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: I apologize for the inevitable similarities to my previous fic "Simple Acts," but I simply couldn't resist getting inside Thranduil's head a little more this time around. Circumstances are decidedly more serious for Legolas now too, so I guess this one was written purely for my own personal indulgence. Hope you enjoy it as well!

Slow Poison: Part 1

"That poison was meant to kill a Dwarf instantly. It will kill an Elf, too – just more slowly."

The Orc chieftain, Bolg – those had been his last words before Legolas killed him.

At first, the Elven Prince didn't understand; then his gaze turned to the scratch on his left wrist. It had been so superficial, barely deep enough to be considered a flesh wound! Only now he could feel a tingling sensation creeping up his arm, more of a tickle than a burn. But it was spreading – and intensifying.

Legolas fumbled to retrieve his knife from Bolg's corpse with his right hand, as the fingers of his left hand were already turning numb. What in all of Arda was this? Some foul concoction meant to guarantee the end of Durin's bloodline, as Azog the Defiler had famously sworn to bring about? At least it was no Morgul venom, otherwise he wouldn't be feeling the effects of it quite so rapidly.

The Prince hurried onward as best as he was able, uncertain how long his legs would remain steady enough to support him. It wasn't long. The effects of the poison reached his stomach, and the wrenching, cramping pain that followed abruptly brought Legolas to his hands and knees. His stomach heaved, and the next thing he knew, he was staring down through blurred vision at a pool of his own blood.

He couldn't stop himself from coughing afterward, an agony all its own which spewed more flecks of red from his mouth. His head spun, and only distantly did he realize that his entire body was shaking uncontrollably. The tingling had indeed become a burn now, a fire whose flames licked through every blood vessel in his body.

Legolas would have panicked, if only the torment would pause long enough for him to do so. Where was Tauriel? Would she come looking for him? Was she even alive? He would have worried for her, too, had not another bout of violent retching driven all thoughts of friendship firmly from his mind.

King Thranduil bypassed yet another corpse at his feet. Though he vaguely recognized the young, blonde Dwarf, he gave the body no further thought. There was only one person he sought in this venture, dead or living. He had ordered everyone else under his command to stay behind in Dale, determined that he would not expose his people to even more death. Yet he himself had come to Ravenhill, and all because his child had been absent for entirely too long.

While as usual his face betrayed no emotion, his heart pounded in his chest with a relentless rhythm as he scanned body after body for any sign of familiar blonde hair. At one point in his searching, he even spotted Tauriel huddled miserably over the body of the other young Dwarvish prince. He hesitated only a moment before pressing on and leaving her alone with her grief.

But then, over the maiden's weeping, his keen ears caught the sound of a wretched coughing. The King paused, listened intently, and followed the noise to its source. He drew his sword, expecting to find a lone surviving Orc – in which case, he would at least be able to end the creature's vile existence.

And so Thranduil's very breath froze in his lungs when he came upon the scene that should have been a nightmare: Legolas, his only child, hunched over on all fours and trembling, with blood dripping unheeded from his lips.

"Legolas!" He sheathed the weapon and rushed to his son's side, reaching automatically for those slender shoulders; but Legolas went altogether limp at the contact, collapsing sideways against his father's legs. He gave no indication that he was even aware the older Elf had joined him.

"Legolas, child, do you hear me?"

No response, only another violent shudder passing through the body that slumped lifelessly against him. Legolas' labored breathing sounded like that of a spooked horse which had galloped one mile too many in its fright.

Thranduil bit out a curse while his sharp eyes raked over every inch of his son's prone form; and even in the fading light, he could not possibly miss the boy's left wrist, festering and inflamed. No doubt some sort of venom here was the cause of this catastrophe. The King hastily removed his glove and laid his own bare hand upon the wound, speaking ancient words to put forth all of what limited healing power he possessed.

"Legolas, look at me!" He gripped the younger Elf's chin now, holding his gaze and striving to force some lucidity back into those glazed blue eyes. Legolas rewarded him with a blink and a spark of recognition; the skin on his face was no longer as alarmingly hot as it had been just moments before. That was good, however…

"This relief is only temporary. I do not have the skill to counteract the poison that ails you." Somehow, he managed to keep his voice and his hands steady. If Legolas truly could hear him, then he needed to ground the Prince in reality, keep him from slipping back into dark oblivion for as long as possible. He mustn't allow his rising panic to show itself, not while Legolas was cognizant of his presence.

"We need to get you to the healers."

His own eyes lifted skyward for a moment, only to see that the Eagles had all flown off elsewhere by now. Of all times for those blasted birds to disappear! Legolas would not possibly be able to stand on his own power now, much less walk. Seeing no alternative, Thranduil wrapped his own rich cloak around his son and gathered the shivering body into his arms.

Yet as the pain inevitably returned and Legolas renewed his physical struggles against an unseen torment, it became increasingly difficult for the Elvenking to carry his burden. They made slow progress toward Dale, even though copious folds of fabric helped to restrict the Prince's movements. Thranduil also had to stop a couple of times when Legolas started coughing up blood again; on each occasion, he would lay his son down and roll him over, ensuring that his airways stayed clear as the precious crimson was expelled.

