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Chapter Text

What is it like to gaze into the darkest of abysses, your worst fears come true, and know that you have no choice but to follow through? And is there truly no choice? Or have your own Oaths and principles discarded any other choice and left you with the most loathed one?

The Highlands of Scotland are not known for their mild weather or abundance of sunshine, and yet on that July evening, the most beautiful of sunsets graced the North Sea waters, as an imposing superyacht slowly advanced toward Caithness.

On that magnificent ship, people of great renown in the Neurosciences and well-endowed benefactors were brought together, in a meeting of ground-breaking ideas and financial acumen. The long weekend of conferences and fundraising galas started on a rather high note – a marine voyage to the Castle of Mey.

A warm dusk, a lively party. Lysandra Roselyn Whiting admired both of these as she waited for her call to connect. Though she had enjoyed everything the luxurious vessel had had to offer that day, reliable Wi-Fi, unfortunately, was not one of them.

“Hello? Mama?” the young woman checked, as her WhatsApp call finally went through.

“Lizzie, mein Schatzi, you have finally called! I was starting to worry, and your großmutti has been ceaselessly praying for the past two hours for your safety. She swears she’s got a bad feeling about this trip,” the use of Lysandra’s long abandoned childhood nickname belied her mother’s fretfulness even more so than the shiver in her voice.

“I’m truly sorry, mama, the phone signal is non-existent and the Wi-Fi rather temperamental. In fact, I knew I’d be able to call now only because one the crew members tipped me off. Please tell Oma not to worry about me.”

“I certainly will, but aren’t you at some very fancy do? I would’ve thought the need to be connected, at least for all those important business people, would have ensured reliable internet.”

Laura, her mother was rather known for her quips, and Lysandra felt reassured at last, her guilt for worrying her dearest mama ebbed away much like the last of the sunlight.

“You wouldn’t be wrong to believe that, but apparently some satellite setting and whatnot has been acting out for a few days and they hadn’t had the possibility to fix it. I imagine Inverness is lacking in engineers of great repute,” Lysandra jested in reply.

“Is that where you started off your journey?” enquired Laura.

“Indeed, as soon as we arrived at the airport, we were whisked off to the harbour and onto this yacht. We’ve been making our way for the very Northern coast of the Highlands, but now are stopped en route to admire the twilight, which they kept praising earlier on.”

Lysandra was not at all surprised when her mother immediately sent through a request for a video call. With a short blessing for stable connection, she accepted the request and showed her mother the gorgeous view, grand yacht included.

“Well, one definitely doesn’t get to see such sights every day. I hope you have enjoyed it to the full, Schatzi.”

“I have indeed, mama, it’s been great, even if I had to speak to a lot of people. Shishō has been showing me off to quite a few colleagues in the field, but also some potential sponsors. However, the one colleague, whom we were meant to meet for a future collaboration, didn’t even make it in the end.”

Lysandra tried to keep any notes of grievance to herself, but judging from Laura’s expression, her mother knew her better than that. “Let me guess, our pride and joy still finds herself at a loss in front of strangers?”

The said pride and joy almost rolled her eyes, but decided against it – even if her mama couldn’t see her face, Laura somehow always knew anyway, like a sixth sense. Instead, she switched the video to the front-end camera, mother and daughter finally meeting face-to-face across hundreds of miles.

“Not simple gatherings, mama, but ‘We need your sponsorship, sir, for a long-term project with many risks and few financial rewards’-kind of gatherings. They’re full of strangers in need of appeasement, and you know how much I despair over such parties. It’s not exactly a conference on innovative in-human spinal surgeries using Augmented Reality, I am keener and better suited to rhapsodise on those,” she muttered quietly enough so nobody could hear her. Not that anybody interested in her conversation was around to begin with. In fact, the reason why she chose the lowest open deck was due to its lack of revellers; only a dozing elderly nanny and her young charges, two little girls playing Barbie and an even younger boy engrossed in his solo-football match, were present farther away from Lysandra. The children were accompanying their parents, who were some of the financiers she had approached earlier that evening.

Sighing, she continued, “I wish I was back in the surgical theatre, doing what I love best, or better yet be already at home with you, Lucian, großmutti, and nonno.”

“And your dad, Schatzi, you shouldn’t forget him,” Laura reminded her gently. “By the time you come back to Kent, he should be here as well. Charles is truly looking forward to seeing you; it’s been a while. Last time you saw him, Lucian was in Year 7, I think, and you started your residency, or am I wrong?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten him, and you’re not wrong on the second account either…,” mumbled Lysandra, trying to skip that particular conversation entirely.

“Schatzi,” the warning tone in her mother’s voice perfectly conveyed all Laura wished to say on the subject, and indeed, it was quite a lot. Lysandra had heard the monologue enough times to know it by heart.

“Mama, you know that I do not begrudge his loyalty toward our country or his service, but I know so little about him as just Dad rather than RAF Wing Commander Whiting. Surely you understand that?” asked Lysandra. Throughout her childhood, her father had been far in the North, while she and the rest of the family lived on the farm in the South. Charles Whiting had finally been able to have more of a presence at home after his daughter left it herself. She was glad that Lucian, her younger brother by seven years, had the opportunity to enjoy a close bond with their father, but it didn’t mean she felt equally as close.

“I know things didn’t exactly work out as we’d initially intended, Schatzi, but God works in mysterious ways,” said Laura, her eyes no longer gazing at her daughter, but into the melancholic past. “Your path took you far from home, just as his took him, but Charles certainly loves you and is proud of you. Not every 12-year old can take and ace her A Levels or become an UCL student at 13. Even if your master had not taken you under his wing and off to Japan, I’m certain you wouldn’t have stayed in England for long, no matter how much I would’ve wanted to keep you by my side.”

As she listened to her mother’s reminiscing, Lysandra’s gaze landed on the little girls nearby. She was reminded of herself. As a little girl, she’d also been blonde, and a bit on the thin side, but instead of playing Barbie with children her age, she accompanied her nonno around the farm or her großmutti in the kitchen, singing together all day long. While her dad was devoted to his RAF career, Laura was an independent accountant and always made time for her then only child.

Her Italian grandfather Taddeo used to be himself an accountant by day and wedding band musician by night, while her Austrian grandmother Elisabeth, had been an opera singer, but couldn’t boast of much fame or long career. All it took was one single wedding, where they both performed, for them to decide to hold their own nuptials in quick succession, Laura making an appearance a year later. When Laura, now grown up, met young RAF Pilot Officer Charles Whiting in Husum, Germany, nobody would’ve expected them to marry, given that the young accountant had only been there on a holiday trip. But great love grew between the two, and despite the distance and lack of time, they still managed to make their relationship and marriage work.

Charles’ parents passed away just as he got transferred back to the UK, but given that he was in Scotland and the family farm he inherited was in Kent, a very pregnant Laura and her parents reallocated in order to help out. Nonno Taddeo left both his accounting and wedding gigs behind, taking pleasure in becoming a farmer, and he made sure to teach his very young granddaughter as much as he could, as did her Großmutti with her passion for hand crafts. They hadn’t recognised it initially, but Lysandra soaked in every morsel of knowledge she could grasp at an extraordinary rate.

Upon taking her assessment to enter a posh secondary school, following years of being home-schooled, her family were made to realise that Lysandra wasn’t just smart; she was gifted. Through many referrals and further exams, she got the label of a child prodigy. Thereon, her life turned into a whirlwind. Her only constant was her family, but in particular her little brother, whom she adored.

Laura’s words rang true, Lysandra fully acknowledged that. She was much like her father, only she was devoted to medicine, neurosurgery in particular, and not a military career. She’d been very lucky to have met her mentor, Toshio Matsushima, only a couple of years into her UCL neuroscience studies. His reasoning for helping her both professionally and even financially was that while his contemporaries, like Takanori Fukushima, had brought innovations into the field with minimally invasive procedures, Toshio’s legacy was keyed in his mentorship of Lysandra, whom he thought capable of great things.

“Ah,” Laura exclaimed, bringing Lysandra back to the present, “I forgot to tell you. Your father is no longer a Wing Commander, he’s been recently promoted to Group Captain.”

“Oh has he? I’m glad to hear that. Please congratulate him on my behalf,” the young neurosurgeon smiled once more.

“I will, but you should also do so when you see him. I’m sure he’d appreciate that. Your brother is taking some extra-curriculars now, but I’m hoping by the time you come, we can all go somewhere for a few days.”

“Must we?” the neurosurgeon was above whining, given her age, but her sullenness must have seeped in nonetheless, for her mama pinned Lysandra with an unimpressed gaze.

“We haven’t been on a family holiday together since your brother was 2 years old. That was more than 15 years ago! Of course, we must.”

“Mama, I do not mind us spending time together at all, but in truth I’m so tired of travelling. I’d been in China for three months, then Japan for a couple of weeks, now I’m in Scotland in the middle of nowhere, and later I need to be in Cambridge, for the annual conference I previously told you about, before coming home. I really miss the farm; I’d rather just spend some time there with all of you.”

Laura looked at her eldest child with both empathy and suspicion.

“I thought you said you enjoyed your time in China, or did you say that for my benefit alone?”

“Oh, I did enjoy it, but it was tiring nonetheless. Shishō’s son created a very packed schedule for us. Even if it wasn’t for the internet censorship issue over there, I still wouldn’t have been able to communicate much with you, due to the sole fact that I had so little time to myself.”

“Is that so? Surely you weren’t learning about their traditional remedies all day long?”

“Well, I did learn a lot about acupuncture. Coincidentally, I think there truly might be a way to combine the practice with our post-op procedures, but we were also made to travel around to experience all sorts of things, from embroidering on silk with gold thread, as they used to do for Emperors, to making paper from scratch. Shishō and his son felt sorry that I was so far from home on yet another birthday, and thought to keep me well distracted.”

“That was very kind of them, I would think, don’t you agree?”

“It was indeed a kind thought,” she acquiesced, “even if their worries were misplaced. While I greatly enjoyed the experience, I also found it slightly overwhelming. Now, I’d rather have some family time with no schedule and no travelling, if possible.”

Drawing a long breath in and out, Laura finally relented. “Fine, no travelling. Your grandparents will certainly be happy to have more time with you.”

“And I will be as well, but do send them my love until I see them. Speaking of my coming home, did my luggage arrive?” Lysandra remembered to ask.

“Yes, we got it last evening. Every piece has arrived and we unpacked it all, just as you instructed. I take it that all those strange papers, if you can call them as such, are from your fun workshops in China?”

With an embarrassed laugh, Lysandra nodded in confirmation. “My embroidery attempt was much more successful, in fact the local master praised me quite a bit. She said I was gifted.”

“I bet she did! You are a great neurosurgeon for a reason,” her mother huffed, shaking her head. “I thought you’d get tired of copying everything mutti did once you grew up, but you took what she taught you and made a life career out of it, saving lives no less.”

“Well, it was more than just being dexterous with my hands, but certainly very important,” agreed Lysandra, as she remembered countless evenings spent by her Oma’s side. She would follow Elisabeth’s guidance in all sorts of fibre crafts – weaving, sewing, embroidering, knitting, and crocheting.

“Busy schedule aside, tell me, have you met somebody yet?” Laura asked her favourite topic as of late, which coincidentally was Lysandra’s least favourite. She’d rather discuss her awkward relationship with her father, than that of the romantic kind or lack thereof.

“Mama, we have had this discussion so many times now… I am open to meeting somebody, and I do hope for a great love, become a wife and mother, et cetera, ad nauseam, ad infinitum. Yet I do think you need to remember that mostly either patients or professors of a certain age surround me. Some of them could be my grandfathers, never mind fathers.”

“So you are against anybody older, I see,” Laura muttered to herself.

Exasperated, Lysandra wanted to rub the bridge of her nose, as she was wont to do when vexed, but the fear of smudging her make up kept her free hand well away from it.

“Actually, I don’t mind an age gap, that’s not the point. The point is that most of them are married or not interested at all. Not that I have met anybody I was interested in.”

“Schatzi, you’re 25 and you haven’t even kissed a man yet, you might not be worried, but I am. And look at you; you’re so pretty, you look particularly bella today!”

Lysandra’s only reply came in the form of a smile, hoping that with total lack of incitement on her part, her mother would move on from that topic.

“I know you don’t agree, but I think it’s the hair. It’s simply not the right shade,” Laura added as an afterthought, at which Lysandra actually groaned.

“Doch! For the millionth time, I love my hair colour, mama.”

“Oh, come now, it pretty much looks black.”

“It’s almost night time, mama, so of course it does. In the sun, however, it looks a lovely red,” added the young surgeon, impatience sipping into her tone.

“Oh yes, because you spend so much time in the sunshine,” Laura’s reply came through the phone speaker. “If you spent any less time, you’d truly look like a vampire. And I do stand by my words that dark purple hair takes away from your young looks. You had such nice blonde hair, why you decided to dye it is beyond me, and in dark purple-red of all colours.”

“Exactly because I’m pale like a vampire, that the blonde hair made my face look as if it was shapeless, a big blur. Now, there’s some definition and it’s a colour I can wear while maintaining a certain degree of professionalism. Not to mention, by dyeing it, no grey heirs can be seen. It’s been over 10 years since I started doing it, can’t you just let it go?”

“You’ve got grey hairs? Already? Since when?”

Judging by Laura’s voice, one would think Lysandra was in some kind of great peril. However, if grey hair could be accused of impeding her love life, Laura wouldn’t disagree with it being very perilous indeed.

“It’s just one hair, mama. Nothing to be so troubled about.”

Hearing her daughter’s words, Laura’s expression remained unconvinced. “Just one hair she says… Has your mama, ever led you astray in her beauty advice? When I told you to get electrolysis, did you not grumble about the pain, only to thank me later, when you had zero hassles with unwanted body hair during your very busy studies? Or when I advised you to get an eyeliner tattoo, so you’d have less time to waste on make-up every day?”

While Lysandra was indeed thankful to have such a pragmatic mother, and admitted as such, the last point wasn’t without contentions. “Well, the eyeliner did save me time, but many things could’ve gone wrong. Eye or nerve damage are not to be taken lightly.”

“But I didn’t take it lightly at all. I researched quite a bit. Surely, you don’t think I would let you do it just about anywhere. We went to a very well recommended salon, not some back alley shop.”

“Not the point, mama, and I do acknowledge you had helped me a lot with your advice, however I’m not changing my hair colour. Let’s not revisit this discussion again any time soon, preferably ever.”

“You’re just as stubborn as your nonno.”

“Oma says the exact same thing about you.”

Both mother and daughter looked intently at each other for a moment or two, neither willing to back down. The tension was quickly broken however, as they failed to hold in their smiles, which turned into full-on laughter soon enough. They had lost track on the number of arguments that tapered out with those exact same words. Stubbornness ran in the family, no generations skipped.

“Mama, I don’t know for how much longer the connection will hold once the yacht resumes its course. I think I should go back inside. I shall send you my schedule for the next few days, so that you know when you could reach me. I have missed talking to you.”

Laura’s countenance softened into a kind and soulful smile, as she blessed her daughter and wished her a wonderful night. Exchanging words of love, they finished the conversation.

Lysandra was just about to make her way up the stairs, onto the next deck, when she heard a soft splash. For a second or so, she’d almost decided to ignore it, when something at the back of her mind made her stop. There was no such thing as photographic memory, that phenomenon has been debated a lot, and the consensus was that it didn’t exist, but eidetic memory was very much a reality, and though generally, kids lost this ability as they grew up, Lysandra hadn’t. As she turned around, she knew exactly what to look for – the little boy’s football.

She didn’t even have enough time to scream at the boy to stop, as she caught sight of him falling into the water in his attempt to retrieve the ball, now floating in the sea. The superyacht’s lowest deck had an open area – the swim platform, from which one could easily immerse themselves in the water and raise themselves back on-board; there had been no edge whatsoever to stop the boy from falling in.

Heart beating faster, Lysandra shouted at the nanny to wake up and call for help, just as she made her way to the swim platform. Amidst panicked shouts from the elderly woman and cries from the scared little girls, Lysandra hurriedly removed her evening dress. The midnight sapphire gown would’ve certainly restricted her movements in the water, given its stiff bardot neckline. As such, it needed to come off, leaving her in only a silk slip and underwear. Lysandra also cast off her heels, for they would be nothing but a hindrance in the sea.

At last, she came closer to the edge, yet she couldn’t jump in.

On that moonless night in July, Lysandra and her greatest fear faced each other.

Despite having never experienced almost drowning or the feeling of being lost at sea, over time she had developed a phobia of dark and deep waters. Her phobia of the unknown was akin to an invisible hand closing in around her neck and chocking her. If she hadn’t known any better, Lysandra would’ve thought she suffered from thyroid nodules, but it was not so.

Yet she had made an Oath to save lives, and she abided by it. The boy had already disappeared under the water, and there was no time to lose.

Fervently praying, she took multiple deep breaths in and out. She willed herself to ignore the loud ringing in her ears and erratic heartbeat, jumping in with one final long inhale. She swam directly to where she had seen the little boy submerge, before the currents took him even farther away. He was small and small children were generally more likely to float, so she prayed that the odds were in their favour.

Illuminated by the yacht’s artificial light alone, she tried to discern the small child’s shape amidst the dark waters. It didn’t take long for the boy to be found, but it wasn’t her who found the child. His desperate arms were the ones that grasped at the only available solid thing in his proximity – her leg. Despite being startled from the sudden contact, Lysandra quickly turned around and grabbed the child, pushing herself wholeheartedly toward the surface. The boy gasped aloud, his body convulsing from the strength of his coughs. She moved her hand gently over his back and chest, trying to soothe him.

“You’re safe, I’ve got you”, “It was scary, I know, but you’re safe now”, “Take deep breaths, please. Deep breaths…”

She risked a glance toward the yacht, catching sight of a great commotion unfolding on the decks, as everybody was trying to peer her way.

She tried swimming with the boy in her arms, yet it was anything but easy. The very cold temperature of the North Sea was starting to make itself known as the adrenaline subsided. She already felt the early onset of aches and pins in her arms, but she persevered, moving her legs under the water even more. She was generally in good shape following years of yoga practice and swimming in the pool, but the cold was certainly not something she had much to deal with – Tokyo was warm even during winter months, and she seldom travelled to the colder parts of Japan, or those of any other country for that matter. At least there were no great waves on the surface, for which Lysandra certainly felt grateful. She also promised herself finally to take up ice bathing, so the cold could never bother her again; if anything, it would benefit her health.

“We’ll be back on the boat soon. You’re safe…,” she kept telling the little boy, whose name she didn’t even know.

As they waited for the people on deck to send help, she started rubbing the boys limbs in earnestness to ensure hypothermia didn’t settle in. The yacht floodlights were turned on and adjusted in their direction. At last, a lifebuoy ring landed quite close to her with a splash. She grabbed at it quickly, only to realise that holding the child and the ring simultaneously wasn’t quite possible, so she settled the boy inside of it. With one hand, she held onto the child’s arm ensuring he didn’t slip out, and with the other, she embraced the rescue ring, her legs propelling them toward salvation.

Once they got close enough to the yacht, the boy along with the ring got lifted up first. Whisked away from the narrow swim platform, the boy was wrapped up in blankets and foil. Presumably, one of the many present doctors would then examine him.

As she waited for her turn to be rescued, Lysandra felt something coil around her right ankle, and this time it was certainly not the small hand of a child. She tried dislodging it with powerful thrusts of her legs, only for the snare to gain a better grasp on her lower limb, and pull.

A half-voiced shriek rang out before her body was forcefully and utterly submerged. In vain, she strived to kick her legs and move upwards, as she got dragged toward the sea bottom. Lysandra tried opening her eyes to better size up the entrapment around her leg, which only succeeded in heightening her terror, as her gaze met with the darkness of the abyss.

She knew panic would certainly ensure a quicker death; she had only 3 to 5 minutes, after which brain damage was most likely. With her worst fear violently presented to her, whatever thread of logic she held onto was quickly abandoned in the upper waters, beyond her reach.

The lights above seemed farther and farther away, the darkness creeping in from each side. Perhaps it was on pure instinct alone that she still struggled to escape, yet the lack of oxygen was catching up with her, until at last there was none left.

In the beginning, there was nothing but Eru, the One. He first made the Ainur, the offspring of his thought. He spoke to them, propounding to them themes of music; and they sang to him, and he was glad. First, they sang on their own, but in time, as the Ainur learned from each other, and their understanding of their brethren grew, they started singing together, increasing in unison and harmony. Once, Eru unfolded a mighty theme to them, he willed them to make a Great Music in harmony together. In adorning the theme, each Ainur, kindled with the Flame Imperishable, would show forth their powers with their own thoughts, devices, and will. Thereafter, arose a sound of endless interchanging melodies woven in harmony that passed beyond hearing, into the depths and into the heights, going into the Void and it was not void.

Eru was well pleased with the Great Music. Though initially it was without flaw, one of the Ainur, Melkor, tried to interweave matters not in accordance with the great theme. Despite being given the greatest gifts of power and knowledge, Melkor coveted even more. He spent much time alone as he sought the Flame Imperishable, but ultimately was unable to find it, for the Fire was with Eru. The discord inserted by Melkor either corrupted the music of his kin or made them falter.

Amidst the ensuing sea of turbulent sound, Eru rose from his throne, smiled and lifted his left hand, and a new theme arose, one that gathered power and had a new beauty. Melkor’s discord arose yet again, and the succeeding war of sound was even more violent than the previous one. The music of many Ainur halted altogether, and Melkor had the mastery.

Yet Eru arose once more, this time with a stern countenance, and lifted his right hand, and a new theme grew amid the confusion. Seemingly soft and sweet at first, this theme was unlike the others, for the mere rippling of gentle sounds in delicate melodies could not be quenched, and it took to itself power and profundity. And so it came to be that there were two themes progressing at one time, one great and beautiful, full of countless sorrows from which its beauty chiefly came, and another one – loud and shallow, endlessly repeated, with little harmony. The vain theme tried to drown its opponent with the violence of its sound, and yet its most triumphant notes were taken by the other music, woven into its own solemn pattern.

Eru rose a third time, his face terrible to behold, and as he lifted both of his hands, all Music ceased. Then he spoke to the Ainur, proclaiming that all they had sung, he’d bring forth for them to see what they had done. Despite his efforts, Melkor would be made to see that no Music could be played which didn’t have its uttermost source in Eru himself. The Ainur were afraid, whereas Melkor was both ashamed and angered.

Thereafter, Eru led them into the Void, and had all of the Ainur behold their Music. The Ainur marvelled at the presented Vision of the World, the fruit of their labour. Even greater was their surprise to witness the arrival of Eru’s Children within that World, for they were not part of the initial theme; Eru alone created the Children.

While many of the Ainur came to love the Children and the Vision, Melkor secretly contrived to enslave both the Firstborn Elves and the Second-born Men, and be called their Lord. He greatly desired to be a master over other wills.

Though it was incomplete and its circles of time not yet fully wrought, the Vision disappeared just as suddenly as it appeared, and a new thing was perceived in its absence – Darkness.

Then Eru proclaimed to let things Be, saying “Eä!” as the Flame Imperishable was sent into the Void to be the heart of the World. Afar off, a light could be seen akin to a cloud with a beating heart of flame, and the Ainur knew that what they saw was no Vision, but Eä – “the World that Is”.

Yet the Ainur were not the only Beings to behold Eä. No, a wisp of mist, bright but incomparable to that of the splendour of the Flame Imperishable, hovered far from the Ainur, unable to reflect upon the sight, yet fully taken by it. The shimmering tendril first appeared in the utter Darkness, when all of a sudden it got bathed in light, and for it, it shone much brighter.

Many of the Ainur chose to descend into Eä, at what was considered the beginning of Time. Upon their arrival, they realised that none of their Vision had been created, but only foreshadowed and foresung, and so they started Shaping the World according to the Vision.

If the Ainur had the choice to either remain with Eru or descend into the World, the wisp of cloud had no such choice. It was led into the World, as if guided by an invisible thread.

The glistening Wisp had no name, no voice, no ears, and no eyes, and yet it could perceive all around it, even as none could perceive it in return.  Although the Wisp could not form any new thoughts, and only gather memories of what it observed, it did have an intrinsic knowledge that it must wait.

Therefore, the vigilant waiting of the Wisp commenced.

Chapter Text

The newly descended Valar and their Maiar toiled without rest or respite to create the World of Eru’s Vision, but Melkor, coveting their creations for himself, waged war upon the Powers. The Wisp watched on, yet felt nothing, could feel nothing, not when Arda was shaped into a picture of all that was pure and fair, nor when it was marred to reflect the wickedness and treachery of the Enemy.

The Wisp did not rejoice when Tulkas the Strong descended into the World and laughed Melkor in the face, banishing him into the Void, nor when the Great Lamps Illuin and Ormal were raised, bathing Arda in glorious light. The Wisp did not celebrate with the Ainur, as Tulkas married Nessa on the Isle of Almaren and she danced before the Holy Ones.

The Wisp did not possess a heart to throb when Melkor and his host of lesser spirits returned through the Walls of the Night, unbidden and undetected, nor did it shudder at the might of Utumno as it tainted the Spring of Arda with its malice and hatred.

The World was plunged into Darkness; Illuin and Ormal had their pillars cast down and the lamps broken by Melkor; the shape of Arda itself was disfigured through calamitous waves and devastating fires.

The Spring came to an end, but the Wisp did not mourn, its silent vigil unbroken.

Once the Valar departed for the Land of Aman, leaving Middle-earth behind, the Wisp followed them, though not by its own choice or making.

In time, the Pelóri rose around the Blessed Realm, upon whose summit Manwë, Lord of Arda, set his throne. His halls were built upon Oiolossë, which he shared with his spouse, Varda, Lady of the Stars. Henceforth, Valinórë became the home of the Valar, which they made even more beautiful than Endórë in its Spring, and blessed it was, for in that Great Realm naught faded, nor withered.

Except for Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, who dwelled in the deeps of the oceans and seas, the rest of the Lords of the West created great realms for themselves in Valinórë. And so it was, that when Námo, the Doomsman of the Valar, built his halls in Mandos, the House of the Dead, of which he was its Keeper, that the Wisp, for the very first time Felt.

A pull so strong, it teared at the Wisp, leaving it quivering in fear. As if all of the forces in the World were removed and cast into the Void; one single point of gravity remained and it commanded the Wisp into Mandos.

Námo, the summoner of spirits, could forget nothing and knew all things that should be. However, there was only one exception to his knowledge – anything that lay still in the freedom of Eru.

As such, when the Wisp appeared in front of the Vala’s throne, none but Eru knew who between Námo and the Wisp was more surprised.

“Name thyself! Whether thou be a fell spy of Melkor or an unclothed friend, for without doubt, kin thou art not.”

The Wisp, who until but a few moments ago had none of its senses and sensibilities, felt doubly overwhelmed – be it from the fear of not understanding what was happening, or from the Doomsman’s voice, which induced terror. Námo spoke and yet he did not Speak. His thoughts were reverberated through his whole being, and his words were as if inserted into Wisp’s essence, from which there was no refuge.

Yet the Wisp had not always been a Wisp.

The moment Wisp became aware of its Existence, its Soul awakened and its shape was made visible and perceivable at last.

Its veil removed, the Soul felt naked beneath the Vala’s profound gaze. It owed the Doomsman an answer, and only the uttermost truth would do.

Though it happened gradually, the Soul recalled once being young and bold, thirsty for knowledge, and ready to please and to be pleased. While the Wisp had not spoken in what felt like an eternity, the Soul remembered lengthy speeches and captivated audiences, fulfilling discourses, and the devouring of countless books. It had no mouth, but following Námo’s example, the Soul projected its reply.

“No fell spy am I, and while I am not a friend either, I mean thee no harm and unclothed I am indeed; for I do not know how, nor have the means, to clothe myself as thou dost. I had many incarnations once upon a time, in a different Time altogether, but in my very last embodiment, I was a woman called Lysandra, so Lysandra I shall be.”

The master of spirits pondered her words, reconciling their meaning with what he knew of the past, present, and future.

“If thou art neither friend nor foe, I shall deem thee a Guest. Unbidden thou art, but not unwelcome, for all Children of Ilúvatar are welcome into the Halls of the Dead, whether they pass beyond the Circles of the World or in time be re-embodied once more.”

“If Ilúvatar is whom I might call the All Father or God, and I am a Child of His, then to which of the two groups do I belong: those who linger or those who pass on?”

For the second time since Lysandra appeared in his Halls, its Keeper was stunned. It was neither her candour nor her question that gave him pause; it was the knowledge that came to him as he contemplated on the answer he should, but could not give.

“All the Eruhíni were created by Him, and He chose a place for their habitation in the Deeps of Time and in the midst of the vast halls of Eä. Thou hadst proclaimed thyself a woman, yet thou hast not the Gift given unto His Second Children. Thy placement in Time hath indeed been greatly expedited. Thine Existence is a riddle, for only a riddle it can be, which Ilúvatar sent to me.”

Remembering being called gifted since a young age in her past life, Lysandra speculated on what the Doomsman meant by not having Eru’s Gift, “Many Gifts have I received from God, but dare I ask of which thou speakest?”

“Death. That is the fate of Men, who should seek beyond the World and should find no rest therein. It is a Gift of freedom for Men to shape their life as they will, amid the powers and chances of the world, beyond the Music of my brethren and myself, and then leave the World altogether.”

“From thy words, I can discern that I have no Gift of Death, but how can it be? I was a woman once, and I died as a woman. Thy riddle is confusing to me, and I do not begrudge thee the effort to solve it, even as it concerneth my fate. If I was in thy place, I would despair having to unravel Eru’s riddles.”

As she finished her words, Lysandra perceived the master of spirits frown, and felt a tremor of disquiet deep inside. Just as she predicted, his ensuing words did not bode well for her, “Thou hadst better not say such words in haste. I cannot pronounce thy Doom in whole, only in part. May yet come the time, thou shalt solve riddles of Ilúvatar, be it one or a few, and many fates may be concerned, not thy destiny alone.”

The significance of his words did not go overlooked by Lysandra, and she swiftly grasped onto their inference.

“Surely then I must be alive for such a time to come? For whether I am to linger unclothed or for my Soul to pass on, no such time as thou mentionedst can come.”

“Thou hast despaired over my riddle, but in thy query itself lieth the answer to thy question. Thou shalt linger not in my Halls, and clothed thou shalt be. Thy Gift hath already been spent, and a second Gift thou wilt not receive. Bound to Arda thou shalt be, but not wholly, for slain thee be, never again shalt thou to my Halls arrive.”

A well of questions arose within her, and she hurried to voice them lest Námo relegated her from his dominion.

“Wait, my Lord! Thou hast advised me not to be hasty with my words, but thou dost not follow thine own advice. Thou hast declared my Gift spent, and myself bound to this World, though only in part. Am I to live for eternity, but how can it be? If I am given flesh, will it not in time rot? And if I am slain, will my spirit simply scatter in the wind? Thy verdict is unkind indeed.”

“I have not the power to withhold the Second Children’s Gift. Eru alone can bestow or withdraw His Gifts. I can only proclaim what thy fate is, within the limits and limitations of my demesne and powers. If it is kindness thou seekest, thou mightst find it in the realm of my kin, such as my sister Nienna, the Lady of Mercy, or my brother’s spouse, Estë the Gentle. Just I should be and just I shall be.”

“Ah… to have met thee, it is indeed my great fortune. I shall not go on expounding my grievances for deaf ears to meet them. Lysandra’s mother used to say that God worked in mysterious ways, and truer words have not been spoken. If thou dost not know my fate beyond thy Halls, tell me, my Lord, how should I clothe myself? The Giftless should not drift about in the House of the Dead, or so it appeareth to me.”

It did not sit well with Námo to have found himself in a conundrum for a third time in one single meeting with his very first Guest.

“Thou hast not the power to clothe thyself, and thy hröa is unknown and unseen to me.”

Lysandra had started to wonder if the Vala was trying to be as uncooperative as possible, for he was well on his way to achieving his goal, and before thought or prudence could intercept, she made her feelings known.

“How hard can it be? My Soul remembereth much from my life as Lysandra, canst thou not use that appearance to clothe me with it? How wouldst thou re-embody the other Eruhíni?”

If the Fëantur’s expression was anything to go by, he was not pleased, and Lysandra wondered if more palatable words could have been chosen. Indeed, Námo gave her a look that declared Lysandra the most trying of Guests to ever set foot in his Halls, never mind that she was his very first Guest.

“Thy memories I cannot See. Unlike with the other Eruhíni, Eru doth not allow me into thine innermost thoughts or memories.”

“Ah…”

Both Vala and Soul fell silent as they pondered over this new challenge.

The Halls of Mandos were subdued and quiet. No Maiar were present in the Throne Room, and if they were roaming somewhere else in the vast realm, Lysandra could not perceive it. Instead, she mentally called forth memories of her past life, in which she was a doctor of significant knowledge, wondering if any of it could help them solve the issue at all.

Lysandra had reservations about explaining to the Judge of the Dead the makeup of the human body to an acceptable enough level for him to craft it. Scientists studied their whole lives the DNA, RNA, genotypes, genomes, alleles, mutations, and the composition of the cell. In fact, that was barely touching the tip of the iceberg, as there were thousands of enzymes with over 5,000 various functions, billions of neurons with their impulses, and trillions of nerves. Though she’d studied much, the human body still presented many challenges and secrets, even to the most learnt of medical scholars.

The future looked bleak.

Lysandra’s ruminations took then a different turn. Why had Eru not sent her to the Vala presiding over people who were alive instead? It would have certainly been more useful, given her current predicament.

Oh!

“My Lord, am I too bold to presume that if there is a Vala overseeing the Dead, there might be one who overseeth those who Live? Perhaps that Vala might be of help in clothing me?”

“Thou mayest as such presume, and thou wouldst not be mistaken, yet not wholly in the right.”

“I do not understand. Either I am wrong or I am right, which one is it?”

This time, Lysandra’s cheek seemed to not have displeased the Doomsman. In fact, he appeared amused.

“Thou likest to think in absolutes, but thou shalt learn that not all things come as such. Thou art not wrong to proclaim that there is a Vala, who presideth over the Living, but there is not only one Vala. There are many.

“Should I call upon High King Manwë, the Lord of Airs and Birds, to clothe you? Or upon Yavanna, Giver of Fruits, who is the mother of all things green? There are many Living things in Arda, but Eru alone created the Elves and Men, none of the Ainur had part in their making.”

“Right thou art, but is there not at least one among thy brethren, who looketh to the welfare of the Eruhíni?”

“All of us look to the welfare of the Eruhíni, it is why we laboured unremittingly, to make Arda a haven for the Children of Eru.”

If Lysandra had the physical ability to growl, she would have. He had a comment to everything, but ill news aside; he had yet to say one single helpful thing.

“Nevertheless, the gist of thy query is not lost on me,” continued Námo, unperturbed and unaware of Lysandra’s increasing vexation, “and indeed I pondered myself which of the Valar could be disobliged to help me with this riddle, and I declare myself to have come to a resolution.”

The Vala of Doom had not even fully finished his statement, when another Being materialised just an arm’s-length away from Lysandra’s iridescent soul.

“A spirit burning with the light of the Flame Imperishable; how glad I am to have seen such a blessed sight,” professed the new comer.

This visitor in the House of the Dead was clad entirely in grey, which one might have found dreary, yet the Ainu, who was obviously a Vala, given their might, looked youthful and most caring.

“Well met, brother of my husband. I came as bidden, though I confess I was moments away from imposing my presence upon thee, even if uninvited.”

“Always welcome art thou, doomsister, unbidden or otherwise. Eagerness, however, hath never been among thy faults, for thou ever patiently givest succour to the weary with care and regard.”

Lysandra was certain that the Doomsman’s light admonishment was a question of sort, even if he did not ask one explicitly. The Valië only laughed in reply, the harmonious sound akin to tinkling bells.

“Well then, keep thy secrets, and I shall keep mine. Thou hast come in a time of need, and mayhap thou mightst help me unravel this riddle. This fëa, come from a different Time, once was a woman, named Lysandra, or so she proclaimeth and in her words, I discern not the slightest shade of falsehood. Giftless she is, peculiar though it may be. Into her inner thoughts, I cannot glimpse, and her memories are hidden to me. Her Doom I can see, in part and not in whole. The task, to devise a hröa for this spirit, hath fallen to me, yet I have not the means.”

Having been introduced, the gentlest of the Valier spoke to Lysandra at last, “Well met, wondering soul. I am Estë, Healer of hurts and weariness. It hath come to me, as though in a dream from my husband’s demesne, that thou wouldst come to us, by Eru’s will, so that we might give thee shelter.”

“If the arrival of this fëa was prophesied and known to thee, doomsister, was it by choice or circumstance that thou hast not imparted such great tidings with thy kin?” Námo hadn’t allowed Lysandra to answer the Valië’s greeting.

Judging from her human experience, it was quite rude of him, but she felt it was best to abstain from voicing her objections, She couldn’t risk testing his patience even more than she had done already, lest he re-embodied her as an ugly toad, or some other unseemly creature.

“Peace, brother,” answered Estë, her voice changing neither its cadence nor serenity. “The forewarning came to me, as the Guest thy Halls reached. I had not the chance to give warning either to thee or to any of our brethren but Irmo, who was by my side at the time. To feast upon the sight of the very first Child among us, as Father had envisioned, I was eager indeed, and so I came.”

“Then together, doomsister, let us ponder over this riddle, foretold to thee and ascribed to me, so that this Child can leave my Halls, and follow her fate in the Music, whatever it may be.”

Without any further ado, the two Valar, brother- and sister-in-law sought the elusive solution to her enigmatic existence in Arda. Lysandra perceived the might of the two Ainur in such proximity, as she had never been able to do, increasingly aware that the both of them spoke mind to mind, and she was purposefully being kept in the dark.

The apprehensive Soul stilled, else she interrupted their musings, and she be truly clothed as a toad. Something told her that once she was re-embodied and excused from Námo’s realm, any attempt of going back or request for alterations would be strictly unheeded and forbidden. Whatever body she received, that would be it for eternity, however long that was, unless, as mentioned by the Keeper of the Dead, she be slain and gone God-knows-where.

Lysandra, at that point in time, was not a Woman in truth, for the Soul still preserved its timelessness as was in its nature. She was not yet appropriately horrified by the gravity of her plight. She could not discern the true implications of immortality, in a world so utterly foreign from the one in which her Soul previously experienced all of its reincarnations.

That was yet to come.

Meanwhile, the two Valar broke their voiceless counsel and faced Lysandra.

“Lysandra, the Gifted and Giftless, I name thee, first of the Second Children of Ilúvatar, who is unlike all of the Second Children, and thusly thou alone shalt ever be,” declared Námo. This would be the very first and last instance of him pronouncing his doom and his judgements not at the behest of Manwë, as it was foreshadowed and foresung. “Clothed thee shalt be, and thy mortal yet immortal flesh will be succoured and sustained by the powers of Estë, the greatest Healer among all on Arda, until such a time may come, within the Deeps of Time, that thou shalt awaken and walk amongst thy brethren, as decreed by the One, named Eru Ilúvatar.”

Lysandra had not the leisure to contemplate his proclamation, for both Námo and Estë brought their now joined hands together, high above the shimmering Soul.

“In thy spirit’s inner self, envision as clearly as thou mightst essay the form thou rememberest last to have carried,” both of them instructed in unison.

Then, they Sang.

The Singing could have lasted a second or an Age, and Lysandra wouldn’t have known the difference. The Music kept resonating throughout her whole being, long after the last notes were Sung. She had no recollection of receiving a body, feeling its weight and Otherness, nor did she acknowledge getting clothed in the grey of the re-embodied, quite like Estë’s own garment.

Upon finally awakening from the induced trance, Lysandra had no time to marvel at the physical raiment she received, nor thank the Holy Ones for their efforts, when the Halls of the Dead disappeared from her sight. She found herself in the twilight under the stars, overlooking a Lake. Estë still held Lysandra in her embrace.

“Sleep,” whispered the Valië, and Lysandra slept.

Chapter Text

Years of the Sun, 3^rd Age, Year 2,620 (400 years before the end of the 3^rd Age)

Two dark-haired riders made their way across the overgrown grass fields of Eriador, on the East side of River Gwathló. The travellers’ journey led them along the Old South Road, which they would abandon before reaching Tharbad. To their right, the Hithaeglir, a great range of mountains, stood tall, as the sun peeked over its summit. Golden rays bathed Caradhras in a dull red, which reminded Elladan, son of Elrond, of the blood they spilt in battle. It still adorned their riding habits in streaks and spatters.

“Ada expected us to come back on Aldúya, a month ago, and yet here we are – over sixty leagues from Imladris. We haven’t even reached the old ford to cross the Glanduin,” grumbled Elrohir under his nose, fully aware that his brother would hear him well enough.

“We will cover the distance in a week or so, perfectly on time for the Lairë festivities and that is all that matters,” replied the other twin. “This time of the year, Nîn-in-Eilph isn’t as awful as it usually is; bypassing the worst of the marshes shouldn’t delay us much, the ford will then be within a short distance.”

“How fortuitous. I shall remember you said that, when we have to explain to Ada why we are so late in returning home,” commented Elrohir, sending his brother a smile, though it seemed less like a smile and more like a caricature of one.

“I don’t remember your rebuttals when I proposed taking the uh-… long way round.”

Elrohir softly scoffed at his twin’s blasé attitude. “I am always up for meeting with the Enemy’s servants in combat, whenever the opportunity presents itself, but I didn’t expect our detour to take us as far South as the Gap. Ada will not be pleased that we have yet again prolonged our journey in search for battle. Before we reach home, I suggest we find a good excuse.”

In the meantime, the brothers slowed their horses to a walking gait. As the fens gradually asserted their dominion over the vast plains, the path turned treacherous and uneven. The inland delta was home to many creatures of varying beauty and regard, horses however were not among these, and Elf-steeds enjoyed such spaces even less.

“Ada will certainly take us up to task; I have made my peace with that a long time ago.” Despite Elladan’s perceived nonchalance, a frown appeared on his brow as he envisioned their father’s rebukes. Those were rather too characteristic of the twins’ lives as of late. “However, you must acknowledge that the Rochirrim are a hardy folk. I, for one, would not mind fighting alongside them ere long.”

“Ai, hardy they are indeed. If only we had the time to offer more help to their injured, alas… At least, you were of more use than I was. I should’ve applied myself more when Ada trained us in the arts of healing, like you had.”

“I did better only because I am more patient between the two of us, which admittedly is not saying much. Now, if Arwen took up Ada’s craft, I am certain she would surpass us. I do find it bewildering that she has not yet given it a try, and even more so that Adar hadn’t proposed it himself,” said Elladan, mild disbelief colouring his timbre.

“Indeed,” agreed Elrohir, but then he scoffed, adding, “But you must admit that the only reason we asked Ada to train us was so that we could go on hunting the Enemy’s servants for longer periods, without needing to go home every time we got a scratch.”

“I believe what you mean to say, brother, the reason was to avoid Ada’s chiding us for being reckless and/or downright foolish, for leaving the slightest of wounds untreated till we returned back home,” said Elladan, throwing his twin a smirk.

“He does that either way,” the other sibling replied with laughter, and the two brothers continued their journey in better spirits.

Having covered a considerable distance, at last, Elladan indicated for them to alight, “It is best we proceed on foot now. Once we reach the waterfall, we should be able to ascend the hill and reach the ford.”

“Thankfully, it hasn’t rained around these parts in a while; the climb would have been arduous, otherwise,” commented Elrohir, and swiftly dismounting his horse, he steered it through the wetlands with gentle directions.

The path was not discernible to the untrained eye, yet the two Elf-lords were quite proficient in making their way among the soft-stemmed vegetation, rushes, and sedges. The small shrubs, haphazardly growing on the perimeter of drier soil, faithfully guided the brothers and their steeds.

Relentlessly, time had carved the everglade’s shape in accordance with the mercurial will of the Glanduin and Mitheithel, as their waters entwined to form the Gwathló. Yet the marshlands’ adaptable dwellers thrived despite the temperamental habitat. Light of feather sparrows, bright of colour kingfishers, and high-strung blackbirds rushed hither and thither, adding their song to the murmuring of silvery streams.

Such a picture of natural gaiety welcomed the modest travelling party into its embrace. While the brothers continued their journey, their clear voices lifted and fell in the golden air and over sparkling waters, in praise of Manwë’s winged servants.

The sun was at its zenith, when the two sons of Elrond finally came close enough to the waterfall at the East end of the Swanfleet, beyond which lay the ford over the Glanduin. A thousand years earlier, Nîn-in-Eilph had been a bustling area of activity, and the Stoors of the Periannath had called it their home. However, the Great Plague ensured that none of its Hobbit inhabitants remained. Most had perished, and the surviving few migrated to the Southfarthing area of the Shire.

Even if the passing of time eradicated all visible traces of those dark days, which had stolen many lives in Middle-earth, long would it linger in the Elves’ memory. The two brothers avoided conscious thought of it, lest their grief be awoken anew.

By the swiftly roaring cascade, they took a short break to refill their water-skins and break their fast with lembas. The way-bread was curtesy of their grandmother, whose realm they had recently visited, while escorting Arwen to the Golden Wood.

On the eve of their departure from Lothlórien, Galadriel had kissed each of her grandsons on the brow. Then she had handed them a knapsack lovingly packed with lembas; the quantity far greater than they would need for their usual return journey. At that time, the brothers had not questioned the twinkle in her eye. One did not idly question the Lady of Light, no matter how innocent and simple their purpose.

