faderift | [closed-ish] revelations come at last

WHO: Sina and anyone who wants a starter
WHAT: The diplomacy mission did not agree well with her.
WHEN: Some backdated to Harvestmere 4th/5th, some current.
WHERE: The healing tents or Sina's tent in the garden.
NOTES: Warning for some icky injuries and pretty severe downers!

"Adelaide," comes a cry from the gates, and the newly-conscious Sina removes herself from Herian's horse to stumble towards the healing tents, the darkness staved off by her glimmering shard, which is definitely brighter than the last time anyone here saw it.
"Adelaide," she wheezes again, her voice thin and desperate, an injured fawn bleating for its mother; but with this part of the courtyard filled with only unfamiliar faces, she finds she's not strong enough to keep looking. Sina drops to her knees and hugs herself, keeping the palms of her hands away from her arms in strange clawlike poses. "Ghi'lan," she sobs, her voice growing quieter.

This is only the beginning of a long month in which few hear from or see her, as Sina is spending it curled up in a ball on her bedroll. She resists eating, won't talk to anyone without persistence on their part, and ultimately seems at a total loss of spirit.

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Her eyes brim with tears as they meet Thranduil's, and she grimaces and pulls her head away as a wave of anguish takes her. She hides her face in one of the blankets, remaining there until she feels she can speak again.
"I don't know," she admits, looking gingerly at the food, with the weariness of someone who has been wracked with grief for too long, "...I can't. Hahren. I'll be ill."

He dips a spoon into the soup and takes the broth for himself. It's nearly flavorless, beyond a hint of salt. It will do, and he makes a note to thank the cooks for the food.

"You will be far worse off if you do not eat. I know you are hurting, but you are needed alive and well. Your clan needs you. I need you. Just half the bowl. It is all I ask, Sina."

If only they had a real healer, a proper Quendi healer. But they do not. They have Thranduil's words and a bowl of soup.

It's the opposite of appetizing, but at the very least, Thranduil still holds a position of relative authority in Sina's mind-- never mind that he's not strictly one of her People, at least as far as she knows. All manner of things have come from the Fade, and there's no telling whether they're truly their own beings or if they are, in some way, connected to the Ancient Elvhen.

Either way, she feebly reaches for the spoon, looking at the soup like it's a chore she has to psych herself up for. But she takes a spoonful, and then, slowly, another. She's weak from grief and hunger, and her hand trembles as she does so.

He watches her struggle for a few moments before stepping in, easing the spoon out of her hand and letting his own rest just below the back of her neck. He doesn't shovel the food into her mouth- he's patient, waits for her to open her mouth before he offers her more. He would do this for his own son. She's ill. She ought to be taken care of.

"Thank you, Sina." Hopefully some of that weakness will fade away once she's been properly fed and has more water. Again, he mourns the lack of a healer.

Sina nods, beginning to let her guard down slightly when she feels his hand on the back of her neck. It feels like home, being cared for this way-- not that she and her mother were that close in a specifically mother-daughter relationship, but she was, for a long time, the only small child in her clan. It took a village, so they say, and she feels their absence dearly.
But at least Thranduil is here. Several tears of exhaustion spill from her eyes as she relaxes against his grip.

"I have you, little one. All will be well."

As promised, he stops when the bowl is half empty, and moves it to the side, away from where it might be knocked by a stray hand, moving himself closer and letting his hand slide down to her shoulders, pulling the covers up to dab at the tears on her face.

"I think," he murmurs. "that you would feel much nicer if I were to fetch some clean sheets, and help you wash your hair, Sina. May I do that for you?"

Although she's been avoiding contact with everyone she knows well, Sina can't deny that it's comforting to be held. She relaxes further, and gives a small nod against Thranduil's arm.

"Serannas, hahren,</i" she murmurs softly, abashedly. She never wanted anyone to see her like this.

"It is nothing," he says, and means it- doing this for her is such a small bit of mindness, and ought to set her to rights. He leaves only to peek outside the tent and make his request to someone passing by. Luckily, another elf comes, and with bribery and Thranduil's charm, it's not half an hour before he and the other fellow are hauling a tin washbasin halfway filled with steaming water, and then another set of sheets. Thranduil dismisses him, and then strips off his outer robe, rolling his tunic up to his elbows and taking a small cake of soap out from the sheets.

"Come here," Thranduil requests, stepping back up to the bed and offering her his arm. She's ill, and needs help bathing- he thinks no more of her eminent nudity than that of any other elf who he'd need care for.

Sina is Dalish, and her clan is small; bathing is done when and where it's convenient, by whomever is at liberty to do so. She has little shyness over disrobing, for the most part only dressing so modestly because she gets cold easily.
Following Thranduil's request, she steps gingerly into the water, removing her nightshirt as she does so, and lowers herself in with a weary sigh. Now that she's submerged in the hot water, she can't not appreciate its comfort, and it lifts her spirits slightly. The shard glitters oddly over the surface, refracting in patterns of light all around the tent. Sina watches the glimmering water as though mesmerized, in a despondent sort of way. It's beautiful, this thing that's killing her, this thing that has killed others like her.

He dips the soap into the water, lathers it between his hands before he sinks them into her hair, washing the oil and dirt from it. He looks at the shimmer of green beneath the water. He has seen Men die from shrapnel, shards of rock that flew from an explosion, wood, once ceramics from a pot.

Thranduil combs his fingers through her hair, working the soap into her locks. "Lean forward, Sina, thank you."

He's never had the patience for healer's work, but this is not the exhaustive march against pestilence and fading.

"Does it pain you?" he asks, scrubbing her back.

It takes Sina a moment to realize what he's asking, and she nods slowly.
"Adelaide and I..." she begins, but trails off. Adelaide, whom she couldn't find on their return, who is just gone. Without warning, and possibly forever. "...it doesn't matter," Sina decides, curling her fingers against her sternum. "It's not going to come out."

He stops for a moment, one hand still resting on her back before he instead touches the opposite side of the shard on her spine. There is nothing to say—and less to do, in all honesty. Solas has gone off somewhere, and Thranduil is no closer no finding out what was in the Elvhen empire, even with Galadriel’s aid.

He takes the bucket and fills it with warm water from the basin, and gives her a bit of warning before he tips it and lets it was her hair clean. He could feel her ribs when his hand was on her spine, but he won’t attempt to get more soup into her unless she asks.

“What makes the pain worse?”

Sina sighs softly with the warmth of the water pouring onto her scalp and down her neck; little pleasures still reach her, even if they are fewer and farther between.
"Being near a rift," she murmurs, "...or a demon... or the wrong kind of magic." She bites her lower lip and sighs again, resting her head back, finally seeming to relax at least a little. "It never doesn't hurt, hahren."

[closed-ish] revelations come at last

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