The Hobbit: Tales Untold

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by The Returner, Jan 19, 2015.

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  1. [​IMG]
    Faervel...the strong spirit. A name her mother gave her from her insight before she died. Tirneliell...the stargazer, or Daughter of Tirneldir. Her father-name indeed created from her own father's name at her birth. Even he was now breathlessly lying in front of her. Her hands were curled into tight fists as she fought the storming emotions. He had no right to leave her behind with responsibilities that she doubted she could bear on her own. Yet, he had the freedom to follow his wife into the Halls of Mandos, to reunite with her. Another tear trickled down her cheek. Yes, she was mourning her departed father who laid in the depth of the garden adjacent to their house. She mourned him with all her heart and all her might as the wound was still fresh, his lifeless body not older than a day. However, on the breeze of late afternoon air, Tirneliell, as she assumed to call herself now since Faervel felt too personal to be called like that by anyone, knew she had to take up the duties of her father along with the single secret he bestowed on her.

    Her dark dress rustled as she stood up and with last look in her father's direction, retreated back indoors to adjust her appearance before she would leave for the Great Halls of Mirkwood, to receive audience with her King, Thranduil. She sent a runner earlier in the day with a message that she had news for King's ears only, hoping that she stressed the importance of the urgent situation enough for the King to accept her request. With a last look in the mirror, Tirneliell left her comfort zone to face the unknown, her footsteps sending gentle echoes in the streets as people looked in her direction. Those aware of her situation sent their condolences on a line of sight before averting their eyes.

    Tirneliell possessed a slender figure attesting to her agility as an elf, yet the golden string wrapped around her waist accentuated the subtle curves that she retained as a woman. Her facial features were soft yet firmly set within its frame that gave her the look of nobility, but what set her apart was her black hair inherited from her mother who was of Noldorin descent. Her mother was the one with knowledge and craftiness. She brought up an idea, came up with new ways how to mix herbs, then father simplified it all so that everything became more effective. Together they made an amazing team. A team that was known in the Mirkwood for their healing prowess. Now it was Tirneliell's turn to hold up family's tradition and prestige.

    "I am hear to speak with the king," she spoke clearly as she reached the gates with guards stationed at each side. One of them nodded and gestured for her to follow. Despite each nerve in her body calling to delay the inevitable, Tirneliell resisted it and let the gates of King's habitat close behind her.

    (I left it a bit more open for you. Also, I know the description 'dark dress' is also very poor, but there is actually a link hiding beneath those words so one click should solve that.)
    #1 The Returner, Jan 19, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 19, 2015
  2. It was a dull ache that often accompanied the resurfacing of the scar, burning slowly through the unmarked facade he put up. He would have called for the Healer long before the decay, but due to unfortunate... circumstances, he had refrained. It would not be long before he was required to call upon the Healer's daughter, in spite of however personal the disfigurement across his face was.

    However much Thranduil wished to remain undisturbed 'till nightfall, he understood the importance that had bled into the informant's words, and had accepted the request for his presence-- albeit reluctantly. He removed his hand from one of the winding pillars, the groaning of the great gates that opened into his realm signalling what he had patiently been awaiting. The urgency in her message had certainly captured what attention the King could spare, and thus he awaited to hear what it was she required his presence for.

    Perhaps the band of orcs he had decimated not a week ago had grown in numbers again and were terrorizing the outer limits of the forest. Considering he recognized the name of the one who'd sent the message, he doubted such, but kept an open mind. Orcs were a problem best not left to a lazy ruler.

    He sighed deeply, and with a quick flick of his wrist the doors that led into his chamber swung outwards with a near-silent whoosh, a curt welcome devoid of any real warmth that words would have conveyed easily. It was strictly business, and Thranduil had a busy schedule to keep.

    (Hope this is okay--)
  3. (It's brilliant)

    The Halls of the king were colossal. Ceilings so high so that they seemed unreachable like sky itself. Maybe when Mirkwood was still alive and thriving, these halls were filled with warmth and joy. Now, they seemed just as empty and lifeless to her as the flora surrounding the kingdom. The echo of her footsteps sounded even louder here and for a second she shied away from looking around to stare at the floor in front of her. Not long after entering the king's living quarters, Tirneliell heard a silent sweeping sound and her grey eyes were forced upwards as she saw one of the doors open. The audience was about to begin. Disregarding the guard who stopped and moved to the side, the elven woman carried on forward.

