[Firefoot]

Lómwë had aroused slightly when Tasa had come to get Malris, but not so much that he was willing to get up. Instead he lay in place, savoring his for-once pleasant dream. In this pleasant illusioned state, he was not laying in the gatehouse with the remnants of Maedhros’ host, but in bed with his wife lying near. The soft golden light of dawn was beginning to filter in through the window, playing across Ellothiel’s beautiful face. One of those perfect, timeless moments, lost in the river of time. He could feel himself slipping towards the consciousness of waking, and the harder he tried to fight it, the faster the image slipped away. Slowly, regretfully, his eyes blinked open, and he was brought back to the harsh reality that was now. The hard ground had stiffened his back and shoulders, and the dim room was a poor comparison to his dream-morning.

With a sigh, he rolled up into a sitting position, rolling his shoulders around and stretching his arms. He was preparing to pack up his bedroll when a nearby voice rasped out, “Water? Does someone have water? Is that you, Endamir or Lómwë? What is this place and where are we going?” Lómwë knew without looking that the voice belonged to Lindir and took his water skin from where it was lying on the floor near his pack.

“This is Lómwë,” he identified himself. “Here, have some of my water.” And he helped Lindir to sit up and drink from it. Likely because of the restful night, Lómwë somehow felt more kindly towards his companions than he had the previous night. Not, perhaps, more connected, but more kindly. “We are currently in the old gatehouse off the courtyard – perhaps you remember it? – which was offered to us to spend the night.” Realizing he could be treading on dangerous territory considering Lindir’s state, he did not elaborate further on the strange visitation of the spirits last night. “Once everyone is awake, we will be heading up the hill to get you some help. What Malris has in mind after that, I have not yet figured out.”