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DISCLAIMER: I don't own Lord of the Rings, unfortunately.

WARNING: Contains blood and violence (of course)

Eowyn felt the last of her strength leave her as the Witch King collapsed. She followed him to the dirt, falling to her knees with a gasp as jets of ice shot up her arm. Her victory was mangled with grief and pain, but it was a victory all the same. Her gaze slid sideways to the fallen King Theodan behind her, and a sob caught in her chest. He was dead. She could see his sightless eyes staring into the sky, perhaps gazing upon the halls of his ancestors where he would now take his place among the glorious dead. Glorious, and yet dead all the same. Tears dripped down her cheeks and she brushed at them, holding back whimpers of despair. Now who would lead them? Eomer, in all likelihood... and though he would make a great leader, he could not replace what had been lost.

A scream broke the air, and Eowyn felt her hair stand on end. In the rush of adrenaline during the slaying of the Witch King, she had almost forgotten the Legolas lay slain in the dust. A wave of nausea broke over her as she remembered watching him lifted off his feet by the Witch King's blade, his eyes wide in shock and pain, his hands lifting to grip the steel as if to hold on. And then his eyes had rolled back in his head and the Witch King had seized him by the throat, pulled him off the sword as if he had been a troublesome insect, and tossed him to the ground. Now, that terrible scream was tearing the air in two. Eowyn had never heard an Elf in pain before, and the instant she did she knew she never wanted to hear it again. She remembered that tall, proud figure standing in King Theodan's halls, and she could not imagine the same being producing such a sound.

She couldn't see Legolas, but she knew he must be somewhere behind the carcass of the Witch King and its steed. With a surge of effort, she heaved herself to her feet - and instantly fell. She cried out in pain as her broken shield arm was crushed between her body and the floor. Darkness was overflowing her mind and vision and she was trembling. She forced herself to breathe evenly, tried to focus, but she could barely use either of her arms. One was broken from the blow of the Witch King; the other was crippled from the force of her own attack on the same. As she rolled onto her side and, as she tried to lift herself, saw an Orc limping towards her. Its lumpy, pale skin bulged from its armour and one arm was bent out of shape. It drew closer with every step, its single glittering eye fixed on her face.

Panic filled her and she looked around, desperate. Her eye fell on Legolas' bow, lying where it had fallen beside her. Twisting about, she saw with a surge of giddy relief an arrow embedded in the leg of her former King's horse. She reached for it with shaking hands and with three great heaves pulled it free. She fumbled for the bow, rolled over with a groan, aimed, and shakily fired. The arrow skimmed the Orc's face, enough to surprise it and send it stumbling. But it regained its balance and continued its path towards her, and now there were no convenient nearby arrows to help her. Blind terror struck and she scrabbled through the dirt for her sword, her strength waning with every second. Darkness began to push at the corners of her eyes. Dimly, she could still hear Legolas screaming.

As she sank down, her fingertips brushing the hilt of her sword, a horse galloped into view and the figure atop it sent a single, sweeping blow against the Orc's neck. She recognised the Man as he leapt down from the horse, reaching her before the Orc had hit the ground.

"Eowyn, Eowyn..."

"E-Eomer..."

His eyes, always so full of concern, travelled over her body and then to the Witch King. They widened and then returned to her with renewed shock. His hands closed over her own, beating back some of the chilling cold that had gripped her.

"Eowyn, are you hurt?"

"Th-Theodan," she whispered.

His eyes lifted to the white horse behind her and briefly lost focus. Then he looked back at her fiercely, his lips pressed tightly together. She lifted a trembling finger, pointing past him.

"Le-Le... Lego..."

"Aragorn has him."

And with those words, she could finally let the darkness claim her and drag her into blissful unawareness.

Aragorn faltered only once in battle, and that was when he heard a voice that was always so musical, so soft, suddenly scream with a pain so raw that he could barely recognise it.

He halted at once in his progress towards Gondor's walls, spinning to face the direction the sound had come from. If it hadn't been for Gimli, swiping at an approaching Orc with his axe, Aragorn would have been felled. Aragorn met the Dwarf's dark eyes and an understanding flew between them. At once, they changed direction and began to run towards the source of the sound, cutting down the Orcs in their path.

"It was only the Witch King," Gimli panted behind him. "It was he who cried, laddie. Or an Orc. It could have been any man."

