16Chapter Two: Fray
Hands were on him, and then off him. Grasping, prodding, and poking. Stitching, wrenching, and twisting. Fire burned through his chest and exploded over his back in a storm of terrible fury that took its fuel from his own misery. Blackness swamped his awareness, drowning his senses in sweet nothingness, trading his suffering for precious, scattered moments of oblivion. Fevers raged mercilessly through his weakened body, bringing back the grasping, prying hands and the return of his agony. Bright lights made way to candlelight and candlelight to dazzling radiance and distant birdsong before the cycle would repeat again and again and again. Legolas was screaming. Screaming and screaming as his tortured body bucked and twisted in an attempt to free itself, but the hands only held him down to facilitate his torment.
When at last the haze lifted from his mind, Legolas awoke to a confused and fragile lucidity. His body hurt all over, though his chest and back were the worst. The elf sucked in a sharp inhale, groaning when the action sent a crushing pain through his ribs before his breath was stolen by a hacking cough. When the black spots cleared from his vision, Legolas sat up gingerly and pushed aside the covers as he panted for air. He was in his chambers, he observed, and judging from the light streaming in through the open window, the prince judged it to be around mid-afternoon. Something hovered at the edge of his consciousness: something important – yet out of reach, and Legolas frowned as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. An awful sense of dread hung over him, and he was afraid of what he might remember should he delve into the hidden recesses of his mind. But he had to remember. He needed to remember.
Legolas stood, almost immediately falling back onto the bed as his vision blacked out and his head pounded and spun with dizziness. He let out a slow breath, chiding himself for having gotten up so quickly. He had been injured countless times before and he knew better than this. Once his head cleared, Legolas tried again – more carefully this time. Using the bedpost for support, he cautiously pulled himself to his feet, clutching the wooden column tightly until the world around him stood still. On straightening up, the prince caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror which stood in the corner of the room. He was clad only in thin leggings, and his otherwise bare torso was wrapped in bandages. His long flaxen hair had been braided into a single, loose plait, though several sleep-mussed strands had escaped their confines to frame his face. Legolas's skin was pale; his eyes ringed by dark shadows as sweat glistened on his forehead, but the prince barely noticed any of this as his eyes fell to his chest. A tentative hand raised itself of its own accord, coming to rest over the space between his collarbone and breast where the bandages were at their thickest. Trembling fingers pressed down lightly, and then began digging in: searching, until Legolas emitted a shocked gasp as pain flared beneath his touch. He stumbled backwards, staring wide-eyed at his fingers; transfixed as visions of red and white flooded his mind. Ai Valar, no. It could not be. Legolas stopped only to grab a robe from his wardrobe, wrapping it about himself before he flung open the door to his chambers and almost ran from the room in his haste. This could all just be a terrible dream, if only... Elenath. His back gave a sharp spasm but in his adrenaline-fuelled state, the prince hesitated for only a moment. He needed to find Elenath.
Legolas strode quickly through the halls, his own condition forgotten as he made for the chambers of his Silvan friend. He used secret passageways through the mountain that were known to only a select few of the palace's inhabitants, for he did not wish to be discovered by any well-meaning servants. He needed to find Elenath urgently; needed to confirm that the frightful scenes in his mind were merely fevered nightmares. Soon, Legolas rounded a corner in the stone tunnel and paused to catch his breath before he pulled aside a tapestry. After checking that the way was clear, Legolas stepped out into a hallway lined with doors and hurried towards one that lay midway down the corridor. Upon reaching the heavy wooden portal, however, the elf found his body unwilling to respond. His muscles, strong and supple from years of warrior training were frozen in place, and his mouth was suddenly dry while his heart hammered wildly against his ribs. He should just turn around and leave. Elenath was probably outside at the training fields and not in his chambers in the middle of the day. This was all foolish paranoia, Legolas tried to convince himself; perhaps he had hit his head when he had been injured. Elenath would surely tease the prince mercilessly for having been so worried over nothing. He should turn around and return to his chambers; sleep off the confusion.
