The chill air of night is rapidly warming as the sun rises and heats the land. In the field hospital, tucked among the trees as it is, the morning is still cool. Small birds twitter and chirp from their hiding places in the leaves, and now and then one bursts into joyous song. A soft breeze sways branches overhead, adding the rustle of leaves to the sounds of the day. But louder than all these rises the somewhat querulous voice of a certain forester. "I have already done that. Many, many times. It does no good and I won't do it again!" Behind the screen of white-clad healers, a flash of red hair, a glimpse of movement can be seen. Goerhim's last words float across the other beds clearly, even though he has lowered his voice in response to a murmured admonition from those beside him. "And don't tell me it will just take more time!"
And beneath the birds' merry lilt and the whispering song of golden leaves in the wind comes too the flutter of a cloak, billowing verdant and silver in the morning breeze. Quiet steps carry its wearer from between the mallorn-boles and into the clearing, and there does he stop, cold eyes taking account of the field hospital before resting on a familiar figure lying upon one of the woven mats. And clearly complaining, too, by the sound of his voice. At this does a small smile cross Rosgwaen's ever-saddened countenance, and he strides slowly toward his cousin, shoulders proud, golden hair sparking in Anor's sheen. In long-fingered hands he carries a carven crutch.
"Mae govannen, Goerhim," he speaks at last. "How do your injuries fare this day?"
The sound of his older cousin's voice brings Goerhim's head around and a smile lights up his long pale face. "Rosgwaen!" The healers part and close again behind the blond edhel and Goerhim struggles around on his cot, sitting up with a small grunt. The foot of his injured leg gets caught in the sheets and he pushes at it impatiently. "Tell them to let me go." In one hand he tenderly cradles a small pouch. "I have been away from the forest too long, and I need to plant these seeds Lothdaimoth brought to me."
A figure in white makes an aborted gesture towards the injured elf, and sighs softly. "Goerhim," the healer says gently. "We have told you, you must do these exercises to strengthen what muscles remain. You cannot leave yet, there is still much we may do to help you walk." Recalled to a sense of his grievances, Goerhim's happy smile melts into a scowl. "I will not stay here longer. If I have to crawl and drag this useless leg after me, I am leaving!" His lip trembles a little at the thought of his probable future, but he sets his jaw stubbornly before looking up at his cousin, green eyes pleading.
As the white-clad healers close behind him, Rosgwaen draws closer to his cousin, leathern boots soundless upon the well-trodden grass. Somewhere unseen above the tarp-roof a bird warbles, and flutters on small wings, and is gone. Nodding to the healer's word, Golfingund inclines his fair head toward Goerhim, his own green gaze meeting his cousin's-- but calmly, almost coolly; a dire contrast to the injured edhel's. "Nay, good cousin. 'Tis not your hour yet to leave this place. In the shadow of the great wheels of the world which turn even now... your time here will be short, fear not overmuch." Again does he smile, though it brings to his countenance little warmth. "I have brought for you this... but I would that you not use it yet, save if your healers counsel you to. Though I fear that of late my craft is not as it once was."
The crutch does he lay then near Goerhim's cot, wrought of fine wood and etched with fair carvings of mallorn-leaves and the kelvar of Lothlorien. Yet with some hesitation does he lay it down, as if fearing that Goerhim might too soon make use of it. Behind him, words are spoken among the healers, though Rosgwaen perhaps heeds them little.
Goerhim's eyes follow the finely-carved crutch in its path from Rosgwaen's hand to the ground. Fastening first on the carven foliage, they are filled with delight at the quality of the leave's representation. A thin hand reaches down to stroke the wood. "It is so smooth. And the carvings so life-like," he marvels. A few minutes pass in silence, and then his face changes. Quietly, almost unheard, the words come. "So you too think I will never walk again..." What lies in his mind cannot be discerned, for it is only seconds later that he has leaped to an entirely different subject; and an adoring glow banishes whatever else may have lurked in his eyes. "Have you seen Caelwen recently? She promised to visit me, but she has not come." While his mind dwells on the perfections of his beloved cousin, he still strokes the wood of the crutch. And slowly, his attention is drawn back to Rosgwaen's gift. Looking up to the older elf, he asks hesitantly, "Think you it will help?"
