Upside down? Which way was up anyhow? Turn your head, the blue part – sky – was above. Turn it the other way, see dark stone at the top. No, but sky was no longer blue. Sky was grey and brown and black, like smoke. Smoke? Yes, that’s what it was.

There was no pain. There was the memory of pain from an age ago. Gone now, just numbness. As long as he did not look at the arm, because that was where the pain lived, the arm, the shoulder, his back. Oh, but he could not look at his back, could he? Good, that.

Dreams. There had once been things called dreams and they had returned. Could hear singing – how strange. His cousin, favourite cousin, best friend. Been closer to one another than to their own brothers most times.

His brothers. Hah. Wondered what they were doing. Specially the singer. Lost somewhere in a flagon of that ghastly stuff they were brewing from – some kind of root vegetable.

Singer. Singing. In the dream. Louder, closer.

Knows the song, tries to sing in answer but his voice comes out a croak. Well, he’s been here for years and years, hasn’t he? Must have. Feels at least as long as – as that. Clears his throat, spits – nothing there, mouth is dry. It rained once and he kept his tongue out and drank the moisture. Was good. Tasted like shit, but was wet. Good.

Singing now, old song, well known, can’t think where he remembers it from. And the dream continues, gets stupid: great huge bird, eagle or something, flapping up in front of him — he still knows front from back, that doesn’t change like up and down can change. And — oh, this is rich. In the dream, there’s Fingon sitting on its back. That is so funny he has to laugh. And he laughs and laughs, but then the pain comes back so he tries to stop – it must not like laughter, harsh things do not like laughter.

And as the mist comes up in front of his eyes – which it does at times – he realises finally that this is no dream, this really, impossibly, is Fingon. And then, before he can get lost in the mist, he begs, raising his voice above his cousin’s concern and horror, begs, he who has never begged before: “Do not leave me here to die like this. Kill me rather. Kill me, or – or cut it off!”

And Fingon’s face is close in front of him as he leans away from the bird, blue eyes shocked but determined.

And there is pain beyond pain. And then the mist surrounds him, and he is falling, flying free.

~*~*~*~*~