Sudden footsteps in the hall spurred Legolas into action. Without thinking, he wrenched the door open and darted into the room, pulling it shut behind him with a soft click.
"Nath?" His voice, harsh with disuse, startled him. But not nearly as much as the healers clustered around the Silvan's bed did.
"Prince Legolas?" As one, the three elves turned to face the young archer, who only took the opportunity to scurry between them to gain a view of the bed's occupant and subject of their ministrations.
Elenath was covered by crisp white linen – only the raven head protruded from the sheets, swathed in bandages. The deathly pallor of the Silvan's visage contrasted sharply with the dark bruising that marred the right side of his face and extended down the exposed skin of the elf's neck before it disappeared under the bedding.
"My prince, what are you - " The healers began to bustle around him, but Legolas was barely aware of them as his hand hovered over the covers, trepidation pounding in his throat. He needed to see it. Before he could lose his nerve, the blond archer pulled back the sheets to reveal Elenath's upper body. The Silvan had been dressed in a short-sleeved sleep tunic, leaving his sword arm in full view – that is, the parts of it that were not obscured by bandages and splints. Legolas dropped the bedding as if it had burned him and took a short step back from the bed. Something had lodged itself in his chest, making his breathing catch and his limbs tremble.
"What happened?" he managed to get out, turning pleading eyes on the healers. This was it. Legolas's breathing hitched nervously as the elves fixed him with three identical looks that were equal parts bemusement and concern.
"Prince Legolas, we were hoping that you could tell us that."
It was as though the head healer had punched Legolas in the gut. He gasped out a shuddering exhalation, swaying where he stood for a moment before he flung out an arm to catch himself against a small table. Legolas's hand collided with a pitcher of water instead, and he would have fallen to the floor in a spray of crystalline liquid had not a hand grasped his elbow, keeping him on his mutinous feet for long enough to steer the young prince into an armchair, where he sat down hard and dropped his head into his hands. His breath was coming in ragged pants.
"My prince?" The healer crouched beside the archer, worry showing clearly on his face. "Do you not remember?"
Legolas could dimly hear the healer, Laegon, speaking to him over the rush of blood in his ears. The words sounded distorted and far away, as though they came to him from underwater. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it; to banish this waking nightmare. "…Were attacked," he heard the voice continue, "…Only survivors…" No. No no no.
"No!" Legolas had not meant to gasp the word out loud, and he raised his eyes to meet several anxious faces. Laegon's brows knit as the head healer regarded the prince, his green eyes filled with sorrow.
"Then perhaps it is for the best." The elder elf put a gentle hand on Legolas's shoulder. "Mayhap the memories will return in time, my prince."
"I - " Legolas started, realising that Laegon had taken his exclamation as an answer to the healer's question. He fell silent though, realising that he had not the energy to explain, and so he simply nodded his head meekly. There would be time enough later to correct the misunderstanding. Right now, there was something more important at hand. Without warning, Legolas lurched forward and to his feet, causing the healers to grab for him as his legs sought to betray him for a second time.
"My lord, you are not yet well and should not be out of bed!" Legolas regained his balance enough to shrug off the healers, spinning away and out of their reach. He was struggling for breath, but matched their stares with icy countenance.
"Elenath," he ground out through clenched teeth, "I will know of his condition – now." He glared at the three healers, daring them to challenge their prince. One of their number, a young elleth called Elweth, tried to speak but was silenced by Laegon.
