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lovestruckelf · 4 months ago

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Your Mother Loved You (Chapter 5)

Summary:

Legolas' inner turmoil begins to expose itself as he struggles to maintain face to those who know him best. Achieving part one of his plan has given the young elven prince a new purpose as he sets things in motion to look upon his late mother once more. Will he go too far, beyond the point of no return, leaving his father behind?

Notes:

This chapter was extremely difficult to write. I found myself holding my breath many times as I allowed the story to pour out of my mind. It's a very emotionally charged chapter with many stressful parts occurring around our hurting and grieving prince. If this chapter resonated with you or left a mark on your heart, please feel free to leave a comment. It would mean the world xx

CHAPTER 5

After an exhausting day of attending various meetings, the King was ready to have a few well-earnt moments of rest before this evening's meal was served. He’d be eating in the dining hall this evening with his kingdom. Since the passing of the Queen, the King would occasionally dine with the people he served as a way to maintain a connection and provide them with confidence in his presence. The prince always sat beside him at the royal table during these chosen evenings and indulged in hearty conversations with his fellow woodland elves. They provided him with much-needed distractions from the evil that would course through his mind, and it brought his father joy seeing his son engage with the people of the realm. Gaining glimpses into the kind of King Legolas would one day become.

Opening the door to his chambers, Thranduil hung up his royal robe and walked over to the fireplace to momentarily allow the soothing heat to surround him. As he leaned against the mantle and looked into the fire, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the chalice he had thrown in his distressed state the night prior. The room attendants who were instructed to clean the unsettling scene that Thranduil had made must have missed it. Leaning down and reaching under the chair next to the fireplace, he picked up the chalice and stared at it for a moment, remembering his outburst from the night before. Softly, he brought the cup up to his lips and gave it a small apologetic peck before setting it on top of the mantle above the raging fire.

Thranduil was still holding onto the strength that his wife had provided him in his dream. Although he once again, as what usually happened when he found himself alone, began to feel the sadness build and felt his sorrow moving up his throat, he took solace in the words his wife offered him. Whether he had dreamt the whole encounter, or her spirit had truly visited his tired soul, he was holding onto any connection with her he could find, real or otherwise. Choosing to not yet embrace his sorrow as dinner arrangements were still upon him, from thinking of the dream still fresh in his mind, Thranduil remembered the bottle of medicinal tea he had taken to aid his deep sleep the night before. He walked over to the dresser beside his bed to return it to the cabinet as this type of medicine should not be left out freely and fall into the wrong hands. Being as mature as he was in elf years, this particular batch was made specifically for him as it contained the right dosage of medicinal properties to have the desired effect. If an elf younger than he by a few millennia were to ingest this potent mixture, it would have dire consequences.

Reaching his dresser, the King noticed there was no bottle to be seen. He thought perhaps in his emotional state that he had already returned it to his private cabinet and forgotten the action. Thranduil opened the cabinet door to check his supplies and again was unable to locate the bottle in question. Remembering how little was remaining, he deduced that his attendants had taken the liberty to have the contents refilled during their cleaning of his chambers earlier that morning. Closing the cabinet door, Thranduil walked over to his chair by the fireplace and indulged in a drink of his favorite elvish wine before leaving for dinner.

Legolas was also in his chambers, preparing for the evening’s meal and social event ahead of him. He loathed these evenings, being forced to interact with the people of the realm. Every elf he conversed with, he saw the sadness and pity in their eyes when they looked upon him, the motherless prince. It was exhausting for him to put on the act of feigning interest when he craved his privacy more than anything else. Tonight, that craving was no exception as he had his main objective in the forefront of his mind. He would attend the meal, show his face, and retire early so he could see her, just as his father had the night before.

The prince removed the bottle and the other herbal tea that he had taken from his father’s supply from the pocket of the tunic he had worn that day. He lowered himself to a sitting position on his bed and stared at the glass container within his grasp. For some reason, he couldn’t comprehend there was a slight feeling within him that caused some mild anxiety to rise. He felt it within his stomach as it moved through to his chest, his breathing becoming slightly rapid as he stared at the contents of the bottle he had stolen from the King. A part of him that he wished to ignore knew that this was wrong, dangerous even, without knowing the extent of the danger itself. Legolas was ignorant to the fact that this was not the normal blend of medicinal tea used for the average mature elf, but a powerful blend designed specifically for his father.

Shaking his head and taking a long, deep breath Legolas opened the drawer of the dresser next to his bed and placed both tea variants inside before pushing the drawer back to its original position. Hearing a knock at the entrance to his chambers startled the prince as he quickly gathered his thoughts and moved for the door. It was an attendant informing him that dinner had been served and that the King requested his presence. Not realising how long he had been sitting on his bed contemplating what he was about to do this night, Legolas rushed out to the dining hall to meet his father.

“Ah, there you are!” Thranduil remarked, beaming upon seeing his son approach the royal table. “Legolas, come and sit. I wondered if you had fallen asleep during your momentary respite from your duties.”

“Apologies for my lateness, father. It seems my body required some deep rest from the efforts of today’s hunt.” Legolas lied.

“No apology necessary. Come, eat with me, and enlighten me with details of today’s events.” Thranduil motioned towards the empty seat next to him. Once seated, Legolas regaled his father with specifics of the hunting expedition of the day, making sure to include details of the looks of amazement on the faces of his fellow hunting elves as he performed his trick shots to take down his targets.

