Chapter 10: The Knowledge of a Name

All air left Yara's lungs at the cobbler's unexpected greeting, and she grabbed onto Melmeleth's arm with both her hands as two clear memories filled her.

First, she saw her own reflection, and was pierced by her own glowing eyes. Her hair was pulled behind her ears, but cascaded over her neck, down to her waist. She was wrapped in several layers of dark coloured robes, and from underneath them furry boots stuck out. She could feel the cold, and the image shifted.

There was a dry and icy wind blowing through the halls of the fortress. Banners hung on the dark walls, and crowds were gathered in the large open hall. She passed them by, following the sound of a familiar song – and then the scene ended, and she was staring at Bronwor, now standing straight, an alarmed expression on his face.

"It may be best if we go and see Lord Elrond," Lindir supplied, his eyes large with concern, and they followed him in silence.

Yara was walking just in front of the cobbler, who was tall and sturdy, and she could feel the cold disbelief oozing from him. She might have expected to be happy at meeting someone who knew more of her new past, but as it was she felt only discomfort and wary apprehension.

They passed into Elrond's halls in silence, and Lindir knocked on the arched door to the study. It opened from the inside, but Yara did not recognise the man who held it.

"Lindir," he said, his face neutral. "Good to see you. We are just going through the…" He cut himself off as Lindir gestured to the small crowd in the hallway. He stood aside to let them enter.

Elrond was sitting behind a large table, a few papers strewn in front of him, and he examined the new arrivals with curious intensity before silently offering them seats.

"Bronwor," he greeted, as the man sat down to his right, but his expression betrayed no excessive familiarity. Yara dropped the shoes she was still carrying to the floor as she sat down, and their eyes turned towards her.

"My lord," Bronwor picked up as he looked again to Elrond, "if this is a matter of me potentially revealing her identity to anyo…"

"Stop!" Yara shouted, her voice suddenly dark, and she fixed Bronwor with her most commanding gaze. His mouth snapped shut instantly. All eyes widened at her outburst, but Bronwor's most intensely, and it caught Yara by surprise when his eyes fell to the table. For a moment she faltered, but then she spoke again.

"Speak so that I understand," she said, only marginally calmer. "So I know you say nothing about me. It is I who decide what to say of me, even when you know the things." Elrond's face dawned with understanding.

"Say nothing yet," he said, and turned to the man on his left. "Erestor, please find Galdor. Tell him Iscalassiel remembers."

Erestor gave a brisk nod, and in a single motion he collected the papers from the table and left the room.

They sat in silence as they waited. Yara was still breathing heavily under the fear of Bronwor's knowledge. She felt exposed, sitting there with naked, dirty feet, wondering if this stranger had already managed to tell everyone something about her that she did not even know herself. She felt as if she was losing control of the situation fast. The tension in the room rose exponentially with every heavy breath she drew, and when Erestor returned with Galdor they could both feel it drip through the air like a rancid syrup.

"Please wait outside, Erestor," Elrond commanded calmly. The moment the door closed again Galdor sat down, and let his pale eyes fall on Yara.

"Can you understand me?" he asked, excitement trilling on his voice.

"Yes," Yara answered through her teeth.

"Can you read?" he pressed on. Yara's eyebrows knitted together.

"Some," she muttered. Galdor held out a sealed letter.

"From Círdan," he explained. "He said to give it when you could remember."

Yara ripped it open without ceremony, and focused all her energy on the short text, not minding the stares of those around her.

'My lady Yarra Daughter of the Pale Leaf,'

Yara paused. Why had he spelled her name so? She focused on the word and pushed it through the mass of disjointed memories she now possessed, including the one of her first conversation with Círdan. 'Yarra,' she thought, 'growl.' She burst into a scoff of laughter, and continued to read.

'It saddened me to send you away so soon. You are not the first to come to me from over the sea, and to you as to all others I would offer my help and advice, had I but had the chance. Mithlond will always remain open to you, and when the time comes, your ship awaits.

May the stars shine on your path.

Círdan'

It took Yara some time to rake through the letter. Sometimes the words seemed in the wrong order, at other times the endings were strange, and some words she could not recognise at all, but in the end she deduced what the gaps contained. She held the letter fast in her hand for strength, and looked again to the faces observing her.

"I remember some," she said, her gaze steady on Elrond's kind eyes, "but not all. Bronwor knows things I want to know. It will be my choice after, what I tell you."

Bronwor frowned deeply, but it was Elrond who spoke.

"Could you relay how you came to know of Bronwor's knowledge?"

"My shoe broke," Yara said shortly. "Bronwor said my name."

"Your name?" Galdor put in quickly, earning him a stern glance from Elrond. Yara thought for a few moments, and began slowly.

"I was Yara – meaning butterfly – before I came here."

Bronwor inhaled, but Lindir was quicker.

"I thought Círdan gave you that name," he supplied. "Ancient Daughter of the Pale Leaf."

Elrond nodded in agreement, but a small smile flickered across Melmeleth's face. Yara saw it, and remembered their first laughter together in the cart heading out from Mithlond.

"I did not call you Yara," Bronwor supplied coldly. Yara took a steadying breath.

"No," she agreed. "You called me Ecyáwen."

It was Yara's turn to startle, because she had not expected Elrond's kind curiosity to vanish so suddenly, and be replaced by an empty, haunted look. She looked away, but she felt his eyes on her, searching, prodding.

"And," Galdor's eyes flickered between Yara and Elrond, "is your name Ecyáwen?"

