(A/N:  Okay, guys; let's hear it all together:  FINALLY!  Yes, I know ... finally.  Real Life is such a time-consuming thing!  But many thanks to both Nieriel Raina and Sheraiah for agreeing to beta this chapter, and I assure you, I am not finished - not yet!  I'm working on the next chapter as you read, and I beg your patient indulgence once more!  Thank you all for sticking with me!   --- Le Rouret)

32. THE HEALER

All round him were the sounds of voices, but they were muffled and indistinct, as though he heard them from a great distance.  At first, he reflected hazily, the voices in the surrounding cloudy darkness had been loud and agitated:  screaming, or shouting, or groaning in pain and discomfort.  And always with those frantic utterances had been terrible scents – blood, and smoke, and death, and mortal ruin; his heart had pounded then, and the hands that lifted and moved him had hurt him, so he fought them.  Sight became strenuous, flashing images and alternating darkness and light, clarity and obscurity; faces swelled and receded before his eyes, and finally, weary of fighting his muddled comprehension, he simply drifted off, preferring soothing ignorance to the struggle to understand.

Light grew and faded; sound did, too.  There would be terrible pain, then a foul taste in his throat, and the pain would ebb, and his perception also.  Then he heard a new voice, soothing and familiar, though it did not speak his name; so he concluded it spoke to someone else muddling through this bewildering morass of pain and obscurity, and let his mind withdraw, though he attended to the words with incurious bemusement.

“The whole leg, then?  O I am sorry, Ibun; that is a terrible loss.”

“It could’ve been worse,” said a low, growly voice, but it was a comfortable voice, and filled with wry humor.  “Lots of our lads didn’t make it at all.  Losing a limb is better than losing my life.”

“I have drawn up plans for the construction of a wheeled device,” supplied another gravelly voice.  “I’ll show them to you later, if you like, your highness.”

Royalty – the vassal in him fought his weakness, told him to rise, to bow.  But his body was so heavy, so weighed down.

“I would not mind seeing them myself.”  A woman’s voice, low and quiet and soothing; he almost thought he could put a face to that voice – pale, firm, surrounded by golden hair; wise, competent eyes and strong hands that forever smelled of herbs.  “Betimes I have been called out to some mortal village, wherein languishes a man or a woman with crippled legs or some other infirmity.  To be able to propel oneself, even if only indoors, would confer usefulness to an otherwise fiscally draining person.”

“You see then, Lord Father, why I requested your herbalist as my leech?”  The beloved and familiar voice again, rich and clear and clean.  “Your compassion behooves you, Liquíseleé!” A rustling, and the murmur of voices; then the royal personage said:  “Yes, Little One; what is it?”

“O Master, I do not mean to interrupt you, nor you, your majesty, for it is not my position to so do, for I am but an esquire and surely you speak of many great things, but O Master and O your majesty, the patrol out of Eryn Lasgalen has arrived, and Methlon is at the head of it, and Baranil and Meivel are talking with them, and O it is an envoy from Queen Edlothiel herself, and they ride beneath your flag, your majesty, and it is all shining and new-looking – “  The breathless excited voice babbled on, bright and cheerful like the chiming of little brass bells.  There was laughter, and the beloved voice interrupted:

“Yes, O my dear Little One; you are right to inform my Lord Father and me concerning this; but it is not so urgent that I must away without completing my munificences here.  Do you please go to the envoy and convey unto them my and my Lord Father’s regrets, that we shall meet with them anon, after this little thing has been seen to; will you do that, O mine esquire?”

“I will, Master, I will!” bubbled the voice.  “And O my Master, mine uncle Orophin is there too, and O he is so happy to see me well, though he looked with some concern at my leg, Master, but he could not embrace me or even speak to me as he is part of the special envoy, and there is protocol to observe, and – “

“O go embrace your uncle, little imp!” a big, brash voice laughed.  “Methlon is not so formal as that, and Orophin has missed you.  Go, little esquire; go!”

“Thank you, Master!  Thank you, your majesty!  And I am sorry about your leg, Ibun, and will bring you a sticky-bun as quickly as I can!”  The rush of a breeze, and the little voice was gone.

