Thranduil Imagines

Imagine: Thranduil breaking your heart indelibly...part 3

Elrond was among the many attendees to the council within the Woodland Realm. It was sheer luck that the most skilled healer in all of middle earth was present when tragedy struck. If he needed to be sent for, the princess would have perished long before the lord of Imladris should arrive.

The palace bore witness to the weeping king barreling through the halls, with the bloody princess in his grasp, howling for Elrond. The princess was messily gathered into her father's arms, curled strangely against his chest, as if he had tried to fold her into his robes. Her cheek was pressed against his chest, causing her neck to crane upwards as her feeble arm dangled lifelessly over her father's resolute one that cradled her torso, clambering against his legs as he ran.

A distressed and soaked Gondolin lord was in tow.

~°~

Elrond forbid anyone entry into the room that harbored Y/N, save for the chief healer and some nurse aides. The deathly sight of her lay behind the last ebony door in the hall of the healing ward. Elrond took extra care to make sure that all those aiding him understood that Thranduil was not to enter under any circumstances, going so far as to station two wardens on either side of the door for further security.

One of the nurses, fed up with the wardens who obscured her daily walk to the supply chamber to retrieve fresh, clean linens, had mumbled something under her breath, arguing the necessity of having them there, and in such quantity.

Of course, Elrond heard her discourse.

"Because," Elrond bit back as he submerged his bloodied arms in a basin full of warm water, "should the elvenking see his daughter in this condition, he may consequently be at death's door."

She strayed from complaining about the room's security since then.

It was several, several days until Elrond had exhausted his expertise in Elvish medicine to heal the princess. In that time, Elrond was subjected to the king's shouts and thuds of brewing altercation as he remained indefinitely put outside the door.

For now, the princess was stable, but the question of if she would remain within these lands was now entirely out of Elrond's hands.

Just as Elrond completed changing the soiled bandage that wrapped around the expanse of her torso, he shooed the healer, nurses, and guards from the room, until only he remained, prepared to finally allow Thranduil entry.

As Elrond quietly dismissed the remaining wardens outside, he found the king in a dejected heap against the opposite wall, along with a disheveled Gondolin lord not too far off, pacing the floors.

"Thranduil," he said; the king's head quickly rose.

Before he could struggle to a stand, Elrond crossed the stone floor and knelt before the king.

"You may see her now," he started, causing the king to hastily place his hands flat upon the floor and begin to leverage himself to a stand, but Elrond placed his hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"She is stable for now, mellon; I have done all that I can. My foresight shows me not whether she will remain within these lands."

Disheartened from the update Elrond had to give, Thranduil drew in a sharp breath and came to a wobbly stand. He crossed the floor with impatient steps, until his hand fell upon the door handle in a tremulous grip, before turning the knob slowly. Once the sight of his beloved daughter was revealed, he felt his heart rip from his chest, and he turned quickly away, falling to his knees as he made his short-lived escape.

The sickly sight of her lain unmoving in the midst of the massive bed drew an iron stake cleanly through his heart. It was all too familiar for the elvenking. Her mother spent her final days in the healing ward, in a room just like this, with cream linens tucked up to her chin and floral embossed tiles peppering the walls, with all the curtains drawn back so that the sunlight could enter and offer her some warmth, their golden rays rippling across the smooth comforter, corinthian bed posts casting long shadows that sliced the room into sectors, and his beloved on death's door tucked into the sheets; it was gut-wrenchingly identical.