The bed was too soft, at first. Davies could not get used to the sinking feeling whenever he turned around. He had dreamt that he was drilling recruits on a parade-ground in Étaples again. Left, right, left, right, left — TARN! Sharples, your dressing is a shambles! Get in, Thompson! Suddenly, a particularly young recruit had fallen out of line and punched him, and Davies drowned in the mud at the front before he could even bawl insubordination.

He seemed to be drowning still as he woke, until he found himself upon a bed. Davies' back, so used to sleeping on hard ground or inside a funk-hole with his pack for a pillow, now felt unsupported. It took him a few minutes to get used to it, but there was no denying that the bed was comfortable.

"Cushy." Davies glanced up at the ceiling, grinning. There was a fine crack which spidered out from the centre of it. The ceiling was otherwise impeccably whitewashed.

The sergeant threw off his blankets and stood up — which at first made him so dizzy he nearly passed out — before noticing that somebody had stripped him of his muddied battledress, leaving him in his undershirt and socks. No — he just about recalled clumsily ripping his tunic and trousers off before collapsing into this bed. Or was it a bed in the infirmary? Then how did he get in this wonderful room?

Thornhill.

Davies shook the thought out of his head. It simply wasn't decent to run out of his bedroom in an undershirt and socks, asking for news of his commander. Now for some clothes.

The men who took him here had obviously not thought to provide anything, as there was not a chest of drawers, nor a wardrobe in sight. All Davies could see was an old curtain draped over the back of a chair. Don't you men dress in shirts and trousers, then.

He wandered over to a long mirror, only to see that he had lost much weight since he last glanced in a looking-glass; that his hair, previously neatly parted, had rearranged itself nicely into a complete rat's-nest; and that he had grown a beard. Davies chuckled at this wanton breaking of the army regulations, before taking hold of the curtain on the chair.

"Bloody hell, so this the Battle of Hastings, then!" For further inspection of the curtain had revealed a long-sleeved surcoat, a neatly folded tunic and leggings, along with a pair of leather half-boots upon the seat. Nevertheless, he donned them, having no alternative.

Another glance at the mirror revealed them all too long, so that the sleeves covered his hands and the surcoat dragged several inches on the floor. If only you could see me now, Gertrude dear. Davies' beard and hollow, exhausted visage complimented the ridiculous outfit beautifully.


"Sweel, ah-dan. Eeyenethen Ozgarriyel." Thornhill opened his sticky eyes.

A naked leg was strapped before him, wounded, oozing something horrible and yellow. He gagged when he saw it first, and promptly turned his head to the side and vomited when he realised it was his.

"Ah-vo drrasto, ah-vo drrasto, adan." Thornhill turned his head back to see a woman bending over him, wiping his mouth.

"Did I — did I catch a Blighty one?" He coughed. My throat is so dry. "Where am I?"

"Ah-vo bedo, adan." Now she wiped his forehead. He blinked. She was so inhumanly beautiful, she put the ladies at the regimental balls to shame. "Ah-vo drrasto." And then she said something else beyond Thornhill's hearing.

"Where's ah-vo drasto?" He just couldn't trill the 'r' the way she did. "Where am I?"

"Sssssh, adan." The beautiful lady — he supposed she was a nurse, but the military hospitals only had horse-types, not angels such as this one — clanked a bowl underneath his leg, and smeared a soothing ointment onto the wound itself. Then came a cup of bitter water which sent Thornhill into a swoon.


Apart from the necessity of lifting up his robes like a lady's skirts, Davies found the infirmary with relative ease. The room was quiet: it lacked the purposeful bustle that was present in every military hospital he had visited. Not to mention, there was a decided lack of nauseating mixture of infection, death and carbolic that usually assaulted one's nose, which was welcome indeed.

Thornhill lay on a bed near the door. His wounded leg was elevated, in order to drain the pus that had swelled it. The aforementioned nastiness dripped into a porcelain bowl underneath. I've seen much worse, I suppose. The man himself was asleep, pale and unshaven, just like Davies, but it seemed that he had turned the corner.

Davies stood at the foot of the bed, thinking. How was it, in France, in Blighty? Gertrude, poor girl, must have thought her husband had disappeared in action. Had the telegram boy arrived yet, guiltily handing over that awful slip of paper? Of course — it had been well over a week since that bloody grenade had started everything. If he could just appear in his little house in Berkshire, just as he had been dropped here, and tell Eva and Andrew that their Papa was in fact alive and well.

"'Oo th'ell are you?" Thornhill had awoken, very confused.

"Sergeant Davies, reporting, sir!" Davies snapped to attention and saluted, looking rather silly in the process. "You sound like you've had some first-class blotto, sir, if you don't mind me saying so."

Thornhill snorted. "And I feel like it too. Doesn't my head hurt."

"What did they give you, sir?"

"Some sort of a sleeping potion."

"And how's the leg?"

"Painful as ever, but as you can see, it's smaller. Those nurses work magic." Thornhill's eyelids began to fall again. "I say, I'm ever so tired. You were a first-class brick, carrying me all the way here, sergeant."

"I had to, to keep you alive, sir," he replied grimly. But the 2nd lieutenant was already dozing.

