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6 Fourth Age: The Trials of a Wanderer; [ open ]
Topic Started: 27 Sep 2008, 09:43 PM (955 Views)
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He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, his horse had always been a little bit skittish; the slightest noise would often cause him to jerk his head in that direction and his ride would become conveniently rough and he would have to grip the reigns tightly for fear of falling off and losing his horse. Although on the rare times Esril had fallen, Lamalas had not run off too far beyond his capture and it had only been after a year and a half where the horse would not bolt when he saw him coming to find him. The trust between rider and horse was shaky, but it was strong enough for the young horse to be much more relaxed around him than he once was.

Yet that didn’t make his fall all the softer when Lamalas reered back onto his hind legs and Esril, who had been half asleep at the time, fell off with a cry and a sickening crack on his shoulder, although he wasted no time to scrabble up after the horse as it took off across the land. “Lamalas! Hold!” Useless, he knew, but at least he had tried, ignoring the pain in his shoulder he sprinted on after the escaping animal with the aim to capture hold of the reigns and calm the beast to a stop. He was close, too, his fingers mere millimeters from the leather strands, before his footing slipped and he tumbled across the land, coming to a rolling stop a few seconds later.

He did not bother to look where he had landed, nor where Lamalas had galloped off to, instead he brought a hand up to the trickling substance on the side of his face and wiped it away, ignoring the red stain it left of the back of his hand. Placing both hands on the ground to push himself up, immediately regretting it as some sort of rough weed that grew along the terrain tore his fingers. He was covered in mud, in blood, and the various other types of filth that he was covered in. Yet he refused t go into a city, into a realm that was not the Wild, not yet. Usually, he would have no trouble being a guest in the cities of Middle-Earth, but for some reason, he was much too cautious to step through a gate and into a city.

Even if he did mean he could get himself some aid, maybe decent food and rest.

Looking up finally across the land and spotting Lamalas in the distance, Esril stood shakily and stepped forward, careful as to not spook the horse into making another run for it, and instead wait for him to catch up, and allow him to ride once more. It was also the dizziness that he was starting to feel, that caused him to reconsider his decision about staying away from the major cities where he could get help. He did not want to die just yet of some pathetic injury like falling off his horse.

Murmuring soft words of encouragement to the spooked animal as he drew near, wiping the river of blood that practically coated the left side of his face, Esril brushed blooded fingers through the dark mane before grasping the leather strands and taking his time to remount and kick off in the direction of the nearest city. Slumping forward onto he neck of the animal, his words coming out softer as he felt his vision blur, the wandering, lone ranger trusted Lamalas to take him somewhere that he could be healed, and rest.

Hopefully without another episode of becoming spooked by random shadows.
 
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The weather was undoubtedly splendid by any standards other than that of a sailor. The gusts of wind that the sea-faring folk of Dol Amroth typically favoured, for filling their sails and allowing their ships to plough effortlessly through the glassy seas, had all but vanished, leaving scarcely more than a slight breeze. Indeed, the wind was barely enough to disturb the simple braids Díorë had ensnared her thick, honey locks in that very morning in preparation for the day of riding ahead. Needless to say, after having spent the past six days in the saddle Díorë was most grateful that they were finally nearing their destination and that if everything went according to plan, would arrive long before the sun set that very eve.

With every muscle in her body aching in protest, Díorë urged her horse onwards, looking back on her mother’s beseeching request with scorn. She had implored her spirited daughter over and over again prior to her departure to make regular stops to rest, for reasons Díorë had put down to no more than the unnecessary worries of a mother’s heart, and god forbid, the underestimation of her beloved daughter’s abilities on horseback. She was a daughter of Rohan and as was the tradition of her people, had essentially been raised in the saddle, learning the ways of the horse from a young age. It was by no error of judgment that her people were referred to as the Horse Master’s of Middle Earth. And thus, when she had set out for Minas Tirith, the young healer had dismissed Cuilwen’s final attempts to sway her and refusing to appease her, had saddled her own mount and ventured off, jaw set defiantly, her brother trailing in her wake. Oh, the stubbornness of youth!