"Very well, Prince Legolas." The healer gestured to the Silvan, lying unmoving on the bed. Legolas did not miss the defeated tone of his voice or the way the healer's shoulders slumped slightly as he led the way to the bedside. The healer straightened the covers around the dark-haired warrior before he spoke, as if stalling for time. "Elenath has suffered extensive injury to his right arm. The bones are broken in several places along both the fore and upper arm." Legolas cringed, remembering with sickening clarity how the bones had shifted beneath his hands as he had splinted the limb. He had not detected the damage to the upper arm, and felt a crushing wave of guilt envelop him at the possibility that he had exacerbated the injury in his own ignorance. "It will be slow, but I believe that his arm will heal. Only time will tell if Elenath will regain full use of the limb, though." Legolas only just managed to conceal his sharp intake of breath. An elven warrior, maimed for the rest of his kin's long life. It was too heartbreaking to bear thinking about.
Legolas fidgeted with the hem of his robe, trying to fight down his rising anguish as he waited for the healer to continue. Laegon made no further move to speak though, until Legolas raised his eyes and fixed the older elf with a pointed stare. It may have been the prince's imagination, but it appeared as though the healer lifted his gaze skyward for a fraction of a heartbeat before he resumed speaking.
"It is young Thalion's head injury that concerns me," Laegon admitted, lightly palming the Silvan's forehead and checking the warrior's pulse. The elder elf tried to hide it, but Legolas could tell that the healer was not encouraged by his findings. His usually quiet and serene demeanour exuded uncharacteristic nervousness. "He has sustained multiple contusions to his skull, and we cannot rule out the possibility of fractures. He experiences frequent bouts of vomiting and seizures, and his moments of consciousness are brief; his mind confused. My prince, I fear -"
"How long?" Legolas was quick to interrupt the healer, not wishing to hear what he feared would be said next. The young archer's voice was but a whisper, and Laegon looked uncertain for a moment before speaking.
"Five days, my lord. It has been five days since you rode into the palace carrying him. You lost consciousness before we could..." Laegon continued, but Legolas was no longer listening. His limbs had begun to shake fiercely and his chest was gripped by a tightness that had nothing to do with his wounds. Nausea rolled in the pit of his stomach and his throat clenched, protesting the prince's attempts to draw breath.
"Thank you, Laegon," he blurted, and then turned to head for the door, trying to keep his movements from betraying his panicked state. "That will be all." Reaching the door, he yanked it open. The elder healer moved to follow his prince, but Legolas halted him, hoping that his voice sounded steadier than he felt. "Do not follow me!" He stepped into the passage then, accidentally banging the door shut after him. The harsh sound reverberated through the hallway, which only served to ratchet up his distress as he fled the scene in a mad dash, snatching aside the tapestry with only moments to spare before he collapsed against the cold stone. They were all dead. All dead, and it was his fault.
Legolas let out a small, keening sound and drew his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around them as he tried to even out his breathing. Radhron. Legolas ran a trembling hand through his hair, tugging the braid loose in tangled strands. Traston. Tight coils squeezed the breath from his lungs. Radriel. His heart throbbed, pumping razor-sharp shards of ice through his veins. Caladwen. Waves of nausea roiled in his churning stomach. Legolas's chest burned with the frantic fluttering contained within. What breath he managed to suck in rasped cruelly at his impossibly constricted throat. Elenath. It was too much. A rough sob tore loose from his chest, and then another and another, until his slender frame shook with their assault. Hands clutched at his breast; fisted in his hair, but he was too broken. Too far gone to stop it. Radhron, Traston, Radriel, Caladwen, and Elenath. All dead or dying because of him.
