*I do not profit from this story. Rumil, unfortunately, is not mine. However, Lana and her husband are.

The woman now came often to the wood, always ready to read to her mysterious friend. She had quickly read through the novel from before and began on a book of poetry. She soon found that her friend did not care for all of the poet's sentiments.

"He is mournful to the point of being morbid. A writer should inspire their readers to hope-to dare to believe nothing is impossible. Instead, your poet would convince us that all is despair, and that surrender to the inevitable is the only option."

The woman looked toward Rumil's tree, as she termed it, when she spoke, "I take that as, no, you do not wish to continue?"

"No. Your poet has no fight in him. He has no…" his voice trailed off as he attempted to find the word.

"Spunk?" she supplied.

"Indeed not!" he quipped. "Perhaps another writer should be sought."

The woman smiled sadly up at her guardian. "I am afraid this is truly the last book I have other than cookbooks and home remedies. I could only bring a few from my home when I married." She explained, by way of apology.

"Hmm. Wait here."

The woman thought she saw a flash of pale gold immediately following his directive, but was not certain. He was gone for sometime when a book suddenly fell gently into her lap. Startled, the woman quickly glanced up. Her eyes briefly met a pair of startling blue ones, at least, she thought so, but they were gone.

Rumil spoke to her from his tree once more, "I believe you will enjoy that book. It is tales of my people from long ago: battles, stories of love, and heroes triumphing against impossible odds."

"Sounds as if you have already read it, Rumil." She ventured.

"I have, but you, Lana, have not."

She blushed ever so gently on hearing her name spoken by him. It sounded musical, noble even, instead of common as it truly was. She was immensely glad that she was saved from the title 'Lady'. It had taken a great deal of convincing on her part, but she had finally managed to convey that no disrespect would be shown if he simply called her Lana. For if he could cause it to sound noble when spoken informally, she felt downright royal with the title of 'Lady'. She did not want or need formality. She had that aplenty in her new home. Here, she just wanted a friend.

"Have I lost you, Lana? Or are you trying to see through my tree?" asked a teasing voice from above.

Lana snapped back to the clearing and her present company. "Forgive me, Rumil, my mind was wandering."

"Again," supplied the elf helpfully.

The woman cast a narrowed gaze to his tree once more before opening the book. The pages appeared new and freshly written, though Rumil had assured her he had read it. "The pages appear untouched by all but the scribe who penned it."

"It is."

The woman glanced up, startled, "But you said…"

"I said the stories were known to me, but the book was in my own tongue. I translated it in westron so as to hear you read it. The book is yours."

"Oh, Rumil, thank you, I…" The woman was once again interrupted as another voice entered the Wood.

"LANA! COME WIFE! WHERE ARE YOU!"

"It is Haman, my husband. I must go to him, for he will not come to me. He fears this Wood. I shall try to return soon so that we may begin our new venture, my friend."

"Mellon nin."

"I'm sorry?"

"It is how one would say 'my friend' in my tongue."

"Mel-lon neen," the woman mimicked. "Thank you, mellon nin."

With that, the woman was gone. A sudden feeling of concern washed over him. He had felt her sadness, and the loneliness she carried with it before, though she fought to hide beneath her playful banter. Now, it was stronger, and a sense of foreboding gripped him. He recognized the feeling for what it was. Fear.