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 And So The Sun Sets, FA 1, shortly after the Ice | Open
Nessavendë
Posted: Jul 29 2014, 09:16 PM



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Group: Elves
Posts: 52
Member No.: 56
Joined: 8-June 14



The journey over the Helcaraxë had been harrowing, and that was putting it lightly. Shortly after the host that conquered the Grinding Ice had crossed into Aman and the moon had disappeared, the sun had risen, shining brightly in the sky. For a moment, the entirety of the group had been frightened: was this some dark power of Morgoth's come to destroy them when they had finally come through the most dangerous experience of their lives to date? Had this journey all been for naught? When they had realized that it was the last fruit from Laurelin shining upon them, a moment of happiness overcame them. They forgot their fears and their woes, their souls cleansed by the light that shone from Vása. Darkness was a thing of the past at that time, something they did not have to dwell upon. Light filled their lives, and the cold of the Ice was now behind them.

Having feet on solid ground was one of the most comforting things for the healer. Nessavendë had hated the cold, but she hated the shifting ice even more. Every time an ominous cracking began, reverberating through the slopes and dips in the ice, she felt her fëa tremble in fear inside of her. They had lost too many to the shifting ice...seeing bodies disappear, hearing bones crack and break as they fell victim to the cruel cold, it was almost too much to bear. The largest loss the group had suffered had been when Elenwë died along with part of the host. Her child had been saved...but Turgon had suffered the loss of his wife and others had suffered grievous losses as well.

With the shifting and cracking ice, wounds were common place, and it was hard for the healer to properly tend to every injury. Focus was lost to the haze of cold that sunk into the core of her being. Standing on solid land, with grass beneath their feet and resources at hand, had allowed for her to begin foraging for the needed herbs to begin aiding those who still suffered wounds that refused to properly heal and to aid their healing process.

Whereas many enjoyed the days that had passed, she had not once stopped to consider what this meant for them...for her. They had arrived at Lake Mithrim near to where Fëanáro and his company were shortly after leaving the ice, as soon as the sun had risen. Whether the sun heralded their arrival or something else, none knew, but they were thankful for the comforts of a camp, of hot food and less bulky clothing. And while there was talk among the group, of what was to come and where they would go from there, she kept herself busy. Little time was spent talking among others; instead, she foraged, made pastes, tended to wounds, and situated the white tent she would stay in for the time being near the lake. A source of fresh water was of utmost importance in her work, after all, and so many now could fully heal without the fëa-crushing cold of the ice to hinder her.

The day was coming to an end, as was her work, and it was for the first time since their arrival that Nessavendë had actually stopped to watch the sun set, to take in everything around her without constantly worrying about wounded or herb pastes. With everyone tended to, or so she thought, the healer felt she could take this one moment for herself. She had had very little time in the interim to actually consider the sun and the sprays of orange, pink, purple, and even yellow that cast across the sky as it sunk into the horizon. This sunset reminded her of the first: the beauty of it, the way it washed the sky in colors that at one time seemed to be lost, and how it soothed a soul that had been torn haggard by the cold that seeped into bones. It set the water to burning brightly as well, mirroring the dance of color above, and in the sinking light her own hair shone as brightly as the sun did. Her heart ached to take in such beauty, but it was an ache she found pleasant, welcoming. It was an ache she wished would last for a lifetime.
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Glorfindel
Posted: Sep 2 2014, 05:41 PM



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Group: Elves
Posts: 247
Member No.: 4
Joined: 12-March 14



Laurefindil shifted uncomfortably as he watched Arien's descent below the horizon, her fiery path blazened for the day and now to vanish below Arda as Tilion followed. He knew who they were, what their new purpose was; he'd had the dreams, as many of his kind had, those among them that claimed foresight at least. Arien and Tilion, chosen to guide the last fruits of Laurelin and Telperion until the end of days. It was beautiful, but even now that he was confident she would return come morning, he could not enjoy the colors painted across the evening sky. It should have filled him with hope, should have calmed and brought him comfort, as the beginning of a new era, not that their journey across the Helcaraxë was complete.

Instead all he felt was pain. The pain of loss, grief, exhaustion, weariness, fear of the unknown, and physical pain. Laurefindil shifted again, twisting the fur lined coat he'd worn on the ice a little tighter around his hands where they lay in his lap, half immobile and oscillating between a dull ache and sharp, shooting agony. Frostbite, he supposed, had finally taken its toll after the long hours spent exposed to the below freezing temperatures, tending to others' injuries or making use of the dexterity only glove-less fingers provided to fix arrows, or tie a fishing line when the ice was secure enough to try.

