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Summary
“The dead do not give up their secrets.”
“You're not dying here,” says Bard, with such conviction it nearly makes Thranduil recoil. “We’ll outlast the orcs, get you to the healers’ tent.”
“So I can meet my end there, instead? Your optimism is… astonishing."
“You can't die, Thranduil.”
Thranduil almost laughs again in his pain-hazed delirium. He is speaking with all the clarity of a drunkard, now— a comparison more apt than he'd like to admit. “Does this look like a healthy wound to you? Every minute the contaminant remains in my body, the poison spreads. It will kill me, Dragonslayer, it does not need your permission for that.”
or: Thranduil has sex again. Bard is just trying to save his life.
OR: The (accidental) wound fingering & elf marriage fic, take it or leave it.