"Prince Legolas?" Legolas pressed his hands to his mouth in an attempt to smother his sobs at the sound of his name. Footsteps could be heard in the passage outside, and he recognised the voice as belonging to Laegon. The archer scooted backwards up the tunnel, rounding a bend in the stone and letting a teary breath through his fingers before dragging a hand across his face. They were looking for him and he needed to make it back to his chambers before the healers did. Closing his eyes, Legolas tried to clear his mind and focus on his breathing. He felt sick and his body ached all over. In and out. In… and out. "My lord?" The voice grew closer to his refuge, and a soft, hiccoughing sob escaped the young prince's lips as he scrambled to his feet, supporting himself against the rock wall with the splayed fingers of his left hand. Legolas pulled himself together as best he could, and took a few wobbly steps up the passage, silent tears still coursing down his cheeks despite his efforts at curbing them. He cried out softly as a great stab of pain tore through his back, a pain so intense that he was forced to slump against the wall until the worst of it passed and he could breathe through the pain. Legolas forced his legs to keep going, to keep carrying him over the hard floor that had suddenly become quicksand; each step draining him of what little energy he had left. His shoulders twitched with the effort of holding back the wall of agony that assaulted both his body and mind, but somehow he made it back to his chambers. He closed the door behind him and quickly twisted the lock shut before allowing himself to sink to the floor in a defeated, quivering tangle of limbs and sobs. His teeth chattered and the tears refused to stop, but Legolas found himself too exhausted to fight them anyway, so what did it matter. All he could do was to curl into a ball, wrapping his cloak around himself to ward off the cold of the floor, until eventually, the raw sobs gave way to soft sniffling. Soon after, a welcome darkness absolved him of his senses and he knew no more.
Legolas woke to a light rapping on his chamber door. Groaning, he pulled his robe over his head, hoping that whoever it was would give up and go away. There was a pause and then the knocking sounded again, louder and more insistent. The door handle turned and then rattled.
"Prince Legolas?" The worried voice on the other side was clearly Laegon's. "Please open the door, for I need to examine you." There was no escaping this, Legolas realised with a surge of hopelessness. Ignoring the healer would only escalate the elder elf's worry, and complying would be easiest for everyone.
"Coming, Laegon." Cursing as his injuries made their presence known, Legolas eased himself upright, bringing his hands up to scrub at his face. They were no longer shaking so noticeably, and his heartbeat had come back almost to normal. Biting back a cry of pain, Legolas got to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall as he limped the short way back to the room's entrance. He turned the key in the lock and plastered what he hoped was a nonchalant look on his face, and then opened the door. Laegon looked visibly relieved at the sight of his prince, and Legolas bid him enter with a wave of his hand. While the tawny-haired healer closed the door, Legolas dragged himself to his bed and settled on the side of the mattress. Laegon cast a disapproving look at the key that still sat in the lock, but he did not mention it as he strode purposefully towards the prince's bedside, where he pulled up a chair. The healer carried with him a large satchel – no doubt filled with healing supplies – which he set down at his feet. As his trained gaze looked the younger elf up and down, Legolas did not miss the look in his eyes – something akin to pity, and it made him feel suddenly vulnerable as he thought of his face. He dropped his gaze to stare at his hands, waiting for Laegon to say something.
"My prince, I require your permission to start my examination." Legolas raised his eyes, palpable relief flooding through him. It seemed impossible that the healer had not noticed the red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained face of his superior, but even so, the elder elf seemed to have chosen not to point them out.
"Permission granted. Do your worst, Laegon." The healer exhaled through his nose in a soft huff and the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, the only small signs that he had noticed Legolas's attempt at lightening the mood.
"How do you feel?"
"About as well as can be expected." Legolas shrugged, choosing to interpret the question as one relating purely to his physical state. He stifled a growl of pain as the movement set off his back and chest, and fervently hoped that the flareup had gone undetected. Laegon nodded gravely, seeming to find the prince's answer satisfactory, though the healer's brows had knit.
"And how is your pain?" It was Legolas's turn to frown at this, knowing that brushing away the question would not work – his answer needed to be believable.
"Present," he answered truthfully, "However, it is bearable." The healer nodded again, but before he could speak, Legolas continued. "What is the damage?" Laegon hummed lightly in thought for a moment and then began to speak.
