I was inspired to write this silly little ficlet after reading some of the great Erestor's work. I tried match her writing style, but...well, as you will see, it didn't work. :/ But I hope you enjoy it anyway. (If you're the type who likes Abusive Thranduil fics, this is not the story for you.)

It was a lovely day in the Greenwood - or would be, if it weren't for all the giant spiders and their gianter webs. The arachnids lent an air of distinct distaste to the formerly beautiful forest. But, all things considered, it was a lovely day. The sun shone cheerfully on the treetops, the butterflies fluttered about lazily, the leaves rustled and whispered in the wind, and in the court of the King, wood elves plucked harps and strummed lutes and tootled on their whistles with gay abandonment.

Above them all sat Thranduil, gazing down on his court with happy contentment. Life was progressing exactly as it should - his people were happy, there was an abundance of good food and wine, music and laughter and singing could be heard echoing through the halls day and night, and the Large Spiders of Distinct Distaste were being kept at bay by his worthy warriors, headed by his worthier son. All was right with his little world.

Then his son returned.

Usually when Legolas got back from missions, he would stride purposefully into the throne room, bow to his father, and make his report in fine military style before collapsing unconscious before his father's eyes, overcome with the pain of cracked, sprained, or broken bones. Thranduil would hurry to his side, like any good father, tip some wine between his son's lips, and send him off to the infirmary to be patched up.

But this time was different. This time, Legolas didn't stride purposefully into the throne room. He didn't bow to his father and he didn't make his report. He didn't even collapse dramatically to the floor.

In point of fact, he did nothing at all except lie limply on a litter, borne by two guards, and look dreadful. He was so badly chopped up and covered in blood that Thranduil scarcely recognized him as an elf, much less his son.

The Elven king rushed down from his throne, just managing to not trip on the hem of his trailing robes. "What happened?" he demanded, shocked. "What has happened to my son?!"

"We don't know," one of the litter-bearers answered. "We were driving off spiders last week when we were set upon by a band of renegade warg-riders. Prince Legolas leaped to the front of the company and declared that he would hold them off while the rest of us got away. But we were surrounded and outnumbered, so we had to run up into the trees to hide. Last we saw, the prince was being dragged away by the orcs - you can probably still see the claw marks in his hair."

Thranduil was busy wiping his son's bloody face with his robe, and accordingly checked the soft blond tresses, where there were, indeed, claw marks to be found on the delicate hairs.

"Fetch some mulled wine!" he commanded, and two horrified-looking elves sprang into action and stumbled off to the cellars, clutching one another for support. (They were minstrels, and had predictably weak stomachs. After relaying the king's order to the cellar-keeper, they promptly departed, in the dead of night, for the quiet retreat of Imladris.)

The wine was brought, and Thranduil tipped some between his son's chapped lips. Legolas' eyes fluttered and opened. "Ada?" he croaked.

"Ion nin!" Thranduil exclaimed, happy that his son was awake. "I am glad that you're awake!"

"I'm not," Legolas said gloomily. "I hurt all over. It was nicer to be asleep." Thranduil made a sympathetic noise.

"Since you are awake, suppose you tell me what happened," he invited, wiping his son's fevered brow with a clean patch of his robe.

"We were driving off spiders last week," Legolas began, wincing with every other word, "when we were set upon by a band of renegade warg-riders. I leaped to the front of the company and declared that I would hold them off while the rest of the Forest Guard got away. But they were surrounded and outnumbered, so they escaped into the trees to hide." He coughed up a little bit of blood, which he stoically ignored. (Thranduil mopped it up with his sleeve.) "I was holding them off admirably when a particularly sneaky warg sneakily snuck up behind me in a sneaky sneak attack and grabbed me in its mouth." His father winced.

"Yes?" he said encouragingly. "What happened then?"

"I passed out from blood loss," Legolas said succinctly, "and woke up in the middle of the night in an orc camp." He proceeded to horrify Thranduil with a tale of a harrowing three days and nights in the orc camp, with lots of meaningful mentions of hot irons and slow-acting poison and needles.

"I eventually escaped," the battered prince continued, "but was captured by evil men who hated elves." Vague references of short-bladed knives and many-thonged whips and needles were made. "I finally escaped them too and made it to the edge of Mirkwood, but there was a Nazgul waiting, and he stabbed me. I passed out from blood loss then too."

"That's where we found him," one of the guards interjected. "Lying at the base of a tree, being chewed on by a spider. We think he's got spider venom in his blood."

