A/N: Almost done with the one-shots! One more after Winds! Then we're into The Second Time Part 1! Ahhhhhhhh! I need a drink already! Don't worry, it's only tea so far! Hobbit, Maiar, and Singer approved I promise!

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JR

P.s. P-atreon and Ko-fi update: Why aren't there tiers and goals yet on either? Mainly because I'm trying to get used to writing regularly on them. I don't want to promise my patrons something and not be able to deliver. So I'm working on building slowly and getting my routine down, then I will be doing some patron-only content like polls for story design and personalized thank-yous and inspiration videos or packages that contain some of the things that inspire each story and other various things. So hang in there with me, I'm still learning, and sign up to follow me so that when the tiers and goals go live you'd be the first to know.

(Paraphrased quotations from non-source material indicated by the star (*) symbol. And given credit at the end.)

Winds Of Change

The darkest nights happen just before the most beautiful dawns, she knew. But it was cold comfort when probably the best friend she ever had was nearly run over by a car. They had both been walking along the shore road of some tiny little village in the middle of the Scottish highlands that looked over the northern ocean when a driver, still drunk from their bender the night before, rounded the corner and sped up.

Caelann had stopped to look at the display in the window of a jewelry shop. She had been so happy about what she had seen and turned back to buy the stupid thing. It looked just like her wedding ring she had breathed, barely getting the words out before she was on her way to the door.

She had stopped then, realizing that she was dripping wet and while most people who had shops in Scotland expected some about of dripping on their floors, what with the ever-changing weather and all, she had been a bit wetter than that. So she begged Sherilyn to go in and buy the stupid thing.

They could see the price tag in the window, it wasn't terribly expensive and Caelann had handed her the cash for it, swearing that she wouldn't move an inch until she came back out. And she hadn't. Not a single inch from the curb outside the shop, leaning against a signpost for the beach they had just been on. That was where the car found her.

It happened so fast, just as Lyn exited the shop the doorbell still tinkling with her exit behind her, that she still wasn't sure how bad it was. Did Caelann hit her head falling? Had the car made contact or had her friend get out of the way fast enough? And if she did, why was she unconscious?

The shopkeeper, having followed her out to the door to make small talk while he turned on the light behind the small red open sign, called emergency services the moment he saw what happened. So she raced to the hospital that the EMTs told her they were life-flighting Caelann to, cursing with every revolution of the wheels the drunk who drove the damn car.

Once she got to the hospital, she was quickly ushered into the waiting room fearing the worst and certain that no one would tell her anything anyway as she wasn't family.

"Ms. Sherilyn-" A doctor in blue scrubs began but stopped when Lyn jumped from her uncomfortable plastic seat.

"That's me!"

The doctor nodded and quickly took the seat across from her. He didn't look like he was dreading telling her something, or resigned to it, at least. She hoped that was a good sign. A nurse quickly followed him and handed her a bag with all of Caelann's belongings in it.

"How is she?" Worry seeped into her voice, making the honey tones of her southern accent thicken and almost drip from her words.

"You're American?" He asked and when she nodded he smiled kindly. "She's currently stable and in good shape for someone that was hit by a car." He told her in a slightly stressed but more cultured, lowland accent as if he wanted to be sure she understood and didn't get tripped up in a highland burr. "Her scans showed no breaks in her bones. But she did take a good knock to the head and we see some swelling that we're watching."

"Any other injuries?" She asked. "I'm a physical therapist," Sherilyn explained quickly. "She's recovering from an explosion on tour and I need to know how much this will set her back."

"I noticed her military identification said retired army surgeon." Nodding, he went on. "As I'm sure you'll understand we can't know the fullest extent of her injuries until the swelling goes down, she wakes up, and we can start having her move. But for now, I can say that her x-rays show no breaks although her head took a crack from what looks like the pavement judging by the gravel embedded in her scalp. The other scans show swelling even in the deep tissue. We're watching for internal bleeds but haven't seen any evidence of them as yet."

"So basically bruised all to hell and out for the count unless the swelling in her brain gets worse or a bleed shows itself?"

"Aye." He agreed. "Other than that, lots of abrasions." He concluded. "The nurses are getting her cleaned up and ready for a private room as we speak. She was very lucky to this point. But she'll be in Intensive Care until her brain swelling goes down at the very least because head injuries are tricky wee bastards and I don't like taking chances with them. She'll need care either way, but at this point I am hopeful. We'll know more in the next twenty-four hours."

Promising that someone would collect her as soon as Caelann had been moved to a private room, he departed with a well-practiced smile and she was left alone once more. Shoulders slumping in relief, she set the bag full of belongings on the chair next to her and reached inside for Caelann's mobile phone and frowned when a ring slid onto the tip of her forefinger.

Caelann didn't wear rings normally. And she hadn't given the one she had bought at her behest to the Scot yet. Was this even her bag?

Peering into the bag, Sherilyn confirmed that yes it was hers. There was her military-grade waterproofed phone and her keys. Her weatherproof coat and sweater were on the bottom. Her sand-caked jeans on top. Underthings that she recognized from laundry day and the surprisingly light hiking boots that she knew Caelann was partial to were in smaller separate bags within the large one, as were her wallet and phone, and keys.

Pulling her hand and the ring back, she fished in her pocket for the ring she had bought. The two weren't even the same size, she thought comparing them. Both were a wide band and similar in looks. Bright silver, more a pale white than any silver she had seen but just off enough that she knew it wasn't white gold. Thank you momma and you're insisting I knew stones and precious metals before you died and abandoned us, she thought bitterly. There was a floral and somewhat nautical, there was coral in among the leaves, to the look of them, but not overstated or cutesy. More regal. Simple and plain by some standards but beautiful.

"Miss?" A nurse, that was a good half a foot shorter than her own minuscule stature, startled her from her thoughts. "She's ready if you'd like to come back."

Settling into the room moments later, Sherilyn set the bag and her small purse on the floor before moving to her friend to brush out and braid her long thick hair the way Caelann normally wore it. "You'll go batty with the condition that they left it in." She said, remembering the advice to talk to comatose patients. She wasn't officially comatose, but it couldn't hurt could it?

The ring, unremembered on her forefinger, got caught by its tiny little raised branches in the heavy strands, and in frustration, Sherilyn moved it to her ring finger on her left hand.

Far away Manwe smiled. The wind had changed and a storm was on its way. It would be cold and bitter, and a good many would wither under its blast. But it was Iluvatar's own none the less. A cleaner, finer, better, stronger land would lay in the sunshine when the storm clouds cleared.* He could only hope.

And pray it was enough.

Quotations:

"There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less and a cleaner, better stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."

― Arthur Conan Doyle, His Last Bow