[Anguirel]

Malris' teeth were set, his mind contorted with anger, seemingly undimmed by its expression earlier. Was this all that was left of the host of Feanor? Some of them hiding guilt with sanctimonious reproach towards him; others despairing after a brief battle...alright, it had been a trial of all their spirits. But they had emerged, just-no thanks to whoever brought the Helm...

There came the stumbling block. He knew who "whoever brought the Helm" was. Others of the company might have helped him, but the actual bearer of the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin had incontestably been Lindir. Lindir, who was scarcely breathing, sorely wounded, who needed assistance, and quickly. Malris could not blame an invalid. Now was not the moment to be severe about poetic justice. And so he had turned his fury on Oremir and Endamir, certainly nothing more than accomplices. And yet Endamir still bore it. Not out of love for him any longer; but out of all the rest, only Endamir was pressing on, practicality on his mind, towards the voices of those gallant soldiers, the backbone of that most courageous army...

Thank Illuvatar for Endamir, Malris thought quietly. I know what I must do now. We cannot go on like this; I shall turn around. I will conciliate my friends. And then together, we'll enter that gatehouse, and if we can't find a way to save Lindir, then we are not of the Eldar...

Just as Malris slowly, deliberately, swivelled to face Endamir, not far behind him, and the others, scattered about further back, just within the courtyard, a petrifying slump disturbed the dust. Malris mouthed an entreaty to Varda. "Don't let Lindir have died, Lady...don't let him have died with resentment against me etched in his mind..."

Oremir, who had been about to see to Lindir's few physical wounds, knelt to the ground and held the unconscious Elf cradled in his arms. Tasa quickly rushed to the scene as well. Lomwe, Endamir and Malris kept back. The others were unwilling, most likely, to crowd Lindir. But Malris simply knew he could not step further to the friend he thought he had now failed. "Varda, Varda..." he repeated, slightly louder now, despairingly.

"Oremir, is he cold? His eyes...does any fire of the heart linger in them?" he asked, feeling the uselessness, the idleness, helplessness, of such words. "If any life remains...we ought to take him to the gatehouse where the soldiers' ditty came from. Perhaps those poor houseless braves can tell us of some source of succour."

Or even, he thought, but did not dare to say, of the Lord Maglor. Maglor, whose staves had driven off the ghastly Orcs...Maglor, whom he had held up from fainting in a foot-race, Ages ago.