Disclaimer: Not mine, but Tolkien's
She picked up the knife; set it down, and took up the bone folder. Next, the smaller sanding block --
Mending tissue, linen tape, packs of needles, tidy boxes of spacers --
"Eleniel, wake up . . . ."
So orderly, so insignificant, against such a task --
Her hands were caught and held; a forehead pressed against her own. Someone was murmuring comforting words -- had she spoken her fears aloud? -- drawing the coverlet up and tenderly kissing her forehead. As she drifted off, she heard the same voice say "This is not Gondolin's fall, dear friend; there is time enough."
Author's note: with thanks to hhimring, whose drabble "History, Snatched from the Jaws of Defeat" inspired this.