wet hacking that makes me wince. He finishes hissing, and I can imagine the pain from his ribs to be significant. But his voice is strong when he finally speaks.
“I will do exactly as you say,” he promises the healer, “and I thank you for taking the time to see me.”
He is even on his feet to usher the healer out, who jumps slightly at the sight of me. He bows and hurriedly moves away, with murmured, half-unintelligible apologies for having kept the King waiting. My son, on the other hand, welcomes me with a broad grin. Our thorny conversation of the previous night did not have a satisfactory conclusion and we are not in the best of terms yet, but he wears his affection on his sleeve. He either has a convenient memory, or an open heart.
“To have you for lunch with me is a rare honor and pleasure, adar,” he says cheerfully.
He steps forward, opening up my view to his sleeping chambers beyond. His bed is unmade and wrinkled. This, coupled with the light sleeping shift of a convalescent that he has on, allows me to believe he is so far keeping to the prescription of staying off his feet and making himself available and cooperative to the healers. I approve of these wholly, but there is a breakfast tray on his bedside untouched, and this displeases me. He needs to eat if he expects to get better, and I know plenty of the healers’ potions, especially when it comes to dulling pain, could be unforgiving on an empty stomach.
We settle down for lunch. He tries to swipe some wine but I am quicker, and he frowns at me playfully. I do not laugh but I almost do, and he catches it. He latches onto it as a signal that we are on well enough footing, and over our meal he regales me with amusing stories from the road and of the gossip amongst his friends, who are of course the children or grandchildren of my own peers – courtships among this soldier and this daughter, failed romances and the like.
He thinks he is successfully distracting me from the fact that he is barely eating anything. When he pauses to cough – again with that sick, wet, grating hacking – and catch his breath, I take over the sudden quiet.
“You need to eat if you are to get better,” I tell him firmly.
He nods in agreement. “I am aware, father, and I swear will endeavor to do better later. My stomach is unsettled and I dread the thought of being sick with these ribs as they are, so I will partake in moderation for now. I’ve broached this with the healers and they think it is from the heavier medicines of last night.” He beams at me, “I expect you will be fighting me for even the barest of crumbs, come dinnertime.”
I actually have a set of engagements for dinner, but do not have the heart to say so while he looks at me like this. Galion, my attendant, would simply have to find a way to free me to join my son for the evening meal.
# # #
Galion pulls through and I am relieved I join Legolas because his optimistic projection is proving inaccurate. Come dinner time, his appetite has shown no signs of improving, and he sits across from me looking wan and miserable. He nibbles on pieces of bread and he sips on thinned soup in between stifled coughing, and I think he is eating only because I am there. He is quieter too, more introspective. I watch him carefully, and wonder where his thoughts go.
“Are you feeling unwell?” I ask.
Whatever is bothering him is suddenly shuttered from me, and he gives me a small, jesting smile. “I can’t believe you are charging me with abandonment and obstruction.”
I snort at him. “I do not believe for a moment that it sincerely bothers you.”
“Mostly I am surprised you did not include mutiny.”
“You shouldn’t tempt me so.”
He laughs, but this disturbs his breathing and he coughs harshly. He turns away from me, presses a hand to his injured side with one hand and with the other, covers his mouth with a table napkin. It muffles the sound of his miserable hacking, but it is still painful to hear.
“Excuse me,” he manages between coughs, and the politeness of it is almost endearing, except he is taking a while to recover and the coughs turn into deep, dry heaving. I sit anxiously on the edge of my seat, and was near to springing forward when he took a deep, fortifying breath and straightened. The effort of it all has drained him, and he pushes away at his plate with his lips pressed together grimly. He looks sickened, and he swallows repeatedly and thickly.
“Have the healers been by since this morning?” I ask.
“The prescription was once daily,” Legolas says, and he clears his throat for his voice is thick and broken, “They should be by again first thing tomorrow. At any rate, I do not believe they saw anything out of the ordinary earlier, adar.”
“But you sound worse, not better,” I point out.
“I was told that is not unexpected.” He sighs, and stifles another cough.
“Have you been following all that was ordered of you?”