"My prince, you have taken a serious arrow wound to your chest, broken two ribs, and injured your spine – I cannot yet be sure of the extent of the damage to that area, but that you are able to walk is encouraging. The arrow grazed your lung, but we were able to safely remove it from your body. Had it hit but a little higher, you would have bled to death." Legolas flinched as Laegon's fingers found his bandages, but almost instantly the prince had smoothed a fragile mask of indifference over his face. He dipped his head to indicate that the healer should continue. "While the arrow was not poisoned, your wound developed a serious infection, and your fever only broke this morning." Laegon pressed his palm to Legolas's forehead as if to reaffirm this. "You will need to be careful not to exert yourself for the next few days, lest it should return. While most of your internal damage appears to be healing well, we could not allow the wound to close until the infection cleared, so you will need to take care with the wound – keep it bound and avoid getting it wet." The elder elf had successfully unpinned the bandages and quickly unravelled them from his young patient's chest to expose a layer of dressings beneath. "Prince Legolas?" Expectant, practised fingers took hold of the corners of the slightly damp gauze.
"Laegon?" Legolas tried to hide the fact that he spoke through clenched teeth.
"This may hurt, but please bear with me."
Legolas let out a loud grunt despite himself as the healer lifted the dressings from the wound, and his hands grabbed the bedclothes in a white-knuckled grip. The healer apologised immediately, explaining that the seepage from the wound had caused the gauze to stick. Legolas nodded mutely, focusing on his breathing until the searing pain had faded to a dull ache, whereupon he pushed it to the back of his mind and craned his neck as he attempted to glimpse the wound. Laegon, realising what the prince was trying to do, held up a small hand mirror that rested upon the nightstand, and Legolas forced a tight smile in thanks as he took it. The arrow had pierced the flesh directly below his collarbone, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. As Legolas watched, a thin trickle of blood leaked from the edge of the wound and ran down the muscle below. Laegon pressed a clean dressing over the injury, gently wiping away the crimson and then discarding the gauze. He bent to rummage in his satchel while Legolas continued to inspect the damage. The prince could see that at some point, the site had been stitched, though the sutures had been pulled from the wound (likely once infection had set in), leaving behind rows of red puncture marks along the tender skin, which bore the oily residue of healing salve. Legolas squinted at his mirror image, attempting to ascertain how far into the wound he could see. He raised his free hand to his chest in preparation to explore the lacerated flesh with his fingers, but he was brushed away by Laegon and fixed with a reproachful emerald glare.
"Forgive me, my prince, but the infection has only just settled and I cannot allow you to risk further contamination." Legolas hummed in resigned compliance and allowed the other elf to cleanse the wound, again setting his jaw against the pain.
"I am happy with the progress," Laegon declared as he spread salve over the site, making Legolas hiss and flinch. "If it is still clear of infection tomorrow, the wound can be closed again." Legolas was no longer paying much attention to what had been happening, but the prince offered his thanks anyway. Once his chest had been bound once more, he stretched lightly, immediately letting out a sharp cry when a shower of tiny needles exploded from his back and into his legs. His hands flew to his lower back as he was left gasping for breath. The hand mirror clattered to the floor, forgotten. "Prince Legolas! You must be careful with your back!" Laegon exclaimed, and then became deeply sombre. "The damage to your spine may very well be worse than the arrow wound." Of course, it would have been too much to hope that falling from a tree straight onto his back would not have resulted in serious injury. "My prince, with your permission, I would examine your back. It is only now that you are awake that I can attempt to truly gauge the damage."
Still reeling from the pain, Legolas reluctantly conceded, dropping his hands and allowing Laegon to begin prodding at his tender flesh. But once the healer asked him to perform a series of flexions that left him doubled over and panting on the bed, Legolas reached his limit and sent the other elf from the room with what remained of his composure. As soon as he was left alone once more, the young elf staggered blindly into the adjoining bathing chamber, where he curled himself over the toilet and retched up bile into the running water below. Shocking pains raced each other up and down the lengths of his spine and legs while his chest burned. With each cough and spasm through his stomach, Legolas's broken ribs screamed at him until his vision swam with the agony of it. But most of all, his friends were dead. All because he, Legolas, had been so arrogantly taken with his own perceived prowess as a warrior. It had never been the spider. He had never been able to sense its presence as he had so foolishly assumed. And still, he had brazenly, unforgivably ignored what his body had been trying to tell him. All elves could sense the presence of goblins – but Legolas had been so preoccupied with the thought of being somehow elevated among his peers that he had not even considered the possibility. And now, his friends had paid the ultimate cost for their prince's ego. The young archer coughed and spat as his body rebelled against him, but there was nothing left inside of him. Nothing except the torment in his own mind.
