"We should find you a healer," Thranduil said. Not much emotion showed in his voice, he was controlling it carefully, but there was such a rush of emotions that he hardly knew what to feel anyway. He'd had his father's blood on his hands, he hated to have his son's. "It has never been my talent." There was an edge of a bitter self-reproach, and resignation, and he wasn't even sure what, as he reached up to help Legolas put pressure on the wounds. The removal of the collar, and the fact that it had not caused him to collapse, would avail them nothing if he bled too much. It was lucky that elves were so much hardier than men. Thranduil wasn't sure how much one of them would be able to survive - he had very little experience with the race as a whole, but they seemed much more fragile.