Title: Recoveries

Summary: After Legolas' first life-threatening injury, Thranduil finds it hard to allow him back to the field. The only thing harder than releasing Legolas to his duties? Admitting a father's fears. In the meantime, the Prince is anxious to serve and increasingly angry, while the whole Kingdom walks on eggshells around the two feuding royals.

hi gang!

Thank you so much to everyone who read, followed, favorited, discussed, recommended, and most importantly, reviewed my last fic, "Walking Wounded" and the mini-fic it included, "The Fetcher." You guys are really very, very inspiring.

Here's another take on the complex father-son relationship between Thranduil and Legolas that I hope you will enjoy. You know every time I post something on here I think it's the last one and yet here I am again... it's really a credit to the kindness and insight of this community that people are able to stay inspired and engaged, even on and off, for such a long time :)

Thanks again to everyone and as usual, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. This is a two-part fic already completed, just sort of marinading and settling for me to be able to feel out if there is anything more I want to do with it. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!

1

Thranduil could have started eating –surely he was not expected to wait on anyone - but he wants to make a point. He wants his errant son to see the King seated with his plate empty and his food cold and untouched. He wants the younger elf to see his displeasure, and to understand that tardiness is unacceptable.

The Prince all but storms into the formal dining room, still clad in soiled warrior's clothes. He gives his father a quick bow, and takes his proper place on Thranduil's right rand.

"I apologize for my lateness, adar," Legolas says gravely. He notices, as he was meant to, the King's untouched food and cutlery and he grimaces. "I sincerely hope the King was not kept waiting too long."

Thranduil sighs melodramatically, "I require your presence for one meal in a day, Legolas, just one while you are here. It escapes me how I can find the means to be here promptly in spite of all the business of this Kingdom, and yet you cannot."

"I have no excuses to give," Legolas says, "only apologies to issue. I'd lost track of time. It is all this idleness, I think."

There is an edge to his son's tone that Thranduil does not miss, but feels no inclination to address. He receives it with a quirk of his brow – a warning for the other not to take this any further – but otherwise lets it go.

Thranduil motions for attendants hiding in the shadows of the vast room, and the dinner service begins. The King is served first, before the attendants move to the Prince's side.

The first attendant missteps somewhere by Legolas' elbow, but recovers her footing quickly. The soup inside the bowl she carries sloshes dangerously but does not spill.

"I ah," Legolas hesitates, "I would be a bit more careful coming through around here..."

The second attendant is serving wine, a fine variety of Dor-winion from the King's own reserves. So focused is he on this task that when he too slips, he is unable to do anything else other than hold onto the precious decanter. He lands stunned, soundly on his rump, arms still wrapped protectively about the container of wine.

"What madness has befallen everyone here?" the King demanded, rising up from his seat. His eyes are aflame and dangerous.

Legolas rises too, and lifts a placating hand at his father while using the other to help the nervous, sputtering attendant back to his feet.

"I'm afraid I am the cause of all this ruckus," Legolas says to the King. To the attendants, he lowers his head and places a hand to his heart. "I sincerely apologize."

"What in all of Arda are you talking about?" Thranduil asks, and he notices for the first time that Legolas' warrior's garb is not merely soiled but wet. He tilts to get a better view of his son, and finds Legolas' boots all but soaking the dining hall's polished floors. His brows shoot up as he declares, "Your sodden shoes are a veritable menace!"

"The situation will be resolved promptly, aran-nin," one of the servants says meekly, and the both of them scurry away. They've barely left the room when more attendants come in with mops and brooms.

"What have you been up to?" Thranduil asks Legolas, who looks ready to jump in and help clean up the mess he's made but is instead forced to comply with his father's impatient motions for him to stand down. The two royals reclaim their seats.

"I've been rowing," Legolas answers.

"Rowing," Thranduil repeats dispassionately, not quite believing his ears. His tone escalates gradually. "You've been rowing? And what possible new flight of fancy has you possessed with this activity?"

Legolas juts out his jaw in subtle defiance. "It strengthens the same muscles called upon by an archer. I am fighting to return to proper fitness, adar, so that I may again be of service as a warrior."

Thranduil's eyes narrow in annoyance. "If it must be done, Legolas, do try and save us all some grief and dry up before you endanger anyone else."

The Prince nods in obedience but bites his lip in thought. Thranduil knows what will follow, and it prompts him to reach for a goblet of wine.

"Perhaps I would be less of a hindrance to everyone if I am allowed to return to active duty," the younger elf says quietly, and cautiously. They've had this conversation before.

"I've seen you at the ranges," Thranduil snaps. "You are not what you were. Hence, you clearly remain unwell. I cannot allow it."

"But, adar-" Legolas protests.