Noticing the frown that claimed the lips of his baby sister, Áríc offered her an encouraging, lopsided smile, his hands loosely grasping the reins of his own steed. “Not much further sister. Just think of the reception that will be waiting for us; for if my memory serves me well, our uncle’s lovely young wife is quite the expert in the kitchen. And if that fails to rekindle your spirits –” He turned to look at her, a twinkle of mirth in his eye. “—think of the warm bath.”

“I assure you brother, I’ve thought of little else for days.” Díorë replied, a smile tracing the soft curve of her mouth. With a final laugh, Áríc fell back, leaving his sister to retreat to her own private thoughts.

Accustomed as she was to being on horseback, Díorë have never before ridden for such an extent of time and her body had paid dearly for her ignorance. Now she longed for nothing more than to soak in a warm bath; to allow the combined effort of the heat of the water and the steam to gently ease the kinks from her muscles. Returning her gaze to the horizon, Díorë resumed her earlier task of searching the divide between sky and earth for her first sighting of the White City. Her waiting was short-lived, however, for very soon she saw the seven-levels of Minas Tirith rising beyond the endless stretch of the Pelennor fields, just as Áríc had predicted. With a new enthusiasm, she spurred her mount forward, eager to reach the comfort of the city.

However, before Díorë could reach the white stone walls of Minas Tirith and the gate that would allow her passage, something else captured her interest: a lone horse carrying an unidentifiable object.

Brow furrowing, Díorë neared the creature at a slowing pace, noticing as she did so that the burden it bore was not a burden at all but rather a man and judging by his lifeless semblance, a man not in the best of conditions. Bringing her mare to a stop at a safe distance from the unknown horse and his rider, she dismounted easily and whether it was her natural ability with horses or the animals own instinct that his master needed help and help was something this skinny waif, only a few years out of girlhood, could offer – Díorë reached the creature without startling it.

“Easy.” She crooned, one hand taking up the slack reins, the other raising to caress the neck of the skittish horse. Her eyes instinctively took in the man’s dirty appearance: the coating of dried blood on the left side of his face, the scratches on his hands and the unusual position of his shoulder. Lips pursed she turned her head to address her brother, her mind already calculating whether it was better to risk moving him to one of their horses, which would allow them to reach the city faster, or if it was safer to not disturb the man at the risk of causing further damage to him and his suspicious shoulder. Settling on the latter she addressed her brother: “He’s hurt. Help me.”

Nodding his head solemnly, Áríc seized the abandoned reins of his sister’s mare and with Díorë now on foot they set off for Minas Tirith once more with something far more pressing than a warm bath urging their pace.
 
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Out of the two groups that people were so often broken down into when experiencing something lucky, Esril fell into the second group. The group who often believed that it was just pure luck that they experienced such things, rather than some sort of sign, that someone was up there, that the Gods had decided that it was not yet his time to die on the fields outside the Kingdom he fled from, but remained loyal to. So when the blurry blue eyes opened, more than likely in response to the soft walking of his horse slowing even further, but quite obviously being guided if the soft jerking of his head was anything to go by, and then he stretched his blooded fingers, the reigns were no longer wrapped around them.

Yet with the soft tug of pain coming back over his body, Esril cast a glaring glance up to the heavens – or at least, what he could see of them – for this cruel trick of fate. He knew not of who helped him, if it was indeed help, he knew of no one who might want to hurt him, but that had never meant much before the times of peace, and Esril was not to be naïve enough to think that everything was going to be perfect and good. How could it, when his sister had been taken from the peaceful world just weeks after the war had ended? No, nothing could be good, and Esril refused to take things that way, he would hope for the best of this situation, that someone had found him and was going to hell, but prepared for the worse.

His death.

It was curious that Lamalas had not fled at the first sight of strangers, and maybe he had, maybe this was no longer his own horse. Lord only knew he would not be able to know thanks to the blurring, distorted vision that his eyes were giving him. Shifting his hand a little to drop down, brushing his fingers along the saddle, feeling the engravings and the markings told him that this was his horse. Which immediately brought him back to the question of why he hadn’t bolted, more than likely kicking him back off again.

