Sitting up was painful, but Thiriston took each stabbing ache as a reminder he was still alive, and presently sitting up was followed by moving from the bed to stand at the opening of the tent, leaning on one of the healers, which in turn was followed by getting dressed in proper clothes, which led to a certain amount of freedom to move around the camp with the help of a stout stick. Although still in huge and massive discomfort, and although still nowhere like fully healed, still, he appreciated that he could just walk away when the atmosphere in the little shelter got too much.

For it did get too much, and quickly; the other two elves, Noldo, were not friendly, and when, once, Thiriston had gone to the bedside to whisper comfort and take the elf's hand, this had been met with a frosty response once it was realised that Thiriston wasn't neither a Noldo nor a healer.

He shrugged, and walked away, and shrugged again as he explained to Nestoril.

'Woke him from the nightmares, at least. No thanks for it, mind.'

'Well, thank you for trying,' Nestoril said, and arranged for the elves to be moved somewhere else and brought Silvans in their place.

At night, in his sleep, Thiriston dreamed of Tumblestone. Now, when his reverie was disturbed by evil dreams, he felt his friend cuddling up against him, whispering softly in his ear, and it calmed him.

'You still here?'

'I am. Lord Námo is still busy. If you want a job, next shelter over, the middle of the three beds there. Elf is about to start shouting… and I happen to know he won't mind to find you holding his hand when he wakes…'

'What's going to happen to you, Tumblestone?'

'Oh, I do not know. It's fine; when you sleep, I can talk to you, and while you wake, I can bear you company and think of all the nights we might have spent together…'

'Don't be sad about me.'

'I'm not; I'm sad about me. It's different. Now, next tent, I think he's called Barhador. Come on. Hurry! I'll be here when you get back.'

It was strange, but Tumblestone was right; the elf in the middle of the row was whimpering, his limbs twitching, and Thiriston could see he'd been bound to the bed across his upper torso – something the healers sometimes had to do, if their charge was likely to move and disturb his or her injuries. But elves so bound did not sleep well, and if you were having bad dreams, Thiriston reasoned, you'd feel worse if you were restricted, unable to move away from the darkness.

The ellon's fist was clenching and unclenching below the encompassing bindings and his head turned restlessly. His eyes wide open in reverie, there was a questing fear in his attitude that Thiriston recognised for the dread in nightmare. He took the elf's hand so that the next attempt at making a fist found his fingers in the way.

'Easy there, you're dreaming. Just a dream.'

A gasp, another whimper, his hand clutched convulsively.

'The worst's over, Barhador. Relax. You're safe, the healers have you.'

The elf stilled.

'Who… who are you? There is someone there, you are real?'

'They call me Shout,' Thiriston said. 'Yes, I'm real. I was injured first day. Still here, still healing.'

'Ah, it was bad…! I was in the reserves, kept back… we were meant to go on, didn't get there… healers won't let me up, they keep me bound to the bed…'

'Only so's you don't wriggle and disturb your dressings or slow your healing.'

'But, when the dreams come, I don't remember that…'

'You will. Want me to stay while you sleep?'

'Stay, yes. But… talk to me?'

'For a bit, aye. Tell me about yourself? They call you Barhador, don't they? Who's waiting for you, why d'you want to be in the guard…?'

It was almost daybreak when Thiriston returned to his bed. The bedroll was long cold, but as he settled for the last of the night, he felt the insubstantial warmth of the thought of Tumblestone at his back.

'You've made a friend, there,' Tumblestone said in his mind as reverie swept him away.

'Good idea of yours. G'night.'

'Goodnight, Shout, dear.'

As soon as he was up and had breakfasted, Thiriston went into the next tent. The elves who were conscious looked around at the intrusion, but the one in the middle bed laughed.

'Shout! You are real! I thought you were some sprite or ghost… they say there are such things, the fëar Lord Námo hasn't gathered up yet… I'm so glad you're real!'

'I'm pretty glad, too, Barhador. So. Be good for the healers, you hear? No lashing out when they come to do your bandages.'

'I wouldn't do that.'

'Some have,' the elf one the first pallet said. 'It is sad and shocking and, of course, the elves never mean to… but they do not properly know where they are or what is happening.'

That was true enough. So, after a wave to his new friend, he went to seek Lightstep in her little tent. She wasn't there, but a note was pinned to the fabric: 'working' it said.

'Working. All she ever does,' Thiriston muttered, but as he turned away, Nestoril hailed him from three shelters along the row.

'How may I help, Shout?'

