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He lay, shackled and bound, unable to move even his head. Gazing upward he saw branches, and he knew their form; he was lying on his own flet, a prisoner in his own home. Why could he not move? Why could he not turn his head? A slow but heavy wind blew steadily out of the east; it stank. Westward was the waterfall; he listened; he could not hear. Wait. From far off drifted a note, a sweet song. he shut his eyes, and listened. Nothing; the wind from the east drove the song away. Wait; there it was again; another note. She was there. She was singing. Again the slow, stinking wind stole away the beloved whisper of song; he gritted his teeth. He would not despair. She was there.
If only he could go to her.
Mellondu gazed glassy-eyed at the crowd beyond the door. He had slept deeply and woken exhausted, as if he had strained every muscle. His body ached. His head swam.
He heard Mellonin chattering excitedly, welcoming each visitor. The room filled and filled. His parents were kind, welcoming, a little overwhelmed, and Mellondu felt indignant; how did Mellonin think they would feed all these folk? Worry mixed with welcome in his mother's eyes, and his sister's thoughtlessness annoyed him.
Rohirrim and the red-haired man chatted and greeted, but Mellondu was uneasy. Suddenly, with a frown, he pressed through the crowded bodies and went to the door. Around the corner beside the door as if standing guard stood the tall elf. Mellondu's weary anger came to the fore.
"What are you doing here?"
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