"Enough," Thranduil says, with finality. "I refuse to allow your mediocrity back into the ranks. You can very well get someone killed by your stubbornness. When you are back to fighting form, you may return. Not sooner. This is final. This is your King's command."

Legolas' chest heaves with his repressed arguments, but he bites his tongue. His eyes are resentful too, but Thranduil can live with that. What he cannot live with, at least not yet, is sending his son back out so soon after that last debacle.

"I do not want to speak of this matter again," Thranduil tells him. "You will be fit to return to duty when I deem it so."

# # #

Brenion, his war minister and a friend of long-standing, was the one tasked with the unenviable job of telling the ill-tempered King that his son was dying.

He spoke plainly and with little preamble – the King had been wrenched from a diplomatic exchange with elves of high-standing, and was already much displeased by the intrusion.

"We've received word that a patrol returns with heavy casualties, aran-nin," Brenion opens. "But the ride is long with some of our soldiers in a grievous state. They risk harm by moving faster. A party of our best healers are preparing to depart with the intention of intercepting them for more immediate treatment. It is encouraged that the King join them."

It's an unconventional request to make of the King, and Thranduil's piercing, perceptive eyes search Brenion's apprehensive ones.

"My Lord Legolas is amongst those most stricken," he says roughly. "The road is still unsafe and I, as your general, would advise against having both you and your heir at risk outside the stronghold at this time. But as your friend... if you should want to see your son alive, if there are words that need to be said, you must meet them."

At the word 'Legolas' Thranduil was already moving, and Brenion perforce trailed after him as he spoke, along with the King's ever-present Royal Guard.

"As grave as that?" Thranduil asked, tightly.

"He was on covering fire," Brenion stated with dismay, "Last to leave his post, you know how he is. The position had taken heavy fire to suppress him, but his efforts were able to drive the enemy into retreat." The councilman swallowed thickly before continuing, "He'd taken four arrows, mellon-nin. I am sorry."

"Speak to me again as if he were already dead," Thranduil said darkly, "and you will never again call me your friend."

Brenion lowered his head and nodded, but he did not apologize for what was said. True friends gave honesty, and Thranduil had a right to know what was at stake and what he should expect to find when he sees his son.

"Two shots to the bow arm," Brenion said, as expressionlessly and objectively as he could manage, "These were through and through. He'd taken these early on and had to break them up and tear them off so as not to compromise his aim. There could be lasting damage, but they are not life-threatening. The shots of greater concern lie on his right leg and one on the side of his chest."

"Poison?" Thranduil asked as they walked, briskly to the armory and stables. "Bleeding?"

"The arrow on the leg broke bone," Brenion replied, "and the marrow is poison in his blood. The shaft was removed neatly and the injury tended, but he is fevered, confused and in much pain. The wound on his chest, on the other hand, is immobilized but for the most part untreated. The arrowhead broke off and is stuck on rib bone. Its removal requires a surgery the patrol's field healer fears could end him, in his current state. They await the approval of the King to proceed, and the more experienced surgeons of the stronghold to do the more delicate work. I-" he stopped short of saying 'I'm sorry' again. "That is all that they say of him in the report. That, and for us to make haste. He hasn't much time."

Thranduil strode forward hungrily, his steps eating away at the distance between him and his ailing son. Even the younger, sprightlier elves of his personal the Royal Guard had to double their pace to keep up with him.

"He will wait for me," Thranduil told Brenion quietly, lethally, and with unquestionable certainty. "He will wait for me and when I arrive, I will not let him go."

# # #

Thranduil finishes his work early, and leaves the King's halls in search of his son. Legolas is almost certain to be outside, and his guess is quickly rewarded by the sound of the Prince's name said over and over, cheered by a cadre of elflings. The sounds take him and his trailing Royal Guard to the banks of the river.

He watches them at an incline, from behind the cover of trees. His son is soaked through again, but in contrast to the previous night's chagrin marring his face, Legolas instead sports a wide smile as he regards the young ones gathered about the rowboat he had apparently just docked. He has two other elves with him, and they have two barrels of freshly-caught fish on them.

Thranduil rolls his eyes up to the heavens in consternation, before exhaling long and low. He feels only a slight surprise when Legolas' ears catch the subtle sound, even from a distance, and his golden head turns swiftly in his father's direction. From the spaces between tree branches and their verdant leaves, blue gazes meet, finding each other instantly.

The light in Legolas' eyes fade by a sliver, but Thranduil feels its dimming acutely. The Prince bows slightly and his noisy, merry companions, finally noticing the nearby presence of their King, follow more formally and elaborately.

