First Thing in the Morning [Adanedhel] {July 3011}
Jul 27, 2018 11:18:37 GMT -5
Post by ELIRA on Jul 27, 2018 11:18:37 GMT -5
“I received it in October of last year.”
Glerorn's face showed a flicker of worry, though he pressed it back. The healer could not let his patient see his own fears. It was said that the morgul blades bore a poison which could not be entirely healed anywhere save Aman, yet if he was careful to remove the damaged tissue now, perhaps he would not need to go too deep to allow the wound to be able to heal over.
“I will need to remove tissue,” he said, his voice even, though he was disturbed at the thought of it. Of what the wounding had done to the elf's hröa. It was something he was not going to be completely able to heal.
Kelet stared back at Adanedhel on the bed, watching him, as he watched her, her eyes holding on to his for a long while, while the others continued to mutter. Glerorn sent one to gather supplies for him, though the others lingered, pressing into the room in intrigue.
“You do not have to stay when they start. But I ask of you to not mention this to my family. Not yet, please?”
“My stomach is lead,” Kelet shook her head. “I will not go. No more pain alone.” The sight of gore, while it troubled her, would not turn her ill. Kelet was used to it. She was used to the dingy metallic smell of blood always upon the Easterlings, used to seeing their wounds open to the air as they sought her knowledge of the speaking stars. Used to the sight of blood leaking from her own wrists over the years. The smell of burning flesh was still engrained in her mind. She had never allowed it to weaken her. She could not have allowed it.
“I will not say. Secrets I keep, I share only my own,” Kelet assured Adanedhel, a hand upon his shoulder as she stood before him, protective. She felt her own skin prickling, not in cold, but in annoyance at the rest of the elves in the room as they talked amongst themselves, and continued to cause a disturbance where none was needed.
One of the healers near the doorway stepped forward to garner Glerorn's attention. “Amarië would wish to-”
“He said do not,” Kelet turned her head, her white hair flying behind her, and bit at the healer.
“His Naneth would request-” the healer argued, though Kelet was determined that he would not finish his statement.
“Is he elfling?” she questioned, a tilt to her head. “Did elfling fight this Nâzgul you speak, and live to come with small wounding?” She gestured to Adanedhel's side as she spoke, the bells on her wrists light and ringing contrasting with the upset upon her voice.
“He is among the youngest who dwell here,” Glerorn pointed out, drawing nearer to the bed to take another closer look at the injury.
“Is. He. Elfing?” Kelet repeated low, now looking down at the Master Healer, her brow creased. She did not care if Glerorn was millenia older than herself. He had not answered her question.
“Well, no, he is not, I suppose,” Glerorn answered in turn, his voice cool as he stared at Adanedhel. He was among the youngest, it was true, though he was over seven hundred years. More than halfway to a millennium. He had come of age long ago.
“Then it is his choice. Do not question his choice. He saves his Naneth from pain in knowing.” Glerorn gave a slight nod in consideration, before Kelet added. “How many healers you need to help you?”
“Just an assistant,” Glerorn answered, as he moved across the room to wash his hands in the basin before taking to the cupboard to search through his herbs and powders.
“Then rest can leave,” Kelet demanded lightly, as she seated herself beside Adanedhel on the bed, on the side which did not hold the wound, though in it's place, scarring. She caught Adanedhel's eyes for a moment, her lips tight, and then she looked down to his arm. The flesh there had been torn, though healed over. His chest holding the same markings, of lash, of blade. Leaning back to glance behind, she sighed heavily at his back, which seemed to have taken great abuses. Healed over now, though the skin was flecked with deep scarring.
Kelet closed her eyes for a moment against the sight. She felt inward pain seeing now what torment he had spoken of in the night, seeing the truth of it, far worse than his simple words had explained. “No more pain alone,” she repeated, a whisper close to Adanedhel's ear, as she lifted her hand to his back, feeling the ridges of tortured skin beneath her fingertips, letting her hand glide from one shoulder to the other, back and forth a few times, as if to sooth him, and also to show him that she was indeed not frightened by his marred skin. Only by the thought of what had been done to him.
“I will need jar of oil before we leave,” Kelet informed Glerorn, her voice now softer. “For the scarring. I will care for myself. And his skin is cold. He needs blanket.”
“As if I would deny you,” Glerorn answered, almost a hint of amusement to his voice, though his face was set in thought. His tools brought to him now. He sent the rest of the elves from the room, one in search for a blanket, and Glerorn came to Adanedhel mixing a powder into a glass of water. “This may make you feel a bit strange,” he pointed out. “But it will numb the pain while I work.”
Kelet's nose crinkled at the smell of the pain killer, a familiar scent, similar to what the Easterlings would use for recreational purposes. Losing track of their bodies, their words. A disgusting habit, to let one's mind slip away from them, though for the sake of medical purposes she saw no harm. Adanedhel would be safe here with her, and a bed to rest in while the healer worked. She nodded once, encouraging the elf to drink the concoction.
