While death itself she knew, the Elf thought she might finally understand why sick men groaned, wishing to be put out of their misery. She had honestly considered groaning or complaining, but how pointless it would be. It was frustrating enough that small sounds of discomfort escaped her more than once when the healers had moved her from her cot to the large closet where a single bed had been set up.
Eruviel had wanted to protest. Others could have used the privacy more. She would recover. Others wouldn’t. But, her wishes remained unheard as a few elderly women bathed her, filled her full of fluids and herbs, and laid her in the soft bed.
She had heard the distant conversation. The dark, long-haired Wayfarer had most likely discovered the culprit of the sickness. No more news came. She had thought she had heard far off voices of the others, but the longer she forced herself to remain attentive, the more warped and confusing everything became. Could not someone tell her how they were doing? How he was doing?
Peldirion had visited. Having woken from a visionless, meditative rest, Eruviel opened her eyes for the first time that day. The remorseful frown on the Gondorian’s face made her wonder just how bad off she was. She only felt achy, weak, and nauseous with the occasional bout of vertigo and mild hallucinations. . . . It was nothing, really. Eruviel had given him his brother’s ring, and managed a weak attempt at making light of things. The man had almost smiled. Lightly ordering her to rest, and recover after making short conversation, Peldirion had left, and she laid there, bound to the bed only by the soft blanket and weakness of her body.
All because she had taken a drink of water. Her eyes too heavy to open, Eruviel attempted to neither move nor speak as a healer fixed the Elf’s blanket, and fed her more herbs and some horrid medicinal tea. She did not groan or complain. Only hot tears escaped out of the corners of her eyes as the feelings of uselessness and helplessness began to set in.