Thranduil steps from the shadows and examines the day's catch. His son - the warrior Prince's - catch. A part of Thranduil is displeased at the impropriety, another unsure. It is, he finds, almost comical that one of the most gifted warriors of the Realm is reduced to this. Or, if one were to think of things more positively, it is almost comical that one of the most gifted warriors of the Realm is also a handy fisherman.

"I've made productive use of my training here," Legolas says abruptly, always quick to catch even the minutest signs of the King's ire. "They needed a boatman and I needed the additional weight to build strength. And now our stores are well-filled."

"Lego-" one of the elves said, before spotting Thranduil's narrowed eyes and catching himself, "that is to say, the Prince Legolas, is a most impressive rower. There were such good spots upriver we've not fished in before for the currents, sire. We are most grateful for his help."

Thranduil is unsure what to say, and Legolas takes up his pacifier's role again. "I believe it is best that these are brought to the kitchens in time for the evening meal. Be off now, and leave aran-nin to his more pertinent business."

The servants take leave of the Elvenking and the Prince with murmurs and bows, and Thranduil finds it in himself to praise their work.

"Thank you for your diligent service," he tells them, and they all leave lighter of heart and with smiles upon their faces.

"I hope the King's more pertinent business does not include scolding me," Legolas teases, as soon as the other elves are out of earshot.

Thranduil sighs. "A temptation I choose to forego, ion-nin, at least for now. Is this what you have been up to all day?"

"Hardly." The younger elf chuckles as he walks a few steps down from where he docked his rowboat. An attendant awaits him, bearing dry clothes and a fresh pair of boots. "In accordance with your instructions, I've gone through the finer points of that deal you mean to enact with the Master of Laketown," Legolas shares as he sits on the ground and removes his boots, "I've spotted a few contentious points, and have made my suggestions with the trade minister. He was very accommodating."

"Really." Thranduil's brow quirks, and he crosses his arms over his chest. He is both slightly offended and very curious as to which points the princeling would have seen fit to correct in a document he himself had already reviewed.

"The Master is astute in business," Legolas says as he unclasps his belt and loosens the laces of his tunic, "but he is also a populist politician. I think there are some measures we can push for that may not be the most financially sound for him, but desired by his people. If we take advantage of that, we can-"

The rest of what he says is lost on Thranduil, when he pulls his wet tunic off from over his head, and his undershirts ride up with the heavy fabric, exposing still healing skin underneath. It is stretched pale and taut against bones too prominent from his recent immobility and loss of weight, and Thranduil realizes now the reason for Legolas' ardent efforts at regaining some bulk. The removal of the tunic also exposes that long surgical scar on Legolas' side, which is deceptively straight and neat except Thranduil was only too well-aware of the near-fatal damage it hid beneath.

The King looks away from his son, almost sick with the memory of it all. "Well I am pleased you are able to apply yourself," he says curtly, not caring that it cut off more of what the Prince was saying. "Are you quite finished?"

He turns to look back at Legolas, whose words die before slightly parted lips. The lighthearted confidence and intellectual curiosity of his previous statements vanish, along with the light in his eyes. Thranduil's heart aches regretfully, the sensation dull and distant. He almost corrects himself – Are you quite finished undressing in the wild and exposing your wounds? he had meant, rather than to silence him – but it was not in the King's repertoire. The hard years have chiseled it off, like a master carver forms a stone.

Legolas silently passes the damp tunic along to his valet, and to Thranduil's eternal relief, the Prince keeps on his still-dry breeches and undershirts. He pulls the thin, dislodged fabric down self-consciously over his chest and waist, and dries his arms and the tips of his hair with a proffered towel.

The silence is oppressive, Thranduil finds. He also realizes that it is not mere submission on his son's part, but also punishment. Legolas is punishing him. His generally amicable, placatory son is very, very displeased at having been cut off.

Thranduil lets the heavy quiet settle over their heads like a storm cloud. Legolas is content to keep his mouth shut and Thranduil lets him. It is the elves around them that are anxious; the Royal Guards shift uneasily. The King can hear the fabric of their clothes brush in their movements.

Legolas takes his time shrugging on a fresh tunic and a pair of boots, not looking at his father or anyone else. He tugs on his belt too with his dexterous fingers working the leather, all in that cloud of quiet. The sound of river rushing in the near distance seems suddenly loud, even the rustling of the leaves in the gentle breeze. The trees are almost nudging them to speak.

"Hannon-le," Legolas tells his attendant quietly when he finishes and the valet gathers and folds the soiled clothes. Thranduil almost barks out a laugh – his son can be oh so painfully polite. If there was one thing to break that defiant silence of his, then it was certainly to thank a servant for doing his job.

With the quiet broken and no more articles of clothing to occupy himself with, Legolas finally turns to his father. His eyes are ice cold. "I am expected at the archery ranges," he says. "Perhaps you should come, and see for yourself how I've progressed."