Enjoying a last bite of lembas, Elladan lay down, his eyes absentmindedly following Arien’s path across the sky, while his twin saw to their horses.

“Brother, I am afraid Rochael will not be able to serve you in battle much longer, a decade at most,” observed Elrohir, brushing the horse’s limbs. The wise creature, hearing his name, neighed gently and leaned his head down to get more loving pats, to which the Elf readily acquiesced.

“I know, and a great pity it is indeed. Rochael has been a most loyal companion, I will be sorry to not have him by my side in a tricky situation,” Elladan sighed with despondency. “Glorfindel had advised me to start training a new horse soon. I do admit the need, yet cannot deny my unwillingness.”

“If only our horses could be akin to the Arrochath,” said Elrohir wistfully, in agreement with his brother’s sentiment. He had grieved each parting from his beloved steeds.

Somewhat sombre, Elladan got to his feet and readied their packs, when something rather peculiar caught his attention.

“Brother, have I lost my wits, or are my eyes deceiving me, for I see a body floating against the current?” he pointed to a grey-clad form in the water, as it made its way up the river toward the waterfall.

Elrohir would have called his twin either mad or a poor jokester, had he not spotted the exact same odd occurrence, “By the Valar, you were not speaking in jest! How does it float against the stream, and where in Arda is it headed? It won’t scale the waterfall, will it?!”

“Is it even alive? I cannot discern any movement at all, so it must be carried, somehow…”

Elrohir was startled by the other’s words, “Could it be one of the Maiar, or perhaps even a Vala, behind this? Lord Ulmo?”

“Either one of them… or the Enemy. It might yet be some new mischief of his,” replied Elladan, his face grim.

Just as they waded into the waters to get a better look, the body was held afloat no more.

“It’s sinking!” cried Elrohir.

His twin did not tarry for even a moment before submerging under the water, his strokes powerful and determined. He quickly grasped the body and resurfaced, making way toward his brother’s awaiting hands. As soon as the body got lifted out of the delta, Elladan followed suit.

“Is the person alive?” he asked once more.

“I do believe so; her breathing doesn’t appear too laboured, somehow she has not inhaled any water. Better you come take a look.”

“So it is a mortal woman?” Elladan wrung as much water as he could out of his clothes, before approaching his sibling. Elrohir was on his knees, supporting the upper part of the inert body, while the lower one lay on the ground.

 “Ai, looks like an Adaneth, yet something does not feel right…”

“Might she truly be a spy of the Enemy?” wondered Elladan, taking in the still form. “However, I do not perceive the touch of evil upon her, not even the most meagre of touches. No, in fact, it is almost as she has been… hallowed?”

“Hallowed,” echoed his twin. “Such a thing is only within the powers of the Valar, how would an Adaneth come by such blessings?”

“I know not, brother. I suppose we should try to rouse her.”

Elrohir lightly touched the woman’s cheek, as the siblings bade the woman to awaken through healing song. Their efforts proved fruitless at first, when her eyes opened with such suddenness that both Elves felt their hearts shiver.

“Look!”, “Her eyes!” cried Elrohir and Elladan in unison, their disbelief evident.

In truth, they felt most disconcerted. With a few exceptions, which included Galadriel and Glorfindel, they had never seen such light burning through one’s eyes, certainly not among the Edain. Their incredulous musing, however, was quickly interrupted; the previously still body went into seizure.

“My lady, what ails you?!”

Both of the brothers failed to receive an answer from the convulsing woman, whether they spoke in Westron or Sindarin. The better-trained healer between the two, Elladan lifted his voice, weaving in considerable Power, and had her drift into peaceful slumber.

Brow covered in cold perspiration, he let out a long shuddering breath. His Song was not as potent as that of his sire, mayhap due to Elladan not having yet made his Choice or due to not having been taught by the greatest minstrel among the Ñoldor. Perhaps a bit of both.

Elrohir lifted his unoccupied hand onto his twin’s shoulder to provide him support. “You should rest, brother. I will look after our charge.”

“No, we have no time for rest,” was Elladan’s immediate reply. Despite his fatigue, he searched their packs for dry clothes, before continuing, “We should dry her body as quickly as we might, lest she catch her death. Warm Lairë might be, but so close to the Hithaeglir, its chill is ever present in the wind. We must take her to Adar, and until we reach him, we cannot let her succumb to consumption or any other ailment.”

“I guess we must,” nodded Elrohir, as he followed Elladan’s example in rubbing the woman’s arms dry. “In any case, we can’t leave her here.”

“Illness aside, no doubt Ada will find her eyes intriguing.”

“Not to mention her unusual methods of transportation,” Elrohir reminded his twin.

“Indeed. I had seen nothing in the water that I could find suspicious, no further clues, beyond those we have already considered. We must ascertain whence she hails; let us hope her family is not too grieved by her absence and that she might yet return to them.”

As the siblings did their best to warm up the woman, they were astonished to find the grey garment almost dry. They exchanged glances, beholding each other’s suspicion regarding her provenience, but discussed it no further. Their questions could wait until their charge was well enough to satisfy them. Having finished one task, they directed their attention toward her hair. Of which there was a considerable lot. Mind you, a soaking and tangled considerable lot.

“Say, she has got rather a great amount of hair,” muttered Elladan, as he took in the substantial undertaking awaiting them.

Sighing, Elrohir nodded in agreement. “You can take to patting it dry, I shall endeavour to comb through it.”

“We had better make quick work of it too. I would like us to be quite a few leagues away from the Glanduin, before Anor sets in the West.”

The two Elves started their work, Elrohir with a song of twists unknotting and dry threads, and Elladan with amusement at his brother’s silly ditty.

“I shall do well to remember this tune next time Lindir asks us for a performance,” he teased.

“You do that, and you shall be on the receiving end of my pranks for the next three yéni.”

“What’s three measly yéni to a lifetime of taunting?” laughed Elladan, and the surrounding marshlands seemed all the merrier for it.

In the pastel colours of twilight, the Valley of Imladris appeared as peaceful and dream-like as ever. As dusk settled over the Last Homely House, Varda’s stars guided the two travellers and their charge along the well-trodden path, lined with white stones and heather. Fellow Elves raised their voices into the darkening sky, welcoming their two young lords back home. Elladan and Elrohir recognised each timbre and pitch, as well as each oak and beech obscuring their kin from plain view. Yet they did not tarry beyond giving their own greetings in passing, for they were certain that word of their return had already reached their father. It was best not to delay their reunion with him. He would be concerned by their tardiness well enough.

The Bruinen flowed merrily in a mighty rush, as mountain-streams were wont to do in the eventide of warm summer days. Well above the river, the young lords made their way across the narrow parapet-less bridge, leading them into a great courtyard. As they had expected, Elrond, the Lord of Imladris, was already waiting for them, Glorfindel and Erestor at his side. Their presence was not surprising in the least. Many a time had such a sight greeted the twins upon their return, though occasionally Glorfindel might have been in their company instead, after fetching them home at Elrond’s behest.

“Well met, my sons. Far away, your travels have taken you, so far that neither of you deigned to send us word of it. Were it not for your grandmother, I would have readied a search party weeks ago.”

The twins had anticipated their father’s displeasure and prepared a rather devious course of action – a diversion.

“Well met, Ada. We are indeed most apologetic for our tardiness and lack of forewarning; however, we have a most urgent task at hand, which requires your undivided attention.”

Not allowing their father time to reply, Elrohir hurried to add to his brother’s words, “We shall tell you all about our journey, in great detail, but this Adaneth,we found in the wilderness, is most unwell.”

If there was one thing, which could distract Elrond from a deserved reprimanding of his much too adventurous sons, that was a person in need of healing.

Indicating for Elladan to pass over the slumbering woman, he instructed them to follow him into the Healing Wing of the halls. Erestor and Glorfindel also went along with them.

The woman felt light in Elrond’s arms, perhaps a touch too light, and he noticed that her sleep was not natural, but induced.

“Tell me more of this woman. What ails her? Where and when did you find her?”

The twins wasted no time in retelling the entire story, not omitting even the smallest of details, lest they proved important for her healing.

“Throughout this past week, she was either asleep or delirious, for delirium could be the only explanation for the gibberish we heard pass her lips. We may not speak in as many tongues as you or Erestor, but we are quite certain this Adaneth’s mutterings are not in the speech known to any dweller West of Rhûn. Neither does she have the looks of an Easterling. Yet her colouring is indeed most odd. However dark her hair appears now, during daylight unhindered by clouds, Anor tinted it a most startling shade of red.”

Even as he laid down the woman onto a bed for convalescing patients, hearing such tidings, Elrond’s face turned pensive.

“Tell me more about her eyes; was it verily the Light of the Trees you saw?”

“Perhaps we misspoke,” answered Elrohir. “It is not that her eyes burned with the Light of the Two Trees, we used it only for comparison in the absence of a better analogy. If Glorfindel and grandmother carry a light that is the memory of the Two Trees in their bloom, hers appear different, a memory so strong she must have been blinded by it. I have not the means to faithfully describe it.”

Elladan mirrored his brother’s observations, and hastened to relay his, “There is also the matter of her being, in and of itself. Something else is queer about her, something that eludes me, but the closest I can attempt to name it is ‘hallowed’.”

Not only Elrond, but Glorfindel and Erestor too were taken aback by the twins’ words. Daring the brothers might be, but even they were not so bold as to jest about something so grave.

“Glorfindel, what think you of this?”

The once chief of the House of the Golden Flower, neared the patient’s bed and attentively scrutinised the stranger’s visage.

“Ulmo favouring yet another of the Edain is not unheard of, and I cannot speak for the light in her eyes until I see it for myself, though I do perceive something beatified about her fëa,“ he stated, as his eyes wondered downward, “However, I –“

The halt in Glorfindel’s speech was so abrupt, all of his Elven companions looked at him with concern.

“My friend, is anything the matter?” enquired Elrond.

“Forgive me, for this might sound absurd to you, but that garment,” said Glorfindel, pointing to it, “that is the grey worn by the re-embodied, upon leaving the Halls of Mandos.”

Three Ages of the Sun had Elrond lived, through much glory and even more peril. He had seen many things, some of it brought a lightness to his brow, yet oft enough much sorrow followed after. However, even he felt jarred by Glorfindel’s remark, never mind his sons or Erestor. Despite being the one who spoke the words aloud, the Balrog-slayer himself found them incredulous.

“Could you be mistaken?” asked Elrond.

“Nay. One does not easily or readily forget, if ever, the cloth they are given to wear upon stepping into the Light once more,” replied Glorfindel, his eyes taking an eerie quality about them, as if, even as he spoke, he felt the grass outside Mandos under his bare feet.

“Is it not said that none of the Edain could ever be re-embodied? Save for Lúthien the Fair and Beren, of course, none had come back to life. Unless I’m mistaken, neither did they wear the grey of the re-embodied,” said Erestor, a lore master in his own right, addressing the descendant of said fateful couple.

“Indeed, my friend, mistaken you are not,” confirmed Elrond. “If the clues are to be trusted, and we have not misconstrued them, they do lend credence to the theory that this woman might be yet another emissary of the Valar. However, it does make one wonder why she had not been sent to us the usual way, if two such previous instances a habit make.”

“Where is Mithrandir when you need him most?” wondered Erestor with a sigh.

“Quite so,” said the Lord of Imaldris. “Glorfindel, could you be so kind to send out riders to look for Gandalf? I would dearly like to hear his counsel, though I fear it might take a while for us to reach him. In the meantime, I have much to ponder, and whoever she might be, she is need of healing, which I must commence at once. My sons, you have done well in keeping her in an induced sleep. The fits you described do worry me.”

“I’m afraid that her slumber is not entirely of our making,” confessed Elladan. “Most of the time, she slipped into unconsciousness without any aid of ours. We were not entirely sure what to make of it, but we decided not to forcefully wake her, lest she had another seizure. We managed to give her some Miruvor and crumbs of Lembas whenever she was half way between waking and dream, but that is about all we could manage in terms of nourishment, in addition to our singing that is.”

“I see. Nevertheless, both of you have managed admirably, given the circumstances. I am pleased to see that your healing abilities have much improved. You had better find some rest yourselves, and I would also recommend a bath. Before you do retire, please fetch Gaeleth and Nelloriel. This young lady needs a bath of her own, and I am ill-equipped to provide one.”

Lysandra slept. She slept and dreamt. So profound and elaborate was her dream that the line separating reality from illusion had long since blurred, and she perceived her own existence become part of the visions she witnessed. At times, she had found herself on the brink of lucidity, yet those awakening thoughts always dispersed like smoke wreaths into the wind.

She saw herself, however alien she appeared in her own dream, running amidst fire and shadow. She trailed behind a tall man, who left nothing but despair in his wake. She knew his agony and his intentions, for she had seen this image before, and loathe it, she did. Her fingers helplessly grasped at his armoured back, only for them to pass through, as if her body was crafted from the same smoke surrounding them.

From the mountain’s cradle into the embrace of the Sundering Sea, great rivers of fire weaved through the torn land like ribbons. There, at the edge of a cheerless dawn, he stood alone, even as she begged him to free himself of his burden. His face clouded with the torment of his own making. He held tightly onto the jewel blazing with light, and into the fiery chasm, he jumped.

“NO!!!”

Lysandra’s body trembled from the intensity of her dream and the expended effort to shriek so loudly that her throat felt raw.

She was certain that a nurse would come in at any moment due to the racket she had caused. No nurse of her acquaintance liked or permitted such disruptive behaviour in their wards. Yet as the seconds passed, no medical attendant appeared in the dark, and as Lysandra took stock of her circumstances, she felt increasingly unsettled.

Something is wrong, she told herself.

Generally, those who were in a coma (for a coma was her very first guess) would have a multitude of tubes attached to them. Yet she couldn’t feel even a finger clip sensor attached to her digits. In fact, except for vague shapes, she spotted no monitors at all, in a working condition or otherwise, though that she attributed to her eyes still adjusting to the dark, which was also alarming. The ICU was meant to be lit at all times. Blindly, she groped around her body and the bed she was occupying. Nasogastric tubes, ECG lead wires, IV and urinary catheters – she could find none of these.

I haven’t got even the most basic of anti-embolism stockings, how very bizarre. At least I am not in my slip anymore, but why give me a patient’s robe made of… is this silk? That is unheard of, and so impractical!

Lysandra felt even more ill at ease.

The darkness had not dissipated at all.

Could it be that she had suffered enough brain damage for it to affect her sight? Or perhaps she had not been in a coma at all, and she was in one of the rooms in the Castle of Mey, having been provided only the necessary first aid.

Her former thought bothered her greatly, and she sook to disprove it as fast as she might. Lysandra couldn’t bring herself to heed the warnings she would have given her own patients in a similar situation. It was said that doctors made for the worst of patients, and she finally realised how true the statement was. Lysandra grasped tightly onto the edge of the bed, determinedly pushing away any thoughts regarding the strange texture of said furniture, as she tried lifting herself up.

She almost fell back onto the bed, having taken in the weight of her hair, or something attached to it.

Why in the world is it so heavy?

As she felt her hair and with increased alarm its length, the idea that she might have been in a prolonged coma arose once more. At that moment, more than ever she needed to understand her situation in full.

Lysandra pushed herself off the bed a second time and onto her feet. With each uncertain step she made, she felt the cold of the stone-like flooring, and she wondered yet again if she was indeed inside the castle. Of course, it was very unlikely that she’d still be inside the Castle of Mey, if she’d indeed been in a coma.

Her thoughts were an amalgamation of ideas and guesses, quite a few preposterous and certainly all of them inconsistent.

She tried making her way toward the vague outline she’d previously noticed. Upon touch, she was pleasantly surprised to realise that the shapes proved to be some hefty curtains. She felt quite apprehensive about handling a potentially medieval piece of cloth, yet her need to ascertain the exact state of her eyesight, and whereabouts in general, pushed her to move gingerly the drapery to the side.

Through a great window, embellished with a complex lattice design, the bright full moon provided an ample view to the beautiful gorge hidden in the moorlands and foothills of imposing mountains.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that greeter her. Mayhap even blindness would have seemed less like a convoluted reality than the one she perceived in that terrifying moment.

A sky lit by stars unknown to humankind, yet made so familiar and dear to her throughout her vivid dreams. A great valley, the carvings of which she had not touched, yet its paths she had certainly trodden in her illusory thoughts. Rushing streams and rumbling cascades, the waters of which she did not taste, yet partake of them she did in an imaginary reality. Her eyes drank it all in, yet her throat turned from dry to even more parched.

With each new discovery, her chest tightened and her knees softened. Her breath came in short gasps and skin became clammy.

Suddenly, light appeared behind her, and she immediately turned toward it, bracing herself against the windowsill.

Through the open door, illuminated by a hand-held candle, she made out a man’s silhouette. He apprehensively stepped into the room, and from the very first glimpse of his face, she was able to recognise him. Yet he was not somebody whose ageless face Lysandra should have been able to identify. He was not somebody whose hair the colour of midnight she should have remembered. There should have never been a chance for her to behold in person his grey eyes glowing with the light of stars. He was not one who could exist in the same realm as her, save for the demesne of dreams, or even nightmares.

However, exist he did, and when he spoke, it was in a language as beautiful and fey as his appearance, and so she knew – she was lost.

Darkness rushed in, and she welcomed it.

Chapter Text

The Healing Wing of the Last Homely House was a place where joy and sorrow mingled in an unending dance, and only one thing was constant – praying. Whenever its Master and his helpers managed to save a limb, mind, or life, they prayed in gratitude, and each time they suffered a loss, without fail they prayed then too for the souls to pass unhindered into the Halls of their Fathers. The prayer, be it through whispered pleas, reciting grace per habit, or healing songs of Power, was the faithful companion and cradle of vitality for all who stayed in the Healing Ward.

Another dawn was rising, another night passed, and Elrond Peredhel could be found praying yet again, by the side of his newest, and perhaps most unusual, patient. Despite waking up in the small hours of the morning, the woman had fainted mere seconds into their meeting, succumbing into deep slumber once more. However brief their acquaintance face to face had been, the crushing sense of dread within her eerie eyes left quite the impression upon him.

The irony of the situation was not lost on him either. To ensure that his mysterious guest came to no harm, however unintended, he had spent nine days and ten nights almost exclusively by her side. Yet, as soon as he stepped away to see to his morning ablutions, their guest had woken up at last and seemed to have found him terrifying. For her sake, he had carried out all of his business overseeing Imladris from the Healing Ward, and even chose to skip the midsummer festivities, leaving the duty of heading the merriment and rituals to his sons (under the careful supervision of both Erestor and Glorfindel, of course).

For Elrond, such thoughts, unfortunately, led to unwelcome memories rushing in – another Lairë, a most wretched summer, when such celebrations had been cancelled altogether. It had been almost a hundred and ten Years of the Sun, since he had kept vigil at the side of his ailing wife, and then had to accept her sailing to the West, lest she faded.

The fear of losing his dearest Celebrían had yet to abate. He doubted it ever would. Each memory of her pierced the wound anew, never allowing it to scab. How could it, when he saw shadows of her presence everywhere, and the air itself carried her perfume? She could be found embroidering on her favourite chaise in their shared chambers; resting under the shadows of the ancient oak, in their private gardens; writing poems by the great window of his study; strolling through the forest paths akin to a wood nymph; dancing in the Hall of Fire, while her laughter radiated as much warmth as to rival the forever-lit hearth behind her.

Elrond willed himself to put those thoughts away until such a time that he attained some degree of privacy, without running the risk of being discovered deep into his anguish by his sons or friends. The possibility of any of them stopping by was quite high in truth.

Even as he spent most of his time by the Adaneth’s bedside, neither his sons, nor his Chief Counsellor or Captain of the Guard, seemed to have lost even the slightest bit of interest in the sole inhabitant of the Healing Wing. Whenever they were not attending to their duties, they had spent all of their time accompanying Elrond. He did not even bother reminding them how much they usually seemed to loath or avoid the ailing quarters of the valley.

The Lord of Imladris found himself wishing that, for once, they would arrive a bit earlier, so that he might discuss with them the events of that night. Better yet, he hoped for the Grey Wizard’s speedy arrival. His sons’ initial impression was no exaggeration or fable, the woman’s eyes indeed shone with a light so piercing and undiluted, he had little doubt that she was no mere mortal. There were other things, which initially he had decidedly refused to contemplate, yet now he had no choice but to accept as possible. In her eyes, he had seen much.

Elrond watched as the sun gradually bathed in light his beloved valley and refuge. The ravine’s steep climbing woods stood as tall as ever, much like Yavanna’s guardians of old. Sparkling nets of gossamer adorned flowering shrubs and evergreen brambles, their branches heavy with ripening berries. The bees were happily buzzing amidst the wild perennials, joining into the song of wrens and meadow pipits. The harmonious picture was further enriched by the ever-present susurration of the Bruinen, and for it, Elrond was glad.

As the valley’s inhabitants rose to greet a new bright day, Elrond could already imagine all the bustling about to emerge in the kitchens. He had witnessed that picture plenty a time, in the thousands of years’ of his dwelling in Imladris. When his children had been quite young, the happiest and most endearing of elflings, if he could say so himself, he would often catch them trying to ‘help’ the cook and his veritable army of assistants. In his reminiscing, his countenance softened, yet his smile lingered bitter sweet. The kitchen might still be full of chatter and clatter, but Hyarindion was left with only nine assistants, many of which also shared responsibilities for tending to the garden, under Cúferne’s guidance.

So many had been lost. So many wars and battles, skirmishes and ambushes. So much blood spent, such a heavy price paid. Yet what did they have to show for it? Morsels of peaceful periods, during which they could rebuild, but with each recovery, fewer Elves remained, less wisdom safeguarded, and the kingdoms of free people diminished.

With one exception, he reminded himself.

The Riddermark, the Land of the Horse-masters, had become a recognised realm the same year his beloved Celebrían sailed to Aman. While Elrond had had little mental and emotional capacity to dwell much on it, at the time, or study Rohan’s culture for the immediate first decade following his wife’s departure, in time he found the young country most captivating, and its folk – honourable and hard-working.

Even the lack of written ballads and legends had not presented much of an impediment to Elrond. Given that the people of Lōgrad imparted their history and tales through song, he had endeavoured to learn their tongue, Rohanese, which he achieved in a very short amount of time. He even managed to compile three tomes worth of translations into both Sindarin and Quenya on Rohan’s history, including sketches, anecdotes, remarkable occurrences, and so on.

He hoped that if the young kingdom were to fall at some point, given the Enemy’s relentless attacks against Eorl’s descendants, at least he would be able to preserve some of their history for posterity. While Eriador enjoyed relative peacefulness, with skirmishes here and there, the Enemy was not asleep, and the King of Rohan, Aldor, had had to withstand numerous attacks on his borders.

Of course, he was glad for Aravorn and his Dúnedain. The Watchful Peace had come to an abrupt end and times of respite were not easy to come by. It was that precious time Eriador required to be able to rebuild; after all, Elves and the descendants of Númenor, alike, had paid dearly for it.

Thankfully, according to the intelligence received by Elrond, the waters seemed to have become less muddied, on the other side of River Isen.

Peace and prosperity might yet come to Calenardhon. Given the lack of trouble over here, I should have guessed the twins would look for it somewhere else, and venture to Lōgrad.

They have come back unharmed and unabashed, at least.

Elrond thanked the Valar for keeping his sons safe. He had weathered many a loss throughout his very long life, and as weary as his spirit was, he doubted he could persevere, if any of his children came to harm.

Ever since he had been young, among Elrond’s faults, of which there were not many, perhaps his chief failing was being prone to compounding his losses, and those were not few in number. In time, particularly with light but resolute prodding from Gil-Galad, both his King and dearest friend, the Peredhel had learnt to put emphasis on the things he had gained. Yet it was much too easy, and indeed, there were far too many causes, for him to fall back into that bad habit.

Count your blessings, Elrond, not your sorrows. Your heart shall be lighter for it, and mine too.

Gil-Galad used to say those words so often that the memory of it alone could dispel the cloud hanging over Elrond. He missed his friend, but Elrond remained steadfast in his faith that they would meet again.

Thusly regaining his bearings and equanimity, the Lord of Imladris turned to check yet again how his patient fared, fully expecting to see her asleep.

However, it was not so.

He found her eyes open, awash with silent tears.

How could I have missed her rousing, yet again?!

She had made no noises, not even the least of whimpers.

“Young one, are you in any pain?” asked he, his voice as compassionate as only a healer of countless yéni could muster.

He’d addressed her in Westron, but she didn’t seem to recognise the words; she had not the least of reactions to them. He then tried Rohanese, enquiring once more about her welfare, only to receive her unabated tears as reply.

He went back to Westron, trying variations from the most to the least obscure of its dialects, then moved onto Adûnaic, followed by Sindarin. Though he doubted her knowledge of it, he tried Tellerin and Quenya. After she failed to respond even to all of the Easterling languages he spoke (and they were not a few), at last he tried his meagre vocabulary of Khuzdûl and even Valarin, two of the greatest treasures he’d received from his foster-uncle two Ages of the Sun past.

Her demeanour remained unchanged, staring into nothingness, her face as full of sorrow as it had been from his very first words to his last. It was little consolation to see that her tears were no longer rushing down her pale cheeks. Though the wet patches on her grey enchanted garment disappeared without a trace, she was the image of utter despair.

At last, he tried the only other language left at his disposal; he offered her his hand, palm up.

The woman seemed to become as still as an ice statue, her breath cut short. Elrond wondered if she found his offering unwelcome, preparing himself to retrieve it, when slowly, agonisingly so, she lifted a fair and much too frail arm, laying her hand onto his waiting one.

He feared startling her, remaining motionless, and began humming a tune gentle and calm, reminiscent of a soft summer eve.

As the sunlight gradually filtered through the window and into the Healing Ward, the rays spilled with fervour over the pale woman. Her hair changed from a burgundy so dark that it appeared black, a colour Elrond could only associate with a deep red wine, to a red so intense that it created a blood-like halo around her weary, yet lovely visage. Upon witnessing the change, she immediately retrieved her hand from Elrond with a gasp, exploring and marvelling at the phenomenon that had been puzzling him for days. He had never heard of hair akin to hers, unless it was adorning one of the Valar or Maiar with eccentric tastes in fana. However, her reaction was stranger still. Even one, who was not as wise as Elrond, would conclude that the peculiarity of her appearence was as alien to his patient as it was to him.

Surely, she should have had opportunities aplenty to discover the oddity, and yet the opposite appears to be true. It does make one wonder…

His inner ruminations came to a sudden stop as she lifted her head, her eyes searching his. Neither spoke as she regarded him with an uncomprehending air about her. Her mind felt protected, despite such feat being beyond the Second-born Children, and yet he did sense that her very few expectations and hopes had just been dashed. It was most unfortunate that Elrond could not account for what could have triggered such a response, and neither could he provide the relief to fit it.

Silence stretched on, almost uncomfortably so.

When she did speak at last, her voice was somewhat rough from prolonged disuse. As he had feared, but nonetheless expected, the tongue was wholly unknown to him. His reaction or lack thereof left her sighing with despondency, arms falling to her side with a heaviness that could not be attributed to their meagre weight.

The young patient turned away from him, staring out the window, eyes unseeing. A mask of defeated apathy settled over her face, hiding behind itself the alarm and dismay she had displayed earlier.

He whispered a prayer.

She fell asleep.

Elrond had never thought himself as impatient, at least not since he outgrew his antics as an elfling quite a few millennia ago, when he would pace back and forth forlornly, waiting for his foster-father’s return to their encampment, after a prolonged hunting expedition in the treacherous forests of late Beleriand. Yet, the Elf-lord somehow found himself to have very little forbearance, and lesser still as the days went by and his charge became more and more withdrawn.

She woke up every morning, taking too little sustenance for Elrond’s liking, undertook her daily ablutions with an absent-minded air, most likely due to habit rather than will, and kept staring into nothingness until she fell asleep. The cycle would repeat itself the next day, without fail. That was not to say that she was devoid of manners, for she would give him or anybody else looking after her, at least a short curtsy or a head nod. Yet through all of it, unfortunately, she made not a single sound.

Well, that was not the entire truth.

If by day, she was detached from her surroundings, by night, she remained at the mercy of tormenting nightmares. Oft times Elrond would catch her murmuring in her sleep, all of it in alien tongues. He was able to distinguish various cadences and intonations, and he suspected her to have spoken in at least three different languages. Worse still, many a dreadful nightmare ended in her waking up with a scream or in tears.

Elrond would never allow himself to fall prey to excessive pride, but if there were any pride to be found, particularly when it comes to his accomplishments, his healing abilities would come second only to his children. He was most frustrated to find that irrespective of the amount of Power he weaved into his Song, he was ultimately unable to ensure that her dreams remained peaceful.

The Adaneth, and Elrond harboured suspicions that she was one at all, as well as her very existence, was a riddle, the likes of which he hadn’t encountered in a very long while.

Elrond, as well as the rest of the Ellyn who were most invested in the welfare of the woman, found the situation increasingly untenable with each passing day, during which their charge displayed a behaviour they could only associate with fading, and they could do naught to stop it.

One miserable day, however, all of that changed.

Lysandra felt like she was floating, uprooted and untethered.

Every waking moment was as if she were on the edge of a precipice. It took conscious effort not to let her thoughts spiral out of control. Forced to discover the exact extent of control she wielded over her own emotions, Lysandra found the answer most disconcerting.

She could not allow herself the freedom of succumbing to her grief, lest she did something irreversible. Her chosen alternative was to hide her despair in an endless link of logical theories and assumptions, while attempting to remove her emotions from the equation. Her endeavours fringed nigh on futile.

She knew where she was, she knew who surrounded her, she knew even approximately the Age and century of when she was, what she could not fathom was why. Why her, why then, why there?

She was well acquainted with the Lord of the Rings books and the overall Tolkien universe. Her nonno held a great love for books, and she inherited his unquenchable first for knowledge and the written word. As luck would have it, her paternal grandparents boasted of a richly endowed library. Having descended from landed gentry, who emphasised the importance of a well-informed mind, her grandparents had also added to the book collections. Though she had never been able to meet them before their passing away, her nonno encouraged her to honour their memory by reading as much as she could, as fast as her eyes and other duties allowed her.

Having found it among the inherited literature, she had read the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings saga multiple times, both because she had come to dearly love it, but most importantly, because she had read it to her adorable little brother, Lucian. Those evenings spent by the fireplace, reading to him, were amongst her most cherished memories. That thought alone made her want to dissolve into tears, her pain of the most acute kind, for she doubted she would ever see him or anybody else in her family again.

An immortal could not live among mortals. Certainly, not in her own world, where such a thing would be regarded as an abomination and likely earn her a place in some research laboratory, to serve as the subject and not a scientist.

Inevitably, such ruminations were followed by the most distressing question of all. If she did manage to return to her world, would her loved ones even be alive?

Since beholding the greatest sight imaginable and unimaginable, the birth of Eä itself, countless years had passed. If her memory of the Annals of Aman did not fail her and her skills in Mathematics hadn’t deteriorated, she guessed that the three thousand and five hundred Valian years she spent as a dormant soul would equal about thirty-three and a half thousand ordinary years. Following her embodiment, she managed to sleep in Valinórë for approximately one thousand five hundred Years of the Trees, and a few centuries short of a full three Ages of the Sun.

It was easy enough to compute the final figure (about 54,550 years, give or take a few decades). It was much harder to acknowledge it.

Humans were not meant for such life spans. What she found even scarier was that, for all intents and purposes, there was no end in sight. After all, natural death was no longer on the cards.

Deep breaths. I cannot afford a panic attack now!

With sheer determination, she turned her ruminations toward something less devastating.

Why her, why then, why there?

She had read the books. She knew the lore. There was absolutely no need for her to be there. She outright refused the idea that God could have made a mistake, and of such calibre at that. So the next logical question was – why would Eru bring her there? Her existence was superfluous to the unravelling of any significant events, at best, and most disruptive to the good people of Imladris, at worst. She might have been a child prodigy, yet what purpose could she possibly serve, given the presence of such an incredibly wise and capable race like the Eldar?

In her search for answers, her mind kept deferring to her experience as an unclothed soul, determinedly avoiding all contemplations over how insane that sounded yet again.

What was it that Námo said?

‘May yet come the time, thou shalt solve riddles of Ilúvatar, be it one or a few, and many fates may be concerned, not thy destiny alone.’

Well, thank you very much for the warning, Námo! Clearly, it would not do for you to actually be helpful and more specific for once, would it now?

She wondered at the likelihood of him discovering her penchant for cursing him, though apparently, he did not have access to her mind. Perhaps, she would be safe from his wrath, for her inner thoughts were of the rather indelicate kind, particularly when she saw her reflection in a window or mirror.

Námo had done quite an admirable job in crafting her body.

An admirable job of botching it up, that was.

Well, it was rather harsh and incorrect to lay the blame solely at his feet. Estë had also played her own role in that. Nevertheless, Lysandra was certain that her new hröa was a payback of sorts, for her having vexed him like no other during their one and only interview.

Surely, Fëanáro or Elwë had received that honour since then, Lysandra would console herself.

Freak show hair aside, I still look like myself…

Kind of.

Lysandra took another deep breath.

Tears of frustration were no better than those of despair. She could allow herself neither. She found herself crying often enough in her sleep as it was, given her relentless and sinister dreams.

Her nightmares were another troublesome riddle altogether. She had the niggling suspicion that they were not sent by the Doomsman’s brother, Irmo, but by somebody with much higher authority, and Him, she certainly could not curse.

Recalling her latest dream, Lysandra had to clear her throat, still raw from her unseemly screeching in the middle of the night. She felt so very sorry to Elrond, who unfailingly stayed by her side. If possible at all, she would beg him not to waste his efforts on her; there was nothing he could do. She desired only one thing above all else, and Eru alone could grant it, and that would never come to pass.

Nevertheless, Lysandra doubted she could have been successful in making Elrond leave her alone, even if she did speak the language, which sadly she did not. She had initially hoped that the ‘miraculous’ Gift she had been given would also allow her to understand and wield the tongues of the Eldar, but her knowledge of them was restricted to the demesne of her nightmares alone.

The reminder warranted another deep breath.

Outside the Healing Ward, the wind lashed against the windowpane like a whip. Of course, the Elvish architecture would not allow the chill to seep through into the room, but Lysandra almost imagined that it did.

She could not help drawing parallels between herself and the ship wreckage she beheld in her nightly terrors. Amidst a storm of fire and rain, calamitous waves soared toward the wrathful heavens trying to smite her. Upon waking from that particular nightmare, she was left shivering, to the point that her teeth chattered. Despite his best efforts, his Song barely soothed her, and Elrond could abide by it no more, enveloping her in an enormous throw, unbelievably soft. She resumed her sleep in his arms, wrapped up in great layers of fabric and his unspoken concern.

Aside from her own untimely demise in dark and frigid waters, the tempest created by Uinen was beyond terrifying in its fierceness and mercilessness. She could still hear the shrieks and wails, as the Ñoldor were thrown from their white boats (that they had stolen with blood on their hands), into the endless depths of the Sundering Seas, to their violent death. Death by drowning was an agony like no other. Their suffering she shared and understood; she knew it in too great a detail. The mere memory of it sent shivers down her back.

If only this could end. If only I could wake up back in Scotland, or better yet home!

A few deep inhales and some shaky exhales later, Lysandra focused once more on the view outside the window.

The weather had been magnificent ever since she had woken up, almost as if to spite her for her inner turmoil. When a stormy morning greeted her, replacing the sunshine of countless days prior, Lysandra just about erupted into manic laughter. The only reason she refrained from giving into the temptation was the presence of her saviours.

The twins seemed to delight in observing any and all of her reactions, regardless of the stimuli. She was sorry to withhold any pleasure of theirs, but she did not have the mental capacity to engage with them. She fully understood that the situation could continue no longer, with her behaving like a ghost and them hovering over her, as if she was about to pass away. All the same, she could not allow herself to face them, not until she made peace with her situation. She would never forgive herself if she ended up screaming at them out of poor emotional control. It was not their fault, after all.

It was so much easier to watch the barely visible sun hide itself from view, or count the number of dark clouds overcrowding the sky. She guessed that her dinner would be served in short order, not that she had any appetite. Since her arrival in Imladris, she found that she had no want even for water, never mind anything more solid. Elrond, undoubtedly, did not find her efforts to thusly neglect her body as acceptable, and insisted on plying her with Miruvor. She had yet to fall physically ill, and that most likely could be attributed to the revitalising properties of the cordial, as well as his own Powers.

Having woken up from her afternoon nap earlier on, Lysandra was surprised at Elrond’s absence. Usually, she would find him bent intently over some scrolls or books, a few metres away from her bed. The woman wondered if he would sooner bring his desk to the Healing Ward than give up on keeping vigil by her side. He looked so fatigued, last time she observed him in secret. Guilt seeped through her thoughts. Elrond did not deserve such ghastly behaviour from a patient.

Lysandra closed her eyes, trying to dispel her turmoil. She hoped against hope that she might get some blissful dreams for a change, when the door to the ailing quarters opened with a bang.

Male elves and mortal men, all warriors, by the looks of the habit and weapons they wore, poured into the room, either on their own two feet or supported by others. It was a cacophony of anxiety, blood, and mud.

Elrond and a few other attendants rushed in, taking charge of the situation and having the injured directed to beds appropriate for them. The spoken tongue, Sindarin most likely, might have been unknown to her, but the overall atmosphere could not have been more familiar.

She recognised the steps Elrond took as if she was undertaking them herself – patient triage to determine the priority and mode of the required treatment. She was certain that the man with a huge gash in his abdomen would be the one to be attended to first, and within seconds, she was proved correct. She watched as Elrond and three of his helpers retreated behind a curtain, at the far end of the room, with the severely injured Ranger. Elves carrying wooden vats, full of steaming water, followed after.

An ailing man was deposited on the bed right next to her, after a swift check of his overall physique. Having fully taken in his garment and appearance, Lysandra realised that the mortal men must be of the Dúnedain.

Everybody was much too busy with their assigned patients, and for once nobody paid her any mind. This allowed her plenty of time to observe the unfolding commotion. Though she found herself itching to help, for that was her calling, or at least it used to be in a different world, she could not follow her impulses. She did not speak the language, and she did not have the usual tools at her disposal. In fact, she was more likely to inflict further damage than aid.

Nonetheless, she could not stop from assessing the situation, no matter how limited her means. For some reason, her gaze kept straying to the Ranger closest to her. He had nobody by his bedside, and she surmised it was due to the lack of any open wound on his body, and very likely at his own insistence. However, something about him raised alarms in her mind.

Noticing his breathing become laboured, she cast aside her earlier misgivings, and approached him surreptitiously. He did not seem to respond to her presence or her probing, and she could neither see nor feel any outward injuries. Lysandra fought the urge to shout, both in warning for the other attendants and in frustration.

What is causing you pain?

Eru, why bring me here, if I can’t even help him?!

The thought had not fully dispelled from her mind, when a vision invaded it like a lightning strike in a clear sky.

The pandemonium of the Healing Ward of Imladris disappeared like mist, to be replaced by a different kind of mayhem altogether.

The skies seemed to have opened up, a deluge of rain falling upon what seemed to be a clearing. Dense foliage surrounded the glade, and the forest of spruces, firs, and larches appeared particularly intimidating and sombre. At its feet, the grass, which should have been a lush green, was instead coloured with great streaks of dark blood and littered with fallen bodies of some of the most hideous creatures Lysandra had ever beheld. Unfortunately, even more of them were alive than dead.

It was not the first time that the woman had seen orcs. She had had the dubious honour of sighting them quite often in her nightmares and, as difficult as it was to comprehend it, she had seen even more odious creatures. That thought seemed to help somehow, now that she was seeing the Dark Lord’s servants in such close proximity. The sallow colour of the orcs’ revolting appearance was not helped by the malice held in their cruel eyes.

She yelped as one of the orcs brandished his sword her way, only for her attacker to meet his end at the hand of the very Ranger she had examined, seconds earlier. She was astonished by his obvious and rapid health improvement, but even more so that she appeared invisible to him and, as she quickly realised, to everybody else.

Brave warriors and their hateful foes overcrowded the clearing. She was not surprised to spot Elladan and Elrohir fighting alongside the Dúnedain against their common enemies, but she could not understand how she came to witnessing it all.

Then it happened.

The Ranger engaged in combat with a rather bulky opponent, disarming him, when he got attacked from behind by another orc. Helplessly, she could only watch on, for her warning went unheard. The Dúnedan proved his prowess in battle by intercepting the vicious and underhanded strike, yet there was little he could do against the onslaught from his first assailant. The massive orc had used his whole body to slam his shield into the man’s chest, from the right side. The Ranger, visibly in pain, followed the momentum to turn around, feigned a fall to one knee, and then slashed the unguarded lower limbs of both of his enemies. The two orcs fell with a horrible screech, swiftly silenced by another slash to their worthless necks.

Lysandra could barely comprehend what happened, when the scene disappeared, replaced by the Healing Ward yet again.

Her knees buckled and she had to hold onto the bed’s rails, lest she fell to the cold floor altogether.

What was that? My Goodness, am I going completely mad?!

She did not have time to find any answers, for the Ranger went from somewhat struggling to breathe to full on wheezing.

The vision!

He had been hit in the chest, she remembered with alarm, her incredulity giving way to finding the cause for his pain.

If he does not have open wounds, it must be a closed type of trauma, perhaps rib fracture?

She lost no time in trying to rip his clothes, only to find that she had not the strength for it.

Damn it all!

Looking for something sharp to cut his clothes, her eyes roamed around, quickly fixating upon the man’s own long sword. She tried lifting it out of its scabbard, attached to the warrior’s belt, only to deem the endeavour entirely fruitless. The sword was much too heavy for her weakened body. She abandoned the idea, looking with urgency for something smaller. She was in luck, for he did have a small dagger attached to the other side of his belt. She lost no time in retrieving the item and putting it to use. The weapon must have been very well sharpened, for the previously unyielding fabric gave in like the softest of silks.

Her victory, however, was short-lived.

She took in the expanse of skin starting to display blue discoloration, a sure sign of decreased oxygen levels, and the beginning of neck veins distention. Coupled with the Ranger’s asymmetrical chest expansion and developing hyper-resonant chest percussion, Lysandra did not need any modern tools to diagnose him.

Tension Pneumothorax.

Damnation!

Had Lysandra been in her own world, it would have been relatively easy to treat the pneumothorax with needle thoracostomy. She did not need to be a fully fledged General Surgeon to undertake the most basic needle decompression of the chest, allowing the trapped air to be released from the pleural space. Through positive pressure, the trapped air caused the compression of lungs, blood vessels, and most importantly the heart. Ultimately, if untreated, tension pneumothorax led to cardiovascular collapse, followed by cardiac arrest, and then, quite likely, death.

Naturally, what seemed like an easy procedure, nevertheless, required the appropriate tools.

I am more likely to find a Silmaril here, than a fourteen-gauge SPEAR^® needle, with a detachable one-way valve.

Her eyes searched her surroundings yet again, trying to locate a needle, but it seemed Elrond either did not use such tools or kept them elsewhere. Most likely, he used a mix of herbs and Song to treat his patients. Remembering what happened to Frodo (or would happen in the future), at most, he would cut flesh to remove foreign objects, and then knit it back together by weaving Power into his healing chants.

That is all great and jolly, only I do not possess such Powers!

Lysandra knew that she had little time, yet she spoke none of the tongues known to the Elves or Dúnedain. To ask for specific help, she would need to know how to ask it in the first place. What words might she use to faithfully explain the issue with her unwittingly chosen patient?

I have nobody to ask, but there is the One, who has already answered me once… would He answer again?

Eru, God, please show me where I can find a needle long enough to pierce the pleural space!

Lysandra braced herself for the potential assault of her senses with new visions, but it was pointless.

Nothing happened.

Nothing happened beyond the man’s condition visibly deteriorating.

If You showed me how he got hurt, why will You not show me how I can save him, my God?

She would have audibly despaired, had she not received new revelations for a second time that evening.

Lysandra still felt the Ranger’s body under her palms, but her eyes saw him not. She followed her own self, running barefoot down a dimly lit corridor, and she identified it as the passageway connecting the Healing Ward to the greater building, of which she had personally seen very little. In her vision, however, she knew exactly where to go, which turns to take, and at last, she arrived outside a room, its door wide open.

Recognising the contents of the room, Lysandra wasted no time in trying to return to her present, mind still fogged by her waking dream. She had to shake her head multiple times, trying to clear it of the lingering cobweb-like hallucinations. She found herself yet again in the chamber full of patients and their busy attendants.

Initially uncertain, she made a first step, and then a second, third, and so on, with more confidence. Having successfully left the room unhindered, she broke into a run, heading down the corridor, dream and reality superimposing in an almost overwhelming image, but she could not let herself succumb to it.

I will save him first, and then I can give into my insanity to my heart’s content.

When she reached the crafts room, she had to stop herself from admiring the great looms or the beautiful works of art, for the embroidered scenery was nothing less than that, as they adorned the expansive chamber. Lysandra located the sharp knitting needles, made out of bird bone given their inner hollowness, exactly as she had Foreseen it. Subsequently, following her future-self, she found the great chisel-like tool, used to create holes of various sizes into the toughest of leathers. It could even pierce bone. She chose the smallest head size, fitted it, and fixed one of the knitting needles into the tool’s holder.

