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Tindomion
Tindo watched as Cook deftly searched out the boy's wounds and took care of them. And he saw the wry face the young man made as he followed Mistress Bunce's directions on the gargle she'd given him. Tindo could almost feel his mouth stinging as the poor fellow complied.
'Am I goi'g to be alrigh ?' Tim managed once the rinse was done.
Before Cook could answer, from the pouch that hung at his belt, Tindo drew out the small silvered flask he'd brought. The etched traceries of leaves upon its mirror surface winked in the soft light of the barn's lanterns. He unscrewed the little silver cap that also served as a small cup of sorts and let it hang from the flask's neck by the finely worked filigree chain.
He looked toward Cook and then at Tim, saying, 'Miruvor. A cordial of the Elves. Just a few drops have restorative properties for us. And I'm thinking your aches and pains might be eased by it.'
Tindo put a mere two drops of the clear, colorless liquid into the flask's cap and handed flask and cap over to Tim. A clean and pleasant fragrance suffused the air about the little group.
'Go ahead, put down your ice pack for a moment, and put the miruvor in your mouth. It won't hurt, I promise. And I think soon you will feel better . . .'
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Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .
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