[Anguirel]

Malris looked as if a sword hanging precariously above his head had been removed when Lindir turned out to breathe still...as it seemed. He was first to pour a little of his flask of water into the Elf's mouth; giving nourishment to the body, confidence, though he did not know it, to the alien spirit.

"He's on the mend," Malris muttered. "Yes, you'll live, my friend. You always had uncommon strength in you, Lindir..." He smiled, and the invalid returned the smile, so slightly and mirthlessly it was almost a grimace.

No uncommon strength had I, thought Ingir. Perhaps a little guile, but that was all. Now trickery serves me again in the hroa of another...

But the Elf who had given him the water was not looking at him anymore. He was gazing around the gatehouse as if transfixed...and then he began to cry out...

"Soldiers of Maedhros!" Malris called. "Followers of the lord we all served! I know you are within this chamber. We saw you urge us on at the gate; you put terror into Orcish hearts. The same creatures sorely wounded one of our company. He now urgently needs...some kind of healing...of the spirit."

Malris paused, taking the measure of his surroundings. Aye, there the sentries of the gate would have stood their guard. There the archers. There the murder holes would have been manned. And at that table would have sat the elves-at-arms, with that shift's captain at the head; playing at cards or singing before a fire against the frigid wind. The grate was now cold, and no sign of ashes remained. Malris turned and addressed himself to the head of the table.

"Captain at the Gate, if ye be present here," he concluded, "tell us in Lord Maedhros and Maglor's name where healing for our brave friend may be found. Perhaps you remember him; Lindir the smith. He dwelt here once. As did we all. A valourous and true Elf."

As did we all.

Yes, Ingir remembered him vaguely. Decent as the smiths went, though perhaps slow to laugh. Sorrow had probably consumed him quickly. He would fit in well enough as a houseless spirit...Ingir had few regrets. He tightened his grip with his mind. Was the fea trying to come back? The hroa was proving truculent...but he would not let go, not for a smith...