================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Dusk < About 7:56 PM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 4 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: First Quarter <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 17 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3041>
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RL time: Thu Jul 26 15:38:53 2007
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Healing Talan
This hushed talan is a quiet place of healing for those Galadhrim injured in battle. White robed Quendi, one wearing a bracelet, easily walk about, tending to visitors, offering refreshments, and various other small jobs. Meanwhile patients lie on comfortable, sparkling pads, gazing out at a sweeping view of the wood. Sunlight streams though the leaves of the mellyrn, casting dancing shadows on the wooden floor. The air has a fresh, clean feeling. You feel better just resting here for a moment.

Contents:
Galharth
Ostiel
Maglind
Curanolas
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Within a dark sky, the twinkle of a thousand stars hangs above the realm of Lothlorien. Sweet song, carries along the wind, and yet this eve it seems almost empty and waiting as if some strangeness has overpowered the normally joyous sound. Within the healing talan, the scent of roses combat with the pungent fragrance of healing herbs. It is both pleasant and unpleasant, perhaps to sooth those in need, and hurry along others who might be ready to leave the confines of the Healers guard.

A figure lies in one of the beds. Uninjured, and yet clearly pained. A slight movement causes the bed to creak and his eyes open to stare up at the ceiling.

Entering the tallan, Naurocaran leads his daughter. "I don't think I bandaged her properly," he whispers to the first healer he sees. Curanolas smiles reassuringly to her father. "I'll be fine, Ada."

Cautiously, as unsure of her footing, Ostiel comes down from the upper chambers, smoothing down stray strands of glossy, damp hair, still not entirely dried. "Was that your gown," one of the apprentices murmurs, looking up curiously from an open book, "I wasn't certain."

"Aye, it was indeed mine. Thank you." Ostiel smiles somewhat distantly down at the young elleth, laying a hand on her shoulder. The girl does not smile back, but gazes up the Attendant with open, gentle concern. Beneath such regard, Ostiel seems a bit uncomfortable, and moves away from the other healer as quickly as is politely possible, beginning to make rounds.

At the sound of Curanolas, Galharth quivers slightly and closes his eyes. Though seeking the appearance of sleep, his undoing is a single tear of shame, trailing down his face. His breath catches and he rolls away from the sounds.

Curanolas moves gently toward Galharth and settles a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, Galharth," she whispers. "I don't blame you. You are forgiven." Naurocaran stands talking with one of the healers in hushed tones. "Do not blame yourself, mellon," she whispers to the tailor.

Looking over to the pair, Ostiel bites her lip, eyes softening. Yet she does not make a move to interrupt. Instead, she straightens one of the beds, hair falling down, covering any expression that may be stealing over her open face.

"I do not understand how, or why I saw what I did," Galharth says in a strange, hollow voice, "but know that I would have killed you as you appeared to me as a beast." He shivers and draws his arms tightly over his chest. "I saw black blood as you bled.... and I could feel the satisfaction it brought."

He grows silent for several long moments before he turns over and stars up at Curanolas, "Had I killed you, would you or your family then forgiven a kinslayer?"

Curanolas nods. "I believe my father would have forgiven you had you killed me," she whispers. "You were not yourself." She squeezes his shoulder gently. "I would have forgiven you."

"Then you and your family can do as few others can." Galharth says flatly as he settles on his back. From his shivers, and his expression, it is clear that the clothier is troubled. "What drives the first born to act, is not always just reason for their actions." Shifting his eyes to the lady from Imladhrim, he adds, "Think about that and tell me on the morrow if you feel the same."

Curanolas shakes her head. "Do you /want/ me to hate you?" she asks him. "If so, I must tell you that I cannot." She squeezes his shouder again as a healer moves to tend to her wounds.

Clenching his jaw, he looks once more to the ceiling. "I wish understanding, but not yet from those I've attacked. I see the events two fold through my eyes and the eyes of another." Glancing round the room, the clothier catches sight of Ostiel and he looks away as the signs of great embarrassment color his face. "Can someone say who I've hurt and how badly?"

Curanolas looks to Galharth. "I am mostly unscathed, mellon," she says to him. "I will heal in no time." She smiles reassuringly at him. "I think you are the one who suffered the most, my friend." Her voice is barely a whisper.

A figure appears softly at the door-way, clothed and cowled in a grey cloak and night-shadows. It merely stands there, one arm held loosely across the chest -- until a passing flame illuminates Maglind's face, and he flinches painfully.

Movement from the corner of his eye draws the clothier's attention and he turns to fully view the source. "Maglind..." he says, his voice remaining hollow and filled with remorse. "I...." he says, choking on his own words. "I have no excuse."

Curanolas lets the healer finish up. Naurocaran moves to her side and pats Galharth's shoulder as he passes. "You did not have full control of yourself, for whatever reason," he whispers. "Curanolas shall heal quickly, and you did not hurt me." He smiles reassuringly. "Like my daughter, I cannot hate you, nor will I hate you. I offer forgiveness if you will have it." Curanolas nods in agreement with her father's words, glancing to Maglind and back.

