[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s eyes peeled open hesitantly, the lids apparently unwilling to lift themselves off the swollen orbs beneath. He blinked and felt again, the surge of reality rushing up to meet him. The sting of a wound on his forehead came into focus, and the stink of recently dried blood wafted odiously into his flared nostrils. He instinctively moved his now un-gauntleted hand to his brow, feeling the thin crust of dry crimson plastered to the rent skin there. There was some wet blood still simmering in the wound. With a pained breath, he arched his back, shifting numb legs beneath him so that the ruffled sheet beneath him was kicked aside.

“Captain?”

The voice was Belegorn’s, and it stabbed Belegorn sharply. Hírvegil winced, gritting his teeth and slapped his palm against his brow as it throbbed once and then again steadily for a few seconds. His eyes managed to focus as he turned his heavy head towards his lieutenant. “What?” he groaned, twisting his mouth about around his tongue and screwing up his face to accommodate the words, “What is it?” As the fuzzy vision presented to him became clear and acute, he saw Belegorn nearing him, scooting closer on a rickety stool. Overhead was the willowy fabric of his tent’s drooping flat roof. He rubbed his eyes firmly, working bony fists into the red-rimmed sockets, trying to beat out the pain in his head, as Belegorn spoke.

“How do you feel?” asked the lieutenant patiently. Feeling a little better, Hírvegil tossed off a glib response. “Like I’ve been drinking all night.” He said. Then, after looking down at the quiet earth for a moment, he glanced up at Belegorn quizzically. “Have I been drinking all night?” The lieutenant grinned half-heartedly, but did not laugh. Instead, he simply shook his head with minimal briskness and replied.

“No, you fell from your horse. Thank Oromë you were not trampled.” He gestured, indicating the wound on Hírvegil’s forehead. Hírvegil continued to look at him, blinking erratically, with a questioning look on his face. “Trampled?” he mumbled, mostly to himself, and then his eyes brightened – a revelation. “Ah, yes, I remember.” Again his mood changed suddenly to one of urgent distraction, “Belegorn,” he whispered sharply, holding his breath, “were we victorious?” The answer was obvious, but Belegorn indulged him.

“Yes, but our charge was ill-planned. More men were lost then needed to be...including,” his tone became solemn, and Hírvegil shifted unreadily, "some of the Elves". Hirvegil looked stricken, his face losing a hint of its still vague color. Seriously, he spoke. “How many?” asked the Captain, his own voice becoming slow and steady. Like a well-oiled machine, Belegorn rattled off casualty numbers from memory. “Two Elves, fourteen of ours dead, three mortals gravely injured, and many more with minor wounds. Luckily the maids of the camp volunteered to tend to them, though little real tending or medical attention was needed. The loss was unfortunate and, dare I say, it unnecessary." He paused, letting Hírvegil absorb the information.

"Which Elves were slain," questioned the captain gravely. Belegorn instinctively lowered his head, the words flowing from between seemingly closed lips. "Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, the two guards of one of the Mithlondhrim emissaries." Hírvegil looked at him, his eyes dim and unseeing, like those of one blind. "How have the Eldar taken this?" His question was darkly made. Belegorn's reply was one of semi-dejected confusion. "They are, as usual, enigmatic. Obviously they mourn his loss, but I do not know their post-mortem rites for comrades in arms, so I cannot speculate."

After a moment of pondering, Hírvegil questioned his second again. “How long was I-”

“Less than a day, Captain.” Belegorn deftly interjected, anticipating what his captain would say, “I hope you feel better. I must say,” he paused again, an uncomfortable lump welled up in his usually stern and resolute throat, “you were…strange, yesterday; not yourself.” He said this all with great uneasiness, but his tense shoulders sagged with relief as Hírvegil’s downturned head nodded. “No,” he acknowledged, “I was not. Your honesty is always refreshing, Belegorn, but we cannot dwell on that now. We must make haste to the Ered Luin.” With a little more spring in his step, though a still feverish one, he rose. Belegorn, though, bade him remain seated wordlessly.

“Captain,” he said, “I must advise that we wait a day. This ordeal has left many tired, traumatized, injured. It may not be sensible to push the Elves on after losing two of their company. It will be hard to resume our appointed course.” Hírvegil, though, did not heed his good advice, shooting a watered-down glare of arrogance and familiar Dúnedain hubris at the lieutenant. “Since when,” he intoned, “have the Dúnedain bowed to such petty challenges? We will journey on before the sun reaches…” he trailed off, realizing, to his mild dismay, that he did not know what time it was. “Belegorn, where is the sun now?”

“It has just risen on a new day.”

“Very well.” Continued the captain haughtily, rising to his full height, “We must not be felled by this loss, and the Elves will have to perservere beyond it. We shall ride out before noon.”