Aragorn did not answer. For neither of them believed that statement. They both knew that voice, and Aragorn better than anyone knew that Men could not cry out in pain like that. The corpse of a great, headless Nazgul came briefly into view before Eomer, still astride his horse, rode into sight from a different direction. He and Aragorn shared a brief glance before the Man swung down from his horse, rapidly killing an Orc in the process. He picked his way over the Nazgul's body, dropping to his knees. And yet as Aragorn drew nearer, he realised that Eomer had ignored the source of the terrible screaming, which now abruptly broke off. He leapt over the Nazgul's tail and skidded to a halt as a golden-haired figure came into view, shuddering and jerking on the dusty ground.

"Legolas!"

Aragorn crouched beside the flinching body and laid his hands on the blood-soaked midriff. Blood had turned the wood Elf's clothes dark and was seeping slowly into the ground. As Aragorn touched the wound Legolas' body turned rigid with pain and another terrible scream erupted from his mouth. Alarmed and horrified to witness the Elf in such distress, Aragorn wiped his hands on his leggings and felt the Elf's forehead. Cold, clammy skin met his touch. He brushed the golden hair back, taking in Legolas' ashen grey skin and his wide, staring eyes. Those eyes, always so clear, always on the horizon, now fogged with agony and weeping endless tears, rolling wildly.

"Legolas," he repeated, his voice hoarse with panic. "Legolas, tíro nin, dhen iallon."

Legolas body shuddered with violent convulsions, his eyes staring straight through Aragorn. His breaths came short and sharp through pale lips. A continuous stream of half-cries and moans poured from his clenched teeth. Realising that Legolas was utterly insensible of his presence, Aragorn returned his attention to the wound. At once he could see that it was deep, and extremely untidy, as if the blade had been twisted before being removed. As he looked closer, pulling the torn jerkin aside cautiously, he detected thin, spider-web purple veins showing up against the skin, leading from the jagged wound and fading into the skin. His heart seared in horror.

He knew that sight all too well. He had seen it not so long ago, as he crouched beside Frodo on Weathertop. Valar, it all seemed so long ago now. But he knew what such symptoms meant, and Legolas' reaction made sense all too quickly.

"Aragorn!"

He looked up to see Eomer climbing awkwardly back up onto his horse, pulling a body with him. With a further shock, Aragorn recognised Eowyn in his grasp, her face just as pale as Legolas'. What she was doing there, Aragorn could barely understand. Eomer urged his horse forwards, his sister held tightly against himself.

"She killed the Witch King," he said, his voice clipped and hard. "I must take her to the Houses of Healing."

Aragorn understood. Eomer was explaining that he intended to bear his sister away to Gondor now, that she would be carried off the field first. He resisted the urge to argue that Legolas was in more need, knowing that his pleas would fall on death ears. After all, Eomer was speaking of the life of his sister, and there was no bartering to be done. Instead, Aragorn simply giving a curt nod. Eomer's eyes dropped to the Elf and back again.

"I will send help," he promised, his voice trembling. "I will alert Gandalf. You will not be waiting long."

"Go, hurry."

Aragorn turned away and felt in his small pouch for Athelas. He didn't have much left and cursed himself for not finding more before the battle. He could have looked while at the Rohan camp. As he retrieved it he suddenly noticed the shaft of an arrow close to his face and followed its point to the Elf's leg. Cursing under his breath, he determined to return to it later. He chewed what little Athelas he had and pressed it into the wound, his body shuddering at the scream the motion elicited from Legolas, and then tore off his cloak and used it to staunch the bleeding. Legolas' eyes were fluttering, one hand lifting in an attempt to push Aragorn away. The thick blood had his fingers slipping off Aragorn's arm onto the ground. Aragorn let go with one hand and caught the Elf's fingers between his, horribly aware of how ragged Legolas' breathing was.

"Hold on, hold on," he murmured, almost to himself. "Avo dhavo am môr, Legolas, enni."

Legolas' head rolled heavily to the side and blood abruptly spluttered from his lips, his eyes growing glazed. Aragorn flinched, panic swelling in his throat. A small voice in the back of his head was beginning to tell him how unlikely Legolas' chances of survival were, how he should let the Elf slip away without enduring any more. To his relief he did not have to be left alone with such thoughts for long - Gimli finally reached them, out of breath and covered in Orc blood.