With a prayer, Lysandra turned the lever, and the spike went through the knitting needle, echoing like thunder through the otherwise quiet room. Turning the lever back, she inspected the now pierced utensil and rejoiced when her attempt proved to be successful. The small hole was exactly where she wanted it, by the sharp end of the needle. She fixed it into the holder once more, this time the hole would be created on the opposite end.

Two lever turns and Lysandra had the Middle-earth version of a decompression needle.

She could not help it. The events of the last hour, nay, weeks (or perhaps even millennia), compounded into a perfect mix of both ingredients and recipe for a psychosis episode. She started laughing like the mad woman she thought herself to be.

Her demented cackling ended as abruptly as it had started, the crafts room falling silent once more.

She had to gather her wits, lest she injured her patient instead of healing him.

Primum non nocere – First do no harm - that is my Oath, and I shall abide by it.

Returning to the injured Ranger, Lysandra was most concerned to see that his complexion got much worse, and his mental state was such that he did not even notice her approaching him a second time. It had been a few minutes at most, yet his condition left her with little choice but continuing with her initial plan.

She had managed to find some wine on her way back to the Healing Wing, courtesy of yet another waking dream, and she took some clean bandages from a nearby supply cupboard. That one she knew all too well from being the sole patient of the ailing room for weeks. She had no chlorhexidine, so she used a bandage soaked in wine to disinfect the man’s chest area, hoping that Elvish alcohol was even more potent than the one in her own world. She proceeded to locate the Ranger’s mid-clavicular line where the super-sternal notch met the top of his right shoulder in the middle. Since she had decided on anterior insertion, through palpation, she identified the insertion site rather quickly, between the second and third intercostal space on the mid-clavicular line.

Praying yet again, Lysandra inserted her hand-made decompression needle about three centimetres in, until contact was made with the rib. She did not have an attachment with a one-way valve, so she had to push the modified knitting needle further in with great care. As she saw the cavity decompress and the man’s breathing becoming more regulate, she could have cried tears of joy. She used another bandage to stop the needle from progressing even further. She had no tape to properly secure the needle and her hastily created utensil was nowhere nearly as flexible as a valve. Lysandra worried about the next steps in treating the Dúnedan, ultimately deciding to ask Eru for further guidance.

She was most grateful when new visions poured in, but it was not to last.

She saw herself turning around due to growing clamour behind her. She could hear both the shouts in her waking dream and reality, from which she was only half-detached. Unwittingly, her real self followed her actions in the vision.

A most agitated Elleth, cried out in alarm. Her high soprano carried throughout the whole Healing Ward, reaching the far end, including the section partitioned by a curtain, from behind which, an uncommonly frazzled Elrond emerged.

Suddenly, Lysandra saw herself from afar. Despite the distance, even the most infinitesimal of details was not left unheeded. She realised that the visions changed their point of view, and apparently, from Elrond’s perspective, her eyes in that moment had no pupil and no iris. The logical part of her psyche rebelled at the image, for she had seen her own eyes, in all their burning with the Flame Imperishable glory, just a few hours prior. How could have her pupil and iris vanished?

Yet, the vision could not be denied. Her green eyes were replaced by what looked like a facet of the moon, its brightness rivalling the sun.

Through Elrond’s eyes, she noted her own chest rising and falling at an increasing pace, her body swaying, as if the wind battering the valley had penetrated inside the room.

The darkness rushed into her visions before it could do so in reality, but she succumbed to it either way.

Chapter Text

The dark clouds besetting the skies over the Valley of Imladris had been chased away by a northern wind. The new moon was hidden from sight, but the heavenly picture was no less bright for it. Aboard the great Vingilótë, the Mariner sailed among Varda’s merrily twinkling stars. Ever faithfully, he carried the Star of Eärendil. The Silmaril’s hallowed light shone undimmed on the horizon – a harbinger of hope for all Free Peoples of Middle-earth.

Peace reigned in the night sky, yet underneath it, the hidden refuge of the Elves west of the Misty Mountains was in a flurry of activity.

That evening had seen much excitement. Within a few clamorous hours, the Healing Ward of Imladris went from sheltering one guest to accommodating a dozen.

For his part, Elrond, along with three other attendants, had exerted considerable effort to stem Bírion’s internal bleeding. Through Song and medicinal poultices, he was also able to stave off any infection that might have taken root, between the Ranger receiving the wound and its treatment. Elladan and Elrohir deserved to be commended for keeping Bírion and other injured companions alive, long enough for them to be brought to Imladris for healing and succour.

Despite their guest’s determined and prolonged silence, and dare Elrond say self-imposed isolation, once the Adaneth exhibited yet another uncanny aspect of herself, the commotion reached new heights.

Elrond had been in the middle of treating Bírion, when Baraheth’s shouts alerted him to things going haywire on the over side of the curtain. Hearing that their guest had stabbed one of the Rangers, he was forced to relinquish the healing duty to his attendants and emerge from the surgery alcove. No sooner did he catch sight of her, that the young woman hyperventilated and promptly fainted. He wondered if she was afflicted with an obscure disease, or if falling into unconsciousness was her mind’s way of protecting itself. He was inclined to believe the latter.

A few hours later, the Master of Imladris washed his hands, stained with his latest patient’s blood, pondering over the unknown. New chords and minor themes in the Music unfolded never-endingly, and he wondered if the arrival of their most peculiar guest was the start of a new melody.

“My Lord Elrond, I apologise for my behaviour. My rashness is inexcusable,” Baraheth confessed once more, standing beside the basin of water with a towel in her stiff hands. “Accurately have I been named, for none raised as big a fuss as I did.”

“Baraheth, I appreciate that you must have been taken aback, indeed I cannot name one who has not received a great deal of shock. I will concede that her actions, or should I say the way her actions were perceived, did not lend themselves toward kindness, but to accuse her of evil due to the nature of her eyes, irrelevant of their singularity, is a grave matter indeed. That young woman is both a patient and a guest. Therefore, she is owed a certain amount of courtesy and good will,” said Elrond kindly, but resolutely, as he carefully dried his hands. “Shamed would the name of Imladris be the day, when we lack in hospitality toward those who hither find their way.”

“Undoubtedly, my Lord,” the Elleth replied, lowering her head to hide the embarrassment in her eyes. “It is no excuse, but the sight of her having stabbed Bellamdir’s chest with a knitting needle, of all things, had greatly startled me. Wicked her eyes might have appeared, which did further dismay me, but I am certain my behaviour would have been more circumspect, if not for that initial impression.”

Elrond’s eyes radiated like starlight, as he regarded the usually spirited Elf-maiden. He was well aware that, while she had a rather impulsive side, unkindness was not in her nature. The forlorn air about the Elleth appeared almost entirely out of place, and he sought to dispel it.

“Baraheth, dearest, let us put this mishap behind us. I do expect you to apologise to our guest, through action if not through speech, for she doesn’t seem to share it. I also hope not be witness to the re-emergence of such manners, or lack thereof, in the future,” he concluded, reassuringly patting her forearm, stock-still in its rigidity.

The Adaneth certainly excelled at provoking strong reactions in those around her. Elrond could not have conjured a situation like this even in his wildest dreams. Her being a healer like himself, though a very unorthodox one by his measuring, was a most outlandish notion, and he could scarcely account for it. However, a healer she had to be, and of no little experience, to have acted the way she did.

Elrond approached the peacefully sleeping Bellamdir for a second time that evening, surveying the modifications made to the needle fashioned from an avian bone. He did not have the opportunity to examine the end that yet remained inside the Ranger’s chest, but he was certain he would find another small cavity there, much like he saw on the visible edge.

He indicated for all the staff on hand, skilled aides and healers-in-training alike, to come closer, so that they might catch a glimpse of the altered utensil. The Elves followed the request at once, with as little noise as possible, without disturbing any of the patients, especially the strange Adaneth and the Dúnedan she supposedly healed. Even some Rangers, who had helped bring in the wounded, approached their kinsman, keen on news regarding his welfare.

Elrond did not mind the addition and was about to address his eager audience, when the door to the Healing Ward opened wide enough to first allow passage for Glorfindel, then Erestor, the twins being the last to make an appearance. As expected, they came to investigate the events of that evening, having been summoned at Elrond’s behest.

Elrond motioned for them to join in, for they would certainly deem his findings most intriguing.

“I believe all of you can recognise the knitting needles from the Weavers’ Hall. Usually they are made of a bird’s bone, light and smooth. The sharp end could be at times slightly crooked, but otherwise unremarkable. This tool here, however, is singular in its design, for it has got a precise incision on the dull end. I do believe that it was our young patient, who created the notch. It is also my belief that the sharp end inside Bellamdir’s chest bears a similar alteration. Can any of you guess at the purpose of such a device?”

Elrond took in some of the pinched looks among the audience, while others tended toward calculating. He was quite content to notice that Elladan seemed rather close to a conclusion. However, it was not his son who spoke first, but Nelloriel, who spent as much time learning the subtle arts of healing as she did in creating gorgeous embroidery designs.

“Bird bone needles are hollow, and by introducing the insertions, the flow of air would be unrestricted. What purpose could that serve in Bellamdir’s chest?” she asked with befuddlement.

“If the treatment required unhindered air flow, that means the air was trapped to begin with,” Elladan picked up her thread of thought. Elrond smiled – an encouragement for his son to continue. “She put the sharp end into his chest, because she needed something able to pierce the layers of skin and muscle. I can only surmise that Bellamdir had some air trapped in an area where that should not be case, between his lungs and ribcage. He would not look as unaffected as he does, had the spike reached his lungs.”

“We have seen it many times,” added Elrohir, “swollen parts of the chest that is. Coloured in blues and purples, the wounded would not be able to breathe, and that usually was due to damage of some sort, perhaps a broken rib or two.”

“Right you are, all of you,” replied Elrond in approval. “Our guest seems to have used a rather unusual approach to dealing with such injuries, but that is not to say that it was ineffective. No, on the contrary, I presume her method is much swifter in its effect, with an increased likelihood of success. Bellamdir’s rib had indeed been fractured and the injury was enough to greatly impair his breathing, causing a significant lack of air. I was able to find traces on his body suggesting as much, when I treated the cause of his injury. Truthfully, we are quite indebted to the young lady for saving Bellamdir’s life.”

His proclamation was followed by various gasps from his listeners. Elrond wanted to impress upon them the gravity of the situation. They had been most fortunate to have avoided a tragedy.

“Alternatively, I do find it concerning that such a severe injury was overlooked by us,” Elrond continued, his countenance no longer as light. “I fully expect so grave a mistake not to be borne by any, who are of service to the ailing. I have been informed that Bellamdir himself provided the reassurance that he had suffered mere bruising, and that naught else bothered him. I would be remiss in not reminding you that we must check all forms of injury, even those that are not visibly bleeding or treated as trifling by their bearer. At times, it is precisely such injuries, which might appear deceivingly superficial, that are, in fact, the most perilous and treacherous.”

A sense of dismay nestled in the collective heart of all healers and helpers of the Healing Ward, most of all for Inwisto, for he had carried out the initial check on the Ranger. He would have certainly revisited his patient, but only after dealing with a bleeding gash to another Dúnedan’s head, by which point it might have been too late for Bellamdir.

Inwisto had seen too many winters in his long life, and had accompanied Lord Elrond ever since fleeing the sacking of Eregion. He esteemed the Peredhel so much, that he never even considered reallocating to Lindon, even when King Gil Galad presented the opportunity to him and other refugees alike. In time, he had become both a healer attendant to Elrond and cook assistant to Hyarindion.

Inwisto was no fool, and great was his distress due to his egregious error in judgement. It had almost cost them a life, a precious life. The thought threatened to imprint deep lines upon his face. He held much sympathy for the Dúnedain, particularly as they shared a similar sorrow. The Enemy had repeatedly laid ruin to the ancestral lands of both the Children of the Stars and the Men of Westernesse. To allow death to claim one of their allies due to a moment’s carelessness was inconceivable. The Ñoldor could scarce allow for any instances of carelessness.

The audience’s reaction was not hidden from Elrond’s perceiving gaze. Confident that he successfully got his point across, the shadow over his face disappeared, his demeanour reverting to its usual benevolence.

“I would also like to express my deepest gratitude for the care you have shown your patients. As much as I wish that no injured ever need grace our abode, it is my fervent hope that we shall continue learning from each and every such occurrence.” A pregnant pause followed, before switching onto a different topic. “As for our abiding patient, I hope that I should hear no rumours or hearsay about her provenience or uniqueness, be it through the Halls of Imladris or beyond them. As guest, she is owed all the hospitality we can muster, but most importantly, we are in her debt, one we must honour to the best of our abilities.”

Everybody voiced their assent determinedly if softly, mindful of their sleeping patients. Elrond gave leave to all of them with a few exceptions. The chosen attendants on call were advised to partake from their dinner before returning to their duties in the Healing Wing. Until their return, Elrond remained to both supervise the convalescing patients and discuss the situation with his sons and chief members of the staff.

When Inwisto lingered about the Ward, Elrond expressed no surprise. He was certain the Ellon would choose to stay by the side of Bellamdir, as well as wait for the opportunity to thank the Adaneth, when she woke up.

“How and where did she find knitting needles?” Glorfindel voiced his very first question, once the small party gained some privacy.

“Much the same way she found the leather chisel, I imagine,” replied Elrond. “I was told by Nelloriel, who was informed by another from the Weavers’ Hall, that one pair of knitting needles was missing its half, and they also found powdered bone remains in the chisel’s holder. By all accounts, she had been away from here for a very short amount of time. A stranger to Imladris would not have found the Hall or the desired tools as quickly as she did. I… I have started suspecting for a while, and now increasingly so, that our guest is no mere mortal woman. In fact, she might not be mortal at all.”

“What gave you such an impression, Ada?” asked Elrohir, face fully displaying his surprise, mirrored by the others. A shudder rippled down his spine. Whom had he and Elladan brought into their home?

“There is much more to the Light she holds in her eyes, for they also seem to completely transform. Baraheth did not start an uproar in the Healing Ward for no significant reason. The woman’s eyes changed with such clarity that even I feared what I beheld.”

“Ada, what exactly did you see? Nobody has been able to relay anything substantial,” Elladan enquired with dissatisfaction. Ever since being informed that the woman he rescued caused a commotion, the curiosity was steadily eating away at him,

“That is because I forbade it,” replied Elrond, his tone brooking no objections. “The green of her eyes, as well as the inner part, were replaced by what I could only describe as a mirror image of the moon. The light shone through with such intensity, that it almost reminded me of…”

“Of what?” asked Glorfindel, though he had a feeling that the answer would not be to his liking.

“Not what, but whom. It reminded me of Elwing, my mother,” Elrond whispered with a frown. “Her eyes would glow with a similar uncanny light when she looked at the Silmaril, only our guest’s eyes, in that queer form, exuded an even stronger radiance.”

“Wonderful… a Silmaril, what a delight,” the Captain of the Guard could not refrain from showing his disdain for the accursed jewel, even if it served as a symbol of hope for their people. Revered it might be, but it cost the Ñoldor so much, Elrond in particular. He could not bear thinking of it with equanimity.

“I do not believe that she was or is in possession of one, or has much connection to it, if that is what you fear. However, it does present us with new avenues to pursue.”

“Like what, Ada?” asked one of the twins.

“The likelihood of her being one of the Maiar has certainly increased in my estimation. I confess I do have some doubts about it, predominantly due to her not speaking any tongues known to us, including Valarin. As you might recall, I have tried it, and she showed no reaction,” said Elrond.

“There is credit to your guess, Elrond, but her memory of the Light is undiminished, whereas the Istari had been given raiment occluding their true nature even from our eyes,” Erestor reminded his Lord.

“Yet they enhanced Glorfindel’s powers,” maintained Elrond with a smile. “I do not believe the Valar have a set mould for the emissaries they send over to Middle-earth. However, the issue of her lack of speech in our tongues stands. In addition to her strangeness, she also seems to know Imladris much better than one could have expected, and she is not ignorant in the arts of healing either.”

“Coupled with her wearing the garment of the re-embodied, and our inability to see deeper into her fëa, we find ourselves no closer to unravelling this riddle,” said the Balrog-slayer with a frown.

“Well, we can all agree that she poses no danger to Imladris, can we not?” asked Elrohir, for that was the chief source of his anguish. After what happened to his mother, he could not bear any peril close to his family, least of all inside his own home.

“No, I perceive no malice in her, nor evil intentions,” affirmed Elrond. “Your initial assessment of her had been correct. She is awash with grief, but that in itself is no sin. Her presence here being voluntary is quite unlikely, though certainly not of her own design, yet without sharing the same tongue, we cannot ascertain from whence she hails, even if Aman is our foremost guess.”

“Well, there is nothing for it but to wait for Mithrandir,” said Erestor, which had been his advice from the very beginning.

Glorfindel was about to provide an update on the progress of their search for the Grey Pilgrim, when he caught Inwisto abruptly abandon his seat, his gaze locked on the subject of their discussion.

Following the golden haired Noldo’s example, the rest of the party turned their heads to find the young woman glance at them apprehensively.

Elrond did not have the time to address her, for Inwisto had already approached her bed, and just as swiftly kneeled in front of her. If her expression was anything to go by, his gesture of gratitude was most unexpected.

Even more perplexing was the sight of a Dúnedan, Alwedion, who sported a bandage around his shin, hobbling over and assuming the same kneeling position. The woman was evidently alarmed, and kept indicating for them to rise, yet the Ranger refused, pointing toward the man she had saved. Realisation dawned on her face, as both Alwedion and Inwisto raised their right arm in a great arch and brought it over their heart with uttermost solemnity, heads lowering.

The onlookers found the picture most touching.

After weeks of self-imposed mental isolation, the internal dam she had painstakingly raised to contain her own feelings crumbled under the unquestionable gratitude of the kneeling Dúnedan and Elf. No longer able to abscond from her inner turmoil, her cheeks became wet with tears, yet her lips turned upward into an uncertain smile. They thought she would simply continue crying, but it was not so.

The Elf-lords’ gaze was fixated upon the woman as she rose from the bed, long hair sweeping her bare ankles. She approached the kneeling pair, her frail arms struggling to lift them up. Neither Alwedion nor Inwisto wanted to acquiesce, yet upon noticing her distress, they had no choice but to grant her wish. They were rewarded with a brighter smile, and a short curtsy, conveying how honoured she felt.

She then slowly moved toward Bellamdir, but not before catching Elrond’s gaze, her head faintly slanted to the left as if asking for permission. The Lord of Imladris contemplated the likelihood of her willing or daring to harm the Ranger with so many watching her every move. Concluding that she was incapable of such, he provided his assent with an encouraging smile and slight nod.

Having wiped her tears with the edge of her sleeve, her long and thin fingers reached for Bellamdir’s wrist. As her expression turned pensive and absorbed, it became apparent to Elrond that she was checking for the man’s pulse. Then she leaned down with her ear, trying to listen to his chest, and most likely lungs. When she stood upright once more, it was with a pleased look.

She slowly pivoted her body toward her audience, her beatific smile catching them by surprise. Elrond could not attribute the victory to his own efforts, yet he was delighted to see his patient in such good humour, after days of witnessing the acute misery, in which she seemed to have immersed herself.

The young lady pointed toward her patient’s chest, particularly at his rib, her head tilted to the left yet again. Elrond understood her purpose, and closing the distance between them, his fingers lightly skimmed over the man’s ribs akin to a wind whisper. With a slight nod, he confirmed that he had treated the underlying cause of the injury.

She seemed even more revitalised, gracing him with another generous smile. She was about to dart behind him, when he stopped her with a gentle touch to her forearm. The Elf-lord pointed toward the slippers set aside for her use and then at her bare feet. With a chagrined smile, she followed his instruction, quickly slipping them on her feet.

Satisfied with her compliance, he allowed her to proceed toward the cupboard with healing supplies. Coming back with new bandages, she deposited them on Bellamdir’s bedside table, but then appeared to be stumped as she looked around. Elrond had the niggling feeling that she was searching for the pitcher with Dorwinion wine, which had mysteriously made its way from Erestor’s study to the Healing Ward that evening. Once discovered, the pitcher had been promptly returned to its proper place, yet the young woman did not seem to be aware of it.

Surmising that the young healer intended to use the wine for sterilisation purposes, yet unwilling to needlessly waste the beverage acquired with great difficulty, he had Elladan fetch the Athelas infusion, which would better serve the lady’s intention.

When presented with a bowl full of faintly steaming water, in which floated the green leaves and stem of the Athelas, the young woman sniffed at it with uncertainty. Her curious, yet puzzled, demeanour made it apparent that she did not recognise the sweet fragrance of the herb.

How curious. Aman cannot and should not have Athelas in short supply, not when it harbours all species of flora found in Middle-earth and much more, thought Elrond.

Elladan, on the other hand, was amused by the woman’s reaction, and slightly lifted the bowl toward her, hoping she would take the hint. His smile was kind, but gaze rather mischievous. A quizzical brow lifted on her face as she studied him, though ultimately decided to trust his and his father’s judgement. She pointed toward the dressings and the bowl, and then lifted her own hands in askance, only for Elladan’s smile to widen in reply as he nodded.

She resolutely shook her head and lifted two digits up. Elladan raised the bowl further, but she insisted on having a second basin for her hands. Exasperated, he was going to refuse her, for the Athelas mixture was precious and more than powerful to disinfect both her hands and the bandages, when Elrond softly bade Elrohir fetch a second bowl.

Neither twin dared object to the directive, but they were surprised to see him indulge her so. They had always known their father to be the embodiment of kindness itself, but that did not come at the expense or lack of a stern backbone. Not at all. In fact, it was because of his incredible strength of character that their father could be magnanimous, yet only within the bounds of what was reasonable and prudent. Anything outside those parameters would be tenaciously, if graciously, denied, no matter the standing or consequence of the one asking. To their knowledge, there had ever been only two exceptions, their mother and younger sister.

Once the second bowl was presented to her, the young woman expressed her gratitude to the three of them with a curtsy. All of the Elves, as well as Alwedion, followed the very meticulous way in which she washed her hands, and wondered at it, some more than others. Once satisfied with her efforts, she gestured for Elladan to stand with her by the patient’s bedside.

She sterilised one set of gauze in the bowl, removing from it as much water as possible, and then carefully wiped the area around the needle in Bellamdir’s chest. She was about to start its extraction, only for her to think better of it and glance at Elrond, her query unmistakeable.

Elrond acquiesced and proceeded to similarly wash his hands in the infusion still held by Elrohir, after which he mirrored the woman’s stance, set to remove the device. She pointed with her fingers the direction he needed to follow, and agreeing with her reasoning, he carried out his task with care, beginning to Sing. The young healer had another bandage at the ready, promptly using it to wipe the little blood escaping from the now empty incision site.

Post-extraction, Elrond had Elladan give him the Athelas leaves from the bowl, which he used to create a compress, and then had it applied to Bellamdir’s chest. He also retrieved all of the soiled dressings and handed them off to his eldest son. His ease of movement belied the invaluable amount of experience he had, and Elrond noted that their guest was most intently observing each and one of his actions. He felt inexplicably touched by the look of awe on her face.

They regarded each other for a while, Elrond wondering how he might essay to ease the communication between them, and her weighing the value of golden silence over silver speech. Perhaps the time to speak had come, and if she did end up falling prey to her own emotions, she hoped her audience would not think less of her.

They have been most considerate so far, Lysandra reminded herself.

I am unlikely to find anybody wiser and kinder in all of Middle-earth than Elrond Peredhel himself.

Lysandra could only guess at the magnitude of trouble her presence must have inflicted upon the healer and the other Elf-lords. She imagined that they were entirely in the dark regarding who she was and how she came to arrive in Middle-earth. She did not have all the answers herself, but she was at least less ignorant of her circumstances, than they seemed to be. Being kept in the dark was certainly a trying exercise, as she bitterly came to find out. Their plight brought to mind Arthur Conan Doyle’s wisdom – ‘Any truth is better than indefinite doubt.’

Honesty was the only honourable path she could pursue. She owed it to them, and not just for the care they had bestowed upon her, but also for their unending efforts to face the Enemy. She could no longer bear burdening them with any extra concern or responsibility for her trespassing in their lives.

With soft footsteps, she traversed the distance between herself and the door leading away from the ailing quarters, giving a short curtsy first to Elrond and his sons, then to his advisors, motioning toward the empty hall. Her invitation left no room for misinterpretation.

The Lord of Imladris swiftly instructed Inwisto to look after the patients, before leading the young woman and his closest entourage away.

The walk to Elrond’s study was familiar to Lysandra, nonetheless it did not fail to leave a deep impression upon her. Winding halls embellished with magnificent paintings and exquisite wall-mounted chandeliers led toward intricately carved arches, which opened into other halls just as stunning in their beauty and elegance. Lysandra would have loved the opportunity to unravel the secrets hidden in the vibrant tapestries’ patterns layering the walls. She could spend hours examining the stained glass adorning the windows or the occasional sculptures they encountered, yet she did not have the liberty to go roaming about.

Perhaps, once she had reassured her hosts of no ill-will and nefarious designs on her part, she might be allowed to explore one of the most gorgeous feats of arts and architecture she had ever beheld in person.

Elrond’s study was no less magical in her estimation. Dark panelled bookcases adorned the entirety of the great room, with the exception of two windows and the marble hearth between them, one veiled archway leading toward a balcony, and two magnificent wall-hangings. Carvings of vine and leaf motifs, as well as alternating patterns of eight-rayed and six-rayed stars, embellished the thick shelves of walnut, as they carried a great collection of books in almost all of the languages of Middle-earth. Its overwhelming beauty almost brought new tears to her eyes. The room was so alike and yet so different from the library of her own home.

Lysandra quickly drew in a shuddering breath, choosing to focus on her audience instead. They were leading her toward the fireplace, surrounded by cushioned sofas and armchairs, the very picture of cosiness. However, comfort was a far-removed concept for Lysandra, as she cleared her throat hoping to gain their attention.

It worked like a charm.

The five Elf-lords immediately stopped in their purpose, pinning her with looks varying in their degree of curiosity.

She knew quite a few languages, but her limited free time as a neurosurgeon did not allow for the study of any obscure tongues, Sindarin and Quenya included. In the absence of a proper Sindarin greeting worthy of an Elf-lord in her vocabulary, Lysandra decided upon something a bit less wordy, but just as effective in conveying her message.

She fell into the deepest curtsy she could muster, one she had not used ever since formally meeting the Crown Princess of Japan along with her Shishō. When she spoke, her voice was crystal clear as it resounded throughout the room, the great chamber’s high arches allowing for the sound to carry.

“Elrond Peredhel.”

Without pausing or giving him the opportunity to reply, she addressed his companions, maintaining her formal posture.

“Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris; Laurefindelë of Ondolindë; Erestor of Lindon.”

Paying little mind to her unease, she then proceeded to introduce herself, her right hand barely touching her upper chest, hoping they would understand her meaning.

“Lysandra. Lysandra Roselyn Whiting.”

Were the circumstances any different, Lysandra would have retained her bowed position, until given leave. However, as her audience seem to have been rendered mute, she decided she was very likely to get a cramp, standing straight once more.

Elrond Peredhel, as Lysandra had aptly identified him, wondered at the creature in front of him. She had bowed in a manner befitting the High King’s court instead of a Lord, yet he did not believe her to have done so by mistake.

A Maia would not have bowed thusly… if Mithrandir has always shown us an appropriate amount of courtesy, Saruman certainly never had, though he himself expected them. As for Radagast, I do not believe he is even aware of the existence of royal protocols altogether.

She had mentioned everybody’s place of birth or habitation, yet his she left unspoken. That was not done in error either. She held his gaze with gravity, regarding him as if she knew everything about him, from how many times he had stumbled on perfectly straight surfaces having hit his growth spurt, to the amount of orc lives he had claimed or the tears he had shed.

She knew. She had to know.

She had to know the story of his life. A life that endured many storms and turmoil, due to which he could not readily call himself Eärendilion alone, not without mentioning a different name, one that most Elvish kingdoms would not readily accept, if ever.

Elrond exchanged apprehensive looks with his fellows and saw his own thoughts reflected in their eyes. They did not need to speak the words aloud to be perfectly in tune.

Though her pronunciation of both Sindarin and Quenya names was acceptable, it was easy to spot when she did not elongate particular vowels or used the correct inflection. Aware that for the most part the tongue was foreign to her, he tried to address her as simply as possible, so that she might understand the gist of it.

“Yes, I am Elrond Peredhel, Master of Imladris. Well met, my lady.”

He was pleased to see that she had recognised his Sindarin introduction, following it up with her own.

“Lysandra. Well met, my lady –,” she stumbled upon the word, then tried again, “– lord?”

The way she had pronounced ‘mae govannen’ was a great indication to Elrond that while she might have heard the greeting, Lysandra had never used it herself. It was quite likely she had done so for the very first time. She did it with enough finesse, but the habitual use of those words was alien to her, evidently so. His more scholastically inclined mind did pick up on her quickly guessing the correct form of the male ‘hîr’ versus female ‘híril’. It suggested not a minor aptitude toward linguistics and he wondered how quickly she would be able to learn their tongue.

Despite his ruminations, Elrond did not fail to reply, a small benevolent smile appearing on his face.

“Hîr,” he confirmed with a nod.

Lysandra’s mien greatly improved, her guarded stance giving way to a more natural and relaxed pose. Her audience had more questions than ever, particularly after that introduction. As such, they did not tarry in resuming their course toward the seating area by the fire.

“Should I send for some tea?” asked Erestor, though his expression clearly suggested he would prefer something much stronger.

Lysandra could not guess at what was spoken, but the rest of the Elves seemed to struggle restraining their smiles. Of course, she could not guess that Erestor’s esteem for wine was a source of great amusement in the Elven household.

“I think wine would do just fine, thank you, but please do water our guest’s beverage, lest she fall asleep mid-speech,” advised Elrond, ending with a soft cough to stop the twins’ laughter from erupting.

Soon they had all been made as comfortable as the situation allowed for it, with Lysandra on an armchair, the twins and their father sharing a sofa, and Erestor with Glorfindel sharing another. Each of them held a silver chalice, embossed with delicate pearls and gemstones.

Elrond thought it unlikely that Lysandra would speak up first, so he uttered her name (which sounded quite fancy coming from his lips) and with an elegant hand motion called for her to start her discourse.

Lysandra had pondered much over what exactly she could tell them, given the gaps in her knowledge of both language and the unravelling of events following her arrival in Arda, or better yet, the reason behind them.

She remembered reading once that, before WWII in year 1938, Tolkien and his friend, C.S. Lewis, had decided to write stories on time and space travel, respectively. Coincidentally, Tolkien had initially intended to write a story of two modern-age men as they time-travelled to Númenor, later abandoning the idea. Alternatively, Lewis had not forsaken his own plan, publishing ‘Out of the Silent Planet’ and ‘Voyage to Venus’. What Lysandra found interesting was that in the latter book, Lewis wrote that the vast interplanetary and interstellar distances adhered to ‘God’s quarantine regulations’. Given their extensive sharing of concepts and opinions, she wondered whether he got that idea from Tolkien, who only described the creation of Arda, but did not exclude the possibility of other planets, whose inhabitants followed a different Music altogether.

Lysandra had read quite a few interpretations on the connection between the works of the two great authors, but at the moment, the existence of more than one Arda was what piqued her interest most. Her own memories as a dormant soul seemed to uphold that theory, no matter how utterly bewildering she found them.

After taking a quick sip from her ornate cup, she placed it down on the round table to her right, and took in a deep breath as she started.

“There is Arda One,” she held up her right index finger, “with Valar and Melkor, Maiar and Sauron, Eldar and…,” she tried to recall the word for Men, only to remember Bilbo’s words on the etymology of the word Dúnedain. The memory was like balm to a sore wound, and with a lighter air, she continued, “Eldar and Edain. Then there is Arda Two,” she lifted her left hand, two fingers pointing up, “Arda Two is called Terra, and Lysandra, I, come from there. Arda Two has Edain and Eru…,” here she stumbled, for she did not know how to properly describe saints and angels, “– let us say, Edain, Eru, and Ainur, but not Valar or Maiar,” nodding to the former and shaking her head as she mentioned the latter two groups.

She was so engrossed in trying to explain the concept as faithfully as she could in her own tongue interspersed with bits of Quenya, that it escaped her how utterly unnerved her audience was. Erestor strongly believed he might have need of a second serving of wine, in a disturbingly short amount of time, and the rest were similarly afflicted.

A second Arda! What an entirely unhinged notion!

Of course, no matter how preposterous the claim appeared to them, they could not discard it either, not when the young woman was putting so much effort and such earnestness into sharing her journey with them.

“If she is indeed from a different World altogether, in hindsight, her grief and despair seem nothing but natural and expected. This poor child,” whispered Elrond. His fellow Elves were perfectly able to hear him, nodding in agreement. Yet they refrained from speaking, for Lysandra seemed to have found the words to continue her recounting.

“In Arda Two, I died, Lysandra died,” she imitated a person being asphyxiated, “– in the sea, like Ekkaia. Lysandra’s fëa travelled from Arda Two to Eru,” she made a sweeping motion from one hand to the other. “Lysandra was a fëa, an asleep fëa,” she explained, as she crudely mimicked the act of sleeping, “– and I witnessed,” pointing to her eyes, “– the Ainulindalë, the birth of Eä. The Valar and Melkor descended into Arda. Lysandra’s fëa also descended into Arda,” she finished, her fingers’ direction now facing downward.

She decided that, at that point, she was in sore need of some wine, to both quench her thirst, as well as provide her with a bit more liquid courage. It was then that she noticed the graveyard-like silence enveloping the room. During her retelling, the Ellyn’s countenance bore the passage of sceptical astonishment into pure shock.

“Did I understand that correctly?” asked Elladan, disbelief colouring his voice. “She drowned in her World’s Great Sea, arrived to Eru in the Void, before Eä existed, witnessed its creation, and came into our World as a soul, which apparently was asleep. Have I missed anything out?”

Elrohir, at a complete loss for words, simply shook his head, unable to reconcile the terrifying images in his mind with the delicate woman, who experienced them.

“The eyes,” interrupted Glorfindel. “The Light in her eyes is the memory of the Flame Imperishable itself. By the stars! I had seen it, though thinly veiled, in the eyes of the Valar themselves, how did I not recognise it in hers?! Such a sight is not easily forgettable!”

“Do not chastise yourself so, my friend,” said Elrond, his spirit likewise dismayed. “It might appear obvious now that we have heard her claim, but who would harbour such suspicions otherwise? I had indeed believed her to be a Maia, yet even that notion did not come easily to me. Let us hear what she has to say, for I believe there is much left to her story and most of it unsettling.”

Lysandra could not understand what her companions discussed, but their expressions were a good enough hint. She drank a bit more, before starting her tale as her soul arrived in Arda. With a bright countenance, she mentioned the late arrival of Tulkas, the Champion of the Valar, the creation of the Two Lamps, Illuin and Ormal, the wedding of Tulkas and Nessa on the Isle of Almaren. Then a shadow descended upon her brow, remembering how Melkor and his fallen Maiar came back into Arda, building Utumno and destroying the Two Lamps, and here she used her hands to indicate their fall.

She moved onto the Valar departing for Aman, raising the Pelóri, and Námo building the Halls of Mandos. With a faintly trembling voice, she briefly retold her interview with the Doomsman.

“Lysandra’s fëa arrived in Mandos. Námo said Eru’s Gift was spent – Eru gave the Edain a Gift,” with both of her hands she mimicked a cup, being given to Men, “– Eru had no Gift for the Eldar, Eru has no Gift for Lysandra. Lysandra is not like the Edain,” she shook her head. “Lysandra is like the Eldar. Do you understand?”

Her words were unknown, but their meaning could not be clearer.

“She is immortal, bound to Arda, like us,” whispered Erestor. “This is madness…”

Chapter Text

C.S. Lewis once stated that one should always strive to use the language in such a manner, that it allowed its meaning to be made quite clear, ensuring that one’s sentence could not mean anything else.

Lysandra would not presume to argue against such wisdom, yet she wondered how she might be able to express herself without leaving any room for ambiguity, when she could barely string two words together in a tongue so foreign to her.

Inside the Master study of the Last Homely House, as she faced some of the greatest Elf-lords to be found in Middle-earth, Lysandra was doing her best to discern her audience’s reaction and whether the status of her own mortality, or lack thereof, had been made clear enough.

It was not every day one received such tidings.

Despite being of the Edain race, Lysandra did not possess the one Gift Eru bestowed all of His Second Children. That was an admission Elrond did not find as surprising as his companions did. The suspicions he had harboured for a while lent themselves to a more amenable attitude on his part, but she knew it not.

She was no Maia and wielded no Powers, but was she that different from the Istari, whose true forms were significantly veiled? The mystery of her eyes’ moon transformation, as he had started calling it, lingered on his mind, their potential yet to be revealed. While she was not the Valar’s chosen emissary, Ilúvatar Himself willed her presence in their Music. Elrond wondered what she was meant to accomplish. Needless or purposeless were none of His designs.

Having learnt the bitterest of lessons on how much or how little trust could be placed upon others, Glorfindel re-assessed all the intelligence they had gathered about Lysandra. He determinedly placed each item into ‘plausible’ or ‘implausible’ columns, which he had mentally drawn up. So far, the former was winning by quite a margin, tentatively allowing the once Chief to the House of the Golden Flower to believe Lysandra’s account. A full tally was unlikely as of yet. Only time could be the judge of one’s true character.

The evidence, accumulated since her arrival, upheld most of her claims, irrelevant of how incredulous they sounded to the untrained mind. Undoubtedly, none could proclaim a nescient judgement among Glorfindel’s faults following his re-embodiment. Aside from such ruminations, he could not stop himself from vividly imagining the meeting between Lysandra’s fëa and the Doomsman in his mind’s eye.

Ah, to have been a fly on the wall for that interview!

If the Vala found himself as much at a loss as they did, ensuing Námo’s likely vexation, for Glorfindel that painted a merry picture.

Under normal circumstances, a third serving of wine would leave Erestor ready for a doze, but given the contents of Lysandra’s retelling, he felt that no intermission was necessary. In fact, he was eager to hear the rest, a sentiment the twins seemingly shared as they motioned for her to continue.

Lysandra acquiesced to the request and hoped her listeners would understand her meaning despite the alien language, much like C.S. Lewis had advised.

“Estë joined Námo in Mandos. Námo and Estë crafted a hröa for Lysandra’s fëa, through Song.”

Uncertain of the correct terminology for ‘song’, though likely similar to Lindon, she decided on a different means of expressing herself. She could not offer a fair imitation to perhaps the greatest choral performance she had ever heard, but she could mimic it by singing a couple of notes, she regularly used in her warm-ups, per her Großmutti’s guidance.

“Oh, she has got a lovely voice,” remarked Elrohir, pleasant surprise replacing his earlier concern.

The Balrog-slayer agreed with the young Ellon, yet a different discovery occupied his thoughts.

“Her garment is proof enough of her re-embodiment. However, no tales have I heard, whereby Estë participated in the process of rebirth. That is Námo’s purview and his alone.”

“She was given a raiment before any of the Eruhíni awakened, mayhap Námo knew not how to re-embody a Second Child,” proposed Elladan.

“I do not believe that to be the case,” replied Glorfindel. “The Edain’s fate lies not with rebirth, yet one’s soul carries the memory of the flesh; it is part of the Music itself. There should be no room for uncertainty. Oh, I wish we could understand her, or she – us, so that she might answer our questions in full! Too many details, essential details, are lost in giving her account through names and her very limited knowledge of Quenya alone.”

“I understand your frustration, my friend,” said Elrond, in a soothing voice. “Yet, we have little cause to repine. Verily, grateful we should be for the opportunity to gather as much information as we have so far. The purpose behind Estë’s aid in devising a body is puzzling, though I do have my guesses.”

“I do, as well,” admitted the Captain of the Guard. “We cannot see into her mind despite our best efforts, perhaps the Valar met a similar obstacle, as unfathomable as that is. Ha, I can only imagine how Námo smarted at the very idea that he required assistance in carrying out his own duties!” 

“Why does it seem to me, that you find a perverse amount of pleasure at his misfortunes?” muttered Erestor, throwing the golden-haired warrior a dubious look.

Glorfindel did believe that the Ñoldor, who had received their Doom, deserved the consequences of their own actions. However, many of them had no part in their Dooming, yet received likewise treatment. Thinking of the numerous fëar yet lingering in the Halls, when Glorfindel abided there last, a shadow fell over his brow, but the shining emissary of the Valar could not voice such thoughts.

“Had you had to linger for yéni in a prison crafted by your own mind, with naught else but depictions of Morgoth’s most aesthetically challenged beasts, you would feel quite similar, I assure you,” he replied with nonchalance. “Námo is in dire need of instruction on what consists an acceptable choice for interior décor. Not exactly reflection-conducive, it inspired everything but introspection.”

Lysandra was not able to follow their exchange, though she did perceive a momentary rigidity within their motions and gestures, before it dissipated into chortles and chuckles. It made her wonder what Glorfindel said. Surely, they were too honourable to be laughing at her, were they not?

Her current ignorance was a bitter pill she struggled to swallow. Lysandra had never felt less at a loss, and she sought to hide her discomfort from her audience. Her resolution to learn their language increased by each second spent in the dark. At the very first opportunity, she would ask for their guidance. Even the beguiling beauty of Imladris paled in comparison to Lysandra’s scant tolerance for the unknown.

Having sniggered to his heart’s content, Elladan’s mien morphed into a more sombre one, “If the Valar themselves had not been granted access to her mind, I should like to know the reason.”

“A reason there must be, indeed. I cannot fathom any Power beyond that of Ilúvatar himself capable of such a feat,” Elrond surmised, his tone as grave as the circumstances warranted it.

“Let us hear what else she might have to say,” said Erestor. “Many Ages of the Trees and Sun have passed since the Pelóri rose above the shores of Aman.”

Acquiescing, Elrohir kindly smiled toward Lysandra, prompting her to recommence her tale.

She replied in kind, yet the smiling lines on her face hardly belied her increasing disquiet.

“Estë brought Lysandra to Lórien. Lysandra slept with Estë on Lórellin,” she imitated once more the act of sleeping, and their wide eyes – a sufficient enough indication of their comprehension. Located amidst the tree-shadowed lake of Irmo’s gardens, nobody was allowed to set foot on Estë’s island, where the Healer slept each day. At the very least, the chronicles brought from Aman into Middle-earth purported as such.

“On Lórellin, Lysandra had dreams – ‘lór’ like those from Irmo’s demesne,” she said in English, indicating to her eyes and temples as she faked her slumber. She stammered over the Quenya word, not entirely certain it was correct. Given her limited understanding of Quenya etymology, she could only assume that the root of both Lórien and the lake within was the term she needed.

“‘Lór’? Does she mean dream perchance?” Elrohir wondered aloud.

“It was a good guess,” nodded Elladan. “She’s not dull, that’s for sure. It ought to make things more interesting around here.”

Erestor shook his head at the elder twin’s impishness, proceeding to correct the young (or perhaps not so young?) woman, “It is ‘lórë’ not ‘lór’, Lysandra. ‘Lórë’ or ‘olor’ in Quenya and ‘ôl’ in Sindarin.”

Repeating each word, Lysandra delighted at their approval.

“In my ‘olor’, Yavanna created the Two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, upon Ezellohar. I witnessed,” indicating to her eyes, “– the awakening of the three Quendi clans by the lake Cuiviénen – Minyar, Tatyar, and Nelyar. Melkor, hunted the Quendi, and created the first orcs, I believe it’s ‘orco’?”

At their assenting nods, she continued.

“Tulkas captured Melkor. Melkor was imprisoned in Mandos. Oromë summoned the Quendi, now called the Vanyar, Ñoldor, and Teleri to Aman, but Elwë Þindicollo met Melian the Maia, remaining in Beleriand.”

The Lord of Imladris did not fail to catch her lisp in pronouncing Elu Thingol’s Quenya name, and he certainly noticed Glorfindel’s own reaction to it, if his slight smirk was any indication.

They were not to know that in some of Lysandra’s most recent dreams, Elu’s ancient name featured quite a bit. While he and his beloved Melian fell under a bewitching spell of their own making, his followers looked for him through much of Beleriand, still foreign to the Elves. In fact, due to their despair and frustration, that particular reverie left her tired and grumpy upon awakening.

Though she had an intrinsic understanding of any language spoken or even written in her dreams, the names used by the Elves did not change in her unconscious perception. In fact, Lysandra’s whole retelling was a mixture of events and scenes she witnessed through visions, supported by terms she either remembered from reading Tolkien’s works or left a significant enough impression in her dreams.

She had initially wondered into how much detail she could go. Her sleep had been Ages-long, and there was much to be expounded on (if she could find the appropriate words), some of it personal to the subjects of her dreams, others of national and even continental importance.

Moreover, there were also secrets hidden in time, like the current location of the One Ring in the hands of a thieving and murdering Stoor hobbit. She had seen him and his terrible emaciation in what she could only call a nightmare. Upon awakening, she almost emptied the contents of her stomach.

He had been eating a live rat.

Nobody could know about the Ring, certainly not until the Fellowship’s Quest. Most importantly, Saruman, the current Chief of the White Council and ally to Imladris, had yet to be revealed as a traitor.

He must never find out about my existence, never mind my visions!

