First Age, 502

The stars shone that night, but to Thranduil, they'd never felt more cold and distant. His chest tightened to the point that he thought his heart might shatter at any moment. His mother, his beautiful and kind mother, lay dying in the half-glow of the small campfire he'd built earlier.

Menegroth had fallen. His father had emerged from the trailing stream of survivors carrying his mother, mortally wounded.

Now she lay cradled in his father's arms, and Thranduil could only watch her fade away.

He never felt so helpless.

He loved his father, but his mother—she was everything in their small family. The whole center of everything, and...

...And he did not know how he would survive without her.

Or how his father would be able to go on.

"Thranduil." His father's voice.

He looked up and instantly looked away. His father's eyes were devastated.

"She wants you, son. Come and say goodbye."

Numbly, Thranduil stood and took the few steps around the fire to be close enough to kneel by his father's side. He blinked a few times and swallowed hard.

"Thranduil," his mother whispered.

He picked up her hand and warmed it against his cheek. "I am here, Mother," he said, leaning in so she might see him.

"I am so glad—you were not hurt—" she said, her words coming slowly in between breaths. "You are meant—for wonderful things, Thranduil—not just war."

"I should have saved you," he said quietly.

His mother met his eyes. "You—you can't save—everybody, Thranduil. And I have lived—a good life."

He hung his head, willing away the tears, before he leaned over to kiss her cheek and told her he loved her.

She died a few hours later in his father's arms, and Thranduil never would forget the look in his father's eyes that night. He should have saved her.

His mother said he could not save everybody.

The next morning the sun crept over the stony ridge of hills flanking the woods, and the birds called out their early morning greetings. It seemed wrong to Thranduil that the world kept on going, that the morning could be so bright and cheerful, when his mother lay stiff and cold and unfeeling. She would never again check on him at bedtime and chide him for staying up too late reading. She would never again laugh at one of his stories. She would never again ruffle his hair and tease him about eating too much jam on his toast. He should have gotten to her sooner. He should have saved her.

His mother said he could not save everybody. But as he helped his father prepare his mother's body for burial, Thranduil promised himself that he would never stop trying.

.  -  .  -  .

Dwalin watched Wilem disappear down the laundry chute only for a second before deciding the best course of action would be to take elven lass to her king as quickly as possible. No doubt he would have some sort of witchy elven cure to save her. Dwalin tightened his grip on her, lifting her up so her head rested safely against his shoulder and then kicked the outside door open that led to the main hall.

The main hall was in a lesser form of chaos. With tables turned over and tankards spilled on the floor, across the great dining room babies cried, men shouted, and children raced frantically looking for their parents. Dwalin's eyes scanned the crowd for one of the tall elven guards, but he did not have to look long.

One of the guards found him, his face ashen at the sight of the limp queen in his arms. "The Queen—what happened?" He knelt down beside Dwalin and reached for her wrist, felt for her pulse.

"She fought those bad men—one of 'em that scoundrel Wilem! A poison blade nicked her."

"We need to take her to the king at once. The elf stood, his eyes glittered coolly. "Where is Wilem? Dead, I hope?"

"No, he escaped." Dwalin shifted, made uncomfortable by the unsaid accusation in the elf's eyes. You did not save her. You let her fall. You let him escape. "Listen, elf. I wouldn't have left her there by herself to die."

The elf pursed his lips. "No, I suppose not. Please allow me to take her from you, and I shall bring her to my king."

A shadow fell across Narylfiel's pale face, her eyes closed as if in sleep. "Your king is here, Elfir."

Elfir stood at once and bowed his head. "Your majesty," he said. "I—"

"What happened to her?" A pained whisper. Thranduil sank to a crouch, and gently lifted the limp body of his wife into his arms.

Dwalin spoke up. "Wilem. Poison. She killed the other fellow."

"Wilem got away," Elfir quickly added. "Permission to go after him, King Thranduil?"

Thranduil nodded stiffly. "I will be in the dwarven healers' ward. Find him, Elfir." He met the guard's eyes before turning away. "And kill him."

His heart sinking in fear and worry and shame, Elfir saluted his king, watched him leave, the fragile form of the queen in his arms, He eyed the dwarf beside him. "Tell me the direction Wilem went. I know you must have an idea."

