Hi guys!

Thank you so much to all who read, reviewed, followed, favorited, etc. my most recent fic, "Recoveries."I really really appreciate your time, especially for those who send over kind reviews and PM's. Every time I think I've run out of ideas, a late review swings by and there go the muses again... must be all these years of inactivity sneaking up on me! At any rate, here is my new offering, a collection of first-person P.O.V. one-shots called "The Halls of My Home" which will be featuring the POVs of both Thranduil and Legolas.

I'vebeen posting fics within fics centered around life in Mirkwood lately, indirectly as flashbacks to "Walking Wounded" and "Recoveries," and more directly also as bonus fics to end my obsessive little Author's Afterwords. I thought – why not compile them in one place, either as-is or extended ala PJ's Extended Editions (LOL), along with whatever other little one-shots I can think of along the way? And so here we are :) I hope you enjoy reading these little ficcies (though I can never seem to write short ones) as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Please note, they are not necessarily of the same universe, or arranged in any particular order; I just reuse original characters out of convenience. One day there may be a more coherent plan, but until then, these are just stand-alone stories :) Let's kick things off with the first one: "Bed Rest." As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome!

"Bed Rest"

Thranduil's P.O.V.: There are only a handful of things that can keep an injured Legolas willingly on bed rest – the threat of disability, a King's command, and the watchful, lonely eyes of his worried father.

They know to get out of my way.

In moments I find the cause of my impossibly busy morning's disruption. He is the cause of many a morning's disruption for many other elves too, I gather, for a small crowd of his fellow soldiers surround a cadre of nervous healers, who in turn hover over him worriedly, wringing at their hands. They all part for me and finally, this halo of watchers let me have sight of him.

Legolas is seated on the ground with his head resting on folded arms perched over his knees. On one hand is a flask of water. On the back of his neck rested a cold, wet cloth. It soaks the loosened neck of his tunic. Beside him and resting against his hip are his bow and an emptied quiver; I had passed the targets of the ranges along my run here, and had seen one with a flurry of shafts crowding its eye. It is typical of my son's output, and I cannot reconcile the accuracy of that aim with what is before me.

The elves around us favor me with some semblance of a bow, though Legolas does not even raise his head to acknowledge me. If I know him, it is partly from embarrassment and partly from discomfort – his hand holding the water is shaking, and I see his back rising and falling in large, carefully controlled breaths.

"All who have no usefulness here are to return to their duties," I tell the archery master, with a hint of disdain for the intrusion – well-meaning though it may be – that my son has already had to suffer.

The soldiers do as I command even before the archery master repeats it to them. One captain, however, dares my patience by stepping forward and clasping Legolas' arm reassuringly before walking away. This horrid little rebellion lets others find the same courage. They follow her lead one by one, and all I can find the heart to do is look up at the heavens in consternation and let them show their love for my son. Legolas likes things like that. He can be affectionate, like his mother.

"What has happened here?" I demand of those who remained – the healers and the archery master, who had command of Legolas this morning. Maenor, head of the healing wards himself, is among them. He is the only one who looks unfazed. He has one hand to Legolas' wrist, and was doing a quiet count.

I have some idea of what might be wrong. There was a passing detail in the debriefing reports I read a few nights past. My son had returned from patrol recovering from a concussion. A week's rest and he would be allowed to return to light duties – no close combat, no running, no heavy lifting, no horse riding, no forays outside of the stronghold and its immediate environs. A week of that, and he would be permitted to return to regular duties only after he passes the healers' expert examination.

He seemed well to me, and did not even have to stay at the healing wards for more than a day of observation. We even managed to share a few meals since his return. He was cooperating with the healers' instructions too, and today's practice archery according to the prescribed schedule can certainly fall within the restrictions imposed upon him. That is, I believed so until an anxious page disrupted court this morning to say that my son was collapsed on the field on his first day back after injury.

"Was he not cleared for light duties?" I demand further.

"I am so sorry aran-nin," says the most nervous healer. Rossenith, I recall her name as, and I shall never forget it if all of this is through some fault of hers. "It was I who cleared him. He lost consciousness for a brief moment but revived quickly. We will take him to the healing halls now for further examination. I will accept any punishment for my miscalculations gladly, but if you would let me have care of him until he is well and truly recovered, I swear on my father's name that I will not let you down again. I take full and absolute responsibility for this relapse."

