Thrill and Thrall {Narbeleth, Calon, Gilwen} [March 3010]
Dec 25, 2017 22:52:09 GMT -5
Post by Faeldor on Dec 25, 2017 22:52:09 GMT -5
“I tried to be good. I tried.”
The blood pounding through Faeldor's ears with his own rage and despair was muddling his understandings of Gilwen's speech. Her voice was such a soft whisper he could not make out the words. Her face was so contorted in fear. Perhaps if they had been alone in the room, if all his thoughts were upon her and not divided by the horrors going on about them. His own head was pounding from it's earlier beating upon the floor and against Calon's fist.
“Sweetheart,” Faeldor murmured, trying to sooth her. “It's going to be all right now.” It was all he could offer. He could not make up for what she had endured.
Meleth, however, had heard the utterings with her well trained ears, even as Ladrengilon spoke to her, and her face was falling more and more with each utterance. The look that passed between she and the doctor hinted that he heard her as well.
“Gilwen,” Meleth said, pressing near to look to her face. “You are good. My good girl. Always so sweet, and helpful,” As much of her skin cleaned as could be for the time being, Meleth, had pulled the blanket back over the girl as could be done to still let Ladrengilon work; her legs now tucked beneath to gain warmth again at least.
“I'm so glad I had you in my home those months. All the time you helped me keeping Haliel busy. I would not have known what to do without you there. Always good... and kind.” She stroked her hair as she spoke, trying to calm her own self and keep her worry from showing. Both for Gilwen and Faeldor, who was having difficulty controlling his own expressions.
It seemed though, that Faeldor's singing was what had done the trick. Gilwen's eyes had closed to it, and though she flinched somewhat at the cleaning of her wounds, it was not what any of them, even Ladrengilon, would have expected. Even he would have been calling out and groaning in the pain with wounds like she was bearing. Yet, she relaxed somewhat and her eyes closed with the song.
“The people here sing, too. Nobody in Minas Tirith did.”
Gilwen's brown eyes were looking at him. Focusing. Something of his song had sparked a thought in her away from the pain and fear; something far from what she had been repeating earlier. The man latched onto the idea. “Yes,” he answered her, touching her cheek. Of course, he had not heard it yet for the whole of his day since his arrival had been in search of his Gilwen, and he had not thought to listen; though he knew he would have heard it through the town and on the wharfs.
“There is music here that I have never known in the White City. Song to be made, and music to be danced to… I shall have you on the dance floor in the Inn soon… I shall take you to the Harper's Court to hear the minstrels play and sing. I shall sing to you every day.
Perhaps Gilwen would sing with him. She had sung to him once, though her voice was untrained, and she had been under heavy influence of wine. Her song was soft and sweet though, and he had adored it, because it was hers. He took a deep breath, thinking on the words Herion had leant to him; why she had received those those scars he had thought on the past month of their travels. Scars that were barely visible now, for the new broken skin over top of them. For singing… how could a punishment be given to a person for singing? It seemed unfathomable to Faeldor. He leaned down to kiss your forehead.
“I'm going to start the debridement now,” Ladrengilon stated. He was already applying a soothing arnica salve to the wounds upon Gilwen's back, especially the area he was about to begin working. “Meleth, help her lay flat.” Meleth helped to gently roll Gilwen to lay on her stomach, and Faeldor shifted her hair on the pillow to move it far from her back.
“I'll sing you another,” Faeldor said quickly, roving through his mind. “I do not think you've heard from me the Lay of Mithrellas, the elven maid that Imrazôr the Numenorean, met here in the forests of Belfalas and wed. Their children were Galador, and Gilmith. Galador was the first Prince of Dol Amroth.”
“Named for the stars, like you,” Ladrengilon pointed out to Gilwen, approving of the distraction. “My family are named for the stars as well.”
Faeldor nodded, brushing his hand through Gilwen's hair. “I'll sing it to you.” He saw behind Gilwen the doctor coming back from the table with his thin, sharp scalpel, and he wished Gilwen would have taken the brandy or the wine, or anything… yet, he grasped her hand and looked away from the metal tool, away from Gilwen's back. Though he knew it had to be done, he could not bear to watch, yet still, his eyes moved again to Gilwen's back, and he shifted nearer her, as if he could protect her and save her from the bite of the blade. His face was falling.
“I'll sing with you,” Meleth added quickly as she noted her son's expression, pressing the song forward first from her own lips, a low and full contralto bringing forth the old tune. Faeldor's voice wavered at first, but he looked back to Gilwen's eyes and soon his rich tenor joined in the song. Ladrengilon even hummed along as he worked, a deep baritone that offered Meleth surprise given his higher speaking voice. His hands were steady as the knife moved through Gilwen's skin making the cuts needed to clear her tissue and keep the infection at bay from doing further damage.
