What: Yet more aftermath, and love at first soul-depth-eye-stare.
When: right after my last post.
Avarian raises an eyebrow. 'You are welcome, Laerion of Minas Tirith. This is not a sleeping draught. It IS something to relax the muscles, though, to keep you a bit more still so that you do not injure your ribs more. And you should be laying down, which is best done in a bed. However, you will do it your way.' she sighs, sets the mug down, and looks over to Eamyre. 'I am not sure what else we can do. There are a few things I can try, but all of them should only be done in the worst of cases. Things are complicated by the other events with her, of late. She has been near fell things, unless I am mistaken.' Then she gets out some writing materials from her pack, for him to use to get that letter to Gramsael with. 'Here, at least use these so you do not have to get up and get your own.'
Haladreth voice cuts through the air, quietly stating, 'Nazgul.'
Laerion leans back gingerly, taking the papers and setting out to write. He doesn't have his sister's way with words or text, but composes a letter in Westron, for Gramsael.
Avarian winces, 'One, or more?'
'Four, maybe five. They were claiming a ranger as one of their foresworn.' Haladreth ran a hand through her hair, shivering. 'The ranger's compatriots were able to fend off the Nazgul with fire, while we dealt with their Cargul.'
Avarian frowns, remembering the state Eamyre was in the night they brought her back, and the bleeding. Her eyes widen, '... Oh valar.'
Laerion's eyebrows are raised, and he glances at Haladreth with a lot more respect.
Then she wrinkles her nose again, 'Not even I could handle 4 or 5 of those things. She will need all the love and warmth we can summon for her, especially after this. I will put Athelas in some tea of her, though it will likely do no good in MY hands.' and she collects herbs from her pack, brewing up a tea as said. With other things in it, for pain and swelling and things.
She wishes Minuial was here. Min could handle this much, much more easily. Min is *trained* for this stuff.
Eamyre wakes up from Hala slapping at her cheeks, mumbling about her bearn and Gramsael and Theodhrim with glassy, half-lidded eyes. And shaking her head. I'm not quite sure what she's saying. She sounds just as confused as I am.
Laerion nods his head a little, 'You are lucky to even be alive.'
Avarian sighs. She's only done this a few times, and she barely knows what she's doing, but she remembers Minuial doing this for her Uncle a few times, and imbues the mug with light. Or at least, she tries to. Then she hands the mug to Haladreth. 'Get her to drink that. It will help' she whispers. And sinks into a nearby chair.
While Haladreth gently coaxes Eamyre to drink the liquid, Laerion pushes himself up and comes over to Avarian, laying a hand to rest on her shoulder, 'You are no healer, and I suspect you need to rest now. I bid that you stay with us, this eve.'
His eyes are that Gondor grey, and they lock with hers, impossible depths of an impossible dream, so intense, so full of life and fire. And they get lost in hers, floundering in darkness, then holding fast to something solid while the shadows beat upon him like the waves upon the shore. All feelings before this feeling seemed to fall away like so much dust.
Watching his face, Haladreth was torn between smiling, and weeping. Happy for him, and mourning for the fate that awaited them both, and mourning for her own needs. She glances down at Eamyre, stroking her hair, and settles on a soft smile.
Avarian stares into his eyes, nearly shivering with the intensity of his look, then shakes her head, 'Nay, it is not my place.' she breathes, shaking her head again. 'You should rest... go and sit, or lay down, please. I will be along to my own bed in a few moments.'
Eamyre sips all the tea down after some coaxing, and leans against Haladreth, curling in against the woman and resting her head against her. 'Min head..' she sighs, trying to massage it. 'Why do men need to hit so hard?'
'Because men are a bunch of buffoons,' Haladreth replies casually. Laerion's eyes have yet to tear from Avarian's, 'Are you sure?'
She can't seem to tear her eyes away either, lost in the light and fire and storms she finds in his grey eyes. 'Nay,' she whispers, 'Nay, I do not belong here. I am not the fourth wheel of this wagon. I simply came back because I was told I was needed.' She doesn't seem to be paying attention to what Eamyre and Hala are saying. I think only Laerion exists for her right now.
Eamyre tries to laugh, then winces. 'Did you see him die?' she finally says, after a bit, in a very tiny voice. 'Promise me he is dead.'
'He is dead, I promise this,' Haladreth whispers, pressing her forehead to Eamyre's. 'He is dead, I saw it with my own eyes.'
'I see light,' Laerion whispers, a hand raising to cup her cheek, but falling before it reaches her face. 'We would have you, with us.'
Avarian sighs, softly. 'You have grown to be as stubborn as your father in some respects. It is not a bad quality.' She pulls her legs up and curls up in the chair, and nods. 'I will stay, but only for this night. And only if you rest.' She eyes the chair he left.
Eamyre lets out a long sigh. 'I should be less afraid now.' she whispers, cuddling in against Haladreth more.
He nodded, pulling the chair near her and sitting in it - he'd leave the other bed for Haladreth. The whole time, his eyes never left hers. Only now, they were tinged with burning curiosity, 'You knew my father?'
Haladreth nods softly, and hums an ancient song, one passed down through the ages, from a small but proud people, in forests far to the West, in a land long sunk beneath the northern sea.
She eyes him, 'Long ago, I saved his life. You were not born, yet. I know your mother, too. I watched over you and your sister, one time. I thought you may have remembered, since you remember my name.' She sounds... beyond weary. Then she closes her eyes, and hums the harmony to Haladreth's song.
Haladreth gradually slowed in her song, and looked at Avarian, 'I knew not that this song was known, outside of my people. I suppose, it might have been writ long ago, and lost in some dusty archive, somewhere...'