17 and Elrond for that prompt list?
17 ⧽. carefully bandaging the other’s wounds, even if it’s just a tiny cut
Elrond has always been a capable healer and a capable warrior. He had even proven himself to be a capable leader, when the land needed his wisdom. You knew this well about your love, in all the years you have spent at his side.
It does not stop you from fretting when he comes home from patrol, banged and bruised with a nasty cut across his forehead.
“Do not fret,” is the first thing he says when he dismounts his horse and sees you are there to greet him. He knows you too well, and knows how he must look, covered in blood. “It is far better than it looks.”
He speaks in that gentle way of his, reassuring and certain in a way that is always soothing. A leader before he was a warrior, and a healer before he was a leader, he had long mastered the skill of speaking in a way that cemented authority and soothed all who would listen.
You know the elf beyond all the roles he’s ever played, and so you do not listen, and drag him as politely as you can to the nearest available medical room when he insists on staying to debrief and send out the next patrol.
Despite his protests, he follows without much fuss, and is patient as you sit him down and gather a bowl of water and a cloth, salve for his wound, and a roll of bandages.
You kneel down next to him, wet the cloth and wring it out, and frown as you start to dab at the worst of the grime around his forehead. “You’re still bleeding.”
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” he reminds you. “Truly, it is not as bad as it looks.”
“But it is worse than it could be,” you counter. You dip the cloth back into the water and squeeze it out again, internally wincing as the water turns red. “Why was this not bandaged before now?”
At that, he looks sheepish - an uncommon look on the Lord of Rivendell. “There were others injured,” he begins to explain. You finish his sentence for him with a sigh.
“And you would not use them on yourself if others had the need.”
You wish you could chide him for such selflessness. You wish he could see you how you see him now, his face half covered in blood with bruises blossoming across the cheek that isn’t stained red. You almost wish he wasn’t such a devout healer to put all others above himself - but you don’t, because if he wasn’t who he was you wouldn’t love him nearly half as much.
Once the wound is cleaned, you inspect it, deciding on if it needs sutures. He does not interrupt nor provide his own input, trusting you with his well being despite his own mastery and knowledge. It truly is much better than it had seemed - with the old blood rinsed out and the grime wiped away, it is far more clean a cut than you had first assumed.
You end up slathering the cut in the salve and wrapping it with bandages. You’re careful to keep his hair out of the sticky salve, and wrap his head without tangling hair into the bandages.
Your hands remain steady. Certain and calm, as you have learned from him, proving yourself to be capable when holding his health in your hands. Shaky hands are not the reason he reaches up to hold your wrist when you grab the wet cloth again to clean the rest of his face.
“I will be alright,” he promises. His thumb rubs against the pulse in your wrist, and something wound tight inside of you loosens, like a peg turning to lower the tuning of a string.
“I know,” you sigh out. “I know. Just - let me have this. Please.”
You need to wipe the rest of the blood from his face with warm water and a cloth. You need to bandage his wounds and ensure the binding is tight. You need the process of stitching him back together to reassure yourself that he is truly alright, alive and healing well under the palms of your hands.
He lets you go, and sits patiently as you wipe away the rest of the blood that had dripped down his face. He holds still for you, even as you brush the cloth over the bruises that sit high on his cheek, wiping the grime away from the tender skin as carefully as you can.
The more you clean him up, the longer he sits under the gentle care of your hands, the more you both relax. His eyes flutter closed at some point during your routine, his shoulders dropping even as you rub cream into what must be painful bruises.
You would keep him this way forever if you could. Safe from all harm, in the quiet halls of healing. You would give him time to sit still, peace and quiet until his skin stitched back together and his bruises faded from a splotchy blue to a faded yellow.
A distant bell chimes somewhere in the valley, and Elrond opens his eyes, breaking the spell. A capable elf your love was, and that meant duty was a weight he would never drop off of his shoulders.
So you relinquish your control, trusting him once more with the life you cherish more than your own. “You’re clear,” you tell him, feeling much more certain about it.
He carefully inspects your work as you tidy, long fingers running along the lines of the bandages. You busy yourself with re-capping the salves you used as he stands, as not to reach for him once more.
It does not stop him from reaching for you. The front of his armor is still tacky with blood when he pulls you close, but you find you don’t care as he kisses you. He tastes like healing herbs and summertime, and the rush of him and his love is enough to have you forgiving the distant chiming of bells that demand his attention elsewhere.
You didn’t mind the demands of duty, so long as he came to you at the end of the day to put him back together again.
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