Work Text:
Dusk settled upon the battlefield. The banners, once proud and defiant, hung limp in the failing light, their tattered edges whispering against the wind. The ground, churned and scarred by countless footsteps, bore the weight of war’s brutal passage. Mud streaked with blood, broken blades half-buried in the mire, the lifeless and the dying left in its wake.
Through the fading echoes of steel upon steel, Thranduil moved with the tempered grace of one who had seen too much. The weight of battle pressed upon his shoulders, a dull ache settling into his limbs, though he kept it hidden behind a veneer of quiet command. Blood streaked his armor, its dull crimson catching in the last light of day – some of it his own, most of it not.
He should have pressed on. His father would be rallying those who still had the strength to stand, gathering what remained of their forces. Oropher would expect his son at his side, would look for him among the survivors. And yet, something caught his eye. A flicker of movement, swift but purposeful.
A healer, kneeling in the dirt, her hands steady despite the carnage around her.
Dark hair fell loose from hastily woven braids, a smudge of grime marking her brow. Blood marred her fingers, dried in stark contrast against her skin, yet she worked undeterred, pressing fresh linen against a wounded Elf’s side. There was no hesitation in her hands, no wavering in her expression. Only quiet determination, the kind that neither steel nor sorrow could shake.
Thranduil paused. He had seen many tend the wounded in the wake of battle, had watched Elven healers weave their practiced skill like delicate art. But this woman - mortal, young - moved with an unrelenting certainty, as if she alone could challenge the weight of despair and refuse to yield.
Then, as if sensing his gaze, she looked up.
Unlike most mortals, she did not avert her eyes in deference. She did not bow, did not stumble over words in the presence of a prince. Instead, she rose swiftly to her feet and closed the distance between them, her expression unreadable, save for the flicker of assessment in her gaze.
“Are you wounded?” she asked, the words direct and unembellished.
A part of him bristled at her boldness. He was a son of kings, heir to an ancient line. But another part, perhaps the part still raw from the day’s slaughter, was almost relieved by her lack of reverence. No empty courtesies, no fawning. Just a question, spoken with the clear-eyed resolve of one who had seen far worse than a wounded warrior.
She glanced pointedly at his arm, where his sleeve had been torn and darkened with blood. Only then did he feel the lingering throb in his shoulder. Before he could dismiss it, she was already reaching into her pouch, retrieving a small jar of ointment.
“This will sting,” she warned, and before he could object, she pressed the salve to the wound with practiced precision.
A sharp burn flared beneath her touch, but Thranduil did not flinch. He had endured far worse. Still, for a fleeting moment, the battlefield blurred into something distant, inconsequential. The weight of war, the cries of the dying, the looming dread of what came next. All of it receded as her deft fingers worked, swift and sure, binding the wound with clean linen.
And then, as quickly as she had come, she stepped back.
The bandage was tight, expertly tied. No wasted movement, no flourish. Just efficiency. Just honesty.
She offered him a brief nod, as if satisfied, and then turned away already moving to the next patient.
Thranduil watched her go. He could not recall the last time a mortal had met his gaze without fear or supplication. Even now, as she vanished into the growing dusk, her presence lingered like the whisper of something unspoken.
Rolling his shoulder, he tested the bandage. It held firm.
The weight of duty returned, settling upon him once more. Oropher. He needed to find his father.
Yet as he stepped forward, the healer’s steady hands and unwavering gaze lingered in his mind. There had been something in her manner. Firm kindness, perhaps, or the quiet resilience of one who did not flinch in the face of grief that commanded his respect.
And though he did not yet know it, this moment, this fleeting exchange beneath the dying light, would be the last he spent as a son before learning that he was now, and forevermore, a king.
For now, though, he walked on, carrying with him not only the shadow of what was to come, but the unexpected memory of a mortal woman’s healing touch.