Ignoring the pain – something that had taken a back seat in what was important – Esril attempted to move his other arm, only to hiss in pain at the set position of his broken shoulder and quickly stilled his movements. He could feel the panic rising up within him, being unable to hear, to see, to know what was going on around him, and he couldn’t even calm himself down from the feeling that started to possess his body, causing his fingertips to shake a little more vigorously than they had before.

Fear was something Esril knew well and battled with constantly.

Letting his hand slip from the saddle once again and dangle uselessly by his side the wanderer slowly felt the tug of unconsciousness come back over him, and with a soft prayer passing his lips, he fell victim back to it. Fate, luck, and belief resting in the person that was leading his horse towards what he knew to be Minas Tirith, if Lamalas had not strayed from his original path. Of which he truly hoped not.
 
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Reins grasped firmly in her hand, Díorë led the temperamental horse across the Pelennor, her mind elsewhere, moving in leaps and bounds as she contemplated her next move.

Originally she had intended to take the injured man to the House of Healing where he could receive appropriate treatment from either herself or another capable healer. It had seemed like the most logical option at the time but now, with the distance separating her from the White City providing sufficient time to think, Díorë was already beginning to doubt herself. Having never travelled to Minas Tirith before, the way to the House of Healing was a mystery to her and even though Áríc had visited Gondor’s capital several times before, he had not – to her knowledge – paid a visit to tranquil rooms that offered a reprieve to the ill and the injured. He had, however, stayed at their uncle’s house on nearly every occasion his business brought him there, which – the more Díorë thought about it – was quite possibly a lot closer and more accessible than its esteemed, mysteriously located counterpart.

As they drew neared to the gates of the city, Díorë fixed her gaze upon her brother, who sat high upon his horse, the reins of both her horse and his own clasped within his steady hands, calloused and rough. The hands of a man; though he was scarcely two years her senior – an age gap that in theory bestowed upon him a great deal more respect and power than was practised between the siblings.

“Áríc, take the horses and ride ahead. Alert out uncle of our coming and have him prepare a splint, bandages and -” Áríc stopped her, his objection unsurprising. “No sister. You must have me mistaken for some other fool who would willingly leave an unarmed woman with a stranger.”

For once, Díorë did not press the matter, but instead fell silent, her gaze drifting away from her brother to the man who – it appeared – had momentarily roused before returning to a state of unconsciousness, his hand now hanging limply by his side. Finally her eyes settled on the gates of the White City and it was not until they entered the lowest level of the seven tiers that she broke her silence, taking a moment to readjust her grip on the reins before enlightening her brother on her little plan and requesting that he lead the way. “You do remember the way don’t you?” Díorë added, the slight tilt of the corners of her mouth betraying her serious tone. Irritated by her teasing, Áríc squared his shoulders and upon dismounting, proved that he did indeed remember the way by leading her through the cobbled streets to a small house, where a young woman – who had no doubt seen them coming – stood at the door to greet them, an infant scarcely older than two balanced on one hip and another child wrapped around her leg. The woman was unmistakably their uncle’s second wife and although her intentions had originally been those of welcome, her expression quickly changed when she sighted the state of their travel companion. Quickly, she ushered the children inside before turning her attention to her niece and nephew.

“Well this is a fine welcome to be sure. Your uncle isn’t here though I’m afraid. He’s hardly left the House of Healing since the outbreak.” She eyed the man with obvious concern. “Is he a friend of yours? How did he happen to come by these injuries? Regardless we’d best get him off this horse and inside I suppose.”

“I should be able to manage his injuries, but I would like to brace his shoulder first before moving him.” Díorë replied. Nodding in agreement, the young woman ventured inside to fetch something suitable and returned soon after, handing the items to Díorë who, with a gentle touch and two sets of helping hands, eased the man up slightly before fixing his shoulder. Satisfied with her handiwork, she then turned her attention to the next task – getting him off the horse and inside.

It took the combined effort of all three of them to move the unconscious man from horseback to the comfort of a bed. When he was finally settled Díorë perched herself on the bed beside him and armed with warm water, bandages and ointment set to work on the various scrapes that marked his body, humming a Rhorric lullaby under her breath as she worked.
 
