[Anguirel]

The memory of his wedding receding for the moment, Malris indulged in a reassuring spell of thoughtless action, swimming in the warm sea of rest, (so unlike the ocean surrounding them here...) and attending to the needs of the others in general and Tasa in particular.

It did not take him long to realise that he had forgotten about the waybread he'd removed from his satchel while searching for the rope; it was probably even now being ingested by the gulls of Himling. He did not object to this; the lembas Tasa and Lomwe had brought was, in any case, far superior, and plentiful, while he still carried some salt meat, a few Mannish rolls filled with the remains of the salmon, several apples, his flask of water, and a bottle of cool, glistening white wine. He speedily unpacked these refreshments, and the rest of the company pooled their provisions as well; it was now late in the afternoon, almost twilight, but this repast would make up for their lost lunch.

Still idly setting about this business, he joined Oremir in seeing to Tasa's bruises, and particularly the gouge that looked as if it might scar on her arm; leaning over, he plucked out a pebble Oremir had passed by...and shivered, not from fear or even from the cold. The tips of his fingers were lightly layered with Tasa's crimson blood, so bright against the pale skin...

Giledhel was dead, dead on Endor, live on the Undying Lands, whither they would shortly be departing on Cirdan's craft. No; it must be the same answer he had always given in relation to Tasa, ever since the race. But this, he realised, was the first time he felt himself regretting that fact. He shrunk from thought again, the shadow of doubt and complexity that burdened him, and idly joined in Tasa's tune.

When it came to an end, she looked querulously from Oremir to him.

"Is anyone here feeling as unwelcome as I?"

She was quivering in the cold; her lips-a little darker than her blood-trembling. Malris set all his attention upon it now, even as he passed her a glass of wine. It was not merely the wind that had given Himring its name. It was the same chill he had felt the night before.

"Not entirely," he said finally. "I feel much like one who has returned from a long journey to find his house in the hands of strangers."

The air about began to twist, whistle, almost snarl. All six of the Elves now huddled together, though most were still unprepared for danger, with bread and wine, not weapons, in their hands...