================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Morning < About 10:50 AM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 39 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: Waxing Crescent <VISIBLE>
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: Sat Sep 15 07:56:54 2007
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Field Hospital

You are in a small clearing cut into the thickets. All about you, the bushes and trees grow thick and unwavering, blocking out most of the sunlight and dimming the atmosphere. Despite the lack of sunlight or moonlight, the clearing gives of a calm, quiet, secure feeling. Here is where the Cuigrithweg have made their Field Hospital. Several woven mats are laid about on the ground in neat rows and a pair of small chests rest at the north side of the Hospital. High above the mats, a large tarp is strung to provide some shelter on the off chance that it should rain.

Contents:
Galharth
Ostiel
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The late morning sun shines through the heavy canopy high above the Field Hospital. Golden rays of light stream down through the thick mists of fragrant steam. A soft hush is present over those gathered. Many of the injured have been released, but the numbers are still draining on the staff of Healers who work tirelessly to sooth the hurts of the Galahdrim. Towards the trunk of the tree, a still patient lies. His color is pale, his injuries severe, and yet he shows little sign of recovery in the days since his arrival.

"Both Ostiel and the Lady Galadriel has lightly touched upon his fea, and yet it is only seems to have stayed the fading." whispers a dark haired Attendant to a male Apprentice. "Perhaps they both seek to build their strength before trying to help him, or will he fade?" The male suggests. To this the dark haired elleth shakes her head. "Give them time, for those two, and likely the Lady's Companion will all help him, of that I'm sure. For now he is given something to make him sleep when the pains become to great."

Someone moans and the healers move apart, going forth to care for the patients in their charge. As they do, Galharth' eyes open. It is a strange sight, as he seems awake, and yet distant or perhaps not even there. If one were to look into his open eyes, one might see the diminishing flame deep within.

As if summoned, Ostiel appears from the darker places in the wood, aura solemn and purposeful. For long hours has she been gone, and who knows what has occured during the mysterious, foreboding night. However, whatever it may have been, the look upon Ostiel's face has a certain...well, 'unearthly' quality. Her skin itself seems to shine, her darkened eyes flash.

"Would you please make a fire, mellons," she inquires of the nearby healers, "And put these herbs into it to seep?" From a pouch secured at her waist comes a various assortment of chopped, dried herbs. They already emit a soothing scent.

The male Apprentice moves towards Ostiel, and reaches forth to take the pouch. As he takes possession, his eyes drift towards the injured Tailor and then back again towards the Attendant. No words are spoken, But the ellon clearly expresses good will, if not a wish of good luck in his gaze. Nodding once, he withdraws his hand and goes off to do the Attendant's bidding.

Upon the cot, the slow rythmic rise and fall of the crafters chest seem the only sign of life. His flesh, still pale and discolored is clearly being attended to, but failing to progress to a more normal state. Galharth's right leg is covered with a thin sheet of silk so that remains unseen by all save for those working upon it's healing.

"Also," Ostiel whispers to yet another healer, smiling faintly, "I would desire to be alone with the Tailor. If nothing else, perhaps there is a screen or sheet available, to lend privacy?" Even as she speaks, the elleth glides to Galharth's side and crouches, examining his prone form with keen gaze. Laying a hand upon his chest, she breathes in sharply. "He is cold...there should have been a fire going much sooner than this..." This is said below the breath, and not intended to be heard by anyone but herself.

The dark haired Attendant, who only moments before had spoken of Ostiel, nods and sets to pulling forth a screen normally used for the tasks of surgery. "It was expected," she whispers softly as she sets to work enclosing an area around the ailing Tailor. Indeed, others step forth to aid the dark haired attendant and their actions and attention to detail clearly confirms that they had not only expected but prepared for a request of privacy. In the beds still filled, a few who are awake offer curious glances, and yet, almost instinctually, the wounded who now observe the action continue to remain silent.

"My thanks," Ostiel murmurs gratefully when all is completed. "Excuse me." She disappears behind the screen, blocking the view of the wounded tailor and herself.

Movement takes place all around him, All unnoticed it seems. Sounds vibrate the air as the screen is anchored and built, and the enclosed space seems to grow warmer from the fires set in nearby pits. No complaints issue forth from his lips, and sadly no smiles or witty comments. This gentle being, long lived in the life of creative production and simple pleasures now lies consumed by the pain of body and the pain of memory. The story of what the memories might be is told by the deeply colored bruises in the shapes of Urukish hands, and raw scraps over most of the crafters body. Such memory, and such pain .....

"Shhh," Ostiel murmurs to Galharth absently, though he has not spoken a word. She sits before him, looking upon her fading friend with sad, wise eyes. Tenderly, gently she touches his wounded cheek, fingertips brushing the bruises. "What trouble you have gotten yourself into this time, mellon nin. Yet, the Valar are on your side, it seems, for you return to us yet again, though not the form that I would have prefered." The healer chuckles wryly, laying her other hand upon the ellon's brow. "Come back to us, dearest Tailor. Lothlorien would not be the same without you." Earnestly does she gaze into his unseeing eyes. Then her own close, and the air about them gathers, condenses. Ostiel's fea, soft and tranquil, reaches out, searching, seeking. 'Galharth...heed to me.' Their foreheads touch.

At the healers touch, a shiver vibrates through the Tailor's battered form and his breath catches and becomes labored, as if waiting for the touch to bring forth pain. What hints of treatment his reaction display are disquieting. Then suddenly he falls still once more.