“Believe me, aran-nin,” he says breathlessly but fervently, “No one wants this done and over with more than I do. I’ve barely moved, I’ve taken all medicine required, I am eating as much as I - ” He cuts himself off at the thought of food. He turns a shade of green and he clamps his mouth shut as he looks away from the table. He closes his eyes and takes careful inhales and exhales.
I hurriedly motion for a servant, and wave away at the setting so that it may be cleared and away from my son’s sphere. He opens his eyes and looks at me gratefully.
“Have you taken anything tonight?” I ask, “Something to ease you into sleep?”
“Some wine would be nice.”
I shake my head at him in amused dismay, and he grins again. It lightens his drawn features, but it does not dissuade me from the certainty that he is weary and in need of his bed.
“You will take rest now,” I say and I rise to go. I watch critically as he presses his palms to the table between us and push to his own feet. His hand drifts to his side protectively, and I realize what he intends to do. “Do not bow.”
It is such a small thing, but his eyes shine with gratitude, and they rake over my face in a hungry sort of way that I’ve never seen on him before. I do not know this expression, but for some reason it jars me. I wonder again at what is on his mind, and if he means to speak of it with me.
“Legolas...” I hesitate, and the sound of his name dances in the space between us, small and thin and uncertain.
He shakes his head at himself, as if discouraging a line of thought. He is my son and I know I will not understand him at all times, but I wonder if I should press this time, or let him speak his own mind when he is ready.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he says, “Thank you, adar, for making time to eat with me. Good night.”
# # #
I leave my son to his own devices and head for my own rooms. The usual nightly precis awaits me at the desk outside of my sleeping chambers, and I glance at it before turning to the valet attending me.
The elf frees me from my court robes and folds them carefully before taking them away for the wash. I divest myself of my own top undershirt as he prepares scented water and cloths for me to freshen up before bed.
I glance again at the precis, sitting benignly on top of the desk. It looks the same as it does every night, and considering Galion’s precision, it is probably laid out in the exact same manner - bottom orientation inward facing to the seat pulled out from the desk, ready for the sitter to slide into and immediately read. But there is something about the paper that nags at me tonight.
I run the wet, scented towels over my face, arms, neck and chest haphazardly, distracted by the papers, while my attendant works on my hair behind me. I finish before he does, and I hurry him along with a few moves of impatient shifting. He is quick to the hints, and scurries away with the used towels and the bowl of water, out of my chambers.
I slip on my sleeping shirts as I stride to the desk, but do not bother sitting. I snatch up the offending sheets of paper and read through them quickly to satisfy my unease.
Mild incursions, troop movements, mapped and destroyed spiders’ nests, advancements in a new crop of trainees, fluctuating market rates for Dorwinion, a supply issue with grain, repairs to the plumbing systems, farming revenues, emerging trade in herbal medicine with neighboring settlements...
I read through it again. There is nothing extraordinary in it that should discomfort me so.
I read through it one more time, and I realize it is not its contents that disturb me. It is a notable absence within it.
There is no mention of Legolas.
But why would there be? He is here, safely in our halls, recovering. He should be absent from the reports.
I read it again and wonder if that is indeed what bothers me, for it makes no sense. But my nagging unease, coupled with how he had looked at me earlier this night, is making my stomach feel cold and hollow. I think on his expression again, as if there was something he wanted to say.
I’ve not survived this long without listening to instinct. I grab my robes and put it on quickly, and stalk back toward my son’s suites.
# # #
I storm inside unannounced, and find my son surprisingly similarly attired as myself. He is in robes over sleeping clothes, as if he had meant to head to bed but changed his mind. He is standing in front of his bookshelf with two dog-eared books in his hands. He looks up at me with weary surprise. His eyes are sunken and he looks more ill than he did when we parted just earlier in the evening.
“Adar?” he asks in confusion. He puts his books down on a satchel on his desk, which is already half-filled with his personal effects, and he places a hand there and leans heavily upon it.
“Are you headed somewhere?” I ask him, confused myself.
He looks down at the satchel, and then back up at me.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he replies carefully, which is clearly the worst thing he could possibly say. I feel my eyes widen to saucers, which is probably his impetus for explaining himself quickly.