"Aye, I do, Dwalin said, "and I'll let you follow me down there." He pointed back toward the servants' hall door. "It's this way."

"Thank you, dwarf."

Their eyes met. "The name's Dwalin."

Elfir opened the door leading into the hall. "Then thank you, Dwalin."

. - . - .

A jagged knot of panic rose in Thranduil's throat as he strode across the hall toward the one person who could help him and who was unfortunately the last person he wanted to ask.

Thorin III. That insufferable dwarf prince turned king. He claimed to like Narylfiel though and had helped her in the past, so that was something. Not to mention the dwarf would be dead without Thranduil's help when he was poisoned over Yule.

Only for her. Only for Narylfiel would the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm ask a dwarf for anything.

But as it turns out, Thranduil did not have to ask Thorin for help—he already knew. He met his guests halfway across the hall, with a truly regretful look upon his face.

"I've already sent Bofur ahead to get a room ready for her," he said. "Come."

As Thranduil followed Thorin from the room, along the way Melui and Alassien both fell in behind their king, his grave expression enough to have the queen's friends reaching for each other's hands.

"King Thranduil," Melui said quietly, "what happened?"

"I don't know," he said, his words barely audible. "She was poisoned, again."

Thorin turned the corner and led them down a brighter, wider hall, one with low cushioned benches and the occasional table with chairs. Bofur saw them coming and waved for them to follow him into a larger room, patient bed—full-sized, thankfully—with two dwarven healers waiting for instructions, a variety of herbal ingredients and tinctures already laid out. Melui followed the king into the room, but Alassien hung back, took up guard duty at the door.

Thorin's eyes swept the room approvingly and quietly stepped out.

Thranduil lay his wife carefully onto the bed, and with Melui's help, removed the heavy beaded gown so only her thin underlothes remained. Melui then wordlessly covered her friend with a blanket, pressing a kiss to her forehead as she tucked her in.

Thranduil surveyed the small cut, no more than a deep scratch really, but the skin around the area was already hot to the touch and the veins moving away from the wound were swollen, spidery black.

"I'll need blood grass, yarrow, plantain, hot water," Thranduil told the healers, quickly pulling off his heavy outer robe and passing it off to Melui so he might roll up his sleeves. He picked up Narylfiel's hand again to check her pulse. Her fingers were cool against his, but not overly cold.

"Thranduil?" Narylfiel's eyes cracked open and fixed on his. "Wilem—"

"I know," he says. His thumb drew a soothing circle across the top of her hand. "You're going to be fine."

Silently, she shook her head. "Our baby," she said, her eyes wet and red-rimmed. "Bor said there was an antidote. Wilem—"

"Shh. Rest, Narylfiel. I am here. I will not let anything ill befall you or our child." Thranduil gently turned her hand over in his, felt her pulse, and murmured a prayer to the Valar that she and their child might be spared.

. - . - .

Elfir and Dwalin only paused for a moment for Dwalin to collect his throwing axe from Bor's back. Elfir's eyes flicked to the elvish knife protruding from the man's chest.

"I have known the queen since she was a child," he told the dwarf evenly. "She always had a penchant for throwing things."

Dwalin grunted and wrested the blade free, handing it up to Elfir. "Then she'll probably want it back," he said.

Elfir felt the weight of the blade in his hand and smiled grimly. "Maybe I'll deliver it to her personally...in Wilem's throat perhaps."

Dwalin stood and motioned for Elfir to follow him to the laundry chute door. "He escaped down this hatch. It goes straight down to the landing near the Running River."

Elfir warily eyed the yawning black hole. "After you then." He watched the dwarf climb in with some difficulty and then disappear down into the dark.

Much later when asked, Elfir would describe his ride down the laundry chute with an axe-toting dwarf as one of the few occasions in his long life in which he thought he might actually die. Completely pitch-black with several unseen pitches and steep drops, the dwarven laundry chute was much more harrowing than any battle he had ever fought in, or so he claimed.

After landing with an oof in a cart full of soiled table linens, Elfir's vision cleared to see Dwalin crouched in the low moonlight, pointing across grounds to the river landing.

