"Out of the way!" I bark at the servants hurrying through the halls. I carry Dís in my arms; despite her stout stature, she is surprisingly quite light.
The guards at the front gate let me in without question, and though I had caught a few confused glances shared between them (no doubt about how I had managed to get out in the first place), I ignore them.
Finally reaching the hospital wing, I set Dís down on one of the beds and start calling out orders. The shocked healers watch the dwarf with quiet disdain, but a glare from me sends most of them running off to obey my commands. Whipping off my weapons and tossing them into a corner, I grab an apron and fasten it around my waist, scurrying to the dwarf's side. The healers I had ordered to bring supplies now come back, bustling in with warm water and various herbs. Their faces are calm as they hand me the equipment, hands steady.
The process does not go by without difficulty, despite all the help I have. The moon is already on the rise when I finally deliver the second of her two boys. I hand him to his mother, the small tuft of dark hair on his head constrasting his golden-haired brother. Dís holds them closely against her chest, a tired but bright smile on her face, and she mouthes a small 'thank you' to me. I return her smile and then dismissing the rest of the healers, head out of the room to give the new mother a little privacy.
~~~
Leaning against the wall of the hallway, I wipe down my bloodied hands with a damp washcloth. Despite Dís' request for a little time alone with her boys, I had decided to remain right outside the door to the healers wing. Although the healers had assisted me in every way they could, they hadn't seemed very happy when I dismissed them, even if my scowl had them quickly scurrying to preoccupy themselves elsewhere. I would not pretend that I did not notice the distasteful looks most of them had on their faces as they worked.
I was not ignorant of the deeply-rooted prejudice against dwarves in much Thranduil's realm. Of course, the feud between the two races has existed for over a millennia, but while Rivendell and Lothlòrien have become a little more accepting of the dwarves, Mirkwood has not. Though the exact reason why evaded me.
And so, I sit like a guard dog at the entrance to the healers wing, even if I don't know exactly what kind of trouble I might run into.
Dipping my cloth into a small washbasin I had brought out of the room with me, I furiously scrub at my nails, trying to clean the blood that had dried underneath them.
I am thoroughly exhausted but I don't stop. I know all too well what my mind will wander to if it is not preoccupied with the task in front of me. And I can't bring myself to think about what comes next. Not yet.
"Celé."
The soft voice echoes down the dimly-lit hall, halting my furious scrubbing. I expect my heart to leap at the sight of the blond elf approaching me, but whether from exhaustion or my own willpower, nothing stirs within my chest.
He comes to a slow halt in front of me, the hallway silent save for the light plinking of droplets of water as they fall from the cloth back into the basin placed in my lap. His eyes seem to flare as they study me, trying to convey many thoughts but not being able to form the words to express even one.
Finally, he speaks.
"You came back."
For a few moments I do nothing except watch those flickering blue eyes, but then I dip my head into a sullen nod, returning my gaze to my hands.
"I had no choice." I expect my words to come out bitter, but no emotion colors my voice.
He waits for me to continue, but I say nothing.
"Was it worth it?"
That snaps my gaze back up to his. But theres no anger, no prejudice, darkening his eyes. Just a simple curiousity.
"To you," he murmurs, holding my gaze. "Was it worth it to you?"
My heart stumbles, and I lower my gaze back to my hands in my lap as I contemplate the question, guilt clouding my thoughts.
"I considered it," I bite out. "Staying in the forest, trying to help her there instead."
The words echo in my head, thick with shame that settles like a stone in my chest.
"But she wouldn't have made it." My voice is hollow as I stare at the blood drying on my hands. "I knew she wouldn't have. And no matter of elf, man, or dwarf, my father raised a healer."
Legolas offers no words, but when I turn my heavy gaze back up to him, his eyes are sad.
"Could you have done it?" I whisper to him. "Could you have left it up to chance like that?"
He is silent for a few moments and I watch his eyes as he struggles with the question. But finally, his eyes clear and lowers his head.
"No."
