[piosenniel]

Ingir blinked as the cup was placed in his left hand. ‘Take a sip of this, Lindir,’ the Elf had said. ‘It will ease your pain.’ Ingir turned his head to look at the healer. His face was familiar. And just as suddenly he looked up and there, standing by the healer was an identical face. The twins! Now he recalled them. Orëmir and Endamir. But which was which? He could not tell.

He narrowed his new eyes and looked slowly round at all those gathered near him. ‘I shall have to be careful. Or they will find me out,’ he thought to himself.

The cup felt awkward in his left hand. He switched it to his right and pushed it back toward the healer. The pain in his side had subsided somewhat, been pushed down by his other concerns. And now as he concentrated on it, to be truthful he gloried in the feel of it. He did not want to sleep . . . he’d been asleep far too long it seemed to him . . . numbed all these long years.

‘I’m feeling better now . . . thanks. Help me up. I wish to stand.’

The legs beneath him were wobbly, but still he reveled in the feel of his feet in boots and the hardness of the paved courtyard beneath them. The pressure of one of the other Elves hands on his elbow as they steadied him was almost too much to bear. It had been ages since he’d felt the touch of another. He shrugged off the helping hands and took a few steps forward, gazing about the place with new eyes; gazing at Lindir’s ring of companions, their flesh solid against the background of stone and sky.

Ingir’s right hand came up, pressing against his chest, as he looked about. He could feel his heart beating. His fingers strayed across some cool piece of metal attached near the color of his tunic. His fingers fumbled at the clasp and soon had removed it. ‘A pretty thing,’ he thought. ‘It should be worth something, I think.’ He stuffed it unceremoniously into his breeches pocket for safekeeping.

His left hand strayed to his belt. A hunting knife hung there. A serviceable one, he noted. Good, sharp blade. And long enough to make a kill if need be. It felt well balanced as he held it in his hand. Ingir returned the blade to its sheath and moved the sheath to his right side, where it would be more easily accessible.

The pain in his side had now increased with the effort of his activity. Ingir took a deep breath and pressed in against the bandage Orëmir had bound there. His hand encountered a sticky, wetness and pulling it away he saw it coated with blood. The stain on his shirt had freshened and extended once again and as he took a few steps, intending to sit down on a nearby shelf of rock, drops of bright red blood splashed down staining the paving stones.