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Sleep was something Esril did not like to do, if only for the fact his dreams never consisted of beng the normal sort. He had not once, in all the years since his mother’s death, had a normal dream. Instead, they were filled with visions, and conversations that kept him on the edge of that knife, that grasped him on the common occasions that he was about to fall. This unconsciousness was no different, the black abyss that wrapped around him, so comforting and warm, held him for what seemed like years, before it broken. A soft voice giggling through with the faint of light bashing against his closed eyes, the feeling as someone else touching his forehead and dragging their fingertips lightly down his face in a familiar and unqiue gesture that automatically roused him from his slumber. Blue eyes opening within this dream world to gaze upon the auburn haired female who sat, cross legged, in front of him.

“Wakey, wakey, big brother!”

Pupils widened in shock, and the hastiy move to try and sit had the girl smile and giggle to herself once again. The familiar face, her same colbalt blue eyes, the curled tips of wispy auburn hair. He knew this young female very well, almost better than he knew himself, and that was exactly the problem. He knew this female, and he knew very well, that she was no longer of the living lands.

“Faelyn!”

It was a hushed breath, one that did not get past speaking her name before three fingers, pale and ghostly, touched against his lips and silenced him. “Shh, Esril, be careful, they can hear you, and you wouldn’t want anyone thinking that you belong somewhere, would you?”

There was a teasing tone to her voice, and the man found himself smiling before relaxing back into the dark abyss that he seemed to be sitting on. “I died, didn’t I?” he murmured softly, watching her smile sadly before shaking her head. “You’re a dream, then” To this, the young girl nodded and brought both hands to run them through her hair, trailing through it for a moment before returning her attention to him.

“You’re not dead. Not yet. I’m here because you need me” she smiled before standing up, the plain white dress that covered her body only enhancing the glow she gave off. “I’m here to free you!” she declared happily, bringing both her hands together in some sort of prayer motion. “See, I know you love me, and that’s the best thing you ever did. This torture, you have to stop. Life changes, Esril, and you must keep up or be swept away.” Crouching down before the young man she smiled softly and glanced to what she considered to be the floor. “You’re being healed, don’t panick when you wake up, or you’ll make your shoulder worse” Standing, looking a little lost and sad, the young woman smiled. “I’m going to free you, my brother, you just have to wake up first.”

He frowned, and she giggled once again, the soft laughter dancing over his senses like skill.

“You’re unconscious, big brother, wake up.” Even as her form faded, her voice remained strong within his mind as the battle for consciousness forced the image of her spirit to the back of his mind. “Esril, wake up! You need to wake up. Big brother! Listen to me! Wake up! Wake up!!”

Blue eyes flickered open and remained staring up at the ceiling for a long time, even after the whispered breath of “Faelyn” had left his lips for a second time. It was only when glancing to the side that he shifted quickly on the bed, wincing at the pain in his shoulder and falling back down onto the bed with a groan. “Who are you, what am I doing here?” He excluded asking why she was healing him, it wasn’t something that crossed his mind until a few seconds after, but by that time, he thought it better just to shut up and not move and provoke more pain upon his already broken body.
 
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How long the man was unconscious for Díorë did not know, but by the time he roused, the whisper of a name clinging to his first conscious breath, the sun was already beginning its descent of the late afternoon sky.

Tensing at his first sign of life, Díorë’s hand stilled, a blood-stained cloth grasped between her outstretched fingertips. Turning wide eyes upon him, blue to blue, she waited expectantly. It would not be the first time that a startled patient had lashed out when their consciousness returned to them, fear and distrust forcing their hand upon the one who had shown them kindness. However, instead of causing her pain, the man seemed determined to inflict more upon himself as he made to sit up; the sudden motion disturbing his broken shoulder from the position she had arranged it in. Swiftly retracting her occupied hand, Díorë instinctively reached out with her empty one to gently touch his unharmed shoulder and ease him back onto the bed.