“More like showing off if you ask me.” Legolas and Thranduil’s heads turned to the sound of the voice when they noticed Erlan who had bowed his head in respect when the two royal elves glanced his way. Thranduil held Erlan in high esteem due to the friendship between him and his son. The King knew as long as Erlan was around, Legolas would never be alone and would have someone to confide in should he need it when the King wasn’t available.

“It was hardly showing off, Erlan. It was just my natural ability to out-skill you and your hunting party. I cannot help what I am.” Legolas said with a smug look on his face as he pretended to turn his nose up at his friend. The King could not help but laugh at the words of his son. How alike Legolas was to himself during the days of his youth. So wrongfully self-assured and arrogantly confident in his mind. The King wondered if his behaviour had been as bad as Legolas’ at this age and came the conclusion that he was in fact worse. This thought kept a small smile upon the King’s features as he looked at Erlan.

“Well, I’m glad you made time in your busy schedule to out-skill my hunting party, my prince. I'm surprised you showed up at all given your tardiness.” Legolas’ eyes widened at this statement, not knowing how his father would interpret it.

“What is the meaning of your words, young one?” The King asked of Erlan. The elf wasn’t sure how to respond as he looked into the eyes of his friend which were filled with fear, begging the elf to remain quiet.

Feeling as though he was backed into a corner, Erlan tried to respond light-heartedly, “Oh, nothing heinous, my King. It seems our prince simply overslept on his duties this morning. Not to worry, he did eventually catch up to the group to school everyone in the study of fancy archery.” Erlan finished with a nervous smile, picking up that he may have just outed his friend to his father but not knowing how exactly.

“Overslept, you say?” The King responded, looking between his son and the young elf, knowing that this was not the case as Legolas had joined him that day for their morning meal together. Legolas had not looked away from Erlan to glance at his father, a notion not lost on Thranduil. “I see. Well, I will see to it that the prince receives adequate sleep this night, so this tardiness does not become a habit. Thank you, Erlan. You may rejoin your family.” The King politely dismissed the elf, turning gently towards his son to look upon him. Legolas glances at his father from the corner of his eye and looks down slightly.

“Legolas, were you ill after our meal this morning? You seemed well enough” Thranduil queried.

“No, father. I was not ill.” Legolas’ mind was reeling. What could he tell his father of his whereabouts between the morning meal and the hunt for game which the King would believe? “I decided to return to my chambers to await the time to join the hunting party. It seems I got lost within the pages of a book.” Legolas swallowed as he found himself again in the middle of a lie which made him uneasy.

“A book?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, questioning the legitimacy of the story which his son was articulating. “And which book, pray tell, had the prince of Mirkwood so enamoured that he lost sense of all time and almost missed on participating in one of his favorite pasttimes?”

Thinking fast, Legolas remembered a book passed down to him from his mother. “It was the book given to me as an elfling from Nana. I was reading poems that reminded me of her. The conversation we had this morning, you telling me to embrace her spirit and she will guide me. I needed to feel close to her so I reached for the book and began reading the stories and poems she would read to me in the evenings.” With these words, Legolas’ heart dropped into his stomach as he was overcome with guilt and shame. Guilt for lying twice as that had of course not occurred. He had not touched that book since his mother’s passing out of sheer refusal to acknowledge it due to the pain it would induce; shame for spilling a lie that involved his father’s late wife. “I did not want Erlan to know this personal matter, so I informed him that I had simply overslept”.

Thranduil was taken aback slightly by Legolas’ words. He was not expecting that response but was pleased that their conversation earlier that day had had such a profound impact on his son. For the first time since that tragic night, Thranduil felt that he had finally been able to reach Legolas on a deeper level than just reassurance and encouragement. Taking one of Legolas’ hands into both of his, he gently patted the top of his son’s hand.

“Legolas, you know not how happy this news had made me. I feared that you were content with shutting out all memory of her and I would not entirely blame you. I feel the pain is sometimes too great to bear when thinking about her. But this is good. This is moving in the right direction toward the path of healing. This is what she wants, son. I’m very proud of you.”

Legolas’ heart and mind sunk into a deep pit of contrition. How could he have just done that to his father? Gave him all that false hope with the words of a lie to cover an act so disgraceful as he remembered what he had stolen from the person he loved most in this world. He had not dared look up at his father out of fear of being caught out in his lies. Instead, he gently nodded his head in agreement and quickly turned back to eat his evening meal. He longed to retreat to the safety of his room, hidden from his father’s eyes which were filled with hope and pride which he knew he didn’t deserve.

As the evening was drawing to an end, attendants were making their way around the hall clearing plates and utensils for cleaning.

“One moment.” Thranduil stopped the attendant clearing his plate. Legolas looked up to his father as it was rare he would engage in conversation with the attendants during service.

“Yes, Your Highness? How can I serve?”

“I believe you were one of the two who tended to my chambers this morning before our meal was served. Is that correct?” the King inquired.

“Yes, my Lord. That is correct. Do you take issue with the quality of the service?” the attendant asked nervously.