“I think I am unwell,” he says quietly. He takes a fortifying breath but ends up stifling a cough. He looks away from me uneasily. “I’ve had this injury before and I know what to look out for. I was told to seek the healers if there is anything amiss, and I am following just that. I am headed there now, unless you have need of me for something else? Why have you returned, adar? Not that it is unwelcome.”
“I was worried,” I reply, and I step toward him. “Legolas, ion-nin. Look at me.” He does, and I stare into his glassy eyes. “Have you been feeling ill all the while we were together? Why did you not tell me?”
“I felt ill and I did tell you,” he replies wryly. Sometimes I admire his spirit and other times I want to shake him until he gives me a straight answer. More seriously he adds, “But I wasn’t certain if it merited the immediate attentions of a healer. I was already told to expect pain and discomfort and at any rate, I knew I would be seen to in a visit scheduled in just a few hours. What more would I want of them?”
“And now?” There is a pit in my stomach as I wait his reply.
He shakes his head in dismay, and even now he hesitates to speak freely. “It could be nothing of course,” he disclaims, “But I had begged the king’s indulgence to be given credit for my own judgements of the limitations on what I can and cannot do. It is part of my job to understand this body, so to speak. I did tell you, contrary to popular belief-“
“You are not trying to kill yourself, I know!” I prod him along.
“I am cold, ada,” he admits softly, finally, with a kind of sadness in his eyes. “I’ve never been this cold before. And my heart feels... funny.”
I reach for the side of his neck. His pulse is fluttery, and his skin is so hot it is like a brand in my hand. I let my hold linger until I realize my touch must feel freezing to his burning skin. He shivers, and his hand snakes to his injured side again, strained now by fine tremors.
“Lie back down,” I tell him, trying to stay calm. I know what a fever of this magnitude means for a soldier with broken rib bones. It is a complication met when there is infection in the lungs. He knows it too, and he is miserable with the anticipatory dread of it. “I will call for someone.”
“I can still walk to the healing halls, adar,” he tells me determinedly. “Where all their wares and medicines are. They will be bringing me there at any rate, I think, I might as well go while I have the strength to. It will be faster.”
It is the ‘faster’ that convinces me. We may have caught this complication early enough to stem the worst effects of it – he was, after all, seen to by a healer yesterday and by one earlier today. He has also kept to his promise of limited movement, ate whenever I instructed him to, and took his medicines as instructed. He has also wisely decided to seek help when he began to feel worse.
Perhaps all he needs is some extra care from the wards, and he would soon be back to all the errant, reckless behavior I suddenly find I miss.
I sidle up beside him, and he willingly accepts the guiding hand I grip his arm with to steer him forward. He hesitates only for a moment, and I realize it is because he has forgotten the satchel he has prepared and paused only to reach for it.
“I will bring it,” I say, snatching the item from the desk. I realize suddenly that he has prepared books to bring for his time in the wards – he is expecting to be kept there for a while. The extent of that self-awareness is jarring for me, but also its implication. He is feeling so poorly that he suspects he is meant for lengthy confinement.
I propel us forward as fast as I think he is comfortable with. He is, as he earlier promised, able to walk without difficulty. But he is a thin presence beside me, quiet, light. Functional but drifting, barely really there.
The halls are empty save for my son and I, and the occasional servant or guard prowling the ways. I assign one as a runner to inform the healing halls of our approach, and I gather a couple of them to walk with us, in case Legolas is mistaken in his assessment of his abilities and collapses along the way. I will need others with me to aid him. I keep them close but I otherwise keep a possessive hold of my son for myself. He makes it on his own steam, just as he knew he would.
Our escorts disperse at the entrance to the healing halls, where we are met by almost the entirety of the night shift. They are well-prepared for us, with the private alcove set aside for members of the royal family already well-lit, warmed and ready for use. I deposit my son to sit on the bed, and he looks at me wearily but gratefully while he subjects himself to examination.
I find my hands, suddenly so emptied of him, clutching at his small bag of books.
# # #
Neither of us get much sleep.