And somehow, I know he speaks the truth.
We slip into a comfortable silence, and I return my gaze to the reddish water of the basin, scrubbing blood from my fingers. At some point, Legolas sits down next to me but I barely notice. I scrub at my hands for a few more silent minutes before giving up and dropping the cloth back into the tainted water with a frustrated sigh. Letting my hands dangle off the basins edge, I lean back, resting my head against the cool wall and staring into the dark.
The seconds tick by in silence that is only interrupted by the distant sounds of footsteps as servants begin to turn in for the night.
Finally, I murmur, "I cannot leave again."
Out of the corner of my eye I see Legolas look over to me and I continue, "My chance has passed me by. I will not be able to sneak out again."
It is quiet for a few moments but then his soft voice replies, "I know."
Hearing him confirm it makes it seem all the more final. I blink back the tears that prick at the corner of my eyes but can't stifle the shaky sob that jumps out of my throat. I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself but it's no use. An ache begins to grow in my chest. Frustration, grief, uncertainty, they all weigh down on my chest, compressing me from the inside until I feel as thought I can barely breathe. A single tear slips down my face, and its salty taste against my lips snaps me back into reality.
Crying is not going to solve anything, Celé.
I angrily swipe the tear away, irritated with my own vulnerability. Leaning forward and picking up the soaked cloth again, I begin attacking the blood on my hands with renewed insistence.
I don't get too far before someone is gently prying the cloth from my fingers, stilling the furious motion of my hands with his own.
"Celé, stop."
His voice is soft, lifting my eyes from the wash basin to the figure now kneeling in front of me.
"You're exhausted," he murmurs, his eyes full of concern. He gestures to my hands with a small nod of his chin."Let me do it."
I'm too drained to offer any resistance so I don't pull back when he moves to dip my right hand into the water. The pads of his fingers are rough but soothing as they gently scrub at the dried blood, slowly washing away the stain and with it, the worries pressing down on my mind. His touch is like fire on ice, sending sparks up my arms and throughout my body. My eyes flit between his face and his hands as he works, and he occaisonally catches my eye, my heart stumbling at the small smile he gives me.
An eternity seems to pass before he finishes, patting my raw hands dry. I quickly withdraw them, clenching them tightly as if to dispell the feeling of his skin against mine but to no avail. The phantom touch of his fingers tingles against my palms where the skin meets empty air, now cold without his warmth, the sensation invading every part of my mind. For all the slight touches we'd shared in the past month, I never realized what the touch of his hand really felt like. Now, with the cool air tingling against my empty palms, I recall it to be quite rough, hardened by the many calluses along his fingers. And yet, also surprisingly gentle, and sweet.
My mind wanders involuntarily to the previous night, to my sudden outburst with the King. And to that moment in the hall right after, those rough-but-gentle fingers trailing the line of my cheek, lifting my face to his-
My cheeks grow warm at my own racing thoughts and then the image is gone as swiftly as it came and I blink, shaking my head softly.
He'd nearly kissed me twice now. Last night I had backed out before anything could happen but if he comes close again... I can feel my restraint slipping. If he did it again, I do not know if I would even try to stop it.
I'm suddenly overly conscious of every movement of his body seated next to mine, every shift of his boots on the ground, every tap of his fingers against the leather vambraces strapped onto his forearms.
But as the moments stretch on in silence, I find my body cannot keep up with the eagerness of my heart as my eyelids begin to droop and my breath begins to slow.
"You should get some sleep."
The suddenness of his voice in the silence shakes away my drowsiness.
I glance over to him, shaking my head. "I can't, I have to-"
He cuts me off, with a small smile. "Don't worry, I'll watch her. Just-" A flicker of concern darkens his eyes. "Just try to get some rest."
I open my mouth to protest but exhaustion wins out and I find myself nodding instead. My eyelids droop and the last thing I remember before drifting off is the comforting weight of a blanket being draped over me and the brief touch of a callused hand to my cheek, and yet so light, that I may have imagined it.