“No, the quality of your work was acceptable. I just inquire about the bottle of medicinal tea that was left on my dresser at the side of my bed. The one I occasionally use to assist with my rest” Legolas froze upon hearing these words, holding his breath. “I believe it may have been removed by yourself or the other attendant for refilling as the contents were low. Please see that it is restocked and placed in my cabinet by tomorrow evening.” Thranduil dismissed the attendant.

“Yes, my Lord. However, I did observe the bottle of which you speak while carrying out my duties and can assure you I did not remove it. I will ask the other attendant if they took the liberty upon themselves to see it refilled.” The attendant bowed to the King and continued with her immediate duties.

“Are you having issues sleeping, Ada?” Legolas asked as a way to divert the attention away from his guilty face.

“Worry not. It is nothing. A King has much on his mind which at times requires something strong to assist with much-needed rest.” Thranduil responded casually.

“That sounds extremely helpful indeed. I wonder if I could partake in some of this tea on the nights when sleep eludes me.” The prince asked innocently.

“Ah, my son. I understand the appeal, however, as it stands, you are much too young to drink the tea which is made specifically for me. No stronger concoction exists and it is not intended for those young bodies who are still striving for adulthood. The medicinal properties would overwhelm you and I fear place your young form in danger. I do have some herbal blends that you could ingest if you are having issues with your rest.” The King said matter-of-factly.

Feeling a slight sense of disappointment as Legolas briefly thought there was a path he could take which would not require him to lie completely to his father. “Thank you, Ada, but it will not be necessary. I was merely inquiring.”

“Very well then. Should you find yourself in need of assistance and you’re unable to find me, the healers have the herbal teas on hand. Just call upon them and they will provide it.” Thranduil informed Legolas. Legolas immediately wondered if this meant that the healers also had the medicinal tea on hand in the storeroom.

“Thank you, Ada. For now, I bid you goodnight and will see you on the morrow.” Legolas excused himself from the table with his father’s permission and started make his way back to his chambers before he was stopped.

“Legolas, perhaps we could share a moment and look over that book together before you retire for the day. I would very much like to hear the stories your mother so lovingly shared while I was performing my duties back then.” Thranduil suggested.

“Of course, Ada. I would love nothing more. However, this night I feel exhaustion taking over and I must rest lest I become tardy again.” Legolas responded quickly, trying to derail his father’s suggestion with a faint smile.

“I understand, son. Please, take your leave. Another time then.” Thranduil bowed his head subtly to his son to bid him goodnight.

Legolas reached his bed inside his chambers and sat down next to his dresser, quickly taking out the stolen bottle of his father’s tea; the tea which he now knew was made specifically for one of his father’s age and maturity. “Perhaps if I just use a tiny amount, there will be no side effects,” Legolas thought to himself, as he twisted the bottle between his slender fingers.

That pang of anxiety started rising within his stomach again, trying to warn him off this dangerous road. As he felt the anxiety rise, a massive gust of wind rattled his window and momentarily scared the young elf. Shaking his head, he then looked down into the drawer and reached for the herbal blend. Perhaps with how tired he was feeling, taking the herbal tea would administer the same effects as the medicinal tea this night. Looking between the two variants, the prince sighed deeply and fisted his palms before bringing them up to cover his face. He was starting to panic but he needed to see her again. Just once and he felt that one of these options guaranteed her presence over the other.

Looking into the drawer, he placed one of the teas back and closed it. Staring back down at his hand, he slowly turned the lid of the glass bottle and sifted a finger through the loose leaves, taking in the scent. It was potent for sure, and he could smell the medicinal properties. Taking a teaspoon sized amount, Legolas placed the tea into a small strainer before pouring the pre-boiled water he had prepared upon his return this evening into a mug. He let the tea steep for 5 minutes before removing the wet leaves, noticing the medicinal properties had dissolved into the hot water. The aroma alone was enough to send the young elf to sleep, but he knew it wouldn’t be sufficient to send her to him this night. No, he needed to guarantee her presence, so the prince lifted the mug to his lips and gulped the entirety in two large mouthfuls.

Placing the mug on his dresser next to the bottle of tea he had used, Legolas awaited any sensation to indicate that the tea was taking the desired effect, droopy eyes or a heavy head. He wondered how long it would take to enter his system given that it was, according to his father, the strongest concoction within the realm.

Minutes went by and Legolas started to become impatient, not feeling any sensation or any form of tiredness overcoming him. He thought perhaps he hadn’t used enough of the leaves. Reaching over to the bottle, he once again stood to grab more hot water to make another mug but upon rising, he felt lightheaded. Blinking his eyes twice, Legolas tried to regain visual focus of the room around him but found the more he blinked, the more tired he became. He began stumbling over his feet as his world began to spin out of control, making his knees give way and he fell to the ground. Catching his upper body on the side of his bed, he managed to pull himself up from the floor and onto the soft mattress where he began breathing rapidly, unable to open his eyes. His hands forming fists on the blankets of his bed, hoping to feel some sort of physical anchor while his mind made him believe he was suspended in midair.

“Come to me, my beautiful son.”

Legolas tried opening his eyes thinking that his father had just walked in on him in this state.

“Let go. I will keep you safe through this. Come to me.” A gentle voice that he recognised was communicating with the young elf prince. A voice that instantly calmed him and made him give in to the effects of the tea that was working through his system.

