"Mireloth! Over here, quickly!"
Mireloth looked up from the warrior whose leg she was bandaging. It was an ugly wound, deep into the muscle. With the herbs, however, it should heal. Mireloth looked back at the soldier. "Can you finish this yourself?" she asked. The warrior nodded and picked up where Mireloth left off. The situation at the healing camp could best be described as chaotic. There were too many wounded, and far too few healers. Even inexperienced healers like Mireloth were pressed into service. Mainly she worked on minor wounds, or assisted another healer. In the worst cases, she offered comfort to the dying.
Mireloth walked as quickly as she could to Avarion, the one who summoned her. Avarion was more or less Mireloth's teacher in the healing arts. She tried to stay close to Avarion, especially in this unfamiliar place. "Mireloth, hold this closed while I try to put it back together," Avarion said. The soldier was lucky; the spear had not hit anything vital. With Avarion's healing skill, he would live. Still, Avarion needed another set of hands to hold the wound closed while he stitched it. When he was done, Mireloth signaled for another healer to take the warrior away. "Do you need anything, Avarion?" she asked when they had a spare moment.
"Aside from a good night's rest and a bottle of miruvor? I suppose I could use more herbs. Would you mind filling this jar from the main store?"
"Not at all."
Avarion handed Mireloth a large jar. As she was heading for the herb storage, she noticed a group of warriors, just standing around. One of them was bleeding from a gash in his arm. Mireloth went up to him and asked if he saw a healer yet. He said he had not, his wound was little. "Then you are a fool," Mireloth snapped, and hurried off to get the herbs. If he was foolish enough to not seek treatment, she thought, then he deserved to lose his arm.

           
            Celegorm was surprised how badly the battle had gone.  Both Elves and Men had been driven back by the sheer numbers of orcs.  Now all Celegorm wanted to do was find his brothers.  He was lucky; he had not been injured, and hoped it was the same for his brothers.  He found the twins easily enough.  All he had to do was look for two heads of red hair within three feet of each other.  To Celegorm's relief, neither appeared hurt.  Amras and Amrod led his to where the rest of the brothers were.  "How is everyone?" Maedhros asked.

"As good as can be expected, seeing how we were driven from the field," muttered Caranthir.

"At least we all came out of it unscathed."

"Speak for yourself, Maedhros," a third voice added. 

Maglor joined the group.  The rest were quick to notice that he was bleeding heavily from a deep gash on his upper arm.  The brothers began talking amongst themselves, noticing little else.  A younger healer approached Maglor and inquired whether he had seen a healer about his arm.  "No, lady.  It is too little to bother with," Maglor replied.  The girl surprised all of the brothers by snapping at Maglor.  Celegorm wanted to shake the girl for her impudence, but Maglor held him back.  Celegorm watched the girl leave, her tangled black braids swinging.  "She should not have spoken to you, a Son of Feanor, like that, Maglor," said Celegorm, with more than an edge of anger in his voice. 

"Do not fault her, Celegorm.  The healers are under more pressure than all of the soldiers.  And she's probably right; I should get this looked at," replied Maglor. 

Celegorm was still seething.  No one should speak to a Son of Feanor in that way.  He resolved to find the impudent young healer and teach her a lesson in manners.