[piosenniel]

They had been anchored off the coast of the islet for a week now. Every day Idril had come to the Man’s bedside to change the dressings on his wounds. And everyday she had called out to him to make his way back to them, but he had not answered. For the greater part of those days, he lay fevered and sunk in dark dreams.

‘Mithadan’, she whispered softly to him, as she pushed back the curtain from the porthole, and opened it to the catch the sea breezes.

She came and sat on the bed beside him, a silver bowl in her fair hands. Healing herbs floated on the clear, clean water within. Their scent permeated the cabin’s air, and drove away the smell of sickness and despair. On a small stand to her right, 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 porthole dry the droplets, bringing cool relief. Drawing back the coverlet, she bathed his neck and arms, letting the tepid water and the sea air draw the heat from his feverish pulse points.

Deftly and gently, her fingers worked loose the bandages covering the injuries to his abdomen. He moaned as the wounds were exposed to air. She soothed him with gentle words and 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 back, 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 parts, exposing healthy tissue.
Cleansing her hands well, she dipped the first two fingers of her right hand into a small silver lidded jar she had brought 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 him.
As she ministered to him, she sang a quiet, rhythmic song, a lulling song, a song of Ondolindë; her words like the fountains there bringing peace and beauty. Once done, she covered him with a fresh blanket, and briefly placed her hand on his cheek in reassurance.

This day he roused as she sang to him. ‘Pio?’ he called, and raised his hand to grasp hers laid on his cheek.
‘Nay, Mithadan. It is my hand you hold.’ He opened his heavy lidded eyes and gazed at Idril. She put her finger to her lips and turned his head to the right. ‘There is Pio.’ She said, pointing to the chair which sat close beside his bed. ‘Waiting for you. She has not left your side since first they bore you down here.’

The Elf sat there, chin on chest, sleeping. Her right arm lay on the bed, fingers just touching his thigh. A book of poetry lay askew on the covers where it had slipped from her grip as weariness claimed her.
He reached for her hand, clasping it tightly in his own. And called her name.

Pio!

[ November 04, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]