"Aragorn! The lad, is he..."

His gruff voice trailed off as he took in the Elf. Legolas was currently coughing wetly on the burst of blood that had just forced its way up his throat and had left a spray of red saliva across his fine golden hair. Aragorn rolled the Elf onto his side, and to his despair Legolas only moaned this time. The Elf was losing strength fast. Aragorn, preoccupied with wiping the bloody saliva from Legolas' pale lips, barely realised that Gimli had started speaking.

"... nothing to fear, laddie, you'll be well in no time. Aragorn's here, you're in safe hands." The Dwarf caught Aragorn's eye, his brow furrowed in fear. "How may I help, Aragorn?"

"Horse," Aragorn managed, forcing his brain into action. "I need a horse. We must get him to the Houses of Healing in Gondor. Gimli, we haven't any time-"

Before he could continue, Gimli had turned on his heel, letting his axe fall, and was hurrying towards the nearest group of Riders as fast as his short legs could carry him. Aragorn returned his attention to Legolas, murmuring words of comfort in Elvish, despite the fact he was sure Legolas could not hear him. The Elf's frail body still suffered wave upon wave of spasms, and Aragorn's cloak was rapidly turning dark with blood. He looked to the arrow still embedded mid-thigh, bending closer to examine it. He could not attend to it now. Instead he tore off a strip of his cloak and wrapped it tightly around the arrow's entry point to stop the bleeding and then, apologising silently as he did so, he broke off half of the arrow's shaft. Legolas' scream tore the air once more.

After what felt like hours Gimli returned, leading a horse at the closest thing to a sprint the Dwarf could manage. Together they lifted Legolas up onto its back, Aragorn following to sit behind him. The Elf lay heavily against him, tremors rippling through him. Aragorn adjusted his arms, one cradling the Elf's back and the other pressing down on his sodden cloak. There was so much blood, so much... He tried to force himself to ignore it.

"Go, laddie, go," Gimli urged, retrieving his axe. "I will follow. Do not delay."

And so Aragorn kicked the horse into a gallop, leaving Gimli behind.

Far away in the dark forest of Mirkwood, an Elf with a thorny crown and a stern, forbidding face sat quietly in his private chambers. Unable to rest, he had emerged onto the glossy wooden balcony and settled himself in a beautifully carved chair. The twilight breeze stirred his long braided hair and chased clouds across the first few stars. He watched them silently, his mouth set in a firm line, his hands folded neatly on his lap. The trees around him whispered and murmured to one another, great leafy boughs rising and falling with each passing gust, almost like a sigh. He listened to them for a while, somewhat distracted, always silent.

Eventually, having sat still as stone for a long, long time, he rose and made his way back into his chambers, walking slowly yet purposefully, as if he had just made a decision. He crossed to the great writing desk that stood at one end of the room, took a sheet of parchment, and wrote in an elegant, graceful hand a few short lines. When he had finished he examined the message intently.

I have reason to doubt the safety of my son. Please send news of his welfare as soon as convenience allows.

By request of,

Thranduil, King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood

When he had finished re-reading the note, he rolled it and sealed it delicately with wax. Rapping the paper against his fingers, he made his way slowly back out onto the balcony. For another long pause he studied the trees, and then the sky, and then closed his eyes. His grip tightened slightly on the parchment, as if to crush it, and then abruptly relaxed. He could not rest. He had to be sure.

At a low whistle, a small feathered form rose out of the woods before him and curved through the sky on graceful wings. The bird entered the light streaming from his chambers and landed on his offered arm, cocking its head and blinking keenly. He tied the small message to its foot and then stroked it for a few long moments, pacing back and forth along his balcony as he did so. Finally, after much deliberation, he raised his arm and shook the bird free. It circled him several times before soaring off into the gathering dark, the rhythmic wu-whump of its wings, almost like a heartbeat, fading to silence.

Thranduil returned to his carved chair and placed his fingertips together, staring directly ahead into the half-light. Every time he grew quiet, even for a moment, he could hear it. Only a whisper, barely audible, and gone if he tried to catch it. But still, it was there.

Adar...Gin iallon, goheno nin... Adar...

The Elvenking closed his eyes softly against the night breeze and settled down to wait.

