[piosenniel]

Pain . . . there had been pain . . . he remembered that . . . and then a deep blanketing darkness . . .

Muffled sounds broke in on his reviving awareness. The sounds of boots echoing against stone and the flow of voices. His brother’s voice. Skald – worried and demanding. The soft calm voices of others . . . like gentle breezes soughing through leaves, he thought.

There was the sound of crying and the cool touch of a hand on his brow. One fat tear fell splashing near the corner of his eye, skidding in small warm rivulets into the thick tangles of his beard. His eyelids unglued themselves and fluttered open. A familiar face swam into view, followed by another crowding over him.

‘Riv?’ The ragged voice of his wife called out his name, a hint of hope lifting it at the end.

He could see his brother turning now to call someone else over. Then the faces of Skald and Unna drew back as an unfamiliar face loomed over him. Dark haired, angular, free of any beard. Grey eyes that glistened, as granite does when it catches the light. An Elven face!

‘Welcome back, Master Dwarf!’ the Elf said. His hand and arm slid under Riv’s shoulders and brought the Dwarf to a sitting position. ‘Your wife has made some rich, good broth for you. Will you try a little, now that you are fully awake?’

Riv blinked his eyes, bringing the rest of the room into focus. It was the great gathering hall for the Stonecut family. About it were a number of beds holding Dwarves and Elves with varying degrees of injury. Among them came and went a number of Dwarven healers from the different families and with them strode a number of the Elves, conferring over those hurt.

The Elf who had raised his head for him must be a healer, Riv thought. Having checked Riv’s bandages, the Elf stepped back as Unna and Skald rushed in to support him. They piled pillows and cushions at his back; then, Unna, a smile of welcome and relief on her fair face, fetched up the bowl of broth she had made and began to spoon some toward his lips.

‘Here, now, wife!’ growled Riv, looking disconcertedly at her. ‘I’m no babe in diapers to need feeding!’ He reached toward the spoon with his right arm, bringing on a deep groan from the awakened pain.

Unna laughed, a bright, light sound that spilled through the space between them. Skald smacked him soundly on his left shoulder with a, ‘What do you think you’re doing, you great blockhead! That Elf just got you stitched back together! And now you want to start bleeding all over yourself again!’

With a snort of bare acquiescence, Riv settled back against the piled cushions and took a mouthful of broth. The pain in his left side and arm was beginning to dull again as he kept it still. Before he took another bite, he glanced about the lamp-lit room.

‘Where is Bror?’ he asked. ‘And Uncle Orin? And those others of our companions who went with us?’ He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his memory. ‘Last I remember was Brand, knocking an arrow, the silvered arrow, to his bowstring. There were Orcs, then, rushing madly at us.’ Riv frowned, and shook his head again. ‘After that, there is only darkness . . . until now . . .’