================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Night < About 9:57 PM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 19 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel shines very brightly above the horizon in the
western sky.
IC year is: Loa 18 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3042>
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RL time: Thu Nov 08 09:19:08 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
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As Anor's glorious sunset trails off into shoots of pink and silver, set against the midnight sky, those who were preoccupied with the tasks of day now turn to the peace, or work, of night. The late evening is a time of relaxation for many, and that tranquility permeates the air all about Lothlorien's captial city, Caras Galadhon. The feeling is intensely strong in the healing talan, where Apprentices wander about, nearly smoothering the patient's in their boredom, frequently looking around and sighing with anxiousness. Therefore, the entrance of Ostiel from the healer's home above is met with great gratitude, and the majority of the youth scurry off in search of amusement. One lingers, a short, disturbingly slender ellon who lays an equally slim hand on the Attendant's shoulder, as she sets up for her shift. "Are you sure you don't wish me to stay," he whispers, concern in his eyes, "You are not yet fully well."

"I am perfectly capable of tending to fevers and weary spirits. That does not require overt exertion." Yet he still lingers, biting his lower lip.

"And some call me stubborn," mutters a soft voice from the shadows of an occupied cot. "Perhaps you should listen and keep a friend nearby." As Galharth speaks his voice crackles slightly with fatigue, but at least this eve it makes some sense. Rising up from the cot, and swinging his legs over the edge, the move looks quite graceful, until he suddenly clutches his head and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. "Shouldn't have done that....." he harshly mutters.

"Listen to him," the apprentice states a bit more loudly, following in Ostiel's footsteps as she manuevers about the room to the dizzy Tailor, "I would stay with you." Something in the way he says that makes her steps falter, one second, two. Then she reaches and kneels carefully beside Galharth's gently prying his hands off of his head and examining the wound. "From the many times you've be treated here, I would think you wise enough to remain in a lying position with a head wound, Galharth." The apprentice lingers a step or two behind, fingers interlaced and expression unsure.

"Tell me again, when the room stops spinning." Galharth mutters with a hint of distress. "I felt fine till I sat up." Trying to turn his head to look at Ostiel, the Tailor's coloring grows almost greenish. "I think I better lay back down," he complains while leaning his head back towards the pillow. "Last thing I remember we were swimming," he mutters.

"Yes," Ostiel replies calmly, putting her arms behind the Tailor's back in order to lower him back onto the bed. However, it is not long before her eyes flash with pain, and her arms begin to shake. This is the opportunity that the apprentice has been waiting for, and he immediately steps in, nudging Ostiel respectfully out of the way. "Allow me." She flushes, but nods in reluctant assent, lowering herself gracefully onto the foot of the bed. "A hidden log hit your head, and knocked you unconcious. It was a struggle to resurface, but fortunately help was at hand." She sighs, smoothing down the sheets. "We owe Maglind and Lostiriel our lives, I have no doubt."

Groaning either from the news or from pain, the Tailor's tightly closed eyes relax as he settles onto his pillow. "Though from your voice, and the sudden help from your friend, I suspect I owe another as well." Galharth says as he forces his eyes open to look upon the Attendant. "What manner of strains and pains did you suffer before help arrived to come to your aid?" Crystal blue eyes flicker with concern as the Tailor gazes over the elleth.

Reaching up a hand, he carefully pokes and prods the point where the log had made contact. His brow furrows as he pokes the wound on the back of his head. "Clearly, it snuck up on me," he mutters with a slight smile.

"I did what I could," Ostiel replies softly, rising to her feet. "I will get you something for the nausea."

The apprentice watches her go with soft eyes, shaking his head. "She will take no credit for her own part in this, but in my opinion, if she had not been there from the accident's beginning...we would be mourning you in song at this very moment. She has taken a great deal of strain to her back and throat, though she would never say so." He watches her intently, perhaps a little too intently, for as she glances back, the Attendant flushes. He does as well, eyes falling to the ground.

