Elendor
Sir Findon Awakes
Menelglir keeps vigil over the knight's unconscious body, and is rewarded.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Pelargir
Description: Pelargir: House of Healing - Sickroom
The sickroom of the Houses of Healing is a large, low-ceilinged one with thick walls, beams of wood running across the white plaster of the ceiling. Against the granite walls are lined rows of beds - occasionally occupied - and nurses move quietly to and fro. The very quietness and peacefulness of the room are almost tangible, especially as you gaze out the broad window at the end of the room that overlooks the Great River Anduin.
Again Menelglir is here in the healers on some errand or another--or it may be that at midnight on this November day, the Squire has just gotten off duty. Certainly he has the look of it, wrapped in a wet cloak that drips sullenly as he deliberately crosses the floor to pull up a char by Findon's bed. Healers shooing him away be damned the Squire has been here regularly to do just this: Sit by Findon's bed and worry.
Tonight, though, he has something else in mind, too. From a leather bag that was worn across his body, under the wet cloak--which he has now taken off to unceremoniously dump on a nearby empty chair--he pulls a tome. Thick. Hefty. Weighty.
He thumbs through the pages and begins to read. Out loud. In a quiet but deliberate tone.
"Strike out with the right foot at the same time as the right hand, but take care not to capture the weight between thy two feet, as this may provide an opening for they opponent in which they could strike, as thee are rendered by this pose fairly......."
Tathar has come by often also - and she isn't surprised to see Menelglir there. But as she hears his voice, she slows, walking very quietly so as not to interrupt the Squire. Very quietly lifting and bringing a chair of her own. Very quietly, sitting down in it and listening.
Hollowed his cheeks, shadow under his eyes, the pallour of his skin ghastly: the knight is upon the bed thither is less, only less now than is his wont. 'Neath shuttered eyelids his gaze roves restlessly, as it has ever this past week, and ever and annon his face turns this way and that. But not a word has escaped him, since the rumored visit of the Admiralty board -- rested he has, fitful though his peace, if undisturbed save for the careworn vigil of comrades and kin.
But now he stirs.
His breath settles with a sigh, and turns steady. And his eyelids lift, ever so slightly, to confer upon the world about a narrowed, narrowed regard. And too his head lifts from the pillow, his glance widened and roving. Not in horror or dismay, only... as if a man roused from long sleep, blessed with forgetfulness.
Findon wakes.
"And.." Menelglir flicks a glance to the lady Tathar, "should thy opponent succeed in taking advantage of this inequitable distribution, the best course should be quick and decisive action to restore the proper balance of the placement of the bodily positions. Such that the right foot should pivot to point A on the circle (see diagram number 52B on page 532) while the left foot regains the weight and allows for a quick movement away from the blade point (cf diagram 52C, page 533). All the while one must also allow for a counterattack of thy opponent's blade. There are several course of action which one can deliberate here...."
Menelglir, pausing for breath in his droning, shoves the book toward the woman. "Lady Tathar, I believe it would be quite instructional if you were to read to Sir Findon this next particular section and..."
Well, that is left unstated, the stirrings of the patient gaining the Squire's attention. Book still open in his lap, he leans forward.
"Sir?" Softly said. Some training as a healer the Squire does have and despite his otherwise mouthy reputation, he employs this training now, being as quiet and as gentle in voice as any of the master healers in these halls. He learns, perhaps. "Findon?"
Tathar nods, and reaches to take the book, bending her head to frown at what she is to read - when Menelglir speaks. She drops her hands and her head snaps up, hope in her eyes. "Sir Findon?" she asks. Her face brightens with relief and gladness as she sees him move, his eyes are open. "You're awake!" she exclaims - not so calmly and quietly as the Squire.
"No, no..."
The knight's voice is sullen and low a whisper through draught-deprived cracked lips and far deeper than is its wont -- weak. "There is only one course, squire: thrust." A sigh at that, and Findon's head sinks back into the soft relief of the pillow -- with a smile, then: "Am I truly?"
And a frown, as temporarily his eyes drift aclose. "Ghosts of the past have haunted my dreams."
"They have been dark of late."
'Yes sir, duly noted,' Menelglir says, grinning yet also with worry coloring the edges of his smile. 'But then your tomes are not always correct and experience weighs the heavier than this book.'
The words thus said, the Squire quickly slides the book over to rest on top of the leather bag he had carried it here in, and, taking up a pitcher of water, pours a small glass,which he tilts to the Knight's lips, carefully.
