A quiet gasp falls free as the warmth settles over the raw, severed bond to Nuala, briefly leaving a respite as Elrond steps away. His words are muffled and dull; Nuada shakes his head.

"No herbs. That was ... sufficient."

Almost as if she were back from the dead for a handful of seconds, touching my mind.

His cheek grows cold and he ducks his head aside to brush away the prelude to a tear, collecting himself where he leans against the bed. Belatedly, he amends, "My thanks," with far more quiet gratitude than he has thus far shown to the majority aboard the ship. "Who are you?"