"No."

Legolas' voice is muffled beneath his hair but it commands all of our attention. He lifts his head and looks up at us blearily.

"Please," he says – this, specifically to me. "I withheld information. I did not think it was important."

"You lied to your healer?" I ask, darkly. "And what if you were restored to active duty based on some falseness? You could have endangered yourself, those you commanded, and the very mission you seek to-"

"I did not lie, ada," Legolas says vehemently, though his energy for this wanes right away and he lowers his head again in dizzied misery. It is his weakness that stays my temper. "All that was asked I answered truthfully. I simply did not volunteer information that was not requested."

Ai Elbereth he has the tongue of a wizard.

"What would that be, hir-nin?" Rossenith asks, eager to find a reason for her miscalculations.

"You had asked about dizziness, pain, appetite, change in outlook or behavior, sleeplessness, numbness or tingling, muscle control, memory loss, loss of consciousness and becoming ill," Legolas replies wearily. Rossenith looks taken aback by his seemingly prodigious memory. Maenor and the more seasoned healers know he has been asked these questions aplenty before, and I know something no one else does – my son has already searched his conscience for his part in all of this.

"I failed to mention occasional disruption in my vision," he confesses. "I've not lost consciousness 'til now – otherwise I swear I would have made mention of it. I was warned recovery includes expectation of lingering discomfort. I thought what I was feeling was part of that and would go away on its own. I would never knowingly jeopardize the welfare of our soldiers and our mission." He lifts his head and gives the flustered healer a grin in a pale attempt of his morbid humor. "Or your job."

It is effective. It always is. She returns a shaky grin. "It is part of that job to be more thorough, hir-nin. I should have asked about your sight. I should have recognized that your desire to work did not yet match your body's ability to do so."

Legolas sighs. "No. I should have said something. I know now that I was wrong. I take responsibility. I will happily accept the King's punishment."

He looks at me with blue eyes impossible to deny. Why am I always tasked with the impossible?

He shudders. "I do not even know if my aim was true. I barely saw anything or even remember the last draws. They could have gone wide. I could have hurt someone."

The archery master opens his mouth, clearly about to reassure him that his arrows still somehow met their mark. I throw him a dark look in warning and he shuts it promptly. No one should condone this reckless behavior.

"You could have," I say instead.

"I am so sorry, ada," he says, before correcting himself and remembering that we are not alone and so keenly observed. "Aran-nin. I... I do not know what to say to you or to anybody. I am sorry you were called here in disruption of your day."

He should be sorrier for the poisonous thoughts my mind entertained in my desperate run to reach his side. Was he ill or poisoned? Was he attacked? Was the blow to his head worse than everyone thought? Was he dead? Dying? "Collapsed in the field" was both too much said and also too little. It was too brutally visual, but with no explanation.

"You need not stay," he tells me. "As you can see, things are well in hand."

"More or less," I say wryly.

"May I rise?" he asks the healers, looking chastised.

"Please try," Maenor encourages. His subordinates hesitate, but his certainty is reassuring to me. He watches Legolas' movements with a practiced eye.

Legolas peels off the wet cloth from the back of his head and hands it, along with his flask of water, to one of the attendants standing by. I wave off another about to offer him aid, and I give him my own hand. He reaches for it, and though his palms and fingers are clammy and trembling, his grip in mine is strong. He hauls himself up with my help and is able to stay on his feet when I release him.

I get a better look at him thus. He is pale and wan, and dark rings form beneath dulled eyes. He is uncharacteristically disheveled, with hair tangled from previously laying on the ground and partly wet from the cold compresses. He stoops clumsily for his bow and quiver, but is foiled by one of my personal guard. Legolas lets him have the beloved weapons with a small longing in his eyes.

Maenor steps up to him and raises hands upon Legolas' eyeline.

"Focus on my fingers and follow their movement, my lord," he instructs.

Legolas does so, and it worries me that his brows furrow in concentration and he breaks a sweat at a task so easy and mindless on any other day. Maenor moves his fingers to the far left, and then the far right. Legolas' eyes lose focus here and become more abstract. They almost roll back and he sways. Maenor grabs him roughly by the arm.

"All right, all right," he says soothingly. "Enough of that now."