Glerorn's face showed a flicker of worry, though he pressed it back. The healer could not let his patient see his own fears. It was said that the morgul blades bore a poison which could not be entirely healed anywhere save Aman, yet if he was careful to remove the damaged tissue now, perhaps he would not need to go too deep to allow the wound to be able to heal over.
“I will need to remove tissue,” he said, his voice even, though he was disturbed at the thought of it. Of what the wounding had done to the elf's hröa. It was something he was not going to be completely able to heal.
Kelet stared back at Adanedhel on the bed, watching him, as he watched her, her eyes holding on to his for a long while, while the others continued to mutter. Glerorn sent one to gather supplies for him, though the others lingered, pressing into the room in intrigue.
“You do not have to stay when they start. But I ask of you to not mention this to my family. Not yet, please?”
“My stomach is lead,” Kelet shook her head. “I will not go. No more pain alone.” The sight of gore, while it troubled her, would not turn her ill. Kelet was used to it. She was used to the dingy metallic smell of blood always upon the Easterlings, used to seeing their wounds open to the air as they sought her knowledge of the speaking stars. Used to the sight of blood leaking from her own wrists over the years. The smell of burning flesh was still engrained in her mind. She had never allowed it to weaken her. She could not have allowed it.
“I will not say. Secrets I keep, I share only my own,” Kelet assured Adanedhel, a hand upon his shoulder as she stood before him, protective. She felt her own skin prickling, not in cold, but in annoyance at the rest of the elves in the room as they talked amongst themselves, and continued to cause a disturbance where none was needed.
One of the healers near the doorway stepped forward to garner Glerorn's attention. “Amarië would wish to-”
“He said do not,” Kelet turned her head, her white hair flying behind her, and bit at the healer.
“His Naneth would request-” the healer argued, though Kelet was determined that he would not finish his statement.
“Is he elfling?” she questioned, a tilt to her head. “Did elfling fight this Nâzgul you speak, and live to come with small wounding?” She gestured to Adanedhel's side as she spoke, the bells on her wrists light and ringing contrasting with the upset upon her voice.
“He is among the youngest who dwell here,” Glerorn pointed out, drawing nearer to the bed to take another closer look at the injury.
“Is. He. Elfing?” Kelet repeated low, now looking down at the Master Healer, her brow creased. She did not care if Glerorn was millenia older than herself. He had not answered her question.
“Well, no, he is not, I suppose,” Glerorn answered in turn, his voice cool as he stared at Adanedhel. He was among the youngest, it was true, though he was over seven hundred years. More than halfway to a millennium. He had come of age long ago.
“Then it is his choice. Do not question his choice. He saves his Naneth from pain in knowing.” Glerorn gave a slight nod in consideration, before Kelet added. “How many healers you need to help you?”
“Just an assistant,” Glerorn answered, as he moved across the room to wash his hands in the basin before taking to the cupboard to search through his herbs and powders.
“Then rest can leave,” Kelet demanded lightly, as she seated herself beside Adanedhel on the bed, on the side which did not hold the wound, though in it's place, scarring. She caught Adanedhel's eyes for a moment, her lips tight, and then she looked down to his arm. The flesh there had been torn, though healed over. His chest holding the same markings, of lash, of blade. Leaning back to glance behind, she sighed heavily at his back, which seemed to have taken great abuses. Healed over now, though the skin was flecked with deep scarring.
Kelet closed her eyes for a moment against the sight. She felt inward pain seeing now what torment he had spoken of in the night, seeing the truth of it, far worse than his simple words had explained. “No more pain alone,” she repeated, a whisper close to Adanedhel's ear, as she lifted her hand to his back, feeling the ridges of tortured skin beneath her fingertips, letting her hand glide from one shoulder to the other, back and forth a few times, as if to sooth him, and also to show him that she was indeed not frightened by his marred skin. Only by the thought of what had been done to him.
“I will need jar of oil before we leave,” Kelet informed Glerorn, her voice now softer. “For the scarring. I will care for myself. And his skin is cold. He needs blanket.”
“As if I would deny you,” Glerorn answered, almost a hint of amusement to his voice, though his face was set in thought. His tools brought to him now. He sent the rest of the elves from the room, one in search for a blanket, and Glerorn came to Adanedhel mixing a powder into a glass of water. “This may make you feel a bit strange,” he pointed out. “But it will numb the pain while I work.”
Kelet's nose crinkled at the smell of the pain killer, a familiar scent, similar to what the Easterlings would use for recreational purposes. Losing track of their bodies, their words. A disgusting habit, to let one's mind slip away from them, though for the sake of medical purposes she saw no harm. Adanedhel would be safe here with her, and a bed to rest in while the healer worked. She nodded once, encouraging the elf to drink the concoction.