Prescient

Chapter Eight: Delusions

The Halls of Healing were a bustle of activity, elves with varying degrees of injury sitting of resting on cots in the main ward. Elladan and Elrohir walked right past those – they could wait a little longer, and there were some healers already seeing to the more grievous of the cases there. But Anna knew the private rooms would be were the worst of the injuries would be. A small sheepish smile pulled at her lips. She'd certainly been in enough of those rooms to know that much. There had always been a certain golden-haired lord to chastise her after. He was always so high and mighty, giving her orders and instructions. Ones she loathed to follow.

"Anna, with me," Elrohir spoke sharply as they approached the familiar form of Lord Elrond after he'd slipped out of one of the rooms.

"Father," Elladan greeted. "Whom should we attend to?"

"Elrohir, please take the second door on the left, Elladan, the right... Lady Anna—"

"Is with me, father," Elrohir said, hurrying past towards his assigned room. Anna nodded briefly at the elf lord as she passed, following after Elrond's son, ignoring the way his brow furrowed as she approached the door.

Anna hurried after the twin, eager to be away from the wise, knowing stare that seemed to bore into her. Seemed to whisper that he knew everything – there was nothing she could hide. Anna hated feeling exposed, especially to someone she didn't know all that well. She could cover up that feeling amongst the few she'd used to call friends with bluster and words. She couldn't do that there. Sighing, Anna entered the room, stomach dropping like a rock as she realised why Elrond had looked slightly worried by her entry to the room.

Golden hair was splayed out across the pillow, eyelids thankfully closed but that fact itself was rather worrying, and the elf who'd been tending to her lord glanced between them in relief as the door clicked shut behind them. "Lord Glorfindel is not gravely injured, but there are complications," the elf informed them, grey eyes narrowed on the flushed face of her lord. "There was a foul concoction on the blade which wounded him so... and it appears to have worse effects than the usual poison which coats their blades."

"He will not die from such a poison," Elrohir mused, lifting his hand from Glorfindel's brow, having made his assessment with a quickness that spoke of years of experience. No doubt their father had drilled the basics into them over the years, given his proficiency in the arts of healing. "But the kinds of poisons those yrch use tend to case fever and delirium in our kind as sturdy as we are. They are more fatal to those of the edain..." He bit his lip, glancing at the elf. "Prepare the usual medicine, hurry. With any luck, he shall hopefully regain consciousness long enough for us to force it down his throat, and that should offset the worst of it."

"Well, you certainly put that eloquently," Anna said, a smile on her lips, despite of Glorfindel's presence. "What would you have me do?"

"Clean the site of the wounds for me. I shall prepare the needle and thread," Elrohir ordered, and Anna complied. The safety of her lord was at stake, and despite her reluctance to reveal herself – thanks to the hatred which had to have built because of her selfish actions – she didn't want him to die or linger in pain longer than necessary.

Nodding, she found the necessary tools to complete such a task, carefully cleaning at both the gash on his upper arm, and the significantly nastier wound to his gut. One which fortunately hadn't pierced any of his internal organs. Otherwise things would've been far messier. Blood was only trickling out rather than gushing out, as it had from numerous of her own injuries once upon a time. Her gaze softened, heart thudding painfully at the sight of his sweaty, sleeping face. Smearing the paste to numb the area around each of his injuries, she stepped back, only watching as Elrohir got to work with skilled hands.