“Nana, I go to you. I have missed you so much” Legolas’ body stopped struggling as he allowed his mind to travel to the one place he longed to go. His body cold with sweat from the struggle, lay there almost lifeless on his bed. Legolas’ breathing was extremely shallow as he felt his soul, his fae, begin to depart, seeking the comfort of the only one who could provide it.

“Legolas, you’ve come home”.

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itsonlydana · 7 months ago

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Find a cure for my heart | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑

On the eve of the battle, you and Thranduil spent a night that spurred a flurry of letters while Dale grew as a city and you both grew too, first apart, then closer again. However, you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with the truth that your health was deteriorating with each passing day.

warnings/tags: sickness, angst, mentions of death (reader is actively dying but only realizes after Thranduil helps) hurt/comfort, happy end

words: 5,6k

an: finally finished this fic after working on it since January. If you are interested in being tagged when I post new fics– comment that under this post or send it to me in my inbox!

+ masterlist + rules

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Contrary to general belief, the elves did not return to their forests immediately after the battle.

In the stories told, there would be remarks, on how the Elvenking offered his help to the yet-to-be-crowned King Bard once more, bringing aid with however warriors he had left for disposal to search the endless chaos and ruins of Dale for survivors until many sunsets later.

They would speak about the sorrow of losing friends and family and neighbors to a war that had been won at costs no one could comprehend yet, and they would mention how the great Elvenking guided them through the darkest of nights for he had experienced this all before; the grief, the helplessness and the colossal question of What now, who's to say we haven't lost ourselves as well as those we have to bury?

Many had their own experience with the Elvenking, whether it was a hand pulling them off the ground, a loaf of bread delivered to them after days of fighting, or a warm blanket to huddle under to finally lay their body to rest under the watchful eye of Elves that had sworn to protect them.

You had your own story. A different one.

But it wasn't one with the Elvenking, no; the night before the battle, where the air was filled with the sound of blades being sharpened and children crying for their parents, you had met Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves but most importantly: a set of strong arms that caught you as you stumbled out of Bard's tent.

You needed to run away from the discussions over how to draw the dwarfs out of the mountain.

You'd been a friend to Bard for many long years but standing in that luscious tent, being offered wine as the Wizard, Bard, and the Hobbit pondered over what was about to happen while you weren't sure your mind caught up on what had happened already, there was no room for friendship inside your panic-riddled chest.

Just as you flung open the tent flaps and tried to dash away to get some air, your foot caught on a root, and had it not been for Thranduil's fast reflexes, you surely would've planted your face into the dirt and mud.

Up until now, you had no idea what had transcended between the two of you at the moment where his arms held you up, his softening face looking down at your widened eyes filled with tears and your tongue too tied up and heavy to say anything other than: "Air– please"

Whatever it had been, likely an unspoken wish – by Thranduil or you, or maybe you both; it didn't matter – for someone who would not pass judgment over the urge to disappear from your skin and role and crown for one night, a fallen star flung across the darkened skies at the right time.

It felt as though Thranduil had pulled a sheet over your heads; your world narrowed down to this other soul and how beautiful and divine his body felt on yours as you found a way to survive the night before life as you knew it turned once more and the solid ground beneath your feet shifted and broke.

A few nights, while unforgettable and brooding with feelings neither of you admitted to, did not change that you had to move on somehow.

Although the Elves did not depart for Mirkwood immediately and Thranduil and you were given time in the aftermath to find the other in the cover of the night and under the pretense this was nothing more than mere distraction, a wishing star could only do so much shining before dimming out.

The day you awoke to a sunrise bathing the debris of Dale in a pinkish and warm light, pillars being rebuilt dipped into molten gold, and the cracks glued together, Thranduil's strong arms were wrapped around your middle as if he wanted to hinder you from sneaking away, you knew it was him who would leave you before the day was over.

And so he did.

Sunrise came and went and soon enough all the tents were packed up on horseback and wagons, leaving flattened grass as the only reminder they had been there at all if and there were goodbyes, political between Bard and the Elvenking who parted from the weary man and his children with the promise of support, and between you and Thranduil in the form of a slow nod.

Thranduil sat high on a dark stallion, dressed in silver and long robes that hid fingerprints that spoke of an attempt to cling to transience. His chin lowered, though his eyes were fixed on you.

You knew that nod carried the conversation you had whispered into the morning mist.

And it was all that wasn't said that motivated you to step away first and turn your back on the caravan that took away a King and a Lover.

There was much to do, the looming task of building up Dale needed everyone's full attention, and that included you.

Especially you.

There were houses to plan, accommodations to be made so that no one needed to sleep under the stars.

No one could ever pry the reason why you were keen on getting a roof under everyone out of your hands; a lonely part of you wanted the stars to remember you and Thranduil lying in the grass. And no one else.

The first letter arrived a few weeks after you hadn't had the heart to watch him go and threw yourself into one task after the other, dismissing even the smallest hint of sickness, like the heaviness inside your chest every time you lifted something heavy, or tiredness crashing down onto you in moments to catch your breath, to continue working, that you wouldn't find a moment to admit how much you missed him.

That utterly ridiculous mindset stopped as soon as the messenger Elf rode into the city and hand-delivered you the first of many envelopes with the nearly indecipherable handwriting of Thranduil.

Or the Elvenking.

Because the first letter, despite being addressed to you as well as Bard, who wouldn't have been able to read it in the first place, was a list of things the King would send and a question of what else was needed that he could provide.