Aragorn hurtled through the twisting, narrow streets of Gondor as if all hell ran behind him. He travelled in a haze of panic, barely managing to avoid trampling soldiers as he went. To his relief the returning Eomer met him halfway, true to his word, and led him on to the Houses of Healing.

"I could not find Gandalf," he said as they clattered through the courtyards towards the Houses. "He must be busy with the men. I did not want to delay my return any longer."

Aragorn nodded blindly. They came to a halt outside the stocky, white-walled Houses, and Aragorn's ears caught the groans of a hundred wounded men. As Eomer climbed down and reached out his arms for Legolas' body, Aragorn's mind flew back to Rivendell, to the sweeping, serene buildings and open, airy rooms that Legolas needed. He knew at once, even as the wind carried the smell of sweat and blood to his nose, that this place would be very different.

As he eased Legolas off his lap and down towards Eomer the Elf grew suddenly rigid, and Aragorn saw coming another horrific scream before it came. Eomer flinched violently but still took the Elf's weight, struggling to keep his grip as Legolas struggled weakly.

"Down, put him down!" Aragorn cried, leaping down from his horse.

Eomer, shaken, laid him on the ground, and then headed into the Houses at a sprint. Aragorn's hands pushed aside his cloak and uncovered the wound, which to his horror was rapidly darkening.

"Legolas," he pleaded, reaching for the Elf's shoulder. "Don't give in, savo amdir, Legolas, dhen iallon!"

But Legolas' empty eyes were gazing somewhere he could not see. Reaching again for his bloody, slippery hand, Aragorn looked up as Eomer returned with two Healers, one Man and one Woman, both of which stopped dead at the sight of the Elf. They exchanged a quick glance and then looked at Aragorn.

"Please," he began, his voice shaking. "I need Athelas, hot water-"

"Forgive me," the Man broke in, his voice calm but authoritative. "I do not believe there is anything our hands can do for this warrior. Let him pass on in peace."

"His kind have more strength than you know," Aragorn replied heatedly, but before he could continue Legolas' let out another brief cry, a mere shadow of the scream he had uttered earlier, but still gut-wrenching. The Man's gaze narrowed.

"His screams have already panicked the wounded. We may not accept him without scaring the men, and using our few resources on a lost cause." He paused, perhaps regretting the harshness of his words. "I am sorry for your loss."

He inclined his head and then returned to the Houses of Healing, his hands clasped together in front of him. The Woman, meanwhile, did not move. Aragorn looked to her desperately, clinging onto his last hope of help.

"Please," he repeated. "He is part of the Fellowship of the Ring. He is Prince of Mirkwood. He cannot die."

"I'm sorry for you both," she replied softly, eyeing Legolas with pity. "But my companion is correct. He has already distressed the men. Forgive me, but his injuries seem too severe to remedy."

Aragorn's heart crushed as if beneath the weight of an Oliphant. He felt sudden tears sting at his eyes and looked down at Legolas, humiliated that he was showing such emotion. If he was to grieve, he would do it alone, with dignity, not here. Just as Legolas deserved to die with dignity rather than on a stone floor, choking on his own blood.

"I'm very sorry," the Woman repeated, and she seemed to mean it. "Perhaps you have private quarters you could take him to? I would be happy to supply you with whatever you need there."

Aragorn shook his head, recovering the wound with his cloak and pressing down. "I have now quarters here. There is nowhere - "

"You have mine."

Aragorn's spirit leapt, and before he even looked up his face had split in a giddy smile. Sure enough, there was Gandalf, always appearing in his hour of need, now striding across the courtyard with Pippin at his side. His white hair shone like a redeeming star in the sunlight. Aragorn felt like sobbing with relief. Gandalf would help. Gandalf would know what to do. He thanked Valar for their luck, begged that Legolas' life may still be spared.

If the Wizard noticed the severity of Legolas' wounds, he did not react. Instead he looked at the Healer who, herself, looked thankful that help had arrived which saved her from turing her patients away.

"The Eastern guest rooms," Gandalf said, his tone fast and steady. "Pippin will show you the way. We will need supplies, whatever you can spare." He turned to Aragorn. "Come, it is not far."