A sigh and a deeper frown at the words of darkness. He whispers, "Would that I had the balms or the liquors of the north here, or better, the Hir. This, I fear, would chase the darkness."
Menelglir gets a drink for the knight, and leans forward to talk to him. And Tathar is left to simply sit there, watching, caught between relief and concern. "The poison?" she asks the Squire quietly.
Some of the drink spills, naturally, droplets soaking the pillow-case here and there, if slightly.
"Aye," Findon sighs, and ammends faintly: "But in this, such strength as I had was enough, barely."
And it seems then, as his face turns window-ward, that he is turned fast asleep, again.
"Enough, though," Menelglir says quietly, setting the drink aside. He glances to Tathar. "Poison, yes. Lady..I will wake a healer. Will you guard my book for me meantime? I must run to Sir Gwendion and tell him of this, no matter the hour, and I'd rather not be slowed by the tome." He stands, giving up his place by Findon, picking up his wet cloak to wear it again, and heading toward the door.
"Let him sleep, I would say, but if he wakes and is thirsty, give him small sips of water. I'll find a healer right away."
Tathar is watching Findon worriedly, and she doesn't look away as Menelglir gets up. "Yes," she says. "I will watch it..."
"Watch..." A sigh, yet again.
But no! The knight does not sleep, though his presence of mind may be drifting his eyes look brazenly out over the river, narrowing here and widening there, at various points of interests or amazement. But his voice remains faint all the same: "Watch what?"
"Menelglir's book," Tathar says, her face relaxing again as the Knight hasn't relapsed back into the poisoned coma. "Do you want another drink?"
A frown is poised then on the knight's mien, as he turns his face to Tathar.
A slight head shake.
"How long?"
"W-weeks," Tathar replies, then steadies her voice. "Do you remember what happened? The healers said it was poison, but no one knew what kind." Unconsciously, she lifts her hand to her neck, where there is a faint red line, slightly puckered.
Gaze turning distant, Findon's gaze looses its focus, settling somewhere far behind Tathar: "Weeks..."
"It is all a blurred haze."
And yet, it focuses the next moment, not level but indeed following the movements of that hand -- and the frown deepens: "Were you hurt, lady?"
"Not much." Tathar drops her hand and takes a breath. "Ceredir was trying to get to the boats. He said he would hurt me if anyone tried to stop him. You - " For a minute, she is quiet, as the memory of the knight walking towards her, dropping his sword, rises in her mind. "You said if he let me go, you would take his place." She reaches out to touch him, his arm perhaps. And more quietly, "Thank you."
"His... place?"
Confusion for a moment mars the frown, and then, the light of recollection dispells it entire crow's feet 'round his eyes and a slight bend at the corners of his mouth the only tokens of his humor -- too, his hand raises to grasp Tathar's own if feebly. "I remember now."
And Findon shakes his head lightly "You are well. That is thanks enough."
Tathar blushes. "My place," she corrects herself, and smiles a little ruefully. "I must not be entirely well, if I can't even speak properly." His fingers close lightly around hers. "But you shouldn't have done it," she scolds him. "You - I thought you were dead! And he wouldn't have hurt me... any more," she adds conscientiously. But that she is grateful, despite her words, is clear in her eyes.
An inconsequential increase in the pressure his fingers apply then, not enough to be called 'squeezing' to be sure, but... it is notable, at the least. An answer, perhaps.
A solitary question Findon voices in reply, however: "Did he escape then, in the end?"
"No. I was not there, Corlin brought me here. But they said that he made it to the ships, and was dragging you onto one, when somehow, the girl, Maha, fell into the water. Ceredir dove in after her, and never came up again." She squeezes his hand reassuringly. "They found his - his body not long ago. It was all bloated and no one could recognize the face." Tathar wrinkles her nose up in disgust. "Gweneth Bragollach said that it was truly he, though."
A nod, if the word can be applied to such a shade of momevent.
"That is well. So end all traitors to Gondor," And here, the knight's eyes drift shut, and his head settles back, relaxed and given free reign as it were. And again he sighs a content yet wearied sigh. "And it is good that you are well." And a glimmer of a smile, though his voice grows fainter: "I would long rue enduring this particular predicament for naught."
It seems he will sleep, and Tathar looses her hand from his. "I am glad as well," she says, smiling. "I would have been very angry with you had you endured all of this and not woken up at the end!" And she sits, paging lightly through the Squire's book until a healer comes.