    "My king," she announced herself as she courtesied low in respect, only catching a sight of Thranduil's back, and maybe a glimpse of his profile. He was a fair Telerin elf. Just like her father, but her father lacked the ultimate grace that came with his heritage. Many thought it was because he married a Noldorin, but from the stories Tirneliell was told, her father was always different to the others. Straightening up, she looked at the king fully now. There was subservience in her expression just like that of any loyal subject. Even the seeking aspect of her gaze was hidden behind the grey of her irises. After all, she has never seen that scar in person as her father has done a fine job in concealing it perfectly with some herbs and a tiny bit of healing magic. She couldn't even dare to imagine what it looked like, and how it made the king feel. Throughout her life, she has seen all various ranges of injuries that either her mother or father attended too, but they were all nothing compared to a burn scar from a dragon. A scar that marks the Fëar so deeply it reflects on the physical body.

    "I appreciate you accepting my request for an audience at a time when our kingdom is threatened by evil forces. I come to you to notify you that my father passed on to the Halls of Mandos this morning." The grief crept back, but she held it down with all her might, deep within her heart. Only a flicker in her eyes was the testament of her torment. "As his legacy, I come before you, today, to claim all my father's duties to the realm and to you, my lord." The subtle stress on 'all' the last three words of her statement, were enough of a sign that Tirneldir has uncovered his secret service to the Elfking, entrusting his daughter with the method of how to ease king's suffering. Be it physical, mental or spiritual. Tirneliell could only hope now that the king would accept her humble offer on continuing her father's work.
  4. There was a long moment of silence before Thranduil made it known that he had heard her words, a subtle turn and down tilt of his head so that the unmarked side of his face was no longer hidden behind the veil of pale blond hair. His hands came together, long fingers curling and folding at his lower back in a formal manner, and his dark brows furrowed above unfocused grey eyes in some unreadable expression.

    "I heard," he said softly. "You have my sympathy." His voice came in a low and even tone, a regal stiffness that was both understanding and yet neutral to her suffering. The Healer had been one of the most trusted elves in his realm, and for good reason. The scar was an ugly, ghastly thing before the Healer's talent had covered it, a physical testament to some deep form of shame from long ago. But with the Healer's death, the scar had begun to reveal itself, and Thranduil's pride would not allow him to parade around with such a hideous thing marring his usually smooth features.

    "I assume you know all of what that entails, then?"

    He was slightly hesitant to accept that new eyes would look upon the scar, to trust her with such a personal imperfection he'd spent so long hiding. His options would grow increasingly limited if he refused her offer to replace her father, and so Thranduil would make a decision soon or the scar would be exposed. The Elvenking would not stand for ruling his kingdom with shame written openly across his face.
  5. The silence wrapped its thin tendrils around the hall. The king's posture unmoving like the only stable point in the distance at times of uncertainty. His pose cut out the image of power and authority that was almost tangibly surrounding him. Many stories that depicted him as the exceptional and exquisite ruler came true in that moment. Whilst Tirneliell didn't want to stare, all that she heard about the king and all that he now represented in front of her was almost mesmerizing. No need to reiterate that this was indeed her first time meeting the king in person. However, just before he spoke, she averted her eyes, convinced in her mind that her gaze must have alerted him of her rudeness and how ashamed she was to have behaved so childishly. After all, she was just about over 2000 years old.

    Tirneliell executed another courtesy in acknowledgement of his kind words, if only they seemed somewhat disinterested. But she couldn't ask off the Elven king to recognize her agony more profoundly, and she wouldn't even do that. Her suffering was her own, and no one else's to bear. However, the situation suddenly got a subtle notion of a test. Maybe it was Thranduil's attitude, the reserved almost cold behaviour that he was known for. Maybe it was his question which in her mind if answered correctly nearly symbolized her rightful entitlement to her position as a new healer.