Aragorn pulled Legolas into his arms with trembling hands and followed the Wizard at a run. Gandalf led the way across the courtyard and through a maze of passageways, much more tranquil than the rest of Gondor. Before long they reached a corridor of small, decorated doors and Gandalf showed them to the third door on the left. They entered a small, white-walled room with a single window, the bed untouched, the lamps unlit. Unsurprisingly, Aragorn decided. Gandalf would not have spent much time sleeping in their current situation. Aragorn laid his bundle down on the bed and immediately began to unbutton the Elven jerkin and shirt.

"They have no Athelas here," Gandalf called, crossing the room to open his pack which lay on a chair in the corner, "But I have a supply. I had little doubt of the Black Riders joining the battle today. It is the Black Breath, is it not?"

Aragorn's stomach heaved at the word and he nodded stiffly. He had managed to manoeuvre Legolas' arms out of the flexible Eleven material and carefully slid the garments out from beneath him, tossing them unceremoniously on the ground. He bent closer to examine the wound, shallow, erratic breaths filling his ears. It was streaked with poisonous blackness and blood was still leaking from it steadily, although at a slower rate than before. Perhaps Legolas had no blood left to lose. The Elf jerked away from his touch as he attempted to probe it, letting out a cry. With a jolt, Aragorn realised Legolas' lips were now bloodless and his eyes rolling back in his head. His mouth was open but the breaths he took were too shallow to bring him any air.

"Gandalf!"

Gandalf was by his side already, handing him the Athelas. Aragorn let it drop to the bed, his hands rushing to Legolas' face as the Elf began to choke once more, blood peppering his lips.

"Thul, Legolas, thul!" Aragorn urged, rolling him again onto his side to help him clear his throat. "Gandalf, he will not breathe. Can you help, can you ease the pain-"

Before he had finished, Gandalf was murmuring words of an ancient dialect, smoothing a hand over Legolas' forehead as he did so. The blood began to stop dribbling from Legolas' mouth and Aragorn gently eased him onto his back, removing his hands to allow Gandalf to work. Legolas' eyes opened wide and then sank half-closed, his blue stare finally empty of pain and fear. Aragorn hurriedly felt his pulse and was relieved to find it present, if weak and fast. The Elf's body still twitched and flinched, and muffled sounds of anguish still left him from time to time, but he seemed calmer now.

"It won't last long," Gandalf warned, pushing back the sleeves of his robe. "We will need a sleeping draught."

"We will make one when the others arrive."

Aragorn chewed some of the Athelas and spread the crushed leaves carefully over the wound before pressing his hand down, trying to finally stop the blood from flowing. He could get a better look now. The wound was situated a few inches above the Elf's bellybutton, perhaps just below his ribs. His skin was damp with cold sweat mingled with the blood. Aragorn glanced up to see Legolas' face bloodless, stray strands of hair plastered to his neck, redness still staining his lips. His breathing was more even now, but still rasping and tight. The Elf's gaze remained disturbingly glazed, as if lifeless.

"Aragorn."

He looked up. Gandalf's eyes moved slowly from the him to the Elf and back again. His face was dark.

"We must be careful not to force life where there is none," the Wizard said softly. "Not when it causes such suffering."

"He will heal fast," Aragorn insisted. "If he lives through the night his body will have healed the worst of it."

"He has been wounded by the Witch King. Such injuries are not so simple."

Aragorn pressed his lips together and stared blindly down at his blood-soaked hands, still folded over Legolas' chest. Without his clothes, Aragorn could now see the bruised outline of a handprint at Legolas' throat. He blinked at it, struggling to take it in. His lips moved almost without him realising.

"We must try."

Eomer, Pippin and the Healer arrived after a few minutes, laden down with medical supplies. Eomer and the Healer left quickly, the former promising to find Gimli and the latter pledging her help should it be required. Pippin hovered uncertainly near the door as Aragorn picked up some clean cloths and began to clear away the blood. The pail of water at his feet quickly turned red.

"Pippin?"

Pippin stepped forwards at Gandalf's call, strangely silent at the sight of Legolas' motionless form. Gandalf gestured to the supplies at the foot of the bed.

"Will you make a sleeping draught? You'll need this, and this here. Crush the herbs together and add some water."

Pippin followed his directions, kneeling to collect together the ingredients Gandalf indicated. He glanced up once, his mouth opening as if about to speak, but he seemed to think better of it and returned to his work in silence. Gandalf, after all, had been claimed by Aragorn to help, and had no time to answer questions. The urgency of the situation stunned the hobbit's usually talkative mouth into stillness.