A soft voice is heard, and yet, is it spoken? Shrinking away from pain, pain of body, pain of thoughts, a small flicker responds. 'I know not how....." comes forth the simple reply.

'Ah, mellon..it is good to hear your voice.' The river brushes up against Galharth's unseen form, grateful. Gently the ebbing waters probe, blind. Then suddenly, it sends forth a wave of peace, of tranquility, seeking to wash over the Tailor with cool, refreshing touch. Ostiel shivers, a thin sheen of sweat forming on her forehead. 'Open to me, Galharth. Let me see where it hurts...I wish to aid in the banishment of your agony.'

Unshed tears meet the cooling peace of the gentle cleansing waters and yet the flame of life quivers reluctantly. 'Failure.....' the word whispers as if bearing forth in shame. In that one word, thoughts of confusion and uncertainty spring forth. What is real? What is imagined? And yet, in the center is a great fear... nay, a growing fear.

Galharth's chest and back arch in the struggle, and he gasps for air. 'I am lost..." rings out in a thundering tone, though none, save the healer might have heard.

'Nay!' The voice surges, air and water rushing forth over blank plains. 'Nay. You are not a failure, mellon nin. And but open to me, and I will find you. Open to me,' Ostiel urges earnestly, pressing the borders of Galharth's fea with reassuring, pulsing waves of persuasion. 'Let me in.'

Now it is up to him...Ostiel waits breathlessly, praying, mouth moving in slow song that she is not aware of. The world about them shimmers, fades into blackness, blankness, waiting to be replaced by another realm, a deeper realm.

Fire bursts forth at the Attendant's urging. As if a door had suddenly opened as swirl of hot winds littered with horrible images caught within a tornado of pain. Beasts of such ugliness seem to leap forth, consuming the waters sent forth in gentle peacefulness. Sounds echo over the raging flame that comprises the whirling void. Screams, gasps, spoken languages that illicit shivers of disgust. And horrible laughter, wickedly rejoicing in the strength of the fire.

Then, the door closes and the unshed tears begin anew......

Gasp. The water sizzles, and perhaps may seem to disappear. However, the Attendant is not unprepared. Words begin to fall from Ostiel's lips, full of war and righteous anger, and the water surges forth, violent in it's intent. However, with the retreat of Galharth's openness, all it can do it float in space.

Ostiel sighs, the song abruptly ending. "You are not ready."

The water ebbs and flows against the borders of the Tailor's fea, slowly growing resigned.

Soft, distant, and resigned to saddness, almost unheard to any but those who might listen. "I would not bring you pain......" and then there is a cold darkness of a quivery flame, strengthened somewhat by the touch and yet still wounded. And with this, the Tailor's body relaxes, and while heavy and strained, his breath takes less labor.

'You would not bring me pain. I wish to bring you relief...but until you are ready, that cannot be. But allow me to soothe you. All will be well.' And with that the healer begins to sing, evoking a world of her own. Smooth, blue-green grass bend and whisper to each other, family, together. Flowers grow, feed by the river, cool, fresh and ever-youthful. Fea nudges fea. 'Come sit with me for a little while. Please.'

For several long moments there is no sound, but instead a heavy feeling of longing. 'I will join you....." In thought or image, or sensation, the acceptance to the invitation drifts above the gentle peace.

Weak and weary, Galharth's flame flickers as if struggling. Clearly drawn to the stronger warmth of the other, so too he is recoiled with a fear to spread his own failing. 'To witness that which pains me....." Again a pause. "....would you not bring you suffering?"

A smile, not seen but felt. 'Do you think that I would go into your world blindly, mellon? I am not so naive.' She blows upon the flame with healing breath, urging it to greater heights.

Ostiel begins to sing again, yet this song is melodic, smooth and sweet as honey fresh from the comb, spread over warm bread. Soothingly, slowly, does the Attendant sing, and from about them does harmony seems to emerge, feathering voices that rise and fall in time, light on the waves of the atmosphere. Where does the whispering choir come from...who can say? But they are present indeed, and lend support and...approval?

"I am but a Tailor...." comes forth the response, in such a tone that sings of innocent ignorance of such things known by his friend. The breath blown forth upon his dwindling fea brings forth a rise from deep within and to a suffering pysical form. A soft cry whimpers on Galharth's lips, and in that instant his eyes flicker with sight for a short moment.

Drawn to the strength, the crafters flame leans closer as if hesitantly reaching for the stronger fea of the Healer. 'I know not where to begin..."

Ostiel leans down to cradle the suffering Tailor in her arms, lying alongside him as if exhausted, dark circles forming beneath her eyes.

'You are a firstborn, Galharth', the river whispers in low rushes and rumbles. 'We will do all we can to bring you back from this darkness.'

The Tailor's breath returns to the calm rise and fall of his chest, and while his pale flesh shows no glimmer of a healthy glow, it seems less transparent now. His eyes now closed, he appears to be at rest, and indeed he possibly is. One last sound, or sensation of emotion echos from the dull flickering fea of the wounded crafter. 'I need time.....' it says. Time indeed, for the pains are great, and yet for the moment strength has been gained and in time all might be revealed.

The world widens, refocuses, turns from the meadow to black...then back to Lothlorien's wood, the screen looming above. Ostiel blinks slowly down at the Tailor. There are no words for her to say, though her mouth works. She carefully rises, and stumbles into daylight.

The healers look up, hopeful. She moves past them. "Keep him warm, please." Then she is gone, into the forest.