He drifted in and out after that; the voices had lost their interest for him.  There was the smell of a clean coal fire, and the sound of a pot bubbling; the pungent scent of mullein and new olive oil filled him.  Then the woman’s voice, businesslike but not without compassion:  “Would you like to give your husband his dose?  I believe it will do him good to have you near him.”

“It has not seemed to matter so far,” said another woman in a broken voice.  “He has responded to nothing since I arrived.”

O, but he knew that voice; he knew that one well; his whole being stirred to reach it.  It was hard to move his arms, and his chest hurt so badly, but he strained up out of the cloying cloudiness in his mind and strove to speak her name.  His lips and tongue did not seem to want to move though, and all he uttered was a groan.

“Kaimelas!”

Her scent surrounded him, and he felt the warmth of her hands on him, of her breath on his neck.  A sharp pain shot through his belly, and he cried out.

“Ware, Seimiel!  Not on his chest; his sternum is broken, and the costal cartilage is crushed, and presses down upon his lungs.”

The pressure and pain receded, and he fought the darkness; slowly his eyes opened, and he beheld his beloved’s face.  She looked pale and tired, as though she had not slept; this puzzled him, for ever since they had first been wed, to rouse her from reverie had been his most trying chore.  He wanted to speak her name, but his mouth was so dry and thick-feeling; he worked his tongue round the soft sibilants.

“Sess …. Semm … “

“You see, Little One?” said his lord’s voice gently.  “He knows you are here.  He is trying to say your name.”

“O my beloved,” his wife sobbed; Kaimelas wanted to embrace her, but his arms were far too weak and heavy.  He felt her face against his neck, and her hands in his hair; he could smell her, smell the lovely violet fragrance of her, feel the silky strands of her hair upon his face.  He blinked, and his vision cleared; then she was there before him, cupping his cheeks with her palms; behind him stood his lord, and his majesty the King, and Liquíseleé, holding a steaming cup.

“Welcome back, O ambassador to Erebor!” said his lord with a wry smile.  “You have made quite an impression upon King Thorin, I hear.  And your lady wife has already put in an order for three day-dresses, two ball gowns, and a month’s worth of lace and linen underpinnings from my mercer-princess.”

“Uhhh?”  It was so difficult to speak, to even follow what his lord said.  Seimiel with her face streaked with tears lowered the cup to his lips, and smiled faintly, though her eyes were filled with hope; he drank the bitter liquid down just to please her, and closed his eyes.  He felt her lips upon his, but he was so weary he could hardly kiss back. Vague thoughts surrounded him:  Dwarves, and smoke, and standing in a vaulted stone hall.  He thought of his dear wife in a new red dress and the inner vision pleased him; he felt himself smile, and as his eyes slipped shut the darkness descended upon him, but it was more comfortable this time.

“Sleep well, Kaimelas,” she whispered, and he did.

O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O

The envoy rested upon the leeward slope of a grassy hill.  Eryn Lasgalen’s bright green and silver pennants fluttered upon the heralds’ shining spears, and the guardsmen in their dark armor stood round with sword and bow held ready.  Methlon and Baranil spoke soberly together, and Meivel stood a ways off, conferring in a quiet undertone with Glóin, Dwalin, and Gimli.  Tamin limped back and forth from the waggons to the tent, his grey eyes bright with the satisfaction of absorbing and harmless work, now and again bringing for Princess Anóriel some sweet from the waggon containing the finer dishes.  But the Elvenking and his son stood a ways off in the shadows of the eaves of the wood, watching in sober silence; had anyone observed them at that moment they might have smiled, for so similarly they stood, with hips cocked and arms folded; even their countenances, so different in color and form, mirrored each other’s frowns and furrows.  Even when the nightingale above them gave its low warble they turned as one, though Legolas’ gaze upon the bird was suspicious, and his father merely smiled.