Nevertheless, he nearly dropped Legolas in surprise and grief when once, just once, the boy's incoherent cries of pain turned into a desperate plea for his mother.

But at long last, Thranduil reached the city outskirts and snapped at the first Elf he saw to have healers summoned to his tent at once. Fortunately for the healers, three of them stood awaiting his arrival when he reached his temporary dwelling. The King pushed past the lot of them without a word, stepping behind the canvas divider that separated his sleeping arrangements from the rest of the tent. He laid Legolas down in his bed, as gently as possible in light of the child's jerking motions, and then stepped back so the healers could go about their vocation.

He watched them work until he could bear no more. Whirling on his heel, Thranduil sought refuge on the other side of the divider, scarcely able now to keep his own breathing in check. He could not stand aside helplessly and watch his son die, if die he must! It was bad enough that he still had to listen to those noises of abject suffering. He cursed his excellent hearing as Legolas groaned once more, but he would stray no farther to escape the sounds coming from the other side of the canvas.

The Elvenking began shedding his extensive armor out of habit, primarily as a means of keeping his hands occupied. By the time his attendants noticed and came to help, the task was nearly finished, and he waved them impatiently away. But then he stared, both entranced and repulsed, at the dried red blood that still coated his hand; it could only belong to Legolas. No amount of carnage he had seen during the day's battle had appalled him more than this. And only an immortal lifetime's worth of discipline enabled him to banish the horror from his ageless features.

"King Thranduil?"

Bard the Dragonslayer stepped inside behind him now, sounding worried, and Thranduil turned sharply to reprimand the mortal for entering uninvited. But the words never left his lips. For while their gazes met only for an instant, it was long enough for Thranduil to know that his eyes had betrayed his soul-deep fear.

Standing there wide-eyed, Bard looked as though he expected the first heavy object readily available to come hurtling through the air toward his head. It was hardly beyond the realm of possibility. But instead, the Elvenking turned his back to the bowman, bracing himself with both arms against the table. He hung his head, white blonde hair falling on either side to partially veil his face.

"Go. Please."

He didn't know what he would do if Bard refused to obey him; after all, no further violence needed to be added to this day. Thankfully, the mortal turned and departed without another word, leaving Thranduil to the solitude he craved. Unable to sit still and unwilling to see to his own needs, the King paced the length of his tent time and time again. The night wore on, torturously slow.

"My King?"

Thranduil paused in mid-step and looked over to see one of the young assistant healers wringing her hands anxiously in front of him. His heart beat faster. "Yes? What news do you bring?"

"If you please, my lord…" The poor girl would not meet his eyes for more than a fraction of a second. "The Prince will not lie still in spite of all we have done so far. We had hoped that, perhaps, you might help restrain him while the healers work, and speak to him. If the Valar are willing, perhaps even now he will heed the sound of his father's voice."

He has not heeded it much, of late. No! He must not dwell on such treacherous thoughts now; they had no place here.

Without question, Thranduil would be strong enough for the task requested of him, even after a full day of fighting and a long trek carrying his son's deadweight…yet he had no desire to go in there and watch Legolas writhe in anguish. But if after so many hours the healers were still struggling to contain this poison, then perhaps his son's condition was even more dangerous than he had allowed himself to previously acknowledge. He nodded once and followed the assistant back behind the divider, bracing himself for whatever he might see; nothing could have adequately prepared him.

Legolas, too, had been stripped of his armor, and perspiration glistened sickly against his exposed skin in the torchlight. He moaned and thrashed wildly, disrupting all efforts of the healers who only wanted to help him. It was no wonder they had recruited help for their difficult patient.

Thranduil swallowed down the emotions that rose up like sour bile in his throat, and still he refused to let them reach his face. But if he were to dwell too long on what he was seeing here, the walls of his composure would surely shatter. He settled himself near his son's head with deliberate slowness.

"Is there nothing you can administer to at least quiet him and lessen the pain?"

The chief healer answered sorrowfully, "We have tried every remedy available to us, my King; he is not responding. We are doing everything we can, but I'm afraid we have not encountered such a poison as this before."

At those words, fear gripped the King in its icy hand. What else was there to do but acquiesce to their wishes? He laid one arm across Legolas' shoulders to restrain him, using basic gravity to gain leverage, and he pressed his other hand against the boy's blazing forehead. Suddenly, Legolas arched off the bed in agony, screaming, and he seized in his father's iron grasp. He resisted the other's hold with surprising strength, albeit not enough. Thranduil's grip on him held firm.

And then there was the healers' second request. They wanted him to talk to Legolas, to try to reach him through the fevered madness. But what was he supposed to say? He had never been comfortable verbally expressing his emotions, even in private. Eventually, after such a long hesitation that his subjects were bound to notice, he settled on leaning down and simply murmuring Legolas' name into his ear. Over and over and over.

Author's End Note: Poor Legolas. I almost feel bad doing this to him...but not quite. Stay tuned for the posting of Part 2, which begins with Bard's reflections on this whole unfortunate situation. Thanks for reading!