Lysandra decided to reveal only that of which her audience was already aware, as she certainly did not fancy a potential abduction by the ‘White’ Istar or somehow delaying Sauron’s ultimate banishment.

Hand gestures and Elvish names of various people, creatures, and places aided her in the retelling of the first Age of the Trees, including Melkor’s release, Fëanáro creating the Silmarilli and Varda hallowing them.

Upon reaching the point in her story whereby Melkor stole the jewels, slaying Finwë at Formenos, and Ungoliant destroyed the Two Trees, a heavy stillness descended upon the study. While the others mourned for the loss of Light cruelly stolen from their people, Lysandra and Glorfindel could not help remembering the terror of those moments. The former experienced it in a most immersive dream, despite being present in Aman at the time, and the latter in full consciousness, a memory so vivid not even his stay in Mandos could have dulled it.

With a subdued spirit, she spoke of Fëanáro deciding to pursue Morgoth to Beleriand, making his dreadful Oath, invoking Eru’s name and calling upon Manwë and Varda as his witnesses. She did not know the correct term for ‘oath’, but she had not the need to mention it. The progression of events, and the names of those associated with said deeds, more than made up for her deficient vocabulary.

She would have preferred to skip the next scenes, but knew it was a necessary evil, for those events helped shape Arda itself. She went over the kinslaying at Alqualondë, the Ñoldor stealing the Telerin swanships, and Námo proclaiming the Doom of the Ñoldor. Her audience appropriately made the connection between her uttering Fëanáro’s name followed by ‘Beleriand, Losgar, Ñolofinwë, Helcaraxë, Arafinwë, and Tirion’.

They knew their history quite well. One had even lived through it. An unyielding sort of light appeared in Glorfindel’s eyes, as if the horn call to march over Helcaraxë had just echoed in the still air, and he prepared, in both spirit and flesh, to follow it. He had been ready (was still ready) to follow his Lord and King, be it to victory or to ruin.

By contrast, Elladan and Elrohir would have wanted to see for themselves the greatness of the Noldorin hosts, their bright eyes doing little to hide their curiosity. Similarly, Erestor exhibited a scholar-like enthusiasm for the details hidden in her tale, grappling between his continued delight in a perfectly fine wine and fetching himself some parchment and quill.

As for Elrond, her words inspired an acrid sense of queasiness, its sting threatening to weary away his diligently maintained equanimity. Yet interrupt her he did not.

Having revisited many of her unbidden dreams during her stay in Middle-earth, Lysandra greatly preferred to forego bringing a picture as painful as the First Age under light yet again, lest she award her audience with yet more of her tears.

Thus, she settled for the names of Beleriand’s great battles to depict the flow of time through Dagor-nuin-Giliath (the Battle under the Stars), Dagor Aglareb (the Glorious Battle), Dagor Bragollach (the Battle of Sudden Flame), and Nirnaeth Arnoediad (the Battle of Unnumbered Tears).

By means of hand motions, she indicated when a Kingdom rose or fell, be it Nargothrond, Doriath, or Gondolin. None missed how quickly she recounted the names, with nary a stumble, yet the fall of Sirion, Elrond’s birthplace, was barely whispered. With her voice stretched thin and downturned eyes, she resembled a delicate fawn ready to scurry away at the slightest of catalysts. Her implied knowledge seemed unfathomably vast and comprehensive. There would be time yet for them to speculate, but for now, they kept their silence.

She moved onto Elrond’s parents’ arrival in Aman along with a Silmaril, acquired by his ancestors, Lúthien and Beren, from Morgoth’s own crown. Thereon, she mentioned the Host of Aman, led by Eönwë, Arafinwë, and Ingwion, motioning Morgoth’s defeat and subsequent collapse of the continent itself.

Afterwards, she went over the rise of many kingdoms, Elven and Mannish alike, in the Second Age of Middle-earth. When she finally got to Sauron, disguised as Annatar, arriving in Eregion and the creation of the rings, her audience stilled with foreboding. For some, the light in their eyes shadowed with grief, the memory much too fresh.

She held up nine digits to depict the nine rings made for Kings of Men, seven for the Leaders of the Dwarves, and three for the Elves. Elrond caught her gaze, intently holding onto it, and in her glowing eyes, his suspicions were confirmed – she had indeed been shown much.

The Lord of Imladris was certain that Irmo at best could facilitate such dreams. The actual visions, however, must have come from God Himself, for He alone had such omnipotent presence and ability.

Uncommonly stiff fingers clenched around the stem of their chalices, as she curled her hand into the shape of a ring, “Sauron created the One Ring, in the fires of Orodruin, in Mordor.”

She did not tarry on her statement, before indicating the fall of Eregion at the hands of Sauron, Elrond founding Imladris, as well as the destruction of Númenor. She spoke of Elendil, his sons, and their people, establishing the Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor.

“Eldar from Lindon, Imladris, Lothlórien, Eryn Galen, Dúnedain from Arnor and Gondor, Dwarves from Khazad-dûm all went to battle against Sauron, known as the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. In my ‘lórë’, Isildur used a shard of Narsil to cut the Ring from Sauron's finger, Sauron flew away,” her hand imitating the motions of a flying bird.

The tension in the room thickened, even the wonderful wine could not slake their thirst. It was not difficult to discern in the utterly still lines of their faces, how much they wanted her to expound on Sauron’s fate, but she could not do so. She had read enough literature on time-travel and prophecies, to know that her knowledge was more likely to lay ruin upon them all, than deliver salvation.

She chose to enumerate some great events of the Third Age, such as the segregation of Arnor into Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur, and their gradual collapse. Invoking Glorfindel’s name along with others, she spoke of the defeat of the Witch-king of Angmar at the Battle of Fornost, its outcome concluding with Prince Aranarth taking the title of Chieftain of the Dúnedain.

Her previous observation of Elrond led her to believe that his grief in losing Celebrían was yet to subside, and the books themselves mentioned how incessantly her sons had hunted orcs in retribution for their mother’s abduction. As such, in a manner that she hoped came off as natural, she made no mention of Celebrían’s torment, focusing on another notable event from that period – the birth of Rohan. She could not remember the exact name of the Riddermark in Rohirric, but Eorl’s true name ‘þuron’ coupled with Cirion and Calenardhon seemed to do the trick.

Toward the end of her discourse on the Kings of Rohan, of whom there had been only three so far, her speech gradually became slurred and eyelids heavy. Noting her fatigue, Elrond decided that they had heard enough, and in truth, the retelling had long since achieved its purpose. She was no servant of the Enemy, nor did she share his mal-intent. In fact, much woe would befall her, if she ever came under the scrutiny of those craving power.

The first tendrils of dawn fell over Eriador. Elrond still considered their guest a patient in need of rest, and he regretted not delaying the gratification of their own curiosity until a more suitable time. Lysandra had slept much since her arrival, so he hoped their interview had not taken too considerable a tall on her body.

Getting up, which barely registered with the half-asleep woman, he gently guided her toward the long chaise placed near the window. Despite the proximity to the lit fireplace, he worried she would be cold, for daybreak was always accompanied by a sharp chill. His eyes searched for an appropriate coverlet, finally resting upon the only quilt in the study – a cherished gift, its delicate make the embodiment of Arwen’s affection and dexterity. Elrond hummed a lullaby as he fetched the quilt and covered the already dozing woman with it.

Yávië arrived with patient grace in Imladris, the vibrant hues of its gardens and woods not losing in their vibrancy, nor the birds – in their chirping and trilling melodies. The sun’s molten gold brilliance crafted peaks of quartz and opal atop the Misty Mountains, and from their snows, the loud water of the Bruinen rushed down into the dell with great vigour.

That enchanting scenery of everything lovely and sublime greeted Lysandra upon her awakening. Repeatedly blinking, she had to reassess her whereabouts, her sleepiness giving way to a more alert state. She got used to waking up to the same sight countless mundane mornings spent in the Healing Wing, if one dared call the valley’s beguiling elegance mundane in any shape or form. As she took in her surroundings, she realised she was not alone.

She met five ageless faces, striking in their beauty and exuding power, all were dark-haired like the shade of night, except for one, whose hair rivalled the sun itself. On their brow sat wisdom, valour, and defiance in the face of enumerable threats and foes.

Having observed her confused state upon awakening, Elrond gestured toward a triple-panelled screen. Embroidered in silk, its depiction of golden star-shaped Elanor, cornflower blue Menelluin, and Niphredil of the purest white, added to the grandeur and dignity of the overall interior.

Returning to their steaming tea and honey tart with walnuts, the Elf-lords kindly offered her some privacy. Lysandra stood up on slightly shaky legs. She closed the distance between herself and the partitioning, behind which she was pleasantly surprised to find a copper basin etched with a leaf motif, a pitcher full with warm water, a simple but clean towel, and soap adorned with lavender.

Once appropriately refreshed, their guest greeted the Elves with a touch more rosy-cheeked and timidly smiling countenance. The tense lines upon her brow, which had usually accompanied her apathetic despondency, have softened, even if not fully, into what they could only describe as accepting and dared they say, not so lost and purposeless.

The Elf-lords had spent a great part of that morning in deep counsel, scrutinising each of her words, and even the pauses between them, for meaning and significance. Sleep was not a necessity for the Elven kind, hence the only interlude they allowed themselves was a short break to see to their bodily needs, after which they resumed their meeting.

By the time, the sun had reached its zenith, they believed themselves to have come to an agreement – Lysandra could not be allowed to leave Imladris except for the greatest of needs. For all intents and purposes, she represented a high-reward target for bounty-hunters, outside the protection of Elrond’s realm. At the very least, they decided to have her remain until Gandalf had the opportunity to see her and give his own input on the situation.

The Master of the Last Homely House did not find the situation palatable, yet he had little choice but insist on her staying, given that she looked as fragile as the most delicate of flowers. She had not been able to even lift up a sword, never mind protect herself. In fact, Elrond determined that due to her night visions, her new accommodations had to be in the family wing, where he could keep an eye on her or both eyes, as often as he could spare them.

Lysandra, of course, had no knowledge of any such developments. Nonetheless, she had been enlightened about a different kind of information. At last, after many dreadful weeks spent in fear and doubt, she received the answer she had been seeking all along.

That night, for the very first time, she did not dream of the past.

She dreamt of the future.

The far future.

Recalling her dream, she wondered if all of her previous visions had meant to prepare her for what she was to accomplish. It was no great feat by any means, such as re-uniting a kingdom or banishing a foe like Sauron, yet it was no trivial a pursuit either. She had not been given a full vision, there were no great details like what she was shown during the Ranger’s treatment, but she was given enough of a hint as to when, where, and whom. The ‘what’ was still under question, but she could hazard a guess. Regardless, she had plenty of time to ponder on it, centuries in fact.

As much as her heart ached at the knowledge, Lysandra’s way home was barred. That was a certainty, as was her quest.

She used to believe she was meant to mend flesh, but God seemed to think differently.

She would heal fëar, or one fëa in particular.

There would be much to learn, and she would accomplish it all. There would be not the least amount of slacking. Nothing less than perfection would satisfy her, for the cost of being given such a task came at the expense of losing her loved ones.

She would complete her task and it would be just enough.

It had to be.

The pleasant fragrance of the served tea stung her nose, akin to a blaze it travelled through her lungs. The steam coming from the cup caused perspiration to form on her lower lids.

Lizzy, there’s nothing that a cup of tea can't fix.

She could almost hear her mother say those words. Even when Lysandra nicked her shin on sharp pruning shears, a cup of tea had been the best cure for her tears, and not the actual bandage on her leg.

Lysandra imagined it was her dearest mama who prepared the soothing brew in her hands, and her heart quivered less in its cage. She took a sip, and its floral taste washed away the bone stuck in her throat.

She smiled.

Her companions, as perceptible and charitable as always, allowed for her moistened eyes to regain their serenity. Beholding her smile, they felt glad and responded generously in kind.

As the realm’s main host and Master, Elrond felt obliged to be the one to apprise her of their joint decision regarding her future, or near future. However, they had also agreed to first ascertain how she came to Middle-earth and her own intentions. If like the Istari she had been given a mission, they could not in good faith hinder her purpose, and would certainly help her, as well as provide shelter and protection on her quest.

“Lysandra, good day to you,” he greeted her in Quenya, which from his previous observations she seemed to favour, nodding politely.

She bobbed in return and tried out the words. She looked puzzled for a few seconds, her eyes roaming around the room, though most likely the item she searched for was hidden among her memories and not the study’s interior.

“It’s ‘aurë’! ‘Aurë’ as in ‘utúlie’n aurë’, yes? Good day to you, too,” she animatedly repeated again in her own tongue. The greeting was something more likely to be found in a Dickens book rather than the streets of modern-day Britain, but it was not unknown to her.

The Elf-lords were quite amused by her enthusiasm, some louder in expressing their mirth than others. Elrond’s own smile favoured those of the more indulgent and fond variety, inclining his head in confirmation to her correct guess.

“Lysandra, we, Glorfindel, Erestor, Elladan, Elrohir, and I, have something to ask you,” he indicated to their company and then toward her. She seemed to have understood their intention, as her eyes focused on him with undivided attention. Whether it was to catch any other familiar words among his, or to discern his next message, he could not guess, nonetheless he continued. “How did Lysandra come from Aman to Endórë? Lysandra, Aman, Endórë.” He pronounced the words with care, lest she misinterpret their query.

For a moment, Elrond’s fears seemed to be proven true. The slight frown on her face indicated a pensive state, perhaps even confusion. Then her countenance cleared, like the sun re-appearing from behind clouds, and she gave them an awkward shrug.

“Lysandra does not know,” she replied in English, shaking her head for further clarity. “Elladan and Elrohir found me in water, right? I remember being wet. A Vala, like Ulmo, or Eru, perhaps?”

“Most of it, I did not understand, but I’ll hazard a guess that she doesn’t know.”

“Your input is as invaluable as ever, brother,” remarked Elrohir in slight exasperation.

Elladan smirked in reply, which only seemed to further aggravate his twin. Erestor pinned the duo with an unimpressed look, before returning his attention toward their father.

“Elrond, do you believe we have better chance of finding out her purpose?”

“There is only one way to find out,” Elrond replied with a soft sigh.

Without speaking the language, he could not directly ask her what she planned to do, if anything at all, so he endeavoured to use similar methods to her previous ones. Addressing her, he mentioned Elladan and Elrohir finding Lysandra in the river Gwathló. In reply, she smiled with gratitude toward the twins, who had paused their squabbling and answered her with their own wide grins.

“Lysandra arrived in Eriador, near Eregion” she confirmed her knowledge of the river’s location.

Elrond nodded, and then mentioned the name of the first King of Rohan, second, and third. She had arrived during the reign of Aldor, so he posed the question as to what Lysandra would do during the reign of the fourth, fifth, and so on King. Her previously displayed intelligence inspired trust in her ability to recognise his intent.

His faith was rewarded through more animated nodding from her, as she spoke in her own tongue, presumably expressing her comprehension.

“Lysandra will stay in Imladris, if your permit it. Lysandra, Imladris, Lord Elrond, yes?” her head softly slanted to the left.

At the obvious meaning behind her query, the whole room exhaled with ease. They had been worried about her reaction to them asking, insisting, upon her remaining in the valley, at least for a while. As she herself chose to live there, and for quite a considerable time at that, they could let go of the guilt they felt, hoping to maintain a harmonious relationship with the woman.

“Lysandra, you are most welcome to stay in Imladris for as long as you wish,” stated Elrond, with as much formality as the occasion required under those circumstances. He gave her a deeper bow than just a polite nod, and was pleased to see her own curtsy, as the host and guest formally acknowledged their status.

“Well, now that’s out of the way, let the poor woman have some cake. She’s barely eaten anything since yesterday,” Elladan grumbled as he pushed a small platter with a piece of cake toward Lysandra.

He did not seem to realise that she lacked a fork, which was something Elrohir sought to correct immediately. Yet he was too distracted sending pointed stares toward his brother to realise that the fork he offered was not entirely within her possession, when he let go of it.

Lysandra found Elrohir’s appalled look at his own faux-pas much too humorous. She perceived no offence in the act, despite the younger twin’s opinion to the contrary.

“If a fork falls on the floor, somebody will knock on the door!” Her eyes shined with laughter, completely forgetting that they could understand naught of what she spoke. “That is what my Großmutti has always said, and you won’t believe it, but it always turned out to be true! I wonder who is going to come!”

No sooner did she finish voicing her thoughts that her eyes clouded, and loud gasps resounded through the stillness of the study. Two brilliant facets of the moon replaced her usually and unusually glowing green eyes. Those, who had not previously been witness to such an occurrence, had lost their need to breathe or even blink. Elrond alone was not as taken by surprise, but neither less curious was he.

Then as suddenly as the change happened, it reverted, and Lysandra herself looked a bit taken aback. Slowly blinking, as if she was putting all of her thoughts back into a semblance of order, she pointed toward the entrance, saying just one word. A name.

“Lindir.”

A polite knock rang as loud as a battering ram.

“Enter,” Elrond’s voice took on an uncharacteristically guttural tone.

The door opened with nary a sound.

Breaths not yet recovered, the Elves’ hearts stilled in a collective freeze, as if the sharp sting of Helcaraxë turned them to ice statues, their faces ethereally beautiful, if rather stunned.

“My Lord Elrond, Arahad, son of Aravorn, has recently arrived in the Valley and made a request for an audience with you,” announced the newcomer with a respectful bow.

“Please, relay my greetings and apologies to him. I’m afraid we are not yet finished with our current meeting. I promise to receive him at my earliest convenience,” said Elrond. “Thank you, Lindir.”

Chapter Text

Upon its founding, the Valley of Imladris was meant to be a refuge for the weary and the hunted, for the injured and the suffering. Elrond had always been grateful to have come upon the ravine. It had sheltered and alleviated the many ails of his army, of Celeborn’s warriors, as well as of those refugees, who had been most fortunate to escape the Sacking of Eregion. Later, as Sauron advanced toward Lindon, numerous victims of his cruelty from all over Eriador joined Elrond’s haven.

A stronghold it had been from the very start, a blessed one at that. Within its confines, many a gruelling year were spent withstanding Sauron’s siege, and millennia later, the attacks of the Witch-king of Angmar, Chief of the Nine. Nevertheless, in time its significance in Elrond’s heart swelled until it overcame his fondness of Lindon, much to Gil-Galad’s chagrin, who grieved the distance between himself and his best friend and Herald. Bittersweet sentiments aside, for Elrond the stronghold had become home.

He had always tended to associate home with loved ones and no exact places in particular. His first recollections painted a home on a cliff, not quite tower-like, overlooking the endless bay and the ships moored to the quays, like a shepherd guarding its flock. Often, his memories were illuminated by an all-encompassing brightness, which tempted and entranced any who dared look within. Elrond had never dared. Yet he remembered well enough, how the light refracted and reflected in the depths of his mother’s grey eyes.

Later, throughout most of his unorthodox childhood, home was a series of constantly shifting camps, and he had come to cherish it dearly, and miss it just as much. He and his brother Elros were given shelter and protection, provided the finest training and an education befitting the scions of two royal bloodlines, but most importantly, they were showered with love. Their notion of family had been stripped down to its bare bones and essence – parent and child, nurture and growth.

Elrond had never known more freedom than in those days wandering about Beleriand, in search for patches of land unpolluted by Morgoth’s blight. Looking back, that feeling stemmed from not being laden by duties and responsibilities, which, throughout Elrond’s long life, accumulated and amplified until his burdens matched vast mountains in both heftiness and gravity. Their liberty also came at a cost, but for the two young Half-elven boys, the cost was neither transparent nor explicit. They came to appreciate (and grieve) its true value in time.

Later still, home was found within the confines of any refuge Elrond could appropriate within Lindon’s premises, for however little time possible. During those moments of solitude, he mourned the sundering from his unconventional family and closest kin in Middle-earth. His rather ostentatious chambers in the King’s palace slowly morphed into a semblance of home by virtue of his blossoming friendship with Gil-Galad. He also came to hold dear others such as Celebrimbor, Galadriel, Celeborn, Círdan, and Erestor. He was well-liked and esteemed by a good number of Lords and Ladies, Councillors and Chiefs of minor factions and Elven houses. Not to mention, he had the good fortune to regain his close relationship with a few friends from his previous family, Hyarindion among them.

Imladris was perhaps unique in that it became home entirely of its own merit. He cherished each pebble, tree, or vine. He loved his demesne from the vibrant heather, flourishing along the hidden paths like a faithful guide, to the great white stones, which they had carved and enhanced through Song, laying them into the stronghold’s very foundation.

Elrond’s affection for the Last Homely House further magnified with each new addition to the household, of which most significant and beloved being his union of soul and flesh with Celebrían, and the birth of his children, Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen.

His wife no longer wandered through the Halls of Imladris, but her presence remained, and Elrond deeply breathed in the air of the tranquil late afternoon. Mayhap so that the memory of her could seep into his lungs, through his blood, and into his very fabric, or perhaps so that he could find consolation in the embrace of a ghost, after the tangible had been cruelly denied to him.

Glorfindel, a loyal companion through many sweet winters and even more bitter ones, perceived the Elf-lord’s queer mood, and approached him with a slow gait, allowing Elrond the opportunity to refuse the company. The Balrog-slayer would never begrudge his friend a few moments of respite or the chance to ponder over his own thoughts in peace.

However, Elrond asked for neither privacy nor time. He turned to face Glorfindel, though his eyes remained trained on the magnificent view allowed by the high gallery they currently occupied.

“Has the matter been settled?”

“Aye, Gaeleth was quickly called upon to help Lysandra,” confirmed Glorfindel. “Thankfully, she seemed less embarrassed when I left her in Gaeleth’s care. After all, there was nothing she could have done to avoid the situation.”

A quick dip of his chin marked Elrond’s response.

Earlier, out of the blue, Lysandra became agitated and ended their interview in haste, leaving them all in a fluster. Glorfindel was tasked with chasing her, whereas Elrond saw to Aravorn’s son in private. The golden haired Ellon wondered if Elrond’s pensiveness was due to Lysandra’s newly discovered abilities or his meeting with Arahad.

“I have yet to see Arahad, I hope he had a less perilous journey than his Rangers did yesterday. Has he any tidings to convey from his father?”

“Young Arahad is in good health, though justly upset to have so many of his kinsmen injured,” said Elrond. “They should all make a full recovery, and we agreed they would spend the remainder of their convalescence here. With their current numbers stretched fairly thin, safeguarding as vast a territory would be a struggle. Although this had not been his initial purpose in coming here, he asked for my counsel. Before I give him my answer, I would like to hear your thoughts on this.”

In charge of both the defensive and offensive measures employed by the warriors of Imladris and their means to do so, Glorfindel’s input was invaluable. It perhaps held the most weight with Elrond on all things related to warfare.

The Captain deliberated over the question with his characteristic meticulousness. He always ensured to keep himself well apprised of the Rangers’ numbers and scouting routes, as well as the locations of sighted groups of orcs and other foes. Then he considered the needs of the Dúnedain, and particularly at that time of the year – their ongoing harvesting, which was likely to take quite a few more weeks. Next, he went over the Elven forces, whose presence might be spared from Imladris for a short while or to whom they could appeal for more support.

“We should be able to send at least six of our sentries, and I shall send a message to Gildor Inglorion and his companions, asking for further assistance. I believe he would gladly support this endeavour.”

Thoughts in line with Glorfindel’s proposal, Elrond gave his consent to proceed. “Arahad will be staying with us for a sennight or so. Let us hope word will reach Gildor quickly, and we might have good tidings for him to bring his father. Aravorn and his people would certainly have an easier time of it.”

“Aye, and how is he? Does he still roam the Wilds of the North without significant challenge and aging joints?” the warrior smiled with fondness, thinking of the man whom he helped train almost a century ago.

“If my memory of him is as faithful as it once was, nothing could stop him from wandering the hinterlands of Arnor, challenge or no challenge,” the healer’s soft huff spoke much of his own affection toward the elderly Chieftain. “As for aging joints, recently, and almost surprisingly, he has recognised his life’s twilight years fast approaching, and bid his son settle down and provide an heir. It was in fact tidings of Arahad’s upcoming nuptials which brought him hither.”

“Sounds imminently sensible, I would say,” remarked Glorfindel, jovial tone revealing just how pleased he was with the news. “Arahad has greatly suffered after losing his beloved so soon into their betrothal. It would gladden my mind to know him happily settled with a wife. He’s almost into his sixth decade, after all.”

“Indeed. Arahad seems quite enthusiastic about the union as well. She is a distant cousin on his mother’s side, and just as adventurous by the sounds of it. I do look forward to their young ones gracing our halls, with laughter and mischief.” Elrond’s eyes glowed full of wistfulness and longing. There was no sight more touching than a child’s carefree and innocent joy as he discovered the mysteries of the world.

“Hopefully, not too much mischief. If they are anything like their sire and their sire’s sire, I believe we shall find ourselves in quite a spot of trouble.”

“And since when has Glorfindel, the Balrog-slayer and emissary of the Valar, developed a distaste toward trouble? I could have readily entertained the thought, if you had not been the one to teach my sons how to wreak havoc,” said he, throwing Glorfindel a judging look.

“Me? Well I never!” protested the warrior, in a blatant display of poor acting. “A couple of pranks does not make it an education, nor was it a full instruction of any kind. They have long since exhausted any desire on my part to indulge their escapades. That you cannot misconstrue.”

“The last part I will allow, yet the fire you have sparked in them can be contained no longer, by any of us. In fact, stories of your heroic escapades merely served to fan it further. Their mother had more talent at stifling it, but even she would relent to their sweetened pleas. Perhaps Lady Galadriel alone holds any sway over them, yet she minds not their rogueries. I am certain that she even silently endorses it.” Elrond tried in vain to smooth away his quickly forming frown, which ever faithfully accompanied his concern for the twins.

“I would beg to disagree. They hold the utmost respect for you, even if they do employ subterfuge in both complying with your wishes and having their own way. Their actions regarding Lysandra have been nothing but praiseworthy.”

The Peredhel inclined his head in agreement, yet voiced not his own ruminations. Their otherworldly guest engaged almost all of his thoughts, and her possessing foresight of potentially calamitous proportions had been at the forefront of his mind, ever since they were made aware of it.

Elrond might have offered no remarks of his own, but the sudden arrival of Erestor, along with the twins, promised much chatter, and likely not of the discreet kind.

“I say Lysandra certainly knows how to make a dramatic exit… and entrance too, now that I think about it,” Erestor nodded to himself. “I may not be well versed in healing, but to my limited knowledge on the Edain, there is little to no control over such matters of the flesh. There is no shame in being human.”

“You are correct in thinking so, however it is not exactly polite to make comments on such delicate topics like a woman’s menses,” Elrond pinned Erestor with a meaningful gaze.

“Well, it is not like I went around shouting for the world to hear how she fled our company with a shriek. One would have thought she had a fire-breathing drake upon her footsteps! I am surprised Glorfindel had been able to trace her all the way to the outer washrooms” exclaimed the Chief Counsellor. “She’s certainly fleeter of foot than her delicate constitution might suggest.”

“You are announcing it to the world just as we speak, Erestor,” pointed out the Captain, unimpressed.

“Yes, Erestor,” said Elladan, loath to let such a rare opportunity slip by, “Are you not constantly admonishing us for being uncouth? You have certainly changed your ways.”

Glorfindel, who had limited tolerance for the twins’ tomfoolery, having had to chase the two on many an occasion, snorted at his boldness. “Those who behave like a pair of louts deserve likewise treatment.”

In their efforts to acquit themselves, the two siblings started sputtering and talking over each other. Nobody paid them much mind, and long-since used to their antics, Erestor returned toward their previous subject.

“Make no mistake; it is no gossip, only one’s scholarly earnestness. My old friend, how can you not see the implications?”

“Earnestness? Sounds a great deal more like zeal to me. And what implications could there possibly be?”

“Why, very exciting ones, Glorfindel!” declared Erestor, his eyes taking on a fervour heretofore rarely observed. “I have already formed half a dozen or so theories on whether Lysandra, who now we have confirmed is capable of begetting children, is more likely to have mortal or immortal offspring, and whether the sire’s own status on mortality might have any impact on it! There is certainly much to think about.”

“By the Valar, is there?! Whatever for?” cried Elrohir.

The others, similarly befuddled, levelled Erestor with a look, which could only be described as questioning his soundness of mind.

“You could not possibly understand, young one,” Erestor shook his head, his lament genuine and undisguised. “I have no doubt you have heard little of this, but in the golden days of Lindon, the lore masters, including myself, spent many a debate on Manwë’s special dispensation for Elwing and Eärendil’s line. I am talking, of course, about their most singular choice in accepting the Gift or not.

“The argument was rather centred on Dior Eluchíl’s fate and whether he was counted among the Edain. Indeed, there was much polemic on the subject and many contentious points were analysed at length, from the veracity of Manwë’s exact wording, to liberties taken in the translation of said doom. We had never really achieved a consensus,” Erestor sounded most wretched at the uncovered mystery. “Since then, only one other person has been born in Middle-earth under similar circumstances – Galador, son of Imrazôr and Mithrellas of Lothlórien. He, as you well know, became the first Prince of Dol Amroth and was certainly mortal, and so have been all of his descendants. This new opportunity is heaven-sent!”

“Heaven-sent?” Glorfindel stressed with aplomb, the deep lines of his frown testimony to his rapidly depleting levels of patience. “I would say, Erestor, that you have enjoyed the afternoon tea a bit too much to have your attention employed in such ill-timed pursuits. We have a far more urgent concern and task thrust upon us when it comes to Lysandra. Need I remind you of her other Gift?”

 “Well, if my curiosity of a scholar has given cause for offence, it was done without premeditation. Henceforth, I shall endeavour to indulge them in the solace of my own thoughts, lest they disturb your sensibilities.”

To the side, Elladan and Elrohir watched on with barely restrained smirks. Instances such as this, whereby the golden warrior was truly cross with anybody aside from the twins, were very few and far between.

Rivalling Elrond in age, Erestor, since his time among Lindon’s best scholars, had been well known for his love of sophisticated and elaborate academic essays. Glorfindel, however, found them too verbose, verging on grandiloquent. If in his first life, he would have likely praised such pieces of literature at leisure, much of his admiration for embellished and fancy prose had wilted away with the House of the Golden Flower and his fall into the abyss. He had learnt to place good sense and practicality above all else.

Elrond preferred his household’s chief members not to be at odds, so he reminded the both of them that whichever of the two subjects they wished to pursue required utmost confidentiality and privacy, and a very public terrace was certainly not an appropriate choice.

“Time is of the essence and we must ensure Lysandra can cope with her life here and whatever mission she has been appointed. Erestor, I would ask that you to prepare all suitable materials for her lessons in Sindarin. We shall start on the morrow. I imagine she will insist on Quenya as well, but that can wait, whereas our vital need for efficient communication with her cannot. We have not a moment to waste, lest she be endangered and we be none the wiser.”

“I shall do so at once. What of the curriculum? Shall I prepare a draft for your approval, as well? Moreover, when would you deem it best for me to hold the lessons?”

“Please, forgive me, and know that my decision has nought to do with my lack of faith in your abilities, Erestor, but I shall be the one to teach her Sindarin, Quenya, and anything else that might appeal to her. I will prepare the study plan myself.”

“How come?” Elrohir asked his father. In the past, Erestor had taught many an elfling and Dúnedain, including quite a few of their Chiefs. His father had already granted countless concessions to their guest, and the tally only kept increasing.

“Not for the abundance of free time, I would wager,” commented Elladan, his brow lifted in surprise.

“Indeed, free time is not something I can boast of,” Elrond attested. “However, given the circumstances, if what happened in my study earlier today were to happen again, I would like to be the first, and potentially, the only one to know, whether the matter is exceptionally delicate or grave.”

“Are we talking about the menses,” the word was spoken in the lowest of hushes, “or about the uh… – eyes situation?”

Elrohir evidently required elucidation, though his father was not exactly amused. “Either and both,” was his terse reply.

“Right you are, Elrond. We cannot allow for any breach of information. It must stay contained to the best of our abilities,” Glorfindel’s stance was most resolute.

The others shared it as well, and excusing himself, Erestor departed from the gallery, seeing to his Lord’s instructions. The twins, concerned that they would have little chance of spending time with Lysandra in the near future, went for a visit in her newly allocated chambers, very conveniently placed near theirs’.

“Should you not stop them?”

Elrond smiled in reply. “Those two are likely to be more welcome than either of us.”

Thinking back on her easy manners with the two brothers, Glorfindel came to a similar conclusion. “Mayhap she knows and seen a bit too much of us, to treat us with the same camaraderie she graces the twins.”

“Perhaps. Yet I also assume the dynamics while novel are more accessible to her, therefore she feels a certain degree of comfort to behave like the young woman she is meant to be, than the grieving shadow of herself we had witnessed,” Elrond’s voice was but a whisper in the setting dusk.

His words were, as always, wholly sensible, but the more Glorfindel pondered over them, the less he felt at ease.

“Sibling dynamics come naturally, others not so much… Might she have lacked in parental or authoritative figures, in her previous life?”

“On the contrary,” the wise healer sighed, “I believe she held a great deal of love and esteem for such figures, and through us, she perceives that which she lost, and it pains her much to relive it every day.”

“Aye, you might have the right of it. In time, we shall discover the extent of her losses, though I doubt we should ever know it in full. Mithrandir might shed more light on this, but from what we have gathered so far, she cannot return to her family. Her bond to Arda would not allow it. She is immortal and we have proof of it in her very eyes, although I can still hardly account for it,” confessed the Captain.

Elrond said no more on the subject. Indeed, they had toed the line of what could be discussed in public quite enough.

Far off into the distance, the Lord of Imladris and his Chief Captain watched the peaks of the Misty Mountains be set afire in the crimson eventide light of Anar.

For Lysandra, home had always been a very concrete notion. Home was the farm in Kent, where she had been born and raised, surrounded by her most precious people, animals, and books. It was no ephemeral construct, but a place of great history, built in both stone and memory. She had travelled much throughout her short five and twenty years of living on Earth, but only one place had ever deserved the title.

Contrary to what some of her colleagues suspected, neither the surgical theatre, nor the library, nor her Master’s house were home. She loved each and one of those places, but none could truly compare. That is not to say, however, that her heart did not feel at ease in Japan, where her spirit sang with relief and gladness, or in lecture halls, allowing her to improve her mind, or in state of the art operating rooms, where she saved nerve endings, limbs, lives, and even dreams, as well as enriched her experience.

As she beheld the elegant furnishings of the rooms, which were meant to be hers for at least a few centuries (unless Elrond tired of her presence), she wondered if it would ever become home.

No longer a prisoner of her own devastating emotions, her analytical mind was working in overdrive. Her body had never been prone to languishing, yet she had done just that for many weeks, in the Halls of Healing. At last aware of Eru’s intentions and mission appointed to her, her skin crawled and underneath it, her blood almost boiled with the need to put things into motion, to put herself into motion.

Of course, the moment she behaved less like a statue and more like a living person, her body awakened to a rather embarrassing conclusion. Her cycles had always been punctual, much like her, and she did not know whether she was meant to celebrate their promptness on that particular occasion. She theorised that while under the influence of Estë’s enchantments, her body had been dormant, its functionality greatly reduced.

That was no longer the case. Evidently.

Half an hour’s worth of embarrassed hand signs and half-correct Quenya terms to both Glorfindel and Gaeleth had seen her freshly bathed, dressed in new garments, given a rather strange contraption of both leather and fabric to contain her bleeding, and ensconced in her new apartments with a cup of tea. She was quite certain that it contained cloves and Athelas, and though she did not generally experience pain with her cycles, she was thankful for the brew nonetheless, accepting it with a smile.

Well, God, what should I do now? Lysandra wondered, as she made herself comfortable on a wonderful chaise, built into the alcove of an arched five-panelled bay window.

She might not have asked the question with genuine intent, but an answer came, nonetheless.

The visions had no longer the same overwhelming effect as they once did, for she did not drop her cup, the fragile porcelain remaining quite secure in her hand. The twins appeared at her door just moments later, exactly like her waking-dream predicted.

Great was her desire to dig up a hole through the unyieldingly durable floors of Imladris and hide herself from their easy-going grins. She was most ashamed for her previous rude departure, as well as the very telling stain on her grey garment as she did so. The stain was thankfully easy to wash away (‘Thank you, Estë!’), her embarrassment less so.

The twins felt no remorse in interrupting a perfectly fine awkward moment, barging into the room uninvited and plopping themselves on the armchairs, placed on either side of her chaise.

They showed no sign of being upset at her earlier display, in either manners or smudged apparel. Instead, they spoke to her most animatedly. She guessed that they were regaling her with their account of some adventure, or perhaps with some embarrassing story of their own. Their kindness and compassion touched her to the core. She found their attempt overwhelmingly endearing, so much so that she burst into tears. Reminded of another vivacious boy recounting the mischief he got into around the farm, she could not stop her sobs.

Tried warriors they might have been, but neither Elladan nor Elrohir were trained in the arts of soothing a woman’s sorrow, thus mighty was their surprise when Lysandra placed her dainty cup and saucer down on a round ivory table, and embraced first one brother and then the other. Swift as it was, they felt her gratitude and regard.

That night, Lysandra fell asleep to the brothers’ melodic voices and dulcet tones.

From the moment Lysandra awoke to a new day, Gaeleth descended upon her with such enthusiasm that Lysandra almost crawled back under the covers of her four-poster bed (‘How and when did I get into bed?’).

Consisting of three sections, her chambers encompassed a private dormitory, a small washroom partitioned from the dressing room by an embroidered screen, and a seating area for receiving guests, which included the alcove, where Lysandra was certain she had actually fallen asleep.

She was veered from the bed to the still empty chamber pot, and once finished, into a tub half-full with steaming water. Hair secured with a great cloth, she was given no opportunity to reject the help before being stripped naked, thoroughly washed, and then dried. It took a few moments of speechless stupefaction for Lysandra to realise that her own non-responsiveness in the past had led to the Elleth behaving thusly. Another person’s habit was hard to break, especially when you did not share their language.

Well, I have nobody to blame but myself, concluded a humbled Lysandra.

The strange contraption from the previous day was changed and once more strapped onto her body. Lysandra was helped into a silky shift, followed by a stiff leather boneless corset, a double petticoat, and a light green dress, just as soft to the touch as the shift, but much less translucent. She was certain the fabrics must have had enchantments weaved into them, for both the petticoats and the dress made nary a rustle as she moved.

Next, Gaeleth tackled Lysandra’s veritable mane, carefully untangling all of the knots and repeatedly brushing each new fistful of hair. Hitherto, Lysandra had always worn her incredibly long tresses loose, or better said she had not paid it enough mind to do anything about it, aside from thinking how heavy it was.

This time, Gaeleth, in true Noldorin fashion, prepared to create a proper braided hairstyle for Lysandra. Not exactly capable of speaking her mind, but determined to have at least some say in her own appearance, Lysandra indicated where she would like her braids and approximately how they might look (unfortunately Lysandra’s knowledge was limited to French, Dutch, and Lattice braids). Gaeleth did not disappoint. As a result, part of the hair was most becomingly braided into a half-crown, embellished by a strand of pearls (‘Where have those come from?’), while the rest fell down Lysandra’s back in dark waves, its spiral curl more prominent toward the bottom.

Elves could not be described as hasty, but Gaeleth certainly lost no time in conveying Lysandra to the Master study, where Elrond awaited her arrival. Exchanging greetings (Lysandra remembered her lessons from the previous day), they partook from a simple but most satisfactory breakfast of tea, fresh bread, cold meats, eggs, and a few roasted vegetables.

After washing their hands, Elrond brought her to his great desk, carved in oak and walnut. It was fairly plain to recognise his intentions in arranging a space for her, along with a quill, ink, and quite a bit of blank paper.

She had a plausible theory as to what she was going to learn, but decided she would not be amiss in testing it either way.

“Quenya?” she asked, with a hopeful smile.

Elrond looked at her, one-third amusement and two-thirds fondness, shaking his head. “Sindarin.”

Her smile became more impish, as she suggested yet again, “Quenya?”

In a unique display of untempered delight, Elrond laughed, its sound rich and melodic. He shook his head yet again, and resolutely said, “Sindarin, Lysandra. Sindarin, then Quenya.”

Lysandra was not above jutting out her bottom lip, which she had observed her brother do on many occasions to rather successful outcomes, yet from her dreams and Tolkien’s written works, she had to acknowledge that most Elves and Dúnedain primarily spoke in Sindarin. Quenya was considered an overly formal tongue in Middle-earth, nevertheless she would learn it, particularly as it would prove important in achieving her goal, or at least she thought it would.

The paper was different to the one she was used to in her modern life, for it was somewhat thicker and texture less translucent, but it was smooth and homogenous enough that Lysandra felt that she would have no issues using it.

The quill, however, was a different matter. She had certainly used brushes in Japanese and Chinese calligraphy workshops, learnt various techniques and hand movements. She had also used a fountain pen, when singing important documents. Regardless, quills were somewhere in between, and altogether foreign in their application, unlike brushes and pens.

Elrond realised her lack of familiarity with the writing device from the very moment she picked it up, her hold clumsy and likely to crack the natural feather, which would render the pen unusable.

With patience, he adjusted the quill between her thumb and forefinger, so she would be gripping the area just above the nib. He guided her through dipping the quill into the glass inkwell, slowly drawing it up, before submerging the nib once more. He allowed her to find her own angle due to the need for ease of movement and comfort when writing. Thankfully, the position chosen by her was good enough, with the nib facing left as it should, given that she was right-handed.

He gave her free will to start writing, but had to stop her when she was about to puncture the paper or potentially dull the nib. Indicating that very light pressure was perfectly acceptable, he let her write again. He wanted to see what type of letters she had been taught.

Great was his surprise when she wrote something in what could be only different writing styles and even alphabets.

These could not possibly be the same tongue, thought he in wonder and not a small amount of curiosity.

Lysandra, then pointed to each written word and pronounced Elrond’s name in various languages: English, French (he found it rather amusing), Russian, Japanese, and Korean. Though she also spoke German and other Latin languages, including Latin itself, there was little difference in either pronunciation or writing, and she did not know the Chinese characters for Elrond’s name so she made do with the Japanese Katakana alone. The Korean she added mainly because she was well acquainted with the language’s alphabet, and thought he would appreciate the variety.

He did indeed appreciate it, and marvelled at the young woman in front of him. The meeting of kindred spirits had become a challenge in that day and Age, for those who esteemed both the healing arts and the written word were a far rarer breed than they used to be in Elrond’s youth.

Intrigued as he was by new tongues and possibilities, Elrond could not tarry on those, instead choosing to start his lesson.

“Lysandra, we shall start with your writing in Tengwar, using the Tehta mode. Are you familiar with Tengwar?”

What he understood from her excited answer were the words ‘Fëanáro’ and ‘Tengwar’, giving him impetus to continue with his explanation.

Taking a second quill, he created a table of four columns and six rows, where he wrote the available consonants in Sindarin depending on their shape or place of articulation, which corresponded to the distinctive feature of the sound it represented, and their manner of articulation.

The column series (‘témar’ he called them) were grouped by dental (Tincotéma), labial (Parmatéma), velar (Calmatéma), labiovelar (Quessetéma), and palatal (Tyelpetéma) such as /sh/, /j/, though the latter he did not include in the table itself.

The row series (‘tyeller’) were clustered in voiceless plosives, voiced plosives, voiceless fricatives, voiced fricatives, nasals, and approximants.

Each consonant was written and demonstrated by him in such a way that she could distinguish between one sound and the other, allowing her to write down the sound’s name in her own language. For example, both a dental and voiceless plosive like ‘Tinco’ stood for /t/, whereas the labial voiceless plosive ‘Parma’ stood for /p/.

Perhaps for others such a writing mode would have presented more of a trial, yet Lysandra already had quite an extensive experience in learning such types of alphabets in Japanese, Mandarin, and Korean. In fact, Korean seemed more similar to Tengwar than any other. At the realisation, her confidence considerably increased, given that she had learnt Hangul in just a few days.

In that moment, the task of being instructed in an entirely foreign tongue seemed much less daunting, having already taken the first step.

Encouraged by her ardour and perceptiveness, he moved onto other consonants, the use of diacritics representing vowels, consonant doubling, and nasal sounds.

He would have gladly gone onto teaching her numbers, pronouns, and simple verb conjugations, were it not for Gaeleth knocking on the door, reminding Lysandra of her somewhat delicate situation. The contraption needed new linen. Moreover, she found her stomach much too empty for the intellectual input, which was required by their academic endeavours.

Elrond graciously allowed her to excuse herself. His small and shy smile revealed the touch of bashfulness he likely felt, having permitted his enthusiasm get the better of him and let it slip his mind that she was still physiologically human, even if immortal in flesh.

Lysandra followed the Elf-maiden, paying little mind to her surroundings, her eyes sparkling more than ever, cheeks rosy and lips upturned. She felt like floating, a feeling she often associated with a satiated appetite for knowledge.

If heretofore she had always seen nothing but an interminable desolation awaiting her, now the future opened up in front of her with boundless possibilities and experiences.

There were so very many things she could learn, from new languages, to new crafts, and even healing!

All she needed to do was take a first step forward onto this new road.

Her home might have been left behind, but a whole new world lay ahead, and there were many paths to tread. A great many paths, indeed.

