What Once Was by cuarthol

What Once Was

He turned his arm over and back several times, getting a feel for the new weight.

“How does it feel?” Hanar asked, watching the Elf carefully.

“I am not certain yet,” Murien replied.  It would take time.  For now it felt cumbersome and awkward.  But he added, “I am hopeful.”

That brought a twinkle of delight to the Dwarf’s eyes and he nodded once.  “Good.  Hope is half of healing.”

Murien gave him a little lop-sided smile and let the arm rest in his lap.  “You say I can still draw my bow with this?”

“With practice,” Hanar corrected.  “I would not think you could go out hunting at noon and be fed by dinner.  But with practice, aye, you may.”

Murien nodded, but sighed.  It was not truly what his heart longed for.  It was necessary, but not his desire.  He looked at the end of the arm where it ended in a carved hand, the fingers bent into a slight hook that could pull a string but not twist cording, not grasp a branch, not...

“I am grateful to you and your folk,” he said, cutting off his own dark thoughts he was unwilling to fall further into.

The Dwarf put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed softly.  “I know we could not give you back what you had.  But I am glad we could do something.”

Murien leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his head.  “I will forever hold your people in my heart for it.”