Davies wandered out of the infirmary again, pulling at his beard. It really had to go. He wasn't accustomed to such scruffiness. Perhaps he would find a razor — the men here were all so well-shaven, he was sure they had razors in abundance.

They were so strange. The men here all shaved entirely, but most left their hair to grow long like a woman's. You could barely tell the men and women apart anyway, they looked so similar. Thankfully the women wore dresses and tied their hair more elaborately, or Davies would have had a terrible time of it. And they were all so young and beautiful. So beautiful that Davies sometimes regretted marrying, just so he could be close to one of them. How would Thornhill fare? He was barely a boy — he would probably be unable to control himself.

A young man walked past him just then, dark hair long and resplendent. Men with long hair. Funny, you'd think they were savages. Well, anything for a razor. "Ah—"

The man turned. "Ah!" And then proceeded to jabber something unrecognisable.

Damn. "Excuse me, sir. I don't speak your language. Do you speak English?" Davies waved his arms, but the man did not bat an eyelid. He simply began to talk again, more haltingly, in a language more guttural than the last.

"Sir. I do not —" a vast shake of the head "— speak —" he pointed towards his mouth "— your language. Languages."

The man replied, still speaking gobbledegook. A shrug of the shoulders, a finger pointed towards Davies, and a jab towards his head.

"You don't know what I..." The man sighed. "What do I want." Davies reciprocated the gesture, before a sloppy imitation of a shave.

The man's face slid into a smile. He shook his head. He pointed his finger at Davies. "Le. Ah-dan." He pretended to shave his face. "Ni. Eh-thell." He pointed at himself, shook his head and shaved again.

"You — don't shave, then. You have no razors." Davies tried again. "No —" a shake of the head "— razors." he flipped an imaginary one open.

The man shook his head. "Ooh."

"Well, I'll be on my way then." Then, pointing at himself, "Sergeant Bertie Davies." He stuck his hand out for a handshake. The man chuckled, evidently confused as to what to do.

"Thindor. Nor vayn ee ah-rad."

"Eh — good day, sir." Davies withdrew his hand and walked on. Thin-door, at least, was proficient in sign-language. Thin-door also happened to have deformed ears that looked like leaves.


Davies was having an awful time of it. If waving his arms in front of Thin-door wasn't enough, he had to do the same to the blacksmith. The furnace was beginning to boil him too — the fumes made him feel ill, and sweat was pouring down his face.

He had found the forge during a wander round after lunch. Fresh bread with butter and a thick stew that didn't taste like billy-can petrol agreed with Davies, but made him sleepy. He had taken it upon himself to ask one of the blacksmiths if they would perhaps make a razor blade for him, seeing as these mysterious men didn't even need to shave.

All the men there were busy and short-tempered, but a young apprentice offered to make it for him, through over-enthusiastic nods of the head. And now Davies had to describe a razor blade using his hands.

He also found that this apprentice was actually over a century old, which was considered extremely young in the eyes of the people here. What were they called, again. Ethels, or something. Davies couldn't quite remember.

Thankfully, the apprentice did know about razors and was able to construct one serviceable enough for Davies' use, though it was crude and likely to give him quite a few nasty cuts on the cheeks. "Cheero, lad. Norvain ee-arad, or something like that."

The apprentice laughed and went back to his work. "No vain i arad, adan."

Davies was quite relieved to be outside again. At least the voluminous sleeves of his mediaeval robes had some use.


Author's Note:

Sindarin translations

Suil, Adan. I enethen Osgariel. Greetings, Man. My name is Osgariel.

Avo drasto. Do not worry.

Avo bedo. Do not speak.

Le. Adan. You (reverential). Man.

Ni. Edhel. Me/I. Elf.

No vain i arad. Lovely day.

Û. No. (It is not so)

I spelled all the Sindarin in this chapter phonetically, about as accurately as I can get the pronunciation of Sindarin. This is to enhance the disorientating experience of listening to a language you've never even heard of. Davies and, later, Thornhill, will have to completely reduce themselves to embarrassing hand gestures and facial expressions for the next two weeks until they pick up Sindarin, or Common Speech, or whatever the Elves decide to teach them. Even then they'll have to speak pigeon and wave their arms around.

Hopefully you won't have too much trouble with the phonetic writing. If you do, I'll simply edit it to non-phonetic spelling and everything will be fine.

Sindarin names

Osgariel - daughter of an amputator

Thindor - pale/grey brother

Realistically, the OCs aren't going to run into Elrond, the twins, Erestor and Glorfindel on the first day in Imladris. There are many more elves to meet, and I have to make names for them, obviously. Names and phrases taken from trustworthy sources, also known as Merin Essi ar Quenteli.

The reason why Thindor jabbers on in Sindarin after Davies says 'ah' is simple. "A!" is a simple greeting in Sindarin, pronounced 'ah'. Thindor therefore reciprocates, much to the poor sergeant's confusion.

I'm not sure how to portray the Elves' reaction to Davies wandering around receiving culture shocks. For now I've kept it as light amusement, but otherwise they are getting on with their immortal lives. Do suggest how it could be done better, if you can.

Enough ranting about the language barrier. Over to you, good reviewers. Ask me, criticise me, everything is welcome to a degree.

Thanks for reading.

A.B.C.