Thranduil looked down at his son, (who was unconscious from the ordeal of relating his ordeal,) privately thinking that spider venom in his blood might not be much of a problem, since there was surely more blood outside his body than in.

"He has been stabbed by a morgul blade," he declared solemnly. "He will pass into shadow and become a wraith unless he is tended to."

"But Sire," said a healer, who had been summoned earlier, "I haven't the supplies or the skill to remove any shards of the blade, nor to heal his other injuries."

"I know that," the king answered. "That's why we're going to clean him up and pack him off to Imladris. Elrond can take care of him." He gently picked up his son and barked at some servitors. "Ready my horse! We ride to Imladris within the hour!"

Great was the alarm in Rivendell when King Thranduil rode into the valley, his robes covered in blood. Lord Elrond was promptly summoned, and in all the hustle and bustle, the second elf, who was draped over Thranduil's lap, went unnoticed for a time.

"Thranduil!" Elrond exclaimed, upon seeing his friend. "Where are you hurt?" And he began poking and prodding him in an effort to find out where the worst wounds were located.

"I'm fine!" the Elven king said, annoyed. "It's Legolas who needs your healing skills; he's been stabbed with a morgul blade, among other things." Elrond looked at the prince gravely.

"Bring him in," he said, inwardly lamenting the fate of his brand new carpet. Thranduil carried his son into the House, tromping mud and blood all over with little regard to his host's clean floors, and plunked Legolas down on the fresh counterpane of an infirmary bed. Elrond winced.

(Two elves who had been napping in other beds sprang up, glanced at the mangled form of the Woodland prince, and fled the valley, making for the relative peace of Lothlorien and trying not to bring up their lunch.)

Thranduil hovered anxiously by the wall as Elrond set to work, stripping away cloth and dabbing at lacerations and wiping the prince's sweaty brow. "Gracious!" he murmured. He sniffed a puncture wound and gagged. "Goodness!" He poked Legolas' ribs, pinched his arms and legs, and ran his fingers along the prone elf's chest and shoulders, looking for the place that the morgul blade went in, and discovering dozens of other injuries in the process. "Heavens!"

Legolas' father snapped. "Will you stop that?" he exclaimed. Elrond snatched his hands away from the prince and glanced at Thranduil.

"Stop what?"

"All your graciousing and goodnessing and heavensing! It's driving me batty!"

"My apologies," the healer said, and went back to his examination. "Hmm...ah...oh, oh dear...hm...mhm...Mhmmmmmm..."

Thranduil couldn't take it. He left the room.

Some hours later, the door of the Infirmary opened, and Elrond emerged. Thranduil stopped pacing and rounded on the Elf Lord. "Well?"

Elrond's keen eyes did not miss the patch of stone floor showing through his carpet on the edge. It wasn't hard to guess what Legolas' father had been doing half the day. "I have removed the shard of the morgul blade and tended his other injuries, but he's going to need somewhere quiet and tranquil to recover fully."

"Can he not stay here?" the king asked anxiously.

"No," Elrond said firmly. "It would do him little good." Thranduil gaped at him.

"But...but...this is Imladris!" he exclaimed. "This valley is the most tranquil spot in Middle Earth!"

His host did not answer - he didn't need to. Somewhere, in another room, there was a loud crash, a muffled curse in Sindarin, and the sound of running elflings. Another crash. (This time the curse wasn't so muffled.)

Elrond looked at Thranduil.

Thranduil reciprocated.

"...Lothlorien is absolutely lovely this time of year."

Great was the curiosity when King Thranduil rode into Lorien, his robes covered with blood and mud and leaves. Haldir dropped out of his favorite tree and peered intently at the unconscious Mirkwood prince, who was sitting drooped over in the saddle, protectively cradled by one of his father's arms. "Hir nin Thranduil," he said respectfully, and looked at Legolas again. "What happened to him?"

"Lots of things," the Elf king said crossly. He was hot, hungry, saddle sore, and tired of gallivanting all over Middle Earth in search of someone who could heal his son. "Can he stay here while he recovers?"

"Certainly," Haldir said agreeably. "Take him to Caras Galahon; you will both be most welcome there."

"Thank you!" Thranduil said fervently, and gave his horse a firm nudge.

(As he rode into the heart of Lorien, two elves, who'd been sitting beneath a tree plucking their harps, leaped up in alarm, hastily departed for the Grey Havens, and were never again seen in Middle Earth.)