Chapter Text

It is said that the universe is change, and one’s life is what one’s thoughts make it. Indeed, in psychology, the ability to regulate one’s cognitive, behavioural, and emotional response in situations of change, novelty, and uncertainty is a key mental resource, called adaptability. Undoubtedly, to adapt is to learn, and humans, along with many other beings, begin learning even in the womb and go on learning right until the moment they pass on.

Any scientist of worth would be able to explain at least partially how such a miraculous feat is possible, for even the most basic of organisms start learning upon their creation through their cellular memory. Cells are capable of retaining information of past events and exposure to various factors, and even more amazing is that cells can adapt their response accordingly.

If cells can learn to adapt, so can humans. In learning to adapt, there would be suffering, there would be resistance, there would be compromise, and at last, there would be acceptance.

‘To live is to suffer’ had a Harvard psychologist once written, but Lysandra always disagreed with that sentiment. Her own belief was that to live was to learn, even if that included learning how to suffer and the purpose behind it. She was a faithful follower of Leonardo da Vinci’s belief that learning never exhausted the mind, and she certainly abided by it.

Her curiosity for the world and the secrets hidden within had fuelled her intense exploration both as a child, and later on as a prodigy doctor in the making. She would never settle for what was already discovered, tried, and accepted by the masses. Instead she would insist upon seeking new applications and unorthodox points of view or analysis, trying to expand both her knowledge and ability to help. Her Shishō ¹ had never been more animated than when she suggested she learn traditional medicine remedies to augment her abilities in Neurosurgery. A science of thousands years’ worth of wisdom warranted studying, and she did it with both passion and diligence.

Yet thrust into an alien world, burdened with unbidden Gifts, ladened with unexpected duties and quests, Lysandra had been made to confront her own preconceptions. She had been perhaps too naïve and even sheltered to have dismissed the psychologist’s words. She’d always thought of herself a quick and flexible learner, her accomplishments at so young an age only added credence to her belief, but to learn to accept loss, to learn to accept letting go seemed like an insurmountable task, as imposing and forbidding as the Pelóri ² themselves, and the Pelóri were yet to be conquered.

So she decided to bury that mountain of regret and pain deep within her heart, locking it away, and tightly guarded it as a dragon would protect its treasure hoard. That way, it would be easier to cope, easier to adapt. It would be easier to learn.

Or so she thought.

The day Elrond introduced family terms in Sindarin, something he would have certainly preferred to avoid but could not reasonably do, Lysandra realised the warden of her heart was but a paper dragon, nothing more than an intricate origami. From the moment he showed her how to write ‘naneth ³' using Tengwar, the quill, which she had already become proficient in using, punctured through the practice sheet. That was a first.

In truth, the indentation left on the paper was miniscule, yet to Lysandra it appeared as immense as the world itself.

‘Mother’.

Lysandra would never come to use that word to address her own mother. In fact, she would never be able to address her mother in any language. Never again.

Teacher and student alike were well aware of that.

Watery flowers appeared on the blank sheet.

The ink on the quill was left to dry.

Elrond softly glided his hands over her locks, trying to comfort her, much like he used to do for Arwen, when she was younger.

Never had he wished more than for Lysandra to be capable of ósanwe ⁴, so that he could offer her words of consolation, words she would be able to understand on an intrinsic level if not verbatim.

Were it not for her still limited Sindarin, he was surprised to discover that he would have been ready to share his experiences in losing his own mother and much of his family, if only it could help her fare with her own grief. Throughout his long life, he had spoken about his past with very few people. Even with his own children, he had communicated little about it, in the hope of sparing them any distress.

Elrond wondered what it was about their young charge that inspired such a response on his own part. Could it be because she was already aware of what happened from at least an outsider’s point of view, that he had nothing to hide? Or could it be that he saw much of himself in the face of one so bright and young, whose life was similarly upended, in a most severe and irreversible fashion?

Pensive, he called for hot water, and once received, he prepared an infusion of Osmanthus flowers. The herb had calming properties among many others, but most importantly it was freshly collected, and its fragrance alone helped create a peaceful environment. He had noticed how much comfort her daily cups of tea brought her, and in the absence of spoken words, he hoped the tea would do the trick.

Lysandra received her warm cup filled with a sweet aroma, reminding her of peaches. She held the dainty vessel with both hands, as if it was the most precious offering she had ever been bestowed.

“Mother always made tea for Lysandra,” cutting through the silence, she spoke in a stilted Sindarin, her voice stretched thin and tongue still adjusting to the new accent she had been made to use on a daily basis. “When Lysandra is sad, tea is best. Mother always said that.

There was so much more she wanted to say, but her vocabulary was not yet extensive enough, so she had to be content with those few sentences. Elrond’s wisdom was renowned for good reason, he understood what she tried to convey.

“Lysandra misses her mother.”

“Misses?” she asked when she could not understand the term.

“To miss. I miss…” he sighed. “I miss Celebrían, you miss your mother,” Elrond replied at last, his voice an octave lower than before.

Her reaction to his words was immediate. She pinned him with her gaze, and compassion was in her face, and an unyielding sorrow.

Then she got up from the desk, and silently filling another cup of tea. She offered it to him with a tremulous smile. “To miss. I miss mother, you miss Celebrían.”

That episode held two important outcomes for Lysandra. For one, she was made to reassess her coping mechanisms. She would no longer avoid thinking of her family, allowing herself to go through whatever emotional experience she might encounter, but neither would she let herself be caught unawares as happened that day. As such, she embarked on a deep exploration of her Gift, bestowed to her by God. She could not spurn it, so she intended to learn to use it, and use it well.

Námo, in proclaiming her Doom, promised many a riddle hidden and waiting for her in the Deeps of Time. He had not spoken in jest. Frankly speaking, she thought him quite incapable of jesting, but that was a different matter altogether. Her Gift revealed itself to be a mystery like no other. From the moment of its unveiling, her curiosity struggled beneath her breast, pushing her, inciting her to action. It begot an unquenchable desire for probing and careful examination.

Intimately acquainted with various methods of research, Lysandra created theories, study parameters, and introduced assumptions. Methodically, she verified and tested each of them, discarding them if they lacked in effectiveness or meaningful outcomes. What she studied was of course her means of communication with Eru, and in particular her ability to access visions of the past, present, and future upon request.

Through her investigations, she found that much of the past would be shown to her if she enquired after a specific person, in a particular place or time period. Requesting visions of the present worked in much the same way; as for the future, that was where the rules became more nuanced and multi-faceted.

If she wanted to see what she might be studying later in the day with Elrond, or when the twins were to visit her, or when she could expect Gaeleth’s knock at the door, or generally any action not performed by Lysandra herself, all she had to do was call upon it in a straightforward fashion. However, when it came to visions of Lysandra’s own actions, mainly when she was uncertain about what course of action she should take, she had to ask for permission. She could not inquire how she might carry out a specific action, what she could do is verify whether her goal was achievable and if she had been granted consent to do so.

Instead of asking ‘Eru, how do I reach the gardens?’, she would have to use ‘Eru, please tell me if I can reach the gardens’. To some it might seem a subtle or slight amendment, yet it made all the difference between God bestowing or withholding His guidance, which was of great importance to her. She found much comfort in following God’s directives, be it in moments of uncertainty or when unable to communicate her needs to the inhabitants of Imladris.

Through many an error and trial, she also learnt that her visions could vary in their presented point of view. Whether her enchanted sleep found her in Aman or Middle-earth, a great many number of her dreams had been displayed from a bird’s eye view, such as the drowning of the Ñoldor in the Sundering Sea, following the First Kinslaying. Less frequent were reveries where she was immersed in the scene itself, as it happened when she dreamt herself in the middle of the skirmish whereby Bellamdir got hurt.

Rarer still were those visions, through which the thoughts and ruminations of her dream’s subjects were laid bare to her. Those she dreaded most, for many a time she was able to feel those people’s pain, witness their shaken beliefs, behold their fears and hopes (often in vain), taste their wrath and drink in their despair. Intermittently, Lysandra would be awarded with their joy and love, but her knowledge of their eventual fate did not allow her to join them in their blissfulness, it only added to her regret.

In the past, those people had been mere characters in a story, means through which Tolkien imparted his wisdom and teachings. Not even a bright mind like hers could have imagined such a scenario, whereby she was able to behold the real incarnations of so many heroes from Tolkien’s works. They were no longer just symbols, they were people of flesh and desires, of sacrifice and devotion, of victories and ill ends. To be in their skin even for a few moments in her dreams, waking or otherwise, made her all too aware of the terrifying power her Gift embodied.

It was a fearsome thing to wield, her Gift, but it was not without limitations. Unlike night-dreams, during which she was given inherent understanding of any spoken tongue, her waking-dreams did not afford her the same courtesy. Her perception of them was entirely dependent on her conscious knowledge, which only served as further encouragement to learn Sindarin as quickly as possible, and move onto conquering many of the other tongues used in either Aman or Middle-earth.

In fact, Lysandra was utterly committed to mastering all of the languages Elrond could impart to her, and even those he couldn’t, for she had found just the way of achieving such an incredulous feat.

While she acknowledged that her Gift had its constraints, it had also presented her with a great opportunity. Through her conscious and deliberate probing of her waking-dreams, she had access to knowledge hidden even as far as the creation of Eä ⁵ itself. If her theories and analysis were correct, very little of the past was barred to her, and she meant to take full advantage of it, even if it meant taking classes with the young Finwioni ⁶.

‘One step at a time’, Lysandra reminded herself, as she repeatedly wrote in Tengwar the verb ‘to learn’.

For many yéni ⁷, Elrond’s life had attained a certain structure to it, developed a comforting pattern. While the occasional knots would appear here and there, there was nothing he could not unravel through either patience, wisdom, or healing Song, and sometimes a mix of all three.

For over a century, ever since the ill-begotten and cursed attack upon his wife, there had been quite a few changes to the flow of his thoughts, in the manner of his speech, and certainly in the significantly diminished curvature of his lips. Yet the past few months had brought even more fluctuation into his daily routine, indeed it had been irrevocably altered.

The sporadic appearance of Lysandra’s visions, throughout both day and night, ensured that he, along with his sons, Glorfindel, and Erestor, had to keep a watchful eye on the Gifted woman. She had to be sufficiently distanced from the residents of Imladris, lest her abilities became common knowledge. While Elrond did not doubt the loyalty of any of his or Aravorn’s people, even the most benign of remarks could lead to disaster. That was a lesson Elrond had been well versed in since his younger days, and that teaching had yet to fail him.

Elrond spent much less time in the Hall of Fire, and he was barely seen in the Mess Hall, for most of his time, meals included, were shared with Lysandra and the closest of his companions. Undoubtedly, they were not so cruel as to have the intent on keeping her segregated for long, but only in so far that she learnt to wield both their speech and her own Sight, without divulging the secrets of her rebirth in Arda. They had yet to come to an agreement on an official background for her, which they could offer to the greater populace. They hoped that once her knowledge of Sindarin was developed enough, they could cooperate together in creating a plausible identity for her, and her Gift was likely to be of great aid in attaining said goal.

Gaeleth was perhaps the only other Elf, who interacted on a regular basis with Lysandra, as the Elleth ⁸ diligently assisted her each morn and eve. They had little choice in the matter, given that Lysandra needed a female’s assistance, and they had no means to provide it themselves. Thankfully, the oddest thing, of which Gaeleth could accuse the young lady, was not her queer eyes, but her somewhat eccentric dance routines.

Elrond later learned from Lysandra that the dance was something called ‘yoga’, and she was quite amused to discover that the ancient practice had been likened to dancing. When he enquired why she never performed her exercises outside the confines of her room, the flush that threatened to make its way across her cheekbones had been quite telling. Apparently, practicing yoga required a certain amount of privacy, and Elrond was glad to oblige her the solitude.

Nevertheless, Lysandra seemed to pay little heed to her sheltered living arrangements. As a matter of fact, her zeal for studying reminded him in no small measure of another famous, or perhaps infamous, person – the very same one, who had created the Tengwar alphabet, which Lysandra so admired and delighted in copying over and over again.

Observing her enthusiasm for the written word, the twins, in a most thoughtful (and rather astonishing) act of chivalry, fashioned a booklet of delicate and precious paper, bound in green leather, which she seemed to favour (there were only so many ways in which one could wear green, after all).

Elrond was almost certain that the squeal, which followed the gift-giving of said booklet, must have been heard from his study throughout the whole valley, and it would not have been an exaggeration to believe that even Manwë’s Great Eagles had heard her from their nests far above Imladris, atop the Misty Mountains. She had enthusiastically embraced both Elladan and Elrohir, and even Elrond and Glorfindel got themselves a hug, by doing little more than gracing the room with their presence at the right time.

With repeated words of gratitude, she immediately started filling the booklet with the many words she had learnt, writing them in Sindarin and their equivalent in her native language. When Elrond enquired about the sizeable column left empty to the right of the Tengwar, Lysandra’s face brightened from the intensity of her smile. “That is for Quenya, of course!”

It took a long while for the four of them to contain their mirth, and when Erestor came into the room to remind them of the cooling dinner in the family wing, they were still grinning widely and teasing a pouting Lysandra.

Time flowed like a river, and as Heraclitus aptly put it, one could not step into it twice. Time could not be reverted, nor could time be stopped in its course at any point. However, for Lysandra, who wielded a Gift like no other, time was of little consequence within the realm of her dreams, where any past events could be reviewed and analysed in much detail, and years’ worth of history could be surveyed in but a few minutes.

The realm of her visions were ensconced in their own universe, without being impacted by the space-time continuum of the physical world. Lysandra felt rather disappointed that she had not delved into the subject with more deliberation, when she had access to that type of information, particularly to the works of great minds like Albert Einstein. She was much intrigued by the nature of her dreams, yet she had no possibility of discussing her theories with the one Vala who was likely to know most on the topic – Irmo.

There was of course one who was both more accessible and able to provide some guidance, but Gandalf proved to be as elusive as Arien ⁹ was to Tilion ¹⁰, Glorfindel’s pursuit of him yet to be proven fruitful.

It was most fortunate that there were plenty of subjects with potential to captivate Lysandra, to the extent that the river-like flow of time evolved to resemble a great waterfall, much like one of those surrounding the Hidden Valley of Imladris with their merry gurgles.

The Enderi ¹¹ found the Master of the Valley and Lysandra in the middle of the Healing Hall’s herb garden, surrounded by upturned soil, compost, seedlings, and a great many plants and gardening tools. Elrond had hoped to surprise his inquisitive charge with a change of scenery and daily activities, only for his attempts at catching her unawares to be foiled once more.

It became apparent quite early on that his student was unfailingly fully aware of what material they were going to cover on any given day. No matter how much effort he put into preparing some exciting subject for them to examine, she was consistently in the knowledge and even made sure to make him aware of it, as well. It is not to say that she was not happy with the curriculum, quite the opposite, however he was somewhat forlorn not to see as much as a trace of surprise on her face.

As they became more familiar, Elrond was almost bewildered to realise, rather pleasantly so, that she was doing it on purpose, in the attempt to tease him. It almost reached the level of a competition between the two on who would be the first to voice the subject matter of the day. Their dynamics thusly developed a new pattern, creating a bridge between teacher and student, host and guest. It was a pattern the both of them came to cherish and enjoy.

Though he was the Lord of Imladris, no chore or task was deemed by him as too mundane or below his station, including gardening. In truth, he relished spending his time among medicinal herbs, whenever his other duties allowed him to do so.

Keeping in mind the interest with which Lysandra had beheld the Athelas when treating Bellamdir, Elrond meant to have her join him in the garden, eagerly awaiting her reaction once he revealed their tasks for the day. Lamentable as it was for Elrond, that morning the one who greeted him at the door of his study was not his student dressed in her usual lengthy silk dresses, but a Lysandra clad in a long tunic and leather leggings. Her clothing was quite noticeably borrowed from somebody much taller than her, given how much of the trousers’ length had to be shortened, by folding in the material at her ankles. Even her leather shoes showed signs of heavy use, quite different from her customary silk slippers.

In that moment, Elrond found Lysandra’s Gift particularly woeful. He did not shy away from voicing his grumblings to his spirited pupil, for which he was awarded with twinkling laughter in response.

On that merry note, the Healer and Doctor made their way toward one of the gardens, adjacent to the Healing Wards. Once settled, the Master Healer shared his knowledge on various plants, their specific care needs, methods of preparation, as well as their benefits, mostly using the terminology they had already covered. Lysandra was pleased to discover that some of the flora was already known to her, both from her formal studies and foray into traditional medicine.

“This one we call ‘Liquorice’ in my tongue, 'English ¹⁷',” she pointed toward the leafy plant with smooth husks. “In the ancient tongue, 'Latin', it is called ‘Glycyrrhiza glabra’. You might recall I mentioned that my people have different healing styles. In what we call traditional healing, the root of this plant is used in a different way, and it has a different name. In 'Latin', it is ‘Glycyrrhizae radix’, and in the tongue of those practicing traditional healing, the root is called ‘Gan Cao ¹²’. Its direct translation means sweet grass.”

With Lysandra’s fast improving Sindarin vocabulary, Elrond took much delight in learning about her world, and he couldn’t help but marvel at her extensive knowledge. Undoubtedly, he appreciated her quick mind and wit, yet her presence in Imadris also gave birth to an ache deep within his heart. Her death was certain to have brought unmeasurable grief to her family and loved ones, much like the unequivocal pain he had seen linger in her eyes.

She had died so young, only five-and-twenty. Such a bright soul…

Elrond’s compassion and empathy was perhaps chief among his virtues, but at times it also caused him great distress, for he could not help sharing the pain and sorrow of others, especially when he held them dear. Imladris had welcomed Lysandra for less than four months, yet having spent so much time together, Elrond developed quite a bit of affection for the young woman. Her presence had quickly become an intrinsic element of the Valley, as if she was always meant to be part of it.

The dull feeling in his chest slowly ebbed away, as he watched Lysandra plant the liquorice seedlings with a pleased and peaceful countenance.

He was about to prepare the soil for another batch of seedling plating, when Lysandra’s eyes suddenly changed shape and colour, two perfect moons making their appearance. She pointed toward the rose arch at the entrance into the herb garden.

“Elladan and Elrohir are about to arrive.”

His smile belied no dismay, yet his inner thoughts were once more unsettled. Her Sight per se did not bother Elrond, but her need to use it as often as she did caused him much concern. It was one thing to tease him by checking in advance their daily curriculum, but using knowledge of the future as a crutch to cope with her circumstances was a different matter altogether.

He was regrettably much too familiar with being thrown into the deep end of an untenable situation, whereby he found himself in foreign settings, surrounded by strangers through no choice of his own. He could not begrudge her the comfort such a Gift offered to her, but he feared the consequences of her growing dependence on it.

I rue the day I shall have to speak to her about it, yet neither can I let her become addicted to it, reasoned Elrond, his mind and heart conflicted over when and how he should approach that topic. He had a strong inkling that she would be most upset, and as much as he dreaded it, he could not let her continue living in her visions of the future for long, lest she be brought to peril by it one day.

His ruminations had to be cut short upon the arrival of his sons, whose entrance was accompanied by many a complaint from the twins in the otherwise calm and quiet environment.

“I cannot believe the two of you,” Elladan mock-cried, his face full of grievances. “Brother, look at this! Ada ¹³ said he and Lysandra were so very busy studying and had no time to spend with us on Enderi, a holiday meant for family reunions might I add. Yet here they are, playing with flowers and dirt, with us none the wiser.”

Elrohir could not let his brother act by himself, adding his own touch to their theatrical performance, “I am with you, brother. We have been abandoned most cruelly by our own father and dearest friend, under the guise of scholarly pursuits at that! For shame!”

“For shame!” cried his twin, plopping himself on the ground, akin to a damsel in distress. “They say blood is thicker than water, but why is the truth so different and so bitter!”

The two brothers seemed to have prepared a whole act, and who knew perhaps there was even an intermission and an act two in the works as well, yet Elrond did not bother finding out.

“If you are having a change of heart, and want to replace warfare with fine arts as your main craft, I would suggest you go to Lindir. There is no reason for you to disturb our scholarly pursuits, as you put it. We are not deserving of so profound a performance as yours.”

Hearing their father’s reprimand, Lysandra, who had already been struggling with maintaining an unaffected mien, burst out laughing, and the twins, who had been similarly conflicted between carrying on with their ‘woe be me’ act and giving into their mirth, couldn’t help but follow after her.

It took a while for the group to regain their bearings, but once they did, Elladan could not help his slight bout of sullenness, “Fine, no more jesting. Though in truth, tell me how you could leave us out of a day’s worth of amusement…”

Elrond, however, was having none of it, levelling his sons with an unimpressed brow, “If my mind does not fail me, and indeed I quite doubt that to be the case, I had invited you in the past to join me looking after the garden. Your answer was to give me an excuse about prolonged sentry duties and scuttle away from home for months.”

“Well, it is important to safeguard our realm,” chimed in Elrohir to their defence, not that Elrond could be so easily assuaged.

“Is that so? Why is that I remember you going to Mithlond ¹⁴? On the other side of Eriador.”

The twins’ faces displayed a most peculiar expression, as if uncertain whether they were embarrassed or caught in their own trap.

“Well, Ada, that was then, and this is now,” explained the eldest of the two, shamelessly continuing, “The circumstances have changed considerably.”

“Have they now?”

“Absolutely! Back then Lysandra was not with us, now she is,” Elrohir stated with aplomb, while sharing pleased looks with his brother, mentally congratulating each other for their quick wit.

Elrond did not even bother reasoning with them, whereas Lysandra, who could only follow the gist of the conversation, shook her head at the mischievous duo. “I did not know you held me so dear. I am very honoured.”

“But of course! We do hold you in high esteem, I would go as far as saying that you are almost like a little sister to us, well… a second little sister,” Elladan corrected himself after a quick pause.

Though his eyes were full of humour, his voice was nonetheless genuine. He had meant his words and most importantly, Lysandra understood them.

This was the first time in a very long while that Lysandra felt astonished. The bone lodged in her larynx left her unable to speak, and her eyelashes quivered like the wings of a hummingbird. She tried smiling, but the nerve-endings around her mouth would not heed the central command, leaving her lips twitching and trembling.

The twins had witnessed quite a few instances of her dissolving into tears over the course of her stay, and sensed that yet again they had overwhelmed her. In the hope of restoring the previously harmonious ambience, which had abruptly deteriorated, the twins were about to employ their ‘woe be me’ theatrics once more, when Lysandra gently cleared her throat, before adding in a soft voice, “My fëa ¹⁵ is as old as Arda, my hröa ¹⁶ as old as the Pelóri, and I am the little sister? Your sense of order is all wrong, dear Elladan.”

Relieved by her reply, the twins immediately sought to disabuse her of the notion that she was older than them.

“Your hröa might be as old as the Pelóri, but you spent most of that time sleeping. It does not count! You are much much younger. I say, you are the youngest among us and that’s that,” proclaimed Elladan, feeling victorious in the absolute veracity of his statement. Even Elrond seemed to agree with their sentiment, if his head nods were of any indication.

Lysandra wanted to answer that unexpected call to debate, yet her speech was not yet evolved enough to accurately get her points across, so she decided to follow Elrond’s previous example in ignoring the twins.

So it was, that on the first day of the Enderi, father and sons were able to enjoy Lysandra’s increasingly vexed pouting much to their amusement.

Chapter Text

Years of the Trees, 1^st Age, 1,449 (before the creation of the Silmarilli)

Vision – Fëanáro’s ¹ point of view

How could he show them? How might he convince them and his father, that Finwë still had need of him, his first-born son and legitimate successor?

His existence was not the blight upon the Ñoldor that Ñolofinwë ² and his faction of sycophantic followers believed him to be, dripping their venom from their crimson-stained lips and forked tongues.

Did they believe themselves so proficient at acting, that they thought he could not feel their judgemental eyes drilling holes through his person, whenever he had no choice but expose his back to them? Were they that incognizant of their own mal-intent to assume it leaked not from behind vibrantly hued silky fans? Did they perhaps presume him too blind to notice the shadow of their contempt following him about the bright ballrooms of his father’s palace, akin to a spectral presence?

Each deeply lined frown on their brows, each derisive snigger falling upon his ears like a harsh screech of the wind, they all transmuted into arrows, no matter how metaphorical, sent his way to pierce through him, hoping to crumble his Spirit of Fire. And each time his father remained ignorant of the discarnate attempts upon his scion, the arrow broke into pieces, leaving necrotising shards inside of him.

The thought of them alone, filled the air inside the forge with a chocking dark miasma, so thick he could almost see the particles within its fabric.

“This is not to be borne,” Fëanáro whispered into the emptiness of his only refuge in all of Aman.

He stared into the hearth devoid of fire, not even the dimmest of embers could be made out. With each moment spent in the gloom, his resolve strengthened.

He would create something of such greatness that not only the Ñoldor, but in the Teleri and the Vanyar, would marvel at it. It was precisely from among the Fair-elves, that his father had chosen and brought home a second bride, barring Fëanáro’s mother the freedom of ever walking under the stars again, denying Fëanáro his ultimate hope and salvation.

The stars...

Were they not all called Children of the Stars? Was it not the starlight, which they esteemed with everlasting reverence?

Then he should devise something of such incomparable beauty that even Varda’s stars would fade and wane under the brilliance of his creation.

He shall prove them wrong. His existence was not a by-product of the Marring of Arda, there was yet a place for him in that perfect utopia the Valar had created for themselves and for all of the Eldar ³ exultantly worshipping them.

They shall all be reminded of their need for him.

First and foremost was his father, who seemed quite content to bounce any new grandchild his half-brothers presented him with. Had Fëanáro not learnt all there was to learn? Had he not read every book in his father’s library to impress him? Had he not created a lasting legacy for his father to rejoice in? Had he not invented new device after another to both facilitate the people’s habitual chores and improve the keeping of their records? Had he not been the one to marry first and provide his father with his very first grandchild?

Then there were his sons. He knew his sons loved him, but now they had almost all grown up, they had no actual need for him. How his heart ached to see them so decisively reject his teachings in the arts of forging and jewel making. Curufinwë ⁴ alone had shown and practiced his love for it, but now he was courting his future wife. How would Atarincë ⁵ find the time to need his father? His youngest, the Ambarussa ⁶, felt much more like his firstborn’s children than his own, for they followed Maitimo ⁷ everywhere and listened to his teachings in exclusivity to all else, as if his lips endlessly dripped with honey and imparted wisdom. Thinking of Nelyafinwë ⁸, he felt much pride, for was not his well-formed son the one who wielded so much power and commanded utter respect at Finwë’s court? Yet, did Maitimo spare a thought for Fëanáro’s despair at witnessing his scion fraternise with the progeny of his half-brothers? How would his beloved Nelyo have any need for his father?

And Nerdanel… How he loved her, how he hoped to be her marble and chisel, to be all she needed and desired. Ever since his family started interacting more often and intimately with those of his half-siblings, she had been constantly advising him to be kind, tolerant, and amiable. He followed her advice, for he held her opinion in high esteem, but did she not hear the whispers following him about? Did she not see the knives buried deep into his back? So he chose to stop listening. He did not tell her to stop speaking up her mind, he could not abide it, but then her words increased in their reproach and castigation. Never did she call him a blight or an abomination, nonetheless he heard it between the lines and heavy silence following each censure of his behaviour. Thus, he had decided to relieve her of his presence, be the one to take the first step toward separation. How could he go back to the chambers they once shared? How could he possibly smile and tolerate hearing what he feared most. That she loved him no more, that she despised his existence, that she wished to have never married or even met him. Wished him to have never been born.

Gritting his teeth to stem even an ounce of his grief showing on his face, Fëanáro added wood to the hearth, lighting up the heart of his smithy’s forge.

The eyes of the Spirit of Fire blazed with light.

Pregnant masses of grey haze and gloominess gathered above Eriador. Following weeks of deceptive mild weather, Hrívë ⁹ unveiled its true treacherous temperament with flurries of unrelenting snowfall and wind lashings. The Winter wrath spared none, not even the glen nestled in the moorlands of the Misty Mountains. An all-enfolding blanket of pure white descended upon the Valley overnight.

The first pale strands of gold struggled to pierce through the dark clouds, as Lysandra awoke with a gasp. The last vestiges of her dream flickered away with the memory of a fearsome fire. That was not the first nor would it be the last time that she dreamt of Fëanáro. No, in fact her dreams of late were nothing but a medley of his thoughts and fears – a chronicle of his gradual descent into madness and despair.

For weeks, night after accursed night, she walked in his shoes, and she wore his skin like her own, through the many hurdles of his life.

Some of them he had no fault in making, others however…

Lysandra slowly exhaled, willing her pulse to regain its steady pace.

Though his ill-ended fate had been well known to her, even before she was brought into Arda, she could not help feeling rattled and distraught. Given the nature of her dreams and their frequency, she might yet wake up one day with a split personality. It would not come as a surprise in the least.

If Eru meant for her to develop compassion and pity for Fëanáro, He need not have carried on past the first few nights. Indeed, delving into the mind of a child, who blamed himself for the death of his mother, was more than enough for her heart to be suffused in acute misery. She remembered every word of censure whispered through the halls of Finwë’s castle, each reproachful allegation stacked upon his young shoulders, already hunched under the weight of his guilt.

What frustrated Lysandra most was that people’s condemnation had not come from a place of deliberate cruelty, but fear and uncertainty. It was precisely due to lack of communication and awareness of the true reasons behind Míriel Þerindë’s fading, that her child was made subject to hearsay, of the most despicable kind. Such childhood trauma was bound to reveal its ugly consequences in adulthood. Be it his insecurities or obsessive behaviour, one need not be a psychiatrist to trace them to their source.

Lysandra shuddered. Whether it was from the slight chill in the air, or from Fëanáro’s eyes ablaze with a frenzied light, an electrified current rushed through the outer layers of her skin.

Burrowing herself deeper under the soft covers, Lysandra tried distracting herself with plans for the day. Closing her eyes, brief flashes of her upcoming meeting with Elrond, bickering with the twins, and sharing a meal with them and Glorfindel flickered under her eyelids, like a film reel. Those scenes had yet to come to pass, but the warmth permeating through her interactions with her friends and protectors promptly rejuvenated her spirits.

As of late, her sessions with Elrond had morphed into enthusiastic discussions, replacing the structured nature of his earlier orthodox teaching. Each week, he would assign her a new book to read, following which they could spend days and hours disseminating the book’s content and analysing any expressions with ambiguous meaning.

The material was written in both Sindarin and Quenya, making the experience all the more exciting for Lysandra. Instead of teaching her the ancient language through conventional means, Elrond adopted a different approach. His purpose was to challenge her by having to grasp Quenya via text translations from Sindarin, personally completed by him over the years. To his delight, despite the increased complexity of her education, his student took it all in stride with remarkable finesse and astuteness.

She found much joy in teasing Elrond, and she was determined to keep providing him with reasons to marvel at her progress. Well aware that he enjoyed a good mystery, she purposefully kept him in the dark about her ‘other’ lessons. She liked amusing herself with guesses as to when the wisest of Eldar would finally catch onto her devilish tricks. As it was, Lysandra spent most of her evenings ruminating through the past, back to brighter times, when the likes of Findaráto ¹⁰ were young enough to learn their letters and numbers in Quenya. Through her waking dreams, she inadvertently became the study companion for many a descendant of Finwë’s, with one slight exception – Fëanáro. She might have been a genius, however his level of intelligence and swiftness she struggled to match.

In fact, due to her own endless inquisitiveness, there was one other language she (desperately) desired to learn, and there had ever been only two Elves to have come even close to mastering it. Unluckily for her, Fëanáro had been the only one among the two to do it in a formal fashion, leaving her with no choice but to willingly torture herself, trying to keep up with him.

Not only was the subject matter incredibly complex and obscure, Fëanáro had even dared express his dissatisfaction with the pace of his own progress, on multiple occasions. According to him, he could have done much better.

‘Better’?!

I can’t survive ‘better’, Lysandra peevishly grumbled to herself, yet remembering her previous dream, verging on a nightmare, she immediately felt guilty.

Carrying a cross as heavy as the title of “the greatest of the Ñoldor”, he had constantly needed to prove himself worthy of the moniker. She had intimate knowledge of what it felt like to live under the banner of lofty expectations. She empathised much with his youth experiences, but thinking of his actions later on in life, she couldn’t help sighing, disturbing the stillness pervading her room.

Revisiting her earlier lessons, Lysandra attempted to pronounce the latest word she had learned. As it was, without a teacher to correct her technique, even a simple ‘hail’ left the young woman with a sore throat yet again.

What a jolly good start of the day…

With the gradual rise of Anor ¹¹, the blizzard diminished in its dreadful roving of the enchanted dene. The wind’s rattling through unclad crowns of ancient oaks, groaning and moaning, slowly abated, until the only trace left of the earlier tempest were feathers of crystal white unremittingly descending. A sea of powdered silver hid behind heavy drapes of embroidered velvet. A merry fire crackled away in the marble hearth, spicy notes of cedar pervading the room with its delightful aroma. Elrond gently ran his fingers across the spines of many tomes, meticulously arranged, according to their subject and period, on exquisite shelves of dark wood.

“I wonder what you will make of this volume,” he picked up a hefty manuscript, turning toward Lysandra.

Before she had even received the physical copy, the young woman’s eyes twinkled in elation, “I will absolutely love it! A compendium on medicinal herbs could not have been more welcome!”

The wise Elf-lord took in a suffering long breath. Yet another failed attempt.

“I am starting to wonder why I go to the trouble spending so much time in search of new material. I should let you make the choice, and spare myself the needless worry. And compendium? Where did you pick that one up? Have you been perusing Erestor’s old essays again?”

Lysandra broke into giggles, emerging victorious in their little game once more. “First, my Lord, as you well know, that is not how my Sight works. I would have received no foreknowledge of it, had you not made the choice. It is dependent on your free will, even if you have yet to exercise it. Second, Erestor’s essays are safe from my scrutiny. My sources of inspiration, particularly for Quenya, are vastly more exciting than that.”

From the moment of her Gift’s discovery, he’d grown quite fascinated by the laws governing her Foresight, and they had deliberated much upon it. He knew of course the truth of it, yet did not abstain from making his complaints every so often. Then he caught her last words.

“Cheeky! Making fun of poor unsuspecting Erestor, when he can’t defend himself… I can see Elladan and Elrohir’s impertinence has also been a source of inspiration to you. I shall definitely have a word or two, with our twin paragons of virtue.”

“No, no, the fault lies solely with me. The twins have shown nothing but curtesy when speaking of Erestor,” unless they were talking of his love for Dorwinion wine of course, but it was best for Elrond not to know that.

Well-versed in his children’s antics, the aged Elf looked at the young woman sceptically, but ultimately chose to return to their previous exercise of translating medical terms from Lysandra’s world into Sindarin and Quenya, which came with its own set of challenges – not all such terms existed in the Elven tongues.

Consequentially, the two of them carried out the remarkable task of inventing new words.

On great sheets of paper, Lysandra had previously drawn many diagrams of organs, as well as charts and designs to illustrate various body processes and structures. The Master healer had knowledge of many of them, yet he had not reached the same anatomic level of detail as the scientists in her world had. Their breakthroughs were essential for mortals, however it was less so for Elrond, who had the power of Song to mend or cure that which cannot even be seen with the naked eye. That is not to say that he did not find it utterly enthralling.

Using the neurosurgeon’s material, they tackled each human body system at a time, from major structures down to the most minute ones. Over time, they had refined their established modus operandi. Elrond would check the diagrams, provide Sindarin and Quenya equivalents if they existed and made notes of those which didn’t. Lysandra would then offer the Latin etymology of the missing terms to help expedite the coinage of new words in the two main Elven tongues.

At present, they were engrossed deliberating over the circulatory system.

“This vein here,” Elrond pointed at a particularly detailed sketch of the lower limbs, “running along the posterior side of the calf, what is the name for it in your tongue and its origins?”

“Oh, the ‘small saphenous ³³’ vein? It actually includes the ‘Latin ³³’ root ‘saphena’, quite literally meaning vein, followed by a common word ending ‘-ous’.”

“They called it the small vein vein?,” Elrond chuckled. “How very… original, if rather unhelpful to our cause.”

“I guess they must have been a touch lacking in creativity the day they named it,” the neurosurgeon let out an awkward laugh. “As it is, we cannot use ‘Latin’ ourselves. I should also mention that the vein over here,” she referred to the inner thigh’s vein, “is called the great ‘saphenous’ vein.”

“Well, I say that is a worthy occasion for us to enrich our language,” he nodded as he was already jotting down some potential titles for the saphenous veins. “Tell me something unique about these veins, mayhap that might spark my inspiration.”

“Unique? Hmm, let me see. As I have previously mentioned, my people had devised special mechanisms capable of visualising one’s inner organs. Between the superficial and connective tissues, through that device, the cross-sectional view of these veins displays an eye-like appearance. We call it the ‘saphenous’ eye. Additionally, the great ‘saphena’ can be grafted and used in cardiac surgeries, whereby blood flow is rerouted around any arterial heart blockages. Conceptually, the grafting itself is quite similar to the grafting of roses, for example.”

Elrond’s eyes gained a new sheen to them, as he stared at his companion in astonishment, “Could such a miraculous thing truly exist and your people are capable of it?”

Feeling incredibly proud of her predecessors’ accomplishments, Lysandra nodded with a radiant grin, “Yes, and they had put it into practice a few decades before I was even born. My own speciality is the treatment of blood vessels in the cranium and spine, as well as peripheral nerve damage. After all, we cannot Sing our patients better, and have to take a more hands-on approach through rather utilitarian means.”

“I rescind my previous statement, it was terribly unfair and untrue of me. The Secondborn of your world are as a matter of fact most inventive to be able to treat such ailments in the absence of healing Powers. Now, let me see what I can make of it for our labelling endeavour.”

He scribbled down various word combinations of ‘sercë ¹²’, ‘yár ¹³’, ‘yór ¹⁴’ for blood with ‘ranta ¹⁵’, ‘tië ¹⁶’, ‘tambë ¹⁷’, ‘höa ¹⁸’, ‘cinta ¹⁹’, ‘pincë ²⁰’, ‘pitya ²¹’, ‘nitya ²²’, and ‘henta ²³’. As he was considering the potential of each option, he wondered about Lysandra’s people’s naming conventions, particularly the use of Latin.

“Is it customary for all of your people to learn the ancient tongues, or is that limited to ‘Latin’ alone, given its use in also naming fauna and flora?”

“No, not at all. In fact, some of my contemporaries never even studied ‘Latin’, only the terminology required by the curriculum.”

Hearing her reply, Elrond’s shoulders vibrated with mirth, “I should have guessed that even in your world, your love for the olden speech was an exception, not the rule. If I were to compare your knowledge of Quenya to that of many of the Elven race, yours can already be considered far superior.”

Granted, the teacher and student had yet to review literary works in either Sindarin or Quenya, however many a history and cyclopaedia volumes had been devoured by Lysandra. Her tremendous progress by leaps and bounds in studying the High-elven tongue still puzzled him, but he vowed to find out her secret, for he was convinced it was yet another witty riddle of hers.

“What was it that awakened your first tendrils of love for the tongues of the ancients?”

The Elf-lord was most intrigued, for he himself carried a similar admiration for linguistics, both old and new.

“It was not just one single thing. My paternal grandparents, who had passed away before my birth, had bequeathed us a considerable inheritance, including a dearly cherished library, to which many past generations had made great contributions. Ancient ‘Latin’ and ‘Greek’ were the primary medium through which many a great philosopher and author had expressed their thoughts and stories. My maternal grandmother was a great singer, and she loved to sing at all times of the day. The lyrics of the music she favoured were either in ‘Latin’ or its progenies, which we called the ‘Romance’ languages.”

Though she smiled, it appeared to have lost some of its lustre when she mentioned her grandmother, and Elrond added a note on yet another facet of her previous life to the collection of puzzle pieces he’d gathered so far. He was still trying to create a clear picture, but that was for a later time.

“ ‘Romance’?”

“Yes, ‘Romance’ from ‘Roman’ – the ancients who spoke ‘Latin’, chiefly the verbal or quotidian version, as opposed to the formal written one. Its literal translation would be a romantic tongue, which many believe them to be.”

“Romantic, is it?” he asked, the notion somewhat incredulous, for no such thing existed in Arda. “Would you agree with their assessment?”

“I would say to a certain extent I do agree. Many beautiful works, be they literary or lyrical, were written in the ‘Romance’ languages, quite a few of them on the theme of love.”

“I should certainly like to hear any renditions of such compositions, and I say that now is as good a time as ever,” he proclaimed, lifting his free hand in a clear invitation for her to start.

Cheeks mottled with various hues of pink and red, Lysandra’s eyes rounded like those of a startled doe. “You want me to sing? Now?”

“I see no reason to delay. After all, we shall be at this for quite a while yet,” Elrond replied, pointing at the many papers spread on the desk.

Lysandra suddenly felt the need to pray for the arrival of her self-proclaimed brothers, which according to her Vision should not be far off.

“Let me think which one would be best,” she mumbled trying to stall.

Elrond, of course, had caught onto her tactics, but commented not on it. Ultimately, she could not avoid it, for they had all the time in the world. Great was his surprise, when those he christened ‘twin paragons of virtue’ interrupted the silence, knocking on the door and making their way into the study.

Right on time, thank God, Lysandra’s body almost sagged with relief.

“Well, well, well. What have we got here? Two scholars doing scholarly things once more?” asked Elrohir, peering over the desk, trying to make out the graphs.

“Looks more like artistic pursuits to me, brother, though they do seem rather peculiar,” muttered Elladan, taking hold of a drawing. “What in Ossë’s marbles is this?”

“That particular illustration showcases the inner ear anatomy,” helpfully supplied Lysandra.

Quite a few indentations appeared on his brow, as he tried making heads or tails of the sketch. “If you say so, little sister. If you say so.”

“I do say so, and most importantly, I am infinitely older than you, Elladan, stop calling me little,” she pursed her lips in vexation.

As usual, the twins did not take those words to heart at all, completely ignoring her objections.

Amused by the rather petulant reaction, which the twins always seemed to bring forth within Lysandra, Elrond judged that for once he should also join in the merriment. It was only right that he let her taste the medicine of being teased in return.

“Your timing is most propitious, my sons. Dearest Lysandra has been kind enough to volunteer to sing for me in the tongues of her people. I am certain she would not mind the additional audience.”

From having doe-like to veritable toad-sized eyes, Lysandra could not believe her ears, feeling like she’d been thrown to the wolves, or a pack of rather aesthetically-pleasing wargs as it were.

“She has volunteered,” repeated Elrohir, rather doubtful of that assertion. Knowing Lysandra and her love for burying herself in a book and staying buried for long lengths of time, a performance of any kind was likely the farthest thing, for which she would ever volunteer. Nonetheless, that knowledge did little to quell his anticipation.

“Let’s hear it then!”

Elrohir motioned for her to go on, the gesture almost comical in its similarity to that of his sire.

With no other escape in sight, Lysandra had no choice but to comply with their wishes.

“Great… Given that we spoke of songs of love in a ‘Romance’ tongue, I guess I could perform one. But only one, mind you,” she said with finality. “It is my mother’s favourite, and please do no have high expectations, for our songs are positively rudimentary by contrast to Elven ones. It is titled ‘Et si tu n'existais pas’ meaning – and if you existed not, by a ‘French’ singer Joe Dassin.”

Dulcet mellow tones of a high voice enfolded the room with its gentle cadence. Lysandra had never been in love, but she missed her family so much, that her sorrow transposed between the yearning lyrics and melancholic tune. The words were foreign to her audience, but not the sentiments they evoked. Elrond recognised the longing within the first few verses she had sung.

Once completed, father and sons continuously thanked and praised her for her rendition. Despite her fierce resistance, heat rose behind her eyes, and Lysandra had to turn her gaze away. Unwittingly, she rested it upon the glowing fireplace. Sparks of fire leapt from the hearth, much like ephemeral twinkling sprites dancing through the air. The spots of light blurred ever so slightly. Crystalline drops continued clinging to her lashes in a feat of great stubbornness and defiance. Conceding her loss, she met her companions’ benevolent gaze.

“Thank you. Your words mean much to me.”

Aware that the young woman felt overwhelmed and needed some time and privacy to compose herself, the twins made their excuses and left.

Silence descended upon the study, but for Elrond’s quill gently scribbling upon the paper. Taking in a few deep breaths, Lysandra regained her serenity, continuing on with her earlier task. After a while, the Healer cleared his throat, before broaching a subject he hoped she would not disapprove of.

“Half a dozen moons have waxed and waned since your arrival in Imladris. Ere nigh, the last days of Winter shall be upon us, and I believe there is no need for you to remain ensconced in our company alone. That is not to say that we find your presence dull or tedious, it is quite the opposite, young one. Yet putting our personal feelings aside, continuing in the same vein would be unfair to you and the rest of Imladris.”

“The rest of Imladris? I doubt anybody, other than Gaeleth and Lindir, even remembers that I am here,” replied Lysandra, her tone fluctuating between self-deprecating and reserved.

“Well, look at that. Your Powers are not as omniscient as I believed them to be, and there are things you do not know after all,” said Elrond, his voice two parts amusement and one part chastising.

“I do not consider myself all-knowing,” she refuted, with the slightest tinge of defensiveness. “I am only aware of matters I enquire about or those Eru wishes to impart. At times, I get mere glimpses, one can hardly call them visions at all.”