Legolas shuts his eyes and presses at the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a headache.

"Open your eyes and look forward for me," Maenor instructs. Again, Legolas follows. I do not know if his quick, quiet compliance is from hurting, or to make up for the information he had previously withheld and the trouble the omission is now causing.

Maenor raises a finger again, and this time places it on the far right of Legolas' eyeline, upon his peripheral vision. It was easy sight for most beings, especially for an elf.

"Can you see this?" the healer asks.

"See what, Maenor?"

My hands turn cold.

Maenor frowns, bites his lip, and nods in some quiet decision.

"See what?" Legolas asks again, and one does not need to know him as well as I do to hear the anxious edge in it.

Maenor exhales a careful breath. "Do not worry so much about it yet, hir-nin. Tell me – what do you remember just before you lost consciousness?"

Legolas frowns in concentration. "Not much. I had an eye on the targets. I was focusing on the marks. Things became blurry, and then shrank away. It was black, a long time black. Then I woke and there was you. I was already on the ground."

"Was it preceded by pain or dizziness?"

"I felt overheated," Legolas replies. "It was so bright, and I was weary. I have been these last few days but I was expected to be, I thought." He returns to what has been bothering him and what remained unanswered. "What was I supposed to see? Is there something wrong with my eyes?"

"I think you've lost part of your vision," Maenor replies. At Legolas' and I'm sure my own horrified expressions, he expounds quickly. "Temporarily. I'm sorry for the unwise words, my king. I meant to say, temporarily."

"But it's been more than a week since I was hit," Legolas says worriedly. He keeps glancing at me. "Is it getting worse? Should I expect more loss?"

Maenor raises his hands up to appease us. "Visual difficulties and imbalance after a blow to the head are not uncommon. And yes, sometimes these and other symptoms develop well after the injury. I do not believe your condition is worsening in the sense that there is swelling or bleeding inside that could endanger your sight or any other part of you, permanently. But you are certainly not as recovered as we all hoped. I will revoke your release, hir-nin. Not even to light duties."

"I will do anything to repair my aim," Legolas says quietly, and I see now where his quiet compliance is coming from – fear of disability, as every warrior might feel in his situation.

"I need to be able to do my work," he adds, enlightening me further. It is not only fear, I realize, but duty. It makes me ache for him.

"Your aim is as true as always," I say, before I can stop myself. I studiously ignore the archery master I had silenced earlier, whose face is impassive but whose eyes are alight.

"Worry not about your bow at this time, Captain," I say more formally.

"I would like to keep him confined in bed for an indefinite period of time," Maenor says. "But I think he will find more rest in his own rooms, rather than in the healing wards. He needs dark and quiet, and a place with little to look at." To Legolas, he says directly, "You need to rest your eyes. I will even discourage reading. For anything you need, someone will wait upon you at all times."

"I am sure someone to check in at intervals will suffice," Legolas says meekly. He is easily embarrassed by the bother to others, especially after the spectacle he thinks he had already made of himself by collapsing at the ranges.

"You just fainted my lord," Rossenith points out. From the corner of my eye, I see my son cringe but the healer is oblivious. "You need someone nearby. If it should happen again while you are alone, say trying to rise to get food or water, you can bring even more serious injury upon yourself. A secondary blow to a head that is barely healed can have disastrous consequences. Disastrous! You can lose your sight, or your life!"

Legolas is looking at me plaintively for rescue. He deserves the punishment of all this anxious attention – including my own – and I am tempted to tell him so. But if our goal is for him to find true rest and so to recover more fully, he will not be able to do that while watched so oppressively. My son injured is so much like an animal in the wild, at times. He likes to keep to his corner and lick his wounds in peace. He emerges only in fighting form, because any sign of weakness can be exploited.

"Someone to look in on him at regular hours seems fair," I declare. Legolas looks grateful, until I add - "If Maenor agrees and the Captain gives his word that he will stay in bed unless accompanied."

Legolas' jaws set stubbornly. But he knows his limited options. It is either this, or be watched like a hawk.

"I give my word," he says through grit teeth.

"Then let us be away," I say.

I excuse the archery master and let him return to his duties, and Maenor orders his subordinates ahead of us, that they may prepare and transfer what Legolas may need for treatment in his suite of rooms. The head of the healing hall, on the other hand, paces my son and I, while the royal guard trails us along our slower way to his chambers.