It is Thranduil's turn to fold. "I conducted my affairs early, and it is seldom ever so. Perhaps I can instead, prevail upon you to-" never go back to the ranges and never get well enough that I should send you back out into the fray, he wanted to say, "-to indulge your father and join him in some Dar-winion."

Legolas is torn between his lingering annoyance, his fervent need to please his seldom-imploring father, his responsibilities for the appointment he had made with the master archer, and his own desire to prove his fitness for duty. Responsibility wins out.

"Nothing would please me more adar," he says so very earnestly, all traces of his displeasure upon his father dissipated as it always did, "But it is not merely the master archer that awaits me. He is putting my knowledge to good use on behalf of the novices. Our senior archers are dispatched away from the stronghold and he says the young ones can benefit from my experience."

Thranduil sets his jaws in displeasure. "Well it is good to see you being useful in your time here."

"Will the King come to watch?" Legolas asks, eyes all but begging, even if he tries to disguise it by steeling his features.

"Apparently I've nothing better to do," Thranduil says wryly, motioning for Legolas to move forward. It warms him when his son gives him a boyish, undisguised grin in sheer, earnest pleasure.

He is so very young, the King reflects, and that heart of his is always worn on the sleeve.

# # #

Thranduil, mounted atop the Kingdom's fastest and most tempestuous steed, charged across the forest at breakneck speed. Beneath him was a truly powerful beast, a young stallion freshly acquired and with much energy – it was waiting for the King outside the stables almost frothing at the bit and pounding angrily at the ground, impatient for movement. He was not Thranduil's usual mount, but he shared the King's eagerness for movement and was thus commandeered.

The king's personal guard struggled to keep up behind him, and had with them a spare horse on a lead, bareback as a reserve for when the stallion tired. But it brought Thranduil to the retreating patrol's temporary encampment in record time and still hungry for ground. He reared back and neighed in displeasure at having to be stopped.

Legolas will adore you, Thranduil thought, as he dismounted and tossed the reins to a groom. When he is better, you shall be his gift.

He was immediately met by a harried field healer, and the commander of the patrol.

"The surgeons, aran-nin?" asked the healer who, like others of his profession deployed on the fields of battle, was a young soldier with considerable training in the medical arts but had not the experience and knowledge for severe trauma that his seniors stationed in the stronghold had.

The commander threw a warning look at the young soldier and bowed at Thranduil first before speaking. "Legolas is alive, aran-nin, but in desperate need of aid we are ill-equipped to give. We tried to get him back to the stronghold, but we've made camp here as he can be moved no further."

"The surgeons are close behind me," Thranduil said in a careful, studied tone. "Take me to him now."

The commander led the way, and Thranduil followed with the anxious healer nipping at his heels. The three elves passed by weary soldiers in various states of injury and trudging, determined duty. They were somber as they bowed before their King, and Thranduil imperviously ignored the sadness and pity in their eyes as he moved forward toward the officer's tent where his son lay in is agonies.

The tent was sparse but functional, warm and well-lit. It was clearly hastily erected, a concession to the Prince's deteriorating health. Legolas was the only occupant, lying flat on a wooden pallet softened by beddings. His undershirts have been removed, leaving him barebacked save for the elaborate, clean white bandages wrapped around almost the entirety of his left arm, and binding it against his chest to immobilize him. He was blanketed to the waist for warmth, but beneath the thick cloth Thranduil can see a bulky right leg, splinted and also bandaged.

His son was both worse and better than he had come to expect, when he pondered tortuously about how he would find Legolas along the length of his journey here. Worse because it was always jarring to see one's child ailing. But better too because he'd been thinking of arrows and blood and broken bones. He wasn't expecting neatness and quiet. But stillness was in actuality worse, wasn't it? He rather would have found Legolas kicking and screaming and fighting to get up. At least he was awake and, surprisingly, lucid.

Legolas' blue eyes were cloudy but present, and he turned his head slowly to look upon the new arrivals. They widened in surprise, and as he shifted in an effort to appear more alert before the King, his pale face collapsed – crumbled – contorted in naked torment. He looked for a long moment devoid of all sense and self, lost in his agonies.

His expression froze Thranduil in his tracks, but the young healer pushed past the King and shot forward to keep the Prince from moving.

"Legolas," he said soothingly, pressing gentle but insistent palms to the few spots on the archer's chest free of injury. "You've been told of the consequences of exerting yourself." Remembering Thranduil's presence, he belatedly added the honorary, "Hir-nin."