The wise lore master had lived through enough diplomatic and military expeditions to have mastered the art of advancing and retreating, knowing when to seize the right opportunity at the right time. In the last few weeks, he had skirted aplenty the boundaries of affability, touching upon a topic as sensitive as the over usage of her Gift. Ultimately, she was not yet ready for that discussion.

The shimmer in his starlit eyes did not diminish, nor did his smile waver, as Elrond returned to his initial purpose.

 “There are many, among them Baraheth and Inwisto, who wish to speak with you. Even Arahad and Bellamdir had wanted to thank you for the care you showed the latter, past Autumn. I had been subject to many a request to allow others approach you, but for reasons well-known to you, I had to deny them the pleasure. As you can see, you are quite popular, dear.”

 “Oh…”

That had been news to Lysandra.

“Quite so,” nodded the Healer. “I intend to have you join me in the Healing Halls as one of its attendants, and I also hope you will discover other pursuits worth of following, in addition to those of the scholarly and medicinal kind, of course.”

“Oh, I would love to join you ! I could not be more pleased to learn the healing arts of the Elves from you. I certainly want to be of some use to you, than simply relying on your endless kindness,” Lysandra replied, her enthusiasm bringing her to the very edge of the seat. Yet when she spoke next, her shoulders broke their usual poise, hunching ever so slightly, “I am also well versed in certain hand-crafts, or at least I was by my people’s standards. Is it crucial that I look for other pursuits at the moment? In my world, my vocation as a healer kept me quite busy enough. There is no need to disturb others on my behalf.”

Elrond had already developed a rather good inkling that Lysandra would prefer to maintain the status quo, akin to a little cygnet, which kept to its small pond, cautious of new ripples and splashes. Her words and demeanour only further attested to that.

To spoil is not to love, he remembered the words of one, whom the Peredhel had come to love very much indeed.

If Lysandra were to live and flourish in their world, he could not in good conscience spare her from experiencing all aspects of life. Even if she had come to Middle-earth to complete her mission from Ilúvatar Himself, Elrond held the strong conviction that in time she should learn to revel in her circumstances, much like he had needed to learn that lesson himself.

Gently touching her dainty hand, still holding onto her quill, the Elf-lord took the device away and placed it in its holder.

“Dearest, you are a mortal no longer. Unless some ill-conceived fate befalls you, and rest assured the others and I would do our utmost to help you avoid any such mishap, you will have nothing but time until the Second Music come, and Eru knows possibly even beyond.”

Slightly dazed, Lysandra let her long tresses shield her eyes from him. Nonetheless, she had not been fast enough, for he had caught the translucent gleam pooling in her verdant eyes.

“It is natural and expected, that a concept such as immortality be difficult to accept or justly comprehend even, yet that is your reality, young one. Be you victorious in achieving your quest, the day shall come when you return to the Blessed Lands, and there you will live out your days in the Music. You cannot let your soul grow weary, for it will do so were your mind and spirit to become weakened or crippled.”

Head jumping back straight and fingernails digging into her palms, she fixed him with a bewildered stare, “How did you know I was to return to Aman? Have you Foreseen it?”

“No, I received no evidence as irrefutable as your visions. Even so, the knowledge that one day you shall return thither comes from within the deeps of my consciousness. After all, returning to whence they came from, is that not the ultimate fate of all emissaries, who have fulfilled their purpose?”

“Yes, that is indeed their doom,” she sighed once, twice, as if each breath could help her accept that truth. Her voice was barely a whisper, but he heard it well enough, “I shall indeed return to Aman, that is part of the quest itself. The years will pass, and I shall continue to linger there…”

“Dearest, one has many other choices in life than to merely linger. That is true for you, and it is true for the Elven kind as well. From the very moment we are conceived, the Elves are bound to Arda. In time, our love for the World only grows more poignant, and mayhap more sorrowful, very few grow weary of it.

“You might be different, unique at that, and I cannot glimpse into your soul as I would another Elf’s or Man’s, but what I do see suggests your tether to this realm is no less enduring than ours, even if it is of another kind. As you know, I have had much experience with those of Númenorean blood, whose lifespan was considerably longer than that of other mortals. From my observations, be one First or Secondborn, to let one’s mind stagnate is to turn to stone. Not only is one in need of a source of stimulation, one also needs versatility. For if you were to pour all of yourself into one single vocation to the exception of all else for too long, your mind and spirit will inevitably suffer.

“An excessive fixation or reliance on anything in particular leads to doomed outcomes. You have witnessed the history of all of Arda, have you not? You should have a better understanding of what I speak than any of us.”

A tangible stillness descended upon the room. The glowing fire faltered in its intensity. Outside the study, sharp whistles seemed to surge yet again, as if ominous winds threatened to rise and pierce through the stained glass.

“Is it still future pursuits that we are discussing?” the woman asked at last, leaving ‘or my Sight’ unspoken.

Be it of exasperation or strain, a wrinkle slowly emerged between his brows, “It is.”

He let another pregnant moment pass, before adding with wary deliberation, “If by chance my words have given birth to a certain amount of unrest or turmoil of any kind, a wise person would not disregard it; he would look for its source and remedy.”

“Thank you. I will do well to remember that,” replied Lysandra with a whisper, before readopting her elegant posture. “As for your previous advice, I shall certainly follow it and carefully consider which crafts would suit me best.”

“Good,” the Elf-lord’s eyes flashed with approval. “Your words gladden my heart. Greater still will be my joy to have your assistance in the Healing Halls. I am certain it will be of significant value to us and to the welfare of all who find their way thither. However, we are not yet able to carry out our designs, for there is one more task we have to accomplish. Prior to your official debut so to say, you shall need a befitting identity. We need to devise you a shield from the ears of the Enemy and his many servants.”

“I agree, that is a must. Yet I would ask of you a favour… Actually, two favours, if possible.”

His experiences with Lysandra had revealed her to be a bright and diligent young woman, who demanded and asked for nothing, with the exception of more material to study. Intrigued, Elrond gestured for her to go ahead, “If it is within my powers to grant them, I certainly shall.”

“Thank you. I would like to ask you that we await the arrival of Mithrandir, before we make any final decisions. It would not be a long delay. Would that be agreeable to you?”

“Have you Foreseen Glorfindel’s sentries reaching him at last?”

“No, indeed I have not, but he will come here soon enough even without receiving our summons,” she explained, with a slight smile.

“Is that so?” asked Elrond with a chuckle. “That is great tidings indeed. Gandalf’s counsel could not lead us astray. If he does not tarry much in making his way into the Valley, I would say it is wise to wait a bit longer.”

“Thank you! And in the meantime, I shall prepare sketches of the tools I shall need to carry out surgeries in the future. I believe they should not pose much of a challenge to the Elven smiths. Once I have what I need, I will do my best to assist you in saving lives.”

The drawn and tired lines on Elrond’s ageless face started softening, until no traces remained. A deep sense of gratitude and appreciation swelled within his heart.

“It is our blessing to have welcomed you into our fold, and it would be both our pleasure and honour to assist you however we may. Now tell me, young one, what other favour will you have me fulfil?”

Eyes lowered bashfully at receiving such high praise from one as mighty as the Master of Imladris, Lysandra cleared her throat with gentle coughs.

She had been deliberating over her next request for many a restless night. What she hoped to receive was by no means a Herculean endeavour, yet it was of no meagre significance either. In fact, she felt almost brazen voicing her wish aloud, as she did in a light and fluid Quenya.

“You have been most kind and caring toward me. In addition to providing me with shelter, sustenance, and all sorts of material possessions, you have also been most generous with your time and compassion, even when my own behaviour proved me undeserving of it. Please, forgive me if my request should appear covetous or self-seeking.

“I – I hope that you might – might possibly be able to…”

Exhaling her frustration at her own weakness, she took in a long breath, seeking the much needed courage from deep within her marrow.

The worst thing to happen is that he says no, she repeated to herself. Nevertheless, even the idea of being rejected by him of all people made her mentally wince and heart beat faster. From the perfect fatherly image she had painted of him as a child in her past life, to the true embodiment of grace and wisdom she had come to revere in her new one, she so desired his approval.

With a nod to herself, she tried again, “I would ask that you give me a name… if you will.”

Outwards, Elrond might have appeared as serene as if he’d been asked about the weather, yet inwardly…

Inwardly, he felt a wave as formidable and tempestuous as the most unrestrained of Ossë’s wild feats swelling and surging, pulling him under. It was solely due to his unerring good breeding, that Elrond was capable of concealing his shock behind a mask of placidity, lest she mistaken his apprehension for denial.

Among the Eldar, names carried no small amount of Power. The most important were of course those given by one’s father and mother. Fathers typically chose an ataressë ²⁴ reflective of the family lineage or characteristics, while mothers bestowed a more personal and intimate amilessë ²⁵, alluding to the Elf's individual character or a specific life event. There had also been many an Elf who received an epessë ²⁶ for their outstanding qualities, achievements, or reputation, yet the word she had uttered was not ‘epessë’.

When he spoke, Elrond’s voice was uncommonly staid, “Was it your mother or father who named you?”

Grateful that he had not outright refused her, the woman quickly responded, “My first name was a gift from my paternal grandparents. It was their greatest and last wish that I be called Lysandra, in memory of Lysander, the infant son they had lost to a childhood malady.”

The Elf-lord was once more surprised by the parallels drawn between her life’s and his, and even that of his children.

“I see. Since a while ago, I had meant to ask what your name meant, but the opportunity never presented itself. Does Lysandra have any particular meaning?”

“Yes, it comes from ancient ‘Greek’, and it is a merger of two words – ‘lysis’ for freedom and ‘andros’ for Man. Altogether, the name means liberator or one who is freed.”

‘Lérië ²⁷’ and ‘nér ²⁸’.

For a second or two, he wondered why she had not used ‘atan ²⁹’ instead, but was quickly reminded of her immortality, rendering the term ill-fitting.

“I believe you had mentioned another name in the past, as well. What was it?”

“Roselyn, my middle name,” she confirmed with a nod, pleasantly surprised that he would keep such a minor detail in mind. “That is the name my mother and her parents had given me, for the three of them were the ones who raised me. Roselyn combines the ‘Latin’ word ‘rosa’ that stands for rose, and ‘llyn’ for lake or pool from one of my native tongues, ‘Welsh’. A rose lake.”

‘Merillë ³⁰’ and ‘nendë ³¹’.

“I see. Tell me, does your family believe in premonitions?”

Taken aback by the question, Lysandra’s brow faintly furrowed. “My family are among the Faithful, and particularly on my mother’s side, my grandmother certainly believed in divine premonitions. But what inspired such a line of thought, if you do not mind my asking?”

“I do not mind, and the reason was your name. One can easily discern your family’s genuine hopes and blessings for you, through their choices in naming you. In my estimation, you have proved worthy of your names, and they of you.”

The tears, which had barely dried, reappeared in an instance, but they did not overshadow the brightness of her eyes, nor her smile.

“I shall treasure your words. I am most grateful.”

He replied with a grin in kind.

For a long while none spoke. The student was reminiscing her past, the teacher – contemplating her future. Having come to a conclusion of sorts, he voiced it slowly and earnestly, lingering in between his sentences, in the hope that she would perceive their true purpose.

“Bestowing a name cannot be made in jest or a muddled fashion. A name is binding for both the one who receives it, as well as the one who grants it. If it is your true innermost wish that I be the one who gives you a name, then I shall do so, but only after very careful deliberation. This name shall accompany you in life and in death, and if the latter never comes to pass, then you shall carry that name onto the unmaking of Arda itself. It is no trifling matter, and I shall treat it with the utmost reverence. Are you willing to wait until I can bestow you such a name?”

Elrond had agreed.

She had hoped, she had prayed, yet now that her wish was to be granted, Lysandra felt both blessed and utterly overwhelmed. How could she not rejoice at his words? How could she resent having her spirit bound to a name entirely hers, in a world where so far she had only been a guest or spectator? How could she not agree to wait for one as noble and righteous as Elrond Peredhel to decide upon something as sacred as an anessë ³²?

The Gifted woman seemed to have lost her ability to speak. As she nodded, her pace increasing with each bout of pure bliss bursting in her heart.

A bell reverberated through the many winding colonnades of the Valley, and into the study. Elrond gently patted her arm, passing her a silky handkerchief.

“Come now, young one. It is time for our evening repast. We would not want to keep Glorfindel waiting.”

Chapter Text

Far above the valley, the sky stretched into the horizon like still waters, infinite and blue. After days of an outright deluge plummeting from ominous clouds, the people of the Last Homely House were rewarded at last with nothing but the brilliance of Arien ¹, for a change. High above the moorlands, white needle-like peaks, rose one above the other, separating East from West like an ancient door warden.

Lysandra surveyed the paths running down to the bottom of the ravine, where her purpose lay – a hefty clearing embraced by silver birches and pale alders. Wading through all the snow was not exactly something she felt ecstatic about, but she had no choice if she wanted to accomplish her goal. The good people of Imladris were occupied with clearing routes of much greater significance to the realm, than mere trails to the tree-nursery down below.

As could be expected, Eru was not exactly forthcoming on weather reports. Her probing into the near future resulted in nothing more but a few glimpses. At best, she was able to confirm that her only opportunity to forage late-season berries was on that particular day, for which she has been patiently waiting.

‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet’ indeed. How true your words are, Aristotle…

Sighing at her impending unpleasant task, she burrowed deeper into her warm cloak lined with silver fur. Months ago, as soon as the chill in the air gained a harsher bite to it, Gaeleth had presented her the garment along with many other fur-lined items, hoping to protect Lysandra from the merest of cold winds. For a long while, she had little need for her new apparel, staying indoors throughout most of Hrívë ², but now that she meant to brave the elements, she was most grateful.

Lysandra had not taken even half a step down the trail, when she found herself hoisted up by her waist. Audibly gasping at the lurch of her feet swept of the ground, she turned toward the sources of her sudden ability to float.

“What are you two up to? Please, put me down!”

The twin menaces grinned unabashedly as each of them securely cradled her middle with their arm.

“Are you certain you want us to put you down, little sister?” Elladan raised a haughty brow.

Elrohir gave her no time to answer, cutting in with his own bit of mischief, “Perhaps, brother, our little sister would like a snow bath. This time of the year, I hear they are quite in demand. Personally, I am loath to deny any pleasure of hers. That would be far too cruel!”

“Too cruel!” repeated Elladan, as both twins burst out cackling.

Despite their threats to set her tumbling into the expansive snowdrifts, their hold never faltered, as if she weighed no more than a leaf, and perhaps to the unworldly-endowed Elves she did feel feather-light. Unhindered by their burden, the siblings glided over mounds of snow, as if they’d grown wings, allowing them to walk on air.

“You could have at least asked me instead of ambushing me,” she righteously complained. “And I’m not little!”

“Sure thing, little sister. We shall do as you say next time,” Elrohir promised in a solemn voice, yet the mocking undertones in his words were unmistakeable.

“How right you are, brother! If it would put your mind at ease, little sister, why not try moving your legs along with us? Mayhap, you will feel more engaged in our collective stroll.”

If Lysandra had been two decades younger, she would have felt no shame in biting her so-called siblings. As it was, hoydenish acts were quite below the expected behaviour of a poised and reputable prodigy, so she had to settle for rolling her eyes instead.

“You two are impossible.”

“Impossible not to love and admire, you mean, little sister!”

The twins sniggered at Elladan’s words, continuing their journey downhill.

The farther they advanced, the louder the foaming waters of the Bruinen grew. Amid their bubbling and gurgling, the rich fluty trills of robins and blackbirds cheerfully harmonised with the occasional gusts of wind. The breeze swirled and rustled through the branches of many a weeping willow, swaying the crystal icicles on their limbs.

“Can we go near the river later?” asked Lysandra, charmed by the sublime picture their surroundings painted.

“Not today I’m afraid,” replied Elrohir, though he wished he could have acquiesced to her request instead. “The ice on the banks has yet to thaw. It would be quite tricky for you to tread. Father, would never let us hear the end of it, if something were to happen to you.”

“Indeed. Please, do spare us the need to fish you out of the water for a second time, and most importantly yet another lecture,” added the elder twin.

“Oh, who would have guessed you two to be proponents of safe activities? How very odd,” she teased them, but ultimately the young woman did not insist on having her way, agreeing with their reasoning.

“We do have our moments of prudence, however sporadic, thank you!” Elladan bobbed his head, continuing onward to the glade.

Once arrived at the nursery, they helped move Lysandra from one tree to another, even lifting her up when she couldn’t reach the higher branches. She felt a bit like a doll, but as long as she was kept from getting her feet soggy and frozen, she couldn’t mind.

Swinging against a canvas of pure white snow, the hawthorn trees flared with life, their vibrant red berries glowing like rubies. On the other hand, the sea-buckthorn thickets, dense and spiny, threatened to leave their mark upon any hands, which dared pick the bright orange fruits burdening their branches.

Elrohir would not let Lysandra pick those, taking the task onto himself.

“Why is it again that we are here picking berries so early in the morning?” asked he, storing handfuls of the sun-kissed fruits into a cloth-sack.

“You are here because you decided to be helpful or nosy, whichever you prefer. I am here, because these berries have many a health benefit, such as aiding skin and blood vessel regeneration, or treating heart diseases. Some of these Gaeleth and I shall dry, the rest will be made either into tinctures or conserves.”

“Blood vessel regeneration? Is it meant to stave off Men’s aging and deterioration? I should not think you have need of such a remedy, given your immortality,” commented the elder brother.

“No, it is not intended for me. And while these plants can indeed help with age-related issues, it can also be used to treat internal inflammations. Most importantly, they are most helpful for the recuperation process following surgeries, which is something I specialise in,” explained Lysandra, while her hands kept busy harvesting the red fruits.

“Oh, so you treated mainly wounded patients?”

“Not exactly, Elrohir. There were some physically wounded patients, who had need of my expertise, but generally the illnesses I dealt with had come from within. For example, burst veins in one’s head, or parasitic flesh harming the brain, and so on.”

“You cut into one’s brain?!” both of the twins exclaimed simultaneously, incredulous how such a thing could be called treatment.

“And it was not because of a head wound?” clarified Elrohir.

Lysandra laughed at their identical reaction, as she turned her head from one brother to another.

“One cannot cut into the cranial bone, only drill,” she stated as a matter of fact. At their horrified faces, she giggled even harder. “I have already told this to Lord Elrond. I am surprised you have been left in the dark.”

“I, for one, would have preferred to stay in the dark,” muttered Elrohir with a queasy expression. Elladan nodded his accord, himself looking a bit green.

“Some warriors you are,” she clicked her tongue. “Cutting flesh is fine, but drilling into the brain is suddenly oh so daunting.”

The brothers immediately jumped to defend their bold and heroic selves, maintaining the same conviction that those were entirely different matters, and could not be confused.

Lysandra only laughed at them, before asking Elladan help her move to another branch of the hawthorn tree.

“We had better collect as many fruits as we can. This is the last harvest of the year, and I do not want to miss the timing. We are quite lucky that so many of the berries even survived, despite the gale. The weather has been excessively inclement lately. If it doesn’t snow, it rains cats and dogs. I almost feel like I am back in ‘Scotland ¹¹’.”

“’Scotland’?” repeated a confused Elladan, unfamiliar with the term.

“Cats and dogs?” interjected a bemused Elrohir at the same time. “How can it rain cats and dogs? Aulë’s beard! What type of world did you use to live in?”

“It is an idiom, Elrohir, meant to exaggerate just how heavy the rain is,” Lysandra shook her head at his silliness, as she went on with her task.

Feeling ignored despite being the one holding her up, Elladan reiterated his own question, “What of ‘Scotland’? What is that?”

“That is a name of a place, quite literally translated as the land of a people called ‘Scots’.”

“Are you one of these ‘Scots’?”

“No, not directly. However, I do have among my ancestors some ‘Scots’.”

“Are the differences between your people and these ‘Scots’ as great as say between the Vanyar and the Ñoldor?” enquired an intrigued Elrohir.

“To a certain extent, but the differences used to be much more prominent in the past than they were in my time, due to the mingling of various peoples, mine included,” she explained in a way that they would understand best, without going too much into detail. “If I were to make a faithful comparison, you could say it is like the differences between the Sindar and the Silvan nowadays, quite subtle in nature.”

Both brothers nodded, the analogy making perfect sense to them.

Once their foray into the wilderness came to an end, Anar ³ was already quite high in the sky, and the Elf-lords took Lysandra back in a similar fashion, keeping her sailing through the air. However, once they approached the veranda leading into the family wing, instead of delivering her to safety, Elladan took her in both of his arms, while Elrohir deposited the full sacks inside.

“Wait, what are you doing?” she asked with unease. Catching Elladan’s smirk, she suddenly got a bad premonition.

She had no time to ask Eru for guidance, before she got herself unceremoniously flung into a massive snow bank. The mound had been so deep that, when Lysandra emerged scuffing and spluttering mouthfuls of snow, it reached up to her waist.

“You!” she pointed at the Elf, scattering snow from within her great bell-sleeves, lined with now sodden fur. “Just you wait! You shall rue the hour you even thought of this!”

Elladan was not very concerned by her threats, already in the process of making many a snowball, waiting to be hurled at unsuspecting victims. Elrohir, who had just returned, could not stop laughing at the sorry picture the young woman made.

“You wanted a snow bath, we delivered one,” announced Elladan, through bouts of chortles. “Let it never be said that we keep not our promises!”

That of course prompted even more vexation within Lysandra, which she went on to voice out loud in quick succession. From mere words to a full blown war of careening snow balls hither and thither, the trio were so engrossed that the noon hour quickly approached. When the bell rang it took the three bedraggled snow warriors quite by surprise.

“Oh, we are doomed,” said Elrohir, removing snow from under his frock coat. “Father is expecting us, as well as Glorfindel and Erestor for the luncheon. If we arrive dishevelled like this, there will certainly be trouble.”

“Pity you have not thought of this earlier, it would have saved me some grief,” the young woman pursed her lips taking in the sorry state of her attire. She could already envision Gaeleth’s face, when the Elf-maiden caught sight of her once stunning grey robe. Lysandra felt very guilty, particularly as the clothing had been painstakingly made by hand for her use alone. She vowed to personally treat the fur after the meal, to salvage its initial delicate appearance.

Through high vaulted loggias and galleries, along colonnades carved into stone and wood, vines of clematis and jasmine guided Lysandra and her two companions to a room striking both in its size and the view it afforded. Grand three-pointed arched windows revealed a most mesmerising picture of the glen with its girdle of undulating silver mountains and steep crystal waterfalls. Through the use of trefoils, cusps, and dagger shapes, the flowing tracery etched into dark wood formed an eight-pointed star at the very apex of the arch. It was faintly reminiscent of Gothic masonry, yet its charm was certainly more of the ethereal kind than the staid and solemn one.

That particular dining room in the family wing was just as enchanting as the Mess Hall, yet it allowed for a much more intimate setting. Ever since Lysandra’s reallocation into the family chambers, this part of the building, which had been barely employed since Celebrían’s attack, was being put to good use with increased frequency. Given the need for a certain amount of confidentiality and privacy, Elrond, his sons, and his councillors could be often found breaking their fast, or enjoying their noon and evening repasts, while accompanying their young charge.

The warm patina, acquired with age, made the table’s dark ash wood gleam in the sunlight, as it generously cascaded through the windows. Laden with various delicacies, the long rounded table appeared positively beguiling to Lysandra’s eyes. She could not recall the last time she experienced such a voracious appetite, be it in this current life or her previous one.

A hearty pottage and little baskets of fresh bread, a board of many cheeses and berry jams, a great platter of seared venison in blackberry wine sauce and sprinkled with a dash of rosemary, jewel-embellished cups of wine and mead brought much joy to empty stomachs, the enticing aroma enveloping the whole room.

Elrond, Glorfindel, and Erestor were already seated, waiting for the tardy trio, who had had to change their wet clothes and spend quite a bit of time regaining their tidy appearance.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence,” said a rather grumbly Erestor, who had been eyeing his favourite beverage for the better part of the last half-hour. “Any longer and the food would have gone stone cold.”

“Quite right, Erestor. Yet as they say, better late than never,” added Glorfindel, raising an enquiring brow.

Elrond, who had been made aware of his sons’ tumble in the snow along with Lysandra, said nothing, gesturing the late-comers to join them at the table. Dishonest would he have been, had he criticised the twins for partaking in the delights of youth, and especially if they had managed to persuade the usually poised woman to follow their lead.

“We are quite sorry, our trip to the tree-nursery took a bit of a turn toward the end,” Lysandra smiled apologetically, as she settled in. “I must confess I have been very much looking forward to our meal. I am so famished, I could eat a horse!”

Arranging the serviette on her lap, she did not immediately catch the sudden quiet that descended upon the room, but as she prepared to fill her plate, she realised that her hosts had yet to move.

Five unwavering stares pinned her with a varying amount of shock and horror, some more (read Elrohir) than others.

“Your people eat horses?” croaked the youngest twin, great dismay taking root deep within his chest.

Momentarily confused, Lysandra looked at them in askance, trying to understand what prompted such a reaction, when the realisation hit her with horror. “No! God, no! We do not eat horses. That is simply an idiom to convey overwhelming hunger.”

Though she had negated their mistaken inference, her companions did not look reassured in the least. Mentally castigating herself, she wondered how many more such silly faux pas she might commit while adjusting to that world. Hopefully, she wouldn’t get herself called to a duel of honour one day.

She had learned many languages in her previous life, yet a situation like this had never arisen. Quite likely it was due to having little experience in terms of generic or personal discussions in that life, outside her interactions with her family and mentors that is.

Well, if that isn’t a depressing thought… she told herself with chagrin.

“I promise, my people do not eat horses. In fact, horses are very costly to acquire, and their maintenance is incredibly expensive. The last time horse meat was sold on the market under the guise of beef, it created an enormous scandal. People were even sentenced to imprisonment.”

The latter part of her explanation did seem to bring comfort to her audience, Elrohir however was still rather concerned.

“Why in Varda’s stars, would your people have such an expression? First, it was the cats and dogs rain, now – eating a horse. It shows a very odd relationship with animals, if you ask me.”

“Cats and dogs rain?” Erestor mumbled under his nose, what meaning could such a saying possibly have?

Lysandra could not help but chuckle, fiddling with her serviette.

“I will concede, these idioms do not translate very well into Sindarin, and very likely neither into Quenya, but the eating-a-horse one is in fact used in other tongues of my world as well. They would include varying animals, such as oxen, bulls, wolves, bears, and even some creatures distantly related to Oliphaunts.”

“How extraordinary. Now that I think about it, the Oliphaunt comparison could work quite well over here,” said Glorfindel, with a twinkle in his eyes. “Or say, perhaps a dragon?”

“That would seem rather morbid,” remarked Lysandra. “That saying was born when horses were still my people’s primary mode of transportation. The idea of eating one while still using it for travel was so ridiculous, that it further highlighted one’s extreme hunger. You would neither ride a dragon, nor eat it, would you?”

The Balrog-slayer let out a chortle, at the imagery her words generated, “One never knows, my Lady. The opportunity might yet present itself.”

His words brought much cheer into the room, its atmosphere a perfect combination between harmony and light-heartedness.

“I shall leave that opportunity to you, warriors,” said the only person in the room not trained in warfare of any kind. “Going back to our previous subject, those are not the only types of idioms we have.”

“Dare I ask what other sayings you have?” grinned Elladan. “But sure, let us hear an example.”

“Well, there is this one – to call a spade a spade. It actually comes from ancient ‘Greek’, ancient by our standards at least, and its initial form was to call a fig a fig and a trough a trough,” she said, wondering if they could correctly guess what it meant.

Her luncheon companions looked rather comically pensive, as they puzzled over her riddle.

Elrohir was first to test one of his more plausible theories, “Did your people, per chance, have a hard time naming things?”

His question resulted in Lysandra struggling to contain her amusement, as she shook her head.

Erestor’s own guess was not much further away in connotation than Elrohir’s. “Could it be that your people struggled to use correct grammar?”

“Well, historically that is actually true, but not related to this saying I’m afraid.”

Given her previous answers, Elrond felt confident enough to make his own attempt at solving the puzzle, “I believe the saying suggests a certain need to recognise or address things for what they truly are, at least in speech, if not in action.”

Lysandra’s smile blossomed like the rose she was named after. Nodding, she explained that the idiom was used to call upon somebody to speak frankly and directly, without mincing one’s words.

“I am sorry to say that, little sister, but the expression itself sounds like one is mincing one’s words. It would be ill-used in challenging another for being mealy-mouthed,” commented Elladan, his slight frown indicating his scepticism.

Lysandra’s shoulders rose in a slight shrug, “You are quite right, it does not sound as brief and to the point in Sindarin. It might take me a while to learn to avoid such idioms. There is naught to do, but for me to continue my studies, and increasingly familiarise myself with the use of proper expressions in your tongues, as quickly as possible.”

“Take heed, young one. He, who makes haste with his feet, misses his way,” Elrond reminded her, in his customary soothing and melodious tone. “There are very few things in Arda Marred, which cannot be learnt in time. One need not rush. From the least of brooks to the mightiest of rivers, each one needs time to shape their course.”

“My, my… If those words are not the embodiment of wisdom itself, I should declare all of us witless and so very pitiful,” resounded a deep voice, with the slightest raspiness to its quality, an indication to the traveller’s efforts in reaching the private dining room.

All of the Elf-lords rose at once, as they greeted a beaming Gandalf. Jovial and sharp-eyed, he appeared inside the room as if his presence was most natural, and in fact a foregone conclusion. The very little dust on his ash-coloured robes, no doubt the result of some wizardly trick of his, could have fooled any onlooker, if not for the Grey Pilgrim’s sun-kissed brow and cheeks, which ultimately betrayed his proclivity for gallivanting.

“Mithrandir, had I not known any better, I would have thought you a Dwarf for your love to hide so deeply and wholly,” commented Glorfindel, grasping the Wizard’s forearm in a warrior’s greeting. “My messengers had gone as far as Khand, yet scouring the Eastern realm revealed not even a shadow of you.”

Like a bubbly stream, Gandalf’s laughter rippled with joy, reaching the vaulted ceiling above. “It is a cumbersome task I shall say, to find one who wants to be found not. My regards to you, old friend.”

The words they exchanged were full of warmth and much affection, making Lysandra want to remain silent like a wallflower, observing yet another character come to life before her very eyes. Her visions of him notwithstanding, seeing Gandalf in the flesh rose goose-bumps upon her own skin.

Whatever the young woman wished for mattered little, for their meeting could not be stalled. At last, two otherworldly emissaries of Aman met each other’s glowing eyes.

“Ah, and this must be young Lysandra,” guessed Mithrandir. The Power in his voice vibrated through the air, seeping into her chest and thoughts.

Did he think I would not understand his speech otherwise? wondered Lysandra, almost affronted at the idea that he presumed her ignorant of Sindarin. His knowledge of her name in that moment appeared less important than addressing that misapprehension.

Well, since he likes his tricks so much, I should not disappoint. Not to mention, what better opportunity could there be for me to put into practice my latest lessons.

Clearing her throat, she took in a great amount of air, in preparation to belt two tones at once, one produced through the chest and the other one through her lips.

“Aiákhârra ⁴, Olórin ⁵,” Lysandra just about managed the two words, without chocking upon the treacherous jumble of vowels and consonants.

The reaction of her audience was rather mixed, some, as in most Elves, looked very put off by the produced sound, others, meaning Gandalf and Elrond, were more on the bemused and surprised side of the scale.

“I’m quite impressed, Master Elrond. You have even taught her Valarin in such short a time. You have my deepest admiration,” praised the Grey Pilgrim, his beard constantly swaying from his mirth.

“I thank you, Gandalf, but I am afraid the laurels have mistakenly been placed upon my undeserving shoulders,” replied Elrond, fine wrinkles appearing on his brow. “Dearest, if you could help us solve this mystery, I would be most obliged. Whom should we thank for teaching you so well a tongue so little spoken in the tangible world?”

Initially happy to have achieved her goal, Lysandra’s gaiety soon turned to mortification. “Are you certain you would like to know?”

Gandalf said nothing, though his eyes attained an even more intrigued shine to them. It was Elrond who answered.

“Beyond the shadow of a doubt, young one.”

“Technically-speaking, it was Ilúvatar Himself. Through the Sight He has gifted me, that is” she trailed off, hoping it would be enough.

But it was not to be.

“Haha! How did you put it, little sister, let’s call a spade a spade?” teased Elladan, eagerly awaiting the actual explanation. The countenance of the other Elves and Gandalf left little to interpretation.

Right… that did not work.

“Well, if not technically, then I might or might not have intruded upon High-Prince Fëanáro’s ⁶ self-taught lessons on Valarin.”

Some of her companions laughed at the picture she painted, while Elrond tried to smooth away the parallel lines between his brows. He had been wondering for weeks what type of mischief she was getting up to in learning Quenya, and at last his wish came true.

“As always, the answer is your Sight…” he said, almost exasperated. However, it was unknown if the feeling was addressed toward her, himself, or perhaps even Eru. “I should have guessed.”

“ ‘Tis a very clever use of one’s Gift, I should say,” remarked Gandalf, his shoulders shaking and brows jumping up and down. “To meet such an old acquaintance in such distant lands, ‘tis a good day for reunions!”

The announcement left all of them staring at the Maia in bewilderment.

“Have you met in Aman, Mithrandir?” asked Glorfindel, after remembering that the Ainu had once upon a time been in the service of Irmo’s domain, Lórien ⁷.

“Indeed, Glorfindel, I have. Alas, calling it a meeting implies that both parties would be conscious, which could not be said at that time of our young lady here,” explained Gandalf, his previous amusement fading into a smile more compassionate and kind in nature.

“Of course! You must have seen me slumbering upon the isle of Lórellin ⁸,” Lysandra voiced her guess aloud.

Gandalf acquiesced with a nod, “You were the very first of the Eruhíni ⁹. A few of us would linger around the isle, trying to catch a glimpse of you. Irmo was not exactly pleased,” he rejoiced at the memories of long, long ago. “Arda was no longer as young for those of us who had toiled to shape it, yet your presence had brought us much delight and encouragement to faithfully continue on with our efforts.”

After a small pause, during which he seemed even more animated for the memories he had recollected, he added, “But that was not all! As a matter of fact, your presence had also brought us, and even Námo, no little amount of trouble.”

“She caused you trouble by sleeping?” asked Elrohir in bemusement. “Then again, she did cause us quite a bit of heartache by sleeping for so long. Mayhap that is not too farfetched an idea.”

That mumble earned him an elbow into the ribs from his elder twin, and a pointed (read warning) gaze from his sire. He ignored those, but couldn’t help feeling apologetic upon catching Lysandra’s flushing pout. With an embarrassed smile sent her way, he turned toward the Wizard who seemed once again walking through his very extensive memories.

“Alas, young Elrohir, it was not her sleeping that turned half of Aman upside down. However, it was something peripherally related to her long sleep. A question that we, the inhabitants of Aman, mulled over for many an Age.”

“What question was that?” enquired Erestor, trying to rush the Grey Pilgrim, who seemed quite taken with dramatic pauses. For a lore master, such an occasion was of monumental significance. What could be more exciting than the debates of the Ainur? The seneschal of Imladris nearly radiated with curiosity from almost each invisible pore upon his ageless face.

“The question was whether we should allow or not for Lysandra’s hair to grow during her slumber,” Gandalf proclaimed with gravity.

His words were greeted by six incredulous expressions, each of them wondering whether the Istar was playing yet another trick on them.

“Lysandra’s hair? That was the cause of your colossal Ages-long argument in Aman?” confirmed Elladan, not knowing whether he should laugh at the absurdity of it or question the Ainur’s sanity.  

“Do not be hasty, young Elladan,” retorted Gandalf, his eyes squinting at the Elf in exasperation. “Perceive you not the true essence of our struggle? It was a matter of free will and how the Second Children, or any Children at that, wielded it.”

Some like Elrond were able to appreciate the actual origin of said conflict, yet others like the twins remained uncertain.

“How does one go from hair to contemplations of free will?” muttered Elrohir, with a sceptical frown. Elladan shrugged in reply, hoping that somebody would provide some further clarifications, and indeed his hopes were answered quite quickly by Gandalf himself.

“Do ponder over this, young Elrohir – the theme by which the Children entered into the Music was quite miraculous to us. We shaped the dwelling meant for the Eruhíni, yet we had little knowledge of its purpose, beyond its own beauty. Our existing knowledge was of the visible World, rather than of the World itself.”

“None of us dared to add anything to the Children’s fashion, and those who did… alas, you should have a good enough awareness of the ill-fated endings, to which they succumbed.”

Gandalf paused for a moment, ensuring that his audience followed the meaning of those words he uttered, and more notably, those he didn’t.

“After much labour of our music, the day had come at last, when we were at leisure to converse on all aspects of the Second-born, particularly the one who had arrived in our demesne. Time had little effect on Lysandra’s visage, conflicting with our understanding of Men. Appealing to Irmo and Estë, I alone was told about the fate awaiting her, yet that did not stop other Maiar of Lórien from discussing whether time should affect the body, even when unconscious.

“Some believed that nature itself dictated the continuous growth of all things living, others – that free will should supersede any such law, and as Lysandra was unconscious, she could not exert it. As one would trim flowers and shrubs, hair could be likewise shortened at will. Most importantly, Men had the virtue of shaping their lives beyond the Music of the Ainur. Through any involvement on our side, we risked opposing Eru’s purpose.”

As Gandalf finished speaking, Lysandra looked at her ankle-long tresses. “Am I to understand that the latter party lost?”

He chuckled in reply, shaking his head. “No, they did not lose. In fact, there were no winners. You see, young one, initially contained within Irmo’s realm, Námo’s servants were unwittingly roped into the argument, when one day some of us accompanied Irmo in visiting his brother. I heard that the Mandos servants quarrelled over it quite a bit, until a vexed Námo put a stop to the mayhem by proclaiming his judgement.”

The more he listened to Mithrandir, the more Glorfindel’s eyebrows seemed to rise sky-high. “Námo pronounced a doom? Over Lysandra’s hair?”

“I am afraid so, old friend,” nodded the Wizard with solemnity, yet his entire act was easily exposed by the merry twinkle in his eyes.

Glorfindel burst out laughing, once again greatly wishing to have been a witness to such a delightful scene. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!

“Do tell us what the doom was,” besought Erestor, rather entertained himself.

“Patience, dear friend. Námo spoke his doom in the presence of Irmo and Estë alone. At best, it was inferred that Lysandra’s hair should be fashioned after her own memories, as well as the Doomsman’s visions of the future. Thus, her free will would not be denied, and nature’s law would be followed, even if at a very slow rate.”

Elrond, who had not spoken at all throughout Gandalf’s retelling, gazed at the Istar with much fondness, but also a small amount of disbelief.

“It seems you have changed little, Gandalf, since your earlier days in Aman and until now.”

“Is that so, Master Elrond?”

“Your aptitude to cause mischief in the Blessed Lands had diminished little since your arrival in Middle-earth,” answered the Healer. “The Maiar of Mandos were unwittingly roped into the argument? I think not, my friend.”

“Alas, you caught me,” confessed Mithrandir, though his sorry appearance lasted no more than a sigh or two, before he returned to his spirited self. “I do believe it was for the better, think you not?”

“It was certainly for the better,” exclaimed Glorfindel. “You purposefully disturbed Mandos’ serenity till Námo was forced to herald a new doom! Over hair of all things! You have my deepest respect. I shall also thank you, Lysandra, for your assistance however unintentionally given.”

“I am glad to be of service,” mumbled the young woman still apprehensive about the Grey Pilgrim’s words. “Gandalf, are you certain none but you know of my fate, or that only Irmo’s Maiar had seen me?”

“Steady your heart, young one. Indeed few of us had been allowed to approach Lórellin, precisely because you were there. The debate had escalated as a theoretical concept, and I would not be surprised if it was still ongoing, outside Mandos that is,” he assured her with a wink. “It had been a rather popular topic before I left, and by that time we had had much interaction with the Eruhíni. As you might envisage, we were never short of material to employ in making one’s point.”

Behind a curtain of rain, the Valley of Imladris brimmed with life and cheer. The Hall of Fire, coloured in flickering hues of amber and golds upon white walls of stone, radiated with warmth and an ethereal halo. Rich and bright bell-like notes poured from the great doors left ajar, as Elven minstrels glided with skill and grace over harp strings.

Unlike every other resident, Lysandra alone had not joined the revelry that evening. While she was yet to agree to an identity for herself, she did not wish to hinder her hosts’ pleasure in mingling with Gandalf and the newly arrived party of Dúnedain.

She leaned upon the veranda, trailing the wind’s ever wilful disposition, so mercurial in its chosen direction and strength. The young woman looked pensive, her hand intermittently touching her nose in frustration. The heavenly deluge bothered her not. Her peace was broken by her inner ruminations. Great was her desire to speak with the wise Maia, yet she fretted over her choice of words, and even more so, over the level of candour her speech warranted.

Be it due to divine intervention or a Wizard’s well developed inkling for others’ need of him, the Grey Pilgrim’s emerged from the shadows, his presence so startling, she almost jumped.

“Why do you look so surprised, young Lysandra? Were you expecting another?” asked Gandalf, his great eyebrows slightly raised.

“I am afraid I expected none at all,” she shook her head, attempting to clear her mind and put all of her thoughts into a semblance of order.

“Yet it seemed to me that you were waiting for somebody.”

The Istar slowly approached her, rummaging through his clothes for his well-used pipe. Lysandra watched him add dry tobacco leaves to the chamber, choosing to forego replying to her companion.

“That is bad for your health.”

“Indeed?” Gandalf huffed as he lit the leaves with a spark from his bare fingers.

“Long-term smoking leads to cognitive decline, due to the damaging and thinning of the brain tissue,” she stated as if she was reciting her reply from one of her medical texts.

“As wondrous as the mysteries of mortal flesh are, I believe in the fortitude of this raiment, or better said, of those who devised it. The odds are quite in my favour, I should say.”

Lysandra sighed, admitting the futility of her argument. He would smoke even on the eve of a confrontation as great as the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, centuries later. At least, he was not smothering her with the fumes, as he expertly directed the rings of smoke into the rain. When little boats emerged from behind his moustache, sailing through the rings, she almost rolled her eyes.

Show-off.

“Is the body, with which I was clothed, as enduring as yours?” she asked after a while. It was not the subject she would have broached otherwise, but it provided a much needed opening nonetheless.

“Should the owner of one’s hröa ¹⁰ not be better suited to recognise its own qualities?”

The woman frowned, looking at her own hands as they clenched and unclenched.

“It feels different,” she whispered, as if it was a secret she wished none to discover. “It is my body, but it feels alien.”

Gandalf nodded, still puffing on his pipe. “It is a conjecture at best, but do indulge me for a moment. I assume you had little interaction with my kin in your World.”

Lysandra nodded, without interrupting his theorising.

“Would you not think it most natural for your body to be permeated with otherness due to the presence of the Ainur? You spent many an Age in the embrace of a Vala. You were imbued in the light of the Two Trees, and were bathed in the waters of Lórellin. I believe some otherness is naught but warranted.”

Lysandra’s pensiveness rendered her immobile but for the slight rise of her chest, as she breathed in the moist air.

“I understand, however certain things do puzzle me. Weeks ago, you mentioned that my hair was allowed to grow, no matter its pace, yet what about the rest? Hair on one’s limbs is normal, yet I have none. Why? Or how?”

It was Gandalf’s turn to ponder over her words, but after he spoke once more. “Tell me, young one, what did the Doomsman say upon clothing you?”

“Námo? Well, let me see…” she said, confusion colouring her voice. “I believe he said that my soul should envision as well as It could my previous form, meaning my body as Lysandra.”

“And did you follow his advice?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, shocked he would even question something so crucial. The slight in her words not even registering until much later.

“Take no offence, dear, I am simply trying to recreate the scene, as they say,” the Maia smiled with kindness. “Now, tell me, what think you the body remembers of its physiological state?”

Lysandra could have gone into great deal about the memory of tissues, cells, etc., yet she knew that a medical explanation was not what he was looking for.

“I would say the body would remember those things which altered it. It would remember pain and any damage done to it.”

“Ah, well spoken, young one. I could not have put it better myself. My next query would be, have pain or damage been inflicted upon your flesh?”

As if under a spell, the young woman’s eyes grew as big as saucers, realisation dawning on her.

Of course! I have fried the root of each hair upon my body with electrolysis!

That was irreversible damage done to her body, and the pain accompanying the procedure was such, that she had almost interrupted her sessions on quite a few occasions. As she continued reminiscing, she realised that the scar she got from the shearing scissors on her shin, the almost invisible mark on her forearm from carelessly stinging herself with the hot iron, and even the faded tattoo on the lining of her upper eyelid were all present on her current body. Then she looked at her hands again, another question arising.

“What of my nails? They hadn’t grown at all while I slept.”

Having watched her sudden understanding settling in, her countenance showing varying degrees of surprise with each discovery, Lysandra’s latest question left him slightly amused.

“That would take us back to the matter of free will. In curing patients, a healer’s hands are precious and well-preserved. You would not treat them otherwise, would you?”

The neurosurgeon shook her head, feeling slightly foolish. The answers had been staring her in the face for so long, yet she had been worrying over them like a simpleton.

So much for being a genius.

Gandalf smoked some more, allowing the blood pooling in her cheeks to abate, before addressing her.

“Now, let us call a spade a spade. What is the true source of your turmoil and the reason for repeatedly delaying your entrance into society, in a proper fashion?”