Laying still, only the Tailor's eyes move to follow the Attendant's movement. "Thank you, Ostiel," he says softly, though not saying if his thanks is offered for her effort in the river or the promise of something to end his discomfort. As the Apprentice speak, Galharth continues to watch Ostiel, shifting his gaze to the other ellon only when he finishes speaking. "I sensed as much," the clothier replies softly as the impact of the news settles in his mind. Pausing to glance between the Attendant and the Apprentice, he takes a deep breath and releases the air slowly. "Thank you for your dedication to her. She is dear to many and seems overly willing to place herself in harms way for others." he says to the Apprentice in a hushed tone.

"Iaelen," Ostiel calls from across the room, "Is there enough water in the pitcher?"

"Aye," he returns, then lowers his voice. "I would be more dedicated to her, if only she would allow me." Sighing he plumps the pillows behind Galharth's head. "I have asked for the right to courtship twice, and have been refused..twice."

After this he trails off, for Ostiel has returned, expression a bit wary. Taking the glass the Iaelen has poured, she stirs a green mixture of herbs into the water until it has dissolved. Then she holds it out to Galharth, not avoiding his gaze, but not revealing anything either. "Drink this, mellon nin. It will soothe your pain."

Lifting a brow, the Tailor peers at the Apprentice with curious interest. "Did she say why she refuses the attentions?" he asks in equally hushed words. "It can not be due to a lack of adoration, for that seems clear to even me."

Falling silent as Ostiel approaches, Galharth watches in silence as the Attendant prepares the mixture. "The color alone seems distasteful," he mutters with hesitation as he eyes the drink offered. "Surely the pain will pass. The log couldn't have been that big for I live...." Shifting slightly, and wincing from the headache, he draws the glass to his lips. Quickly draining the glass, he falls back onto the pillow. "Will you not take some yourself, Ostiel?"

A grey figure emerges from the shadow of the stairwell. A doff of his hood reveals Earsul, doppled hair of silver-gold framing a face lined with worry. Catching the eye of a passing aide, soft words are exchanged; the aide points toward the far side of the room. Earsul scans the talan in the direction indicated, spots those he seeks, and nods his thanks to the aide. Steps soft but purposeful bring him in a moment to the side of Galharth's bed. Approaching, he sees that the tailor is awake, alert enough, and his expression relaxes a little. "How can one river provide so much adventure for one elf?" he wonders aloud.

"Nay," Ostiel murmurs with a softening face, tucking the blankets under Galharth's chin, "I have already imbibed my medicine for the night." Thusly does she close the subject, and the entrance of Earsul is not at all unwelcome. To his question she raises an eyebrow, mouth twitching. As for Iaelen, he is unable to answer Galharth's question in the subject's presence, and therefore sets himself to work nearby, eyes on the threesome, hands busy elsewhere.

The wait for Ostiel's answer is momentarily paused as the voice of another is added to the sounds within the Healing Talan. "Earsul?" Galharth says with some measure of hesitation, "A log can enter one's life at any time. Such things can not be attributed to my or the rivers doing." The corner of his mough rises slightly, and one shoulder shrugs. "But seriously, if such events keep up, I will think twice about visiting the Long Lawn in the future."

Shifting his eyes towards Ostiel, the recent rise of his mouth falls into a frown. "Ah," he comments to the Attendant, "From my vantage it seems you still move stiffly dispite the medication. And, if our positions were reversed, I'm sure someone would encourage you to sit and rest and perhaps take something stronger." Turning back to the Counsel, a measure of seriousness washes over his expression. "There is a matter in which I'd like to speak with you about, if and when you have the time."

Glad though he is that Galharth is strong enough for even a light jest, Earsul cannot manage the smallest smile. His expression clouds again at the mention of Ostiel's own injuries. "You too were hurt, cousin?" he asks, laying a hand softly on her arm. "And yet here you are, tending to others, no care for yourself. Concussed he may be, but Galharth is not wrong. Sit down a while, Iaelen can tend to you both."