When it was all over, Legolas gulped down a few grateful swallows of water and then stumbled back into his bedchamber. Laegon had left behind a vial of pain relief, but Legolas ignored it as he all but fell into bed. He deserved the pain he was in – all of it, and more. For what kind of warrior – what kind of person – could have caused the senseless deaths of his comrades. By the time he shut his eyes, Legolas could already feel ripples of unconsciousness lapping at his throbbing head, and the elf surrendered himself gladly to the promise of nothingness.
"Legolas?" A familiar voice roused the prince from sleep as the unlocked door swung open. Legolas's eyes focused in time to see a tall figure pass over the threshold, quietly closing the door behind itself. The room was murky with the fading light of evening, but Legolas instantly recognised the elf who had entered his bedroom.
"Ada." His voice cracked with sleep.
"Penneth!" The golden Elvenking was immediately at the bedside, relief and great sadness alike emanating from his being. "Laegon told me that you had come back to us, though alas, it would seem that I have woken you." Thranduil crouched and placed a hand on Legolas's shoulder. "How do you feel?"
"Fine." In comparison to what had befallen his friends, Legolas knew that his own pain was entirely insignificant; unworthy even of mention. He tried to force a tired smile for his father, whose face took on an unreadable look. "Laegon tells me you do not remember?" Legolas shook his head, only realising after how ambiguous the gesture had been when Thranduil sighed, the Elvenking's sapphire eyes becoming at once faraway and sorrowful. "I am so deeply sorry, penneth." The king softly brushed away a few errant strands of flaxen hair that clung to the prince's cheek. "Know only that you did the best you could. I am proud of you, my son."
Legolas had suddenly to choke back a sob at this. If his father only knew what had truly transpired, that he was the reason his friends and comrades were dead and dying... And yet, Legolas found that he could not summon the will to tell Thranduil of this. He let out a quiet sigh as he averted his eyes, wishing to look anywhere but into the eyes of his father and king. Legolas could not bear to imagine the disappointment and betrayal that would glare back at him should Thranduil learn of his shame. And now, he realised miserably, he could add cowardice to the list of his failures. Legolas's thoughts were interrupted as the Elvenking palmed his forehead, seeming satisfied before he spoke.
"You should rest, penneth, and heal. Do not hesitate to call for Laegon or me should you have need of anything at all." Thranduil rose and drew the curtains shut, eclipsing what remained of the dim light. Then he bent over Legolas and pressed a light kiss to his son's brow. Thranduil rose and crossed the room but paused as his hand settled on the doorknob. "And Legolas?"
"Yes, Ada?"
"Should you remember, please talk to me." His voice was soft, but it still caused Legolas's heartbeat to quicken with anxiety.
"Goodnight, Ada." The elf watched his father go, and once the door closed and the footsteps receded, he stopped fighting the tears. He was too exhausted to endure for long, though, and soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
Legolas slept until well into the next day, awakening only when Laegon entered the room around midday. It did not take the head healer long to pronounce the wound free of infection, whereupon the elder elf expertly sewed the ragged edges shut with a neat row of sutures. When it was done, Laegon summoned a servant, and soon a steaming bowl of broth was pushed into Legolas's hands while a mug of tea was placed upon the end table. He was not hungry, but the healer bid him eat, promising that once he did he would be cleared to leave the bed for short periods should he feel up to it. It had been determined that nothing in his back was broken, and that while recovery would be lengthy, light exercise was likely to aid the healing process – provided that he was mindful of his injuries and did not overdo it. And so Legolas swallowed the tea and mechanically spooned the broth into his mouth, trying to hide how his hands shook until it was all gone and Laegon left the room to attend to his other duties.
