A Lady’s Tale – Part Twelve

by Mar 7, 2003Stories

Part Twelve
Lady of the Silver Light

Sounds filled her ears in a cascade of wild noise. As she left the peace, the gentle quiet of that dream place she had just been, the sounds of battle filled her ears, reminding her where she was.

Analsiel leapt up from the ground and swung herself up onto Carandae’s back. She wondered why he was still there, why he hadn’t left that spot. But it was lucky for her that it hadn’t. As she climbed onto his back, she noticed that the blood she had leaked before she touched her leaf was still on the saddle, but no longer dripped off her.
Still, there were more important things to deal with at the moment. For one, the Orc who presented his face to her nose. She cried out and stabbed him. Then she kicked Carandae to a run and rode fiercely towards her friends.

Firnciliath sat numbly in her saddle. Analsiel was dead. She had seen it with her own eyes, yet here came the girl on her reb-black horse riding towards her. The Elf could hardly speak she was so amazed. When she could clearly see Analsiel’s features, there was dead look, no blood. She looked refreshed and she was not wet with blood at all. For that matter she was completely clean. I’m going mad, thought Firnciliath as she watched. I’m seeing things just because I want to. This can’t be happening.
She didn’t realize that Legolas just a few feet away, and Astianen, were thinking nearly the same thoughts.

Analsiel whirled her way through the rest of the battle. The Orcs were losing ground with every step and they were dying even faster. But they were taking large numbers with them, pulling men out of the saddle and stabbing them. Analsiel realized dimly that that was they must have done to her. At that thought, she was spurred to fight harder and Carandae picked on her every whim, turning even before she told him to. Orcs fell beneath that one red blade than under any other in the whole battle.

It was dark when the battle was over. Men moaned in the bushes where they had hidden after being wounded. Dead of both parties littered the field. Healing tents were being erected immediately, and all with every body part intact were in them helping all the dying.

Analsiel staggered through the trees, not having the sureness of hand she knew would be required in healing. At last she collapsed underneath a tall tree and pulled her knees up, resting her burning cheeks on them. She began to feel hot tears falling from her eyes, tears witch soon gave way to dry, miserable sobs until the girl fell to the ground, pounding it with her fists as she wept. Images from the battle played through her mind’s eye much as the images in Galadriel’s mirror had. She saw the faces of the men who had been killed, saw them bloated and white. She saw the bodies of the countless Orcs she had killed. But worst, she saw her own blood and the blood of those she had killed staining her face, hands, body, and mind. She felt as if that blood would cover her forever. Her body heaved, and she wretched up all the food she eaten in the past few days. More tears flew down her cheeks, as if to wash away the bloody nightmares that consumed her.

She woke an hour later. Or was it a minute? She didn’t know and she didn’t care. But she was awake, and that was something. She staggered to her fee, and gripped her leaf for comfort.

It gave more than comfort.

She was suddenly filled with life, with a cool calmness she was not used to at all, especially in circumstances such as these. But there it was. Along with the strength it gave her, it gave her a desire to heal. She stood firmly now, firmly on her own two feet and walked to the healing tent.

Firnciliath stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from her face and hair. She, Astianen, the king and Legolas were among the lucky few who had remained unhurt. Her clothes were filthy and soaked with sweat and Orc blood. She didn’t even touch her face. But she was not wounded, so she steadfastly tended all those she could. Still, even for an Elf she knew very little of healing. She had panicked when she had first entered the healing tent, but Astianen, who had fought in battles before ana had the more practical head of the two of them had grabbed her by the arm when she tried to leave.

“What are you doing?” she had asked furiously as the elf had tried to pull away from her grip of steel.

Firnciliath, unable to talk she was so nauseated, had just shook her head and cried. But Astianen had not been swayed. ‘Do you think these dying men will just get better all by themselves? Well they won’t. You’re not hurt and we need every healer we can get our hands on. So bite your tongue and get to work.” Her face softened. “I’ll help you,” she said.

So Firnciliath stood now over the twelfth sickbed of the afternoon tending a soldier who was cut on his thigh. Yet, there was little they could do for some, fro sa few Orcs had had poisoned blades. But all felt the weight of the loss of Analsiel. They assumed she must have fallen in battle, and then returned only because they had wanted her to so badly, and then dissapeared again. It made no sense, but all had seen her fall and all had seen her rise. So they wept their private tears and waited until the healing was done for proper mourning.

Then a light entered the tent. It seemed to have a shape, but not one that anyone could make out. All they could see was silver light. The light came closer to them until it was fully inside the tent. The men still concsious turned their heads toward it, calling to it. They called it her. Firnciliath stared. It was a her. Analsiel.

Analsiel came into the tent, aware of the light she was shedding. She walked slowly as the men called to her, then sat down beside the first bed she came to. She beckoned for a bowl of water. When the terrified servant brought it to her she touched her leaf, then dippde her fingers in to the water, turning it silver. She reached down below the bed and rew out the herbs that had been left there. Sprinkling a few into the water, she washed the man’s head wound with it. She watched, amazed at what she’d done, as the wound healed and shrank leaving only the tiny remnant of a scar.

She did the same for every man in the room. Her water never got dirty with blood or sweat, and the men who she helped fell into a peaceful sleep. But some talked to her, calling her mother, or lady, or goddess. She cried every time.

Firnciliath stared at her friend. It was the silver healer from her dream and she was saving them all. She looked around the room at the faces of the unwounded. All were staring fixedly at the silver lady who had done the impossible. All those who had been dying of teh Orc poison were now peacefully asleep and would wake when they were better. the whole tent was silent, save for teh whispering of the men to the healer.

The the last soldier was put to sleep, and the silver light began to fade. Analsiel stood and walked toward all those who were still standing. Among them was the captain of cavalry, Carnewath, who had grown friendly with Analsiel. When she stepped towards them, now with no silver light surrounding her, she collapsed hafway through one step. Aragorn, Legolas and Carnewath all rushed forward to catch her, but Carnewath was their first. She held the light girl like a feather made of glass. She whispered something that no one could hear, but Carnewath said, loud enough for the whole tent to hear, “Sleep now, Lady of the Silver Light.”


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