The ill-fitted translation of the British idiom was purposefully employed to tease her, which had happened on numerous occasions ever since she informed her companions of it. Regrettably, she had no appetite for responding to his jests. It was not a kaleidoscope of butterflies that rose within her belly, but a swarm of wasps, threatening to overrun her larynx, rendering her unable to speak.

A few deep breaths filled her chest with an almost refreshing chill. The wasps were held at bay.

“My Sight. My knowledge of the future… even that of the present. Lord Elrond keeps insinuating I should not use it as much as I do. He calls it an addiction,” she uttered the words in barely a whisper, as if she was ashamed of speaking them out loud. “I am fully aware how destructive addictions are, yet I find myself unable but to rely on my Gift. Was it not bestowed upon me to use it well?”

Mithrandir’s countenance no longer carried a carefree air, dark shadows gathering under his bushy eyebrows.

“The wise speak only of what they know, young one. My understanding is that your Gift allows you to see much. To roam through the past, present, and future, as you do is to see the truth. And the truth is a great, but terrible thing. I would caution you to treat it as if it were a most fragile jewel. You would not want that jewel to shatter, you along with it.”

“But then how do I know that my actions are correct?” Lysandra almost cried in frustration. “How can I assure myself that I am not altering the future, through my ignorance or carelessness? My mistakes could cost many lives. How do I live with that?!”

The wise old man looked toward Varda’s stars, barely visible through the grey clouds. Long ago, when the stars were still young, he had wondered why that young woman had been chosen to carry such a heavy toll, but her words chased away any shade of doubt he might have had.

“Ignorance? Carelessness?” he repeated in his deep voice. “Eru Almighty, those words should not be spoken in the same sentence with your person. By asking those questions alone you prove how unlikely you are to succumb to such follies. Nay, I say your struggle to put not a single step off the beaten path is likelier to doom you. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that if nothing else.”

Vision blurring, as if the heavy rain had at last intruded inside the veranda, Lysandra bit her inner lip. She could not help shaking her head, for he simply did not understand her plight.

“But they are not mere dreams, are they? They show the future, events from hundreds, and even thousands of years into the future, and I can see them as clearly as I can see you. Actions have consequences. Can I truly act of my own volition, knowing that even the slightest of my actions might hinder Eru’s purpose later on?”

Her Foresight was much more daunting than he had previously guessed. The understanding came to him accompanied by sorrow, for her thin shoulders seemed much too fragile for such a burden, yet Eru’s choice was incontestable.

“The consequences of our actions are so very complicated, so varied in magnitude, that predicting the future is a very difficult endeavour indeed. Your ability to see into the fabric of the Music itself likely rivals only that of Námo, might even exceed it, but you forget one important thing, young Lysandra.”

“What is that?” she asked, her chest filling with hope that his answer would deliver her to salvation.

“Free will, dear. You are Eru’s Child, beloved to Him and us. He would not shackle your will so utterly, as if you were a slave. That is the purview of Morgoth or Sauron, not His.”

Tears rolling down unhindered, Lysandra buried her face into the flowing long-sleeves of her robes. The fabric darkened within minutes. She felt a heavy hand on her trembling back.

“There, there, dear, have faith that Eru would not lead you astray,” Mithrandir comforted her with gentle pats. “If your fear is so great that a calamity would befall others due to your mistakes, mayhap you should Foresee what would happen if you attempted something truly forbidden? Eru’s guidance might help you avoid such outcomes.”

Her body immediately froze at the idea.

Forbidden?

Forbidden like what?

Like looking for the Ring right this very moment and destroying it before Sauron’s rise to power?

Eru’s response was instantaneous.

The Vision was so intense, so all-encompassing, that she only managed a strangled gasp before she crumbled to the floor unconscious.

“Oh dear. Elrond shall be mighty cross with me,” muttered a rather stiff Gandalf.

Chapter Text

Years of the Sun, 2nd Age, Year 1,697

Vision – Lysandra’s point of view

Foreboding peaks of the Misty Mountains towered defiant against the heavens, the sky’s wrath seeking to sunder all beneath. Unnatural clouds, a malaise summoned by fell arts, devoured the most valiant of sunrays, cloaking Eregion in shadow. No light would triumph on that accursed day. With each strike of thunder and lightning, despair gripped the once-free folk of Ost-in-Edhil, their hope utterly extinguished.

The fallen Maia, Annatar no more, gazed upon his Ring, its gleam a mockery of sunlight. Turning to the crumpled form of Celebrimbor, whom he had once named ‘friend’ as a wolf might call its prey. His fair visage twisted into false compassion, eyes alight with decadent delight, lips straining to withhold his smile.

“Dearest Celebrimbor,” Sauron purred, his voice laced with derision, “it grieves me to see thee fallen to such diminished means. Was it not but yester-eve thou hadst welcomed me with fanfare and generosity?”

Sweet on the surface, but spiteful within such had always been Sauron’s speech, its cadence languid and deliberate. After all, time held no sway over him. All would bow to his dominion in due course, and none dared defy Gorthaur the Cruel – save one wretched Elf-smith, whose spirit he sought to shatter with meticulous torment. It was a pursuit, at which he best excelled, torturing his prisoners till their minds and spirits broke, laying bare all their secrets for his perusal.

“Must thou insist upon disobeying me, dearest? Speak, and I may yet spare thee, restoring our imperishable bonds of friendship,” he taunted, prowling the ruined hall of Ost-in-Edhil, where once Celebrimbor’s skill had birthed wonders, now ruined beneath the Dark Lord’s malice.

The ridicule in his own words amused Sauron greatly, his harsh laughter sending daggers into his captive’s mutilated hröa ¹. Poisonous yellow eyes blazed with spite and hatred at Celebrimbor’s continuous insolence.

The Elf could not speak, for his voice had been silenced by unremitting torment, his throat a ruin of past defiance. Celebrimbor’s lack of larynx did little to hinder Sauron’s inquisition, delving with ease behind his prey’s ravaged mind. Once a forge of radiant craft, it now echoed with a single, unyielding ‘No’ – a frail shield against the Enemy’s will. For yéni ², he had been lauded as a master of great creations, yet now his legacy dwindled to a mere hope for a swifter death. The last member of Fëanáro’s House ³ would choose dwelling in Mandos than succumb to Sauron’s deceitful arts.

Celebrimbor desperately suppressed the need to choke on his own blood, for he refused to give Sauron that pleasure. Alas, his broken body had long since betrayed its owner. The Elf’s pathetic act displeased Sauron with such thoroughness, he unleashed his malevolence, snuffing out the last of flickering candles.

“Careful now, dearest,” he sneered, “ lest our titillating discourse end too soon. Quite the pity, I shall deem it. Even thy mangled uncle amused me for decades, whilst thou art but a frail shell after mere seasons. I should scorn thee for such weakness.”

On and on Sauron’s taunts wove their venom, while Celebrimbor’s mind clung to its unwavering ‘No’. He had long discarded any other form of speech, but that solitary negation.

His last form of defiance.

Great beads of sweat rolled off Lysandra’s body, as she tried to escape the tangle of silky sheets and her own hair. With nary a moment left to spare, she managed to crawl at last, toward the edge of her bed, and the empty chamber pot.

Bile, green and bitter, burst out of her mouth, its acidity burning all flesh in its path up the oesophagus. She kept on heaving, her stomach cramping at being abused thusly. Her shoulders stopped shaking for but a moment, before increasing their quivering.

Still kneeling, she buried her face into the bed covers. The fabric fulfilled more than one purpose, for none could hear her frantic weeping. Remembering the last moments of Celebrimbor’s life, Lysandra suddenly felt the walls enclosing upon her like a prison. The silk became pools of crimson, and the soft notes of floral incense disappeared, leaving behind a phantom metallic smell. She felt like being suffocated, much like the Elf-smith had done throughout the last few weeks of his torture.

Breathe, I can’t breathe…

Bare feet scurried out of the room, toward the outer loggias. Stumbling and shuddering, she made her way through many a hallway, their beauty entirely concealed by tears. Once she reached the most remote balcony in the family wing, her legs finally gave in. Lysandra succumbed to gravity, heedless of the bruises and pain it caused her flesh.

There, at the mercy of cold drafts and stone, the Gifted woman looked at the stars – the witnesses to much tragedy and her own grief.

Late was the hour, yet beneath the full moon’s silver glow peace eluded Elrond. His gaze settled upon the hearth, where embers crackled and flames danced in fleeting splendour. For many nights, he had mused upon his choice. While wisdom dictated that haste would avail him naught, his heart foretold a rather different outcome. His resolution seemed inevitable.

From mere embers might a great blaze rise; from a single spring, a mighty river flow.

In time, he reminded himself. All answers shall be unveiled in time.

The moon’s radiance breathed life into the stained glass, casting a mosaic of hues upon the stone, each shard aglow with vibrant tales. Tracing the moonlit patterns, his thoughts drifted to very first night of Coirë ⁴, when Tillion’s ⁵ waning crescent hid behind storm-laden clouds, and most residents and guests of Imladris celebrated the season’s arrival.

Three weeks past, Stirring had swept into Eriador with rains and night’s chill, painting buds on barren boughs and coaxing shoots from dark soil. It heralded the birds’ return, bearing sunlight on their wings – a token from their journeys to southern lands. Alas, that eve’s merrymaking was overshadowed by Lysandra’s plight, its memory etched deep in Elrond’s heart.

Rarely did he wield ósanwe ⁶ since Celebrían’s sailing, yet Gandalf’s sudden call through their touch of minds summoned him swiftly. There was only one single person, who could have required his attention with such urgency.

The twins and Glorfindel left the boisterous Hall of Fire, following him to the terrace where the Grey Pilgrim awaited. Great was their alarm upon seeing Lysandra’s pitiful state, felled by her own Gift no less. Elrond carried her gently to his study, settling her upon a velvet chaise. The twins lit the candles one by one, their glow tempering the storm’s shadow.

Elrond longed to admonish his friend, as he would have any mischievous youngling, whose purpose was to cause trouble. Yet he stilled his rising concern, for the Master of Imadris could not let it sway him when addressing one of the Istari.

“Gandalf, old friend,” he spoke, “if it would please you, and it would certainly please me, pray recount the tale of how this came to pass.”

Leaning upon his gnarled staff, hat weathered by wanderings, the Wizard’s face gathered many a shadow under his brow. The ever-present merry twinkle in his eyes seemed to be reduced but to smouldering coals.

“Even the wise falter at times, and see not all ends. In seeking to lighten her burden, my advice wrought harm where I intended to provide succour, and for it, heavy is my heart indeed.”

“I scarce recall your counsel, Mithrandir, yielding such overwhelming and, dare I say, flooring travail,” said Glorfindel, his jest tinged with a shadow of concern. Many moons had passed since the young woman bore such a startling shade of pale.

As the storm bellowed without, Glorfindel’s words hung in the air, his brows arched with quiet scepticism. The Wizard gripped his thorny staff, leaning wearily upon it, his gaze lost in distant shadows.

“I deemed her burden heavy enough, and I sought to allay her concerns. The fear of the unknown has much consumed her thoughts. Her place in this world has stirred deep torment within her heart, for a single misstep might spell devastation upon these shores. Eru’s gift of mortality had been withheld from her, yet His gift of choice remains. I reminded her of it.”

Gandalf’s gaze was on Lysandra’s ashen countenance, yet his thoughts were with Nienna, from whom he learnt much of compassion and forbearance. The ensuing pause in his speech was long enough for Elrohir to become impatient.

“And what happened then, Mithrandir?”

“Her knowledge of the Music lays upon her much responsibility, but it should serve neither as a sentence nor as a hindrance to her purpose,” the pilgrim continued. “To discern paths fated from paths free lies within the ken of all who dare venture into the Deeps of Time, yet Lysandra’s steps must be guided by faith, not shadowed by fear. As such, my counsel was for her to gaze into a future deemed forbidden by her own visions. No sooner had I spoken than her breath faltered, and she fell senseless to the ground.”

“So swiftly?” asked Elrohir, his voice tinged with dismay.

Taking in the younger twin’s bewilderment, mirrored by many an ageless face, the Maia let a long sigh escape his lips.

“Veiled her thoughts have ever been to my kind, yet now her mind is enshrouded in a dark and viscous mire, quite unreachable to me. I have not seen the like.”

Elrond’s frown deepened, his reprimand for Gandalf’s wilfulness fading unspoken, for even he had long hesitated to probe Lysandra’s tender spot. He was spared a mighty hurdle, yet his relief felt bittersweet as she remained unconscious still.

“I thought her fainting spells were a matter of the past.” said Elladan, as he pressed the back of his hand to her clammy forehead.

“For her mind to have protected itself thusly, the shock must have been great indeed,” added his sire. He drew forth a flask of Miruvor, the honeyed cordial of Imladris, and poured it into a chalice.

“Help me, Elladan,” said Elrond, as they gently raised Lysandra to administer the reviving draught past her parted lips. It had been long since she last needed the Elven mead, wrought from the nectar of scented flowers.

“May Lady Estë soothe Lysandra’s mind and spirit. May Lord Irmo guide her into dreams of silver light and meadows of green unmarred,” Gandalf intoned, his voice resonant with an Istar’s power, as if to summon those blessings nigh.

A sense of expectancy enfolded the room, all eyes on Lysandra’s still form.

Rising wind and rain pelted against the study’s windows with increased ferocity. Sensing the cold draft seeping down the chimney, Glorfindel kindled a fire in the hearth. Then, with nary a warning, the study door swung open.

“By Varda’s light, what has befallen?” asked a frazzled Erestor, striding into the room. “None marked your departure, leaving me witless before a full Hall awaiting your recital of the prayers. I took the task upon myself, make no mistake, yet a word of forewarning would have been quite welcome.”

The memory drew a mirthless chuckle from Elrond, for even now the weight of Lysandra’s plight lingered in his heart. In the midst of informing Erestor of her predicament, she had awakened with a gasp.

With her eyes like twin moons open but unseeing, she recoiled against her chair in a dither. Nearest her side, Elrond and Elladan, steadied her trembling shoulders, as if anchoring a vessel amid the tempest’s wrath.

She strove to quell her Sight, its relentless tide unyielding. In foreign tongues she whispered, face drained of colour. Her head swayed from side to side, as if to evade an unseen foe, and her companions, versed in the arts of war, marked the subtle feints of her struggle.

At length, the Music’s visions ebbed, their strains fading into the Deeps of Time.

Lysandra’s form stilled. With a blink, her moonlit opals softened into lovely emeralds, as if fashioned by Aulë’s craft.

Tilting her face, she met Elrond’s gaze, trepidation filling those verdant pools.

“It seems there is much more for me to learn, wielding a blade not the least of them,” she murmured, her voice faint yet resolute.

Rising from his armchair, Elrond sought to banish the ghost of dread her words had stirred, its chill as acute now as it was then. The twins and Glorfindel had read her unspoken wish to train, their eyes alight, yet Elrond remained loath to assent. The warriors’ deference to his wisdom had tempered their zeal to initiate her training so far, nonetheless the Master of Imadris knew he could not encumber Lysandra’s purpose.

Arda Marred compels even healers to paths of strife. How bitter is the fruit of truth, he mused silently. Yet, some songs must be sung.

A weariness, heavy as the sorrows of Ages, settled upon him. There would be more benefit in retiring, for that night would bring no further enlightenment to his quandary.

Seeking repose, he made to leave the study, when beneath the full moon’s light a shadow flickered through the window. A clamour of alarm flooded his mind. Lysandra’s footsteps, unmistakable to Elrond’s sensitive ears, echoed through the halls of Imladris.

Whither does she flee at so late an hour?

Hastening through the winding corridors, the knot in his heart swelled with each turn in his pursuit. At last he found her, nigh hidden in shadow and crumpled upon the floor. Her hair was spread like a spider’s web, eyes unseeing. Clad only in a delicate satin slip, her fair limbs grew chill and blue in Coirë’s frosty night.

“Lysandra! What ails you?” cried Elrond, swiftly casting off his outer robe and wrapping her shivering form in its lingering warmth. She lay rigid, as if bound by unseen chains.

Concerned for her welfare, of the body and spirit, he sought to bring her to the safety of her chambers, when his charge burst in panicked cries, bringing him to a halt.

“No, take me not within! I beg you!” she pleaded over and over.

His turmoil amplified with each imploring whimper departing her lips. The Healer had no choice but to remain on the balcony, open to the elements.

From past trials, he could guess that her terror stemmed from hideous visions. Though his Power had oft availed little against her nightmares, his Song of healing wove through the cold, a gentle stream, pure and nourishing, bidding the heavens clear and the stars’ glow brighter.

Lysandra’s anguish diminished, her breath falling in time with Elrond’s heartbeat, slower than a mortal’s yet steadfast and unwavering. Wet lashes quivering like feathers in the wind, she met his gaze with a flicker of returning awareness.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

“There is naught to forgive, dearest.”

The word of affection cast a shadow in her heart, echoes of Sauron’s cruel mockery haunting her thoughts. Seeking to separate past from present, Lysandra stirred, noting her feet hover above the stone, still cradled in his arms.

“Thank you, my Lord. I believe I am restored enough to stand,” she said, her voice woven with gratitude.

With a gentle nod, Elrond lowered her, his hand lingering at her elbow lest she falter. On trembling limbs, the young woman approached the balustrade, its stone carved with Elven blossoms, Elrond ever at her side.

“Your feet must be cold in this frost. Will you not allow me to bring you inside?”

Decisively she shook her head, her spirit shunning any form of physical confinement after the terrors she had seen.

Resigned, Elrond sought a gentler path. “Await here, then, while I fetch you slippers and a cloak. I shall not tarry.”

Her slight nod had him swiftly reach Lysandra’s chambers and retrieving her items, his steps hastened by concern. Returning to her side, he pondered over the state of her sleeping quarters. Her nightmare must have been terrible indeed, the acrid smell of sickness confirming his earlier assumptions.

The two companions stared into the dale, bathed in many shades of grey and blue. Comforting silence enfolded them, filled with the rustle of foxes and hedgehogs through ancient leaves, the hoot of owls hidden in towering pines, and rabbits frolicking in the tall grass.

“I beheld a Vision of the past,” Lysandra whispered into the night. “A dreadful revelation.”

“I guessed as much,” Elrond said gently, his voice steady despite the ache in his heart. “I would hear it, if you are willing.”

“Oh, I would not trouble another with such cruelty,” she replied, though silently she longed to unburden her heart, or even have her visions banished altogether. Yet guilt immediately assailed her mind. Her inner feelings tasted treacherous and hypocritical.

What did she know about pain, when poor Celebrimbor had been tortured in truth? What did she know about anything at all?

Keen and thoughtful as ever, Elrond gently clasped her clenched hands, preventing the nails from breaking skin.

“I am no stranger to matters of cruelty, and I believe you know that too well,” he reminded her with a kind smile. “Let me share your burden with gladness; let not guilt weary your spirit.”

“Forgive me,” she said, her eyes meeting his in apology, “but the details of what I had seen are much too fresh in my mind for me to speak of them with ease”.

“Then speak only what you can,” he urged, a gentle frown creasing his brow. “Let me be of aid to you.”

Their eyes held fast in silent communication, until Lysandra lowered hers in tacit surrender.

“If you are certain…” she sighed, regret and relief warring within her heart.

He tenderly pressed her hands, before setting them free. The unreserved confidence in his countenance lent her courage to utter the truth she so dreaded.

“Tonight, I beheld Telperinquar’s ⁷ torture and fall at Sauron’s hands. Not for the first time, either,” she confessed, her voice thin as a thread near breaking. “I had seen it unfold, safe in Aman’s embrace, yet each Vision casts events into a different light, revealing new shadows.”

Still dwarfed by Elrond’s burgundy cloak, Lysandra appeared small and frail. She raised her fair arm, clutching at her heart as if to shield it.

“Tonight, I witnessed not only Telperinquar’s suffering, but also that of his sire, many an uncle, and even his grandfather, as they watched his torture through the Mirror-meres of Nienna.”

A weight lodged in Elrond’s throat, yet he strove to keep his voice steady.

“Has their Doom not banished them into the Void?”

“No, Darkness Everlasting is not their lot, I have not Seen otherwise. During the scouring of Eregion, they yet dwelt in Mandos, where Nienna brought a basin from her sacred pools. She deemed it mercy…” Lysandra spoke, her voice cloaked in eerie calm, as if her misery had ebbed into detachment. “Might you guess, my Lord? She was right. For mercy it was, and when Telperinquar fell, pierced by countless arrows, he knew not even his own name.

“Not even his own name,” she echoed, as a single tear, like salted dew, trailed down her face. Elrond gently wiped her fair cheek, his breath heavy and faltering.

“Have you heard, my Lord?” she asked, though expected no answer. “An Elf who recognises not his own name cannot heed Mandos’ call. Have you known that?”

Elrond froze, his heart roiled by a debilitating storm. He stood as a statue, weathered by countless tempests, scarred by wind and sand.

“O Celebrimbor… Say not that he forsook Námo’s call,” he pleaded, his voice raw as shattered stone.

“I would not lie to you,” replied Lysandra. “He would not answer Námo, yet Nienna entreated her brother to let Curufinwë ⁸ call his son, lest Sauron chain Telperinquar’s spirit to his will. Námo spurned her pleas, until Fëanáro himself besought the Vala.

“I shall tell you a secret – never has Fëanáro bowed in supplication, not even for his mother’s life. Yet to Námo he knelt, and surprisingly the Doomsman yielded, though his reasons remain unknown.”

Mayhap it was a requital for Námo’s ancient doom, which had entombed Míriel Þerindë’s spirit within his Halls, allowing no hope for her return. However, that was but a theory of hers, a weak one at that.

“From the prison his deeds had wrought, Curufinwë cried desperately for his son, pleading for his return. Námo lent strength to his voice, but Telperinquar heeded not. In Sindarin, Quenya, and every name known, Curufinwë called, but his son answered not. In despair and left with no other recourse, he began to sing.”

Mirroring the grieving father, Lysandra sang as well. The song unravelled like a mild wave under starlit skies. Its cadence was soft as the sour cream on warm tarts, bright as the distant stars, and tender as the hands that once had wiped his tears.

Elrond knew that lullaby.

“I had heard it long ago,” admitted Lysandra, her thoughts adrift in Ages past. “Míriel had first hummed this lay for the child in her womb; Fëanáro had woven its words for each son borne by Nerdanel. Curufinwë too had sung it to his unborn child. Perhaps, Sauron was so mighty that he could mar and distort every single memory of Telperinquar, but his father’s singing was not memory alone.

“It was a part of him, no less than the blood flowing in his veins… though by the end of it all, there was so very little left of it in his tortured body.”

Elrond bowed his head, his spirit aching and haunted by paths untaken. If only he had written one more letter to Celebrimbor, advising him to reject Annatar’s gifts. If only they had set out to battle just a few weeks earlier, he could have saved one he held as kin. If only…

“Telperinquar reached the Halls of the Dead at last,” she assured him, yet no joy could be found in her tone. Any neurosurgeon would have their fair share of gruesome memories, but even she quailed beneath such dreadful visions of ancient woe. “He reached Mandos, yet no tongue in Middle-earth or beyond could describe the ruin of his spirit, and if such a tongue exited, I would not dare speak it.”

Her fragile detachment dissolved into the wind, a slight chill seeping into her trembling form. She clasped her hands about her middle, her self-embrace too meagre a buffer against her memories.

The ensuing quiet permeating the gallery was no longer a source of comfort or peace. It was akin to the bottom of a well, awash with grief and lament, deep and unescapable.

“Of all of Fëanáro’s sons, Curufinwë Atarincë ⁹ was the least dear to me,” the Gifted woman began her revelation, breaking the silence with her subdued voice. “Perhaps, I could go in as far as saying I truly disliked him. In the past, I thought him a smith who had betrayed his craft, a husband who had forsaken his promises, a father who had led his very young son down the road to perdition, a cousin who had deceived his own kin, and a guest who had stolen from his host. As a brother and son he too had failed, for he strived to further condemn himself and his family through deplorable deeds in Valariandë ¹⁰. And yet…

“Had I the power, I would have spared him the agony of beholding his son’s torment into insanity, and not for Telperinquar alone. I would have done it for a father powerless to save his child, and I would have done it gladly, even if that person was Curufinwë Atarincë.”

“Noble is your heart, to wish him well despite your opinions of him,” said Elrond, his weary face softening into a genuine smile. “I believe your father would be proud of you. I certainly am.”

He thought she might blush, or even bashfully deny his words, yet her reaction could have not been less likely. Her laughter rang out, rueful and stinging, carried by the wind across Imladris’ gardens below and into the shadowed woods. She laughed until she crumbled into anguished sobs, bitterly weeping in her frail palms. Too few tears she had left, for her outburst dissipated as quickly as it emerged.

“Forgive me,” she said, her third plea that night. “You must think me mad.”

“I could never think of you as lost to madness,” he denied with vehemence. “To yield to sorrow is as natural as the tides or the sun’s setting. Lay no further fault at your feet, where none belongs.”

“I fear you are much too kind to me, my Lord. Much more generous than I deserve,” confessed the despondent woman. “You mentioned my father, but I should tell you, he had been always and foremost a man of the army, loyal to the royal sword and sceptre. Two-faced am I to begrudge him his devotion, when I had left my home in search for knowledge at only thirteen myself, yet I could not help resent his absence throughout my entire childhood, however short it was.”

“Young one, I –”

“No, please my Lord, let me continue, or I should suffocate under the weight of these thoughts. My uncle’s name I had revealed as Lysander, for one who is freed, but my father too was called a free man, for that is the meaning of Charles in Old ‘English’. As a child, I believed that my father was aptly named, for he seemed to have freed himself of responsibilities toward his parents, wife, and first-born. But now…” she whispered, despair straining her breaths. “Now after I have seen so much of war, of loss and pain, I wish… Oh, how I wish I could tell him that I understand his duty to protect us, that I no longer blame him for his absence, and though we had not the opportunity to be close as father and daughter, I wish him nothing but blessings and happiness.

“But it is too late, my Lord Elrond,” she mourned, looking into his starlit gaze. “It is much too late. There is no return now, not if I am to uphold my Oath till bitter end.”

Elrond’s heart quivered, a warning cry of ‘No Oaths!’ rising, yet he held his silence as she pressed on.

“I had taken the Oath to do no harm, to heal, and cherish life. I lived by it and I followed it into the abyss. Despite all the misery it has brought me and all those around me, I do not regret it. At last I can acknowledge how very similar I am to my father, in giving away our lives, with little regard for our loved ones. Much like Curufinwë, I have blindly trod my father’s path to its unavoidable conclusion. And now, there is no return.

“For here I am, bound to an immortal life, kinless and alone. Should eternity not be my fate, would there be even one such as Curufinwë Atarincë to call me back to him? I think not,” she shook her head, bleakness colouring her voice. “I may yet follow my doom – become ash and scatter in the wind.”

Jaw set and teeth clenched, Elrond grasped her shoulders, his gaze piercing into the Flame Imperishable imprinted within her fëa ¹¹.

“I will not allow it,” he declared. Imbued with ancient power, his voice stirred the air, shaking Lysandra to her core. “You shall come with me.”

Elrond led Lysandra up a staircase hewn from selenite, its pearly glow whispering of ancient seas, guiding their steps like a lamp. Though she had never trod these cliff-carved paths, in visions or waking, she could guess their end: a terrace high above the moorlands, where waterfalls rushed south toward the Great Sea.

A moonstone table shone at the terrace’s heart, its light bewitching under Tilion’s magnificent presence in the sky. The landing needed no further adornment, for the dale’s splendour open at its feet.

Weary from her ordeal, Lysandra followed without question, her trust in Elrond a steady anchor. Neither did she ask Eru for a glimpse into her immediate future. After venturing into the forbidden, the fear of making her own choices diminished greatly.

The Elf-lord paused but a step away from the shimmering table. Turning to his charge, he exhaled deeply.

“I pondered much on the hour and custom of this occasion, alas the answer proved itself elusive and much too fleeting. Yet now, Ilúvatar has offered me this sacred chance, and I embrace it with joy and gladness.”

“Chance for what, my Lord?” asked Lysandra, her mind sluggish and muddled.

Elrond’s gaze held steady as he extended his arm. She placed her slender hand in his, her trust implicit.

“The Essecarmë ¹² blesses a child’s birth amid one’s kin and friends, yet I think our current surroundings are much better suited for the two of us,” he indicated toward the wondrous view.

“E – Essecarmë?” she asked with a tremulous voice, a tendril of elation cursing through her veins.

“Indeed, dearest. Essecarmë,” his smile the epitome of affection and grace. “Let Tilion be our witness, his radiance our chandelier. Let the words I speak be carried on whispers of wind and on Manwë’s breath. Let Varda’s stars bear testimony to all of my deeds and be judge as to their sincerity. Let Ulmo’s fountains spread the knowledge far and wide, through springs and firths of the sea, into the deeps of Arda and into the heights of ever-white mountains. Ere the dawn rises on the twenty-first day of Coirë ¹³, I name you, child, Lerindë Vanyalótë Elerondiel, a name of freedom and tranquil depths, fair as a flower, bound to my house.”

Lysandra stood transfixed, words caught in her throat. Like stars, her eyes glistened with tears, the weight of her new name profoundly touching her heart. She clasped his hand with both of hers, hope and despair entwined.

“Elerondiel ¹⁶?” she breathed at last.

“Ná, seldënya ¹⁷” he affirmed with gentle finality. “I promise to be a father to you, to guide and guard you, to offer you succour and shelter, to give you my love unto the unmaking of this World, and should my body fail, my prayers and blessings ever with you and your siblings.”

He leaned over her slight form, laying a kiss upon her brow.

“Lerindë ¹⁴, alatúlië nossënyana. ¹⁹”

With his final words, the ataressë-bestowing ²¹ ceremony was sealed.

Never again would the name of Lysandra Roselyn Whiting be heard on land or at sea in Arda Marred. A new theme rose for Lerindë Vanyalótë Elerondiel. Its notes wove into the Music, claiming their place in the everlasting harmony.

Chapter Text

Tuilë ¹ dawned with splendour upon all of Eriador, weaving its enchantments across rolling hills and mighty peaks. Lindens, clad in verdant glory, and willows, with their splayed green tresses, swayed beside burbling rivers swollen with snowmelt. Spring unfurled in vibrant fullness, an exultant song to life’s unyielding renewal.

Cradled in the embrace of the Misty Mountains, radiant sunshine bathed the Last Homely House in myriad shades of gold. Vast slopes of green and sheltered meadows flourished with Niphredil ² and Menelluin ³, white and azure star-like blossoms dancing in the wind. The falls of Imladris, ever-tumbling, cast their spray in shimmering veils, mingling with the Bruinen’s silver waters in an endless, melodious lay.

The sweet and mild breeze of Tuilë ignited a great longing in Inwisto’s heart to wander the vale’s wooded paths. Thus, the Ellon ⁴ left the Great Kitchens, now quiet save for the Head Chef tending to dinner’s pudding preparations. Humming a merry tune, he passed through vegetable and herb gardens where Cúferne and his attendants toiled, crossing archways adorned with fragrant flowers until he reached the stables at last.

Hewn from white stone and red cedar, the stables of Imladris were no mere barn, but an elegant, meticulously crafted hymn to equine nobility. Their high vaulted ceilings, spacious stalls, and intricately carved pillars formed a vast and sacred haven, where beloved Elf-steeds rested and thrived.

Past bales of hay lining the stables’ walls, Inwisto continued his ode to Yavanna’s wonders, his heart alight with spring’s youthful spirit. Yet his melody faltered, cut short by the sight before him. There stood Lady Lerindë, whose name alone stirred whispers through the Halls of Imladris. Her presence in the stables was no surprise to Inwisto – daily were the Lady’s visits to her mare, Iswarma ⁵, a gift from Lords Elladan and Elrohir. With its shimmering golden coat and flaxen mane, Iswarma, a steed worthy of kings, was bestowed with great alacrity upon the twins’ newest sister on Mettarë ⁶.

On the Last-day of the year, the folk of Imladris had at last beheld their guest, her identity shrouded in mystery for many a season. Introduced as Lord Elrond’s daughter and an emissary from Aman, she stirred both awe and curiosity. While the Elves of the Hidden Valley reeled at the revelation, Lord Elrond’s inner circle appeared unsurprised, having prepared lavish gifts for their youngest Lady. Even Mithrandir, ever fond of simple joys over grand ceremonies, presented her with a cloth of enchanted seeds, their pastel blooms now gracing her chambers’ veranda.

To the wonder of all, Lady Lerindë joined her father in reciting Yestarë’s ⁷ prayers, her voice clear and resonant, marked by Aman’s melodic lilt. She danced with her brothers and the Captain of the Guard through lively reels in the Hall of Fire, her grace and nimble steps kindling the festive spirit.

The people of the Hidden Valley, who had their Master in deep esteem, rejoiced at the expansion of his house. Yet, in quiet moments, they could not help but ponder and whisper of Lady Lerindë’s origins.

In the Healing Halls, Elves spoke with awe and fervour of Lady Lerindë’s uncommon methods, likening her to a servant of Estë. Whispers abounded about the strange tools Lord Elrond had bidden the Elf-smiths to devise for his daughter’s peculiar arts.

“She may or may not follow Estë, but I deem her one of the Istari,” declared an Ellon, having overheard her in many a lengthy discourse with the Grey Pilgrim.

“Why then did she take so long in her arrival?” another asked.

“Perhaps she lost her way,” an Elleth replied, her tone half-jesting.

“For over ten yéni ⁸?” Nelloriel laughed, dismissing the notion. The Elf-maid harboured her own suspicions.

When Lady Lerindë joined the Weavers’ Hall, its artisans marvelled at her skill, for what she lacked in speed she gained in diligence, exquisite patterns, and inimitable technique, prompting Nelloriel to muse that Lerindë was a disciple of Vairë.

Others, like Nimmeth ⁹, one of Lady Celebrían’s many followers, held that their Silver Lady had sent Lord Elrond a daughter from Valinor. This belief gained favour, for why else would Lord Elrond and his inner circle guard their charge with such care and discretion, above all others?

Pursuing a different avenue, some sought Gaeleth’s counsel, given her closeness to the Lady. Yet the Elleth ¹⁰, steadfast in her loyalty despite swearing no oath, rebuffed their inquiries. Through persistent questioning, they learned only of Lerindë’s partiality for dancing, favouring its most whimsical forms. Rumours soon spread of an emissary of Vána the Ever-young.

Like leaves in a restless wind, hushed whispers and delicate murmurs swirled through Imladris. Each voice wove a new thread into the tale of Lerindë Elerondiel.

Nonetheless, there was one truth universally acknowledged – whatever her origins, the youngest Lady was cherished by kin and companions alike. As Tuilë bloomed in beauty and light, so too did Lady Lerindë flourish, endearing herself to the people of the Hidden Valley.

Their sole lament was her constant entourage. Whether it was her father, one of her brothers, Lord Glorfindel, Lord Erestor, Gaeleth, or even Mithrandir, someone ever shadowed her, hindering deeper acquaintance with the Valley’s people, which they greatly desired.

Thus, Inwisto was both astonished and delighted to find Lerindë alone, deftly combing Iswarma’s tail and murmuring to the mare in a soft voice, with nary a chaperone in sight. At last, he could express his thankfulness and admiration for her healing deeds from the past Yávië ¹¹.

Clearing his throat, Inwisto hoped his Exilic Quenya would not falter before her pure speech from Aman, thwarting his endeavour. With that silent prayer, he approached as she turned to him.

“My Lady, good day to you,” he greeted with a bow.

“Good day to you too, Inwisto,” she replied, setting aside the delicate comb. “Lord Manwë has blessed us with fair weather, do you not agree?”

“I do indeed, my Lady,” he smiled, warmed by her words. “I share your feelings wholly, hoping to take a stroll before my duties call me to the Kitchens this evening.”

“What a wonderful idea!” Lerindë exclaimed, her eyes sparkling in effusion. “Elladan and I have just wandered the eastern glades along the riverbanks, so very enchanting.”

“My heart rejoices to hear it,” Inwisto nodded, his expression growing solemn. “If I may, my Lady, I would offer my deepest gratitude and esteem for your selfless deeds in Autumn of yesteryear. I was tasked with Bellamdir’s care and failed in my duty, yet you, despite your own recovery, took his welfare upon yourself. For this, I am profoundly indebted. Should a day come when my Lady requires my service, I vow to fulfil it with all my skill and spirit. My Lady only need ask.”

Lerindë’s countenance softened, her eyes wide and doe-like, lashes trembling faintly. “Oh, Inwisto, I dare not accept such fealty,” she protested, humbled by his vehemence. “As a fellow healer, you know our calling demands no less than unwavering devotion to our craft.”

“True, my Lady, and I dare not slight your wisdom or duty, but you were a patient still,” Inwisto countered gently, conviction in his voice. “None would expect a convalescent to save Bellamdir as you did. My vow stands until the end of days.”

Lerindë opened her lips to demur, then paused, recalling Inwisto’s Noldorin blood, his forebears sworn to the House of Fëanáro. Sheer stubbornness and unrelenting loyalty ran deep in his veins, rendering her protest futile. To honour his resolve without burdening him, she must devise a task neither too heavy nor too slight, lest she wound his pride. The prospect daunted her.

Her cheeks mildly flushed, Lerindë smiled, “I accept you gratitude and shall remember your generous promise. My thanks, Inwisto.”

Inwisto dipped his head, his spirit alight with renewed vigour. Resuming his earlier song, he opened the stall of his favoured steed, and together, Elf and horse set forth on a leisurely journey south.

A few weeks after the New Year’s observance, or Yestarë as the Elves named it, Mithrandir departed the Hidden Valley, his pilgrimage wending over hill and under tree, along paths ancient and new, beneath stars and skies blue.

As the sun crested the Misty Mountains, Lerindë crossed the parapet-less bridge, trailing in the Wizard’s footsteps. They formed a whimsical pair: she, the embodiment of Spring, clad in flowing cerulean silks and crêpe, her radiant crimson hair crowned with floral wreaths; he, a storm-cloud in greys and silver, his cobalt hat tilted and immense black boots stomping.

A merry ditty accompanied their steps, Gandalf tapping his staff against the stone in a rhythm known only to him. At the river’s far bank, honouring her promise to her father, Lerindë halted. Gandalf turned, his grey-blue eyes twinkling, a lively smile creasing his weathered face.

“Here, young one, we shall part ways – for now,” he declared, leaning on his staff.

“I wish your stay was a bit longer,” Lerindë mumbled, her voice tinged with wistfulness. “I would dearly seek your counsel, and find it without fail, as I have till now.”

A hearty laugh rumbled from his chest, his bushy brows dancing beneath his hat. “O Lerindë, sweet child, spare me such flattery, for I have little need of it! I am no counsellor, yet to you I shall offer my counsel whenever I have a moment to spare,” promised he.

“My thanks, but how shall I find you?” she asked, her tone earnest. “Even you know not whither your path may lead.”

“One might think so,” Gandalf replied with a mischievous wink. “Though you, who are Gifted and Giftless, shall find a way where others might falter.”

“Shall I?” she mused, her brow furrowing in puzzlement. “You and Father have repeatedly advised me to follow my judgment over my Sight. Have you so swiftly changed your mind?”

“O dear, I shall miss your jests,” he quipped, his laughter reverberating toward the heights of Hithaeglir ¹², where Great Eagles soared. “Our counsel stands, yet if your curiosity springs from light, not shadow, there is no harm in probing the future. You might learn something of worth, and uncover truths – fair or perilous, perhaps both. Our greatest wish is that you face the Music with faith and the present with hope.”

Mithrandir’s words soothed Lerindë’s heart like a gentle breeze on a warm day. Recalling the wisdom he would one day share with the Fellowship regarding dangerous journeys, she nodded. “One should always carry a small hope, should they not?”

“Quite so, young Elerondiel,” Gandalf agreed, his eyes bright and piercing.

At times, their talks stirred an uncanny sense in him, as if he conversed with a shadow of his past or future self. Each time such thoughts arose, he quelled the urge to voice them – riddles in the Deeps of Time were best left untouched. After all, a journey with an unknown end suited him far better.

Overcome with emotion, Lerindë stepped forward, wrapping her slender arms about him. At just under five feet eight, she stood slightly shorter, her embrace encircling his upper arms. The Grey Pilgrim chuckled, patting her back in a fond, fleeting farewell.

“Lerindë!” a peeved voice rang out.

Her memory of Gandalf’s farewell severed, Lerindë started, hopping in place, disconcerted by the abrupt call. Blinking at the training grounds’ sunlit dust, she met Glorfindel’s irked gaze, a question etched upon his noble brow.

“I apologise, Laurefindelë ¹³,” she mumbled, her melodic Quenya softening the words as rosy blotches bloomed on her cheeks. “I was… wool-gathering for a moment.”

“Wool-gathering?” Glorfindel huffed, amusement creeping into his tone. “Yet another delightful saying of your people I assume, but I am afraid you are mistaken in your choice of venue. The Weavers’ Hall lies yonder, not here.”

Mortification deepening her flush, Lerindë offered a sheepish smile to sweeten her apology. “I meant only that I was lost in memory.”

“Is that so?” he queried, his brow furrowing with doubt. “Pray, tell which memories provide so great an enticement that you forsake our appointed hour on blade-wielding?”

“I was recalling my parting with Mithrandir,” she admitted, her voice tinged with longing. “I find myself missing his company.”

Glorfindel’s frown melted into a sly smirk, his nod comically exaggerated. “Ah, I see now whither the wind blows. Mithrandir’s charms far outshine my own, no doubt. It is I who is lacking; I dare not rival his boundless allure.”

“Not so!” Lerindë cried, flustered, missing the jest in his feigned dismay. “Forgive my offence, Laurefindelë – I meant none!”

Her earnest plea shattered his mock severity, and rich laughter rang across the training grounds, bright as the sunlight glinting off his golden hair. That she alone called him Laurefindelë, his ancient Quenya name, kindled a deeper joy.

The last to address him so, save the Valar, was his beloved King and friend, Turukáno Ñolofinwion ¹⁴ – a memory both mourned and cherished. On that doomed day, fire and ruin swept Ondolindë ¹⁵ like a merciless tide. His Lord had entrusted him with the safety of his daughter and her kin before ascending the city’s highest pinnacle, only to fall. The Balrog-slayer had honoured that vow through the abyss, across the Undying Lands, and back to Middle-earth, ever in service to Turukáno’s line.

Gazing at Lerindë, the latest bloom of Turgon’s house, Glorfindel’s heart stirred with thoughts of his friend, unseen for over two Ages of the Sun. He wondered if Turukáno had been freed from Mandos or if Lerindë, with her Gifted Sight, might glimpse his fate within Vairë’s threads. However, he dismissed the thought, dreading tidings as bitter as Celebrimbor’s fall.

Some truths were best left veiled.

Returning to the present, Glorfindel smiled warmly at Lerindë. Though no blood of Turgon flowed in her veins, his vow bound him to her protection. Whatever fate awaited her, he would offer unwavering support and blessings.

“I but teased you, my Lady,” he assured her, his voice mellow with indulgence. “Fret not, Lerindë.”

Granting her a moment to compose herself, Glorfindel presented Lerindë with a short wooden sword, detailing its structure from pommel to point, its purpose, and the art of its wielding.

“Mind the grip, for it makes the sword an extension of your arm,” he cautioned. “If it feels amiss, you must tell me.”

Nodding, she offered no complaint about the fit of her training blade – his choice proved faultless, as expected.

“In time, your true weapon will reveal itself. When you train with a proper blade, you shall test those suited to your stature and strength.” he continued, his gaze pointed, knowing her penchant for quick solutions. “Choose not in haste, lest it fail you in battle.”

Chagrined by her reputation for over-eagerness, Lerindë replied meekly, “I shall heed your guidance, Laurefindelë.”

Glorfindel nodded, gesturing for her to take the sword and demonstrate how she would strike him. “Fear not for my safety,” he said with a roguish grin. “There is little chance of that.”

“But what purpose does this serve?” she questioned, doubt seeping into her voice. “I am untrained – surely this is futile.”

His answering chuckle only deepened her unease.

“I wonder, who swore me obedience mere moments ago?” he teased. “I seek to gauge your instincts. Training hones skill, but instincts, tempered in battle, are the keystone. Indulge me, Lerindë.”

He stood tall, golden hair ablaze in the sunlight, arms clasped behind him. Despite his relaxed stance, Lerindë saw unyielding strength and vigour in every line of his form. Even a seasoned warrior would quail before the Balrog-slayer, let alone an untrained maiden like her.

Moments passed, yet she stood still, eyes closed, her expression distant. Glorfindel’s brow furrowed yet again.

“Lerindë, are you challenging my person or my patience?” he asked, his tone tinged with exasperation.

“Certainly not the latter,” she replied, eyes still shut, a faint smile playing on her lips. “I am recalling Elros’ childhood lessons. I dreamt of them recently, but the footwork escapes me, so I must revisit it.”

“Revisiting dreams?” Glorfindel exclaimed, incredulous. “Oromë’s horn! I seek your instincts, not those of young Elros!”

“There is no harm in learning from the past, as Mithrandir taught me,” she countered, opening her emerald eyes. “I shall strike with my instincts, but surely my footing is a separate matter?”

“You err, my Lady,” he said with calm command. “In combat, your body is one – limbs, feet, and will entwined. You cannot parse them.”

