Summary: "That poison was meant to kill a Dwarf instantly. It will kill an Elf, too – just more slowly." Those were Bolg's last words before Legolas killed him. Another father/son fic. Two-shot, AU for BoFA. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: No ownership and no profit on my part. This endeavor is purely for entertainment and recreation.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for that enthusiastic response to the first chapter! Now I must ask you to please bear with Thranduil in this concluding segment. I haven't exactly been nice to him in this story either, poor guy. Enjoy!

Slow Poison: Part 2

Two nights ago, Bard had seen Thranduil hurrying through the ruined streets of Dale with a body in his arms; and surely the Elvenking would only deign to personally carry his own child. He had felt a pang of parental empathy and genuine worry at the sight. If not for the Elves, Bard's own children would very likely be dead now, brought down either by Orcs or by starvation. He had even gathered that it had been Legolas himself, along with Tauriel, who had personally beaten off the Orcs that had attacked his home in Laketown.

His visit to the King's tent that same evening had only confirmed the severity of his suspicions. If not for Thranduil's disarming "please," Bard might have pressed his ally for more information, as his concern and desire to help were deep enough to overpower all warranted caution. It wasn't right that Thranduil should be on the verge of losing his only son! And how strained would relations become between the Elves and the Dwarves going forward, if the worst should happen?

Of course, Bard knew the Prince was sure to receive only the best care from the Elven healers…but that didn't stop him from taking occasional detours past the King's tent over the next two days. Thus far, he had perceived no indication that Legolas had succumbed to his wounds, whatever those might be; but neither did the ongoing sounds of pain and struggle behind the canvas offer any real encouragement. An ominous silence had greeted Bard when he'd walked by the tent earlier that morning, however, and Thranduil himself had made no appearance of any kind since the conclusion of the battle.

Midday approached now as the humble bargeman continued to make his rounds across the city, checking on supplies as well as on Esgaroth's own wounded. But then, from a high vantage point, he spied Gandalf the Grey fast approaching Dale, with Dain Ironfoot and Bilbo Baggins in tow. Apparently, the Wizard had spent his time among the Dwarves in the immediate aftermath of the battle – meaning that he possibly had not heard of Legolas' condition.

Bard ran to intercept them without another thought, dodging carts and leaping over limbs along the way.

"Gandalf! Gandalf, over here!"

Wizard, Dwarf, and Hobbit all turned as one, and their little party met him just outside one of the city gates. Or rather, all that now remained of the gates.

"Gandalf, thank goodness you're here! You must come to King Thranduil immediately."

Bushy grey eyebrows drew together at once in a frown. "What? Has he been injured?"

The bowman opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by Dain's uproarious laughter.

"Ha! That dainty Elfling probably got a scratch on his pretty face! I could've told 'im to sit this one out and leave the dirty work to us Dwarves. We'd all've been better off without him and his kind anyway…"

"Be silent!" Bard snapped at him, not caring if the rebuke made him sound more like a perturbed father than a king. He looked back at Gandalf. "I don't mean Thranduil himself. It's his son that's wounded; poisoned, I think. And I honestly don't even know if he's still alive now, but please, Gandalf, you must help him if you can!"

The Wizard made an impatient gesture with his staff. "Lead on, man! Where is he?"

"The King's tent – this way!"

Gandalf passed his guide as they neared their destination, shouting back an order for the rest of them to meet him later at the main hall. Bard nodded and led the way for his two shorter companions, confident in the knowledge that he could not possibly do more on behalf of his Elvish friend.

An aura of horror and sickness assaulted Gandalf's senses the moment he set foot in Thranduil's tent.

"The Prince?" he demanded of the first Elf he encountered. "Does he live?"

"For the moment, aye." The Elf, who happened to be a healer, nodded gravely. "Our treatments have prevented him from passing through Death's door, but we cannot leech the poison from his blood entirely. I fear that we may have only prolonged the inevitable."

"Take me to him." Gandalf followed the Elf back behind the canvas divider and at once took in the sad scene before him.

A ghostly pallor had fallen over the Prince's features. All color had drained from his lips, and tiny blue veins could be seen even in his eyelids. Only the slightest rise and fall of his chest betrayed that life clung to him at all. Thranduil sat still cradling Legolas' head and shoulders, even though the mindless struggling had ceased some time ago; the King was free of his battle attire but still not fully cleansed from the filth of war. Haunted blue eyes flickered in acknowledgment of the newcomer's arrival.

"Mithrandir…" None could say if he spoke the name as a threat or as a plea, but it was invitation enough for the Wizard.

"Out, all of you! Leave us."

The frenzied crowd of healers fled almost too eagerly, but Thranduil himself would not budge. Gandalf paid that no mind, stepping closer to begin his examination. Clearly, the situation was every bit as grim as the healer had indicated. Legolas' motionless extremities lay bloodless and ice-cold; already like a corpse.

His proud shoulders bowed by worry and fatigue, the King at length broke the silence between them. "You are rather late in coming, Mithrandir. Why are you really here?"

The abrupt hostility in those words caught Gandalf off guard; still, there seemed no point in lying. "I knew nothing of your son's situation until I arrived just now. I had come with Lord Dain to begin discussing the allocation of Erebor's riches."

"He knows what I want, and it is nothing so great compared to the rest of the treasures inside that accursed mountain!" The Elf's voice then lost its scathing edge, growing desperate instead. "But I would surrender even the gems of my lost queen now, if somehow that would save her child."

