(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 45 - Elven Healing

Mannish Guest hall
This is a great room with many curtained areas and a large fountain on one end and a small firepit on the other. Chairs are stacked and a linen closet holds enough blankets and sheets for a small army. Tables and chairs are placed comfortably for conversation and discussion. The decor has an unusual amount of wood for the inside of the forest, and great ships are carved hanging from a ceiling that is invisible... The sound of the fountain reminds you of the open sea.
Contents:
Faengor
Amano
Rowaen
White Pavillion(#19222OeM)
Obvious exits:
Out leads to Ambassadorial Meeting Hall.

[Amano(#30032)]
As though held by the tinkling of the ever-flowing fountain in this hall, by some fair memory of the sea stirred by the music of its waters, Amano sits in a chair at its rim, gazing out through the hall to the threshold of the room to something unseen. His eyes are half-lidded with sleep, one arm lax and folded over his lap holding some book or journal, that had on the journey been hidden for as far as they had traveled. On the verge of waking he seems, but by the steady, slowing bob of his head and his stillness almost fallen to sleep.

The bandages that he had hidden from the elvish eyes of the visitor earlier are visible now in the gap of his open cloak, bound about his shoulder and ribs but for that he seems content and unmarred else, and at peace.
[Faengor(#18480)] Serene, noble steps resound trough the hall as Leather boot connects with marble tiles and trough the doorway the grim Faengor apears, healing utilities at hand. Over his shoulder, clean linnen is draped. In his right hand he carries a bowl of warm water, in the other he carries an empty bowl made of dried clay. A small triturator rests in the bowl.

Grimly, Faengor turns to Amano, fixing his stern eyes on him as his steps take him towards the wounded squire. "Good day Amano." The Sergeant-at-Arms speaks soberly upon arrival.

[Amano(#30032)]
Almost jerked awake by the words of the Nimothan the Blue-Squire makes a visible effort to wake, nearly dropping the book as he tries to stand. The sudden pain of his wounds induces a wince, and he has to settle for a nod, pensively rubbing at the bandages with a tentative hand. "A good day, Faengor. What is it that..oh." The drowsy youth shakes his head. "It seems the others have need of healing, if that is the purpose for which you carry those implements.. I hope their wounds have been tended to." He eyes the bowl of water and attempts to once more rise from his chair.

[Faengor(#18480)] "Remain seated." Faengor speaks calmly, yet with a stern and commanding voice. For a few moments the Errand Rider's eyes trail about the wounded squire and finally Faengor takes a step forward, setting the bowls and fresh linnen on various places around the bed. Once done, the Errand Rider smiles faintly, and bends himself towards Rowaen ere speaking, "let me see those wounds."

[Amano(#30032)]
Where the young Isilrim had not blenched from battle or the blood brought forth by an axe, he pales slightly, though perhaps more from reluctance than real fear. His grey eyes dart past Faengor to the door, in their expression seeking a means of escape, but as there was little choice to make...stilling himself, and swallowing what protest or other words he might have wished to speak, he resigns himself to his doom, pulling away at the bandages that are wound about his shoulder and part of his back. He visibly attempts to stifle a yelp as the cloth pulls away from the still fresh gash, that trails from his shoulder down his back in a deep score.

The bandage bound about his ribs proves a tad more difficult, a process accompanied by mutters and oaths that surely hadn't come from the vocabulary of one born to a noble house. Dropping the bandage upon his lap, a bloody mess, Amano manages to grin faintly, though his own eyes hold more concern and worry in their depths than humour.. "Not too neat, I'm afraid..but then learning how to dodge a battle-axe is not a task that makes for neatness."

[Faengor(#18480)] In silence, Faengor begins to examine the wounds, muttering a few dissaproving words under his breath once in a while and blowing wind trough his nose. Yet no words are directed towards Amano, ignoring the squire's excuses as the healer's gruff hands move about the wounds with care, examining them closely and carefully. Finally after several moments of examination, the Errand rider takes a step back and diagoses, "Nasty wounds Amano, espescially those in your back. Aren't squires thought in the art of combat?"