“Do you have it?” asked Thranduil quietly, his voice the merest breath.  The corner of Legolas’ mouth twitched once, and was still; he nodded, and tipped his head very slightly, looking at his sire from the corner of his pale eyes.  Thranduil glanced at him, and smiled thinking how like his mother he was, with his oval cheeks and thin arched brows; then giving his son a twitch of his head, setting his golden mane dancing, he melted silently into the wood, with his son at his heels.

They pressed south, far from the reek of smoke and the stench of death and horses, far from the cacophony of voices both mortal and immortal, the press of life and its mortification.  At last they gained a little rise, ringed all round with linden and fir, and though the Elvenking paused, the Green Knight scrambled effortlessly up a branchy fir tree and perched upon a thick limb, his long legs dangling.  He gave to his father a quizzical look; Thranduil smiled, this time thinking how little his son resembled his mother in action; and likewise climbed up the tree, settling himself beside his only child with a sigh.

The feel of the sticky sap beneath their palms, and the heavy spicy scent of the tree and its sonorous voice, soothed and placated them.  The breeze stirred up a rustle and crack and creak of branch and leaf and needle, and somewhere beneath them in a thorny brake a small animal bustled round, intent upon its supper, ignorant of the two beings who sat in the gloaming, gleaming, their eyes glowing.

The sky dimmed, and the stars came out; father and son together gazed up at them, and when the fir rustled, Legolas sighed.  His father said:

“Well, let us have it, then!”

“How impatient you are, Ada!” said Legolas mildly, and withdrew from his tunic a skin of wine.  He dislodged the cork and passed it to his father.  “Age tastes; youth waits.”

Thranduil sampled the wine and rolled it on his tongue.  “Resinous,” he declaimed solemnly, handing it back.

“That is more skin than barrel, I fear,” said Legolas apologetically.  “It was all I could appropriate without Galion noticing.”  He too drank, and pursed his lips.  “I have had better.”

“We will have better when we are home,” promised Thranduil, taking the skin from his son and downing a deep draught.

“So we shall, Ada,” said Legolas, and his eyes twinkled.  “My barrels mellow and appease the grapes, and I have been promised a good result from the harvest two years’ hence.”

Thranduil grinned.  “Have you, then!” he chuckled.  “Well, then I shall remember that your home is far from mine, and invite myself down to taste it.”

“Do so, Lord Father!” said Legolas politely.  “And if the King of Rohan is generous he shall invite us to go boar hunting with him, and we might bring a barrel of red with us and broach it upon the plains of Rohan, with a great fat pig on a spit before us.”

“Only pig?” asked Thranduil, his lips twitching; he watched his son take a long swallow of wine, and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“And cheese, and bread, and stewed herbs; and meat pasties, and roasted marrows, and fresh cream and fruit preserve.”

“You are yet hungered, I perceive.”

“It is not the hunger engendered by an empty stomach, Ada; it is the hunger of a man tired of slim rations and deep sorrow, who wishes to eat ‘til he bursts and drink ‘til he forgets.”  Legolas took another deep swallow, and Thranduil sighed.

“My poor Little One,” he said sadly.

Legolas did not reply; he simply handed the skin back to his father, who drank, and also wiped his mouth with his hand.  They were silent for some time; the sky turned black, speckled all over with stars like diamond dust; the breeze rustled mournfully through the trees.  At last the Elvenking commanded:  “Tell me.”

And so in a low monotone his son related it all to him – all the things he had not told Meivel, or Seimiel, or even Glóin; he left that tale to Gimli.  He spoke of the dreams, and the nightingale, and the horrible weight upon his head that made him do such awful things; he told him of the dark despair and his mutilated and tortured folk.  When he had got to Dúrfinwen’s madness, he stopped, and covered his face with his hands; Thranduil only turned from him, and climbed down the fir, gesturing to his son.  Legolas followed obediently, and when his father sat upon the soft fragrant underbrush, he tucked himself into the crook of his father’s arm, and pressed his face against his father’s chest.  And he spoke of the blood and the death, of the children’s bones and the stinking slime; of Malbeach’s and Renna’s desires, and of Gimli’s firm sanity.  When he began to speak of Bandobras, though, his voice choked and failed; Thranduil wordlessly handed him the wine skin, and Legolas drank some more, and curled into a ball at his father’s side, laying his head in his sire’s lap, and staring with blank eyes at the blue-grey shadows around him, the glossy leaves speckled in starlight.  He was silent for some time, and then Thranduil spoke.

