| Subject: Healing |
Author:
Faeirex
| [ Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: 21:17:11 04/13/02 Sat
A refusal rose in Faeirex's mouth- no, she couldn't, or rather, wouldn't heal him. Elessar would almost certainly die anyway, if not now than in a few months time when-
But then she caught Legolas' eyes, and the words died on her lips. Deep within her she still felt beholden to him for the way he had supported her and given her strength back in the forest. Maybe in this she could repay that debt.
Also, maybe the act would help to atone for her actions to the house of Gondor. It wouldn't be much, but it may help to lessen her deep feelings of guilt. Slowly, she nodded.
"I can try."
Buisnesslike now, she surveyed the room critically.
"I can't work with him on the bed- there's not enough light."
Her gaze fell on a large desk near the window, the sun's rays coloring the dark wood a rich golden hue.
"There will do. Have it cleared, then move him onto it, face down. I need to see the wound."
Coolly, she waited as the two doctors followed her orders. Unemotionally, she glanced at the two dead men still lying in the doorway, before stepping up to the still unconscious king. Gathering in her power, she sent a probing thought through his body, searching for what was wrong. Something called out to her- iron!
"There is rust in the wound, and it's caused an infection. I need a knife and some tweezers. You'd better call some men to hold him down- this is going to hurt. Oh- and have someone come take away the bodies."
She gave her orders calmly, with total certanity that she would be obeyed, but inside, she was less confident. Faeirex had never had any aptitude for healing, and it had been thousands of years since she had even been confronted by an injury, let alone tried to heal one.
Taking the knife, she sliced through the neat stitches of the puncture. In his sleep, Aragorn writhed in pain, but was held still by two powerful warriors gripping his arms. Trying not to retch, she allowed the pus to drain away. Then she called to the iron with her power, holding out her hand. Slowly, it moved onto her outstretched fingers, away from the weeping flesh. With tweezers, she carefully removed a fragment of cloth.
Chanting spells of healing vaguely remembered from her youth, she cleaned the wound again, then flooded the king's body with her strength, willing him to fight the infection. Time ticked by as she struggled to free him from the shadow of death hanging over him, teeth gritted in concentration.
At last, she broke away, motioning to one of the surgeons to stitch the wound up again. She was trembling.
Not waiting to see the effects of her labors, Faeirex dashed from the room. Leaning against a wall outside, she stared dully ahead. Aragorn was saved, but at what cost to herself?
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
] |
|
Feedback: 