Aragorn, satisfied that the bleeding had slowed enough, applied the last of the Athelas and slid an arm behind Legolas' shoulders, lifting him off the bed and gesturing to Gandalf. Following his lead, the Wizard wrapped a bandage carefully around the Elf's chest, passing it over the folded cloth on the wound which would act as a pressure pad. Aragorn winced as Legolas moaned in pain, glancing down at the Elf's face. He cleared golden hair away from his neck and face with his free hand, feeling droplets of sweat racing over the porcelain skin. Legolas' eyebrows pulled together tightly.

"N-Naneth..."

Pippin, kneeling at the foot of the bed, perked up. "Is he awake? What did he say?"

Aragorn wet his lips anxiously. "He's not awake, no. He called for his mother."

"Naneth... dh-dhen iallon... baw..."

Aragorn glanced at Gandalf and, satisfied that the bandages were secure, pulled the pillow closer. "Is there a spare? He should be elevated."

Gandalf retreated to the cupboard in the corner of the room and passed Aragorn a second pillow, allowing him to prop Legolas up slightly. The Elf was still mumbling under his breath. His eyes were beginning to flit from side to side, still empty of recognition.

"Av-'osto, Legolas, ci a mellyn," Aragorn urged.

Legolas showed no sign of hearing him, his breath catching in his throat. Aragorn realised that blood was still drying on his lips and hastily reached for a damp cloth. He cleared it away as gently as he could.

"Aragorn, his leg."

"Yes, I'm coming."

Aragorn put the cloth down and tried to catch Legolas' gaze for a few moments longer, hoping for something, anything, that would indicate that the Elf knew he was there. Disappointed, he joined Gandalf further down the bed and examined the arrow. His companion had already cut a wide slit in Legolas' leggings to reveal the wound, arrow still embedded.

"It's not bad," the Wizard noted. "But it will have to be removed soon."

Aragorn nodded. "And if there is poison?"

Gandalf gave a small shake of his head, and Aragorn pursued the subject no further. If there was poison, Legolas' chance at life would grow even smaller. Intent on keeping his hands busy, Aragorn retrieved his knife, cleaned it of dirt and blood, and cut a small, clean opening. The arrow eased out slowly, its progress helped as Gandalf held Legolas' jerking leg still. Aragorn squinted at the metal point of the weapon and then at the wound, his eyes met only with blood. He could only smell blood, too - no indication of poison. He shared a quick look with Gandalf and the Wizard smiled back at him.

"Some luck, then."

Aragorn retrieved some of Gondor's medicinal herbs and spread them over the wound before bandaging it, unwilling to take any chances with infection. By this time Legolas' breathing was becoming ragged once more and his face was contorting with pain. As Aragorn straightened his body convulsed violently and he let out a small cry.

"Adar! Adar, baw... Goheno nin, Adar! Naneth!"

His voice rose to a panicked scream at his last plea and Aragorn sat hurriedly beside him, catching at his clenched fists.

"They are not here, Legolas," he explained quietly. "No dhínen."

Legolas' breathing was becoming fast and uneven once more. Aragorn heard Gandalf calling for Pippin, and the next moment the Hobbit was by his side with a cup. Aragorn took it with a grateful smile and pressed it to Legolas' lips, reaching to hold his flinching head still with his other hand. The Elf coughed, tried to spit, and then his eyes clenched shut in pain and he reflexively swallowed. Aragorn lowered the cup to Pippin's waiting hand and pushed Legolas' hair back, rubbing a thumb across his companion's forehead until those blue eyes drifted half-open in sleep, once more empty of emotion.

"Will he be recover?" Pippin asked, his lips firmly downturned.

Aragorn could not answer. Instead Gandalf smiled at the Hobbit encouragingly, even if his optimism did not reach his eyes.

"Time will tell," the Wizard said.

The phrase did not offer much comfort to anyone.

Elvish Words:

Look at me - Tíro nin

I beg of you - Dhen iallon

Don't yeild to darkness - Avo dhavo am môr

For me - Enni

Forgive me - Goheno nin

No - Baw

Naneth - Mother

Adar - Father

Breathe - Thul

Don't be afraid - Av-'osto

Have hope - Savo amdir

Be silent - No dhínen

You are with friends - Ci a mellyn

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

SUPRNTRAL LVR.