================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Late Morning About 10:08 AM
IC day is: Orbelain Valar-day
IC date is: 28 Echuir Stirring
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous HIDDEN
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 4 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor TA 3028
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RL time: Tue May 13 19:22:48 2003
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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.


Golden leaves sway in the lazy breeze, creating dancing shadow patterns on the floor and beds and people within this talan. A paler yellow than the mellyrn, sunlight streams unhindered from a cloudless blue sky to warm the earth beneath and give promise of spring that is coming. Standing - well, leaning really, and leaning heavily upon the frame, is one tall black-haired elf; a white clad healer hovers nearby, hands ready to catch him if he falters.

For long moments, nothing is seen but Lothdaimoth's back, then he turns haltingly from the vision of golden treetops in golden sunlight. Lines of fatigue and pain line his pale face. He manages one faltering step on his own, and then the attendant half-catches, half-assists him to sit on the edge of the bed.


Into the Healing Telain drifts a single elleth, clad in pure white, an oft-seen basket bourne upon her arm. Her mien of calm serenity quickly shifts to worry, and upon handing her light burden to another quendi with whispered words of instruction, she appears at the Minister's side.


"Lothdaimoth! Mellon!" Caristia swiftly grasps his arm, efficiently dissmissing the other attendant with haste. Several more soft instructions, and white skirts swish across the worn floorboards. "Word came to me of thine accident, but as it were, it took me overlong to find you..." A concerned gaze of emerald hue is pinned upon the edhel in the healer's grasp, searching him upside and down.


"I have only been here some few days," Lothdaimoth says slowly. A smile tugs at his lips, and dark grey eyes look up into green ones. "Before that I spent some number of days in the Field Hospital..." A slight wrinkle appears between his eyebrows and he settles back onto the bed with a sigh.


With a nod, and a worried glance, the mistress reaches up a hand to his shoulder, gently pushing in the direction of the bed. "Rest, for thou art wearied greatly. And speak to me of thine injuries. Which have attended to, and which are yet to be seen?" Casting a glance of a thousand words to a passing apprentice, the edhel speedily retrieves a waiting glass. Handing it carefully to the healer, he scurries away to his former duties. Lifting it to the Minister, Caristia softly breathes upon its surface, sending whirling eddies of stream to dissipate in the talan bathed in gold. "Drink this," she says quietly.


The minister starts lies back, one leg swinging fairly easily onto the cot, the other hanging awkwardly over then edge; and then with slumping shoulders he sits back up again, leaning forward to ease his broken leg up. "I know not what tending I may have had," he responds at last. "I do not remember much of that time." Both legs now properly bestowed atop the white-sheeted cushions, he leans back again and reaches out for the cup. A curl of mist glows and vanishes in a stray beam of sunlight. "I am told that both of my legs were broken, this one," he tilts his head to the left, "such that the bone came through the skin. Some ribs were cracked, but later broken in the rescue. And I was hit on the head." One hand loosens from the glass he holds and raises to his temple, where there is no more mark. "That does not hurt any longer, nor do the ribs." He has recited this list of injuries with a rather bored air.


Mien growing darker as the recitation grows longer, the healer swiftly moves to work, exposing the harmed areas. Skilled fingers gently feel along each leg, massaging softly, pausing in some places, passing quickly over others. Peeling away the soiled bandages, they are removed from her grasp, to be replaced by fresh linens, and a ready attendant. Directions for a poultice and warm water to be brought, the attendant quickly disappears, reappearing but a moment later with the required ingrediants. Humming a soft melody, the healer bathes the wounds, the scabs yet rough and untouched. Returning the wet linens to open arms, Saralisse returns her attentions to the patient's left leg, her fingers ever-so-gently prying the scab away. Once removed, she quickly applies the faintly-smelling mixture, softly working it into the open wound with her fingertips.

Her melody growing into hushed words of the flowing wood-elven tongue, lashes conceal her orbs of green for a time, fingers slowly working about the injury. Moments pass; minutes, perhaps seconds - who could tell, in the accounting of the quendi? - before she returns to the present. Snatching a linen from the ready attendant, she removes the remains of the poultice form the wound. But lo, what wound? Only the soft pink of new flesh remains where the bone had once protruded so grotesquely, the bone itself removed from the surface. A wonder, indeed, is the power of the elven fea; to restore flesh and bone to rights with only a little coaxing. The healer moves on.


Bruises have faded long since, lesser cracked bones knitted, but much still remains amiss. A hiss of indrawn breath greets the first tug of fingers on scabbed wounds, and then Lothdaimoth melts into the song and relaxes. "I cannot remember," he murmurs softly, apropos of nothing at all. And pain ebbs as cells remember their way towards health.


Quietly murmuring, Caristia slowly traces along the other leg, reaching the point at which the bones became two. Her song is returned, perhaps softer than before, her calming movements flowing as one with the tide of melody and syllable, smoothing out the pain, the fear, the suffering...Nodding slightly, she tugs the pale robe back down, covering the broken legs. "You may be sore a time yet," she soothingly intones, "for they must learn to mend themselves for a time. But they are shattered no more."

With but a slight rustle of skirts, the elleth shifts upwards along the cot. Folding back the soft-knit robe to expose his chest, her humming resumes its slow course, fingertips lightly tracing along the flesh-covered bone. Again massaging gently, she pauses ever so often, pressure rising and falling with each tender stroke. As she passes along the last crack, her skilled hands are removed, the robe once more covering. Whispered commands once more shared with the attendant nearby, but no sound other than the soft twittering of birds bathing in the rays of Anor announces his going.

Turning to the Minister relaxed upon the cot, she smiles. "Rest, mellon, and move not unless great cause there must be. Again shall I check upon thee soon, and then shall I bid you leave. But rest now, mellon, and sleep well." Passing along a second smaller glass of tinted liquid to Lothdaimoth, Saralisse sings a soft melody, returning to her woodland tongue.


"I will not," Lothdaimoth says drowsily, though it is doubtful exactly what he is responding to. And as the body requires more and more, the fae gives way and he slides into sleep. Again.


A small motherly smile as her mellon quickly succombs to the sleep of the wearied edhel, and handing the remains of the poultice, linens, and scab to the attendant, the elleth dissappears as quietly as she had entered.