This, And My Heart Beside *added ch. 20/part 1*

CHAPTER 18/PART 2


“Blessed Eru!” Naniel cried as she stood in the doorway of her son’s bedchamber, and her eyes fell upon his prone, still form. The healers had arrived just seconds before her, and now they stood bent over the Prince, applying salves and herbal mixtures to his wounds. The Queen ran to Legolas’ bedside, her hand pressed to her lips, to seal in the scream that threatened to break forth.

Thranduil came to her swiftly, and gathered her in his arms. She clawed at the front of his tunic in desperation, unable to look away from the sight of her only son lying helplessly broken.

“Why …… how could this happen?” she begged an explanation.

“Naniel,” her husband said calmly, in a firm voice that immediately caught her attention. She turned to face him, and saw the despair and suffering in his eyes.

“I am to blame for this,” he said. “If I had not invited the men in the villages to use part of Mirkwood for hunting, this would never have happened.” He lowered his eyes, incapable of meeting her gaze, and Naniel’s heart ached for him. She cupped his face in her hands, and raised it until he looked at her oagaiagain.

“No, my love, you are in no way responsible for this. You meant only to show kindness to others. How could that be wrong? The ones who did this, are the *only* ones who shoulder the blame. How serious is it?” Her blue eyes searched her husband’s urgently, begging for assurance that her son was not, *could* not be as badly injured as he appeared.

Thranduil clasped the arms of his wife gently, and spoke to her softly. “The healers are still assessing that, but ….” He paused. “It is grave, Naniel. They say Legolas is “broken” inside. His broken rib has been set and bound up, yet there are other dire wounds to consider.” His voice broke on those last words, and he wept freely, along with his wife.

Hilith stood in the corner of the room, staring miserably at the floor. Gods! Belorfilad would *never* have allowed this to happen! He would not have permitted the Prince to walk the woods alone, in the first place. Riddled with guilt and self-disgust, he strode quickly from the bedchamber, only to be met by the sight of the Princess Hania sitting in a tall chair in the hallway. He halted when she looked up at him with fear and worry in her sweet young face.

“Naneth said I must wait here for now,” she explained. “I want to see my brother, Hilith. When can I see him?” Her lavender eyes welled with tears, and the young Captain moved to kneel before her.

“Soon, my lady,” he confided. “The healers are still dressing his cuts and bruises.” He felt immediate remorse, for understating the Prince’s condition, but Hilith wanted to offer Hania hope, as recompense for his lapse in judgment earlier.

He smiled as optimistically as he could. “Try to be patient, Princess. Your mother and father will be calling you in, very soon.”

Hania seemed somewhat satisfied with his prediction, and he left the palace to wander the jasmine garden, tortured by his thoughts. There *must* be something else he could do to help Legolas. “Eru”, he thought, as he stopped on the path and closed his eyes, “aid me. I will not rest until you do, and my Prince needs a miracle, if he is to …..” Hilith halted in his steps, when his prayer was answered almost as soon as it had been uttered. His eyes flew open, and a slow smile spread across his handsome young face, just before he broke into a run, in the direction of the stables.

Finding his second-in-command along the way, Hilith drew him along, giving him instructions to follow in his absence. As they hurried along, the Captain’s underling cast odd, surreptitious glances his way.

“You wish to ask me something, Rowyn?” Hilith asked him bluntly, when he noticed this.

The younger Guard hesitated for a moment, before setting his jaw and asking resolutely, “Forgive me, if it sounds insolent, Captain. But, you are leaving Mirkwood *now*?” By this time, every tenant of the palace knew what had happened to the Prince, and it was this knowledge that made Hilith’s imminent departure quite unfathomable to young Rowyn.

They had reached the stable, and Hilith quickly and efficiently bridled his horse and set a cover across his broad back. “It does not sound insolent, I assure you, Rowyn. I must do this; I plan to return within three days’ time, however. Sooner, if I know Vund,” he grinned as he sat astride his sable brown stallion and affectionately stroked his neck.