Legolas is plied with glass after glass of fever and pain-reducing tea and in tandem with the very affliction they are fighting, he is drowsy and his limbs heavy. But he is kept in an upright position on the bed with pillows at his back, and while it helps to ease his breathing, it is uncomfortable to sleep in. He does not know where to put his head, and he tosses and turns it restlessly. His blankets also keep slipping down from his shoulders, and he shivers and tugs at them irritably.
Whatever shallow doze he manages to steal along the length of the night is interrupted by healers who keep waking him up for deep breathing and coughing exercises to rid him of the congestion in his lungs, which is the source of his infection to begin with.
We are both duly informed that this is all we can do – control the fever, control the pain, keep his breathing clear. Keep him fed and drinking, keep him warm. The temperature will come and go and things are likely to get worse before they can get better, but the Prince is young and strong and well-cared for. The healers have every reason to be optimistic that this setback is not too severe, even if it promises to be unpleasant.
By early morning Legolas is fully awake, and while irritable from discomfort and lack of sleep, seemingly in better health. The fever is almost gone, and he is much more in possession of himself. He looks at me seated on his bedside.
“There is really not much use in both of us being miserable here, aran-nin,” he tells me wearily. “I beg of you to get what sleep you can in your own bed. You can snatch an hour or two yet. You have a long day ahead as you always do, and I feel much revived already.”
He is right in everything he says, but I find myself hesitant.
“Please, adar,” he continues, “I will be here a while. If you stay too long you may tire of me.” He smiles to put me at ease, but he looks exhausted and this is what moves me more. “I cannot rest properly with you hovering there at any rate. You’re so grim. Your soldier will be kept quite adequately entertained with a book, you know.”
I realize I am still hanging onto his satchel. I yield it to him, and he takes it gratefully. I do not want to leave and I worry for him in spite of his marked improvement, because as the healers say, things are likely to get worse. But I think I have to take my leave. There is work to be done, yes. There always is, but especially so in certain instances. There is some irony in this too – that the more hurt my son gets, the harder our Kingdom’s situation must be and the more I am expected at my work, so the less able I am to stay by his side even if I am needed there too.
But Legolas is also right in that he would be too embarrassed to close his eyes and find true rest while being so closely watched by me. He is like a wounded animal sometimes, and he just prefers to keep to himself until he is better. Besides that, he is a grown elf and a strong, independent soldier – there are some battles he prefers to fight on his own. These are all perfectly normal reasons to want to be alone while hurting, but there is one more reason that only applies to us.
The fact is, the only times I’ve ever really sat with him in the healing halls was whenever he was so far gone that he was not of any mind to notice me. His father is a King, and unless the Prince was practically at death’s door, the King seldom had the luxury of time to sit with him. The moment he starts recovering, I am usually compelled to return to my other duties and I visit only when I am able. Thus, sitting together at length while he was awake but feeling increasingly poorly was a habit we have never acquired.
“I will visit later,” I promise him.
# # #
I steal away minutes of my day to sit with him, especially as I slowly come to realize the morning’s revival was a temporary rally. He is breathless, cold and shivering again come lunch, and the fever returns with a vengeance by supper.
It saps at Legolas’ energy hungrily, and even the coughs the healers make him do every so often are lacking in vigor. His tiredness is more terrifying than the previously loud hacking, and from the looks the healers exchange amongst themselves and the increasingly stern commands they issue for my son to try harder, I know they are becoming more worried.
After one such session, I watch them leave as Legolas lays back against his pillows exhaustedly. When we are alone and I turn to face him, I find his fever-bright eyes staring at me in that disconcerting way again, like he has done the previous night, when he was so ill that I had to bring him here. I still do not know what the look means, but something about it sickens me. It tears at my insides. I open my mouth to inquire, once and for all, what goes on in that mind of his. But he beats me to speaking.
“All the times I defy the healers for worse injuries and emerge well,” he says with a weary grin, “This one time I follow everything to the letter, everything, and for so mild a thing - I end up like this.”
“Strictly speaking,” I contend because I cannot resist the earnest levity he attempts, “All of this is the consequence of an earlier defiance. You should not have gone out with cracked ribs. If you didn’t, they wouldn’t be broken now and you wouldn’t be so ailing, would you?”