The ailing elf's eyes were shut tight, and his whole body was rigid in chorus. He nodded in understanding and laid his head back down. He was gray-faced and sweat-slick when he settled, and breathing hard through clenched teeth. Tremors coursed through his body and he turned his face away from all of them and allowed himself a low, quiet moan. The sound was nevertheless loud in the small, silent room. His anguish filled every inch of empty space.

The spunky healer urgently waved his King over to come closer, and Thranduil was stunned enough to follow as he was bidden. He knelt beside his son's pallet and reached tentatively for his golden head. He could feel a radiant heat from Legolas even before he touched hair and skin.

"I told them not to send for the King," Legolas said, voice ragged. He was still turned away from everyone as he fought to compose himself. "You shouldn't have come. The ways are still perilous."

"I am exactly where I must be, Legolas," Thranduil said, and he barely kept his voice from shaking.

Legolas shook his head vigorously. "No. Please, I beg you. You must go. It is not safe. It is not nearly safe enough for the King-"

"Peace, Hir-nin," a familiar voice broke into his increasingly agitated demands, from the edges of the tent by the entrance. It is Tauriel, a Silvan female Captain of some renown, just arrived from where she was recalled to relieve Legolas' patrol.

Legolas turned to face them then, and settled a searching gaze upon her face. She stepped forward boldly.

"I swear on my life that nothing will harm you or the King while you are here," she said vehemently, "Nothing will disturb you. There is nothing to worry about."

Her guarantee for whatever reason eased the injured elf and he asked, more calmly, "The perimeter?"

"Well secured," she confirmed with absolute certainty. "And all the weary and injured able to travel are preparing – with sizeable escort - to continue on to the safety of the stronghold." He opened his mouth to inquire of something else, but she beat him to it. "The enemy that ambushed your post retreated but as we speak are being hunted by a fresh patrol. I also come here with a new set of guards for the party that remains, and an extra contingent by virtue of the presence of the King."

Legolas licked his dry lips and nodded in contentment. "Thank you, Captain."

Thranduil looked at her gratefully too. She understood, as neither he nor the young healer beside him had, that the soldier in Legolas could find no rest until his position was secure and his duty upon the King discharged.

"May I serve the King in any other way?" she asked.

"You may return to your duties, Tauriel," the King replied.

"Thank you, aran-nin." She turned as if to leave, but paused in hesitation before her exit.

"If I may say so," she said softly, "I speak for the whole company when I express our gratitude for Lego-" she quickly corrected herself, "for my lord's courage and generosity. Everyone knows what he has done on their behalf, and all that he risked. We are all most eager to see him restored to good health, and would be honored to fight beside him once more, as soon as he is able."

Her voice was steady, but too much so. She left immediately after speaking, afraid of her own sadness and fears. After all – everyone knew why Thranduil had come – it was because his son was fading.

They all think they know, Thranduil decided, But they are all wrong. I am not here to say goodbye. I am here to make him stay.

# # #

Thranduil lets Legolas jog into the training field but he keeps some distance away, choosing to stay where he finds his old friend and war minister Brenion watching the novice archers. It is no surprise to find him here; the decorated warrior took delight in checking the progress of the Realm's soldiers when he was not in service with the King's close counsel.

"Aran-nin," he greets Thranduil happily, "I confess I am here because I was told to expect an exhibition by your eagle-eyed son. I've missed his showmanship. It is a delight to also find you here."

"He told me nothing of an exhibition," Thranduil huffed, "he is still on the mend, let it not be forgotten."

"And yet still better than most!" Brenion declares, his enthusiasm for warring skills not at all dampened by Thranduil's sour mood.

They watch quietly as the master issues instructions to the novices, and the young elves take their positions in a long line. Legolas walks among them, giving corrections and pointers, and occasionally giving an approving nod.

"With both the King and the Prince here," Brenion says with a mad gleam in his eye, "I very much look forward to seeing not a few of these hungry young bucks show off."

The novices release, and the master archer and Legolas squint their eyes in examination of the distant targets before discussing amongst themselves. They call upon the three best performers, who line up together and prepare for another volley, while stewards move the targets back by a few more paces. The three elflings look serious and eager to impress. The novices who were not selected do as young ones do, and goad and laugh at them.

The three archers release, and Legolas and their teacher declare a winner, who looks both proud and embarrassed of the achievement. He glances shyly in the King's direction, and Thranduil is endeared enough – because that expression is oh so very familiar, is it not? – to favor him with an elaborate bow in salute of his victory. The penneth beams and howls triumphantly at his peers.

As is expected, the novices demand a performance of Legolas, who even as a relatively young soldier has already acquired a reputation in battle and particularly, for his skills in archery. He waves them down half-heartedly, and is already reaching for a bow and a filled quiver, handed to him by the grinning master archer.

