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It is not the first time the scent of blood has filled Thranduil’s nostrils.
Throughout his life, he has smelled the blood of his friends, his kin, his beloved, and even himself.
He will never forget the sting of dragon’s fire, the agony as it tore up his own face, and the stretch of burned flesh and exposed muscles.
And blood. Always blood.
But he would endure it all again, he would face every minute of it, every second if never to smell the blood of his own son.
Legolas is dying.
So many elves have fallen in battle, and yet another one is lying here, suspended between life and what came after.
Not only another one.
His son.
Legolas.
And his blood, everywhere. Scarlet, blooming in and out, crowding his vision like poisonous flowers.
Healers are shouting, but Thranduil can only stand, transfixed as he watches.
A slash of red crosses the younger elf’s pale stomach and purple and yellow bruises, but it is nothing - nothing compared to the right half of his face. It is a mangled mess of flesh and blood and more blood. The wound goes all the way down his neck and onto his shoulder.
All Thranduil can see is blood.
Oh, Valar, he cries to himself. Why Legolas? Why his son?
He cannot lose him now, not after they have won.
“Save him,” he whispers although he is not sure who can hear him. “Save him.”
There is nothing the elvenking can do but stand and watch his son writhe as the healers attempt to stop the bleeding, his long pale fingers digging into the sheets underneath him. His eyes are glassy from pain, and his normally golden hair is matted with blood - black from orcs and red from-
If he were not moving, Thranduil would think he is dead.
“Ada,” Legolas calls out, jerking his head, his eyes rolling. “Ada.”
Thranduil is frozen.
He does not want to be here, yet he cannot be anywhere else.
“Go to him,” a healer practically orders the king. “Comfort him. He needs to move as little as possible.”
Thranduil finds himself next to Legolas, crouching.
“Ada.” Legolas turns towards him but looks straight through him as though he is a ghost. It is the weakest Thranduil has seen him, but when he grabs his son’s hand, the injured elf latches on with an iron grip.
“I’m here.”
The words are too sharp, too wrong, too cold, and Thranduil barely hears them above the commotion around them and the pounding of his heart in his own ears.
“I’m here, ion nin ,” he repeats.
He isn’t sure what else he can say, what can help ease his son’s agony, what can keep him here.
The soul of an elf is both iron and glass, and Legolas has been shattered. He is slipping away.
In memory, Thranduil’s face burns.
He will not let it happen. He has already lost too many - he will not Legolas follow them and become another.
“Stay, Legolas,” he orders. “You must fight.”
He survived dragonfire, all those years ago.
Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm will survive this.
…
They located the prince buried under a pile of orc corpses, his knives in both his hands.
Thranduil thought he was dead.
The surrounding battlefield was littered with remains, hollowed souls and broken bodies.
Blood.
Blood is everywhere.
On the breeze.
Seeping out of the body of his son.
On his hands.
Legolas could have passed before he’d gotten there, and he would not have known.
…
“Ada, it hurts.”
It is the first true full sentence since they first found him, and it drives a knife through Thranduil’s heart.
“I know, ion nin .”
A tear trickles out of Legolas’ left eye and rolls down that side of his face. His brow - the half capable of expression - is furrowed.
“The Eagles,” he manages, barely, before he falls unconscious again.
…
“How is he?” Mithrandir asks, his forehead knotting in concern as he takens in the sight of the young elf. His arm is in a sling; it appears that the wizard did not make it through the battle of the five armies unmarked.
Thranduil’s eyes linger on what is covering Legolas’ shredded face before meeting the wizard’s. “They hope he will live,” he spits.
They are optimistic.
Thranduil does not want hopes.
Mithrandir nods and sits with the elvenking for a while in vigil until someone calls for his attention.
…
“Ada.”
Thranduil jolts awake. He does not remember falling asleep. As murmured voices seep in through the walls of the tent, he realizes that night has fallen.
For a short second, he panics, though his outward appearance does not show it.
“Ada.”
Legolas’ eyes are open.
“Legolas.” Because the healers are elsewhere, attending to other wounded, Thranduil retrieves a glass of water for him to drink.
Legolas’ hand trembles as he accepts it from his father, and Thranduil helps prop him up with one hand as he drinks.
“ Hannon le ,” Legolas whispers before falling asleep again.
It is much more peaceful.
…
Thranduil stares at his son.
“I am ready to leave,” Legolas reports, determination on his face and in his voice. “They must know of his escape as quickly as possible.”
If Thranduil had not been there, he would not know what happened to him, not so long ago in an elf’s eyes.
It is too soon.
But the world outside Mirkwood turns.
“Very well.” Thranduil thinks of resting a hand on the other elf’s shoulders but does not. “Stay safe, ion nin ,” he says instead.
The corner of Legolas’ mouth quirks, and he inclines his head slightly.
As the prince’s horse thunders off, Thranduil cannot shake the premonition that a great evil is stirring, something ancient and beyond his control.
He fears it.
He fears what will happen to his people.
To Mirkwood.
He fears the smell of blood.
But he will smell blood again, from humans, dwarves, and elves alike.
And by the Valar, he prays it will not belong to his son.