It was so nice just to lie still and let the world go on without him. It was pleasant here, soft if not warm.

There was something lapping at his toes, something he didn't like. It was wet and cold.

With a great sigh Dûrfîn realised he was going to have to open his eyes and find out exactly where he was and how it was that he was still alive.

He heaved his lids open and pushed himself up into a sitting position. How long had he been here? His arm didn't complain at all. He glanced at it. It was no longer wounded, merely a white scar. Yes, Elves had strong and fast powers of healing, but – ? Where was he, anyway? He looked around. He was sitting on a sandy beach. The thing lapping at his toes was the water of the Anduin, while behind him lay a patch of scrub, and then grassland beyond. Rohan, it must be.

Now he looked at his foot. It gave him no pain, none. With trepidation he stood up. No, it still didn't hurt. He sat down again, and pulled off his boot. There was a white scar on his ankle, that was all. Dûrfîn sat and stared at it for a while. Someone powerful was messing with him. Who had the power to reach out and touch him here? And, indeed, how could he still be alive after he actually remembered sinking in the River, his lungs starved for air but his arm and foot refusing to obey him.

There was an answer. Whose domain had he been drowning in?

But why should the Lord of Waters even notice one Elf drowning in one river, even though that river was the Great River? And, if he noticed, why should he bother to save and heal said Elf? Hundreds of people drowned. Why had Dûrfîn been rescued?

There was an answer to that, too, and Dûrfîn couldn't say that he liked it. He must have some purpose in the scheme of things, some reason the Valar, or at least Ulmo, wanted him to stay alive.

He put his boot back on. He needed to think.

Who had he been before he lost his memory? There could be no more avoiding of that question. It probably had vital bearing on why he was still alive.

To begin with, he must be either Fëanor, or one of his sons. He had little doubt anymore that his tugging force was the Oath. What else could it be?

He couldn't be Maglor or Maedhros, as Maglor was still around, and Maedhros had committed suicide after Morgoth was defeated. As a matter of fact, Dûrfîn vaguely remembered it happening. Everyone had talked about the theft of the last two Silmarils in Middle Earth, and their subsequent fates.

Neither could he be Amrod or Amras, for they had died fighting other Elves, their lives were known. There was no chance for Morgoth to capture either of them. What about Celegorm and Curufin? No, they had died together, fighting other Elves again. Caranthir? He had died in Doriath too.

That left Fëanor himself. He had died of his wounds after engaging in single combat with Gothmog, and had disintegrated to ashes upon death. Surely that meant he couldn't be any of the Fëanorians? But no other Elf had ever died that way. Dûrfîn ran his hand over the knotted scars that crisscrossed his face and body. He never remembered what had caused them . . . And then there was his uncanny gift for smithcraft . . . What if he was some ally or friend of the Fëanorians, someone who had also taken the Oath, but wasn't mentioned in the histories? He liked that idea.

He wasn't sure he wanted to be anything like the Fëanorians, though. They had been the cause of much pain and strife that still echoed through the world today.

But they had done good things too, Dûrfîn reassured himself. The Tengwar, the Fëanorian lamps . . .

It wasn't certain, anyway. But Dûrfîn thought it was a pretty good guess. He got to his feet and looked down at the water. "Ulmo," He said, feeling foolish and hoping that the Lord of Waters could hear him. "Dûrfîn thanks you for saving his life. But he asks, for what reason? What task do you want him to do?"

The water still flowed by, undisturbed. Dûrfîn looked at it for a long minute, then turned away with a sigh. He hadn't really expected an answer. At any rate, it was pretty obvious what the Valar wanted him to do. If the Arkenstone really was a Silmaril, then he probably had to retrieve it, or at least prevent Sauron from using it for whatever he had in mind.

Which meant following the orders of the compelling force and going South. South, to Mordor, and to Sauron. Dûrfîn shivered. He wanted to at least replenish his supplies before doing anything so dangerous, and at most acquire much better equipment than he had now. Rohan was no place for buying things, he would have to go to Minas Tirith, and hope his Erebor coins held good there.

But perhaps he could get a horse in Rohan, to speed his journey? Dûrfîn was not averse to this idea, so he turned resolutely away from the river, and began to walk towards Rohan.

When the force stopped him, he explained "Dûrfîn is getting better prepared. He will die if he goes into Mordor like this!"

As he had expected the invisible wall let up, and he strode easily into the grass of Rohan.