With long strides his aides found impossible to match, Aragorn ran through the corridors of the palace with an energy born of sheer alarm and fear, despite the fact that he and his company had ridden without rest through the night to reach the White City.

As soon as he had reached the third level of the city, one of his councilors – a man given to dramatics, being of the notion that such behaviour would invite the king to notice him more – had run right in front of his horse, apparently willing to run the risk of being trampled if only to gain the king’s attention.

If a voice could take physical form and grovel, Lord Burion’s, as he greeted his king, would have been a fine example. “Sire! Oh praise the Valar you are returned! Oh my Lord – such a tragedy has befallen us, and the city grieves with you! My heart is with you and the queen in this hour, Sire.”

After Aragorn had cursed under his breath and gritted his teeth at the man’s idiotic action, he had demanded to know what tragedy the rambling man referred to. His reply was even more theatrical: “Oh, our precious prince, Sire, your beloved son! Tragedy has befallen him! The Elves, to whom you have bestowed so much kindness, could not protect him! He lies now in the Houses of Healing. The Queen, bless her heart, is devastated… oh woe, oh woe, let me take you…”

Aragorn was not about to let the tedious man take him anywhere. His heart missed several beats, but before the councilor had even finished his speech, his horse had sprinted off to the Houses of Healing, with the horses of his company close on its heels.

The king now ran along the corridor without knowing what to expect, his face drawn and pale, and it was not due to his tiredness alone. Reaching the room where he knew his son would be and startling the guards outside, he burst through the doors and saw his wife, Legolas and Faramir talking. His eyes fell first on his wife, looking pale, shocked and completely disheveled, her dress stained and dirty. He stared without understanding and bellowed, “”WHAT has happened here?”

“Estel!” Arwen called his name with a sob and ran into his arms. “Oh, Estel.”

“My Lord,” said Faramir, bowing.

“Aragorn,” Legolas greeted him softly, pleased to see him.

“Arwen, what is this? Have you been harmed? What is going on? Where is Eldarion? Lord Burion said…” The king’s eyes strayed to the bed then, to the pale and still figure of his son and heir. With a cry of anguish, he ran to the bed, pushing aside the healers, and stared at his child before bending down to touch him, afraid to hurt him, frantically calling his name.

After long moments of not getting a response, he turned an ashen face and wild eyes to the adults in the room and demanded answers.

In the time that followed, Arwen, Legolas, Faramir and the healers told him about the assault in Ithilien, the poisoned dart, Eldarion’s struggle to overcome the poison and the prisoner being held below. At the news that the poison was not as lethal as he had feared, Aragorn closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief.

But at that moment, a little cry of distress came from the figure on the bed, and Eldarion turned blue as he struggled to breathe. With a gasp, everyone rushed immediately to the bed. The healers pushed them away and quickly turned the prince onto his side, gently massaging his upper back. His eyes were closed, but a stream of liquid issued from his nose and mouth, alarming his distraught parents and drawing a small cry from Arwen. For a few more moments, he continued to cough out the remnants of what he retched, but that was apparently what he needed, for he was able to breathe again as soon as the coughing stopped. He went limp again and remained unconscious, but his face relaxed as the bluish tint left it. The healers kept him on his side so that he would not face the danger of choking on his own vomit again.

One of the healers sighed as he turned to the anxious faces of the king and queen. “He is all right,” he assured them, drawing forth sighs of relief from everyone in the room. “His body is still expelling the poison and anything else that causes him discomfort. He was probably feeling nauseous from all the water and herb solutions we fed into him; he needed to retch. We will have to watch him closely to make sure he does not choke again, but I believe he is recovering.”

Despite the small comfort the healer’s words brought them, looks of sorrow and pity washed across the faces of the grown-ups as they thought of how Eldarion’s little body was forced to endure ills he should never have been subjected to. They all felt helpless.

The sight of his son’s suffering seared the heart of the king and the father. He took Arwen’s cold hands with his own trembling ones and held them tightly, letting his grief and his love for her flow through his gaze and his grip. After long moments during which no one spoke, he shook his head and wrinkled his brow.

“This happened in Ithilien? Why were you and Eldarion in Ithilien?” he asked his wife.

“We were visiting, Estel. Eldarion needed a… a change,” she replied sadly.

He then turned to Legolas. “These… these… men, Legolas,” Aragorn almost spat out the word with scorn, “these men who were after my son – where were they from?”

“From east of Gondor, we guess, perhaps beyond the old battle plain,” came the reply. “Whence they first came south to Ithilien, we know not, but my guards have marked their presence on the eastern borders of the wood for some time now. We had not expected so many…”

“Wait!” Aragorn interrupted, a frown on his face. “You marked their presence?” The silence in the pause after the question spoke volumes of disbelief as he continued, “You expected them, Legolas? You – you knew they were there?”