“But, where do you go, Captain?”

Hilith smiled confidently, and leaned down to lay a comforting hand on the shoulder of his aide. “To find a miracle,” he replied.

Then he was gone.

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Thranduil sat alone on a stone bench in the center of one of the smaller gardens on the palace grounds. It was morning of the second day after his son had been brought back to the palace, at death’s door, carried by a frantic and guilt-ridden Hilith. Two days since, and still no change; Legolas lay as still and motionless as he had been when his father entered that bedchamber to the sight of his only son, beaten unrecognizable. And for what? The sake of a ring, an object. Objects could be replaced. His son could *not*, a fact that Thranduil became more aware of with each moment that passed without bringing Legolas back to his family. Why, ion-en? The King slumped forward on the bench and sighed in anguish, as he laid his golden head in his hands.

After treating and dressing the Prince’s wounds, the palace healers had told the royal family it was imperative that they speak to Legolas continually; that he could hear them, and their voices would help him to find his way back. But the King no longer believed it after two days of following the healers’ instructions had wrought no change in his son’s silent, inert form.

Thranduil knew his wife had given up hope, although she would never voice it. He could see it in the way the cerulean blue of her eyes had dulled, and in her slow, labored movements, as if her limbs had grown leaden and burdensome. He, himself, bore his despair like a savage knife twisting in his gut. He could no longer weep; his eyes had become hot and dry in their sockets, making everything in his vision overly-bright and clear, almost painful to look at.

But little Hania remained unmoved in her dedication to restoring her brother to health. Once again, she had shown her instinctive ability to take control and look after others. Upon entering Legolas’ chambers, and seeing his condition for the first time, she had blanched for only a moment. Then she went to him without hesitation, and bent to lay a gentle kiss on his brow, smoothing his hair and whispering that everything would be well soon.

The Princess even took charge of the care of her parents, when she noted their worried and drawn faces. She had sent for wine to calm them, and pushed a wide couch close to her brother’s bed, bidding them to sit. Thranduil and Naniel, even in the midst of theear ear for their son, exchanged amused glances as they sat obediently on the divan and watched as their small daughter bustled to the doorway to find out what was “taking so long with that wine”. And she had not stopped speaking to Legolas since. She read to him, told him about the newborn in the stables, and filled him in on the daily activities of the palace. Hania was a marvel to her mother and father at all times, but now, more than ever.

Thranduil looked down, unseeing, at the frail violets that grew among the sturdier flowers. My son. He sighed again. He had done almost nothing *except* pray these past two days, yet he stood now to begin his plea to Iluvatar, once again. Raising his hands before him, palms upturned, he sang softly. His rich baritone voice barely disturbed the quiet of the intimate garden, as he began a prayersong of supplication for his son. It lasted only a few moments, yet the King poured every part of himself into that petition.

When it was finished, he closed his eyes and raised his face to the heavens.

“Great Mandos,” he said, “I beg of you, let my son remain. He has yet to begin his life. Do not wrest him from it, before he accomplishes the great things I know he is capable of. I am no one. Kingdoms and thrones are of no worth in your eyes, this I know. My only real treasures are my wife and children; *they* give me value. Yet I beg of you, if you find anything good in me, to take *me* into your Halls in Legolas’ place. Please, lord Mandos,” he finished, whispering, “take me.” He hung his head, exhausted.

“Lord Mandos is not yet ready for you, old friend,” a deep voice spoke quietly behind him, and Thranduil whirled around.

Tyrion stood several yards away, where the garden path began. He smiled gently, love and compassion bright in his dark eyes.

He held out his arms to Thranduil. “I am here, mellon.”

At those words, something broke loose within the King of Mirkwood, as he quickly flew into the arms of his dearest friend of many decades. And the tears he thought lon long dried up, began to flow once again.


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mellon: friend