Collection of One-Shots

》a privilege to witness

The war between Asgard and Alfheim raged on for days, the causalities continued to climb on both sides, but out of respect for the week's day of rest the fighting had halted. Each army retrieved the wounded and dead, respects would be paid and they would have a proper burial. Arielle scoured the land, the open battlefields, the destroyed woodlands that was so sacred to her people, the was the gathering place for the Feast of Starlight and now it was desolate, scorched and weeping, but they were close to victory and with enough deep magic it could be restored.

The majority of the bodies had been removed from the woods and returned to the proper nationality, but the ground was stained with Asgardian and Elven blood, and that pained Arielle when she thought back to the chance that she could have prevented the slaughter of her people. After all the prince wasn't that displeasing, certainly his arrogance would grow old but it would be an adventure to tame him. Her thoughts were broken as she came upon the flowing stream, the melodic and clear waters rushed by, humming a song that was serene, the way the Elven lands were supposed to be. Not ravaged by a war, or threatened by destruction at the hands of people who were brutes and unappreciative of what the land could tell them and provide.

Her long bow was in hand, the quiver of arrows slung across her back, a sword sheathed at her hip; she looked every bit of the warrior she was, and at a closer inspection the stamp of the pommel of her blade would also detail that she was royalty, a princess amongst her people, but a fighter in the ranks of their army. She searched for the wounded, her eyes had grown weary to the fighting and the bloodshed, but still she carried on. The stream was swift the tinge of blood in the water quickly faded, washing downstream so diluted that the waters remained pristine.

Further down the bank she walked until a limp body came into view, hastily she picked up the skirts of her robes and focused in on the figure. He was much too bulky to be an elf, Asgardian for sure, she nearly turned her back to retreat but the blonde hair, frayed and bloodied along with the silver and red fixings on his armor gave way to his identity, and though it would have been easier for her to leave him, she could not bring herself to do it.

Gingerly she knelt down at his side, looking closely at the two arrows that were lodged within his torso and the gaping cut that stretched across his face, from temple to jaw; momentarily she wished she was the one that could have put it there. But it was his vulnerability in a wounded state that made Arielle want to help. His eyes, which she had known to be bluer than the waters, were closed, his chest slowly rising and falling beneath the heavy armor. She cursed the Asgardians for leaving him, honorable people would not have done that, especially to the crown prince, but they had abandoned him, essentially condemning him to death.

"Thor." She whispered his name, resting her hand on his shoulder, but there was no response. Much to her convenience there was a bush of feverfew mixed in with the shrubbery near the bank of the stream, the white and yellow flowers giving the healing herb away. Quickly Arielle stripped herself of weaponry and grabbed a bunch of the leafy stems, carrying them back over to the unconscious princeling. Carefully she removed the pieces of armor, searching for the buckles and ties until he was bared.

His eyes flashed open when she moved to extract the arrowheads, but then fluttered back shut. Barely any blood seeped from the wounds, and his face had already scabbed over, it would make her job of healing him go much smoother and cause less exhaustion on her part. Arielle stripped the leaves of the feverfew and scrunched them within her hands, closing her eyes and spoke the language of her own people. Elvish.

Menno o nin na hon 

i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth.

Thor swore he heard the voice of an angel, perhaps even a Valkyrie come to take him away to the great halls of Valhalla, but all he was certain of was the pain in his stomach and the throbbing sensation that overtook his face.