Faron’s sleep was dreamless. When he woke in the Gardens of Lorien, he felt as if bathed in light, as if his body had soaked in a vat of morning sunlight and that gentle warmth had refilled all the hollows beneath his skin, replacing the poison of Angband that had fossilized in the shell of his flesh and organs. His joints and muscles, lax and supple, no longer screamed at him, and that absence of pain bewildered him. Restoration was too simple a term for what Faron felt upon awakening. His body no longer imprisoned him, and that alone would have been cause enough for his joy. He wondered how sunlight did not escape through his parted lips, since he felt so full of its warmth.
Mist clung in a thin flim across his skin, beading on his eyelashes as he blinked. At first Faron could not see, but then a gentle hand pressed against his shoulder and another hand wiped his brow. “Peace,” a voice commanded. Faron stilled. His eyes adjusted to the soft bright gray of his surroundings, breathing in air that was pure and heavily scented of myrtle and mint. The combination of smells irritated his nose as he sat up, causing him to sneeze. The voice laughed, and Faron turned his head to see the man that held his shoulder and braced his back to offer him support as he rose to a seated position.
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