Legolas reclined against the pillows, feeling sick to his stomach after having forced himself to consume the meagre sustenance. He lay quietly until the feeling passed and was slowly replaced with burgeoning strength as his body wasted no time in making use of the energy it had been given. Pushing back the covers, Legolas carefully rose. Laegon had left him with a wooden cane, and when a sharp twinge in his back almost brought him to his knees with a whimper, the young elf found that he was suddenly grateful for the support as he leaned heavily on the polished wood while cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He glanced at the vial of pain medication that still stood untouched on the end table but grit his teeth and dismissed the thought. I deserve the pain. Once the fire in his back had burned down to glowing coals of pain that flickered along with the throbbing in his ribs, Legolas laid the cane down against the bed and cautiously shuffled his way into the bathchamber. While he wished to submerge himself in the soothing embrace of a hot bath, Legolas did not trust that he would be able to rise again should he get into the smooth stone tub, given that he was no longer running on the adrenaline of the day before. Instead, he settled for sponging his exposed skin over the sink, hissing through clenched teeth as his injuries protested the movements. His ablutions completed, Legolas pulled on clean clothes – though he had to lean against the wardrobe for support.
Once dressed, Legolas took a moment to inspect his reflection. His hair, having been too difficult to braid at present, hung loose over his shoulders in a cascade of pale gold, and the mirror's surface showed dark circles beneath still-red eyes. He tried a smile, but all that materialised on his face was a pained grimace that never reached his eyes, and so Legolas turned away in defeat. He shivered and retrieved an extra robe, pausing to catch his breath against the wall as a stab of pain lanced through his back again. Once it passed, Legolas straightened up as much as he could and stiffly made his way out the door and through the halls. There was something that he needed to do.
Legolas walked as quickly as his body would allow him, avoiding both Sindarin and Silvan elves alike until he finally reached Elenath's bedchambers. He knocked lightly on the door and was surprised when it swung promptly open to reveal the flustered face of Elweth, Laegon's apprentice. Wide-eyed, the elleth took a halting step backwards before she found her voice. She appeared anxious as she bowed to Legolas.
"Prince Legolas, forgive my rudeness! I was expecting Laegon; actually, I was about to go and seek him - "
"Las?" A small, weak voice from the room's interior made Legolas freeze, the healer forgotten. He recovered himself after a moment and almost collided with Elweth, such was his haste to enter the chamber. The prince had thought that he would never again hear that voice, and yet there it called out to him once more. Oh Eru, let this not be some cruel joke. And then Legolas saw him.
"Nath?!"
Elenath was seated on the edge of the bed. His back was to Legolas, exposing his naked torso, the skin of which shone with sweat. His long dark hair was tangled as though the Silvan had been thrashing against the bedclothes, which were tangled about his waist. Even before he reached the bed, Legolas could see how his friend's shoulder's trembled and heaved. Elenath twisted slowly at the sound of his name, turning searching blue eyes in Legolas's direction.
"Las?" he repeated. Legolas reached the Silvan's bedside then and grasped Elenath's good hand, but drew back sharply when the swordsman startled and pulled away with a loud hiss.
"Nath, I am here!" Something was wrong, Legolas realised with a crushing sense of dread. Something was terribly wrong. For though Elenath's gaze was upon him, it was as though the Silvan stared through him, his fair face devoid of any recognition.
"Las, I can't see."
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has picked up this story, and especially to those of you who have left words of encouragement. I treasure each review and they really keep me going. From chapter three, we'll be moving into darker content with possible triggers, and Aragorn will also be coming into this story soon.