“Careful.” She murmured before withdrawing her other hand and momentarily busying herself with wringing the bloodied cloth into a small basin balanced on her lap, her actions causing a ripple pattern to spread across the surface of the basin's crimson contents. Head bowed, she continued, thankful that her mother had spent the time teaching her the Common tongue that the Gondorian’s favoured for communication: “I suggest you don’t move too much, unless of course you find some twisted, adverse pleasure in your own suffering, which one might assume actually considering the state of you.” With an easy smile, Díorë’s eyes flickered back to him, taking in the fresh bandages of his hands, the cut on the left side of his face and the purple bruising of his exposed skin where she had been forced to peel back his shirt so as to properly treat and stabilise his broken shoulder.

In silence she set about transferring the basin from her lap to the small table located beside the bed. Only then did she continue: “You’re in Minas Tirith. In my uncle’s house, to be exact. We found you – my brother and I – on the Pelennor fields.”

Before leaving her to her work, Áríc had warned his sister not to reveal too much to this stranger, but trust was something that came as naturally to Díorë as breathing and thus she felt no concern disclosing the answers to his questions. Nor did she feel particularly guilty not heeding her brother’s request and summoning him the moment the man roused. As far as Díorë was concerned, he was of little threat. She had seen his injuries, had single-handedly tended to them and although she was slight there was simply no possible way he would have the strength to harm her, especially not since the slightest wrong move would cause him excruciating pain in his broken shoulder.

“You have a fine horse by the way. A little on the skittish side, but undoubtedly loyal. He’s in the stables now and you can see him later if you’d like. For now, however, it’s probably best you rest.” She paused, curious eyes, the brightest shade of blue, settling upon him as though for the first time.

His dark hair – although the same colour as both her mother and uncle – was strange to her, presenting such an obvious contrast to her own fair mane that was already beginning to escape from its braids. She was overwhelmed with a peculiar desire to touch it and even though their conversation already seemed destined to take an improper turn – having completely skipped over introductions, contemplations of the weather and all other frivolous formalities that seemed to fill the conversation of Gondorian’s – Díorë denied her actions from taking the same path.

Instead, leaning towards him slightly, she settled on satisfying her curiosity. “Do you remember what happened?” She inquired.
 
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It took him a moment and a few blinsk to fully see the young girl who sat by his bedside, but when he had, he frowned a little and looked around the room, finding they were alone, and that the female did not seem to be on any threat and relaxed a little when her hand rested against his other shoulder.

He had been conscious enough to see of her wide gaze however, and quick enough to figure the reason why, it would not have been the first time that he would have woken up and – instinct to survive kicking in – tackled his healer to the floor with a knife to their throat. Extreme, maybe, but it was what usually came with waking up in a strange place with a stranger leaning over you, he doubted that the pain in his shoulder stopped him this time, and sent a quick thank you to the heavens for allowing him the small vision of his sister to calm him, before she woke him. At her second comment, Esril glanced down and pulled a face, he had not realized how much of a state he had gotten himself into over the past few weeks, but looking at himself now, compared to her, he did seem a little bit like death warmed up.

Opening his mouth to speak, finding his throat rather sore, the young man swallowed and winced, before his gaze dropped to his freshly bandaged fingers and he moved his uninjured shoulder so that he could examine her work loosely. He wouldn’t be able to say much, seeing as his way of healing outside of herbs and general injures usually consisted of rough bandaging and hoping that he could just fight the rest off. “Pelennor fields…” he murmured softly, voice cracked and hoarse, blue eyes narrowing slightly in his attempt to recall such an event. He didn’t find it suspicious that he couldn’t remember exactly meeting the girl, since he did remember the fall off of his horse, and the dizziness that come of it.

“I am…surprised…that he let you anywhere near him without crashing me to the ground in fear” he spoke finally, a soft smile coming to his face at the thought of it. Watching her carefully, looking down to the bloodied bowl of water in her lap, the man blinked. “Thank you, and your brother, for aiding me. I am sorry for becoming a burden to you” The formality had returned, it seemed, although the cryptic rhymes and not-really-answers had not, but that probably had something to do with being half conscious and still in a great deal of pain. “You could have left me at the Houses of Healing, if we are in Minas Tirith, rather than heal me yourself…”

The inquiry caused him to frown and look away, remembering what had happened was simple. “Lamalas jumps at shadows” he murmured in reply, glancing around the room with a new sense of cautiousness and curiousity surrounding him. It was only after a few minutes did his bright gaze settle on her once more, relaxed but incredibly alert against the bed that he had been given to rest on. He knew kindness like this existed, he just wasn’t sure if he could cope with walls just yet.