"It's fine," you said to Bard through a smile that didn't reach your eyes as you read aloud the letter twice, from the greeting to the last paragraph that was signed 'the Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion, Lord of Mirkwood and friend of Dale'.

In the flickering light of the candle dripping wax onto the table between you, the dark circles under Bard's eyes were all the more prominent than when he was running around the city and there was a bottomless pit in your stomach that wouldn't want to add to the many things he was already worrying about.

"It's totally fine," you said to Bard when he asked if you had skipped over a private note from Thranduil or if there truly wasn't one (there wasn't, you had turned the letter over and over in your hands until the edges became soft and wrinkled) and you both knew that to be a lie.

You answered the letter in the same professional manner because even though you wanted to, you couldn't send a letter to a King helping however he could and expecting nothing in return with a smeared "I wish for your heart and our nights and for your voice to tell me we are alright" written under tears in another sleepless night.

The next few letters follow the same pattern, Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion would inquire if there was anything Dale needed and answer Bard's question on leadership and share his knowledge of what was fundamental for a new King, and you would write for Bard on the other side.

The weeks passed and so did the hope of rekindling that fire you had thought to burn in the both of you.

That Thranduil didn't see the need to reach out was a punch to the gut that left little room for anything else but disappointment of putting your effort into pulling on a rope that wasn't attached to something on the other end.

Why waste the dwindling energy of your exhausted body on someone who would live longer than the memory of you?

Every time a new letter arrived by messenger you would find Bard until one late evening you opened the letter by yourself and saw your name written in that beautiful sharp handwriting, not Bard's added in front or behind; only your given name and not your title.

Your hands shook as you stood in the frame of what was to be your house and the ink glued together the cracks of your heart.

'Forgive me for not writing to you sooner and for how sentimental I must sound. It has been weeks since I last saw you and every time I wander through my familiar halls, I find there is no soul around that could understand me how you did, whom I could tell what plagues my mind. The time we spent together has not left my thoughts. Neither has the promise to not grow apart too much and I apologize for not contributing to that. Now, if you would still have me, I would like nothing more than to hear how you are faring. As for me…'

Nothing had the power to stop you from running off that giddy feeling that spread through your chest as Thranduil, finally Thranduil, wrote about the happenings in Mirkwood; not even the cough that sat deep where suppressed laughter spilled into the grass you fell into– the letter clutched into your hands.

Thranduil and you fell into a routine then, one that was no obstruction for the many tasks at hand but made room for each other to hold on to the promise.

You would send out two letters, one on behalf of Bard whom you taught his signature as well as a few more words every fortnight you sat down together, and one addressed to Thranduil, filled with all the thoughts that ran through your mind that you wanted to tell him.

It was by no means as precious as the talks you had now many weeks ago, not when there were days you had to wait for a response instead of seconds.

You appreciated them all the same, every bit of himself that Thranduil wrote into his messages was countered with a confession of your own.

When he said he wished to know where his son had disappeared to or rather if he followed the direction Thranduil had given to him, you admitted to the nightmares that still plagued your mind, the dreams of fire and a monster that still rested in the lake.

You offered piece after piece, chipped bits of your heart into every letter that you sent away, and after a few weeks had passed, and Dale was taking shape with its houses raking their roofs to the sky and its people planting seeds and flowers, rooting themselves into what now was theirs, there was not much left of your heart that was completely yours and not Thranduil's and the letters of his proved that the same could be said about him.

What you did not mention, not with one drop of ink, was that the nightmares were no longer confined to the few hours of sleep you fell into.

There was a dragon, not just in the cold lake where your old home lay in ashes and was drowned in the ruthless darkness, but by the heavy weight on your chest, it felt like there was one inside you as well.

You were coughing as if there was smoke blocking your lungs, blackening out what little air you heaved for when a coughing fit took over your whole body.

It started small, a cough then, a sleepless night there; both accumulated to an uncountable amount and it got only worse as the season changed and the autumn winds lost their last warm touches and the trees bared their wooden arms.

You waved it off as a common cold, nothing that would hinder you from your tasks to becoming a liability the city didn't need in its time of growth.

Then, the coughing got worse, rougher, sometimes taking your voice for a moment until you found some water although that only helped for a small moment, like trying to extinct a burning building with just the water your bare hands could carry.

The worst part was the blood that stained the cloths, the sweats that not only held you awake at night but weakened you at day as well.

"I'm better!" you promised Bard on a night when he had to sit next to your bed, wringing out the cold cloths that lay on your fevered forehead.

His voice was a low whisper when he dabbed away the sweat, pushing your wet hair back with hands that were far too gentle for what you deserved for rotting in bed and not pulling your weight, "You're not, an' that's clear for everyone but you. Did you tell him?"

"Yes," you lied through your teeth, eyelids dropping close from exhaustion but you knew sleep wouldn't come, "he said it would pass, nothing to worry 'bout."

Three days later you were on your legs again, if not a bit shaky and needing more breaks than ever.

You sat in Bard's kitchen, a warm bowl of soup in front of you that tasted like ash and firewood, and ignored the silent pleading in his eyes to tell him what was going on and why you could barely lift the spoon of a soup that you clearly did not enjoy.

