[littlemanpoet]

Ædegard heard shouts and cries and howls through the fog of his fever. What was happening? He saw swords rising and falling, gore flying. A battle! He struggled to his knees and reached for his sword; it was not there. What had happened to it? He felt something at his left hand. It was Jorje's nose, sniffing and licking daintily at the bandage covering his wrist.

Where is my hand?

Oh, aye, he had lost it. My hand! No! How can I be a wainwright? With the fresh realization, his eyes and ears cleared and the sights and sounds made more sense. Bellyn and Leafa were with them again! Who had saved her? them? He would have to thank him. He struggled to his feet, Jorje at his side. The young boy Aeron was kneeling, holding his sister in his arms; he was crying.

Do not cry, call for a healer.

Or was it too late for a healer? He stumbled to Leafa, who was being cradled in the arms of Liornung. Good man. He held her gently, and she wept. He stopped a pace from her and fell to his knees.

"Leafa! You are safe!"

She raised her tear stained face to him. "Ædegard!" Liornung helped her up and she fell upon Ædegard with fresh weeping. He stroked her hair, felt an ear beneath his hand; but not two ears. He looked at the palm of his hand, and it was covered in blood.

"What has happened to you, Leafa?"

She sobbed. Ædegard looked to Liornung, who tapped his left ear with his left hand. Ædegard raised her hair, saw, and closed his eyes tightly. No. The swamp elf would pay. He felt his eyes well.

"Ædegard! Your hand! Oh, my poor, poor-"

It was a great relief to have her in his arms, have her caressing his forearm so carefully, gently. He was kissing her hair, her head, cradling her. But he knew that his plans were all for nought. He could not keep her, for he could not do the work he had inherited from his father; not with only one hand. He was finished. He would be reduced to begging for his bread. He could not keep her. He would have to tell her, soon. But not yet.