[Anguirel]

On practically every level, the scene was now in confusion.

In the world of flesh, of pain and suffering, Lindir seemed to be recovering from the assaults of the Orcish spirits. But in the insubstantial twilight world, Lindir was beyond death or life, suspended, floating on the breeze, and struggling with all the smouldering force of a long dormant temper to reassert his control over his own body.

Ingir's-or Lindir's?-very well, the body that had belonged to the Elven-smith, that had worn a dark cloak pinned with a brooch of silver, that had collapsed a short distance from the threshold into the gatehouse-this body was almost whole now, was standing up with its former grace. But it quivered, the lights behind the grey eyes flickering, uncertain. Two souls confused it rapidly; particularly two so diverse. A reclusive, cautious, honourable artist strove with a brawling fighter, an Elf who cared for glory, and trusted only in his own strength.

Ingir recalled so many battles as he fought with the ailing artisan. He remembered the Kinslayings, all of them, service in the front line to Celegorm, his lord; in Himlad, at Himring, in Doriath...then the Fair one had fallen, and he had taken Maedhros for his master; a foolish choice. He should have stuck with young Umbarto, so easily impressed...Maedhros was a lord of a different stamp. He punished thiefs and plunderers whatever their skill. Then the Havens at Sirion had been Ingir's bane; he had sought Mandos and found only here...this echo of life, service under a grim Captain who manned the wall waiting for seven lords who would never come back. The smith's body was his one chance of escape...

He felt it, now, the spearing pain of the lash, the cat, and there was certainly room to swing her, now he was embodied. Again, and again, and again. The Captain of the Guard's condemnations in his ear.

You were always fit for nothing, soldier. Bumptious, and mutinous, lying, deceiving, robbing, scum...

The five companions of Lindir would see his newly restored body writhe as if being brutally whipped. The especially pejorative words could be heard-

Lying...robbing...scum!

"Leave him alone, whoever you are," Malris said, speaking in Lindir's direction, but to he knew not what. "He has told no lies and suffered enough..."

Cirlach leapt from its sheath. Malris grit his teeth. "There is fire still in us. Leave. Him. Alone."

And then the writhing ceased; and the puzzled look in the injured Elf's eyes. Lindir, himself again, gazed evenly back at Malris. The glance was not friendly, but it was without doubt the smith's own. Abruptly, Lindir felt for his silver brooch, and refastened it. Cirlach's light caught the brooch's gleam; it shone whiter, wider...

And in the refracted rays from the blade, glimpses of the scene lying beneath the mere appearance of reality could be seen. An Elf on the floor; but no stone crumbling beneath him. A tall helmeted sentry Captain standing above him, the lash in his pale hand. The other guards scattered about.

"I apologise for this...traitor," said the officer in a voice that belonged thousands of winters away. "Your friend...should see...the Diviner...if he wishes to be healed. The Lord's soothsayer. Perhaps you remember him."

"Where will we find him?" Oremir asked, his lips pressed together, taut in distrust, matching a sceptical look.

"Wherever the Seneschal stands, there the Diviner is found. But we are wanted on the rampart; and you are weary. The Gatehouse stands empty this watch. You may...sleep here."

And the sentries departed, in single file, Ingir caught in the grip of the two at the rear; leaving the gatehouse infinitesimally warmer.