Before we move they all linger, waiting for me to walk ahead of them according to custom. I do not desire it today, for I would like to see my son walking in front of me. I cannot watch him if he is behind me.

I take him by the arm so that we can at least walk together, and with that, our little procession makes its way forward. Legolas lets me usher him along, and he walks with his head uncharacteristically hanging low. It unnerves me.

I know he is hurting and tired, but there is something else. He seems very brittle today. He is like a dried up leaf at the end of fading, about to be tossed in the wind and crushed underfoot. It could be the concussion sending his thoughts into a tailspin, but he seems to be drowning in it.

We move quietly down the halls of our home. Mornings are busy and the many elves we pass are curious and worried, but avert their eyes and lower their heads in discretion and respect. They bow to their King, and because my son walks with me, I am able to protect him from their unwelcome gaze.

When we reach his rooms it is abuzz with quiet activity. The royal guards take a post at the doors, Maenor confers with his healers, and I am left alone with my ailing son for the first time. I warn away with one hand the attendants who approach as if to aid us, and I lower Legolas to bed myself. He sits at the edge of it, still hunched into himself. His golden hair falls around him, covering his face.

I lower myself down to haunches in front of him. Once he reached the age of majority, my head has never been beneath his. He was my subject, son or no. But this morning I want to see his face. I need to see it.

"Aran-nin," he protests upon seeing my position from beneath the golden curtain of his locks. He makes as if to slide lower, but I stop him with a firm hand to his lap, keeping him in place.

"Are you feeling worse, ion-nin?" I ask him quietly.

He lifts his head to look at me slowly. His eyes are so very, very wide and deep and pooling blue and – I swear I have never seen this before on him – afraid.

"The world faded away into black," he says softly, "But I was awake for a long time before my mind drifted. I knew my eyes were open, I could feel them. But there was nothing to see, and I couldn't even tell up from down. I thought I'd lost my sight and senses forever."

I press my lips into a grim line. "Listen to your healers, Legolas. These things do happen. With true rest, we may expect your affliction to be resolved."

He refuses to be comforted. He runs his trembling hands over his face, and rests them over his eyes. "All I could think about was – what use would a besieged land have for a blind archer?"

I have no good and ready answer for this, for he and I have never stood at this crossing. He would get hurt and sometimes it would be me, but we were always either going to live to fight again or die – never in a sense, in between. Never were our abilities to be taken from us.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly into my silence. "I'm sorry. I am being melodramatic. It's unproductive and excessive. It is a waste of all our time-"

I cannot let him think this. He can have his fears, the gods know he already entertains too little of it as it is. I reach for his face and cup it in my hands. There is something he must know.

"You aren't just an archer, Legolas," I tell him quietly, but fervently. I hear activity has died around us, and I know the healers and attendants will want their way with him soon; they are just trying to find the courage to disrupt me.

"You are a fighter," I say, "you are a warrior from the top of your golden head to the tips of your toes. Whatever happens, whatever you lose, you will find a way. And absent that – you are my light. Do you understand? You are my sight. You will see me through the wars and battles and the darkest night."

He gives me a small smile, and those blasted eyes of him are pooling and brilliant, dancing with inner light.

"Now if it pleases the Prince," I tease him, "perhaps he may finally lay down and fix this ailment."

I rise to help him undress. The removal of his tunic is all that he tolerates before he puts a hand over his eyes and sags against me. He is dizzied again, and I decide he may keep his undershirts for now. I lower him to his back, and he lifts his booted feet up off the floor. An attendant scurries closer to rid him of his shoes and clear away the discarded clothes.

He sighs heavily in relief when his head lands upon his pillow. He looks so slight against the thick, pristine white sheets. His malfunctioning eyes roll back and flutter closed. It alarms me, and I shoot out a hand to his forearm, which in turns alarms him. He jolts awake and looks at me miserably.

"I am just weary," he says.

"I know," I reply, and I am trying to understand it but I cannot. The mind knows one thing and the heart feels another. They do not always align.

"You should go," he tells me softly. "I know you have a lot to do."

"I cannot leave with you thus," I confess.

"And I cannot rest with you hovering," he teases.