"There you are," Ostiel soothes, tucking in a tiny blond ellon with warm hands and smile, "Now can I check your temperature?" He nods solemnly, apple-green eyes sleepy and contented. Laying a palm upon his smooth forehead, the Attendant feels for a fever, eyes drifting irresistably over to the group gathered near Galharth's bed. For a long moment she stares, something unreadable written on her face. The child squirms.

"You, young ellon, are cool as a nice, nummy breeze." He giggles at her funny tone, then closes those adorable peepers, yawning widely. Ostiel sits on the end of his bed, thoughtful, pensive.

But Maglind's gaze flows like dark water over the gathered, avoiding the beds. He turns instead to the nearest healer -- Ostiel -- and asks flatly: "Attendant. May I borrow a jar of salve?"

Curanolas smiles at her father as the bandages are replaced with new and medicines are applied to the wounds. "See," she says both to her father and to Galharth. "I'm as good as new." Naurocaran smiles back. "Indeed you are, my little one." Curanolas scrunches her nose up at her father. "Ada," she says tsking him gently. "Well, you will always be /my/ little one, even though you are nearly 2000 years of age. Curanolas chuckles and turns to Galharth. "Don't feel bad, Galharth. It was just a...a weird mishap."

"Till understanding comes, I fear I may not forgive myself," the clothier says in a soft voice that drifts no further than Curanolas and her father. Turning his gaze back to Maglind, he falls silent, waiting for some words to come forth from the Attendant.

"Aye, Maglind," Ostiel murmurs softly, hurt vaguely flashing behind her blank eyes. Standing carefully, she moves to a nearby cabinet, opening it and peering inside. "If I may ask, what did you wish to use it for. I might be able to aid you."

Curanolas gently squeezes Galharth's shoulder and turns her sorrowful eyes to her father, who nods reassuringly. "He needs time," Naurocaran whispers, perhaps too loudly, or perhaps loud enough for Galharth to hear on purpose. "Indeed," Curanolas agrees softly.

"It is of no consequence," replies the warden mildly, impassively. One hand reaches to slip back his hood -- harpist's hands, raw and torn and throbbing with splinters. "A little will do."

The clothier's eyes flicker to the father and daughter, hinting that words spoken might have been heard. Releasing a soft breath, he draws himself into a sitting position at the side of the bed, offering a nod to Naurocaran's last words. Looking down slightly, he watches the Warden and the Attendant. When Maglind reveals his hands, Galharth draws back slightly.

Naurocaran settles a steady hand on Galharth's shoulder. "All will be well...in time."

Ostiel nods affirmatively, face buried in the cabinet. However, when she turns around, a frown forms between her brows. "Maglind..." Settling down the salve on a nearby sidetable, she carefully looks over the wounded palms. "Maglind, these need to be bandaged, before they become infected."

Curanolas nods at her father's words. "I hope to see you better soon, mellon," she whispers, standing. Naurocaran and his daughter head back out the door to the talan, heads bent close together, whispering reassurances to each other.

"I can take care of them," insists Maglind decisively, withdrawing his hands. Jaw set, he begins to reach for the jar.

Galharth's eyes close, for a moment upon hearing the Attendant's verdict regarding Maglind's hands. Silently, he rises to his feet, and moves silently around the bed towards the talan exit.

"Nay," Ostiel disagrees, tone firm and yet, pleading somehow. "Please," she lowers her voice, eyes soft and questioning. "Allow me to dress them...Galharth?" Turning toward the departing ellon, the Attendant has a sharp moment of deep discomfort, the tension thick enough to swallow.

Pausing at the talan entrance, Galharth turns to gaze upon Ostiel. "I have no injury, and Maglind needs attention." Lowering his gaze as if to inspect the floorboards, he adds. "I'll not trouble you further this eve."

Maglind looks down at his hands for a moment, gaze steely blue, and finally he nods. "Thank you, Attendant."

Galharth's movements are ignored -- but he sighs deeply, and one foot shifts in impatience -- or discomfort.

"Thank you." The words are no more than a whisper. "Please sit down." As for Galharth, she gazes upon him with sad understanding, and slowly nods. "Please don't leave the gardens, mellon." Then she gets to work.

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Shaded Lawn
A narrow length of green lawn surrounded by tall trees; the trees that spring from the midst of the lawn itself dapple the grass with the cool shade of their boughs. Thick groves of brightly-shining mellyrn line the west and south sides of the greensward, reaching for the moon with their upswept limbs, while an old birdnest rests in one of the hedges near the northward path. Overhead, spread out in all their many-splendored glory, the stars are shining.
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In the middle of the lawn, staring up towards the sky, as if counting stars, a silent figure lays. Crystal blue eyes peer upwards, unblinking and a frown dominates his expression. The glow that radiates from his flesh and hair, seems dimmed as if suffering from a measure of shock. Drawing his hands up to rest upon his chest, he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly.