"That stance is perfection," Brenion says, matter-of-factly from beside Thranduil. "The balance, his stillness and self-possession. There is such control, mellon-nin. You could have had a surgeon with those sharp eyes and steady hands!"

Thranduil smiles at him thinly, and the temptation of assigning his son to the wards dances on the edges of his imagination before he lets it slip in favor of focusing on his son. He is torn between wishing Legolas well – for the adoration of his people and so that Thranduil can finally convince himself that his son is truly healthy again – and wishing for Legolas' failure, if only so that he can keep him safe nearby for a little while longer.

Legolas releases three arrows in quick succession, not moving his planted feet and barely even adjusting his posture. He hits the bull's eye in each of the three novices' target boards, to the delight of his enthralled audience.

"Farther!" they yell, and Legolas laughingly accommodates them. The stewards move the targets back as he readies another set of shots.

Thranduil is as captivated as the others, when Legolas not only hits the targets again but splits all three arrows already at the center. The novices howl in hungry delight.

"Aw, he can do better than that!" Brenion yells out, unable to help himself. Legolas looks in their direction and smiles shyly at his father, looking not at all unlike the young elf who had sought Thranduil's approval earlier.

Thranduil gives him a cautious nod, and Legolas orders the targets moved back again. For reasons he could not completely grasp, however, Thranduil is feeling increasingly displeased by his son's display. He stalks forward to come closer to the archers, and Brenion happily and obliviously trails after him.

Just as before, Legolas hits the targets right at the center, nicking the arrows already crowding there. Brenion and the novices are practically in rapture – Thranduil, not quite. Especially not when Legolas absently rubs at the side of his healing injury. It could have been a simple scratch, a readjustment of his tunic, anything at all other than pain or strain. But it matters not to Thranduil, for the reminder of it is enough to bring him to inexplicable, burning, almost vindictive anger.

"Farther," the King demands in a clipped tone. Brenion, Legolas and the master archer catches it, even if the cheering novices do not. The stewards do immediately as commanded, and Legolas watches his father's face uncertainly.

"Well, archer," Thranduil tells him, "Show your wares and shoot."

With far less enthusiasm but just as much accuracy, Legolas does as he is told. The oblivious young elves around them are still happy.

"Farther," Thranduil says again, and again the stewards accommodate and move the targets back. Legolas is less eager to follow the unworded command, but he does aim and shoot again with much success.

"A most excellent display!" the master archer declares, hoping to diffuse the tension. He starts to applaud, and the novices follow suit. But they too, begin to sense the unease amongst the older warriors.

"Farther!" Thranduil barks out, and Legolas turns to him with an uncertain, placating smile.

"Aran-nin," he says gently, "Perhaps you expect too much of this humble servant."

"Shoot," Thranduil instructs, and Legolas looks at him with barely veiled hurt and confusion, but follows. The result of this aim is less accurate than others, but within the center of the target nonetheless.

"You've done farther than that with a moving target, Legolas," Thranduil tells him coldly, before commanding – "Farther!"

Brenion steps closer to the King, but Thranduil gives his old friend a pointed look in warning – do not interfere. He juts his jaw out in disagreement but manages to hold his tongue.

Legolas takes a deep breath and takes aim again. It is still true, but for reasons all their own, father and son are increasingly angry at each other with every shot fired and each target expertly met.

"Again!"

When Thranduil commands more, Legolas decides he has had enough. He shoots arrows by the feet of the stewards - who are really rather distant by now - to keep them from moving in compliance with the King's orders. In quick succession, he also empties out his quiver and takes aim at the targets. He turns to look at his father heatedly and pointedly before releasing, so sure is he that they would make the mark even with half his attention.

Thranduil's brow quirks at his son's daring. The elves around them know for certain now that it is high time to make themselves scarce.

"All right get those shafts back," the master archer instructs the novices, "and retrieve those stewards too – if you can find them!"

"They look about a day's walk from here," Brenion jokes, and the elves around the steaming father and son laugh nervously but appreciatively.

The young ones and their teacher disperse, and Legolas makes his exit wordlessly. Thranduil and Brenion watch him go, and he trudges off proudly without looking back. He is rubbing at his healing leg.

"You may have damaged him," Brenion says lightly, in some vain hope that levity can allow him to speak as he knows he needs to.

"It only goes to show he is not yet well," Thranduil says with grim satisfaction. "This should have been nothing to him."

"Would you permit me to speak freely?"

Thranduil bristles at what he foresees would be an old friend's impertinence, but he knows it is as much of a challenge as asking for real permission.

"I've never been able to stop you before," he says, wryly. "So, speak."

"I saw him ailing same as you," Brenion says passionately. "You brought him home more dead than alive, we all knew it. It is a miracle he is alive, and it was a long road indeed that has him finally on his feet again. One cannot come from that brink and return perfectly right away – if one even does at all. You cannot expect him to be the same."