“Then the nightingale was Radagast, the worm the dragon, and you the hornet.”

“Yes, Ada.”

The Elvenking scowled at the inoffensive trees. “Why dreams?” he murmured. “And why you, my son?”

“I know not, Ada.  But when I think of it, and upon the desires of Renna, and the strange history of Dúrfinwen’s birth, all I can think is, why not me?”

Thranduil gave a sad smile, and stroked his son’s silky pale hair.  “You remind me so of your mother, Legolas, when you speak like that.”

“Like how?” asked Legolas with a crooked smile, looking up at his father.  “Like I am thinking too much ahead of myself?”

“Why do you think you and she always beat me at draughts?”

“Because you drink when you play.”

“Ah!  Well, I cannot play sober either.”

“I have never had occasion to play you when you were sober, so I will leave that conclusion to you and your wisdom, Lord Father.”

“Wisdom!”  Thranduil shook his head disgustedly.  “You and I have both been consummate fools in this, Little One.”

Legolas did not reply.  His father did not see, but he was touching his tunic pocket, and secured therein was his father’s ring.  As before, his chest tied itself up in knots; his father’s shame bounced back on himself, and he felt sick thinking of his mother.  But then the Elvenking said:

“Well, at least the Arkenstone and Orcrist will be restored to Erebor!  There were many treasures, great and small, that Malbeach and his awful men carried away; I have spoken to Vé, and it sounds as though the reinstatement of those precious items may take some time.”

“Were you robbed, too, Lord Father?” asked Legolas; his voice felt thick as glue, and his heart was cold.  But Thranduil only chuckled.

“Robbed!  I should say I was robbed.  Like a common tippler rolled by opportunists, too!  I scarcely remember what happened, only that, like a drunkard, I awoke stripped and aching, and desperately seeking my money-bag.  They took your grandsire’s ring, I am afeared, Little One, and the gold chain upon which I hung my keys.”

Legolas’ stomach seemed to unwind within him, and a slow warmth stole through his torso.  “Just like a drunk in the streets of Dale, were you, Ada?” he asked slowly, clutching at the ring in his pocket.

“Very like!  Not to denigrate the power Malbeach and Renna wielded, of course,” added Thranduil judiciously.  “It was a horrible press of compulsion, was it not, my son?  But I am very gratified it came to naught with us both – disastrous it could have been, but disastrous it was not; I know not whence came this strength within us to combat it, but we held back!”  Thranduil sounded very proud.  “And there are those who disparage the Sindar,” he added gloatingly.  “The wherewithal to withstand Morgoth’s stinking brood!  My sire would have loved to rub that in Gil-Galad’s face.”

“Mother is Noldo,” said Legolas, feeling his spirits rise enough to tease his sire; Thranduil gave a great laugh, and took the wineskin and drank.

“So she is!” he said cheerfully.  “And pleased as a cat that got the cream am I about that, too.  Well, I shall have a look through Muhk’s pile for my sire’s ring and that nice gold chain; I do not really mind the chain so much, but the ring would be a keen loss. It was a pretty ring, was it not, Legolas?  That nice white stone that my mother set for him, and those diamond stars all round it.  I miss having it upon my finger.”

“Do you, Ada?” asked Legolas, and sat up; he took the ring out of his pocket, and handed it to his father.  Thranduil sat and stared at it in amazement, as it lay glimmering upon his palm in the starlight; at last he gave a glad laugh, and held it up; his face was filled with relief.

“My Lord Father’s ring!” he cried, delighted, and the diamonds flashed.  “Why, you little imp!  You have been hiding it from me all this time.  For shame, Legolas!  And I was so disenheartened by its disappearance!  Were you teasing me, my son?”

