lol if jiuge and chu wanning are both carved from divine wood...don't think about how huaizui said himself that jiuge was tied to chu wanning's own blood. don't think about the implications that chu wanning's experiences are felt by jiuge too.
don't think about how jiuge could feel chu wanning's golden core shattering during his battle with taxian-jun, the physical and mental torture eating away at his consciousness the longer he endured as chu-fei. don't think about jiuge watching chu wanning fall into more and more despair as he tears himself apart for a fragment of clue as to how to save mo ran.
don't think about how jiuge, made of pure divine wood, found itself feeling hatred at the way taxian-jun has abused its owner - a feeling that should be foreign, yet for the man made in all but the same flesh and blood, the person closest to what a brother could be to itself, jiuge learns to despise.
don't think about how jiuge must have felt chu wanning expend the last dregs of his life force to summon it for the final time in 0.5. don't think about how jiuge, being divine wood, might have had sentience - don't think about how it could have begged chu wanning to stop because it knew how it would end. don't think about how jiuge, tied to chu wanning's soul, could feel it slipping out of its grasp during the siege on taxue palace.
don't think about how jiuge felt chu wanning die while playing it for the final time. don't think about how jiuge watched taxian-jun berate, then break down, then finally bury chu wanning in the past lifetime.
how it must have hated taxian-jun for all he did - but, being akin to chu wanning, how jiuge must have hated itself more, for not being able to save the person closest to it.
Summary: When Thranduil falls ill with Mirkwood, it takes a witch to bring him back to the light.
Word Count: 582
Date Posted: 05.04.2020
|| Masterlist || Requested by @0chemicalwaste0
“Enough!” Thranduil yelled at the court. His normally bright blue eyes now a dull grey, eyelids blooming alamort with black veins. Weak, he could no longer use his magic to cover his burn scars, leaving one of his eyes a milky white.
“Send for the Witch of Light,” Legolas commanded as his father collapsed, barely fast enough to catch him.
. . .
Astride a large moose, you rushed through Mirkwood, following the elk-riding elf. Upon your arrival you spoke few words to the guards, ensuring your moose would be fed and taken care of while you too care of the Elvenking.
“My Lady of Medicine,” Legolas bowed politely in greeting.
“Please, mellonamin*,” You smiled, “Y/n is fine. How is he?”
“Not well. He weakens by the minute.”
“Take me to him.”
Thranduil looked awful, as awful as the handsome Elf-king could. His skin was clammy and feverish. You placed a hand on his forehead, feeling the darkness within him.
“Leave me,” You whispered to Legolas.
“Yes, My lady,” He bowed again and left the room.
The black veins the spread from Thranduil’s eyelids had only grown darker and inched their way down his cheeks. He was speaking softly in his sleep, trying to command away what ailed him.
“What happened,” You cooed, tucking away a loose strand of Thranduil’s hair. “You are an indelible king, Thranduil, remember that.”
Planting your feet firmly on the floor and raising a palm to the sky, you began chanting ancient words. Words Thranduil himself wouldn’t recognize. Legolas could only wait anxiously outside the door as he felt the air begin to chill and thunder crack across the sky. He could only hope your healing words could save his father; he wasn’t ready to be king.
Thranduil couldn’t remember collapsing, nor being carried to his bed. He could only remember the poison that clouded his mind and the light that had begun to chase it away. For a moment he could hear your voice, but the dark swelled again, whispering to him the imperfections of life. It told him to submit to the King of Kings.
Your voice grew louder, ringing in his skull in the same way a headache throbs. That unnatural dark subsided for the abyss of sleep, and ocean of relief, waves of tranquility.
He slept for three days.
Three days you sat at his bedside, praying to Iluvatar to spare him this darkness. Once more you stood next to him, one hand on his forehead and the other over his heart, blessing him in his native tongue. “Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr he. Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lín enin 'raw hen*.”
The outward effects of this darkness had subsided, but you prayed over his mind. Thranduil was your friend, you could only hope that your efforts could save him.
Two hours later, in the matutine light, Thranduil woke. His lips were dry and his eyelids were heavy, but he was awake. That was a greater joy than you knew you were capable of feeling.
“How are you feeling?” You asked, smiling down at him, a glass of water in hand. He took it from you gratefully.
“Better.” He frowned. “I don’t remember what happened.”
“You were sick, Mell nin*. If it weren’t for Legolas sending for me, I’m afraid we might’ve lost you.”
“You have returned, for how long.”
“For as long as you need, and this dark forest needs some light, don’t you think?”
“I have missed you, Meleth nin*.”
Mellonamin = My friend.
Anor valthen, togo laugas lin nestad enin gur he = Golden sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart.
Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lin enin ‘raw hen= Great earth, may you give your strength to this body.
