365

apr.17.22

I held her against me; I felt like the tighter she was against my heart, the better things would be.

She was ill, even I knew that. But what she was ill of eluded me. She was a fragile human – something there is not any of in Mirkwood. Humans are mortal; mortality in itself is a mystery to me and my kin. She was shaking, her skin cold, her lips nearly blue. I'd found her out in the cold, dragging herself out of the river, while pulling a goblin arrow from her leg.

As fragile as humans are said to be, it would be a miracle if she lived until morning.

She clung to me as I carried her to my chambers. I could feel eyes on me from elves of the court, though I ignored them. Once in my room, I set her on the bed, making sure her head was elevated. She'd fallen unconscious during the journey here, and she was shaking in her chills.

"You should have left her," I hear my father say behind me, as he steps into the room. He crossed over to the other side of the bed, looking down at the girl. "She has lost blood, and her heart is failing."

I pulled every blanket I could find, and placed them around her torso. "I could not do such a thing." Her blood clung to the room around me. Tearing a shred of fabric, I tied a strip of blanket at her thigh, above the arrow wound. "Fetch me something to clean this out with; she was struck with a goblin arrow."

"The prince ordering the king," my father said in amusement. "How quaint." He didn't move, and his eyes stayed on the girl's face. "She will be dead before daybreak, you realize. Humans are not meant for wounds of this measure. You do know this."

"No." I met my father's eyes. "She must not die."

"Why not?" he asked. "She's mortal. She is weak. She is nothing like you or I. She is the decay that others grow upon. Why must she not perish as she should? As the Old Gods have said to be so?"

"She cannot die!" My voice echoed around the room. "She cannot die." I fetch water from a basin in the room adjacent, and herbs from the plant at the window. Together in a stone bowl, they create a paste; I know the mixture helps with battle wounds on elvish skin.

My father watches as I mash the mixture. As I kneel to apply it to the girl's wound, I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Wait." He disappears a moment, swiftly coming back with a crystal vial of blue liquid. He pours a few drops into the mash. "There."

"What is it?" I ask.

"Something that will help her."

Exhaling, I apply the herbal paste to the wound; in unconsciousness, the girl's bare toes curl.

I hear fabric being torn behind me; as soon as the mash had been laid, my father hands me strips of torn sheets. "Bind her wounds before the salve dries."

I do as he says, gently tying each strip of fabric in a knot, at the outside of her thigh. Once all fabric pieces had been laid, their ties lined her skin.

My father pulls forth the blankets atop of her, covering her legs. "She needs rest. You must stay with her. Once she wakes, she will be fearful; she will need a familiar face to reassure her."

"Can you promise me she will wake?" I ask back.

He nods once. "She will."

"Whatever happened to "she will not make it to daybreak"?"

"Thanks to you, she has a fighting chance." Before I could add a comment, he left the room.

I watch her; he breathing seems to have evened, her lips aren't as blue, and she looks peaceful.

Gently lifting her head, I slide behind her, holding her small frame in my arms. Once her cold skin met warm body, she curled against me, her head against my chest. Colour was beginning to return to her mortal cheeks.

She will live. And for that, I am grateful.