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As a member of Rivendell’s guard, you are no stranger to injuries. You’ve been shot at, slapped, and stabbed more times than you can count.
So, it’s hardly surprising when an orc blade manages to catch you while you’re out on watch. This time however, it’s your own lack of attention that causes the injury.
Your group is patrolling just beyond the borders of Rivendell, past the protection of Vilya. You ride at the back of the group, keeping your eyes and ears strained for anything out of the ordinary. A strange unease fell over you a while back, but you can’t decide if it’s just natural anxiety from leaving Vilya’s protection.
Before you can mull over it any further, a shout comes from the front of the pack, followed by a strangled growl. Orcs. They have been getting bolder, wandering closer and closer to Rivendell’s borders. You had hoped you wouldn’t run into any today, but that was a tall order.
Spurring your horse onward and into the now intense fray, you rapidly pull your sword and begin to fight. It’s a rather large band of orcs, not quite proficient in their fighting but certainly strong and powerful nonetheless. Already you hear some of your fellow elves grunting in pain as the orcs manage to graze them with their blades.
The battle is quick and dirty, the smell of orc blood thick in the air. As you fell the final orc with a quick jab of your sword, the rest of your comrades gather to clean their own weapons. A few of their flawless faces are specked with blood, but for the most part they seem unharmed. Just as you are about to sheath your own sword once again, a fierce roar sounds from behind you. You attempt to evade the oncoming blade but still, you feel the sharp sting of it against the side of your neck. Immediately, you press a hand to the rapidly bleeding wound, while an elvish arrow pierces the head of the lone orc.
The world spins around you as you hear your comrades calling your name. You wave them off with your free hand, assuring them that everything is fine. “Does anyone have any athelas?” you grunt. Someone hands you a bundle of the plant, and you crush it in your palm without hesitation before pressing it to the wound. The feeling of your blood is warm and slick as it seeps between your fingers. You vaguely register someone asking if the blade had hit your artery, and you manage a weak shake of your head. Your captain suggests heading back to get your wound treated, and you have no fight left in you to argue.
The athelas helps to soothe the sting of the wound, but in such a small quantity, it’s not doing much to slow the bleeding. You keep one hand pressed against your neck, the other on the reins of your horse. The gleaming light of Rivendell comes into view and you feel the gentle embrace of Vilya’s protection around you once again. The warmth of it nearly makes you fall over as your body relaxes. One of the other elves rides up beside you, concern on their face as they hold out a steadying hand. You shake them off and urge your horse on.
The ride is long and painful, mentally more than anything. You’re beating yourself up for missing the final foe, for allowing yourself to be blindsided.
As you step through Rivendell’s gates, you see that a small crowd has already amassed. Your captain and the rest of the company arrived moments before you, and it seems that word has spread quickly. As you dismount, the crowd parts and Lord Elrond steps forward, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“Come,” he commands, and you have no choice but to follow as he leads you to the healing halls. You keep your head hung low, shame and embarrassment flooding through you.
As you enter the halls, Elrond turns to look at you inquisitively. “Why do you hide? Your wound is nothing to be ashamed of.”
You hop up onto a tall table. Through the slick of your blood, you can feel your pulse racing rapidly in your neck. “It is not my wound of which I am ashamed,” you murmur.
Elrond tuts and retrieves some healing supplies. The halls are quiet and deserted, which makes you feel even worse. Taking Elrond’s attention like this, when he surely has more important things to do. Elrond returns and stands before you, his voice steady as he reassures, “We all make mistakes. Do not linger on that which you cannot control.”
You try to take his words to heart but there’s a flicker of doubt that remains.
“Let me see,” he urges and gestures for you to remove your hand from the wound.
You withdraw, the cooling effect of the athelas fading as you move away. Immediately, Elrond’s face hardens into that of a healer and his eyes focus on the gash. “You are lucky the blade was not poisoned,” he mutters, still a few feet away as he examines your neck. “This is far too close to your artery for my liking.”
He steps closer, and you unconsciously part your legs to accommodate him within your space. A fierce blush washes over you and you avoid Elrond’s concerned gaze. “Are you feeling feverish?” he questions, attributing your flushed face to your injury.
You swallow thickly and instantly regret the movement as the wound pulses. You wince and rasp out a “no” in response. Elrond’s face softens and he returns his eyes to your neck. He holds a clean, damp rag to the wound to soak up some of the blood. “I’ll have to stitch this,” he says, more to himself than to you. “It will be difficult to heal. The wound will want to reopen with much movement.”
You groan internally at the thought of being removed from patrols while you recover. Your captain will have no qualms about leaving you behind, especially after this incident.
Elrond removes the rag and picks up a suturing needle and thread. You realize all at once how close he is to you, that you can feel his warm breath against your neck as he examines the wound once more. From this distance, you can almost see the twinkle of starlight in his eyes.
You push back the feelings of adoration and infatuation that bubble up within you. All your life you’ve felt… something for the elvish lord, but the discipline of being a warrior has left those thoughts to the wayside. You’ve been treated by Elrond for various wounds before, but never has he been so close. Now, with him standing so near, showering you with such attention, you cannot deny your attraction to him. But this is not the time for such childish feelings – you attempt to control the pervasive thoughts.
Unfortunately, your body is not so easily controlled. Your pulse continues to race, even more so under Elrond’s gentle touch as he stitches the wound. Your skin is flushed and you can’t imagine how red you must be – the tips of your ears feel on fire. Each breath is somewhat of a pant as the adrenaline of your schoolgirl crush courses through you.
Suddenly, one of Elrond’s hands is resting on your abdomen. His fingers splay across the fabric of your clothing, and you can feel the warmth of his palm seeping to your skin. The touch catches you by surprise and you meet his eyes.
“Calm,” he murmurs. “Breathe into my hand. You are in shock, I believe.”
How can he not see? How can he not see that his touch burns like fire, that his proximity only makes things worse in the best way possible? How can be so oblivious to the feelings that, to you, appear all powerful?
Yet, you manage a deep breath and it seems to help. Elrond keeps his hand upon your abdomen for a moment longer, apparently reassuring himself of your safety. His eyes flit back to the wound and he completes the sutures. You focus on the feeling of them tugging at your skin, a sensation which distracts you from the still-burning shadow of his hand.
Finally, Elrond places the needle back down. He secures a large bandage to the side of your neck, covering the gruesome injury. He doesn’t move away, instead bringing his fingers to your wrist to check your pulse. With nothing to distract you now, you have no choice but to feel the warmth of his touch, the electricity.
“Deep breaths, remember,” he reminds you, still attributing your rapid pulse to your injury.
Sometimes you wish he wasn’t so thick.
Sometimes you’re grateful for his obliviousness. It certainly spares you an enormous amount of embarrassment.
“The stitches will need to come out in ten days,” he says, fingers still circling your wrist. His thumb rubs small circles on the back of your hand, and you wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it. “Come to me immediately if you feel feverish or ill.”
You nod and wait for him to step away, to release your hand. He doesn’t, remaining standing between your legs with his eyes trained on your hand.
“Hîr nin?” you question quietly. The tips of your ears begin to burn again.
He murmurs your name in response, eyes flitting up to meet your briefly. “I hate to see you hurt.” He whispers the words like a secret, like they are just for your ears.
You are silent for a moment as the implications of that statement sink in.
Before you can answer him, he releases your hand and steps away. An admittedly large part of you misses his closeness. “Please do try to be more careful.” With a swish of his robes, he turns and walks away.