[Novnarwen]

He tried ignoring them, partly due to his fright, but also due to the awkwardness he felt. Were they staring at him? What were they actually doing? It bothered him, and thus, he could not help to cast his glances their way every so often. He giggled slightly, but grew soon tired and felt the drowsiness take command. His lids grew heavy, but he couldn’t find peace.

Flashbacks from the events that had just recently taken place on the ground below, made Ingemar tremble with fear. The images which penetrated his mind and forced him to relive the nightmare, made him cling to the trunk even tighter than earlier, in hope of finding support and comfort. Why the orcs had appeared, was still not clear to him. Furthermore, how they had appeared so quickly, was even more of a mystery to him. Seeing them clearly, as if having stared one of them in its eyes, he took notice of the flame that lit up their eyes, a flame of bloodthirstiness, which wasn’t going to distinguish as long as blood was running through its veins. When attacking, the air had been filled with a smell so horrid, that the poor man's stomach had turned. It smelled of rot and sweat; a mixture which didn’t go very well together. The sound of their growls, their steel hitting steel and the sighs that came from the exhausted opponent, were echoing inside of his head. The sky had suddenly changed its colour from a lively blue to the darkest of colours, a threateningly and heavy black. All of this had certainly set its marks on him. In fact, it was like printed with black ink onto his memory.

He was completely in his own thoughts. Tears had started running down his cheeks; loud sobs followed. He suddenly remembered what Norna had told him once; "only small children cries", she had said. And he was not a child, he was . . . Ingemar. He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, feeling both bitter, of being left alone, but all the same happier that the horrible scenes seemed yet again only to be memories, and nothing more than that.

“I happen to have some nice bread with me, it's not quite stale yet. Here, would you like to have some?"

Igemar looked around, curious where the voice had come from. Noticing the newly arrived bird on one of the branches above him, with the keen eye of his, he sniggered. It was a nice bird, or so he thought. Its beak was orange, while its feathers were dark brown. How soft they looked. He chuckled, his face filled with a deep desire to touch it.

“Biiiid has beeead?” he asked questioningly. It appeared to him that it was the bird that had spoken. Where the bird had hid the bread it had just moments earlier told him about, was still yet for him to see.

The bird stood silently, tip-toeing, on the branch. It didn’t at all look interested in Ingemar and his doings, but it sat still nevertheless.

Feeling the hunger swell up inside of him, as he had suppressed it, or refused to let this feeling come through, he looked hungrily at it. “Beeead,” he muttered. “Come biiiid, beeead!”

Not even offering his situation a thought; the fact that he was sitting on a branch in a tree, he rose quickly, supporting himself on the other branches nearby. Standing on what seemed like a solid branch, he put all his effort into casting himself forward to catch the bird, being certain of landing on the branch ahead. Halfway through this crazy stunt of his, he felt the branch under his feet give away.

His long fingers rushed through the feathers of the bird. Feeling the soft dune under his fingertips, on his rough skin, he was rather surprised by feeling the hard surface he hit just moments later.