As I retreated to the sanctuary of the warehouse, I began to regret stepping out of the shadows my existence had become. Had I not felt sorry for Lily Dunbar, trying to cope with an orc-troop of children, I would never have done so, and I would have remained in my twilight peace with nothing to bother me.

Or would I?

Lily's assumption that I had been ill came back to me, so that instead of returning to the comfort of Bold Hart's antlers, I made myself go to the mesh racks that stored items usually wall-hung… I pulled out one that had ornate looking-glasses on.

I could tell you from the labels that they were a selection of Georgian, Regency and Victorian mirrors, representing different manufacturing techniques and a variety of styles, but the fact was that they were simply objects which had always scared me. Oh, we had had looking-glasses in the old days, but there was something about these, so sharp, so harsh their reflections... Surely it was unnatural to be able to see one's own self in such bleak detail?

But there I was, essentially unchanged. I am an elf, we do not much alter. Our sufferings can sometimes be writ on our faces, or on our bodies or in our eyes, but we do not fall ill, we do not generally look as if we are ill.

Except that, somehow, I did.

My long hair, that strange light shade between blonde and white, looked as ever it did. But there was a gauntness to my face, and my eyes had a haunted cast. Always slender, after the way of my people, instead, I looked thin, wasted… well, if I had only eaten twice since the opening of this place, it was hardly any wonder… we could go long tracks of time on little or no food, I and my kind, but we still need sustenance eventually.

So I looked in my own reflected eyes, blue and silver beneath the striking dark brows, and I noted the bones of my face lying barely beneath my skin, and I wondered whether I had really been on the point of fading, of becoming a ghost. Of haunting myself.

This would not do. I was awake again, and aware, and I had eaten, and conversed with a human. I was not fading now, I was not going anywhere, not now, not ever.

Not yet.

I stood back and looked down at my form. Yes, I was too thin for my height, and for raiment it appeared I had resorted to a selection of the donated clothing, topping it all with one of the knee-length garments worn by the tour guides or occasional workers in the store – a stack coat, they called it. I was glad I had been wearing such when Lily had seen me, for I doubt my day clothes beneath were quite proper… something known as a 'demob suit', a heavy garment of jacket and waistcoat and trousers, and I had found a loose shirt from somewhere for under it. The entirety, covered with the stack coat, gave me a certain stature, but when one looked closely, as Lily apparently had, it looked more that the suit was wearing me…

I began to regret walking away from the woman. Given that I had just confessed to having no right to be here, I should perhaps have been more conciliating, but that has never been my way.

I sighed. This place had become a sort of home, I supposed. And if I had to leave, what of Bold Hart?

The thought reminded me of the key in my pocket, and I took it out and looked at the label. To my surprise, it was written in a rounded, soft script I knew so well that it was like looking at an old friend, seeing it, tengwar letters, elvish script.

'Aisle Nine, inner shelf, bottom row, behind the writing engine.'

And so I went to Aisle Nine, looked on the innermost shelf where I saw the writing engine – in fact, a typewriter. And, behind it, I discovered a small leather case with brass corners. It looked old, but not ancient, and bore none of the identifying tags of the warehouse systems, so I knew it was not an artefact, not a part of their collections.

It opened stiffly to my key, and when the first thing I saw was a document in tengwar with the name Thranduil Oropherion at the top, I knew it was meant for me.

Carrying the case out into the open area of the warehouse, I sat myself down on the chaise near the zebra and began examining the contents. There was an apparently random selection of things; papers, two or three more keys, a folding leather pouch with more coins and cards and paper – a wallet – and, of all things, a pack of lembas.

I wondered how it could be possible. Lembas had a long keeping time, true, but it would not last for millennia… who could have made it? And how long had it been in here, anyway?

Well, I was currently sated with food, so it was not important now.

There were bells.

Silver bells, tarnished and misshapen, they no longer jingled or jangled. But they sang to me nevertheless. Nelleron, greatest, bravest of my riding elks was the first to wear them. He had charged a dragon, once, and the dragon lost. The bells had been a gift on a decorative crocheted cover for Nelleron's antlers; how I had hated it! But my elk would not let any remove it, he enjoyed the bells… and with the bells I found grey slate dragon scales, from the one he trapped in his antlers, holding the head so my eager sword could remove it from the grey wyrm's neck. All my elks following had bells on their harness after that; it amused me that such a gentle, happy sound could make the enemy cower and shriek with fear, knowing who was coming for them.

So long ago… the incident with that particular dragon had been in the Third Age, when the world was young. That had been the same day my oldest son took seriously ill, the day my youngest feared his lover lost.

But Govon had been injured, not dead, and it was important to remember that I, too, was still alive.

I wished I knew what had become of my son.

I took up the first document, unfolding it with care. The paper was thin, brittle, like flaking paint, but the words were clear.

