She gave yet another small nod. In the light of the king's consent, the ossified feeling in the middle of her back was disappearing as the light green balm was almost finished. Continuing onto another page from her father's journal, the healer ran her eyes over the next set of instructions. It seemed that her father did rub the substance into kings skin which encouraged the regeneration, as well as reciting the chant which was inscribed on the opposite page. It was couple verses long and was meant to be repeated as long as the whole healing process would be taking place. What a better way to join practice and memorization together then endlessly repeating the lyrics.
She looked at the king, the pestle now lying next to the mortar. He seemed to have been watching her with a certain degree of fascination, or maybe some other emotion. It was hard to say as Thranduil seemed to Tirneliell to be hard to figure out since he was able to change his facial expressions as fast as an elven archer can shoot arrows. But that was not the reason why she shifted her gaze towards him. She was taking into account his comfort, and her own as well in the matter; therefore, making yet another request.
"Everything is ready, my king. Would you mind taking a seat? It will be easier for me to carry out this task," she said, her lips gently pulled upwards in the most unpretentious smile. Tirneliell waited for him to follow, before she took her place not entirely behind him, but possibly almost out of his view. She stood by his side as it seemed to be the best position for applying the ointment. For reasons, she didn't quite grasp, she suddenly started to feel nervous again. Doubting her abilities as the spell was about to begin. Not only would she be using her vocals to draw out the spell, she would be placing her fingers onto the skin of the only elven man who since forever seemed as a distant and unreachable manifestation of all that represented her kind. It almost felt as if she was about to feel he last living Ent. Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly, but to the adventitious onlooker who was unfamiliar to her thoughts, the rose colour of her cheeks might have just been elicited by the heat in the room due to the fire. Drawing in a deep breath, at first she was only humming lightly, finding the right melody for the words to sing.
At the point of releasing the first syllable, the tip of her finger moistened with the ointment, touched the king's cheek, exactly on the edge of the scar. The contact was tender and warm to the senses, even as she dragged it along the border of the hideous thing. Never flinching, never backing down. Her voice only complemented her touch. It was not the high soprano that some of other elven women possessed. The high angelic voice, that all of them were so proud off. No, Tirneliell's voice was placed lower, in the vocal range where it sounded like running honey. It was a noise that wrapped itself around the listener in a fervent manner, caressing the hearer's perception. She sang in Sindarin, the language in which the chant was written. The nature of her words was...evocative to say the least. The chant was of past battles encountering beasts that spit fire, the damage that such an encounter can leave on the body, mind and soul, but the damage never being too dreadful to be unrepairable. She sang of perfection of personal qualities that so graciously reflect on the outer appearance; all the high values and aims one has set before him to reach and the honour with which these are achieved. Lastly, her words addressed an unnamed being who whilst being withdrawn was so much part of everyone's thoughts and prayers. Yes, the chant addressed the king himself, speaking of his adventure, the wound he suffered. In a twisted way, calling forth some feelings or memories from that horrible fight only empowered the chant as through the song the king could conquer his hatred for the past events. Or at least, that was Tirneliell's mother hope. She always looked to heal not only the body and Fëar but also the mind. As Tirneliell was now saying those words, she felt strangely in unity with her mother. Deep in her heart a singular need to help the king beyond this spell took its roots. The need was to help him lessen his hatred she saw in his expression when he revealed the scar, the scowl with which he spoke embodied his internal suffering. He did not have to say a word of it, but Tirneliell was perceptive and understood the hidden meanings.
At some point, she lost sense of the time. She focused on the chant and the constant motion of her fingers along Thranduil's skin. At one point, when the moon was over a quarter of its way across the sky, her touch disappeared; her voice died away. The scar was gone. She was proud of herself and delighted for the king who would now be able to resume his duties in full strength, without the disturbance of his ailment. There was no need for words so she just walked around Thranduil and over to the table to put the mortar down. But as she got closer, she stumbled all of a sudden, almost dropping the stone mixing bowl onto the table with a loud thud. The tiredness has hit her with the force of winter gale winds. Her eye were not able to focus for a few moments, her mind unsure of what was happening. Her father certainly forgot to mention in his journal just how much the procedure would weaken the healer.
"Forgive me, my lord." It seems that it has taken a toll on me. She apologized once her sight was restored noticing the mortar lying on its side, the last remnants of the ointment nearly dropping over the edge onto the wood. With a hand that was slightly trembling, she reached out intending to stand the mortar up.
