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Aubrey woke to the sound of songbirds and bright sunlight streaming into the bedroom in her talan. She moaned softly, rolling over; her head was pounding like a bass drum and her face prickled with heat. She felt weak and sore and when she moved, she felt every single joint protest painfully.
She'd had 'flu only once before, but easily recognised the symptoms. There was no way she was going to be lifting a bow, and just the thought of running around the training field made her want to weep. She drew her soft blankets up over her head and snuggled deeper into the soft bed. Haldir will understand, she consoled herself. And if not, he can deal with it.
o0o
Haldir waited for an hour before he finally lost his temper. He'd begun to warm to the mortal—slightly—impressed by her sheer determination in their training sessions, but he would not tolerate such insubordination. Who was she, to think she could leave him standing around for her, as though he had nothing to do but wait upon her whims?
He marched through the city, leaping up staircases and striding across bridges until he reached the door to her talan. He pounded upon the door, taking out some of his irritation upon the poor wood, but received no answer. When she did not reply and he detected no sounds of movement within, his fury grew anew. She thinks she can laze in bed all day, does she?
Talan doors in Lórien had no lock, as no elf would steal from another citizen and privacy was respected as a matter of course, so Haldir merely shoved the door open and strode inside. He recoiled instantly, his senses assaulted with the rank stench of sickness.
A tiny sliver of concern glimmered within his anger before he quashed it and made his way into the girl's sleeping chamber. He found her fast asleep, her blankets kicked aside.
"Mortal?" he called, walking to her bedside.
She shifted but did not wake. He bent down and placed his palm upon her brow. He frowned; her skin seared with heat and was clammy to the touch. He sat upon the bed and shook her shoulder gently. "Girl," he called again.
She blinked, lifting a hand as though to shield her eyes from the sun. "Oh, God," she moaned, rubbing her eyes. Her voice was thick and hoarse and her breath seemed laboured, as though she had been running.
"What ails you?" he asked, allowing her to turn her flushed face into the cool touch of his hand.
She shivered, reaching for a blanket to pull over her torso. "I've got 'flu," she said.
"What?"
"Flu!" she repeated. "Influenza, or a slow, painful death."
He grasped her wrist, alarmed. "You will die?"
"What's the matter?" she muttered, remembering his words the other day. "I thought 'all mortals die'."
"Be silent, girl. Is this illness life threatening?" he demanded, his hand still tight around her arm.
She sighed heavily. "No, it's just very unpleasant. Have you never had 'flu?"
"Elves do not suffer mortal illnesses."
"Oh, piss off. Are you serious? On top of everything, you don't even get sick?" she whined.
He released her arm and considered her evenly. "We have ailments enough of our own." He hesitated then, eyes narrowed in thought. "Is there . . . is there anything I can do for you?"
Surprised at his offer, she almost refused out of hand, but caught herself just in time. "Uh—could you get me some water?"
He nodded, stepping away from her bed. He found a glass in her kitchen and filled it at the basin in the wall. He heard her grunt with effort and saw when he walked back into her chamber that she'd shoved her pillows back and now sat leaned against them. She took the glass from him and sipped it gratefully, then pressed the side of the cool glass against her forehead. "Thanks," she murmured.
He nodded briskly. "I could summon a healer for you, if you would like."
"Don't bother; there's no way to treat 'flu other than to let it run its course. Though I'm not going to lie—some aspirin would be nice."
He smiled faintly. "I do not think we have that here."
She blinked and met his eyes. She gazed steadily up at him, a vulnerability in her leaf-green irises that he'd not seen since her first night in the forest. "I want to go home," she whispered, her fingers going to her neck to play with the leather cord she wore there. The wide neck of her nightgown left the necklace exposed, and he saw it for the first time—a cylindrical piece of wood with a hole bored through one end, the other flattening out into an oval shape. He looked closer and saw the letters E and A had been carved into the black wood.
"It's a cello peg," Aubrey informed him, noticing his interest. "I had it made into a necklace."
"From an instrument," he realised.
She nodded. "Uh huh. I've played since I was eight. I know that won't seem long to you, Mr Immortal, but—"
"It is a commendable achievement," he interrupted her, somewhat gruffly.
