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Léof nodded, not looking the Elf in the face. The intensity of Laerdil’s gaze and the depth in his eyes was… not frightening, exactly. Awe-inspiring, in a way. Thinking back on it later, Léof would find that he had no word to describe the emotion the Elf evoked in him. But just now, Léof found it easier to think without making eye contact. “Yes, some,” he said, thinking of his sister Cerwyn, and Quin, and to slightly lesser degrees Eodwine and Thornden.
His train of thought was cut off by a sudden loud wail just behind him. Léof jumped with a shout, startled nearly out of his wits. He turned in time to see an unfamiliar young boy pick up a red-hot stick and hurl it with all the might in his small arm against the wall.
Léof hastened to the screaming boy’s side and knelt beside him, drawing him close with one arm and using his other hand to turn the boy’s burned hand palm up. Sure enough, the entire hand was already bright red.
“Someone bring a pail of cold water!” he said.
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