    "Yes, my lord, I do. Before my father departed, he consigned all his knowledge to me. All the herbs, chants and instructions are in the house that I shared with him. I believe, he has informed me of all the details of his service which I would be succeeding in." And Tirneldir has indeed done that. Not so much in personal, intimate way of fatherly talk with his daughter, but as a letter where he explained everything. Even then, instead of a warm, last good bye, he was more pre-occupied with the well-being of their ruler, hence the prosperity of the realm. Tirneliell should also assume that stance. After all, she was brought up to once take over her father. She knew that she should let the seeming wrongs be lost in the past, forget the bitterness that she perceived them with, and serve the kingdom with all her heart to once again claim her name of Faervel.
  6. The departed Healer must have been confident that his daughter would succeed him, and for once Thranduil felt relieved. He took solace in the fact that he could now focus on more important matters, such as the orc bands rebuilding their numbers just beyond the edge of his realm-- the tension and thinly concealed irritation regarding the invading monsters seemed to ebb somewhat. A sense of calm washed over the quiet room to ease the rigid formality between the two. Thranduil now turned to face the prospective Healer fully.

    "Do you know what this is?" he asked, a seething and barely contained growl just beneath the surface of his voice. The scar had begun a slow crawl across the left side of his face. Its progress was slow and hindered by the former Healer's work, but it would not be long before Thranduil would be unable to hide it.

    Its crawl slowed to a halt when Thranduil became strained, his eyes shut. "It is imperative that this remain between us, as it was before. Is that understood?" He had no intention of sounding so ill-natured or hostile, but the strain of stopping the scar's progress took more than he had anticipated. She would be the only living elf in Mirkwood with the knowledge of this, and he intended to keep it that way.
  7. Her response seemed to have pleased the king and indeed it pleased Tirneliell too. Whilst she was confident in her abilities as a healer, the spell that her father used to help Thranduil was unique in its own right. The chant was scripted by her mother who had the knowledge of the nature of such a wound and could draw on the wisdom of her kind. Her father then gather herbs and combined them in a way that would soothe the king's senses whilst the concealing would be happening as well as enhancing the spell itself. All in all, it was something that she has never done before, or doubted that it was ever done somewhere else for that matter. Yet, with the peace washing over the room, the fact that she could notice the kings posture relaxing ever-so-sightly, gave her enough confidence to hold onto the hope of success.

    Tirneliell's optimism, however, was halted as the king turned to face her fully and for the first time, the elven healer saw the damage that was done millenniums ago, when she was still just a youth amongst her people. Seeing the scar in all its frightful glory, Tirneliell understood why Thranduil kept it concealed. It was indeed hideous, but as much as it disfigured king's face, Tirneliell still saw a great man standing in front of her. A man, who was reminded of past terrors by this mark. Yet, she didn't wince at the sight, despite her eyes being fixed at the wound without staring. At last, she shifted her gaze to establish a first proper eye contact with the ruler.

    "Yes, my lord. I know what that is." A slight nod of a head, and somewhat more firm expression indicated that Tirneliell was very much aware of the gravity of this situation and just how much trust Thranduil has put in her there and then by sharing the existence of the scar with her. He could have just turned her away, but he chose otherwise. For a prideful elf, this was a privilege and Tirneliell felt exactly that. She wouldn't let it get to her head, however. She was old enough to know that she still had to prove herself. "Yes, my king. Not a soul shall know about this," she spoke softly in Sindarin, with a low courtesy. Her words were spoken in truth the more emphasized by using the language that the king spoke instead of speaking in plain Silvan. Her words rose from within the depth of her soul to spring to surface as a vow of loyalty to Thranduil's secret.