The sickroom of the Houses of Healing is a large, low-ceilinged one with thick walls, beams of wood running across the white plaster of the ceiling. Against the granite walls are lined rows of beds - occasionally occupied - and nurses move quietly to and fro. The very quietness and peacefulness of the room are almost tangible, especially as you gaze out the broad window at the end of the room that overlooks the Great River Anduin.
Again Menelglir is here in the healers on some errand or another--or it may be that at midnight on this November day, the Squire has just gotten off duty. Certainly he has the look of it, wrapped in a wet cloak that drips sullenly as he deliberately crosses the floor to pull up a char by Findon's bed. Healers shooing him away be damned the Squire has been here regularly to do just this: Sit by Findon's bed and worry.
Tonight, though, he has something else in mind, too. From a leather bag that was worn across his body, under the wet cloak--which he has now taken off to unceremoniously dump on a nearby empty chair--he pulls a tome. Thick. Hefty. Weighty.
He thumbs through the pages and begins to read. Out loud. In a quiet but deliberate tone.
"Strike out with the right foot at the same time as the right hand, but take care not to capture the weight between thy two feet, as this may provide an opening for they opponent in which they could strike, as thee are rendered by this pose fairly......."
Tathar has come by often also - and she isn't surprised to see Menelglir there. But as she hears his voice, she slows, walking very quietly so as not to interrupt the Squire. Very quietly lifting and bringing a chair of her own. Very quietly, sitting down in it and listening.
Hollowed his cheeks, shadow under his eyes, the pallour of his skin ghastly: the knight is upon the bed thither is less, only less now than is his wont. 'Neath shuttered eyelids his gaze roves restlessly, as it has ever this past week, and ever and annon his face turns this way and that. But not a word has escaped him, since the rumored visit of the Admiralty board -- rested he has, fitful though his peace, if undisturbed save for the careworn vigil of comrades and kin.
But now he stirs.
His breath settles with a sigh, and turns steady. And his eyelids lift, ever so slightly, to confer upon the world about a narrowed, narrowed regard. And too his head lifts from the pillow, his glance widened and roving. Not in horror or dismay, only... as if a man roused from long sleep, blessed with forgetfulness.
Findon wakes.
"And.." Menelglir flicks a glance to the lady Tathar, "should thy opponent succeed in taking advantage of this inequitable distribution, the best course should be quick and decisive action to restore the proper balance of the placement of the bodily positions. Such that the right foot should pivot to point A on the circle (see diagram number 52B on page 532) while the left foot regains the weight and allows for a quick movement away from the blade point (cf diagram 52C, page 533). All the while one must also allow for a counterattack of thy opponent's blade. There are several course of action which one can deliberate here...."
Menelglir, pausing for breath in his droning, shoves the book toward the woman. "Lady Tathar, I believe it would be quite instructional if you were to read to Sir Findon this next particular section and..."
Well, that is left unstated, the stirrings of the patient gaining the Squire's attention. Book still open in his lap, he leans forward.
"Sir?" Softly said. Some training as a healer the Squire does have and despite his otherwise mouthy reputation, he employs this training now, being as quiet and as gentle in voice as any of the master healers in these halls. He learns, perhaps. "Findon?"
Tathar nods, and reaches to take the book, bending her head to frown at what she is to read - when Menelglir speaks. She drops her hands and her head snaps up, hope in her eyes. "Sir Findon?" she asks. Her face brightens with relief and gladness as she sees him move, his eyes are open. "You're awake!" she exclaims - not so calmly and quietly as the Squire.
"No, no..."
The knight's voice is sullen and low a whisper through draught-deprived cracked lips and far deeper than is its wont -- weak. "There is only one course, squire: thrust." A sigh at that, and Findon's head sinks back into the soft relief of the pillow -- with a smile, then: "Am I truly?"
And a frown, as temporarily his eyes drift aclose. "Ghosts of the past have haunted my dreams."
"They have been dark of late."
'Yes sir, duly noted,' Menelglir says, grinning yet also with worry coloring the edges of his smile. 'But then your tomes are not always correct and experience weighs the heavier than this book.'
The words thus said, the Squire quickly slides the book over to rest on top of the leather bag he had carried it here in, and, taking up a pitcher of water, pours a small glass,which he tilts to the Knight's lips, carefully.