“Perhaps,” smiled Legolas, hiding his secret misgivings.  “I dreamt of your ring too, Ada; I dreamt of it on my finger when I slew the dragon.  And there it was, O Lord Father: Your Lord Father’s ring, upon the hand of the warrior who thrust the sword of Gondolin home, and brought Morgoth’s vile fiend low.  To be sure, though, ‘twas a collaborative effort,” he added judiciously, watching as his father slid the ring upon his forefinger, as he had done so many times before; Thranduil was smiling, satisfied; his pale eyes glowed with satisfaction.  “Were it not for Vé’s reconnaissance, and Gimli and Bandobras and Tamin, I should not have succeeded at all.”

“Be not so modest, Little One,” chided the Elvenking with a chuckle, ruffling his son’s flossy pale hair.  He held his hand out and admired the ring.  “There!” he cried with a laugh.  “My trinket is returned!  A mere symbol and sign of the greater gift given me.”  He kissed his son’s cheek, and taking up the skin took a deep draught; he swallowed and held the skin high.  “To Bandobras,” he said solemnly, and handed his son the skin.

Legolas swallowed heavily, and blinked; but he said clearly enough:  “To Bandobras,” and himself took a swallow of the bitter wine.

Father and son sat in silence a while, watching the stars wheel about, and the planets wind their complicated dance among them; when the breeze blew colder and the scent of dying fires drifted weakly toward them, Legolas said in a low voice:

“Father.  I am weary of Middle-Earth.”

The Elvenking said naught for a long moment.  His son waited, thinking him displeased; but in truth Thranduil was fighting down a sickening thrill of panic, and knew if he tried to speak he would either shout or squeak.  He wanted to do neither, and was desperately aware of his insufficiency to manage his son’s dark nature; he heartily wished for his wife’s presence, for in many ways she was a far superior counselor for a soul so torn and capricious as his only child’s.  At last with a weak and rather banal voice he said: 
“O is that so, my son?  And for what reason are you so weary of it?”

Legolas smiled sadly; he missed his mother, too.  “I had thought Middle-Earth to be my home for now, ere I sought Valinor,” he said, turning his pale eyes to the stars, which glimmered down upon him in wise silence.  “I built my demesne; I built a good one, O my father; you know that to be true: it is large and rich and beautiful, and all who live there prosper and are happy.  I truly thought, Lord Father, that Dol Galenehtar would be a safe place – a haven for my people – for the folk you granted me, Ada, and for those wandering Firstborn seeking refuge ere they sail for the bright shores.  I made friends with my neighbors, and found there good stout men, and fine brave souls.”  He paused, and Thranduil spoke not; he knew there would be a “but;” with Legolas there was always a “but.”  “But,” said Legolas, and Thranduil’s heart sank; his son’s voice broke, and he sounded bitter.  “But I was wrong.  The Eldar are not safe here.  Those mortals who surround us … “

“There are good men and Dwarves and Hobbits yet, Legolas,” Thranduil interrupted, too afraid to be politic.  “Think of Aragorn – and Faramir – and Glóin – and Gimli!”

“And Bandobras,” said Legolas; he dashed his tears away.  “How many times, Ada?” he asked, turning to his father; his eyes were shining, and his pale fair face stricken with grief; the Elvenking’s heart turned to lead within his breast.  “How many times must our mortal friends die ere the lives of the mortals around us weary us?  How many times must our folk be tormented and slain ere we detest the blood that runs in the hands that wield the instruments of death?  I had thought with the fall of the tower of Barad-Dûr and of Dol Guldur that Morgoth’s blight was taken from Middle-Earth indeed.  But the blight was there all along – it dwells within the breasts of the Edain; it beats in their hearts.  I do fear me it bubbles from the very earth in stinking telltale trace, and even the Istari are helpless to stop it alone.”

Thranduil shook his head; he could not answer.  “I have no reply for you, Little One,” he admitted.  He wiped his son’s tears away and begged, “Do not go from me, Legolas.  Do not sail from us yet.  I am not ready.”

“Are you not?” said Legolas, and shoulders sagging he turned his weary eyes to the stars.  “I am.”  And in sad silence did father and son contemplate Varda’s cloak, and listen to the mournful warble of the nightingale above them.