((Another tale from Nimlith's past.))
Despite the exhaustion of battle, she made herself do her rounds through the camp, tending to the injured as well as she could. But soon she could no longer bear their questioning eyes. She knew what they were thinking. We are losing. Our allies are leaving us. We cannot do more than hold our lines. When will we be returning home as well?
She sighed and returned to the station, cleaning up and preparing bandages and salves, trying to numb the grief and pain she felt with familiar, repetitive work.
Noticing the healers' tent's water stores were low, she decided to find fresh water instead. The long occupation and recent battles had tainted the rivers and streams close to the battlefield, so she walked a distance out into the forest to find a fresher source.
The path through the forest was calm and silent. Making sure no enemies were about, she opened her senses to the forest around her, taking in the information it had to offer, soothing it and being soothed in turn. She walked slowly, taking care not to spill what little she carried - drink would have to be fetched by others, but the healers needed water for cleaning and healing.
When she returned, a figure was standing in front of the healers' tent, waiting silently.
His head was downcast, but even so she knew who it was. She saw his stature, the long, slender fingers marking him as a craftsman, more fit to creating works of beauty than holding a blade. She knew that when he lifted his head, his eyes would be the same rainy grey as hers.
A cold shock ran through her. She had not seen her father since before the battle - he had returned with his company, and seemingly not long ago. He was unwashed, his armour still stained darkly, his hair unkempt.
She did not know who had told him, but he must know. One look at him was enough for her to know that. He knows they are dead.
He just stood there, waiting for her to approach first.
"Daughter."
The word sounded awkward; a woodsmith speaking to one that had once been his daughter, long ago. Now, she was the spirit-speaker Nimlith, advisor and healer to her people for ages, and a voice of the Nandor council.
"I am sorry... I should not..."
"It is all right." Right now, she wished to be called a daughter... protocol be damned. The grief around him was almost tangible, and she shared it... this and the pain of many others who had died that day.
Carefully, she embraced him. "Father."
"I... I came to tell you that I am leaving."
This was no surprise, but Nimlith could feel the sadness welling up inside her. She nodded.
"I know. I heard." Many of the companies of Woodelves, different Elf peoples united in defense of the forest, had announced their retreat already. Losses were too great. They would defend their own land - but they could not gain back what was lost, not yet. Though she was not a commander, she felt the pain of defeat. We came to liberate our forest, but we failed.
He nodded, hesitating.
"There are... some of my house who are not going to return home. I... have been offered to go with them - to the Havens."
The Havens. The West.
She looked at him blankly, not daring to ask what she already knew the answer to.
"I... shall come with them. There is nothing here to keep me any more..."
Not even your own daughter. "I understand."
He coughed nervously, looked at her.
"I was hoping you would come with me."
She would have liked to appear as if she was considering it, to ease his mind; but she knew the answer already in her heart.
"I cannot do that." Her voice was soft, but not apologetic.
"Ah, how like a Curuni." He laughed harshly, but nodded.
"I understand... then I shall have lost all three of my children today."
Nimlith closed her eyes, blinked away some tears. I was the last to see my brother alive, Father. I closed his eyes and gave him peace when the pain of his wounds became too great. I took the Orc-blade that killed him and destroyed it. But I cannot tell you this... I could never tell you this. It is what a healer does, and I must be a healer to my own kin the same way as I would be to a stranger. And because I am, I cannot come with you, save you from losing all your children.
"I am sorry, father."
"It is not your fault, child. Neither of you would have acted differently if you had known."
He turned around to leave, walking slowly.
She hesitated. He had almost reached the last tent of the camp as she called out to him.
"Father."
He stopped, looked at her again. She ran after him, looking him in the eyes.
"I would not have changed my decisions. I... may have acted differently."
She smiled sadly, no longer hiding her tears. "I would have been kinder."
Her father embraced her, and they both cried for a while, father and daughter.
"Curu... little Curu." He stroked her hair gently. "You know, I never got used to your new name."
She straightened up and became the spirit-speaker again. "Then remember me as Curugladiel in your heart."
He smiled. "I shall. Perhaps one day I shall meet her again."