No amount of warmth had helped thus far. For a time, the cold burns he would get could be healed by his own Fёa, but as the years wore on it had become harder and harder to keep up a continuous stream of healing energy, especially as supplies had grown thin, and at times, vanished altogether. He'd given up, and only bothered with the most pressing of his own troubles in favor of expending his strength taking care of his people. His father had not given him a healer's training so he could hoard it for himself and his cousins. Broken arms and legs were more important than a patch of raw skin here, a blister there, chapped lips or cracked knuckles.

He'd grown used to the constant pain in his extremities, and almost forgotten it entirely as another side effect of their conditions. Now though, with the sun shining brightly and warming his face, with the snow receded, with grass and trees and precipitation that wasn't frozen solid in the warmer (not warm by definition, but anything was warmer than the Helcaraxё) air, the pain in his hands was excruciating. Unfortunately it had been so long that he couldn't seem to find the proper channels, where blood vessels were supposed to flow and skin was supposed to mesh. Perhaps it was the pain making it difficult to concentrate, or the exhaustion of his own Fëa. However he looked at it and whatever excuse he used, the fact was this: He needed help.

Laurefindil would have gone to his father, but he had vanished on the ice, sometime in the middle of a blizzard, just a few months ago. Maybe he was still wandering, maybe he was dead. He didn't know, but it was nice to believe that he was alive, that he'd found his way out before them, or perhaps he was just lost among the Noldor, there were so many of them. Maybe. Maybe.

He would have loved the sunsets.

The Vanya slid from his perch on a lichen matted boulder and headed back toward the camp in a circuitous route that would take him past the most tents, trying to look inconspicuous while also keeping an eye out for tents with a healing symbol or other such hints as to their occupants' line of work. Nearing the lake, he caught the faintest whiff of herbs on the air as he passed by a simple white tent, and he paused, glancing toward it in an unobtrusive way. It was plain, but after a moment he noticed an elleth standing on the other side of it, and he glanced down at the bundle of fur that hid his aching fingers, wondering if it was really worth the risk of getting turned down, and decided that yes, he did want to be able to sleep tonight, and hold a cup of hot tea in the morning if at all possible, even if it was made from bark or scavenged wild mint. He could gather up a bit of hope in that the variety of plants he smelled typically weren't found in common use for cooking so he dredged up a bit of humility and padded over.

Laurefindil picked his way around the tent's perimeter and cleared his throat. "You wouldn't happen to be a healer would you?" he asked quietly, "I apologize for disturbing you but I… well, I could use some help." He offered a small, sheepish smile, though it didn't reach very far to his eyes, and gestured slightly with his haphazardly wrapped muff. "I'd do it myself but I've run out of fuel I think."
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Nessavendë
Posted: Sep 14 2014, 11:12 AM



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Group: Elves
Posts: 52
Member No.: 56
Joined: 8-June 14



For a moment, Nessavendë had peace: there was no worry about wounds sustained from the Ice, no worry of food or drink for those who had taken the arduous journey, no worry to weigh down her cold, weary soul...and then someone broke her reverie. Silence and comfort were shattered as a voice evaded her thoughts, mind clouded with memories that refused to leave, even when she slept, and she was drug from that darkness that offere comfort she had not had in quite some time to the burning sky before her and someone speaking behind her. Turning her head, face a blank canvas portraying no emotion or thought (although internally she was groaning and praying to Yavanna and Estë for just one more moment of peace and quiet), her eyes flicked over Laurefindil quickly, assessing the Vanya before her.

She could not recall his face from the Ice, but if she were honest with herself, very few actually branded a lasting impression upon her memory from those cold, dark times. There were too many to keep count of on the ice and too many lost, their survivors unable to be properly mourn for their lives being taken so quickly from them. Every face she looked at since they had stepped off of the ice held no real importance, no matter what rank they came from. They were merely another patient, another wound to tend to once her fëa had the strength to do it.

Moving forward without a word spoken, she unwrapped the hand he had motioned with and looked it over, fingers lightly tracing along the injured appendage. "You are lucky they do not need removed," came her first words in a flat voice. At some point on the ice, her attempts at becoming a more nurturing healer had cracked; the cold hardened words and expressions, tender natures died, and healers had to learn to be quick and succinct in their work or risk losing their patient's and themselves in the process. The time spent on the Helcaraxë was not a distant memory for Nessavendë, or anyone else for that matter--it was still a cold wound festering below the surface, and healing would take time. As her fingers traced along the frostbitten hand, she tsked to herself softly and motioned for him to join her.