Winter wore your body down like rough sandpaper on soft oak, the cold winds and dark hours an enemy far worse than what you had to encounter on the battlefield. This had no logical explanation, nor was there an enemy you could see.

Your own body betrayed you and you had no idea what you had done to deserve it.

You knew that somewhere was a solution to it all, that was the string of hope leading you through the snow outside and the fire in your blood and bones, singing down what little fight was left on the days when the sun pushed away gray clouds and you felt normal and healthy.

The sole reason why you lied in letters filled with otherwise honesty as pure as heaven's snowflakes was that you did not want to be a bother.

Thranduil wrote how much of his time the dwarfs and their trading demands swallowed; he did not need another burden and you would be damned if he came because you had a small cold you couldn't get rid of.

You had promised Thranduil to visit him in spring when the soil was rich enough for the seed to take and the livestock could roam the meadows. If you weren't better by then you would ask him.

Until then work demanded all of you. Even if that was through a white knuckle grip on the last bits of health in aching bones.

⸺

Spring brought forth daffodils pushing through the cobblestone streets. Tilda, the youngest Bardling and a wonderful distraction on the days when getting out of bed was the hardest bounced excitedly beside you and pointed at the flowers.

"Like stubborn trumpets proclaiming winter is finally over!" she said as you followed her outside. "Spring is finally here!"

You disregarded the pain echoing through your body, the weight of guilt forcing you to spend the day with the girl.

She had been knocking on your door every morning, angelic eyes asking if you wanted to come and play with the lambs that she had taken too and this morning, you couldn't disappoint her.

"Aren't they just so pretty?" Tilda crouched down, gently cupping one of the blossoms in her small hands.

Lowering your gaze from the burning brightness of the sun you got a short glimpse at the yellow dots decorating your doorstep.

Then, suddenly, black spots appeared on the edge of your vision, taking you by surprise though they have been your companion for the better part of the last few days.

"Tilda–"

You tried to hold on to your doorframe, bruised hands frantically searching for a grip on the warm wood but they slipped and caught only the edge.

The last thought that crossed your mind was that you should bring Thranduil some of those flowers before you blinked and crumbled to the ground.

⸺

You woke up to the confusing taste of grass on your heavy tongue and the dizzying realization that you were not spread out on the street but tugged inside your bed.

Above you, moonlight fell through the opened window in the slanted roof above your head and you immediately closed your eyes again.

This had to be a dream.

Though your dreams had not been like this in a long time.

Peaceful. Comfortably warm. Silent except for the croaking of toads, the buzzing of insects outside, and the laughter and clattering of your neighbors probably enjoying the night more than you.

A groan passed your lips as you tried to sit up; a seemingly impossible task with the heaviness of your bones as well as the mountain of blankets that covered you.

"What do you think you are doing?" a voice you knew all too well sneered.

For a second you thought it to be a hallucination, a projection or your dazed mind still lulled in the fog of unconsciousness.

The bones in your neck cracked as your head snapped to the other side. There was no way you did not imagine the tall figure that should be across the woods in his palace; not in your bedroom.

"What are you doing here?"

"Merely strolling through the neighborhood," Thranduil's voice dripped with sarcasm, yet a subtle tension marked his stance beside the bed. "Now, enlighten me. Did you conveniently forget to mention this sickness in your letters?"

Ah, straight to the point.

"It's trivial," you waved it off, attempting to assert yourself by sitting up.

Naturally, consciousness promptly slipped away once more.

This time you were not that surprised by the sharp taste of grass on your lips when you came to your senses once more, pushed back into the pillows that had never felt this stuffed. You were still unable to move your leg more than from one side to the other under the blankets and Thranduil was still there, glaring at you through dark furrowed brows and hardened eyes.

You wanted to say something to break the heavy silence but all that passed your lips was a giggle that was more desperate and closer to insane than amusement.

One brow lifted. "Oh, how glad I am you are entertained by this," said Thranduil. He was as rigid in a frightening calm way but all of that was overshadowed by the cloud of confusion that muddled your thoughts.

"Noo," you drew out the word and continued giggling. This had to be insanity. "You jus' look very out of place here – wait. Turn around? I need to make sure you're really here."

He didn't fit into the cramped space of your house, his fine clothing stood out against the poor backdrop of crooked furniture, used towels hanging over stools, and the small layer of dust that covered the areas you hadn't been able to clean in a while; which was most of the bedroom and you didn't dare think about the state of the kitchen.

Where he deserved a throne out of gold you could only offer the chair next to your bed, the one that was crooked and leaned heavily to one side.

That being said, nothing took away the sheer amount of power he radiated.

It easily filled every nook and cranny or tight corner of your humble house, his voice as well as the image of Thranduil, King of the Elves, towering over your bed in long robes and bathed in the light of the night sky, glittering silver like the moon knew the importance of the Elf in front of you.

Thranduil remained stoically still. "I will definitely not do that," he said. "I am here. Where I should have been a while ago."

The accusation would have hit harder if you weren't drugged up on whatever medicine he had apparently fed you while you were out cold.

You shrugged your shoulders as well as you could with your arms bundled under the blankets. "I saw no reason, it was just a cold. Nothing I couldn't manage."

Well, you hadn't managed to handle it, that was the worst realization of the whole lie.

