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Eirian dropped his sword. The trolls were stone… he was alive. Groaning in pain, he reached to the bloodstained ground and picked up his blunting blade. Rangers and Elves were sitting, gasping for breath, not far in front of him at camp. "I could join them…" he complained aloud, he himself struggling with the pain his wrist and other wounds brought.
He noticed the two bodies were not breathing in relief on the biers. Remembering the sanguinary incident with Anga, he cursed under his breath. If only he had been there to protect him and Nuwethion. If only Arathorn had not been injured. If…
Stupidly kicking a frozen troll as he walked past, he cringed as more unwanted pain drifted through his toes and then his foot. The pain in his swollen, almost certainly broken wrist was enough to make him pass out, but he forced it away. The battle was over… there was no need to fall now. He wouldn't fall now… if he could help it.
Wiping some blood from the edge of his gray eyes, he continued to slowly stumble toward the rest of the group. Finally reaching Arathorn, he collapsed. He couldn't stand the pain any longer. He had fought many battles, but none seemed as hard as this one was. He lay on his back, his bloody head resting on the knobby roots of a giant tree. 'This is wonderful, he crooned inside of his head, his eyes falling closed.
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