Her answering pout, paired with stubborn naiveté, greatly amused him. She was a singular disciple without doubt. “Why do my words aggrieve you so, Lerindë?”

“I’d rather not be sent sprawling, if I can help it,” she admitted, reluctance in her tone. “My visions showed many a training lesson, so I know quite well how this ends.”

Before Glorfindel could answer Lerindë’s wry remark, raucous laughter rang through the training glade, twin faces alight with unrestrained mirth.

“Is our little sister frightened of a bit of dusting?” Elladan teased, an impish glint in his eyes.

“Ever astute, brother,” Elrohir chimed. “Our dignified lady deems grime most unseemly.”

Lerindë rolled her eyes, a flush creeping across her cheeks. “Why are you two here? Have you no worthier pursuit?”

“Why, little sister, indeed we have not,” replied the eldest, ruffling her impeccable plaits, each hair perfectly placed. “We come to lend our support. Should you not laud our thoughtfulness?”

“Stop calling me little,” she grumbled, swatting his errant hands away. “Support? Hardly. I’ve not forgotten your previous knavery.”

“Knavery?” Elrohir gasped, feigning offense. “An affront, I say! We are incapable of such!”

As Elladan grinned, Glorfindel shook his head at their antics, already devising how to include the twins into his lesson. Lerindë, likewise unimpressed, voiced her complaints with no hesitation.

“Shall I recall your Mettarë blessings, brothers?” she probed, lips pursed. “There I stood on the dais, touched by your magnificent gift of Iswarma, only for you to wish me ‘May you always call a spade a spade, and may you never experience overwhelming hunger’. What manner of prayers are those?”

Her words sparked a fresh wave of merriment, the three warriors clutching their sides or each other in boisterous cheer. Lerindë’s vexation flared as she muttered about their childishness.

“Those were most heartfelt wishes,” protested Elladan, beaming. “We pray you remain ever forthright and sated, never driven to devour a horse, and certainly not dear Iswarma – she’s too precious!”

Lerindë sighed, gazing heavenward for patience. “I am awash with gratitude,” she said dryly, pointing to the glade’s edge. “Now, kindly depart. I am in need of training, not jesters.”

Glorfindel, however, had other designs. “Nay, I disagree,” he declared, bidding the twins stay. “Their presence shall serve our purpose.”

Lerindë opened her mouth to object, but a single golden eyebrow, arched with perfect authority, silenced her.

Well, I did promise obeisance, she reminded herself. Despite her exasperation, she could not deny the warmth the brothers’ presence brought her, in that first training session.

After brief deliberation, Elrohir positioned himself before his youngest sibling, awaiting her assault, while Glorfindel and Elladan observed her form.

As Lerindë had expected, each strike ended with her sprawled on the ground, coughing amid dust. She tried swifter moves, weaving a few feints glimpsed in her visions, even resorting to tricks, yet none availed. Not once did she graze Elrohir.

Despite her yoga-honed balance, wielding the wooden sword proved arduous. Drenched in sweat, arms trembling, she toyed with surrender, though the thought stung like a barb. Seeing her close to defeat, Glorfindel decided to step in, adjusting her posture, raising her arms higher. He guided her through attacks from right and left until Elrohir drew a long sheathed dagger to parry, his fluid motions betraying a warrior’s ease, as if he could dance through battle stances in his sleep.

“Vary your attack’s height to draw your foe’s blade, creating an opening,” Glorfindel instructed, his towering form at her back. Enfolding her hand in his, they gripped the hilt together, their steps shifting in a rhythm akin to a ballroom waltz.

“We attack high now, then low – left edge, now right,” continued he, guiding their seamless dance. “See how we force Elrohir’s arm to stretch, straining to block? Here lies our advantage – we can strike his forearm to disarm, wound, or even sunder it.”

“Why not take the head?” Lerindë asked with a surgeon’s bluntness, recalling battles witnessed in her visions. “Is that not the swifter path?”

To her chagrin, the Elf-lords chuckled.

“Do all healers of your world conceal such thirst for blood?” joked Elrohir, whose head she coveted with such forthrightness.

“Mayhap our Mettarë prayer that you ever call a spade a spade was offered too hastily,” Elladan quipped, his snigger echoing across the glade.

“Severing a head with a one-handed sword, especially through armour, is no small feat, more so for a woman,” Glorfindel explained patiently. “Even our kin, given our inherent strength, might struggle. You will face foes greater in height and might than you, so you must wield your comparative weakness as a strength, turning their power against them. Accomplishing this is not impossible, but it is no mere trick either – it shall determine your victory or defeat.”

Humbled, Lerindë nodded. “So, disarm them first before attempting a lethal strike?”

“Precisely,” Elladan and Elrohir said in unison.

“Now, mimic our pattern to grasp the motions,” Glorfindel instructed. “Then we shall practice stances until they are second nature to you. Many moons shall pass before you have the chance to duel your brothers again – waste not this chance, my Lady.”

With a wink, he stepped back, giving Lerindë and Elrohir space to spar. Only when she embraced Glorfindel’s logic did she succeed, lightly tapping Elrohir’s forearm. She was not so foolish to believe herself victorious in truth, for her skill was but a fraction of his, yet a spark of pride arose within her.

“Why not savour your hard-won triumph?” Elladan asked, noting her almost sagging form.

“The sword grows heavier the more I wield it,” admitted she, voice tinged with fatigue. “Must I hold it so high?”

“O little sister, how weighty your toils!” he teased, though he did explain the high guard’s necessity. Stepping behind her, as Glorfindel had, he clasped her hand, guiding the sword with ease. “It shields your upper body, which is most in need of protection. For your legs, a sidestep would allow you to evade a low strike.”

“That makes sense,” she conceded. “After all, my legs are farther from Elrohir than my chest.”

“Well reasoned, little sister,” Elrohir praised, grinning. “Now, if I were to attack your head, a high guard also allows for a swift defence against such a strike.”

Guiding her arm upward, Elladan parried Elrohir’s scabbard with her blunt weapon. Then, with nary a warning, he swept the younger twin’s leg, toppling Elrohir to the ground.

“Ever vigilant, brother – you forgot that fundamental rule,” Elladan laughed, joined by his companions and even a bemused Elrohir.

After much jostling and jesting, the twins departed for their sentry duties, leaving Glorfindel to guide Lerindë through the afternoon’s training. When he fastened small but weighty sacks of cloth to her forearms and shins, the lesson drew to a close.

“Pay heed that you wear these weights in all tasks, save bathing and sleeping,” Glorfindel instructed. “Use them in every exercise, even your peculiar dancing.”

Willing her voice composed and pleasant, she clarified once more her exercise routine, “It’s neither peculiar, nor a dance. It is ‘yoga’ ²⁵ – an ancient practice of mind and body, blending postures, breathing, and meditation.”

“Is that so, my Lady?” he drawled, with a mischievous glint in his gaze, his question purposefully provoking.

“Indeed,” she replied, undeterred. “The term means union – of body, mind, and spirit. I prefer practicing it in the privacy of my chambers, but I could share its stances with you. You might find them… enlightening.”

Laughing, the Balrog-slayer agreed, promising to reserve time for her ‘yoga’ at the close of their future sessions.

“Now, to your father to have your hands healed,” he advised, humour lingering in his voice. “He permits this combat training only if your healer’s duties remain unhindered. I would not break any of my vows to him.”

In the early days of Lairë ¹⁶, Eastern Eriador bloomed with Summer’s radiance. Birdsong wove through the air, its rich melody entwining with Mitheithel’s ¹⁷ calm trickle. Wood thrushes, bold and clear, trilled from willow boughs, heralding the dawn. Starlings soared above meadows of green, red, and gold, their wings catching Anar’s ¹⁸ light. High in the pines, larks ascended with lilting cries, their flight a joyful echo of the land’s awakening.

A month past her twenty-sixth begetting day, Lerindë Elerondiel stirred from her sleep, a smile lingering from dreams of starlit revelry. Bathed in Telperion’s silver radiance, she had danced across verdant fields with Noldorin princes, singing hymns to Varda Elentári ¹⁹ . She had recited couplets in the Star-kindler’s honour, sipped sweet cordials, and savoured dark wine, joining in cheers for countless eulogies beneath the stars.

That morn, Lerindë awoke not in her lavish four-poster in Imladris but in a tent by the Great East Road. Rising from her makeshift bed, she donned her riding habit, silently thanking Gaeleth for setting the laces in front, not back. With the Elleth remaining in the Valley, Lerindë braved the intricate attire alone. Despite her brothers’ teasing, she rejoiced in her humble surroundings – or rather, the purpose driving them. Humming a Noldorin ode to Varda, she combed her scarlet tresses, weaving them into simple yet elegant plaits. Though laborious, the task stirred no complaint – she had unwittingly inspired their current journey herself.

Before her begetting feast’s celebrations on the twenty-ninth of Tuilë ²⁰, her kin had asked her heart’s desire. Already gifted on Mettarë with a mighty steed, an emerald-studded circlet, a jewelled dagger, ancient tomes, and many a splendid garment, Lerindë had jested, “I crave mushrooms and the sea’s salt breeze.” Having lived almost a decade in Japan, in her past life, a deep longing had awakened within her for flavours absent from Imladris’ varied kitchens. Much like her odd idioms, her earnest, yet modest wish had stumped the Elves, for they were poorly versed in fungi, unable to discern edible from poisonous.

Taking a page out of Bilbo’s book, Lerindë presented them with gifts on her birthday, to her kin’s further dismay. Every single piece had been crafted by her hands. For her father and brothers, she wove embroidered sashes, toiling late into the night, her neurosurgeon’s precision evident in every thread. Her family marvelled at her craftsmanship, unaware that Míriel Þerindë’s ancient techniques, glimpsed through her Sight, had guided her. Though no match for the Queen’s otherworldly skill, Lerindë’s genuine affection shone in her delicate needlework, imbued with blessings through songs and prayers to the Valar.

For Glorfindel, she crafted leather gloves, fashioned after those he favoured during the hunting trips of his youth in Aman. With Gaeleth’s aid, she overcame the challenges of curing and sewing leather, offering her gift without any misgivings.

“Your Sight reveals even such trifles,” Glorfindel muttered to himself in disbelief, his composure nigh shaken by her gift.

Erestor’s present – a transcribed volume of poems long lost to the ruin of Belleriand – set his eyes aglow with fervour, until Elrond curbed his seneschal’s zeal over her Foresight’s wonders. Gaeleth, too, was promised a dress, but her concern over Lerindë’s relentless tasks delayed its crafting, as she withheld her measurements to ensure her Lady’s rest.

Certain she had outdone her kin and expecting nothing in return, their surprise gift had both flustered and excited Lerindë in equal measures. They promised her a journey to the Shire for mushroom lore, coupled with Westron practice, followed by an official visit to Círdan’s realm in Mithlond ²¹ for the sea’s breeze. Her twenty-sixth birthday had brimmed with cheer, the Hall of Fire alive with song and dance.

In truth, her age spanned millennia, yet, like her father and siblings, she counted her years from her awakening in Middle-earth. The twins, ever jesting, likened her arrival to the Awakening at Cuiviénen, declaring her an unbegotten Peredhel of sorts. Her true begetting – whether as Lysandra in her past life or current one as Lerindë – remained a mystery, but by accord, its observance echoed her mortal past: the fifth of May by Shire reckoning, shifting slightly when Imladris’ and Shire’s calendars diverged.

Lerindë’s ruminations on her birthday faded with the last finishing touches to her clothing. Smile unwavering, she stepped from her tent into dappled light. Ferns and grasses swayed beneath towering woods, where a mild yet cool breeze whispered.

The camp bustled with the lively spirit of recent days: Ellyn and Ellith moved to and fro, clad in traveling frocks or supple armour, bearing a great variety of accessories, from sharp weapons to dainty lyre-harps. Their forms shimmered with Isil’s ²² light, hair cascading like dark rivers dusted with starlight. None of her fellow travellers had need of a tent, finding rest and shelter under the canopy of ancient pines and naked skies. With their cloth sacks packed, some broke their fast, while others filled water-skins from Mitheithel’s sparkling waters.

Seeking her brothers or Glorfindel, the youngest Elerondiel paused as a velvet voice beckoned her to accompany him toward the campfire.

“Good day to you, Aratinwë ²³,” Lerindë greeted her companion with a curtsy. “A lovely morning blesses us anew,” she added, as Anar’s rising rays stretched over hills and treetops, gilding their glade amid broken walls – relics of a fallen realm. Her plaits, tumbling like strands of ruby and garnet, gleamed in the golden light, a marvel of alchemy to her Elven companions.

“The glory of the morning sun should be praised but for your presence alone, my Lady,” Gildor Inglorion bowed in turn, a smile gracing his flawless face. “Few recall my birth-name, and fewer still speak it. Were my eyes closed, I might yet believe myself a youngling once more, wandering the cobbled streets of Tirion the Fair.”

His laughter rose like lucid streams, buoyant and rejuvenating, echoed by the Wandering Company’s tinkling voices, quick to levity as ever.

“I find myself exceedingly at a loss, my Lord,” Lerindë said playfully, nearing her brothers and Glorfindel by the fire. “It seems my every word kindles your mirth. I knew not I was so amusing.”

“Little sister, how can you be so misled?” scoffed a smirking Elrohir, before Gildor could reply. “We proclaim your hilarity to all our kin, yet you deny it.”

“Truly, little sister, let not our toils perish in vain!” besought the other twin, feigning his despondency. 

“Ah, how marvellous,” Lerindë retorted, her surreptitious eye-roll belying her amusement. “By your logic, instead of rebukes, I should offer you my thanks, for crafting me a jester’s repute. I am enlightened as to my faults.”

The siblings’ banter drew chuckles from onlookers, their teasing unyielding since departing Imladris.

“I wager your delight wanes, Gildor, since you agreed to Elrond’s request to help us guard our young Lady,” remarked the Balrog-slayer, presenting some mead to his Noldorin kin.

Gildor accepted the cup with a slight bow, his grey eyes twinkling. “Far from it, my friend. I say a star shone on the hour of my interview with Lord Elrond, and should he call again, I would relish the task.”

Brethren from distant lands of old traded more with their gazes than words, their furtive grins sealing a silent accord. With a nod, Gildor excused himself to prepare for their imminent departure.

“Lerindë, leave your brothers to their devices and come break your fast,” Glorfindel urged, gesturing to the banked fire. “Linger arguing, and you will starve – leaving me to face your father’s ire, should he hear of it.”

Feeling like a mischievous child caught in folly, the blushing maiden joined the golden warrior, accepting the cold meats, salty cheeses, tangy berries, and fluffy bread he pressed into her hands. She nibbled on her repast, sipping mead, but soon sensed Glorfindel’s gaze. Self-consciously glancing about, she realized with alarm she’d forgotten her wrist and ankle weights.

“Forgive me, Laurefindelë,” she gasped, nearly choking on a crumb. “I had not realised I left the weights behind. I shall fetch them at once.”

Amused, Glorfindel stayed her with a shake of his head. “Your missing burdens intrigue me little, though I commend your candour. Finish your meal in peace, Lerindë – it is no matter of import.”

Despite his reassurance, her hunger waned, unease stirring. “Well, what else could be wrong? Is my riding frock amiss?” she whispered, eyes wide, dreading the slightest impropriety.

Her fretfulness drew laughter, Glorfindel’s ringing loudest. “Nay, my Lady. I merely admired your plaits. They recall another, though unfortunately the memory eludes me.”

His words sparked curious glances, whether at her hair or her flushing cheeks none could say. Glorfindel’s brow arched at her unmistakeable display of embarrassment, his curiosity piqued.

“Perhaps you will aid me in unravelling this mystery, my Lady,” he probed with a roguish lilt. “You once claimed solving riddles as your fate, so let us not disappoint Námo.”

Her ready retorts faded with the fire’s embers at his words. Unable to either dissemble her ignorance or refute the veracity of his statement, Lerindë was caught between truth and discretion.

“There has been one whose restless nights and early mornings I have witnessed as of late. He has inspired my plaits this morn,” she revealed in a small voice, mindful of keen ears nearby.

Her confession meant little to the twins, beyond hints to the existence of an obscure male, but Glorfindel sensed more, a niggling feeling rousing. Enquiring further, he learned that, in Gaeleth’s absence, Lerindë’s need for practical plaits had drawn her Sight to olden times, which favoured function over wilful fancies.

Conceding a temporary defeat, Glorfindel rose to have her tent dismantled, when Anar’s rays touched her tresses at a particular angle, piercing the fog of his memory. Recognition struck like thunder, his steps halting. Though his eyes beheld her vermillion locks, he saw strands of a different shade instead.

“Last time I saw him, he bore fewer side braids than you,” Glorfindel mused, striding once more toward her tent.

“Well, my hair is longer,” reasoned Lerindë, trailing in his wake.

“Who is this he?” asked Elrohir, exchanging a baffled look with his brother.

“One with shorter tresses than our little sister’s,” Elladan deadpanned.

“Isn’t that nigh everyone?!”

The journey to where the Great East Road met the Old North Road usually span about three weeks, not that the travelling company planned on tarrying around those parts, their purpose lying westward. As Lerindë’s first (conscious) venture into Eriador, her brothers and Glorfindel chose a scenic path, shunning the paved ways to veil their passage. Her sole request was to visit Amon Sûl’s ancient watchtower before veering toward the South Downs and the Old Forest – the gateway into the Shire.

Through wild and barren lands they rode, stunted trees and thickets dotting emergent hills of pale green and wilting yellow. Brushing Iswarma’s flaxen mane, Lerindë gazed at drifting clouds. The mare’s palomino-like hue recalled steeds from her mortal past, galloping across England’s verdant fields, in the tale of ‘King Arthur’. Humming one of the motion picture’s songs, its lyrics wove strangely with the road’s desolation.

A Noldorin Elf of the Wandering Company, Alwarossë ²⁴, caught her melody, the unfamiliar strains stirring his curiosity.

“My Lady, long have I wandered, yet never heard such a lay,” he said, guiding his steed nearer. “Of what do you sing? Will you share this wonder?”

“It is a folk ballad of longing for home,” Lerindë replied softly, gracing the tall Ellon with a bashful smile. “It is also known as the Song of Exiles. Rather modest in form, it cannot rival your kin’s heavenly and elaborate compositions. Alas, I’m afraid its lyrics are in a tongue alien to Middle-earth.”

The name cast a shadow in Alwarossë’s eyes, thoughts of Valinor dimming their brilliance. “No song is too humble, my Lady,” said he with quiet conviction. “All music redounds to the glory of Ilúvatar’s work – yours is no less worthy than others’. I would hear it, if I may; even more so if it speaks of a displaced people’s yearning for their ancestral home.”

Glancing about, Lerindë noted that her fellow travellers were absorbed in their pursuits, heedless of her exchange. Finding comfort in their privacy, she took a steadying breath, and sang:

“ ‘Land of bear and land of eagle,
Land that gave us birth and blessing,
Land that called us ever homewards,
We will go home across the mountains.’

‘We will go home, we will go home,
We will go home across the mountains.
We will go home, we will go home,
We will go home across the mountains.’ ²⁵ ”

The melody, initially slow and deliberate in a minor key, wove sorrow and hope, her unconscious soft claps echoing wanderers’ steps on ancient roads. Closing her eyes, Lerindë abandoned Middle-earth, drifting to her forefathers’ lands of lush green, under constellations named in Latin or Greek.

“ ‘Land of freedom land of heroes,
Land that gave us hope and memories,
Hear our singing hear our longing,
We will go home across the mountains.’

‘We will go home, we will go home,
We will go home across the mountains.
We will go home, we will go home,
We will go home across the mountains.’ ”

Enraptured with memories of a world barred to her, she perceived not the hush falling over the company. The tongue sounded strange to them, yet her song’s unmistakable lament captivated the Noldorin Exiles, its strains mirroring their own.

“ ‘Land of sun and land of moonlight,
Land that gave us joy and sorrow,
Land that gave us love and laughter,
We will go home across the mountains.’

‘We will go home, we will go home,
We will go home across the mountains.
We will go home, we will go home,
We will go home across the mountains.’ ”

The refrain’s fervent rise ‘We will go home’ rang like a vow renewed under Anar’s light.

For Lerindë, home was now with Elrond, yet their future was not without sorrow. Arwen’s fate lingered like an immutable weight in her heart, a burden Lerindë had to carry in silence and despair for the love she bore her father, and dread – for an unchangeable future. Were she mad enough to attempt any alterations, the whole world would pay too dear a price, and she could not afford it.

“ ‘When the land is there before us,
We have gone home across the mountains.
We will go home, we will go home,
We will go home singing our song.’ ”

Chapter Text

As white clouds drifted eastward akin to ships borne on a sea-breeze, dusk settled over the ancient ruins of Amon Sûl, toward which a party of ethereal wanderers made their ascent. Under the veil of twilight, their forms glowed like lit candles against the tower’s dark stone and crumbling wood. Day and night mingled in the gloaming, painting the sky with streaks of red, rose, and amethyst. While a new moon was poised to wax, Varda’s glittering stars crowned the sublime canvas, stirring Lerindë’s heart.

She sensed rather than heard her brothers’ approach, their warmth an anchor against the turmoil roiling her thoughts – visions of Aragorn and four hobbits, less than four centuries hence, defying the Nazgûl on this very hill, and Gandalf’s stand against the same Enemy mere nights before.

After a day’s worth of sunshine enveloping the Weather Hills, the stone radiated with warmth, yet despite that, the twins misinterpreted her shivers for feeling cold. Elladan draped his travel-worn cloak over her shoulders, his arms lingering to comfort her.

“Know you what day tomorrow brings, little sister?” he asked, as she leaned into his embrace.

“Is it not the fourteenth day of Summer?” she queried, confused as to his purpose. “If this is an attempt to remind me that we are quite ahead of schedule, believe me, it has not escaped my notice.”

Elrohir laughed, shaking his head at her ever-wary mind, in expectation of mischief from their part. Elladan was similarly amused, his chest moving with repressed chuckles at her back.

“It is Gildor who deserves your praise for our premature arrival,” Elrohir replied with an affectionate grin. “Not even nightfall had swayed his resolve to tread these paths, which he knows mayhap better than most, even ourselves.”

“And what spurred such haste?” Lerindë pressed, her gaze sharpening. “What have you been hiding from me? I could seek the truth for myself. As you well know, I do have the means.”

Seeing her stubbornness come to the fore once more, the brothers exchanged weary glances, silently conceding the futility of shielding her.

“Glorfindel’s scouts had encountered some of Aravorn’s Dúnedain a few days into our journey,” Elladan admitted, unease threading his low voice. “The Rangers spoke of some evil stirring betwixt Andrath ¹ and Rhudaur ².”

“Worry not, little sister,” Elrohir hurried to add, his grin softening the tidings. “Though our trip hither has been rushed, it spared none of the promised beauty. Even I was left astonished by Gildor’s hidden trails, untrodden in all of our travels together with the Wandering Company. I am rather peeved they kept them secret.”

Lerindë pinned them with an exasperated stare, her gaze darting from one brother to the other. “Do you think me in need of cossetting? You could have shared the truth plainly, not spun excuses. Was our peril so grave, that we had to ride day and night?”

“Why, little sister,” Elrohir teased, easing her ire, “if I knew no better, I’d say you took exception to sleeping astride, or mayhap it was your companions who left you dissatisfied?”

She didn’t deign them with a reply, but for a weary huff. Her thoughts drifted to the march their leisurely sojourn had become – brief pauses by the occasional stream for refreshing, hurried meals, and nights cradled in her brothers’ arms atop dear Iswarma, her Elven grace bearing the pace unyieldingly.

Lerindë had become used to Gaeleth’s aid in her daily ablutions, yet she felt unsettled having Milye ³, a near-stranger of the Wandering Company, give her freezing sponge baths. Her hair, washed but once in a fortnight and daily scented with lavender oil to fend off insects, coupled with her stale riding frocks, created a musky bouquet she longed never to savour again. Lerindë could not wait to reach civilisation and a tub filled with hot water, preferably before her menses commenced.

“It was Father’s bidding to brook no risks, while you remain untrained with a blade,” Elladan said, his tone warm yet firm. “But, returning to my question, guess you not tomorrow’s import?”

“I am afraid you have me at a loss here,” sighed Lerindë. “Do enlighten me, O sage brothers of mine!”

The twins shared amused, doting looks before settling their gazes on her.

“As our Lady requests. Ere the sun reaches its zenith on the morrow, you shall mark a full year in Middle-earth,” Elladan declared, relishing her bewildered emerald eyes.

“It is no jest of yours?” she whispered in a daze. “A full year, in truth?”

“Aye,” confirmed Elrohir, drawing closer to embrace her as well. “And what a year it has been! Wouldn’t you agree, little sister?”

Through many paths unseen, under tangled branches hidden, up, down, and under hill, Iarwain Ben-adar’s house revealed itself to a drowsy Lerindë. To her left, a steep shoulder of ashen plains rose, beyond which loomed the shadowed silhouettes of the Barrow-downs. To her right, past the gushing waters of Withywindle and a lush valley, the Old Forest bore darkness and eerie mists like a mantle, its ancient boughs reaching skyward.

Under the waxing crescent, a humble abode glowed, its yellow light a beacon guiding her weary feet along a stone-bordered path. Merry voices beckoned from within, their warmth piercing the forest’s hypnotic charm.

“Hey! Come derry dol! Very merry be,
Old, new kin – all dear to me!
Leave your weariness behind, let the feast begin!
We shall sing of light and wind, and of river’s sheen.”

On the threshold, Tom Bombadil beamed beneath a long brown beard, his sun-kissed face creased with mirth, his blue eyes twinkling under the starlit sky. He ushered the travellers inside, though the Elves, loath to part from their loyal steeds, followed him to the stables. Lerindë and Elladan alone entered, greeted by a vision of sunlit grace – Goldberry, the River-daughter, clothed in green as pure as young reeds that sway in a breeze. Rising nimbly, the nymph glided over earthenware vessels brimming with water-lilies, their hues dancing in the firelight.

“O splendid ray of maiden sun! O Giftless child of Fire!
Here you come at last, abiding His desire!
Bless’d be the hour the Gifted found our path!
Welcome, Elrond’s daughter, to our home and hearth!”

Golden tresses mingled with dark crimson, each radiant in the other’s glow, as Goldberry’s willowy arms enfolded Lerindë’s stunned form in a feather-light embrace, cool as a waterfall’s spray. Suddenly, her feet no longer felt leaden after so many days of unrelieved riding, and her bleary eyes needed no more respite, as if sunlight had banished the fog clouding her mind.

“Well met, Lauresíriel ⁴,” spoke Lerindë, returning the nymph’s embrace. “Splendid thou hast called me, and I thank thee, yet I must disagree. Thine essence is as pure as the air I breathe, and fair as blooms that Spring and Summer wreathe.”

Goldberry’s laughter, a limpid stream’s susurration, washed away lingering shadows of fatigue and fear. “Sweet-tongued child you are – a weaver of olden speech! A cheerful feast awaits, what heights of jollity we shall reach!” she sang. “But first, let us cast off your dusty clothes and clean the grime of many leagues. I shall have your hair shine anew, and have you clad in silks and dew.”

Without as much as by-your-leave, the water nymph twirled around with Lerindë in tow, leaving an amused Elladan behind, well-versed in the couple’s whimsical ways. He followed a separate short passage toward the north end of the house, where sleeping mats, white blankets, and many a broad basin of earthenware awaited worn travellers. There he also found brown pitchers filled with water, some cold and some hot, along with fluffy cloths for drying.

In the opposite wing of the dwelling, Lauresíriel’s song lilted Lerindë through her bath, her enchanted touch drying her locks with a magical brush in a trice. Her cheery melody continued as she helped the young woman dress. The pure white silk garment, sported a bodice, skirt, and flowing bell sleeves embroidered in silver and many shades of green, depicting flowers and climbing vines, further embellished with shimmering pearls and white sapphires. Strads of pearls and silver wove through crimson plaits, cascading in graceful waves under the nymph’s deft hands.

“O Great Seer of the Music,” murmured Goldberry with a smile. “The time has come for merrymaking! My beloved and your kinsmen are awaiting!”

Swift as a blink yet endless in mirth, the night of feasting at Iarwain Ben-adar’s house drew to a close, yet no further rest would the Wandering Company find there. Astride their steeds once more, they followed Tom Bombadil down the Withywindle, where he bade them farewell with a merry chant. Through towering boughs and shadowed canopies, the travellers pressed on, reaching a cutting in the High Hay, its brick walls guiding them into Crickhollow’s grassy fields. Dismounting, for the passage was narrow, Lerindë and the Elves led their horses with gentle guidance into Buckland, where Ferumbras Took, awaited with impatient cheer.

“Cross m’ heart, ye’ve grand timin’,” the Took patriarch declared, greeting the party with a hearty nod. “Arrivin’ on First Lithe’s morn ⁵ — blessin’ or curse, I cannae say! Gandalf, that auld fella, swore ye’d come t’day, an’ I thought he was bletherin’.”

The Elves exchanged puzzled glances at such a greeting, but Lerindë, amused, dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Thank you for your warm welcome, Thain Tûk ⁶,” she said in practiced Westron. The rest followed her example, offering respectful nods. “We much appreciate it.”

“No need fer thanks, lass,” the Hobbit replied, his grin widening. “Gandalf says ye’re a rare healer. Our Tûk elders an’ bairns – m’ own wee gran’son among ‘em – await yer skilled hands! But not t’day, nor the morra ⁷. Mid-year’s Day calls fer feastin’ aplenty!”

Mounting his sturdy brown pony, Ferumbras led his guests toward Bucklebury Ferry, where boats awaited, per his arrangements. In the late hours of the morning, travelling on the over side of Baranduin, a tranquil Shire unfolded – its gentle slopes, stone-lined paths, and neat verges evoking the Cotswolds of Lerindë’s mortal past, a pang tightening her throat.

To stem her sorrow, she asked the Thain of his kin, and with a Hobbit’s ardour for family genealogies, he spun tales of his lineage, his spirited wife Branimonda ⁸, their bold son Paladin, his wise young wife Alda ⁹, and their firstborn, Isengrim the Second. The name stirred Lerindë’s memory, and with a jolt, her Sight reminded her of his destiny. Yet a tiny bairn in his swaddles according to his grandsire, Isengrim the Second would one day become a great leader of the Took Clan, and within mere decades, he would have the Great Smials carved in the Green Hill Country.

To hold a future Thain in my arms! she marvelled, her heart alight with eagerness to reach Tookborough.

Three nights of Midsummer celebrations were followed by long days of foraging with new Took friends through woodlands, for mushrooms and herbs, or tending to crowds of hobbits in need. Some required only gentle reassurance, such as young mothers fretting over a child’s first sniffle, while others demanded sterner skill, setting bones for mischievous younglings, their bravery fading under pain’s grip.

With only willow-bark salicin, clove poultices, and Athelas for relief at her disposal, Lerindë bade her Elvish kin Sing, their melodies easing her young charges’ aches, while she administered treatment.

“What be those, m’ Lady?” Ferula ¹⁰ asked, eyeing the healer’s strange thread and very thin, curved needle.

“Threads spun from sheep’s innards,” Lerindë explained, preparing to suture Ferula’s child’s forearm and minor vein, torn by a tumble through shattered glass. With a magnifying loupe fastened around her head, she’d removed all shards, Elladan’s keen eyes confirming no debris remained. “Flesh-weaving differs from cloth. These threads, cleansed of pestilence, dissolve as the wound mends, sparing further cuts.”

Ferula’s eyes grew as big as saucers, awestruck by such marvels. Holding her son, she watched Lerindë mend the tiny vessel, invisible to her own gaze, as Elladan’s celestial song enthralled them both.

‘Tis a blessed kin! Ferula mused, revering the siblings’ grace.

Lerindë would ever cherish her first sojourn in the Shire, yet shadows of sorrow tinged her fond memories. Would she behold these warm-hearted Hobbits again? At best, she might return every half-century, welcome with open arms, but those she had grown to hold dear would long have passed beyond the circles of the world.

How does Gandalf bear such heartbreak? How does my Atar ¹¹, my brothers, or Laurefindelë ¹²? she mused, her Sight heavy with their fleeting lives.

As a neurosurgeon, she had been taught to shield her emotions, maintaining a cool-headed resolve, no matter how dire the situation, yet her Hobbit friends were no mere patients. In their lively throng, she had sated hunger, slaked thirst, mastered the art of fungi – foraging and preparing them with Tookish zeal – while the Mathom-house’s treasures, unveiled with lengthy tales, marked an honour rare for outsiders.

She had slept in Hobbit-halls, danced on blooming hills under Anar’s ¹³ glow, and bathed in moonlight’s silver sheen. Within three months, she joined four harvest-blessing revels, five handfasting rites, seven confinements, and countless birthdays, each bringing her closer to Shire’s heart.

Lerindë’s own heart quivered, even as her eyes traced the gleaming limestone beneath the White Downs’ pastures. Dotted with hobbit-holes and grazing sheep, Shire’s Westfarthing rose in soft, chalk-pale mounds – a gentle contrast to the Old Forest’s wild tangles.

Onward the party trod, past the Tower Hills, where Elostirion – noblest of Númenórean relics – stood undimmed by time or tempest, its white stone lustrous amidst emerald slopes. They lingered not, pressing toward the Gulf of Lhûn, its arrowhead breadth exposed at their feet.

From afar, Lerindë tasted the sea-air, both familiar and strange, its crisp, briny tang laced with the scent of salt and distant horizons. The breezes of Yávië’s ¹⁴ waning days, soft yet restless, swept across the gulf’s shimmering blue, stirring white quays and slender Elven ships, moored at Mithlond ¹⁵. Silver-winged gulls soared in graceful arcs, their cries mingling with the wind’s rustling and the waves’ whispers, in a restless dance of sea and sky.

At the Lhûn’s mouth, Milthlond’s sprawling harbours rose with stone-carved towers, its near-empty streets echoing Lindon’s fading glory, now sung only by bards. As Anar met the Sundering Sea on a warm Autumn day, Círdan and his folk greeted the pilgrims from Imladris with gladness.

Refreshed from their journey in Annon Aur’s ¹⁶ hallowed galleries, Lerindë and the Noldorin Elves joined a welcoming feast unlike any other, its joy laced with melancholic strains, carried by all Elven reunions and partings. At a marble-hewn table, flanking Círdan’s central seat, Lerindë sat with her brothers, Glorfindel, and Gildor. Further down, Elf-lords and ladies of the Grey Havens conversed spiritedly with their guests. Lerindë recognised many from her visions – most notably Galdor, a representative at Elrond’s fated Council, much later on.

Her first impressions of Círdan mirrored her visions and tales read in another life: while she found his silver beard striking, rare among Elves, what held her attention captive was his eyes, aglow with a wisdom untouched by the Two Trees. In their depths, she perceived a great love for Arda, despite the grief it brought him. Believing her gaze discreet, she started, her leg grazing a marble table-leg, as his eyes, keen like the stars, met hers.

“I hope that leaves no bruise, Lady Lerindë,” Círdan said, his serenity unshaken. “It would grieve me were your sire to deem me so neglectful a host, above all toward his daughter.”

“I carry salves for such trifles,” she replied, a blush warming her cheeks. “Rest assured, a bruise pales beside the trials of my journey thus far.”

“Ah, you have my sympathies,” he tilted his head to regard her. “I would hope the road’s hardships do not dim your wanderlust. The world is as wide as it is wondrous, and it would be a pity indeed to forgo its paths.”

“No, not at all,” she demurred, with a smile. “This is but the first of many ventures, I’d say.”

Círdan’s thin lips curved into a slight grin. “While I cannot offer a voyage as exhilarating as your arrival in Middle-earth from the Undying Lands, my own fleet is yours to explore the coast, should you and your kin so desire.”

Words failed Lerindë, her mind grappling for a courteous refusal, but Elrohir, seated beside her, seized the Shipwright’s offer with eager delight, already settling dates and details.

“We are agreed, then,” Círdan stated. “We shall sail at dawn in a week’s time, ere the Enderi ¹⁷ draw near. The skies should hold fair, though should they turn, I trust your young Lady-sister should be able to forewarn us.”

His words, complemented by a twinkle in his eyes, suggested that he had already received the missive with which her Father had entrusted Glorfindel. Sworn to secrecy, akin to all cognizant of her true fate, his knowledge caused her no trepidation, unlike the mere prospect of such a sea-journey.

Ignoring the Lord in his own halls would have been the height of impropriety, leaving her no recourse but to assent to his unspoken request. Her heart only further sank, shadowed by memories of the North Sea’s icy grip, where she had drowned. Duty-bound as Elrond’s daughter, she had to honour his station among their kin, allowing no choice but to board the ship, smiling gracefully while at it, even if that was the last thing she did.

Through the feast’s remainder, she grew silent, her fingers tracing the gemstones on Goldberry’s gifted garment. Her mind raced, seeking ways to quell the terror of facing open waters once more, her near-perfect memory now a curse, vivid with her last moments spent in that hellish abyss.

I have got six days, surely there is something I can do, she pondered, despair coiling in her chest. Short of plying myself with laudanum, what other choices are there?!

She needed no Foresight to envision her mind-addled and embarrassing behaviour, were she to follow that foolish path. Revealing her apprehensions to her brothers had never even crossed her mind, for she loathed with fervour anything nigh on admitting to failure. By her measuring, and limited knowledge of psychology, the first steps in overcoming fear meant facing its triggers, then roots.

If I can persuade myself the sea is no devouring monster, I might be able to put up with a bit of sailing, she resolved, clinging to conviction. Once, she had loved the sea, delighting in its shores, until an inexplicable phobia of unseen depths kept her from darker waters as she grew up.

With that thought in mind, Lerindë sought permission to wander one of the Gulf’s lagoon in private, citing her Begetting gift. Perceiving nothing amiss, and assured of no looming danger, her brothers and Glorfindel granted her the freedom to do as she pleased. Halting their camp a half-hour’s ride from the beach, Lerindë continued till she reached the gentle dunes of fine, pale sand descending into azure waters. Save for a few darting terns skimming the waves and Iswarma, she was completely alone.

Affording her both privacy and algae-free depths, the spot was perfect for Lerindë, chosen through her Sight’s bird’s-eye view of the Havens. Nonetheless, she had not used her Gift to glean whether her venture would bear fruit. If she succeeded, she’d be all the more glad for it, but if she failed… such a possibility could not be borne.

Trading her riding frock for a white linen chemise, she laid her garments on a blanket with towels, comb and brush, a water-skin, and fruits from her cloth-sacks. Her deerskin boots and hair adornments followed, and she bade Iswarma roam the cool shade of towering junipers, sparing her the sun’s blaze. Lacking sun-cream, Lerindë wished the morning sun to be forgiving on her fair skin. Though her shoulders and arms would be protected by the thin cloth, the same could not be said about her face.

Here’s a prayer that I don’t turn ripe as an apple, she sighed, a wry distraction from the task ahead. By focusing on trivialities, she hoped to bar her fear’s encroachment. With such resolve, she stepped into the sea.

The water, kissed by Summer’s lingering warmth, refreshed rather than chilled her feet. Heartened by the fortunateness of her choice, she waded until the sea lapped her thighs, her toes visible in the sparkling tide. Yet as she slowly advanced, her pulse quickened, and the moment the water reached her chest, her breathing grew laboured. Closing her eyes against the sun’s glare on the cerulean surface, she drew deep breaths, seeking much-needed calm before a full plunge.

With a resolute inhale, she pressed forward.

As water flooded her ears, convulsions overtook her body, limbs flailing, ensnared by her own hair. Oxygen fled her burning lungs. Like a rock, she sank into the deep, never to ascend again.

Anar’s golden light faded. Darkness swallowed her whole.

Salt stung Lerindë’s lips as she stirred, the bitter tang of sea-water flooding her senses. A throbbing headache spread its venom through her mind, as if spiders spun webs across her synapses. Clutching her chest, she rolled aside, retching seawater onto the pale sand, her throat raw from the ordeal. As the heaving subsided, relief followed – sweet, yet fleeting.

“At last, thou hast deigned to join the waking world,” a voice resounded, its Quenya cadence rippling through sand and air. “Most courteous of thee. Shouldst thou crave further slumber, thou needst not be concerned on my account.”

Startled, Lerindë recoiled from her sprawled perch, her gaze locking onto the stranger, face drained of colour. No mortal stood before her, for a Holy One’s presence shone unmistakable, clad in the guise of an aged Man, akin to the Istari. His tresses shimmered like fine rain, his robes, woven as if from ship’s sails, flowed with a tide’s unearthly grace, defying silk or gossamer.

Recognition dawned, and her pulse faltered before the Lord of Waters.

“Lerindë Elerondiel greeteth thee, Lord Ulmo,” she rasped, struggling to rise and offer a deep curtsy, befitting one of the Aratar ¹⁸.

Ulmo’s whorled brow arched, his hand staying her pitiful attempts. “Long hath Námo bemoaned thy visit in Mandos, naming thee a most vexing unbidden guest, bold and ill-mannered, yet now I see the truth of it. He is naught but overly dramatic – a trait not new to his Halls.”

Forgetting her earlier unease, her flaring indignation furrowed her brow, lips curving downward. “No such thing was I, my Lord,” she cried, stung by the slander. “I assure thee, I bore myself with utmost courtesy before Lord Námo. And is not Lúthien his sole other unbidden guest? Surely thou seest the comparison unjust!”

Ulmo’s laughter carried from the shores into the sea, the waters swirling in its confines like a shaken cup of tea. “There shineth the bold spirit I was promised,” his eyes glinted with mirth.

A hearty flush bloomed in her cheeks, banishing her pallor. Words eluded her as she glanced furtively about – her blanket nearby, Iswarma standing guard beside it. “Mightst thou join me on my blanket, my Lord? I must dry myself, lest I catch a chill.”

Nodding his approval, they settled by her belongings. Wrapping a dry cloth about her, Lerindë tackled her matted crimson locks, a tangled nest of knots and sand. Parting the hair in half, her accompanying despondent sigh did not go unnoticed, the Vala of Water asking what troubled her.

“My hair, my lord – if it can still be called as such,” she replied, stifling a mope.

“Might I be of aid to thee, child?” he smiled kindly.

Her surprised gaze rose to meet his, verdant eyes lit with hope. “Would it be too daring of me to accept thine offer?”

Amused, Ulmo took her proffered comb, gently unravelling her tousled tresses as she brushed the other side, the two working in quiet harmony. Amid the terns’ cries and Iswarma’s carefree gallop along the shore, for the steed was now at ease, Lerindë summoned courage to voice the question burning within.

“Mightst thou tell me how thou foundst me?”

“I wondered when thou wouldst speak thy heart,” Ulmo teased, his voice deep as the sea. “Saving thee from nigh-drowning was no great feat for me, for I have witnessed thy deeds ever since I bore thee hither.”

“Since thou bore me hither?” Lerindë echoed, her brush faltering. “What meanest thou?”

“What thinkest thou I mean?”

She spun to face him, heedless of the whiplash. “Thou hadst brought me to Middle-earth,” she whispered, more statement than query. What had been a mere suspicion, one she’d scarcely allowed herself to think about, was proven true. The thought of her unconscious self drifting across the Sundering Sea, and against the Gwathló’s currents, paled her face to a sickly green.

Swallowing the saliva pooling in her mouth, she spoke in a barely comprehensible murmur, “Why thee? Why not by ship, as Laurefindelë or the Istari sailed?”

Ulmo’s answering look deemed her the most witless soul to tread Arda’s shores, for such a voyage would have shattered her sanity. Her earlier display left no room for doubts. A furious blush bowed Lerindë’s head, abashed by her failed endeavour, worse still for being witnessed by him.

Even babes can float, how mortifying!

Her eyes blinked back tears, her mouth opening and closing without sound. Taking pity on the lost-looking child, Ulmo spoke with calm. “Námo besought Manwë to have me deliver thee to the Peredhel. He consented, and I followed his bidding. Shall we call it – a small mercy?”

These tidings relieved some of her mortification, her frown softening. “Mercy? Last time I sought it from Lord Námo, he bade me turn to Lady Nienna or Estë for such dispensation.  I guess miracles do happen, after all.”

The Lord of Water’s laughter swelled, undeterred in his task of combing her tresses. Lerindë resumed her own chore, steeling herself to broach her shame, namely – by all accounts – Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. She certainly could evade it much longer. The discomfort would be short-lived, the reward worth any distress, as long as she could endure Círdan’s sea-voyage.

She hoped.

“My purpose was to conquer my fear, my Lord,” she began her explanation. “Once, I loved the sea dearly, and it grieves me that my death should rob me of that joy.”

Ulmo paused, awaiting more, but her silence held. “So thou hast decided to punish thyself?”

Tears, long restrained, burst forth, her sobs shaking her frame. Had she asked her siblings for help, she would not have faced her phobia alone. Had she confided in them the full account of her demise, they would have shielded her from sailing. Had pride not bested her, she would not lie in so miserable a state.

Unlike Elrond, Ulmo knew not to give her the comfort of his embrace. Instead he sang of rain and waterfalls, the melody washing away her fears and regrets. Slowly her mournful cry abated, determination kindling anew. Biting her lips, she used a cloth to wipe her face dry.

I’ve disgraced myself enough for a day… or an Age.

As Elrond’s daughter, she would allow neither herself nor his House any further shame. No fear would hold her back.

Facing Ulmo with poise, she bowed deeply.

“Wilt thou aid me, my Lord?”

The Lord of Waters smiled.