”I’m going to free you”

Maybe it was her. Maybe he would try a little, and maybe – just maybe – it was time he got used to the feeling of walls and roofs again.
 
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Díorë felt him relax at her touch and she in turn, softened at his smile. Their first exchange; wordless though it may have been.

When he finally spoke, however, it was her turn to smile.

“Are you overestimating your ability with horses or underestimating mine?”, she teased in response. In complete honesty, he was not the only one who had found the horses behaviour surprising. For even though Díorë had undoubtedly received more than just the telltale fair hair of her people – her talent with horses marking her as a true daughter of the Riddermark – she would be among the first to agree that horses were unpredictable creatures, and even though they were able to be trained for many purposes, they were still wild at heart and as such, their responses to such things like strangers were usually hesitant at best.

Pulling her loose braid over her shoulder and absently beginning the tedious task of unwinding it, Díorë continued: “My people are notorious for their gift with horses but for the sake of your pride, lets just call it luck.”

As was characteristic of the young girl, the smile she wore refused to fade into non-existence and thus it was still bright, seeking to contest the brilliance of the late afternoon sunset, when he redirected their conversation toward the path of formalities: graciously offering both apologies and thanks – which she promptly dismissed with an unladylike wave of her hand.

To Díorë, the idea of doing anything else but help was ludicrous, entirely out of the question. She was inflicted with a female heart, a kind heart and though her beliefs were undeniably naïve no one could fault her intentions. A small frown appeared between her brows as she silently contemplated what possible cruelty life had shown this man to have him doubt his own kind so greatly that he would honestly believe they would leave him for dead. For surely something must have happened? Surely his cynicism was the result of being forced to endure some immense, incomprehensible hardship? Something, she – a simple, sheltered farmer’s daughter – could never understand.

“You could have left me at the Houses of Healing, if we are in Minas Tirith, rather than heal me yourself…”

Overall he seemed puzzled by her actions – her kindness and seemingly illogical choice of location rousing both curiosity and caution in the depths of his eyes. An outsider to his thoughts, Díorë could do little else but watch the transformation of his expression and the emotion of his steady blue gaze, supplying what little reassurance she could to ease his already troubled mind. “Ah yes. Well, this is my first visit to the White City and I haven’t exactly got my…bearings just yet…It’s quite complex. Seven levels doesn’t do much for my odds of not getting lost.” Pulling a face that did nothing to conceal her youth, Díorë watched him glance about the room, realising that this was possibly his first time inside four walls for a long time. His injuries spoke of a harder living, a combination of fresh wounds and older ones marking his body and judging by the manner in which the less recent ones had healed, they had not received the kind of treatment offered by an established healer in an established city.

Moments later the cause behind his new injuries was revealed and Díorë welcomed the image of this man being bucked from his horse with an amuse expression. Still, wishing to spare him any embarrassment, she raised herself from his bedside to fetch a glass, which she promptly filled with water from a pitcher that stood alongside it. Returning the jug to its place on the small, somewhat cluttered table, she offered the glass to him.

“Here. You must be thirsty.”
 
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The blue eyes blinked at the light teasing and he frowned, although a small flicker of a grin did brush across his lips for a brief moment. “Not at all” he replied after a moment, looking down to his shoulder and the angry purple colour that it was, immediately pulling a face of utter annoyance at how much he had damaged it after a simple fall. He would not be riding for a good week, he supposed, depending on the healing, if the beginning colour of the skin was that colour. Turning his gaze away from the mass of purple, blue and black that blurred and smashed against each other in their angry, hideous display, Esril watched, blue eyes flickering with slight curiousity as his saviour absently unwound the braid in her hair, her smile still planted on her face.