'Ah. Was thinking I might help you and the others. Talking to Barhador and his friends, and you know how sometimes they lash out and healers get hurt…?'

'Yes…? It is never deliberate…'

'Could I help you with the lively ones? Well enough now to make a difference. I'd like to be doing something.'

'Well… all right. Yes. Come with me now, then. I want to walk the camp; I hope it's not too far for you…?'

Thiriston growled, making Nestoril laugh and pat his arm. 'Oh, I had forgotten you were such good company! Now, let's start here…'

'How many are you caring for?' Shout asked, after they'd visited the twentieth tent.

'Oh, hundreds… it's better now than it was,' she said. 'Most of those they bring me survive now; it wasn't like that at first.'

'Nearer the battle then,' Shout pointed out. 'Further to bring them now. Bound to be some die on the way.'

She sighed. 'Yes, I fear you are right… but I dare not ask, nor am I willing to go nearer the fighting again; it was truly awful and all you poor, brave souls who endure such conditions, day after day…'

'Not me. Fell first day.'

'Yes, I know. But you fought on the way down, you were still touched by the darkness… I am glad you came through, my friend. Now, I have a meeting with the healers at this time, usually. Join me, and I will introduce you formally to everyone.'

So 'Sergeant Shout' as Nestoril styled him began working for the healers. If anyone looked likely to be a danger to either themselves or the healer attending, Thiriston would be there, his big hands gently restraining, his voice calming, short, simple words, the voice of a warrior, and almost always he was attended to and the elves calmed and came back to themselves wondering. If any in the night were about to wake screaming, Tumblestone would whisper to Shout about them, and he would go and take their hand and speak softly to them until they calmed, or woke.

Every now and then, an emissary from the main force would come and ask how many recovered soldiers were ready to go back to the fray. Nestoril would frown and say none of her charges were well enough, would say that the High-king himself had said none of them would be expected to return, that she would have the final say as to who was fit or not, and that not all injuries were visible. But where the elves in question were Noldor, she had little choice but to let them go if they wished, or, rather, if they said it was what they wished.

'I do not know how much longer I can keep on refusing to send anyone,' she confided in Thiriston. 'Nor can I continue to keep physically healthy elves here; I need the beds for the new injured, and they need to be doing something…'

'Can get them practising bow, if you like, outside the bounds,' Thiriston offered. 'And home duty – there's a need for help at home, that frees up other elves to come. Theoretically; nobody need know, do they?'

'That's true, but they can't go home like this! They would need to go in a group, with someone in charge…'

'M'sister. Trade family, we've got two wagons. She can drive down, take injured back home. How does that sound?'

'Oh, Shout, that sounds perfect! Would she agree?'

'Of course. Next messenger that goes, I'll send word.'

'Better than that – I have a hawk I can send, if… if you would write…?'

So Thiriston wrote and Bronwenith, secretly chafing in the confines of Emyn Duir, routed out some of her former waggoneer friends and sent word that not two, but six wagons would make their way to Healer Nestoril's camp.

'It won't be fast,' Thiriston warned her. 'But it will be certain. And if I know Bron, she'll have full wagons on the way down, too. Bit of cheer, perhaps.'

That night, Tumblestone seemed to cuddle more tightly against Thiriston's back.

'You never let me see you. And you had – have – such nice eyes…'

'Had is right. I am not pretty now; I wear my death, and it's been weeks… oh, Shout, Lord Námo is coming and I could go with him, but… but I… but I can't just leave you.'

'Why not? I'm all right, you know that. I'll be fine.'

'I know. Listen, though; that Barhador… he's nice, but… he's married, he has a wife at home near Emyn Duir… but he needs someone, just for now and… don't be unhappy about him.'

'No, won't break my heart over him. Can't help wishing you hadn't died. Anyway, you've got bliss or something to look forward to, haven't you?'

'I suppose I do, but… But I… I think I need… need to know you really don't mind…'

'Of course I don't mind. You need to be at peace, Tumblestone. Just wish I knew your name, so I could remember you on the Night of the Names…'

'You would do that?'

'My first lover, of course I would…'

'I am – I was… I was Castaer.'

'Castaer. I'm Thiriston, Castaer. Will remember you.'

'I loved you, Thiriston. I would have loved you longer.'

'Thank you for being with me; it's been a kindness.'

'Lord Námo is here. He is dark and bright and smiling and… but I do, I love you…'

'Love you too, I think.'

But suddenly Thiriston's back was cold. Tumblestone – Castaer – was gone.

He was alone again.