[Child of the 7th Age]

For a good while, Lindir was silent. He thought of leaping to his feet and clawing his way back down the hill so that he could again retrieve the helm and cradle it near his chest. He seemed to hear a ghostly melody, echoing a wistful call that he must turn back even if it meant leaving his companions. For an instant, he struggled towards the helm while still on his hands and knees, but he was unable to propel his body upward. He felt weighted down under a heavy burden of sorrow and shame, as if all the ugly spirits of the past had raised their heads in rebellion, reminding him of so much he had tried to forget.

More than that, his body refused to cooperate. His fingers reached down under his jerkin, only to feel a sticky trail of blood. Somewhere in the earlier melee, he had been injured. He could not say exactly how or when. Perhaps the ghostly swords could inflict damage even on the living. Or perhaps it was the time he had fallen to the ground and struck his side against a boulder. Now, every time he breathed, a stabbing pain assailed him. The others in the group did not yet know, and he would do his best to keep that knowledge from them, at least until they returned to camp.

Defeated by the lengthening shadows in his head as well as the jagged waves of pain that spread in uneven waves throughout his body, Lindir glanced up at Oremir and shook his head. "I fear you are right. I would go back if I could. I hear the thing calling to me. But what my heart wants and what I can do seem to be two different things."

Doggedly, and with an arm from Oremir, Lindir rose once more and turned his face unwillingly to the fortress that stood above them. For a second his cloak fell forward. If any had looked, they could have seen a red stain that was even now visible on his shirt. Pushing the pain back down in a manner unique to those of his kind, Lindir flashed a sign of gratitude to Oremir for his words of assurance and steadying hand. At least he felt no anger there. He could not say the same about Malris. What madness was this to go forward after what they had seen?

Struggling forward to stand beside Malris, Lindir addressed him in a hushed but angry tone, "This place is full of evil. We do not belong here. Let us retrieve the helm and return to the ship while we still have time."

There was no audible response, only a harsh glance in return. "Very well, then," Lindir responded. "I have given my word and I follow you still. But if the very dead rise up against us, I do not know how much longer we can go forward, without madness descending on our heads."

Still, there was no response. For the first time, Lindir began to wonder if Malris had known all along what had awaited them on the isle, but had kept the secret to himself, fearing that otherwise his companions would not come. He muttered this dire thought to himself under his breath, now knowing or caring if Malris could hear the words. Then pain took over, and Lindir could do little more than put one foot in front of the other, willing his body up the hill.