"Clearly," Thranduil said sarcastically and ground his teeth against each other. His arms were behind his stiff back and the way he tilted his head down to you made you feel like a child being admonished for bad behavior. "Do you know how much despair I felt when Bard's letter arrived this morning?" His voice was even but there was a resonance in it – a deep rumble akin to the ominous approach of distant thunderstorms over the sea. "Nearly indecipherable scrambles where he begged me to come; telling me that you have been asleep for two whole days?"

A crack in the form of a small tremor broke through the mask of the all-mighty Elvenking.

"This morning?" you asked, caught up by the first part and ignorant of everything that followed after, and you huffed while running the calculations through your head. "Thranduil, this can not be, the journey is not manageable in one day."

"Is this truly the point you consider most important?" He closed his eyes as a pained expression passed over his face. "You deem it impossible, yet I assure you, nothing could have hindered my arrival here; the boundaries of possibility, for once, were not a barrier but an aid. It reveals your scant regard for your circumstance if your worry fixates on my journey through the land. Not on the sickness that nearly stole you from this world. Two days –" Thranduil took a deep breath, "two whole days where those around you had no idea if you would ever awake again."

"But –"

"No, you can speak when I am finished," he commanded sharply. "You were reckless. Ignorant of your health as if your life was not precious." Thranduil spat the words out cold yet they burned. He was blind to the way you flinched and lowered your burning eyes to the blankets.

You shrunk deeper into the pillows, a hollow ache inside your chest that had felt empty from the pain ever since you awoke the first time.

"But –" you repeated helplessly. This time, he allowed you to continue and you did so in a whisper: "I didn't want to be an inconvenience."

"An inconvenience?" he sneered back at you, the flickering lights of a few burned-down candles casting shadows over the creases of anger edged into alabaster skin.

He took a step toward the bed and you saw a twitch in his lips that had you blanching.

The fury brooding inside him was not new, you had seen it on the battlefield before. In ice-cold cuts of his sword as he flawlessly executed the most brutal movements while his face resembled a mask of the most dangerous kind of rage – stillness.

Now, there remained little of that stillness.

"You were a greater inconvenience by nearly throwing away your precious mortal life, all because of your unfathomable stubbornness!"

"There was lots to do!" you snapped back. Shortly but surely, you were fed up with his anger and the insults he was throwing at you. "This town was suffering far more than me and don't you dare tell me I'm wrong," you had to bury your teeth into your lower lip to stop it from shaking. "Dale needed me!"

The pale skin was flushed red around his heaving chest and delicate ears. "And I do not?" Thranduil road and his voice boomed through your little bedroom loud enough for the cicadas outside to fall silent.

Immediately, your eyes watered. You felt trapped under his gaze, engulfed in pure heat hotter than any dragon fire.

You searched for a response inside you but found none.

All there was was chaos – the loud beating of your heart against your chest like iron being beaten and shaped though all that was formed was pain sharp like a sword edge; cutting through the layers of protection you had wrapped around your heart.

Thranduil slightly lifted his nose, staring down at you through thick eyebrows and a clenched jawline. "You were dying," he said and his nostrils quivered. "I can not fathom how you through that would not have been a greater inconvenience.

His expressions made up in sound for the lowered voice he'd used to speak about what you previously refused to acknowledge.

Never before had you seen him this out of control of his emotions, not even on the nights he had bedded you where he still had a hold on himself.

The way he stood before you, dressed in fine robes not fit for riding, the hem of them stained by dirt, his boots muddy, and his face full of anguish, it was as if he could have been kneeling at your feet.

You ignored the tears slipping silently down your cheeks. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It was indeed, and far beyond that."

The tears made it impossible for you to continue looking at him and your head dropped down as a sob broke through you. "I didn't know," you panicked, "It didn't happen fast so… so I thought it'd pass but – and then it got worse and worse and I was so afraid to speak to anyone about it." The words tumbled into your lap, where, under the blankets, your hands were balled to fists now that the strength to do so had returned to your body, "I – I couldn't," the night air stung as your breaths turned into gasps, "They – Bard was exhausted and –"

Thranduil's face softened ever so slightly, pushing away the furious frown. "You are too pure for this world," he said quietly and – dealing a fatal blow to your ever-fragile heart – slowly went down on one knee next to the bed until you were eye to eye and his cold long fingers could gently caress your wet cheek.

He stopped, most of his fingers covered in the glistening tears he'd freed you from and his thumb rested on the plushness of your lower lip. "The world would have lost its sunshine had you perished," his robes rustled as he drew closer, silver hair falling onto the blankets like stars flying across the skies, "You must promise me to be more careful or darkness shall be my companion from that day on."

How could you do anything else but break into tears once more?

They flooded your face too fast for Thranduil to catch them with his hand and he did what seemed more reasonable yet utterly out of character: he rose to push away some of the blankets and sat down on the mattress.

While his face showed some revelation of his thoughts at the meek bed of hay that surprised him, he said nothing except for a lowered: "Hush now, shh." while his arms found your shaking body and pulled you into his side.

He cradled you until there were no more tears to cry, until your cheeks hurt and your lashes clung together awfully damp, and then some more, his hands on your back, cooling down the firing heat that spread through you and the other in your hair. With tenderness, he massaged his fingertips into the areas where your head throbbed uncomfortably.

You cried for all the nights where you had suffered, drawing closer to a death you hadn't seen coming.

