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"This is going to look really dumb," sighed Elrond. Amandil, who was still in perfect health (and loving it), slapped him on the back cheerfully.

"As long you get the job done, right?"

After several hours of deep thinking, Elrond had finally come up with a solution. Not one that he was comfortable with, but a solution nonetheless. Hands were usually the best conductor of the fickle energy that humans called...sorcery? Magic? Hands were the most used body part on any person, and one of the most sensitive. After deep thought, Elrond had figured that the next best thing would be his forehead, where the source of his brainpower was- that or the heart, but he didn't think the King would appreciate him touching chests with his wife.

Elrond looked at his his bands and willed the thin fingers poking out to move, dammit, make it so he didn't have to perform this undignifying procedure. He sighed and lowered them to hide side as he knelt to the level of the Queen, who was laying back on her bed, awake but quiet.

"Are you ready, your Majesty?"

'Always, Master Elrond. I trust my pretty Elf," she said sleepily.

He turned her to her side so that his face was mere inches away from hers and pressed their foreheads together, channeling his healing energy into her. It was an abstract, difficult process for him, trying to draw out the poison without operating, which he rarely felt comfortable doing. He doubted that the King would be pleased by the mere suggestions, as Men still generally knew nothing about such things. Still, it was unfair to call them ignorant- as far as Elrond knew, he was the only Elf who'd learned how to operate.

When he stood up, he was feeling dizzy enough that he had to lean against the wall to catch his breath.

"How do you feel, my lady?" asked Amandil eagerly.

Míriel sat up, watching as the pustules on her arms rapidly shrunk until they were half the size they had been. A few completely vanished, and she shrieked with joy.

Elrond smiled weakly just as three guards burst into the room held Elrond against the wall.

"You're under arrest for murder and treason against Númenor," growled one of the guards.

"What's going on?" asked Míriel, going from elated to terrified in a matter of seconds.

"One of your handmaidens died. Under the criteria the Elf entered Númenor on, he is sentenced to death."

"That isn't true!" said Elrond, outraged. "The agreement was that I died if Míriel died. Does she looked dead to you?"

The guard's didn't release their grip, but they exchanged glances.

Amandil looked as though he were about to draw his sword. "I can vouch for that! That was the deal!"

"I am an Elf-lord of Lindon, and you have no authority over me," said Elrond calmly, his voice quiet but immensely powerful. "However, I do not wish to put you in any trouble. You are only following orders. I do beg you to remember than there are two dozen patients who need my care in order to live."

"Like the wrench lived?" snarled a guard, and Elrond realized that the King must have gone out of his way to find hostile guards. His last sight as they hauled him off was not Míriel's pale face and gaping mouth, but Amandil's furious eyes.

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