The smallest hint of annoyance flicks across Ostiel's pale countenance, and with a sigh does she wander over to a set of cabinets, swinging them open with a 'creak' and peering inside. "I was not seriously injured, and our kind heal quickly. In truth, I feel very little pain." Down comes a stack of dried herbs, and a pestle. Iaelen's brown eyes narrow to slits, and he immediately advances on the elleth. In lowered hisses they do argue, him with one hand over hers on the mortar, her gripping the herbs tightly enough to crush. It is very good that the rest of the patients are asleep, for this is not a sight for worried eyes.

"I have heard it said that the worst patient is a Healer." Galharth says as he slips a hand under the pillow that cradles his head. "I have to say, from what I've seen, this is a true statement." Falling silent as Iaelen speaks with Ostiel in hushed tones, the Tailor turns his gaze towards Earsul. "I owe my life to three, from what I have been told, and this is not the first time these three names have been mentioned in their dedication towards the peoples of this wood." The Craftmaster whispers in his own attempt to carry out a hushed conversation. "They take no thanks, and present themself in a humbled manner, and yet, I can not see it continue. They deserve recognition." Pausing, the resting ellon glances towards Ostiel for assurances that the conversations remain apart. Glancing back towards the Counsel he, adds, "Is there something or someone who might be able to properly recognize these good folk's efforts?"

"E'er so stubborn," Earsul murmurs with a frown as Ostiel walks away. For a moment he watches as Iaelen attempts to talk sense into her. "Best of luck to you," he adds in the same low tone, before allowing his attention to be taken by Galharth. Listening to the tailor's words, he finds himself nodding in agreement. "Aye, you raise a good point, one that should perhaps have been raised long since. There are, in the Order at least, decorations of valor. Of whom in particular do you speak?"

The sound of angry and frustrated voices rise to the point where they are nearly shouting, but a stir from a nearby elfling causes the pair to abruptly hush, Ostiel red-eyed and sagging, Iaelen reaching out and stroking his fingers down the side of her cheek. She stiffens, but in weariness allows and even seems to lean into the touch, sighing and nodding. "I should pull rank on you," finally drifts over in calm tones, "But I am simply too weary."

He smiles. "I'll grind, you sort."

"Does not the Order answer to the Lord Celeborn? Would it not seem reasonable for one within the Royal Court to approach him on such matters?" Galharth quickly replies in a hushed voice. "Certainly the Lord would hear your words should you bring them forth...." Sighing softly, the Clothier glances towards Ostiel as the voices rise between the elleth and the clearly admiring ellon. When their voices soften, the crafter looks once more to the Counsel. "For one, I speak of Maglind, for he is owed a high honor for his efforts, time and again, and for the others, I speak of the Attendant Ostiel, and the Courier Lostiriel. Both elleths have show great valor." Moving his hand from under the pillow, to rub what appears to be discomfort at his temple, the recovering ellon looks hopefully towards his senior in the Royal Court. "Spirits would certainly be raised to pay such an honor to those who've done so much for others."

Again, Earsul's attention has diverted to the other side of the talan. As the voices grow heated, he is on the brink of interrupting; the tension subsides, and he thinks better of it, and turns back to Galharth. "I will consider the matter, and see what may be done. Lord Celeborn has been... elusive, lately," he says, brow furrowing, "but this is of import, as you say. Let us speak no more of it now. Come, you need to rest."

The two Cuigrithweg lapse into silence, he grinding out the herbs on the table, her sitting nearby with a basket in lap, creating little piles of herbs, every once in a while glancing over to Galharth and Earsul, in case they may need assistance. Other than, she seems to have resigned herself to rest.

"You are of course right, Earsul," Galharth says as his eyes droop, either in response to the medication or from the events of the past day. Either way, he is clearly drifting off into restful, healing sleep. "Thank you, Counsel," he says as his eyelids finally fall shut. With that The Tailor sleeps.