"I have done a lot of work today, so I can only heal it to an extent, internally that is." That was the most worrisome part to her, anyway: the external damage could heal on its own, or he could return later and have it tended to if he wished. Fixing the internal damage was the most important part of healing currently. There were various dried roots laid out before her, and she plucked one up, putting it into a small stone bowl with a little bit of boiling water from her fire. "This calendula paste will help with the rest of the healing externally." She motioned for him to sit on a log near the fire as she worked on the paste, a stalling effort so her fëa could prepare for its next task of healing his hand. As she worked on the paste, she gave him the directions needed to make the most of it. "Apply it generously tonight on your entire hand, and anywhere else on your skin that was exposed to the cold for too long. Wrap your hand in bandages after you apply it tonight. Do it once more in the morning if your hand no longer aches."

With the paste sufficently ground up, she moved forward to take hold of his hand again and feel out where the damage was, mapping out her healing path in her mind. Without a word, as her fingers drifted over his wounds, she extended forth her fëa to work on repairing the damage the ice had caused him, wondering how he had survived this long without losing his hand. It took a bit of careful work--partly because the ice caused damage that was hard to heal and partly because her fëa was so weak--on her part, but when she withdrew her hand, she was satisfied the internal damage had been properly dealt with...as properly as she could in her current state. "If you still have pain in the morning like you have had, come back to me first thing. Do you need banages as well?" She found a small, empty pot amidst the others on the ground with their varied contents and scooped out the paste into it, then moved back to Laurefindil. Through the whole process of healing and discussing what he needed to her, her face was blank and voice was soft and tone flat. "Remember, apply it generously and wrap your hand after," she said, extending the clay pot to him.
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Glorfindel
Posted: Sep 16 2014, 11:45 AM



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Group: Elves
Posts: 247
Member No.: 4
Joined: 12-March 14



Ah yes, this is why he had waited so long to seek assistance. He wasn't the only one exhausted from their journey and the vast amounts of healing that had to be done on the way. The look on her face was easily translated despite her silence. He knew that feeling well but he'd always done his best to ignore the irritation and do what he could. He had hoped however, that even if it were just a minute effort, the unfamiliarity with the fruits of his neglect might be more effective than his own efforts had been.

Laurefindil smiled apologetically, half a wince and half a plea that she would humor him for a few moments despite his interrupting her obviously first chance at rest. He was relieved to see her get to her feet and approach, and he let her pull away the furs to reveal the cracked skin of his hands, patchy with pale, translucent flesh where the cold had eaten away at them, a hint of blue at the fingertips. The Vanya knew very well how lucky he was he still had fingers at all; the flame of his own Fёa had kept them just warm enough to survive. The unamused bite in her tone made him grimace and look down to watch her healthy fingers move over his - he felt nothing at the touch.

They had lost more than appearances told on the ice: healers were by nature nurturing and empathic - very few of them had retained that patience so far. He didn't blame her. As a healer himself he'd known what he was doing at the time, but he hadn't cared. It was his own stupidity that had brought him to this point that he had to waste someone else's energy to fix his mistakes, he was lucky she would humor him at all and not tell him to go lie in the bed he'd made for himself, but he could tell she had a good heart underneath the cold that had frozen it.

He sat where she indicated, reveling momentarily in the warmth of the fire nearby. Fire was something they'd had very little of on the ice, despite their great need, and he doubted he would ever tire of its comforting glow and the warmth it provided. Laurefindil's eyes slid from the fire to watch her work, listening to the instructions given. He knew what she was making, but he couldn't have done it himself, the dexterity in his fingers had died along with the nerves. In the final weeks before reaching Beleriand it had gotten difficult to even grip his own sword hilt with any confidence.

There was ample opportunity to thank her for her work, but the touch of her Fёa when it came stole the words from his lips. He closed his eyes and sucked in a shallow breath, following the path her unfamiliar Fёa took along his damaged limb in an effort to memorize the steps he would need to take later. The pain didn't retreat completely, but it soothed enough of it that he let out a quiet hiss of relief. He'd nearly forgotten the feel of his own fingers, but feeling them awaken now, it would be easier for him to heal the rest of the damage himself later. "No," he answered softly, "I have enough of my own, there's no need to take from your stores." He did accept the small pot when it was offered to him, curling his still tingling fingers around it carefully. Yes, much better. At the very least they were mobile again.

"I thank you," he added, suddenly feeling a very poignant need to offer her something in return for her services, though he doubted she wanted anything but a good night's rest. "I… Well, my name Laurefindil, son of Irime Írien, daughter of Finwë Ñoldóran, I know coin and jewels are of little value here and now, when just surviving is more important than whatever wealth or status you have, but if you should need anything, you have only to ask. It is not difficult to find me." He got to his feet and swayed slightly, letting out a self-deprecating half-chuckle. "Once again I apologize for interrupting your rest. I can tell you need it as much as I."
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