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piosenniel · 06-25-2002, 03:14 AM

Mith, it's Idril. she whispered softly.

She came and sat on the bed beside him; a silver bowl was in her fair hands. Healing herbs floated on the clear, clean water within, and their scent seemd to permeate the cabin, driving away the smell of sickness and despair.

On a small stand to her left, she placed the bowl and from the pocket of her gown she drew some soft cloths, laying them on the bed next to the feverish man.

Brushing the limp, sweaty strands of hair from his face, she gently sponged the cool water on his brow, letting it run in little rivulets down his temples. She laved his face with soft strokes and let the air from the open window dry the moisture.

Drawing back the coverlet, she bathed his neck and arms, letting the cool water and the sea air draw the heat from his feverish pulse points.

Deftly and gently, her fingers worked loose the bandage covering the injury to his chest. He moaned as the wound was exposed to the air.

She drew a small flask of poppy elixir from her skirt pocket. Supporting his head with one hand, she trickled a thin stream of honey-colored fluid into his mouth, and stroked the side of his cheek and neck, encouraging him to swallow. Relief crept into the features of his face, and he lay down relaxed against the pillow.

Using the last of the clean cloths, she dipped it in the herbed water, and cleansed the crusted covering of the wound, gently removing the yellow, foul exudate from the deepest part, exposing healthy tissue.

Cleansing her hands well,she dipped the first two fingers of her right hand into a small silver jar she had brought with her and applied a generous amount of the poultice to the wound - comfrey and thyme oil, bound with an aromatic aloe gel. She covered the area with a clean bandage and secured it with strips of linen wrapped round his chest.

As she ministered to him, she sang a quiet, rhythmic song, a lulling song, a song of Orolindë; her words like the fountains there, washing away care, and dread.

Once done, she covered him with a fresh blanket, and placed her hand on his cheek briefly in reassurance.

Be well!

[ June 25, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

06-25-2002, 03:14 AM	#489
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Mith, it's Idril. she whispered softly. She came and sat on the bed beside him; a silver bowl was in her fair hands. Healing herbs floated on the clear, clean water within, and their scent seemd to permeate the cabin, driving away the smell of sickness and despair. On a small stand to her left, she placed the bowl and from the pocket of her gown she drew some soft cloths, laying them on the bed next to the feverish man. Brushing the limp, sweaty strands of hair from his face, she gently sponged the cool water on his brow, letting it run in little rivulets down his temples. She laved his face with soft strokes and let the air from the open window dry the moisture. Drawing back the coverlet, she bathed his neck and arms, letting the cool water and the sea air draw the heat from his feverish pulse points. Deftly and gently, her fingers worked loose the bandage covering the injury to his chest. He moaned as the wound was exposed to the air. She drew a small flask of poppy elixir from her skirt pocket. Supporting his head with one hand, she trickled a thin stream of honey-colored fluid into his mouth, and stroked the side of his cheek and neck, encouraging him to swallow. Relief crept into the features of his face, and he lay down relaxed against the pillow. Using the last of the clean cloths, she dipped it in the herbed water, and cleansed the crusted covering of the wound, gently removing the yellow, foul exudate from the deepest part, exposing healthy tissue. Cleansing her hands well,she dipped the first two fingers of her right hand into a small silver jar she had brought with her and applied a generous amount of the poultice to the wound - comfrey and thyme oil, bound with an aromatic aloe gel. She covered the area with a clean bandage and secured it with strips of linen wrapped round his chest. As she ministered to him, she sang a quiet, rhythmic song, a lulling song, a song of Orolindë; her words like the fountains there, washing away care, and dread. Once done, she covered him with a fresh blanket, and placed her hand on his cheek briefly in reassurance. Be well! [ June 25, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ] __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.