"If he is not his old self," Thranduil points out with more than a pinch of sarcasm, "then he is not recovered is he? What with recovery being the operative word, and the reclamation of one's old strengths being its very definition."

"But you are being blind if you cannot see that even thus diminished," Brenion argues, "and I use that term loosely, for it is unjust to describe a warrior of your son's quality this way – he is still better than most. If not all, I might even venture to say."

"If he is not himself," Thranduil insists, "he is not recovered."

"But he is recovered enough," Brenion counters. "Restore him to duty, mellon-nin. Even if lightly."

"Oh have you not heard?" Thranduil asks, "he is already well-used."

Brenion scoffs. "I have heard about your bowman becoming the intrepid boatman. And our finance minister is revising our trade agreements upon Legolas' suggestions even as we speak. But you and that elfling will turn this kingdom on its head if he does not return to where he truly belongs."

"He belongs where I put him!"

"In the meantime he is killing himself trying to be better because he thinks you find him mediocre."

It is Thranduil's turn to scoff. "Were you not just here with me for that arrogant display? Legolas knows how good he is no matter what I say. The best always do."

"And yet of all the best," Brenion says wryly, "only one of them is Thranduil's son, subject to Thranduil's unhealthy means of communication."

The Elvenking hisses at him.

"He cannot read your mind, mellon-nin," Brenion says in a more conciliatory manner. "He thinks you find him lacking. He thinks you find him unfit. You must fix this, before it festers."

Thranduil is tempted to be angry, but the sadness in his heart is closer, more to the surface. He thinks of Legolas' earnest smile, the shy pride he has when Thranduil watches him work, and that inexplicable wellspring of hope. He sighs.

"It won't fester. That is not his way."

"That does not absolve you of speaking to him with what he needs to hear," Brenion points out.

"And what should I say?"

Brenion shrugs. "The truth. That he may be fit and ready to return to duty, but you are not."

Thranduil does not deny it. Brenion is a friend of too long a standing not to be able to tell truth from lie, even if he feels any inclination to make an effort of hiding which, incidentally, he does not.

"Am I not entitled to this?" Thranduil asks instead, and pounds at his chest over his heart with a clenched fist. The dull thud makes Brenion wince. "Am I not entitled? I never ask anything of this Realm, never."

Brenion knows what he means. The King asks everyone for everything, but Thranduil the father gives much. Too much.

"All I want is him, safe here with me for just a little while longer."

"You are entitled," Brenion says gently. "Oh the gods know how much. But Legolas does not know that. He does not have a father's eyes. He will not understand until you tell him. You keep him here not for his weakness, but for your love."

Love.

Thranduil winces at the word, remembering the precise last time he's heard it said before this one.

# # #

The young healer left Thranduil and Legolas alone to meet with the newly-arrived surgeons and discuss with them plans for the Prince's treatment and care. In his absence, Thranduil suddenly felt irrationally afraid, as if he were unqualified to look after his own son and that things would go wrong with just him there. He even hesitated with the hand he had resting upon Legolas' head. Was it too heavy? Was it intrusive? His son looked too brittle to handle even this.

Legolas' open-mouthed breathing stuttered and rattled, and his chest rose and fell harshly with every small, shallow, embattled breath harder than the one that preceded it. His skin had become so pale that it had taken on a thin kind of translucence, except for where his veins were dark and bulging at the sides of his neck, and at clusters of small red spots crawling on whatever Thrqanduil could see of his chest and arms. Fine tremors coursed through his body, and tiny pearls of sweat beaded on his forehead and over his darkening lips. He was a mass of small but mounting tortures, all vying for attention.

"The surgeons are here, ion-nin," Thranduil assured him, "you will find relief shortly."

Legolas' eyes are open but unseeing, so consumed was he by his pains. But he was still aware, for he gave a short jerk of his head as acknowledgement.

They fell into silence Thranduil did not know what to do with.

It was so very, very quiet.

It reminded him – painfully – of how much he relied on official matters in speaking with Legolas, and of how much of the conversational burden he had passed onto the son now too ill to care to fill an expanding void.

The King found comfort in stroking Legolas' smooth, golden hair, and even twined and twirled some strands around his fingers. He wasn't sure if the younger elf even noticed, much less derived similar comfort in the gesture, until Legolas sighed contentedly and seemed to relax.

"I'd rather," Legolas whispered, and Thranduil lowered his head to hear him. They've not stood this close together in ages. "I'd rather you didn't see any of this, but I thank you for being with me."