    "If you so desire, I can perform the concealing spell tonight, to ease your discomfort," she offered, knowing that the preparation would take a while, and the spell itself would have to be performed for a few hours; furthermore, everything she needed was back in her house. All in all, time-wise, this was a whole night procedure. Though, maybe, if a runner was sent with specific instructions on what to bring back, the whole process would be faster. Of course, that was up to the king's decision and will.
    #7 The Returner, Jan 20, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 20, 2015
  8. He saw where her gaze lingered, not quite long enough to offend him, but he did notice. Thranduil met her eyes steadily. "Good," he responded in the same tongue, comfortable in her assurance that she could keep his disfigurement a secret. What would they think, those unaware that their king kept secrets? Was he foolhardy and brash, or noble and steadfast? He did not presume to know what thoughts they would allow, and he didn't want to imagine the outcome. He pushed it out of his mind and moved on.

    To ease his discomfort. He almost scoffed at the idea that such a thing could possibly bring him anything other than memories. Memories Thranduil would much rather leave buried, had they not been written in fire upon his face for the rest of eternity. His discomfort could wait, his outward image could not. The time the spell would take was an acceptable side effect if he wanted it gone, a loss he was prepared to take so long as the spell did its job and made Thranduil fair once again.

    "My discomfort is not the problem. But no matter-- what you need, I will send for." He was disinclined to call anyone but the one who stood before him, much preferring to be on his own or in the company of one he trusted. But progress would never be made if he fell into the unsociable slump that had taken him not long ago.
  9. So it shall be. Her initial uncertainty has returned and floated right beneath the surface of her perfect composure. A gentle nod of her head served as a sign and agreement to King's wishes. Of course, discomfort was probably the last thing on his mind with the scar clawing its way back to the physical surface. The healer in her grew stronger in compassion with each moment. Just how many implications could the king made? How many of them spoke of horrors untold, and memories that would better be lost in nothingness? She wanted to and would do all that was in her power to be of the best service to her king. Tirneliell swiftly remembered everything she needed for the spell. The herbs were not the problem, as most of them were commonly found around the kingdom or even in her own garden where her family has been cultivating them. It was the chant that Tirneliell couldn't remember yet.

    "Thank you my lord. I will need the runner to bring me one Moonlight flower, a bundle of Linden and Lavender that need to be fresh and can be cut in the garden of the house. I will also need him to bring dried Comfrey root, the leaves of Yellow Bell and a small bottle containing the extract of Alô. He will be able to find that in the healer's room, right next to the entrance of the house. There he will also need to pick up the only book without inscription that's on the dest and a pestle and mortar. Also, I don't mean to impose myself more than necessary on you, my lord, but I will need a place...a table, to work on to prepare and mix the herbs; as well as the fire to be started with a pot filled with water set atop." As she finished listing the necessaries, she almost felt guilty for giving such a long list but she truly didn't know how much the king knew of the procedure, whether he was ever present when father did the preparations. Moreover, Tirneliell never noticed father leaving at strange times as well as she never saw the king visiting their house, which only led her to the conclusion that maybe Thranduil was unfamiliar to the preparatory process in which case, all these demands might just seem a bit too extensive.
  10. Indeed, Thranduil did recognize a portion of those she listed, and called for a runner to deliver these things to her straightaway. The sooner the items she requested were retrieved, the sooner they could begin and Thranduil could turn his focus back to the message he'd received just that morning. How unfortunate it must be when a ruler has his own personal issues to deal with alongside those of his kingdom. Thranduil knew he was an exceptional ruler for managing it as well as he had. By morning, his duties would be resumed as usual and the orcs would be dealt with before they grew to be of any danger to Mirkwood.

    "He will return shortly with what you require." He no longer held the scar back, but trying had taken its toll and now the king's face became drawn and tired. The palm of his hand rested heavily once more on the cool pillar to his left, supporting the fatigued Thranduil. The strain had taken more out of him that he'd anticipated, and now he was paying the price in front of--

    -- the healer. His eyes opened a sliver. The healer was the only one in Mirkwood who understood what he was currently going through. And if she didn't, she had something of an idea and was sworn to secrecy. He gathered himself and studied the she-elf before him.
  11. With a subtle smile and a nod of her head, she expressed her gratitude for king's actions. Tirneliell hoped that the runner would indeed return as soon as possible. The sun was almost dipping below the horizon and the elf woman felt somewhat nostalgic. Yes, her favourite part of the day was the time when the sun has just disappeared but its rays still coloured the sky when on the other side, moon began its journey. The shades of blue, purple and orange always took her breath away, even though she has seen them thousands of times already.