Silently, Elfir nodded and drew Narylfiel's hunting knife from his belt. He slid out of the heap of laundry and crept toward the river. Wilem was there, his back turned, crouching near one of the tied up boats.

Dwalin followed not so silently, much to the Elfir's dismay, but the dwarf let him take the lead and stopped at the edge of the river bed, where the elf moved soundlessly over the rocks and round river pebbles.

Wilem dusted his hands off and pushed up on his knees to stand.

Elfir stilled, his fingers tight against his queen's blade.

Slowly, the man turned, just enough to see catch the elf's movement out of the corner of his eye. Wilem tensed. His eyes caught the gleam of the queen's knife in Elfir's hand, the curve of white silver bright in the moonlight. He swallowed softly and then sprang forward, making a running leap for the boat, pushing it off the dock and hurdling into it. He hit the deck and stumbled, losing his footing as the swift river current pulled the boat from the protected landing.

Chest heaving, Wilem crouched against the deck, shielded by the thick siding of the hull, wary of elves and their fondness for shooting and throwing dangerous objects. He dared not show his face above the edge, but he called out, "Give the king and queen my regards!"

No one answered. All he could hear was the gurgling, rushing sound of the River Running. Wilem relaxed, leaned his head against the wooden siding.

Then a gravelly voice rang out, "Fool elf! You'll never make it!" and Wilem shifted just in time to see the elf sprint full speed down toward the edge of the dock and leap.

Elfir seemed to hang in the air for a moment, his fair elven skin luminous against the dark water and night, and then he landed with two soft footfalls into Wilem's boat.

Scrawny and cowering, huddled up against the gunwale, Wilem stared up at him pleadingly. Mortal. Weak. Treacherous.

"My king has commanded your death, Wilem of Dale," Elfir said, his fair elven voice turning cold. "Your crimes against the Woodland Realm are numerous." He looked down at the blade in his hands. "That dwarf back there and I? We are going to bleed you dry, down to the last drop of your miserable life."

Wilem paled. "That...that doesn't sound very elf-like to me."

"Then you clearly know nothing of elves or our histories," Elfir said and gestured with the knife. "Stand up." He then reached for the hooked rope tied to the starboard side of the boat and tossed the lead to Dwalin, who easily caught it and began towing the boat back toward the dock.

Wilem loosely shook his head and shrunk further against the wooden side rail. "You—you can't kill me here. Not now. I'm too valuable to kill!"

Dwalin caught the side of the boat and lashed the tie ropes to the dock. "Do you think this one would talk as much with one of my axes planted in his chest?"

"No!" Wilem waved his arms emphatically, but Elfir merely caught hold of him by the wrist and dragged him forward, none too gently. Truth be told, neither the elf nor the dwarf were inclined to feel the least bit sorry when Wilem, in all his flailing and wailing tripped and slammed his head against the ship's mast. And if Elfir just happened to crack the man's head against the mast a second time, the dwarf pretended not to notice.

"Stop!" Wilem bleated. "Don't hurt me. Not if you value your queen's life."

Elfir released his grip on the man. "Do not speak of her."

"Take me to your king," Wilem panted, messily wiping at a smear of blood from his temple. "I can save her."

Elfir exchanged a glance with the dwarf. "Are you sure you want me to do that? His temper is legend."

A single nod. "He will want to hear what I have to say."

In one quick movement, Elfir knocked Wilem to the ground and pinned his arms behind his back. "Search him."

Dwalin was not gentle with his searches.

"The longer you take, the closer she is to dying," Wilem hissed, "and her unborn child,"

Dwalin hauled him up and shoved him toward the entrance.

"Take us to the healers," Elfir commanded.

. - . - .

At first the healing wing of Erebor thundered with dwarven feet pounding down the stone hallway to fetch herbs and medicines, boil water, gather bowls and pestles, and King Thorin looked on from the doorway, curtly directing each of his healers, commanding them to hurry and bring whatever the Elvenking required.

Hushed murmurs whispered the Elvenking had saved their own dear prince. His magic must be great. Surely he could save his own lovely wife, who only hours ago had danced so joyously under their colored lights.