He waves this argument away, “Then I should not have been assigned where I was, perhaps I should not have been a soldier, perhaps I should not have been born in Mirkwood... we could go on and on. So I prefer direct causalities.” He is tiring I think, for the longer he speaks the thinner his voice and the more winded he gets.
“You prefer whatever argument lets you win.”
“It is a good rule to live by.” He smiles wider, before he drags in a breath, and winces at the pain in his ribs. His hand has been there on his side for hours by now though, no longer moving away. “Adar...” The sound of my name dances in the space between us, small and thin and uncertain...
I meet his eyes squarely.
“Do you not have somewhere else you need to be?” he asks earnestly. He knows I do. I always seem to.
“You can leave you know,” he tells me with a small, reassuring smile. “This is hardly the most serious injury or ailment I’ve ever had.”
At least it wasn’t, yet.
“You’ve left before for worse and I still emerged well. In the meantime I know you have much to do.”
He says it without meaning to hurt. He says it bare-faced, factually, without malice, without weight. But perhaps that is why it pains more. I’ve left him before for worse injuries, that is certainly true. It is this thought that drives me away, the shame of it that I do not wish to contemplate for very long.
“I will return later this evening,” I promise. “Earlier if I can. But you may well be asleep by then.”
“If you do not catch me awake,” he says softly, “I wish you a good night.”
My guilt at leaving is assuaged only because upon my exit, there is a small crowd of his friends and comrades waiting for their turn to see him. Word of his worsening health has come to light, apparently. Some of these soldiers are injured themselves, and I suspect they are among those Legolas helped relieve when he had taken the hurts that ultimately brought him here. It happens regularly; soldiers visit Legolas when I leave. I do not know if they are driven by their love and friendship of him, or by gratitude, or by some other impetus. When I am feeling maudlin as I am now, I let myself wonder if they stay with him because they pity him. Because he has no one, because he is alone, because all he has is me and I am not there.
Whatever their motive for visiting with my son, all of them part to let me pass and in this way, they line the narrow halls on both sides of me. They all bow as I walk past, one after the other with every step I make, like a house of falling cards. I wonder sometimes, what they think of me when I leave Legolas in his sickbed in favor of my other work.
I wonder if they think I am a good king or a bad father.
# # #
My days are spoken for from the time I wake to the time I sleep, and this is the norm even without the occasional crises presented by the orc and spider incursions into our forest, which I suspect is part of a larger war rather than the straggling remnants of an old one.
There have already been engagements I eschewed in favor of sitting with or sharing a meal with my ailing son these last two days, and so some of them have been moved back and squeezed into the night. It is on one such meeting that a harried Galion walks up to me with wide, purposeful strides. He lowers his mouth to my ear, and I lean in closely to hear what he has to say.
“They cannot wake Legolas, aran-nin,” he says without preamble, “They cannot wake him.”
# # #
I walk into a nightmare.
There are healers surrounding Legolas, one in front of him with smelling salts to revive him on his nose, one at his side to hold him upright in support of his injured ribs, one slightly behind him rubbing insistently at his back, and one on his other side holding his head and patting at his cheeks. He is limp in their arms, wan, eyes closed and sunken, with a tinge of blue to his half-open mouth as he sucked in small, soft, shallow breaths.
“Make way for the King,” Galion says, and while all of the healers’ activity stops for a moment, not one of them knew who ought to yield, as they all worked on waking my son. I decide to take over the position of the one holding Legolas’ head. I find his skin burns. His skin burns badly, and any longer of this will break his mind even if he can survive it.
“His fever runs too high,” one of the healers explain to me. They act with urgency but without fear - yet. “And there is fluid tightening his chest. He needs to wake for medicine, and to cough out. But he sleeps too deeply, aran-nin. We are hoping he may respond and wake to a more compelling voice, someone he cannot deny, before we resort to more invasive measures of bringing his body some relief.”
I nod in understanding and hold Legolas’ head in both my hands. I press my brow down to his, and will him my strength. I reach for his fea, and hum for him the song of our woods, the song of his family, the melody of his naneth that I like pretending to have forgotten. He remains elusive to me, and while this strikes me with fear, I resort to other means of calling him. Perhaps he does not know me in desperation, or, or in gentleness.