"I can command it of you."

"You wouldn't be so cruel," he says wryly, "as to burden me with that now, would you, aran-nin?"

Our lighter tones give the elves around us the cue to come closer, and I step back and let them do their work. The healers come forward with their examinations, cold cloths and draughts. The attendants take away all that is used or no longer needed. Someone offers me a chair and a cup of tea.

I watch, and quietly bear the pit in my stomach when Legolas falls asleep amidst their ministrations with his eyes closed. The healers are not alarmed, and so I keep my seat and watch them move his pale, slack limbs around however way they wished. They divest him of his outside garb and help him to comfortable bedclothes. They comb his tangled hair and arrange it away from his face. They even position his arms and legs on the bed, and place a light blanket over him. I cannot escape the thought – it looks like funeral tableau.

They back away from him at last, and lessen the candlelight around his room. Maenor approaches me and lowers himself to a knee that we may speak.

"His eyes are closed," I murmur. It bothers me.

"We gave him medicine to ease his discomfort and encourage healing sleep," Maenor replies. "It will be long and deep, but one that he needs."

"He worries about losing his sight," I say; that I worry about losing him, I do not have to.

"I admit some form of permanent or long-standing damage is not outside the realm of possibility," Maenor answers, "but it is unlikely. The disruption in his vision on the right eye is giving us a better idea of what is happening inside him. If he presents no other symptoms, my king, sufficient rest should first prevent things from getting worse, and eventually, to resolve everything. But he requires serious rest, I cannot emphasize it enough. His setback today has proven it is sorely needed."

"He will cooperate," I guarantee. "He understands what is at stake, and if he compels me, I will command it of him." I narrow my eyes in thought, and look at the sleeping warrior elf on the bed. "But I do worry about that impatience of his."

Maenor, as head of the healing wards, will have a unique understanding of this side of my son. He is both seasoned and gracious enough, however, to neither agree nor disagree with me.

"I suppose you would want us to find him something suitable to do during his confinement here," he says cautiously. "Something to keep him occupied without straining his eyes or his head. I have a few fine readers, aran-nin, they can come in and read for him books of his own choosing. I am sure he would not be averse to some entertainment as well. Musicians, and the like, nothing too loud. He is quite fond of music. But these can be engaging only for so long. I have a few other things in mind, if the King permits." He winces. "I cannot promise my lord Legolas will find it very engaging or gratifying, but it would be better than nothing."

I am intrigued, and I quirk my brow at him to expound on this.

"One of our more time consuming and less favorable tasks include the cutting, folding and packing of clean binding cloths," he says, and he looks horrified at himself for suggesting menial work to my son the Prince, and a Captain in his own right.

"I think this is most agreeable," I say. He seems surprised, but really, anything that keeps Legolas amused in his bed sounds very good indeed. It reminds me of when he was an elfling, shortly after his mother –

I was running a kingdom and raising a child who was impatient to grow and do things for himself. He wanted to sing and talk so he babbled. He wanted to run so he stumbled. He wanted to try everything immediately. Keeping him occupied was a task that ultimately fell upon everyone he encountered in the Realm. I would go about my business and as I walked around I would see him doing random things when he wasn't in classes or at training. I watched him gather fruits in the allotments, wash vegetables in the kitchens. He's polished silver and leather, has cleaned swords and maintained weapons.

"He has the most able hands," I say softly, before I catch myself. In a more commanding tone I say, "But do prepare to have more binding cloths than you might need, and make sure to line up similar tasks once you've had your fill of his share. He is a single-minded worker when bored, but an overcompensating contributor when he feels he is malingering here. Have him polish boots, I care not. Neither will he."

"I will make arrangements," Maenor says. I wave him away and he scurries off. With his exit, I am more or less alone with my son. There are guards at the doors and healers preparing their wares in the anteroom outside his sleeping chambers, but we are more or less alone here.

I push my chair closer to his bed, and it is still too far. I push closer, until my knees knock upon the hard wood of where he lies, and it is still too far. Even if I lay beside him, I know it would still be too far. It is too far because his eyes are closed. It is too far until I see them open and settle on me and shine again with confidence and humor.

You are my light, I had told him, and so in a sense, the stars are veiled for me today. But he will heal, and he will shine again.

THE END

April 4, 2018