Down the path, familiar footsteps crush the evening dew; Maglind's boots flatten the fragile grass. His face is all that is visible in his cloak, and yet it reveals nothing.

"I suppose I should apologize for the events of this morning," he begins awkwardly.

"Why Should you apologize," Galharth says as he raises up into a seated position. "I suspect there was little choice to act as you did, given the chance that there was that I'd do harm."

Maglind smiles grimly, keeping his courteous distance. "No," he replies. "Whacking friends with deck planks is never a good choice. At least the others tried gentler methods."

He sinks gently to the ground, running bandaged hands over his face. "You had your excuses, I suppose. But I cannot justify myself."

"And they met with the edge of a knife for their gentleness." Drawing his knees up to his chest, Galharth rests his chin upon the shelf made. "I could see such evil, and in my heart it felt as if I were being attacked. Yet I could hear my own voice whisper in the distance, or so it seemed."

Looking to the Warden, a brow raises. "What became of the knife?"

Maglind flinches at the mention of the object, but he says, "It was dropped, and it fled back to the darkness. We have stopped all diving."

He returns his face to his palms, murmuring, "But it should have not been in the beginning! A /warden/ should have known when to interfere...."

"I can not say, nor can I judge as to who did or should have done what." Galharth says in a low voice, reflecting a deep sadness for the events. "I am left with a great confusion, and I can find no way to sort it out. Reality from vision, and what feelings belong to me and those that belong to another."

Glancing at the Warden's hands, he frowns. "I am sorry that you gained injury. Was that the only harm that befell you?"

Maglind is silent for a long breath. "Yes."

"I am sorry that this had to happen," he says softly. "I have stopped the diving today. If you wish it, we will no longer go to the depths."

Pursing his lips, the clothier considers Maglind's words. When he looks up, he shakes his head. "I would speak first with the Lady, and perhaps have her examine the items retrieved," Galharth says stubbornly.

"Perhaps it was the blade alone," he mutters softly, "It had something etched upon its surface."

"Then I will retrieve it again," says Maglind quickly, rising to his feet. "Alone. I shall harm no one. Perhaps the smiths can melt it in the forges, when this is through and through. It is detestable."

"Nay!" Galharth calls out in a voice laced with fear. Drawing his knees down to the ground, he kneels as if to rise. "Not alone! Better it sit within the silt, hidden and safely out of our reach." Rising up to his feet, he shakes his head. "The visions are strong, perhaps too strong for us to bear."

Maglind glances back at Galharth, his face anguished with indecision. "But we will learn to fear that place! The guard swears to protect Lorien from all threats. And if there is an enemy here even in the woods..."

Drawing his hands up, he covers his eyes and breathes slowly against the heals of his hand. "I fear it now while the memory of the visions churn within me." Smoothing his hands downwards over his face, he lifts his gaze to peer directly at the Warden. "We must be sure that nothing from the ship is touched, until they are examined for safety." Tilting his head, he carefully considers the matter. "Would you agree with this? At least until word comes from the Lady to approve or disapprove such actions?"

"I do not know," admits Maglind, turning away. "None of the other treasures has caused such, and yet I felt a presence the first time we went under -- not the duckweed, I am certain."

Lowering his gaze, the warden edges away. "The knife, however, must be removed. It is duty."

"I can't argue that," Galharth says as he turns away from the Warden to take a few pacing steps. Turning back towards Maglind, he considers the ellon's expression. "I can not allow you to venture into the water to regain the knife. I would see no friend face that which I faced this morning." Shivering slightly at the memory, he adds, "I will stop you if I must. Let the Lady, who is much wiser than either of us, decide the fate of the knife."

The warden stands still as stone, light struggling in his eyes. One foot ventures towards the path which leads to the stairway...

...And it jerks back to the path, carrying him to the golden harp. He sits down behind it, running torn fingers over the strings: "So be it. You shall stop me only as this night lasts."

"We go together," Galharth says as he takes a step towards the Warden, "Give me this so that I might bear the pain of my actions with no fear that another might repeat and perhaps be more sucessful in their battle against those within their vision."

He falls silent for a moment, offering his own gaze in a pleading manner. "Please?"

"Very well."

The warden acquiesces, resting his forehead against the beautiful golden scroll. "But bear no pain."

He pushes the bandages away from his fingertips, very gently, and begins to caress the harp-strings in a muted, wordless song.

Nodding gratefully, the clothier steps away as if to leave the garden. "I would think it best to set aside the harp till your hands heal," Galharth says with sincerity. Eying the harp and then looking towards the Warden's face, "But then again, I have no knowledge of the Healing arts."

Again he takes several steps to the edge of the garden. "I will be seeking out the Lady, should I be needed." And with that, the Tailor is gone.