Without waiting for an answer to his rhetoric question, Faengor turns his back to amano and moves to a few tables were several herbs are arranged. "Broken bones and deep gashes. Knowing orcs you probably also run up an infection or two, if not from the axe it's from the dirt of Mirkwood." sadly Faengor shakes his head, and begins to search and collect several herbs.

[Amano(#30032)]
Bearing the inspection with only a set grimace, and not the yowling that might later accompany the treatment, Amano snorts lightly in response to the sergeant's words, the approximation of his injuries not at all to his liking. Grimly he shakes his head, obviously suppressing his dismay. "An infection..with the conditions we shall be traveling in, that might be disastrous. But I am glad for my arm...I nearly lost it to that last blow, and only with luck did it land on my shoulder instead. Pray tell it will not come to that..I do prize my shoulder highly," he jests, still lightly and with wry humour despite it all.

[Faengor(#18480)] Amano's humour falls on deaf ears. In all earnest and with focused eyes Faengor searches out the herbs and although the jesting words do reach him they are only met by frowns and arched brows as he searches out his herbs. Finally he speaks, with averted eyes, after having amassed his herbs. "I will be giving you a concotion of woundwort, boneset and yarrow. Your wounds are serious and I am convinced that you have lost a great amount of blood. Furthermore your bones are in a bad state. I fear though, that your recovery may take a while."

Faengor smiles grimly and turns towards Amano with the herbs in his hands. "The preparation might take a while. So tell me of your distrous fight." Faengor speaks gruffly upon knacking the herbs with his fingers and throwing them in the bowl.

[Rowaen(#16595)] A soft grunt sudden comes, the source laying silent on a bed in the corner. There lays Rowaen, covered with blankets, keeping him warm. Drops of sweat glimmer on his forehead, still fever being the Blue Squire's part. A blink... and another, two blue eyes now peering about. More blinks follow, as if to focus his vision, apparently Rowaen still not freed from a clouded mind. Still peacefull his expression seems, glad tis here he lies, near his Gondorian brethren. No longer a captive of foul orcs, his wounds finally tended. The only visible bandage being the one surrounding his left shoulder. Surprised the lad eyes his arm, now carefully turning his head, gazing round. Unaware he was of being brought back to camp, his wounds being looked after, treated and bandaged. Still his consciousness he regained naught at that time. Only know, fellowship finding itself in Amon Thranduil, tis here the young lad awakens once more, clear his wondering of time past. And so, in this awakening state, tis then his eyes catch sight of Amano, being treated by a healer... Healer? Unbelief enters the reflection lying within the blue, recognizing now, the other man as his brother! As if disturbed by such a fact, the young Nimothan closes his eyes again, not surpressing a weary grunt...

[Amano(#30032)]
"Great comfort indeed you offer, Faengor of Minas Tirith.." chuckles Amano dryly, despite the direness of the other man's prognosis, his hawk-keen profile tight with contained mirth, as though in lieu of courage he preferred laughter to drive him to forget his pain. "I might have healed well under your care wert I wounded earlier! But as for the fight..twas nothing to be proud of. I merely dealt the orc two blows, and she gave me these prizes for my effort, and might have cloven my arm from my shoulder had the woodsman not interfered. A great blade wielded by the scrawniest creature can be in its own rather daunting." His lips quirk, though in a grimace, not a smile. "It was fortunate she did not turn her attentions to Foronwe, as he did try to attack her as well. A poor fight it is when two men cannot slay such a beast."

As a candle blown out by a sudden cold draft, his laughter ceases, vanishing into thoughtful silence. "It was well we won the day, but I have no love for such skirmishes."

[Faengor(#18480)] "So I see," Faengor remarks dryly, his attention diverted between Amano's story-telling and the herbs. With extreme care, the Errand rider smashes the herbs into power with the triturator, sprinkling some warm water or an infusion of certain herbs in the earthen bowl once in a while. "So tell me Amano, how was she able to deal you that blow you received in your back?" Faengor questions, though with half attention.

