[Novnarwen]

Ingemar

And there he stood, Ingemar, the man of Dale, the shabby looking man, who really had what we can call ‘wild look’ in his eyes, a look of a mad man, whose boots were well worn, and whose clothes were even more so. Yes, there he stood, with his beard half grown, stiff with cold, his face expressionless. His figure did not reflect anything, happiness or sadness, even though he was wearing one of those fine silvery armours that he certainly had a genuine love for. The armour consisted of three parts, four if one counted the sword; A helmet, which had nicely been placed on his head. He, however, did not know why it was there, and he could definitely not remember how it had been placed there. He only knew that it was heavy. The armour he bore, the parts which covered his chest and his back, felt light, but it was still a burden to move. He felt stiff and it was impossible for him to avoid the great sensation of claustrophobia. A sword, stuck in its sheath, hung from his belt. He'd tried waving with it, but had been told not to. "Wait until we are there," he had been told by another. So, reluctantly he'd stopped. Now, Ingemar stood restlessly alone in a crowd; yes, for he talked to no one and no one talked to him. Soon being told to form columns, he raised an eyebrow. Columns? he wondered, how? As quickly as the order had been given, men were surrounding him, even closer than before; they were standing next to him on both sides, in front of him and behind him. Ingemar let his gaze wander, watching how quickly long rows were being formed. What are they doing? He sniggered, and broke soon into a great laughter.

"Will you be quiet?" The man next to him started, looking rather viciously at Ingemar. "Do you honestly think this is funny, old man!?! We're going to battle. I have a wife and a son, who are probably never going to see their husband and father again! Do you understand me! We're going to die!"

Old man? Ingemar thought to himself, half-way listening to how the man continued with his rambling. Old? Old? "Nooo, noo, noo. Me," he said pointing at himself, "me, booooy."

"What did you say?"

"Bbbbooooy," Ingemar stammered.

"Are you mocking me?!?" the man started again, his eyes wide. He stepped closer to Ingemar, breaking his own line. His mouth twitched; he seemed to have been highly disturbed by Ingemar's words, innocent as they were. "It's true, I have a son!"

Ingemar sniggered; he did not understand. Who was this man? What was he talking about? All his ramblings had made him confused, and the stranger's words were roaming around in his head. They were without meaning and purpose to him. A bit frightened about the man's sudden movement towards him, he took a step back, still having a broad smile on his face though. How could this man mistake him for being and old man? Old men were . . . old. . . like the stranger, who had a silvery beard. Not like . . . him? With a brusque movement, suddenly remembering something, he raised his hand up to his face. He felt the soft hair of his beard on his fingertips and realised that he, too, had a beard!

"Well?" The man, who stood motionless and watched this odd creature touch his beard, asked, probably uneasy about seeing the development of their conversation. "Do you not own me an apology?"

Ingemar did not listen. He was in deep thought. How had this happened to him? Was he wrong when he said that only old men had beards? Was he a boy nevertheless? Rather confused, Ingemar did not answer the man's question, which was still floating in thin air. Instead, he only watched the stranger being surprised by not being given a reply and as the columns started to march, the man walked away, growling at him. Ingemar was left behind, as if having forgotten how to walk, hearing the man muttering a few words as he went;" Some men deserve to die more than others..."