"You and I both know there is no use in senseless bargaining," the Istari reasoned, "but I promise you I will do all I can for him. There may yet be time."

But Thranduil dug his fingers into Legolas' shoulders like possessive talons, as near to panicking as was permitted of an Elvenking. "He has only recently grown quiet. Mithrandir – if your efforts are going to make him relive the last two days, only to become again as he is now…then I would rather you did nothing."

Gandalf paused, truly taken aback by the admission; he would have to proceed with caution here. "Surely you do not mean that. I know your grief is a dreadful burden, my lord – as slow and terrible a poison as any device of Darkness. But you must not give in to despair while there is still hope."

"Hope?" Thranduil echoed the word with a snarl, indignation flashing in his sleepless eyes. "My only son lies breathing his last, and you speak of hope? My people have suffered such loss in this place as has not been seen in a full Age – not since I became King. I have been witness to my son's torment on his way to the Halls of Mandos and have been powerless to stop it. Yet you would speak of hope?"

"I speak of hope because your son still lives."

The King's haggard face twisted into something almost cruel as he countered, "But for how much longer, even with your aid? I would rather bid farewell to him now than be forced to watch him suffer anew. I will not endure the loss of him again, Mithrandir! I could not bear it." His voice broke then, an all-pervasive resignation and exhaustion finally evident in his countenance.

Gandalf sighed, his temper softened by understanding. "Yes. It is easier to stand firm in the face of our own death, rather than that of one we love. But your strength of will has seen you through countless battles in your time, Thranduil, and your son needs you to be brave for him today." He strove to be firm yet encouraging as he spoke. "Please, my friend. You must trust me and let me try."

The battle of silent wills lasted only a few heartbeats longer, until King Thranduil bowed his head in submission. Then Gandalf the Grey drew upon the power of a Fire he had carried with him ever since his arrival in Middle Earth, and he began his work.

His thoughts as he surfaced back to consciousness were fuzzy yet calm. His entire body still ached terribly, and every limb felt like lead. But at least he no longer burned. No more Dragon-fire searing him alive from the inside out!

"At last, you wake. Have you command over your own mind now?"

Legolas recognized his father's deep voice at once…but it seemed to come from so very far away. And what an effort simply to turn his head and look at the older Elf! Thranduil sat beside him, a generous arm's length away. That was odd. Legolas couldn't remember ever being wounded or ill enough in the past to warrant the King's vigil at his bedside.

"Yes?" Legolas blinked, weak and disoriented, trying to fit the missing pieces together. He didn't truly understand the question.

"Drink this. Mithrandir acquired some when he was last in Rivendell."

A gentle hand lifted his head, and Legolas recognized the pleasing warmth of miruvor on his lips. The mists in his head cleared a little.

"I was hurt," he recalled now, his voice hoarse. Had he been screaming? "You found me. I really can't remember anything after that."

"Which is for the best, I think. For you were poisoned, and there is nothing worth remembering – only agonies and fevered nightmares."

That answer came reluctantly and still sounded a bit evasive to the Prince's ears. But then long, cool fingers brushed once over his brow and through his hair in a slow caress, emphasizing to Legolas even more how critical his health must have been in recent days. He closed his eyes, thoroughly exhausted, and leaned into Thranduil's fingers for as long as they lingered near his cheek. How long had it been since anyone had touched him so tenderly? Probably not since before his mother had died.

"I was frightened for you, ion-nin."

Legolas looked back to his father's solemn face then, noticing for the first time that they were in the King's private tent and very much alone. Was it supposed to be this quiet?

"Where are the healers?"

"Even I will admit there was nothing more they could have done, after Mithrandir tended to you. For the last twelve hours, there has been naught to aid your recovery save the strength of your own will to live. But I rejoice that the worst of the danger has passed, now that you are awake and of sound mind."

"How bad was the worst?"

His father's visage suddenly grew stony, and Legolas feared he might receive no answer at all. But it did come, the words low and hushed even in the stillness of the tent.

"It was so terrible that I thought I myself would fade just from watching you suffer."

Shocked, Legolas had no response for that honesty; and then Thranduil stood, effectively dispelling the uncommon intimacy between them.

"Do you feel well enough to eat? Your strength is gone, and you must take in what nourishment you can."

"I think so." His son nodded weakly, right hand clutching at one of the furs that covered him; it would be some days yet before he would recover the full use of his left. The King adjusted the blanket himself, drawing it up around Legolas' shoulders to shield him from the early winter chill before stepping toward the divider.

"Adar?"

Thranduil stopped and turned to look behind him. Once more, a frown of confusion darkened Legolas' ever-youthful countenance.

"How long have I been here?"

"Nearly three days now," his father supplied.

"But…" The younger Elf glanced conspicuously at his luxurious surroundings, particularly the bedding. "Did you not rest at all in that time?"

The King offered a brief smile in reply, though the expression was more grim than comforting. He was clearly exhausted, if the shadows surrounding his bloodshot eyes were anything to judge by. "I have managed through far worse than a few sleepless nights, my child, and your need was infinitely greater than my own. Rest now; I will return to you shortly."

And Legolas knew that he would.

Author's End Note: So there you have it! We had to bring Thranduil to a pretty dark place there for a while, but Legolas will survive in the end, thanks to Gandalf. Thanks to Cirdan, really, for giving Narya to Gandalf. I'll tell Thranduil to express his gratitude in person at the next big Telerin/Sindarin reunion. Thanks for reading!