To Live Again: The Road to War {Lord of the Rings Fanfiction}|

21. Emergency!

"Clear the table!" Thranduil instructs as we crash into our tree home, his voice harsh and sounding more like a commanders orders than my husband's soft tone.

I hurry ahead and cleanly sweep all items off the large oak table that dominates the elevated platform - that serves as a sort of makeshift kitchen. Bits and pieces of wooden toys, books, and plates, from our bright and cheery family breakfast go scattering across the room without a second thought, as Thranduil lays out the now shivering elfling.

He yanks a small knife from his boot and slices it the length of Legolas' tunic, hastily ripping it off him. There is no time for softness or care, if the wound is poisonous then every spare second counts.

I dart across the living space and place a sobbing Celairiel on the sofa, tightly wrapping her in one of the blankets. I press a finger to her lips and plead with her to be a brave girl, and stay put so we can help her brother. I don't know how much she understands, or how much she has absorbed but it is safe to say she is terrified. I want to hold onto her but I can't, I can only assure her that I'm not leaving as I return to Thranduil - who is literally ripping drawers and cupboards apart in search of the things he needs.

"Thranduil...he needs proper medicine!" I whimper softly as I wring out a cold flannel from the basin of water and start to mop up the cold sweat from his face and neck. Legolas mutters nonsensically and fidgets in his delirium, digging his fingers into the wood of the table.

"He is bleeding to death Clara! There is no medicine that will save him," Thranduil answers icily through gritted teeth as he continues to sift through a drawer. I hear the strangled sob that I give as I stretch down to his side to pull the rag away.

True enough it is soaked right through, the wound refusing to heal.

"There is no poison," I manage to blurt out like it is some kind of consolation. "Thranduil I can't...I don't know what to do?" I yelp as I come to the realisation that my mind has drawn a blank and I can barely see through my eyes as they swim with tears. I can barely breathe, let alone think around this panic.

"Just do as I tell you," Thranduil answers gruffly as he yanks a desired piece of metal from the drawer he was rummaging through...it looks like a large spare arrow tip to me but I can't be sure?

He stalks over to the small stone fire pit that we use for heating water and roughly cooking on - it is still burning quietly from this morning - no doubt all due to Conien's efficiency. She was here only hours ago...and now? I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse to let my mind spiral into dark thoughts; Legolas needs me to be present and coherent right now.

"Do you know what you're doing?" I squeak when I realize what he is attempting to do, he is going to cauterize the wound.

"It is a common combat wound Clara, of course I know what I am doing," He angrily answers me as he holds the arrow tip to the scorching hot tinder.

I can tell he is not thinking he is just reacting, if for one second he allows himself to recognize that the wounded one before him is his son he'll not be able to do it. So his coldness is his protection, and so I don't argue with him.

"Nana?"

I twist my head back to see Legolas watch me with huge eyes, his breathing becoming increasingly shallower, and his grey lips trembling as the last of the adrenaline leaves him. I manage a confident smile for him, as I soothe back his sweat doused hair with my free hand. Oh how it would have been so much better if he had remained unconscious, but he is a fighter, he won't give in that easy.

"Nana, what is going to happen?" He croaks fearfully as he twists his head to focus on the silhouette of his father. "What are you going to do?"

"Shhh, sweetheart, just you keep looking at me...everything is going to be fine," I reassure him and force his head back so he cannot search his surroundings. I throw Thranduil a panic stricken look as he hurries back to us; using his teeth to yank a cork from a bottle he retrieved from one of the cabinets earlier.