[Rowaen(#16595)] Silent Rowaen eyes the two, as Faengor continues his practices, Amano telling his tale. Yet still tis unbelief lying upon his expression, brows raised, apparently not used to see his elder brother as he sees him now. With his right hand he now tries to raise himself a bit, immediatly freezing with agony at the first attempt. Almost sad the Blue Squire ceases further tries, unwillingly resting his head again in the soft pillow. Lying so still, his eyes turn skywards, meeting the ceiling of the room. And so he apparently awaits his friend to end his tale, perhaps to know more of what happened on the day his comrads fought for his safety...

[Amano(#30032)]
The rough-haired youth attempts to crane his neck to get a view over his shoulder, where the deep cut travels in a jagged line down across one shoulderblade, the movement causing his jaw to clench slightly, though as ever his tone is wry and clear. "Ah, a poor badge that one will make. She was aiming to take my right arm off at the shoulder, and since moving my shield tore at my first wound, I attempted to dodge it instead, turning away. I nearly fell, however..snow makes for poor footing. I am afraid I proved a clumsy fool..so much for my standing guard over.." As if at a word his gaze is diverted to Rowaen, though he says naught, either having seen the other's movement and being unwilling to bring about any strife between the two brothers, or not having seen the other wake from his slumber at all.

[Rowaen(#16595)] "Still... t'would be a valiant clumsy fool to risk his life for another of his kin... an act not lightly forgotten, gratitude being held..."

Tis but a soft whisper, throat not cured entirely, words slighty hoarse, though more fluent then before. A whisper, it coming from the younger of the Nimothan.

[Faengor(#18480)] "She almost succeeded in cutting your arm off too, next time don't lose your shield or learn to fight without it" Faengor remarks dryly and with little emotions, grimacing as the poultice is finally finished. The bowl is slammed back on the table grimly and the triturator is set aside. "I will be --" Faengor stocks in his words and immediately turns his gaze to Rowaen, frowning deeply and arching his brows at his brother. "Indeed you should hold great gratitude to this squire Brother," Faengor speaks, with a slight sting in his words, "He was driven to near death."

Faengor scowls and huffs a puff of air trough his nose before turning back to his poultice and resumes his same, dry and analysing voice, "I will smear the poultice that I have created from the concottion of these herbs on some linnen and apply them to your wounds. They will sting on first contact and should itch a long time afterwards. Though I am sure you will resist the temptation to relieve the itching, correct?"

[Rowaen(#16595)] "So my words hold no truth for you?..." speaks Rowaen softly, "Am I so dazed to be naught aware of their valiance?" Saddly the head is shaken from the young lad, as if grieved by such a statement.

"Nay... they risked their dearest gift, one I hath almost lost myself," a faint smile curls around his lips, though not pleasant, still darkness prevailing in the memories seeming his, "Ironical, to act in a manner and be repaid in the same way..." If the lad was ready to speak more, he simply can not, for a flow of coughs leave his mouth, the squire's form for a moment disturbed in it's silence.

[Amano(#30032)]
The surprise alight in the grey eyes of Amano, at the whispered words of his friend, clear even though faint - is quickly veiled as the Sergeant speaks, saying no word as the two brothers hold converse. Aware of the tension in the air, he offers no biting comment or jest, quietly listening to the instructions voiced by the healer, though his fingers tightening on the book he holds belies his unease all the same. The tone of his words is inflectionless, yet not without an undercurrent of regret. "I would risk my life, yea, if I deemed the cause worthy. I am sorry if in combat I rendered myself a liability to the Company, and in need of healing, for which I am grateful. And yes..I will keep my hands away from my bandages, on my honor." He shakes his head ruefully, glancing at Rowaen as the other is wracked by coughs.

[Faengor(#18480)] "stupidity and zeal is often confused with valiance. There is no glory in charging off to a lost battle. " Faengor scowls, smearing the poultice on the wetted linnen which he had previously dipped in the heated water for a few moments. "You are indebted to every single man of this fellowship. They risked their lives for your stupidity. Yet, rest now, I shall talk to you later."

Shaking his head Faengor turns to Amano, carrying the smeared bandages with him. "Very well then, squire, rest still now and bite your teeth, I shall give you something afterwards to ease the pain so you can rest." Grimacing deeply, Faengor bends himself towards Amano, placing the lines of bandages next to him. Beginning with the Squire's back, Faengor uses his left arm to lift the squire and begins to replace the old bandages with the new ones.

