A.N: Hello, dearest readers, I finally finished a chapter in the deadline I set for myself, thanks the Maker!
Welcome on board, Jeanniphil, and have a nice ride!
More notes at the end of the chapter, especially for my dear reviewers!
Comparisons
"Why are we leaving the path? Isn't it dangerous?"
Bilbo questioned Thorin when he perceived the party steering out of the road.
"They're following the lead of a horse, if you believe it."
"And… Are we going too? I remember quite well what happened last time."
"Aye, so do I, my… friend." If Bilbo noticed the slight time lapse before the word used to address him, it was shown only by a quick glance in the direction of the dwarf king. "But last time it was a misguiding elven path, not a sure dwarf road, and the forest fairy wasn't very fond of us. Not that he got any fonder of us since then, but at least we have peace treaties. Also, back then there was a Necromancer at Dol Guldur, and if we can trust Gandalf, he was banished by the elven witch of the golden forest. I hope this will be enough for our safety."
"So do I."
The hobbit fidgeted with the reins of his pony, wondering. The combined searching party had gone back to the goal of finding Bard's daughter, now under the suspicion of being a runaway instead of a poor kidnapped child. Woman, Bilbo corrected himself in his mind, a grown up woman, not a child. The ten years between when he saw her last and now would leave the girl in her irresponsible tweens, were she a hobbit lass. But he knew, rationally, that she must be already a grown up and responsible woman, even if her grown up semblance was unimaginable to him.
And, if Bilbo thought just a little more rationally, a responsible grown up woman wouldn't run away from her home, would she?
What led him back to the question that made Bard shut his mouth and ignore him since a few days ago. Since he questioned what could possibly have terrified Tilda enough to make her want to run away.
Which made him to consider that maybe dwarves and humans were not that different, taken everything in account.
The steady clip-clop of Dís' pony claimed his attention. He knew it as the sound that could only belong to the mount of his intended. Steady and impatient like its owner, Bilbo mused. And probably curious as what he was talking to her brother. He could not complain about the dwarrowdam's curiosity, as it kept leading them closer. The only problem was a certain king, their self-proclaimed chaperone. Who in his eventual absence trusted the charge upon Dwalin's shoulders, or even Fíli's. To be constantly watched by someone of her family was unsettling, to say the least, but he was willing to suffer all of it for his precious Dís and her precious raven black beard.
Hair, he meant hair!
Now, really, why, oh why did her beard resemble so much that of her brother? Or why did it bother him so much when they shared kisses and he couldn't help but wonder if Thorin's beard was as soft, or his lips as sweet?
"What troubles you so much, darling mine?"
So upset with his abstruse feelings he was that Bilbo didn't notice Dís right beside him, even though his thought wandered that far exactly because he noticed she was riding to be there.
"Dís." The hobbit smiled at the princess and lied. "I was just wondering… what could have made Brad's daughter decide to run away? It must have been something momentous."
"Or not." She shot back. "Sons and daughters of Men are not as unwavering as other races, if you take my meaning. Which makes me wonder if the match between her and my son was really a good idea. Of course it was a stupid idea to arrange it without consulting me, I wouldn't have allowed it. I married out of love and my sons deserve the same. But even if it were the case…"
"Then what?"
"You see, Bilbo, how can we trust a lass who simply runs away at Maker only knows what whim?"
"Well…"
He tried and failed in hiding the roll of his eyes. Dís saw it and didn't let it lie.
"Well what?"
"We don't know her reasons. Maybe, when we find her, it can be clarified and…"
"And it doesn't make her anything different from a runaway, does it?"
"Right!" Now the hobbit was put off by the double standards. "And it doesn't make her anything different from Kíli, does it?"
"What?"
"What makes him anything different from a runaway, Dís? His reason to flee? If so, how can we judge princess Tilda without knowing her own reasons?"
Dís glared daggers at her hobbit, unable to counter his logic.
"You may have a point, I concede. But, I warn you, conceal this roguish smile of yours until we know her reasons. And don't think I consider my son less reckless for having the reason he had, mind you!"
Said roguish smile was hard to conceal, as it always was when he won a point with Thorin. The siblings of Durin's line were not that different, after all. Which was almost making his mind wander again when they heard a shout in the van.
"Halt! We found a camp!"
