Daughter Of Lórien || Book 1||

Ch 32 ~ Return to Mirkwood

"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.