[Amano(#30032)]
Where his speech had helped ease the discomfort of his wounds earlier, no words seem sufficient now, for Amano falls silent, his effort to keep still furrowing his brow. As the errand rider places the linen on the gaping wound, he bites back an exclamation, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a hiss that even he cannot seem to stop. "That doth sting," is all he mutters, weakly, grey eyes clouded over with pain. "But not nearly as bad as the bite of an orcish axe." His hands clench convulsively, tightening their grip on his book, determination in the set steel of his gaze, making no other outcry.

[Rowaen(#16595)] Dark mutterings leave the lips of the 'younger' brother, so gracefully titled as 'a fool'. Still some words are more clear...

"As if I would exspect some other reply coming from you... though it matters naught, you are always prejudiced towards me. So, please, leave this... -fool- to his 'stupidity' and bother naught to 'waste' time in speaking with such one as me.." sarcasm drips from those words, ending with another few growls. Still Rowaen seems to pay heed to at least a few of the words his brother speaks, eyes being closed, indeed rest being sought. Sleep comes over him, chest moved slightly...

[Faengor(#18480)] "Come now, bold squire, the sting couldn't be that bad." Faengor grins, giving the squire a faint smile as the last bandage is applied, gently lowering him back to his resting position before placing him back to his resting position and returning to his table. "I have prepared a tea with the extracts of feverfew. The herb is well known for it's painstilling capabilities and it will help you rest for I fear that should be your main duty for the next couple of days."

Grimacing slightly Faengor picks up the tea from the table he had placed it upon and walks towards Amano's bed, placing it next to him before reaching for a chair, pulling it close to the bed and seating himself on it. "Now, do you think you can raise yourself, or do you want me to help you?" Faengor questions, sternly?

[Amano(#30032)]
A slight smile passes fleetingly over Amano's lips before he manages to sit up by way of an answer, albeit slowly, shaking his head as if to clear away his pain. "Rest, when we are in the heart of another elven realm! What a shame, but I suppose I should attempt to rest to heal faster. I would not wish to leave upon a stretcher when I have yet full use of my legs!" He grins at that, his regard wandering once more to the doorway where the kingdom of Thranduil beckons beyond the threshold. "Aye..what have ye seen beyond yon door, Faengor? It was but a swift blur to me, our being brought hither, and I remember as much, if possible, as those who were brought here in their sleep!"

[Faengor(#18480)] "Nothing of importance," Faengor grumbles, bringing the cup of tea to Amano's lips, "KIng Thraduil knew nothing about the sword of Anarion." Faengor arches his brows and adds with a heavy, commanding tone, "Now drink and rest!" and the cup of tea is pressed against Amano's lips.

[Amano(#30032)]
A muffled protest before the squire is compelled to drink the herb tea, the news more bitter to him than the taste of the tea itself. A pause, as he gasps out after drinking, persisting, "Naught of it? But it should be in an elven-realm, and surely there are few others in Middle-earth. Lorien and Mirkwood being two...ill tidings, that is, if he knows nothing. And yet the lore speaks of a shard in an elf-realm."

[Faengor(#18480)] "Indeed," Faengor speaks with a grim voice, slowly raising from his seat after the cup is drunk, placing it next to him. "Which means we will have to find a way to the realm of Elrond, Imladris." A stern hand is stretched out towards Amano, forcing him back to a resting position in his bed. "Yet, rest now, questions will be answered later, you need your sleep."

[Amano(#30032)]
"Imladris.." Surprise lapses into shadow in the Isilrim's eyes, before he complies without a word of protest in reclining, his drowsiness earlier now returning to swamp him though his speech still spills forth in a rambling flow. "The fabled Rivendell..so we are to travel even further on the road, and not turn back for many long leagues...may it be that our quest will not be in vain, for the life of the son of the Prince, and for those many who have risked so much." The young man's words slur slightly as sleep overtakes him, trailing off into a whisper, before his eyes close, almost glad for the reprieve from wakefulness. "Many thanks, Faengor Nimothan."