A sigh and a deeper frown at the words of darkness. He whispers, "Would that I had the balms or the liquors of the north here, or better, the Hir. This, I fear, would chase the darkness."
Menelglir gets a drink for the knight, and leans forward to talk to him. And Tathar is left to simply sit there, watching, caught between relief and concern. "The poison?" she asks the Squire quietly.
Some of the drink spills, naturally, droplets soaking the pillow-case here and there, if slightly.
"Aye," Findon sighs, and ammends faintly: "But in this, such strength as I had was enough, barely."
And it seems then, as his face turns window-ward, that he is turned fast asleep, again.
"Enough, though," Menelglir says quietly, setting the drink aside. He glances to Tathar. "Poison, yes. Lady..I will wake a healer. Will you guard my book for me meantime? I must run to Sir Gwendion and tell him of this, no matter the hour, and I'd rather not be slowed by the tome." He stands, giving up his place by Findon, picking up his wet cloak to wear it again, and heading toward the door.
"Let him sleep, I would say, but if he wakes and is thirsty, give him small sips of water. I'll find a healer right away."
Tathar is watching Findon worriedly, and she doesn't look away as Menelglir gets up. "Yes," she says. "I will watch it..."
"Watch..." A sigh, yet again.
But no! The knight does not sleep, though his presence of mind may be drifting his eyes look brazenly out over the river, narrowing here and widening there, at various points of interests or amazement. But his voice remains faint all the same: "Watch what?"
"Menelglir's book," Tathar says, her face relaxing again as the Knight hasn't relapsed back into the poisoned coma. "Do you want another drink?"
A frown is poised then on the knight's mien, as he turns his face to Tathar.
A slight head shake.
"How long?"
"W-weeks," Tathar replies, then steadies her voice. "Do you remember what happened? The healers said it was poison, but no one knew what kind." Unconsciously, she lifts her hand to her neck, where there is a faint red line, slightly puckered.
Gaze turning distant, Findon's gaze looses its focus, settling somewhere far behind Tathar: "Weeks..."
"It is all a blurred haze."
And yet, it focuses the next moment, not level but indeed following the movements of that hand -- and the frown deepens: "Were you hurt, lady?"
"Not much." Tathar drops her hand and takes a breath. "Ceredir was trying to get to the boats. He said he would hurt me if anyone tried to stop him. You - " For a minute, she is quiet, as the memory of the knight walking towards her, dropping his sword, rises in her mind. "You said if he let me go, you would take his place." She reaches out to touch him, his arm perhaps. And more quietly, "Thank you."
"His... place?"
Confusion for a moment mars the frown, and then, the light of recollection dispells it entire crow's feet 'round his eyes and a slight bend at the corners of his mouth the only tokens of his humor -- too, his hand raises to grasp Tathar's own if feebly. "I remember now."
And Findon shakes his head lightly "You are well. That is thanks enough."
Tathar blushes. "My place," she corrects herself, and smiles a little ruefully. "I must not be entirely well, if I can't even speak properly." His fingers close lightly around hers. "But you shouldn't have done it," she scolds him. "You - I thought you were dead! And he wouldn't have hurt me... any more," she adds conscientiously. But that she is grateful, despite her words, is clear in her eyes.
An inconsequential increase in the pressure his fingers apply then, not enough to be called 'squeezing' to be sure, but... it is notable, at the least. An answer, perhaps.
A solitary question Findon voices in reply, however: "Did he escape then, in the end?"
"No. I was not there, Corlin brought me here. But they said that he made it to the ships, and was dragging you onto one, when somehow, the girl, Maha, fell into the water. Ceredir dove in after her, and never came up again." She squeezes his hand reassuringly. "They found his - his body not long ago. It was all bloated and no one could recognize the face." Tathar wrinkles her nose up in disgust. "Gweneth Bragollach said that it was truly he, though."
A nod, if the word can be applied to such a shade of momevent.
"That is well. So end all traitors to Gondor," And here, the knight's eyes drift shut, and his head settles back, relaxed and given free reign as it were. And again he sighs a content yet wearied sigh. "And it is good that you are well." And a glimmer of a smile, though his voice grows fainter: "I would long rue enduring this particular predicament for naught."
It seems he will sleep, and Tathar looses her hand from his. "I am glad as well," she says, smiling. "I would have been very angry with you had you endured all of this and not woken up at the end!" And she sits, paging lightly through the Squire's book until a healer comes.
Located in: Gondorian