It sounded like a goodbye, and Thranduil's fingers jerked spasmodically on his son's hair, tugging at it a little. He forced himself to loosen up and tried to find something to say about that, but Legolas took up the cudgels for him again, one more time.

"Thank you for your love, adar."

Thranduil's breath caught, and his eyes watered. It was not what he expected to hear. It might not be what he deserved to hear. But it was exactly what he needed. He needed to hear, not that he was loved – by the gods, how could he not know? His son had always worn that heart on his sleeve, and had never made Thranduil feel any different. But for Legolas to tell his father he knew he was loved in return, even if it almost always went unsaid...Thranduil's father's heart could have burst in relief.

He knows, he knows, he knows...

Thranduil kept his left hand on Legolas' head and reached for his unbound one with the other, right hand upon right hand. They seldom ever touched nowadays, but with impossible longing they clung to each other, and Thranduil felt his hesitations melting away. He relished in the moment, no longer needing words.

"Aran-nin." Maenor, the most senior healer brought in from the stronghold, was standing by the entrance of the tent and calling for Thranduil's attention. "If I might have a word."

Thranduil squeezed Legolas' hand one more time and was about to let go, but in defiance of his weakness, Legolas not only kept his grip, but pulled his father in closer and tighter. His hold was unyielding. Thranduil looked down at him in surprise.

"I will only be away a moment," he told Legolas gently.

"What he has to say of me," Legolas said raggedly, with desperate eyes, "He must say before me, father. I've earned that right."

Maenor heard and he looked uneasy, but Legolas was right. It was only just, and Thranduil could hardly stand to deny him anything with his eyes that hungry anyway.

"Whatever you have to say," Thranduil commanded the healer, "you may say here."

Maenor swallowed thickly in discomfort, but stepped forward and spoke as plainly as he could.

"We have discussed treatment options for hir-nin Legolas," he said, taking care to keep his face earnest but objective, "and we require your wise counsel on how to proceed." He looked at Thranduil pointedly, that the King may understand the gravity of what he had to say, and to ask, wordlessly, if he really did want the words said before Legolas. Thranduil prodded him to continue with a nod.

"We are confident in the field healer's treatment of the arrow wounds to the arm and leg," he reported, "There is naught else to be done but keep them clean and manage any discomfort they may present. But as you know, the wound to the broken leg has leaked marrow to the blood and the body is not tolerating it well. Here there is naught else to be done too, but keep the fever low, ease the Prince's breathing where we can, and keep him comfortable. Unfortunately..."

He takes a deep breath and looks at Thranduil for direction again.

"Continue," the King commands impatiently.

"This is serious enough on its own, without the last wound's complex retrieval still upon us," Maenor said. "The arrowhead broke off and is lodged on a rib bone. The surgery has waited long enough and must be done promptly. It will involve cutting the wound wider so that we may find its precise location and well, have some purchase by which we can yank it free, essentially. The procedure will be extremely painful on your strongest day, my lord, even with the best herbs at our disposal. But today...

"Today you can have none of that," Maenor continued gravely, "Your weakened body will assuredly fail with any medicine designed to further dull your senses, depress your breathing, and slow your heart. I can only give you something mild, the consequence for which is pain I cannot imagine or describe."

The healer took a deep breath to steel himself. A misstep here and he could very well have the King's sword pressed against his throat.

"The pain I speak of is likely to kill you in your current state," he said quietly, and with much compassion. "I am so very heartily sorry."

Thranduil could feel his entire body going taut, and he felt the need to spring up and lash out. But Legolas' hand was still in his, over-warm but very much alive and present and insistent that he stay exactly where he was.

"Alternatively," Maenor said meekly, "we may leave the arrowhead where it is, and the Prince can go on as he is and have... a few hours, perhaps even a few days, with those whom he loves. We can make him comfortable and he can-"

"Out of the question," Thranduil said darkly. He looked down at Legolas' face and found that his son's blue eyes have gone from despairing to unfocused, and he wondered how much of the conversation his ailing son really, truly grasped.

"My King," Maenor implored, "he can have days, and not have to suffer. Why subject him to the horrors of a surgery when it is likely to take his life both sooner, and so much more cruelly?"

"Because he will survive it," Thranduil said, booking no argument, "As for this pain you speak of – he can weather it."

Maenor was skeptical, but what else could he say to the King? He stood rooted to where he was, helpless to convince Thranduil that Legolas ought be let go kindly, but also compelled by his healer's heart to know what the patient himself thought. It was, after all, Legolas who was slated to suffer.

The Prince's eyes refocused and drifted from Thranduil's, which was burning and begging down at him.

Fight for me. Fight for me. Fight for me.

"As the King commands," Legolas said wearily. He looked up at his father with a crooked smile, "I will just have to weather it."

TO BE CONTINUED...