“Legolas,” I say, as sternly as my tightened throat could muster. “Legolas. Wake. Do not defy me again, princeling.” I shake him a little, and grip his face tighter. “Thranduilion! You begged of the King’s indulgence, did you not? To give you leave of judgment in knowing your own limits? Of knowing when to push forward and fight? Did you not say – you know when to stay and when to go? Were these not the very words from your mouth? I hold you to that claim now. I invoke that arrogant certainty of yours. Wake up!”
If you know when to stay...
... then you know to stay with me.
“Legolas!” I call him insistently, and I am struck by the sudden thought that if I lose him, I might lose my mind. “Legolas!”
One of the apprentices arrives running, and she has a miscellany of tools with her, wrapped in a clean, white cloth she unfolds before their chief-most healer. I do not know what they mean to do with them, but there is a slim, hollow tube amongst them and a set of sharp, glinting knives of various sizes that catch the light.
“Legolas!” I call upon my son with more impatience. I have no desire to see any of these instruments cut into his flesh if there were other ways.
I do not know which of all the means we employ finally wakes him, but waken he does. His brows furrow and he frowns at the disturbance to his slumber. His eyes flicker open, his breathing speeds up, and as he gathers more air, his eyes widen in awareness at the need for more. He jerks almost violently against us, doubling over in the coughs we had all fought so hard to wake him for. It is loud, wet, deep and long, and almost certainly torture to his ribs. But he releases stale air, and rids his clogged lungs of blood-tainted fluid that stain spots of his crisp white blanket red. It feels like an eternity before he stops and lays back upon his pillows with his eyes tightly closed. Tears leak from their corners from his strain.
We all catch our breaths and the apprentice puts away her master’s menacing tools. But I note with dread that they keep it near, now.
I step away and let the healers continue with their good works. Legolas is pushed back to the upright position leaning against his mountain of pillows. There is medicine pressed to his mouth for the pain, and tea to swallow it down and to manage his fever. There are cold compresses upon his head to lower his temperature quicker and offer him comfort.
The healers check the injury at his side, feel for his pulse and secure his blankets beneath his shoulders before leaving us with each other. His eyes are closed and he is exhausted but I know he is awake, just gathering himself.
I let him take his time, and sit upon the chair at his bedside, where a nearby table also holds his books. It is an odd selection. There is a tome on languages, one on history, and a thick book of a single epic poem. These are small and light editions made for the road, like that sometimes carried by soldiers and messengers, both of which my son functions as. They are far from the hard, leather-bound, rare, illuminated books of our expansive libraries, but they are dog-eared, well-loved, and I think liberally passed along amongst his comrades. I touch the cover of one, and I surprise myself with the reverence by which I behold it.
I look up to find Legolas’ eyes open, and he stares at me again in that disconcerting way of his.
“Why do you do that?” I ask. I think he is too weary now to dodge me cleverly.
“Your face,” he responds, voice barely more than a whisper. He clears his throat and he reaches for me. It is not our way, but I find I cannot deny him anything now. I might not be able to deny him anything ever again. I lean forward and let his hands, heavy and overwarm, brush my cheeks, my nose, my head. He is, I realize, committing it to memory. He is memorizing me, taking in every line and plane and shadow and hollow.
“Why...?” I ask, as I think back to all the times he’d settled that searching gaze on me over the last few days. He was feeling unwell both times, and we were saying our good nights.
“I wasn’t sure,” he murmurs, “I wasn’t sure if it was only good night or...”
Saying goodbye.
It hits me like a well-placed (perhaps well-deserved) kick to the chest. Some part of him had known it would come, the slow failing of his body. He knew what to watch out for and he knew when to ask for help. What he did not know, was what to expect from his own father in such circumstances.
I’ve seen him at death’s door and sat with him in wait of him getting better, yes. But I’ve never sat with him for its converse – to be with him and watch helplessly as he progressively got worse and worse. They are drastically different things. The former, improvement, is premised on hope and patience. The latter, brutal deterioration, is premised on uncertainty and fear.
I take the hand he had rested on my cheek and enclose it with my own. It is so warm, even with all the medicine he had taken. It is so heavy, and I know now that things are far from over for us. Legolas has only been here for two days - this affliction has only begun its crippling, insistent hold. It will take more days like this, and perhaps worse days than this, for him to really improve. If he is to improve... but the opposite is a possibility I will not consider.
