[piosenniel]

Endamir shivered at his brother’s words. ‘Keep him safe . . .’ he mused aloud. ‘I wonder . . .’ Orëmir looked over at him; his expression urging Endamir to go on.

‘I wonder how we can keep him safe,’ Endamir said so all could hear. ‘Or if we can at all . . .’ He crouched down beside Lindir, and placed his hand on the Elf’s brow. His hand felt hot against the coolness of Lindir’s skin. Endamir looked about, his eyes unfocused, as if he sought some thing or things lingering about the still form.

‘When we were outside the courtyard and were assailed, it was not so much the physical mauling that bothered me, but rather a sort of pulling and pushing against my very spirit that I felt keenly. Almost as if I was to be pushed aside or out, rather, and some other spirit to take my body as the battle prize.’ He shrugged his shoulders as if to shrug off that awful feeling. ‘It was a hungry, malevolent force. Thirsty for my life, in a way. And I was not wounded as is Lindir.’

He stood, looking about the courtyard, the scene of old and terrible battles. ‘I do not feel that thing pressing in on me here. I suppose it was one of the Orcs or several that haunt the outer battlefield.’ He paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them from a sudden chill. ‘But there were betrayals, here, even within the fortress . . . weren’t there?’ he asked, looking round at the strewn rubble. ‘And despite the cheering song from the ranks we heard, who’s to say there are not grudges and envies even here . . . and held by our own . . .’ A look of concern crossed his features as he gazed back down at Lindir. ‘Perhaps even now he is pursued in his dreamings. He is so weak . . . how long can he escape his memories, his despair, and the desires of those left behind?’