'You have forgotten before,' it began. 'And you will forget again, most likely. You will remember you are Thranduil, you will remember your beginnings, your home in the Greenwood, your family. You will never forget your family. But the in-between things, the events that happen amongst humans only, those are hard to hold on to. Each time you become aware, you write a note for yourself for next time, with the important things. Through the centuries you have changed your name and your residence and your occupation. But you are always Thranduil, whether Oropherion or Green or Wood or McLachlan.'

And now, I was Professor King. I wonder how many other names I had taken.

'It is Anno Domini 1913. War is coming. It is not the sort of battle we have ever seen, and they say all who can fight will be called upon... unless I flee, I fear I will be required to go to war, and it does not look like the sort of battle in which I would be of much use. So I am going into a monastery where I may live in silence for a time.'

A monastery… I had no recollection, but I had read of those. Yes, a silent order would be no hardship for me. Nor would hard physical labour, cold, meagre food… as has been seen, I can endure much. It would be a deception, of course; the deity believed in here… is it the same as my own Eru Ilúvatar? Who can say, who can know? Certain is it, that these angels that humans set such store in have much in common with the Valar and the Maiar of my own knowledge.

Did they still have monasteries, I wondered?

I turned to the next document: 1947.

'You will have forgotten again. I did,' it began. 'I thought we had just seen the end of the war… and learned there had been an end, and that this was a new one. This time, I could not shelter in a monastery. They taught me to fly and put me in the air in a vehicle. It was exhilarating. But I did not like shooting at the other planes, it did not seem fair. I did not like the prisoner-of-war camp, much, either, but I am here again, now. I find there is a bank account and it has my name on it. I find I have money. And a house. What do I want with a house?'

There was one more.

'1968. This is a more accommodating time. My long hair does not attract the wrong sort of attention, these days, and the clothing is more free for some sections of society. I even sailed West… it is not what I expected, it is not the true West, not the Straight Way, but a curved way and so I got to a place known as America and to that part called California. I was able to live in trees again, on a commune. It was refreshing. But I deemed it time to return, before I forgot myself. There is still a house and a bank account.'

I tried to remember. If these were my notes – and it was my language, my hand – why could I not remember?

'You will forget,' the words continued. 'I have tried to recall, but there is nothing much after the dragon, not really. I think I remember the monastery… it may be, there were drugs and they tested some on me… perhaps they did not suit my constitution. There are things you can say, to allay their fear and suspicion… you were in a car crash and lost your memory. Or in a war, and were… shell shocked, or they may call it something else now. Or in a coma and lost track of time. Or mentally ill, but people may be wary if you claim that. I must admit I am looking forward to forgetting again; I thought I saw Canadion, do you remember him? At a place called York. I did not get too close. But I did not see Thiriston, who surely would have been nearby, and when I looked again, I thought perhaps it was only a woman in a dress, after all.'

There was one more, very short, note.

'1977. I had forgot. I want to forget again. I do not like being here. The house is empty and nobody sees me. They think I am dead, but the documents hold the house forever. If you remember again, go to Adrian's. If you do not fade soon... that is, I think I will fade soon. At least I can see trees.'

Was that me? Did I, Thranduil Oropherion, write all that?

I read and reread and found a writing implement, and some paper in the case, and I wrote:

'I had forgot. I do not know when I am, not precisely. I am in a storage place, it has been open since 2008, but I do not know when that was... seven years after, I think, perhaps. I have been losing track. One of the women here sees me. There are keys, but I have not found out for what. I have not seen the house mentioned here. I miss my son.'

Committing that last sentence to paper made me gasp as the pain of the realisation settled on my fëa. Putting my writing aside, I went through the rest of the case in an attempt to throw off my sudden sadness. There were documents, deeds to something, those keys, an address. I thought about what I had read… it seemed I could claim forgetfulness – amnesia - and it would probably be accepted. But I felt better, obscurely comforted to know I had been keeping track, somehow, however intermittently, down the years.

I only wished that I had mentioned my son in those previous writings.

In a pocket in the case was an envelope, sealed with wax. It had a name on it; H J Adrian, Solicitors and Law. Perhaps they would be a good place to start, if I could find out where they were and how to get to them.

I closed up the case, keeping out the little bunch of keys. It had a label, two short, random alphanumeric sequences written there, and the subsequent keys all had numbers.

Yet another mystery.

I closed up the case again and found myself wishing there had been, perhaps, some clothing in it, a comb. I wondered and pondered and thought about everything except the matters that were really bothering me: At one point, I had thought I had seen a former subject, Canadion. And at another, I had been very close to despair.

The phone at the end of the room gave its imperious shrill. To distract myself, I went to lift its receiver.

Before I could speak, a voice.

'Are you all right?'

'Lily.' Of course, it was Lily.

'You walked off as if I'd upset you, and I really didn't mean… so. Are you all right, Thranduil?'

'I… think so. I have… found my wallet.'

She was silent for a moment.

'Canteen's closed now, it's half four. I'm just finishing for the day. Are you staying here all night?'

'Of course.'

She sighed.

'No, you're not. You're coming home with me. I'll be down in a minute.'