    Her wandering mind was brought back suddenly as the king wavered. It was not a sway but the motion with which he sought support against the pillar spoke more of the exhaustion than words could have done. Tirneliell instinctively took a few steps forward, intending to support Thranduil who seemed to have lost all his energy on spur of a moment. Yet, she froze in place as his grey eyes looked in her direction. His expression indecipherable. For a fraction of second, she just stood there, unsure of what to do, or what was expected of her. Then, just as quickly as she was thrown of balance, she recollected herself.

    "Maybe it would be better to sit down and rest until the runner comes back," she offered, her hand smoothly indicating to a chair she noticed not that far off, whilst the other hand was slightly extended towards Thranduil as if in invitation to the idea. It was also meant as a safety precaution shall the king falter again so that Tirneliell could steady his stride. Though, she doubted that he would show that kind of weakness. After all, the more her mind tried to make sense out of the way the king looked at her few moments ago, the more it seemed to the she-elf as if the king was just trying to mask that moment of vulnerability.
  12. "I will be fine," he said, pulling himself back into his former posture with his head held high. There were no remnants of his sudden break in stature, either gone entirely or expertly hidden behind a stern demeanor. The sudden onset of weakness came as a disappointment to himself-- he had assumed the scar would require only a fraction of the energy that it had actually taken, and although Thranduil was not one to so easily lose pride, he would be especially careful should it happen again.

    He turned his attention upward for just a moment; it would be night soon, and the runner would be returning in a short while.

    Over time, Thranduil had come to know the healer well enough. It was no personal friendship he cared to tend, and only near the healer's death did Thranduil come to know that there was a daughter involved. It was a mildly curious thing at first that he had thought about only in passing, but it was seeing her now standing before him that truly intrigued the king. The new feeling was unfamiliar and uncomfortably foreign, more akin to an itch than anything. He scrutinized her posture a moment, the expression she wore and the confident way in which she held herself.

    "Tell me," he began, his gaze softening somewhat. "How close were you to your father?"
  13. Tirneliell let her hands fall back down to her sides. She was correct in assuming that the king would not allow himself to be subdued by weakness again. All the more, as he stood tall, taller than her by half a head, with his composure back intact. He once more cut out an impressive figure of indefatigableness.

    The sun in the mean time has half disappeared bellow the line of the trees, painting everything in the colours of gold and orange, warming up the earth before it would disappear for the night. Yet, for Tirneliell the warmth was somehow alien as the king mentioned her father. Just how close were they? She never thought about it. Tirneldir was...reclusive to say the least. He spent most of his time in the healer's room, tending to the herbs, drying them, or making various extracts or ointments. But he was not unkind or cold. Whenever Tirneliell would disturb her father with questions about his doing, he would cordially explain everything, making sure that she understood. They had a fair relationship, up until her mother died a millenium ago. Tirneliell was fairly young at that point but old enough to be able to take care of herself. In fact, she was getting involved with someone of her interest, only to be taken away by the demand of her father. She might have held a grudge for some time, but the longer she helped her father in place of her mother, the more it became obvious to her that he was dying of grief, the easier it was for Tirneliell to forgive and forget.

    "We were as close as any father and daughter would be." Her vague answer would not suffice and she was aware of that. "He was a fair man and we had our differences at times, but neither of us ever forsaken the family. We have both always tried our best to keep together and work together. I suppose we were somewhat close in that regard." Despite the fond and indifferent memories flowing through her mind, there was a trace of regret in her voice. Maybe she wished for more time with her father, to amend a few things, to say few last words. She turned her gaze away from Thranduil, as she was once again getting overwhelmed with heartache of her own. Whilst her eyes glistened, it was obvious she would not allow herself to shed a tear in front of the king. Her suffering was her own, not anyone else's to bear. Walking past the elf, she only exposed her profile to him as she looked out of the chambers into the distance concealing her own fragility.
  14. Thranduil clearly remember his own father despite how long he'd been without such a figure in his life. Though Thranduil had long since recovered from the loss, he often wondered how things would have gone had his father still been around and peering over his shoulder to judge his actions as a ruler. The thought did not appeal to him in the slightest.

