Tilda's Roses by Ruse
Bard's daughters tend a wounded Legolas after the Battle of Five Armies. Hobbit Spoilers.
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It seemed strangely quiet apart from the occasional murmur of the wounded and dying. Momentous things had happened—were still happening, and it just seemed there should be some sort of fanfare of voices, cheers that the battle had been won, anything to drown out the solemn silence broken only by the cries of suffering. Sigrid stopped where she stood in the tent of the wounded, wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm, and looked after the state of her younger sister, Tilda.
The child was quite too, which might have been part of what caused the elder sister such anxiety. Tilda wasn't given to frequent episodes of quiet; in fact at home her incessant chatter had all but driven Sigrid mad. But then, there was no home, not now. Laketown was a dead city, as dead as any Man or Elf or Dwarf here in this tent, crushed beneath the body of death on wings—the great dragon Smaug. And that, Sigrid thought, was a mirror for what she felt inside, what she knew Tilda must be feeling. The death of an innocent self, now replaced by quieter, wiser women who had seen the horror-filled aftermath of war. Healers were hard to come by, too many were needed. And so every able-bodied soul able to bear the weight of a compress was put to work.
Her sister was tending one of the Elves, a young, fair-haired archer with his bow leaned against the sickbed. His eyes were closed and not even a whisper came from his lips, though his wounds were terrible. Tilda was wiping the blood off his face gently, her face stoic now that the shock of the sight of violence had worn off. For a second Sigrid listened, her head cocked to one side. No, it wasn't as silent in this tent as she had imagined. Her sister was singing a gentle lullaby. A healer passed in front of her, then Sigrid cut across the way to see about helping her sister.
"Poor Elf," Tilda said, looking across the body of the young Elf at her sister, who was looking at a gash in the side of his head. A blade had hit a glancing blow here, just behind the ear and sliced his skin down to the throat, almost hitting the jugular. Had the hit been too hard or carried too far down he wouldn't be breathing now. As it was, he was pale and seemed barely clinging to life. Strands of his golden hair mingled with the blood covering his shoulder. Tilda looked down sadly. "He's so beautiful. Do you think he'll die?"
Sigrid pursed her lips, standing back to view the damage. "It's pretty bad, but we'll do what we can. We've got to stop the bleeding." She turned to where she had left her basket of healing implements on the floor, grabbed it and pulled out a clean cloth. Pressing it to the wound, she motioned Tilda to come to her side and said, "Hold this here. I want to see if he has any other wounds. Hold it good and firm, now."
Her sister knit her brows in determination at her sworn duty to the Elf and held as firm as hands as young as hers could. Sigrid checked over the Elf's body for signs of blood or broken bones and found the scratches and bruises associated with a battle, but nothing more serious than the wound on his head. As her sister watched, Sigrid pulled out a cleansing herbal mixture and a needle. The unusually quiet child seemed to shrink at the sight of it, gave a gasp, but stayed bravely at her post.
The elder carefully pulled back the rapidly soaking cloth and spread the herbal mix across the tattered flesh. At this the Elf's lashes fluttered, giving a teasing glance at midnight blue eyes under dark knit brows. They closed quick, in pain, before the energy seemed to drain again, leaving him halfway between consciousness. Sigrid lifted the needle to thread it, but a moan left her shaking. She had never done this before. How could she if he was half awake to feel it?
She pressed the rag back against the wound, said to her sister, "Hold it," and rushed off to find one of the elder healers. One woman told her she already had her hands full, told her children in wars had to grow up fast and to do what she could, and Sigrid was trying to quell rising panic as she turned back.
What she saw made her stop short. Her sister was once more singing to the sleeping Elf and she was not alone. Behind her, and Sigrid doubted she even knew he was there, was a tall Elf with the same silvery hair and blue eyes, his armor fine and upon his head a crown of leaves. His eyes were wide, fixed on the child as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. And then his hand came down gently on her shoulder, causing Tilda to jump. "That's the Elven King," the healer behind her told Sigrid, pausing only momentarily from her work. "I'd bet my life on it."
Sigrid crept closer, watching as this Elven King drew her sister around, freezing her with that intense gaze as he said in a voice like music, "Thank you, child."
Tilda, nodding softly, backed away as the King turned to the Elf below. Coming up behind her, resting her hands in a comforting gesture on Tilda's shoulders, Sigrid caught her breath when his brows wrinkled in pain. "Ion nin," he breathed, touching the younger on his blood-spattered face.
"My king," another Elf, one whom neither sister had even heard approach, said gently, "Mithrandir asks for you."
The King stiffened, knit his brow in resolve. "I will not leave my son. Not… not until I must. Look. His life dwindles away. Go and get one of ours. Quickly." Pale hand pressing the cloth to his son's wound, the King turned his eyes back down as the other Elf left the tent. Almost as if forgetting he had two sets of eyes on him, he said sorrowfully, "Never did I think to see the blood of my own child. What darkness slips into this world now, when we had peace?"
Before Sigrid could stop her Tilda replied, "But the darkness is defeated, isn't it, my Lord? The battle is won?"
"Tilda," the elder sister hissed, looking apologetically to the older Elf.
He looked up, schooling his features before the eyes of strange onlookers. "Yes," he breathed, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. "Yes, child. The battle is won. The darkness is stayed." His gaze flashed up at the elder and she saw the wisdom of ages there, saw the knowledge that the darkness was stayed, but only temporarily. In all her years she would never forget those eyes, looking into her as if he could see her very soul. And then, just as fast as the connection had been made, it was broken as he turned to look at Tilda. "Little one, you have cared for my son, Legolas, most kindly." He stretched his hand and timidly she took it. "You have my blessing all the days of your life."
Tilda made a soft and clumsy curtsy as he let go, and the sisters backed away to let the King be with his gravely wounded son. Sigrid left her basket, pulled her sister to get more supplies so they could continue to tend the dying. They moved on to a groaning man who was favoring his hip, but the sisters couldn't help but glance every now and then to where Elves were now tending the fallen prince. Please, don't let him die, Sigrid thought, watching an Elf draw the shaken King back. His eyes were so full of sorrow and his movements lost their grace in worry, and she thought, how many fathers were looking the same way at their wounded sons? Too many. All too many. No, she supposed, the darkness had only begun for some.
At some point they had borne the prince away from the tent, and it wasn't until she was grown with a child of her own on the way that Sigrid had learned through an Elven delegation the Elf Prince named Legolas had survived his brush with death. Tilda claimed she always knew somehow he had, for the roses in her garden in a rebuilt Dale were always first to bloom and last to die. Nonsense, of course, but then maybe not…
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