Her surprised look was interrupted by a bout of harsh, hacking coughing. She shuddered with each cough, arching forwards and clutching at her chest. Alarmed, he moved backwards, snatching her fallen glass from the air before it could shatter on the floor. When at last her coughing subsided, she looked up at him once more with bleary, red eyes. "Sorry about that," she rasped.
"You cannot help it," he said automatically. Then, setting her glass on the bedside table, he stood. Her unusual cooperation in the face of her illness left him feeling wrong-footed; he recalled with clarity her stubborn refusal of aid on the way to Lórien and considered that she might be sicker than she would admit to. "You will excuse me," he said. "I have duties to attend to. I will see to it that food is brought to you; are you certain that you do not require a healer?"
"What? Oh—no, I'll get through it."
He inclined his head marginally and strode from the room, shutting her front door firmly behind him.
o0o
She woke several hours later, when the sun had moved around to push soft, afternoon light into her room. She blinked in the golden light and looked up, startling at what she saw. An elf stood in the doorway of her chamber, an inquisitive tilt to her head. It took Aubrey's fumbling mind a second to place her.
"Ilye," she said, recognised the elf who'd welcomed her in Lórien's massive dining area.
Ilye dipped her head. "Good afternoon, Aubrey."
"What time is it?" she asked blearily, struggling into an upright position.
"Half past four. The Marchwarden informed me that you were ill, and might wish for company."
"Surprisingly nice of him," she commented, rubbing her hand over her eyes.
Ilye smiled softly, and pulled a chair up to her bedside. "Can I get you anything, mellon nin?"
Aubrey sighed heavily, suddenly desperately homesick. "I want my mum," she moaned.
The elf blinked, stunned, before sympathy softened her beautiful face. "I am sorry, but that I cannot do. Would you like to tell me about her?"
"She's a little like me," she murmured, tracing her necklace. "She's very stubborn, and neither of us likes to be wrong. We used to fight a lot about that. Neither of us could ever give up. When I was little, if I got sick, she was absolutely wonderful. She would cook me my favourite food, and then she'd put her pyjamas on and we'd sit in her bed together, watch films or read together."
Ilye smiled. "I broke my leg once, when I was an elfling. I didn't mind the pain too much, but I was horribly bored, unable to play. My Nana picked me up and sat me on her shoulders to walk around, and then she sat and read to me to pass the time. That was when she taught me to speak the common tongue."
Aubrey was struck by a bolt of inspiration. "Oh! Ilye, you could teach me Elvish! I'll be stuck in this bed for a while, if you're not too busy, you could visit and start to teach me. Will you? Please say you will."
The elleth laughed. "Of course I will, Aubrey, fear not. We can begin now, if you would like."
"Please! I loved learning languages back . . . back home." Her voice trailed off miserably, but she forced herself to smile, genuinely excited for her lesson.
"I warn you, Aubrey, Sindarin is not an easy language. It will take you a long time to gain any fluency, and it will be longer still before you are able to learn the Silvan dialects." Ilye began.
She shook her head, jaw set. "I don't care," she said firmly. "I'm going to learn."
Ilye smiled softly. "You are very determined. You truly love to learn, do you not?"
"More than anything," Aubrey beamed. "I've told you that I'm an archivist. I work in a university library back home, and also do some work at a museum and the library. I read Old English and Latin, so I tend to mainly work with translating and archiving early medieval scripts—I'm so annoyed, I'd just started working on a gorgeous early Saxon bible when I got dumped here—but I did look over a few Nordic rune stones an archaeological dig found not far from my home."
The elf looked faintly bemused by the unfamiliar names, but clearly recognised a fellow scholar. "When you are not busy running yourself ragged on a training field, I must take you to our libraries," she said. "I can teach you to read Tengwar—our script—and I'm sure a position could be found for you there."
"I'd love that," she enthused. "I've never been so great at physical stuff—I don't really enjoy it—but I've always loved to learn. It . . . it'd be nice to show Haldir that I'm not an incapable idiot, you know?"
Ilye's smile bordered on devious. "Then I must teach you Sindarin without delay!"
o0o
Galadriel sighed and opened her eyes, the vision leaving her like mist clearing the forest on a winter morning.