Now the hall stood silent and dim, with only a few flickering lanterns still lit, save for the yellow light spilling out at the end of the hall from the room where the elves had carried their fallen queen.

"Drink this." Thranduil placed a cup of the blood grass tonic in Narylfiel's hands.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she took a sip and worriedly eyed the knife wound on her arm. It was such a small thing, such a little mistake. Her hand protectively drifted to her waist.

"Thranduil, I'm sorry."

He looked up from the work table. "What?"

"I shouldn't have—"

"Don't blame yourself," he cut her off and swept around the table to take the chair at her bedside. Thranduil took her hand in his. "Focus on our child, on our bond, Narylfiel. Finish the bloodgrass tonic."

"But it makes me so sleepy," she said and fixed her eyes on his for reassurance, for his strength. "Thranduil, I'm scared." She took another sip and swallowed. Her eyes already felt heavy, drowsy; it would be so easy to slip away, to let go—and it frightened her.

Thranduil's expression was both grave and tender as he regarded her. "You are strong, Narylfiel, and I am with you." He gripped her hand, his long strong fingers warm against her skin. "I am with you, Narylfiel" he repeated.

She nodded just once and finished the bloodgrass medicine with a wince.

Thranduil pressed his head to hers and kissed her cheek. Only after he turned away to place the empty cup on the work table did his calm facade slip, and the riot of anguish and self-doubt consuming him could be seen in his eyes. His throat tightened and his chest burned; his Narylfiel was hurt and afraid, and he had made promises beyond his power to keep.

He exhaled slowly and willed his shoulders and hands not to shake as he carefully poured steaming water into a bowl of crushed athelas. Kingsfoil. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known. Long had Thranduil tried to mend his kingdom, heal the broken pieces of his land threatened by pestilence and grief, and it had never been enough. He had not been enough. Thranduil felt the finality of that judgment with every fallen guard, every rotting, dying tree.

And now Narylfiel lay poisoned, dying. His little spark.

He picked up the bowl and carried it to her bedside. Steam rose from the bowl in fragrant, sweet tendrils, and Narylfiel's eyes had closed, her cheeks pale against the dark blue blanket. He stole a glance at Melui and King Thorin standing quietly by the entrance and then placing his hand over her heart, began to chant his invocation to the Valar. He asked for the strength to heal her and their child, to purge the taint of poison from her veins, for Eru's grace that his beloved might be saved once more.

Melui led Thorin from the room.

Thranduil's eyes drifted shut as he listened to the Song, heard the strong roots of Erebor thrumming like deep chords, his own Song as cool and swift as the River Running, and Narylfiel's song was there, as bright and familiar as her hand in his, her laughter spilling between them over tea and cakes, the sound of her footsteps skipping down his halls.

Above it all, a fair and airy whisper of dainty light notes wove between his Song and Narylfiel's, and when Thranduil opened the bond between them, felt the shining connection between the strands of her fëa and his, the airy notes were there as well, high and bright as birdsong over the Greenwood.

But even so, discord marred the Eru's music.

Thranduil felt rather than saw the taint of the poison spreading like a dark, sticky tar, a vicious web covering and clinging to the delicate lattice work of Narylfiel's hröa. Her veins burned in agonizing waves as the sinuous web thickened and spread.

Still, the Elvenking focused his own Song, the wash of cool water running, the deep shade of the trees in the Greenwood, to soothe her aching body, to sweep the darkness from her body and spirit.

And as he did so, Thranduil prayed. If his own strength and healing were not enough to save her, then perhaps Narylfiel might save herself.

She always had been a source of light and warmth to him, and even now his bond with her held strong and bright between them.

Please, he prayed again and again, the word on his lips and in his heart and stretching across the shining bridge of their bond and with every note of his Song and in the strength of his fingers holding hers, his hands, hands that could grip a sword to kill a fell beast and cut down every foe in his path. If he could pick up his blade now to save her he would. He wished it were only so simple. Please.

He matched his breaths with the slow rise and fall of her chest, and then Thranduil began to pray once more.

. - . - .

Outside in the hallway, Melui waited anxiously with King Thorin and Bofur. The two dwarves said little but stayed with her. They both well remembered the friendship between the queen and her guard.