365

mar.9.22

The elf prince's hand was tied to the trunk of a tree, at the wrist; the dwarfs needed him as a hostage, in order to get close to the king. His other wrist was raw from the rope, and he promised not to do anything if they just let his wrist breathe. The rope had drawn blood, his skin aching.

The elf watched the dwarfs around him as they settled for the night, setting up their camp. His weapons were taken from him when he was captured – not by the dwarfs themselves, but by the strange creature they had with them. There was also a hobbit with them, but the creature was not a hobbit. It was a little taller, wore heeled boots, and had rounded ears. The creature was a girl, at the very least.

The elf scanned the crowd of dwarfs, preparing supper and gathering supplies. Soon enough, he saw the girl creature; she was walking toward the elf, carrying an armload of things. Once at the elf, she knelt down to the sand, and carefully unloaded her arms. She held a small teacup out to the elf; he looked from it, to the girl, and back again.

She looked at him. "It's chamomile," she said, answering his confused looks.

He accepted the pristine cup and took a sip; the floral tea warmed him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She had a cup of tea of her own, but the cup itself was chipped and worn, nearly broken. The elf noticed this, but said nothing.

The girl sat on the sand, and took her boots off, setting them aside. Returning to the items from her armload, she retrieved two wooden mugs and stood up; she walked a few feet away to the bushes, picking something from them. She came back and sat down, setting the mugs in front of her. Using a clean rock that had been wrapped in a scrap of fabric, she squished whatever she'd put in the mugs. Satisfied they were squished enough, she set the now-stained rock on its fabric, and retrieved a bottle from her items. She uncorked it, pouring pale bubbly liquid into the cups. Once done, she corked the bottle, and offered a mug to the elf prince. Again, he looked at it cautiously.

"It's ale with mashed wild berries," she said then. "We don't have any wine, and I thought I could improvise."

The elf accepted the mug, setting it beside him as he held his tea.

She took a sip of her own, before grabbing a small wooden bowl from her armload of items; again, she stood, and went to the bushes again. When she returned, she held a bowl full of berries to the elf. He accepted it cautiously, looking back at her.

The girl sat, and sipped her berry ale. "I thought you'd like some berries," she said then, leaning forward and stealing a fresh raspberry from the bowl before sitting back. "They're perfectly ripe." She popped the raspberry in her mouth to emphasize. "Supper's not ready yet."

"Why are you being kind to me?" the elf asked slowly, cautiously.

She looked at him; her eyes were grey in shade, but a light grey, like shale. "I'm making sure you're fed and have drink."

Her eyes fell to the elf's wrist; if the action reminded her of a task she was to do, she turned back to her items and retrieved a pouch before walking on her knees toward the elf. Sitting beside him, she opened the pouch. Gently, she turned his wrist over, the firelight catching the rawness of the wound.

She frowned at it, digging in her pouch for a small glass vial of clear liquid and a folded rag. She placed the rag under his wrist to catch any excess. She opened the bottle. "This might hurt." She looked at him. "Ready?"

The elf watched her carefully. "If you must."

Slowly, she poured a small splash onto the wound; it fizzed on contact. The elf clenched his jaw, and his fingers made into a fist.

"I'm sorry," she said, gently dabbing the wound with the rag.

He watched her. "I'm considered a prisoner to these dwarfs, none of them would even look at me, yet you're tending to my wounds and feeding me, and you say you're sorry?" He exhaled then. "You're treating me like an old friend, and you're sorry?"

She looked at him. "I meant I'm sorry to cause you more pain."

"Through tending to my wounds, ones the dwarfs inflicted," he added.

She capped the clear liquid, and exchanged it in her pouch for a green one. "I told Thorin the ropes were too tight and he didn't believe me." She opened the green bottle, and poured the slow-moving substance onto the wound; it didn't sting, and smelled earthy. She gently tapped it into the wound, letting it dry on his skin. The green substance closed the open raw wound; his skin felt soothed and less pained.

She looked to the wrist tied to the tree. Seeing her eyes, he showed her it. "This one's not as bad."

She loosened the rope, and tucked his sleeve under it to lessen the pressure. Satisfied, she returned back to her spot in front of him on the sand, setting the pouch with her boots. She sipped at her ale.

"You're not like them," the elf said then. "Not only in your actions, but.... You're not a dwarf. Or a hobbit, like your one companion."

She shook her head. "No, I'm not a dwarf or a hobbit. And I'm not a warrior, or ruthless, or... anything like that." She held the mug in both of her hands. "I'm human. And I got a bit scared when they'd captured you, and tied your hands. That scared me."

"Did it?"

"Yes."

"Why?" He watched her carefully.

She met his eyes. He could see her cheeks redden in the firelight, her jaw clench to suppress emotions. "It scared me because I don't like seeing anybody get hurt. And you got hurt."

"You don't know me, who I am, anything about me."

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. You're a living being. And seeing you get hurt scared me." Her voice broke at the end of her sentence. She looked down to the sand.

"I'm a hostage, a prisoner," he said then. "In an operation like this, aren't I supposed to be treated bad, be bruised and bloody, nearly kept alive – so that I may give up information, valuable to your company?"

"Stop that." She looked at him. "You're living. You're not some object to be used and barely kept alive. I don't care what the others say about you. You deserve life. And to be treated good, fed well, wounds treated." She exhaled slowly. "Maybe my believing that makes me a bad warrior, too much heart. I don't care; I don't like it when people get hurt for stupid reasons."

The elf smiled at her. "Humans are a myth amongst my kind. Spoken as though they're some mortal God – nobody's ever met one. And they're more mortal than hobbits." He paused, meeting her eyes. "But they make up for it with compassion."

She was quiet a moment, considering his words. "Maybe you're right."

"I believe I am."

It was then that supper was announced. The girl set her mug in the sand and stood up. She smiled before going to the food. The elf watched her in the crowd of dwarfs. He made no attempt to flee, though he had the opportunity. Looking toward the remainder of the items she had, she saw his two knives that had been taken from him – the ones she managed to quietly take while he had an arrow pointed at the one dwarf. She'd also managed to snag his arrows from his quiver; they were there, too, a scrap of fabric tied around them to hold them together. His bow also lay closeby.

Taking his eyes from all of his taken weapons, and the split opportunity to escape, he found the girl. She returned a few minutes later, carrying two steaming bowls of food, and four large dinner buns on a plate. She passed one of the bowls to the elf, who accepted it. It smelled good.

"Rabbit stew, and Bombur's wild chive buns," she said as she set the plate down between them. "I had to sweetalk Bofur into giving me four of them." She sat down, gently blowing on a spoonful of hot stew.

The elf took a spoonful of his stew; it was well made, and delicious. He leaned forward and took one of the buns. He looked to the girl. "Thank you. For being so kind."

She looked back at him, somewhat surprised by his words. "You're welcome. But I'm just doing what I should, because it's right." She smiled at him. "Now, eat up; if we're lucky, I can snag some brandy from Balin before he falls asleep."