ataraxionlogs | twenty-sixth jump;

CHARACTERS: Any and all.
LOCATION: Gravity Couches and beyond.
WARNINGS: Maybe some swearing, or even some violence, and more than likely some implied (and possibly explicit) nakedness.
SUMMARY: Another month, another jump, another round of new faces.
NOTES: Your average, run-of-the-mill jump—except some characters don't seem to be waking up from stasis like they should.

Don't worry.

THEY NEEDED THE REST.

You wake up in darkness.

There's a breathing tube jammed down your trachea, and you're suspended in a tube of clear blue fluid. Upon registering your level of consciousness, the gravity couch drains the fluid surrounding you and retracts the breathing apparatus; the doors in front of you open, and you're deposited on the floor of a stark, sterile medical bay.

You are not alone.
There are others who have come before you, others who are awakening beside you. Some may be familiar to you, perhaps even friends. Others have much less amiable plans. Some are merely alien and inexplicable, but there are always those who might mean you harm.

After you catch your breath and your vision returns, you notice a number on the inside of your forearm. Maybe it's a familiar number. Maybe it means something. Maybe it's just a number. But the number—completely unique to you—is a tattoo, and it does not come off.

If you enter the room adjacent to the medbay, you will find a small locker with your number on it, surrounded by rows upon rows of identical lockers. Inside, you will find a few of your personal items, a communications device, and a ship's uniform in your exact size. The comms device is fully powered and connects directly to the ship's network; it's your only means of communication beyond physical conversation. Upon turning the device on, a neutral, automated voice will say, "Please take the blue lift to the passenger quarters." Any other attempts at communicating with the rest of the network are met only with static.

This is your welcome party.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His mind aches with the severed bond from Nuala freshly abused by the jump, the loss easier to bear than the first time but keen and irritating, a reminder of just how much he has lost. Once showered and dressed, fully out-fitted with his retracted lance hitched on his back and long-knife at a hip, a damp-haired elven prince makes his way to Medbay. He doesn't expect to see anyone or anything besides humans, so when he sits on the edge of a bed, massaging his temples, Nuada fails to look up at his attendant.

"Give me something for the pain," he demands without ceremony. "Make it quick."

Elrond does look up when Nuada enters, gaze a bit curious at the man's bearing and appearance. It happens every time he sees someone knew: a thousand questions pop into his mind and he always shoves a good many of them aside. He straightens as the stranger sits, ready to assist as he can, and then raises a brow at the demand.

"If I knew the nature of the pain," he says, "I can treat it far more effectively."

Arching a brow as his teeth grind in impatience, the annoyance filters away when he catches sight of the elf (like Thranduil and Galadriel, nothing from home) in front of him. Elf, right. That garners a far larger slice of respect, though nothing so great as to assuage Nuada's snark.

"A pain of the mind, a bond broken. I can feel my twin's presence no longer." Hence, he implies, why the pain is general. "Is even further detail needed?"

"No." He says it quietly and with certainty. He remembers too well the night he felt his own twin's presence waver and die. It may be, perhaps, a different sort of pain, but one he can empathize with nonetheless. Elrond crosses to Nuada, but stops just within arm's reach. He raises a hand, palm up, as if to settle his fingertips on Nuada's temple; he stops short invading personal space.

"May I?"

Eyeing him warily, he thankfully has enough experience with healers to have some idea what's coming. The other elf gets a short nod, though Nuada continues to watch his approach.

Elrond settles his fingertips lightly against Nuada's temple; his head cants to the side and his gaze is slightly unfocused. Perhaps it's not enough and perhaps it feels different to Nuada but most who have experienced Elrond's healing call it a comforting warmth. It only eases pain; it will not dull it entirely. He draws back after a moment. "There are herbs and medicines here that might also help."

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?"

He steps back, to allow this stranger time to collect himself. He cannot say exactly how Nuada feels, but there is a sort of empathy there. He might not have survived that first night without Elros had there not been some intervention. (But then he might have. He honestly cannot say, but he is forever grateful for the stalwart friends he had.)

"I am Elrond of Rivendell." The expressed gratitude is not strictly necessary, but after the brusque beginning of this meeting, Elrond is of a thought that gratitude from this stranger might not be something often expressed.

Upon straightening, he gets a better look at the other elf.

"You are a healer there, are you not?"

From what he can tell and it isn't much at first glance. This Elrond gives away little.

"Among other things," Elrond says. "I am the lord of Rivendell." It's the first time he's actually introduced himself on the ship with the title; he's so used to people simply knowing it that it rarely occurs to him to do so. (That and his title means very little on the Tranquility.)

"Then, Lord Elrond, I have done you a disservice in my ill-humour. Forgive me."

And he lowers his head slightly in deference. Awkwardly, since the pain is there albeit muted to a tolerable level, yet he tries.

"There is nothing to forgive." He shakes his head once and clasps his hands behind his back. "Ill-humor too often accompanies pain." It's said a touch wryly; it is something he knows all too well - as healer and patient alike.

He offers a small smile, rather more able to chastise himself inwardly than let it entirely show.

"I thank you for your aid and will leave you to more deserving charges," he says, not ungratefully. "I hope we will speak again, and at length."

"That would be most agreeable. I wish you well."

twenty-sixth jump;

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