Unconsciously, his other hand goes to the mangled flesh of his thigh. The wound has healed as much as it ever will, but the red cords of the scars twist and curve snakelike across the unnatural hollow where skin and muscle were literally torn out of the leg.
"Would that I had wrought it 'ere my skill began to fade," speaks Rosgwaen as his cousin's hand alights upon the wood, looking away for a time as if in sorrow. "But yea. It is my hope that it will help, and my feeling that it will indeed." Verdant eyes turn then back, following Goerhim's hand to the scars etched into the once-fair skin of the younger edhel's thigh, become now little more than a mass of twisted crimson shades. His gaze then seeks to meet his cousin's, head tilted and half-bowed as if in silent condolence... and then in near-sorrow as he speaks of his sister. "I have seen Caelwen. Though fleetingly, and whene'er we happen upon each other she takes soon her leave of me. Yet we seem oft to chance upon each other in this fashion, and I would deliver from you a message to her, if you are in need of it."
Turning the crutch over and over, Goerhim finally sets it upright and stares at it broodingly. Lank red hair falls over his face and he pushes it back restlessly. "A message," he repeats. "No, I have nothing to say, only I wished to see her." Then, with a sudden movement, he pushes himself up from the cot and balances on one leg, white-knuckled hands clutching the carved stick. Loose white shorts hang limply underneath a long grey shirt. Tentatively, the forester twitches his injured leg forward, and putting the wooden head of the crutch under his arm, tries to take a step. His leg buckles, and he sways alarmingly.
"Stop this--" As Goerhim attempts a wavering step, his cousin rushes to his side, seeking to steady him with a strong arm. A twain of healers, too, speed to his aid, one looking upon Goerhim in amaze and the other with disapproving eyes turned to the crutch and its maker. "Goerhim," continues Rosgwaen, fair voice now firm but with no taint of anger, "I bid you not use it yet. Should it tempt you, I would leave it in the care of your tenders until they deem you ready."
Goerhim scowls irritably at the rush of helpers, but the hand that clings tightly to his cousin's supporting arm belies his ill-humor. Sulkily, he mutters, "First they say I must exercise, then they yell when I do. I will walk again!" But he allows himself to be helped back to his bed, although he resists all attempts to relieve him of his new crutch. Holding it across his lap, he looks up at Rosgwaen. "Very well. I will wait. For a small amount of time. But no longer." One of the healers steps back, satisfied for the moment; but the other hovers nearby, plucking ineffectually at the crutch. Goerhim snatches it back and holds it closer to his chest, glaring at the importunate apprentice. "It is mine! I said I would not use it to walk again just now, but I am keeping it." His jaw sets stubbornly and his eyes dart around the clearing as if he expects a horde of elves to descend on him and steal his precious support.
A single step does Rosgwaen take, and it carries him from his cousin to allow the injured edhel room. Slowly does his cloak settle upon his broad back, and he turns to a healer to speak. "Allow him to hold it then, at least." The white-clad edhel looks to Golfingund before drawing back from Goerhim to join her fellows beside a nearby cot. To Goerhim does his golden-tressed cousin then turn, his words perhaps encouraging though his countenance remains aloof. "Yea. You shall walk. But I would that you would wait, for now. And for now, I must take leave." A slight smile does he offer, and a parting "Namarie" as his silent stride brings him quickly to the edge of the meadow and beyond. And then he vanishes into the heavy verdant of the thicket, and the golden leaves above rustle again in the light breeze, and his billowing cloak fades and is lost from sight.
Rosgwaen's departure seems not to be noticed by his cousin at all, intent as he is on fending off crutch-thieves. But just before the other's cloak disappears completely from view, he remembers. "Thank you!" he calls after the other, before turning all his attention back to his new possession.