I clutch his hand tightly, and lower it to the bed at his side before I release it. He closes his eyes wearily, and his whistling breaths dominate the silence of the room. He tosses his head, unable to find a good position for rest.
I cannot make him better.
I do not know how to be with him like this.
I do not even know how much he really wants me here while he hurts, and I do not think he knows it either.
But when his blanket slides off his shoulder amid his restless tossing, I know to reach for it and place it back. His eyes open a sliver and the corner of his lip turns up in a smile of thanks.
And when his head lolls in sleep and he keeps jolting awake at the sensation of falling, I know to stand from my chair and sit beside him on his bed, giving him my shoulder. He rests his head upon it and leans heavily against me until he falls into an easier rest.
And when the healers return to wake him for more coughing and drinking, I know to pat his back. I know to hold his cup.
And when they leave him again to rest, I know to return to the place where I can offer him my shoulder. He leans into me, and there we both know to stay and wait and weather this out together.
# # #
It is both boring and unnerving to sit with someone so ill.
For long stretches of time he rests easy and so do I, and we are left alone. But in the intimacy of our position, I feel all too well when he begins to shift in discomfort, heralding the beginnings of a rising fever that also brings radiant heat to my own skin. He shivers and shakes and moans and mutters mindlessly, and sometimes he hears and heeds me and other times he does not. The healers come in with their potions and cool cloths and commands for him to wake, to drink, to cough. When they finish they leave him exhausted and drained, and I take my place again. And he sleeps again.
And we wait for the worst to come, again. And go over the same things, until we begin again. And again. And again.
But I know now, not to leave.
# # #
Galion is at my disposal at any point along my stay with Legolas at the wards. He is always just beyond Legolas’ room in wait of my command.
He has taken to bringing me a sheaf of papers relating to my most immediate work here these past few days, topped with two pages of the daily report for ease of perusal.
I’ve learned to incorporate the demands of the world outside with my commitments to my ailing son here, in both the big things and the small things. The big things come in learning to delegate better – after all, I do have a bevy of competent subjects at my disposal. But the small things could be something as simple as learning to go through papers only with my more inferior left hand, for Legolas had commandeered my entire right side.
There he remains slumped, exhausted, heavily asleep and slack-jawed, but finally suffering only a mild temperature and breathing better after so many days. The healers say he will feel tired and weakened for a while yet, winded for weeks afterwards, and would need to make special efforts before he could return to his old strength. But he is finally on the mend, and I was so pleased by the news that -
Legolas shifts slightly, but I think he has also learned the planes and hollows of my body by now, and he finds his ideal position with a contented sigh. I look down at him and shake my head with amusement, before turning back to my work.
- I was so pleased by the news that I gave instructions to Galion and the war minister with regards to Legolas’ pending disciplinary cases, and the outcome of these are to be found now in the day’s highlights:
Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – guilty on charges of abandonment of post. Guilty on charges of obstruction of objectives. Sentence of suspension from duties to be served concurrent with required period of medical convalescence. Reinstatement to duties of any kind pending healers’ approval.
“You should have dropped the charges altogether,” came a breathy murmur from beside me. Legolas is awake, and apparently reading my papers from the vantage point of where he still rests his heavy head on my right shoulder. I smile in the simple pleasure of his voice, but he does not see it.
“I think it is a fair compromise,” I say sternly. “You’ve won your petition on the sentence. And you are guilty.”
“For excellent reasons.”
“That do not change the fact.”
“But mitigates them. Puts things into better context.”
“Enlighten me if you will, young Prince,” I tell him. “Do you mean to say you are willing to venture out into battle injured and that you are willing to risk your life so eagerly for your land and your brother-soldiers, yet you refuse a few lines on paper saying what all of us already know to be true: that you are disobedient?”
He gives it a thought.
“Yes.”
I laugh, and I feel him quaking from the same mirth, beside me. He is irrepressible, and I am a fool for him. But he has done the deed, and so the charges and their consequent verdict must stand.
At least, for now.
THE END