You cried out of relief that this was finally over, that you could breathe and inhale only the rich scents of Thranduil instead of smoke.

You sobbed uncontrollably long into the night, not caring one bit that by the time the wailing grew quiet and exhaustion rendered you weak enough to fall into his chest even more, Thranduils robes needed to be padded dry.

"Thranduil?" you asked and burrowed your nose into a spot of fabric that wasn't salty. "Can you tell me what was happening to me?"

He didn't start directly. Thranduil waited, his heart stuttering for a second that made you marvel that the muscle was affected by you at all despite the many proofs he had laid to your feet.

Were it not for the pounding headache you fostered and tried to push away by shutting away all the lights and leaving your eyes closed, you would have looked at his face to check for those minuscule expressions he only showed to you.

"At first I could not figure it out," Thranduil admitted at last and his previously stilled hand continuing the circular movements against your scalp, gathering hair between his fingers, "and that frightened me more than anything else. There was not a scratch or a wound, nothing that explained why you were hardly–" he flinched and his other hand held your waist tighter, "hardly breathing. Bard was the one who explained how much you fought against this illness all winter, ever since autumn to be precise. He spoke of the meals you denied, the coughing and shaking, the blood-soaked cloths, and how.. how you rarely slept and if you did, he told me he heard your whimpers and sobs whenever he passed your door."

"He noticed it all?"

"He loves you," Thranduil said, "He loves you just as much as his offspring."

You shut your eyes even closer, turning your head more into his chest as another layer of protection against the feeling of pain that flinched over your face like a stone skipping on water, leaving ripples of agony at the memory of the many times Bard had pleaded you to talk to him. "I never wanted him to hurt at my expense."

"He is aware you thought it to be better this way," Thranduil lovingly stroked your hair – and it was love, soft and beautiful like the elf who abandoned his kingdom to race to save you – "To go against his word to you declares him a strong man and leader, Dale will flourish under his guide and your gentle hand will provide your people all they will ever need."

"So what was it?" you asked the question eating away at you, "This sickness?"

Thranduil's fingers twirled a lock of hair as he hummed lowly, "The beast in the lake is at fault," he said, "and its body infesting the in any case dirty water that you used to still your thirst."

You lifted your head at that, staring up at Thranduil whose gaze was already on you. "The dragon?" you repeated perplexed, "I got sick because of that damned dragon?"

Thranduil nodded, "I sent out the order to have its carcass removed this instant, so no one else has to suffer this fate."

You drew your eyebrows together, the hard crease between them immediately found by Thranduil for him to smooth the frown away with his thumb and a soft click of his tongue.

"So I was the only one?" The conclusion was confirmed by another nod that sent you down another spiral of confusing thoughts and loose threats of a riddle that made no sense to you.

"A mystery," Thranduil said as if he could read your thoughts, "There is no explanation as to why you solely were affected and quite intense at that. I was glad to have brought Asëa aranion with me – although you required more than a handful until your heart finally calmed."

In a moment of contemplating silence, you barely managed to stifle a yawn.

Now that your body seemed to be fine again, all your muscles yearned for the sleep that had evaded you for the longest time.

Thranduil's pleasantly warm body around you lulled you into a state of calmness, his body heat and the memories of his touch you replaced with the feeling of his strong chest in your back, and his hands threading hair through his fingers.

He was curled up in your bed, in your home, not some tent under the stars though you could see them if you looked up and through the window.

As you did so, your eyes didn't travel further than Thranduil and the watchful look on his face.

"You're as beautiful as the day you left," you remarked in a whisper like a slip of your tongue but you meant every word.

While your body ached and wore new scars his hands and mouth hadn't explored yet, he could've been away for a day or less.

You lifted a hand to stroke over his left cheek, over the faint scarred muscles that you knew by whispers hid what he deemed hideous.

Thranduil caught your hand before it reached his cheekbones and his lips pressed a light kiss against the calluses, the signs of hours of work.

"Rest, meleth nîn, you need it."

There was no denying that the elvish words had meant something important, that was clear by the way his tongue had wrapped around the words and breathed them out like a kiss but his lowered lashes and downturned lips hindered you from asking what he had said.

This was not the time to question what was probably just for him.

Later, when you were not falling into the depths of sleep cuddled against Thranduil's chest, when you would step outside your house with his looming presence in your back ready to help you with every foot you set on the grounds, there would be stories awaiting you.

Stories of the Elvenking storming into the city on horseback and all alone, the wind seemingly carrying him faster than possible and the fury and worry on his face lowered all citizens to the grounds as he yelled for their King.

They would speak about the way he nearly broke down Bard's door and how he carried your unconscious body in his arms to your house, demanding for the crowd to make themselves rare before he had them all seized and locked into his halls for obstructing his path; and even though he had no authority, Bard was close on his heels and no one dared to object.

You would hear about the day he sat by your side, caring for you and barking out orders for more water, not the one from the lake but from the springs, and how Bard and his children were the only ones allowed to visit – explaining the yellow flowers that took up every single glass your house had to offer.

Thranduil would tell you the meaning of the words he had said that first night he had spent in your bed, fully awake and watching your sleeping form in his lap until the birds woke you up in the morning; and he would say these words on all the nights that followed.

With him in Dale, or you in Mirkwood – never apart from then on.

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