[Envinyatar]

Ondomirë found his mind in two places at once. There was scarce any of the battle he need attend to with his bow; so well had the Elves and Dwarves had taken care of the attacking Trolls, he’d found. There were four of them dead by report of the squad leaders.

A fifth Troll, Hensirë’s lancers reported, had been killed near the refugees and the supply wagons. He sought the names of any who had been injured or killed in the defense. But, the captain of the lancers was called to attend to others of his troops who had fallen in other parts of the camp.

A certain chill settled on him as he sought Losrian. For a moment, her bright mind seemed to slip away from him. He steeled himself for another loss. And then came his name, faint at first, then stronger. His long held breath now was released as relief came flooding in.

Ondomirë!

Melda! Where did you go! I could not find you. He closed his eyes, and shut off his other senses for a moment. Near her he could sense the small, sparkling presences of Gally and Isilmë. You . . . all of you, are alright, then . . . I have some tasks to see to, then I will be with you.

The watch was set, and this time under the eye of Ondomirë. He took no time to chasten himself for the previous lapse in his attentions, only sought now to make sure the camp was secure from another attack.

And now the work of gathering together the Dwarves and Elves who had fallen in the attack had begun. A shallow grave it would be for them, with a cairn raised high and heavy upon them, so that none might disturb them as the earth claimed their flesh and bones. The two horses the Trolls had managed to drag from camp were also set beneath the rocks. No fire for the fallen, as was their usual way . . . none wished to draw the eyes of any more of the enemy to them.

Once satisfied that all was taken care of, and having spoken briefly to Lord Elrond, himself on the way to pay his respects to the fallen defenders, Ondomirë hastened back to the center of the camp. He stopped, surveying the area. He could see where the Troll had been brought down, and the wide track where it was hauled off. Losrian was sitting propped against beech tree trunk. Her head was bound with a strip of cloth through which a stain of blood had seeped through. Leaning against her were Gally and Isilmë, playing some quiet game of their own. Save for the wound on her brow, it was a welcome sight. He smiled, not caring if he seemed foolish for it, as his eyes drank in the three of them.

It was Isilmë who was the first to see him. Her face curved into a grin, mirroring his own. ‘Mirë!’ she cried in a piping voice. ‘Mirë is here!’ Her little legs propelled her swiftly to him; Gally taking up the cry and following close on her heels. Ondomirë crouched down as they neared and took the two in his arms. They chattered at him. Talking of the Troll and the spears and Losrian’s wound and all the while patting at the pockets on his tunic in search of the tin of sweets.

Losrian attempted to struggle to her feet to greet him, also. But he reached her quickly, and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sit, please. We’ll come to you,’ he said drawing her back down as he sat on the ground beside her. For a moment he inspected her bandage, his touch gentle as he looked closely at the wound beneath it. The blood had dried, and he was satisfied she would lose no more.

Gally’s little fingers had prised the tin from his pocket and now he held it up hopefully of Ondomirë. ‘Here you go! You, too!’ he said, turning to Isilmë and offering her a sweet. The two were content to lean against his crossed legs and suck on their prizes. Ondomirë turned his attention back to Losrian, regarding her gravely. ‘For a moment all hope fled me, when I could not find you,’ he said quietly. He pushed back a strand of her silvered hair from her cheek. His hand sought hers and he held it against his own cheek. ‘But here you are.’