The apprehension shuddered away as they lapsed back into the fold of healing, of mending, of equilibrium and serenity, the havens of sanctuaries, sanctums, and compassionate skills. Though she couldn’t fathom the roots of Thranduil’s earnestness, the Mender didn’t refuse him the notion of knowledge or wisdom, the arts of sages or the folds of their invocations – and her smile, ever warm, ever present, widened as Tiamat took to the nature, the rites, the notions and sentiments of their trade. A sense of pride in her friend buoyed her senses, made her heart gleam, shimmer, beat with joy, delight, and beatific refrain, content for a companion who’d polished her skills, who’d tried and tried and tried, who was led by determination and resolution, but never condemnation or contempt. A rare being in their midst, funneled and brewed and structured beyond the savagery of war or the distaste of rancor, not channeled by bitterness or flanked by outrage; perhaps Tiamat was the paragon of virtue, and should’ve been placed on a pedestal for her reverent qualities. The nymph, the fairy, tilted her head in a signature of ambience, whispered holy vows through the declarations and acceptance, murmuring a delicate thread dipped in strength and vigilance, “You deserve it,” winking back into the fold and stepping aside to allow the sea girl her moments of rapture and sagacity. They listened, they revered, they captured the snippets and bits of importance, emboldened and gratified all the more that her decision had been completely, wholly, in the right: Tiamat had spent her days studying and scrutinizing, ensuring success in her ventures. Her grin never faded, remained chiseled and bright and irrepressible in the powerful snippets of the ocean maiden’s speech, ushering herself forward with another herb when the other girl had finished, brushing her maw over the dainty petals of a yellow, almost daisy-like flower nestled between stems and brush. “This is arnica,” and then her eyes focused upon Thranduil, the golden, gilded Lord and all his tales, all his myths, all his fabrications, wondering how and why their good-notions would be used (and a warning almost flashed between them, a brief, fleeting granule of her distinction, her capability, her capacity, her talents beyond the grandeur of sonnets and stanzas – and she couldn’t explain why the sensation rippled within her at all), before bestowing her attention back upon the sunflower-resembling plant. “You can use the roots and flowers to treat any bruises, aches, or pains. They’re especially handy after spars or battles.”