    He listened in respectful silence out of regard for the former healer and his replacement. The relationship they seem to have boasted was nothing even reminiscent of his own, but perhaps that was the difference between royalty and those they ruled over. His eyes seemed to light up with the mention that they'd worked together-- he would not question it, but it was good to know that she'd received some kind of experience under her father. It was the only good way to learn, in his eyes.

    "He will be remembered," Thranduil offered, consolation and a silent apology for asking such an invasive question of the she-elf. The room drifted back into silence, broken only by the sound of rustling as the runner returned. There was a satchel and an outwardly blank-looking book in his hands.
    #14 Dipper, Jan 23, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 23, 2015
  15. Yes, her father would be remembered. Not only through the prowess of his trade but also through all the elven souls he helped. It was not that thought, however, that evoked a hint of a smile on her face. It was the king's notion for compassion that his words shown. Whilst Tirneliell would need more time heal properly from the sudden loss, any expression of sympathy made the ordeal the more bearable. The sound of the runner in the room lured her attention from the distant horizon. He seemed to have collected everything just as she asked. Taking the items from him, he left, and Tirneliell laid the satchel and the book on the table that has been cleared.

    The book wasn't that much of a large volume. It more resembled a personal diary, which it indeed was. In that unmarked book, her father noted the whole procedure, from the preparations to the execution with the chant inscribed in there as well. Laying all the ingredients out on the table, her eyes found the king. It was clear she wanted to say something, but was searching for the right words. Her chest rose as she breathed in forming the words on the tip of her tongue. "It is possible that I might do a few steps slightly differently to my father. After all, each healer has her own way." Her words were not meant to school Thranduil. If anything, they were meant put the king at ease shall he choose to doubt her if she was to stray from the usual routine.

    "For instance I believe my father put these next to you," she said bringing up the Moonlight flower, Linden flower, and Lavender together. "They all have calming effect and their smell soothes the mind. Though, I find it that their fragrance is much more effective if the whole blossom was inserted in hot water for a while. The vapor not only moistens the air, but the aroma is the more pleasant." Tirneliell spoke as she walked towards the fire and the pot where the water has already been heated up, but not boiling. At once, it, it was obvious that the elven woman was in her element. Her whole body language changed from firm, or even rigid, to mellow and elegant as she walked back from the fireplace to the table. There was a certain level of concentration on her face accompanied with serenity. Swiftly flipping through the pages of the journal, she found what she was looking for and her finger traced the lines as she read.

    "Also..." she paused, trying to find the right words whilst she dropped calculated portions of dried Comfrey root with the leaves of Yellow Bell into the mortar to blend the two together. "My father's notes aren't always detailed. I suppose he wanted to make the spell as adaptable as possible. I do not know whether he sang the spell or only silently recited it or how exactly he applied the ointment." There was no need to continue that statement. All the hints were dropped in between the lines and they quite frankly meant that Tirneliell will be most likely differing from her father's doing in that regard the most; yet, she wanted to warn the king in advance. In her mind, she has already decided that she would sing the spell. After all, her mother based it on the elven minstrel craft whose singing created illusions of what they sang about. Thinking about the spell, it was not much different to that. It attenuated Fëar with the herbs, whilst the words recreated the perfection that was the king's face. Reaching for the small bottle containing the extract of Alô, she was nearly done with the ointment, and even the smell of the herbs in the pot started spreading around the room pleasantly.
  16. His eyes roamed over the items set upon the table and recognized many of the herbs and plants resting there. He was familiar with many of them and their uses in the ritual, but wasn't knowledgeable enough to turn her away at the mention of a slight difference. It was minute, and unless the entire ritual had changed, Thranduil knew he had no reason to worry. He wasn't the one well-versed in the art of healing and all of its requirements, and so would defer to her judgement rather than his own.

