Nardol slept fitfully that night, plagued by unpleasant dreams and discomfort. When he awoke, he found that his wound burned as if a fire had been ignited in his leg. His calf was swollen and stiff and the ache of it seemed to spread throughout his body.
Sleep threatened to capture him again and he resisted its clutches, hovering in that uncomfortable place at the edge of waking. The trees around him seemed to lean over and gloat at his unease and the fire that crackled nearby was not cheerful to him. Rather it awoke memories of braziers used to heat unspeakable tools to the colour of ripe strawberries by evil spirits in the pits of Angband. Nardol moaned and slid back into an uncomfortable sleep.
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Beleriand, Beleriand,
the borders of the Elven-land.
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