The blood pounding through Faeldor's ears with his own rage and despair was muddling his understandings of Gilwen's speech. Her voice was such a soft whisper he could not make out the words. Her face was so contorted in fear. Perhaps if they had been alone in the room, if all his thoughts were upon her and not divided by the horrors going on about them. His own head was pounding from it's earlier beating upon the floor and against Calon's fist.
“Sweetheart,” Faeldor murmured, trying to sooth her. “It's going to be all right now.” It was all he could offer. He could not make up for what she had endured.
Meleth, however, had heard the utterings with her well trained ears, even as Ladrengilon spoke to her, and her face was falling more and more with each utterance. The look that passed between she and the doctor hinted that he heard her as well.
“Gilwen,” Meleth said, pressing near to look to her face. “You are good. My good girl. Always so sweet, and helpful,” As much of her skin cleaned as could be for the time being, Meleth, had pulled the blanket back over the girl as could be done to still let Ladrengilon work; her legs now tucked beneath to gain warmth again at least.
“I'm so glad I had you in my home those months. All the time you helped me keeping Haliel busy. I would not have known what to do without you there. Always good... and kind.” She stroked her hair as she spoke, trying to calm her own self and keep her worry from showing. Both for Gilwen and Faeldor, who was having difficulty controlling his own expressions.
It seemed though, that Faeldor's singing was what had done the trick. Gilwen's eyes had closed to it, and though she flinched somewhat at the cleaning of her wounds, it was not what any of them, even Ladrengilon, would have expected. Even he would have been calling out and groaning in the pain with wounds like she was bearing. Yet, she relaxed somewhat and her eyes closed with the song.
“The people here sing, too. Nobody in Minas Tirith did.”
Gilwen's brown eyes were looking at him. Focusing. Something of his song had sparked a thought in her away from the pain and fear; something far from what she had been repeating earlier. The man latched onto the idea. “Yes,” he answered her, touching her cheek. Of course, he had not heard it yet for the whole of his day since his arrival had been in search of his Gilwen, and he had not thought to listen; though he knew he would have heard it through the town and on the wharfs.
“There is music here that I have never known in the White City. Song to be made, and music to be danced to… I shall have you on the dance floor in the Inn soon… I shall take you to the Harper's Court to hear the minstrels play and sing. I shall sing to you every day.
Perhaps Gilwen would sing with him. She had sung to him once, though her voice was untrained, and she had been under heavy influence of wine. Her song was soft and sweet though, and he had adored it, because it was hers. He took a deep breath, thinking on the words Herion had leant to him; why she had received those those scars he had thought on the past month of their travels. Scars that were barely visible now, for the new broken skin over top of them. For singing… how could a punishment be given to a person for singing? It seemed unfathomable to Faeldor. He leaned down to kiss your forehead.
“I'm going to start the debridement now,” Ladrengilon stated. He was already applying a soothing arnica salve to the wounds upon Gilwen's back, especially the area he was about to begin working. “Meleth, help her lay flat.” Meleth helped to gently roll Gilwen to lay on her stomach, and Faeldor shifted her hair on the pillow to move it far from her back.
“I'll sing you another,” Faeldor said quickly, roving through his mind. “I do not think you've heard from me the Lay of Mithrellas, the elven maid that Imrazôr the Numenorean, met here in the forests of Belfalas and wed. Their children were Galador, and Gilmith. Galador was the first Prince of Dol Amroth.”
“Named for the stars, like you,” Ladrengilon pointed out to Gilwen, approving of the distraction. “My family are named for the stars as well.”
Faeldor nodded, brushing his hand through Gilwen's hair. “I'll sing it to you.” He saw behind Gilwen the doctor coming back from the table with his thin, sharp scalpel, and he wished Gilwen would have taken the brandy or the wine, or anything… yet, he grasped her hand and looked away from the metal tool, away from Gilwen's back. Though he knew it had to be done, he could not bear to watch, yet still, his eyes moved again to Gilwen's back, and he shifted nearer her, as if he could protect her and save her from the bite of the blade. His face was falling.
“I'll sing with you,” Meleth added quickly as she noted her son's expression, pressing the song forward first from her own lips, a low and full contralto bringing forth the old tune. Faeldor's voice wavered at first, but he looked back to Gilwen's eyes and soon his rich tenor joined in the song. Ladrengilon even hummed along as he worked, a deep baritone that offered Meleth surprise given his higher speaking voice. His hands were steady as the knife moved through Gilwen's skin making the cuts needed to clear her tissue and keep the infection at bay from doing further damage.