=^.^=
Tilda breathed. In and out. Smell the flower, blow out the candle. In and out. No panic. In and out. She could do it. In and out…
Hand steady, scalpel firm in her grip, patient under poppy milk… The leg was rotten by necrosis, the scent of decay invading her nostrils, but her hands kept steady. There would be pain, the ghost of the leg could come and haunt the patient with pain or more casual feelings, like cold or even itches. But there wouldn't be the death necrosis would grant if the leg wasn't taken away. And prosthetics could be made, Dain Ironfoot was the proof it could work. If only the patient lived.
And for him to live it depended only on Tilda's skill as a healer.
To cut and sew and burn and mend so he wouldn't lose too much blood, so he wouldn't go mad with pain when the poppy milk faded, so he wouldn't wish his whole body had gone to the grave with his leg…
Then there was light.
Light shining on the main wound, from where the necrosis spread, light healing skin, tissue, blood vessels, light healing everything.
Tilda dropped the unused scalpel, astonished. She reached for the formerly wounded leg, touching the healed skin in wonder. A small scar was all that was left, the size a regular arrow point would leave if properly tended. The skin was warm, yet not feverish, the abundant leg hair feeling rough yet nice to her touch. The leg of a healthy male, and she didn't cut it off.
The light faded, and Tilda was startled by the patient's voice as he reached out to touch her fingers.
"You cannot be her… She is far away… She…she is far, far away from me."
The young woman stared, overtaken by the joy of seeing her patient so healthy, yet, what was he talking about?
"She walks in starlight… in another world. It was just a dream..."
If those words were some kind of explanation, they failed in the purpose of enlightening her. Tilda took the hand that just grazed her fingers and brought it up to her lips, whishing she had some kind of magic to heal her patient, not only from the bodily pain, but also from the sadness that lingered in his eyes.
"Do you think she could have loved me?"
How could she answer to those pleading eyes but with the truth?
"I'm sure she did. This I promise you."
"You cannot be her."
It was a statement, yet the unbelieving statement of someone who faces a paradox. And this paradox Tilda felt in her bones, in her soul, and knew it was true.
"And yet, I am."
His eyes almost watered, lips quivering with emotions too pure to be translated in words. Tilda bent down to fulfil her promise, even if it was about the love of someone else – and yet, herself.
Their lips touched.
There was light.
Light, spreading from where their bodies made contact, engulfing them whole, sending shockwaves of the purest of feelings all around them, shaking leaves and rolling clouds, making even the very bones of Middle-earth to sigh.
Until, of course, an elf had to bother them.
"Don't kiss the patient, just throw a plate!"
"What?"
"We must fight the orcs. Wake up!"
=^.^=
Tilda left her confused dream to stare to an overanxious elf hovering over her face. Exhaustion had overtaken her, but the call to fight won over.
"Where?" She whispered.
"Where what?"
"Where are the orcs?"
"Everywhere, last I checked." Legolas helped her to stand up, Kíli's shoulder a steady support. "We're moving again, you were too deeply asleep so we woke you up."
"Oh." Realization downed, depressing. "Of course. How're you feeling?"
"Lots of cramps, but no seizure while you slept."
"He forgot to mention ice and fire battle his body decided to war against him."
"Thank you very much, Kíli, for spilling the beans."
"You thing our favourite healer wouldn't find it out soon enough?"
Soon they were steered through the forest, feet more or less able to comply to the fast rhythm their captors demanded. Their last attempt to flee had been rewarded with whips to their legs, and their clothes clung to their skin by the dried blood.
But they would try again. The moment wasn't preset, it could be anytime along the night, or during the short respite the orcs allowed themselves during the brighter hours of day; anytime, if they only perceived the minimal chance of success.
No matter how broken elf, human and dwarf were, one thing was certain: they would try to escape again.
=^.^= =^.^= =^.^= =^.^=
More Notes:
Mizz Alec Volturi, thank you so much, I hope you liked this one.
The Other Writer Girl, Bard doesn't have a clue, as he didn't actually tell her about the marriage. And sorry (not sorry!), they won't have a break in the near future…
Celebrisilweth, Mustard Lady, sometimes I think Tilda is the more mature in the trio, as because of her shorter lifespan she knows she must make things right at once.