    "It was silent." He couldn't remember it being any more than a soft chime of elven magic on the tongue of the healer, an almost silent music that made the room deafeningly silent and yet louder than a dwarven forge during war time. It had always been a pleasant experience, but the change would be welcome. The silence following a session left him uncomfortably hollow. "How you do it is for you to decide." Thranduil was open to change, certainly, so long as the ritual did as it was intended. The king felt a twinge of sympathy for the new healer and understood what it must have felt like; he recognized it as similar to his own the day he'd taken his place as king.

    Perhaps they had more in common than he'd thought.

    He was watching, now, as she worked to mix the correct ingredients together. Quietly observing without intending to intrude out of some indistinct fascination with the difference between her and her father's methods.
  17. 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.
  18. His mind retreated from its journey among the tunes of elven magic, his eyes fluttering open reluctantly to be met with the elaborately decorated chamber once again. He could tell the scar was well hidden when the subtle ache didn't jar him from his light slumber and the faint sheen of magic rippled to a standstill. With his energy restored, Thranduil lifted himself from the chair and strode across the smooth floor to stop by the Healer's side and resting a hand on her shoulder to stabilize her.

    "Your father was more experienced," he said, a faint smirk of amusement hiding behind an even and formal expression. "But Healer's are hardly exempt from the effects of magic." Her father was exceptional in both magic itself, as well as avoiding its nasty after effects. But even he was always susceptible to the occasional dip in energy. Thranduil would demand he sit and rest before going on his way, and so the same would be said to the daughter. "Regain your strength. Now that I am well, there are things that require my attention-- you may rest knowing all is well." It was a strange thing for him, to speak so gently to someone he had known as of yesterday. But as strange as it may be, Thranduil did not notice it.

    He was thankful to her for taking the faint ache that had built along the side of his face away, and although the time it had taken was precious, the magic had done its job and Thranduil would no longer be burdened with the knowledge that it rested in plain sight on his face. He could face his people with the confidence of his bloodline once again, and return to the work that had too long been neglected.

    "You did well, and you have my thanks."
  19. She felt his hand on her shoulder, the light weight of it that steadied her quavering frame. Correcting the mortar's position, her breathing was slightly more shallow than it would normally be. Tirneliell knew her father was more skilled at this due to the countless times he has performed this spell, but that didn't change the fact how weak she seemed to herself. Whilst Tirneliell knew magic would always take a toll, this certainly was not the right time she wanted the rule to be executed to the dot. The king's hand on her shoulder and his voice, however, had calming effect on her, appeasing her jumbled mind. She didn't have to see Thranduil's face to recognize the unexpected gentleness of his tone. Tirneliell immediately associated it with thankfulness for her service, but her heart did beat slightly faster in her own secret appreciation.

    Under normal circumstances she would have refused his offer, but she knew that she was too frail at that moment to make it back to her home without falling off one of the high placed bridges that weaved through this kingdom. She tried to seem in possession of herself as she made the few steps to the side, but her movements were slower, somewhat hesitant. Taking a seat in the chair that the king occupied not that long ago, Tirneliell exhaled, failing to mask completely her gladness for being to able to rest for a while. Folding her hands on her lap, she closed her eyes momentarily trying to at least stabilize her breath. When the king thanked her, she looked up at him, her lips now fully curved into a smile that was both acknowledging as well as delighted. She saw that she has done a fine job with the spell. The king's face looked perfect just like before. Perfect and overwhelming in a way.
  20. Once the healer was situated and the threat of her falling again had passed, Thranduil backed off and took his place not far from her. It was imperative that she remain in good health, for obviously selfish reasons on Thranduil's part. Where else was he to find such a talented and knowlegeable healer in Mirkwood? Or perhaps Thranduil cared more than he let on. But there was no doubt that the King was secretive and closed off to the world around him; it was the cold facade of an experienced leader designed to prevent attachments.

    "You are... welcome to remain here, until your strength returns to you."

    He was not entirely open to the idea of her remaining here for longer than necessary, but Thranduil was not as cruel as some had made him out to be. He'd offer her a place in return for her good work. Until it was her time to be on her way, Thranduil would consult with the messengers at his door who'd come with news from the forest.
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