And it was infectious, because he soon found himself begrudgingly smiling back at her light teasing, although he quickly caught himself and glanced away, a half hearted, one sided shrug being given as an answer. “Probably for the best” he agreed before allowing his eyes to close for a brief moment and his senses – which had been slightly off, if his vision and hearing were anything to say about it – and allowed the hammers that seemed to be going on either side of his head fade before he glanced to the female once again.

Strangely enough, he did not feel tired, but instead he was alert and definitely awake, despite the pain that spiked long his body, he could see a few of his more dangerous items had been laid on a table behind her, quite far away from his reach. Not that he wanted them in his hands right now, but it brought the thought of when an how he had been disarmed without feeling it. He felt everything else, vaguely, but could not fit a mental image to the feeling, the last actual image he remembered was a pair of hands moving the reigns and leading his horse. He guessed now, giving his state and injuries, that it had been the young female that had been the one to perform the act.

Listening to her carefully, Esril chanced a small nod and blinked in surprise at the pain in his shoulder began to have little effect onto him. Shifting slowly to sit up again, the young wanderer thought bout the complicated state of Minas Tirith from when he last remembered it and grinned. He could understand how a newcomer could easily get lost in the city. He had done so many times before he left, and he supposed that now, he could fit into that category as well. “Minas Tirith, is a confusing place, I quite agree. I could see why you wouldn’t waste time with trying to find the Houses of Healing, but there is nothing stopping you from taking me now. I do not wish to burden you for any longer…” he trailed off a little as she rose and wandered throughout the room and left him on his own for a brief second before returning with a small tumbler full of water.

Again, Esril found himself blinking before accepting the tumbler off of her and downed the cooling, refreshing liquid inside. “…Thank you.”
 
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Sounds of life in the next room momentarily ensnared Díorë’s attention and instinctively, like a flower to the sun, she shifted towards the noise, untangling a childlike lilt from the coarser tone of her brother with accurate precision and an affectionate smile. Distracted, she received his thanks with a nod, the slight disturbance causing her golden mane to curtain her face before she absently brushed it away.

When the voices faded once more to become replaced by the steady hum of silence, she turned back to regard him with a pleasantly neutral expression.

He was polite, gracious and, in his weakened and unarmed state, imposing no direct threat to she or her family and yet still – still there was something there, something about him that unsettled her, something concealed within the carefully constructed skeleton of his verse that steered Díorë away from his bedside to the small window where she sought comfort and clarity in the small distance that found them parted. Strangers to one another, he was as much of a puzzle to her as she was to him and although she received his strangeness with genuine enthusiasm and an open mind she began to wonder if her non-judgmental approach was something that he also practised and if perhaps there was more to his request to be transferred to the Houses of Healing that she had first assumed.

“You men of Gondor are far too well-mannered, it’s almost infuriating,” Díorë mused aloud. With eyes cast out the window, she cared not to disguise the lack of humour in her tone that gave the distinct impression that this conversation was one she had had many times before and therefore, one she found dreadfully dull. “At least I hope it’s your manners that cause you to question my judgment,” she added as if it were an afterthought, before turning to face him once more, her smile gone and although her expression remained blank something had shifted in her gaze – a faint flicker of a flame that promised to fan into a furious blaze should he answer incorrectly.

As a female Díorë was accustomed to being doubted, to having her opinions and her abilities second guessed, to being seen as inferior in the eyes of men and even though the Rohirrim allowed their women greater freedom than those confined behind the high stone walls of Gondor’s capital – viewing them as more than just pretty objects to be trained in the art of decorum and obedience - equality between the genders was still not ideal, nor would it be for some. Change, whilst being a natural part of life, was a gradual process and slower still when it concerned traditions that had long since been upheld by the peoples of Middle Earth.

“If you find my treatment unsatisfactory sir, say so plainly, otherwise – as your healer – I insist you to stop all this ‘burden’ nonsense at once,” she bristled, her tone clipped and matter-of-fact.

The change in her demeanour was instantaneous, but it was simply not Díorë’s way, nor the way of her people, to tiptoe around issues. The Rohirrim favoured a more direct approach than their Gondorian counterparts and Díorë with her abruptness and brash, headstrong ways was hardly an exception to the general rule.
 
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