The elf suddenly felt uneasy, as if a hole was slowly, slowly, but surely, opening up to swallow him. It took a few moments before he answered, “Yes, we started noticing shadows lurking on the borders two months ago, but we were not sure what…”

“You knew they were there, you knew there was a threat – and yet you allowed Arwen and my son to stay in Ithilien?” Aragorn had unconsciously raised his voice, his eyes meeting Legolas’, an incredulous look on his livid face.

Legolas stiffened, and Faramir shifted uneasily. The elf thought back to when Arwen told him she had sent the guards back, and when she had pleaded with her voice and her face to let them stay. He remembered how he could not bring himself to refuse them that visit.

But how could he explain all that to the anguished father of an injured child who had been in his domain, and who should have received his protection? Any explanation would seem a lame excuse. Aragorn was right, Legolas conceded, bowing his head. I am to blame, have I not been aware of this all night? I should have known better, he thought. It just seemed so much harsher when Aragorn had put it into words. I am so sorry, Aragorn.

But a voice countered his thoughts. “Estel, it was not Legolas’ fault,” Arwen spoke up. “He did not know, none of them knew this would happen. I was the one who asked him to let us stay…”

“But he should have made the decision to send you home at once, knowing a threat loomed nearby!” Aragorn was not placated. He approached Legolas swiftly and clutched his shoulder in frustration, unaware of the injury, causing the elf to wince and Faramir to take a step forward before checking himself.

The king said fiercely, “You should have sent them away!” He was tired, so weary from his travels and duties and the problems he had had to settle for the last month, his fiefs threatened by intruders, his officers failing to provide protection, and his mind had not yet overcome the sorrow he felt over the death of the villager child, the child who had reminded him of his own son. My own son, he thought bitterly, I have been away taking care of the safety of others when my own son… he gritted his teeth.

“Elessar…” Faramir tried to intercede.

But Aragorn was overwhelmed by now as he recalled the sight of his son’s painful retches. The wrath of a father and protector made him angry at everyone, angry at himself as well, and it seemed to him that his voice at that moment came from someone he did not know. Turning from Legolas, he spat out in frustration, “Can I trust the safety of my kingdom to no one!”

Legolas’ head snapped up, and everyone in the room stopped breathing. The healers froze, Faramir bowed his head, and Arwen could not believe her ears, her mouth slightly agape.

Both Legolas and Faramir felt the sting of the king’s words, but Eldarion had been in Ithilien, and thus the elf felt them more keenly. He stood as still as if he had been struck by lightning. His fists clenched at his sides, his face grew ashen, and his eyes flashed with sudden pain as a vision and words from some other time and place engulfed his senses, drowning him:

How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?

It was happening again, this nightmare, only now, it was real.

Again, as he did so many years ago, he found himself swaying helplessly between emotions that threatened to choke him – shame that he had failed Aragorn’s trust, but also hurt and anger that he did not think he would feel, for no one seemed to remember that some of his kin had died fighting against intruders. None of them had asked for this to happen. Were they to blame? No! …Yes! No… yes…

If only, if only…

As these emotions rushed through him in the fleeting moments in the healing rooms – moments that seemed like an age to Legolas – the bitter realization hit him again, that again, he could not undo the damage that had been done.

There was still no turning back.

But another thought followed immediately on the wave of the last one: there was something he could do in the days to come.

His bright blue eyes seemed coated with ice – or was it tears that he held back with whatever pride and dignity he still had? – as he raised them slowly to meet Aragorn’s. His voice, when he spoke, was soft but steady, with only the faintest hint of suppressed pain.

“I offer you my deepest regrets, my lord Elessar, for failing your trust.”

Aragorn winced instantly, his heart raked by the words, despite his anger. My lord? Elessar? Legolas never called him the name used only by his subjects and in official circles; it had always been his elvish name, Estel, or his birth name, Aragorn. Was this really Legolas who spoke? The question was answered in the next instant when the elf continued in the same tone of voice.

“Your queen and son deserved more than I could offer. I will go now to make amends, to redress the wrong that has committed, as best as I can. I only ask that my kin who are presently under the care of your healers be allowed to recover in the rooms of your city, but they will be certain to depart as soon as they are able, with my thanks.”

Turning briefly to a stunned Arwen, he bowed slightly and said, “As I said earlier, Arwen, your words of thanks are misplaced. I beg only that, if it is not too heavy a burden, you send word when Eldarion wakes. Tell him for me…” but his voice failed him then as it shook.

“Legolas…” she began and reached out to take his arm.

Quickly returning his eyes to the king, who was still looking away, he bowed and said tersely, “By your leave.”

Aragorn felt his mouth going dry, and he turned then to face the elf, choking out the words: “No, Lego – ”

But with all the fluidity and speed of his elven kin, before Arwen could stop him, Legolas had departed from the room, his bearing as straight and regal as it had been all the years of his life.