Celeborn stood at her shoulder, one hand steadying her hip. "What did you see, meleth?" he asked gently.
She sank back against him, the vision, as always, sapping her strength. "Aubrey," she said, a smile playing about her lips. "She has asked Ilye to teach her our tongue."
"Then she accepts that she must stay."
She nodded, taking his hand. "Indeed she does – subconsciously, at least. She misses her homeland, though. Something there ties her far more than the place itself."
"A family member?" Celeborn suggested.
"That is likely, and yet . . ." she trailed off, gazing out across the forest, her eyes wide.
His arms tightened around her waist and he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Meleth?"
"I sensed something more than family. A duty, almost. All will be revealed eventually, but for now we must wait. It will not be easy for the child to release whatever ties her to her home. She will need help before the end."
o0o
By the third day of her illness, Aubrey was strong enough to get out of bed and sit on the open porch outside her talan. She loved to watch the comings and goings of the city, basking in the warm sun reflected by the golden mallorn leaves. Always, there was music. The elves seemed to breathe music, singing as they walked, or stopping to play one of their many instruments. Her hands began to ache to hold a cello; as she sat, she imagined the deep, mellow bass lines she would fit to the elves' songs; the higher, clear notes she would tease from the strings.
Ilye often came to sit with her, dragging a chair outside to place opposite the low bench Aubrey occupied. On that third day, she sat on the very edge of the bench, one foot hanging over the edge of the platform into open air. She gazed down through the branches that obscured her view to the forest floor. The empty space was webbed with gently swaying walkways and she amused herself counting the telain she could see below her.
"Good morning!" The greeting, spoken in slow, exaggerated Sindarin, could only have been one person.
Looking up with a smile, Aubrey returned the greeting. "Hello, Ilye!"
The elf nodded her approval, switching back into English. "Your accent it improving."
"I was practicing this morning. I think I'm starting to get it now."
Ilye inclined her head. "You have certainly surpassed my expectations. Now, this morning you have another visitor. When I told a young pupil of mine that my friend was ill, he simply had to come and visit. Apparently, you've met."
"Oh?" Aubrey frowned. Ilye had come every day, but apart from that, no one had come to see her in her bedridden exile. They're probably disgusted by human illness.
"Aubrey!" The voice was high and clear, and joyfully familiar.
She blinked, stunned, as a small form sprinted across the walkway onto the platform that held her talan. The child skidded to halt in front of her and paused, his cheeks flushed with exertion. "Roitar?" she gasped, recognising the cherubic boy.
He beamed, and reached a hand into a pocket of his tunic. "I have brought you a gift," he said eagerly, pressing a small pebble into her hands.
She turned it over in her hands; it looked a little like quartz, with the same pink hue, and was perfectly smooth. "Thank you very much! Where did you find it?"
"In the healer's telain, of course," he said, looking at her oddly.
She looked helplessly to Ilye. "The stones hold a small portion of the forest's power," she smiled. "They promote healing, if given with good intent."
Nodding, she turned back to the precious child. "Then thank you again. I'm sure I'll feel better in no time. What does Ilye teach you?"
"The Common tongue, and some Rohirric. One day, I will be able to talk to anyone!" he enthused.
"What is Rohirric?" she frowned.
"The language of the Rohirrim. Their homeland is just south of our borders, and we often trade with them. A noble people, they are courageous and bold. They breed the best horses in all of Arda, and are willing to sell them to us." Ilye explained.
"Huh. I didn't know elves bred horses," she mused, turning the stone over in her hands.
Roitar gave her another look that indicated she'd made a glaringly obvious error. "The Rohirrim are not elves," he said. "They are human."
She paused in her examination of the stone. She'd been vaguely aware that there were other humans somewhere in this strange world, but to have them named, to be told they lived just south of these borders—it was a strange reality that she hadn't been prepared for. As fond as she had grown of Ilye and Lórien, and as much as she'd begun to grudgingly respect Haldir, she missed being among regular, flawed humans. It would be nice to see them again, she thought, to see faces with ordinary, plain looks rather than ethereal, impossible beauty. She filed the thought away for another time, but resolved not to forget it.
"Go on then, Roitar. How much Common do you know?"
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