Yara considered what her answer to this question would mean. Galdor might be asking whether or not Bronwor was correct, but if she said yes, she knew that she also had to accept the identity of her unknown past. Yet, she conceded silently, that was an inevitable thing.

"Yes," she said, her eyes rising to gauge Elrond's reaction. She could see the storm of his thoughts, but not the thoughts themselves. It meant something to him too, but he was not revealing it. "You will continue to call me Yara," she said, her voice losing some of its newly acquired harshness. "It does not mean 'ancient' or 'butterfly' anymore. It means 'growl'."

Melmeleth giggled, and even Elrond's face lightened a little.

"I will listen to Ecyáwen too," Yara continued. "Perhaps in time, it will feel…" her voice died out, suddenly afraid of the doubt she was revealing. Elrond gave her a small, calming nod.

"But," Bronwor said suddenly, "your name was never Yara."

So came the moment she had been longing for since her arrival, and now it only filled her with dread. How could she explain what she could not herself understand? Instinctively, she looked to Elrond.

"You saw, when I danced, that there were other memories."

Elrond nodded.

"I was in a place, for a time, far away. With other people. Other languages."

"Where?" Galdor asked, his voice suddenly stern.

Yara was at a loss.

"I… It was… Different. Another life."

There was silence for a long while, as if they were waiting for her to continue.

"The water," Yara tried carefully, testing the explanation as she voiced it, "it took me to Mithlond."

"Who gave you the stone?" Galdor asked with suspicion, after yet another silence.

"Stone?" Yara frowned.

"The one that sang," Lindir smiled kindly. Yara's first instinct was to laugh, but she managed to restrain it to an amused smile.

"My father," she answered, not untruthfully, but perhaps a bit misleadingly. She could not have expected the effect it would have on Elrond and Bronwor. Bronwor slammed his palms on the table in surprise. All the air seemed to leave Elrond.

"That," he whispered, "cannot be."

"Who was he?" Galdor pressed instantly, his eyes burning.

"Sayid Haddad," Yara answered, smiling almost daringly at Elrond. His expression calmed somewhat, and she thought she could see relief, for just a moment, before it gave way to suspicion. She opened her mind to him, showing her father's face. He calmed visibly.

"How did you come to call him father?" Elrond asked, earning him bemused looks from the rest of the listeners.

"Because he was," Yara answered, unwilling to elaborate, "but he was not the only one."

"And do you remember," Elrond continued, "the other one?"

Bronwor leaned forward again, his face harsh. Yara gave him a quick glance, before she sent a thought to Elrond.

'Show me his face.'

And he did. Yara's nails dug into her palms at the sight of the pale skin, the long black hair, eyes carrying more sadness than she had ever seen in them.

"Yes," she said once the image withdrew, "I remember Kanafinwë Makalaurë Feanárion."

Melmeleth's hands shot up to cover her mouth. Lindir froze solid. Galdor gave what could only be described as a hiss, and Bronwor looked sour. Elrond's lips parted almost unnoticeably, his eyes filled with tired sadness, and deep longing. Yara's expression echoed Elrond's, and her mind reached out with her feeling as it overwhelmed her: the most intense longing she had ever felt, a burning need that threatened to consume her, and it made Elrond inhale sharply. An avalanche of memories rolled over Yara, and she shut her mind and her eyes at their approach.

As when mixing too many colours, so it is with memories. In Yara's mind the weight of thousands of years' worth of moments blurred into silent darkness. The only thing she could make out with clarity was a smooth, happy voice, and the sound of her own childhood laughter. 'Oh, my little dancer,' the voice called, 'how happy I am to have you.' The darkness was sucked into the back of her mind, and she opened her eyes, only to find her vision blurred with tears. She wiped them on her sleeve.

Elrond was thankful that everyone had mind enough not to break the silence. There would come a time for explanations, but it was not now. He had his own suspicions forming in his mind, and many fears besides. The sudden affection he felt for this person, who by all rights was still a stranger to him, was the most frightening of all.

"I think it is best if we let Yara consider how she wants to proceed," he said, "before we engage this conversation further."

Yara realised everyone was looking to her for some sign on what to do next. The stern and commanding demeanour that she had had during the conversation seemed alien to her then, and all she wanted was to get away.

"My shoe is still broken," she said softly, her eyes on Bronwor's blank face.

"I will sort it," he said, and rose from his seat. Yara grabbed her shoes, and with a final kind smile she followed him back to his workshop.

Elrond inhaled slowly, and all eyes now turned to him.

"I didn't even know he had a daughter," Melmeleth said lightly, and some of the heavy atmosphere dissipated.

"He did," Elrond replied without meeting her eyes. "He had two children, who both came with him from the west. One daughter, who perished in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and one son, who lived into the Second Age. Many know this."

Galdor nodded.

"She remembers her death," Melmeleth said, eyes large with grief. "She told us, but not that it was in battle. She said she didn't know when it was."

Lindir gave his sister a plaintive look, sensing how much she felt for Yara.

"Are there any others who will know her?" he asked.

"Few now remain who would recognise her," Elrond answered, "and even fewer who know the full details of her life. Bronwor, Gildor, and Glorfindel, and perhaps one or two more, would know her face, of those west of the Misty Mountains. None of them knew her well, in life."

"Gildor and Glorfindel I could expect," Lindir said, "but Bronwor? I would not have judged him old enough."

"You are not the first to underestimate him," Galdor said with a smile. "When I first met him I called him young and naïve. Círdan gently alerted me to the fact that I was showing myself to be just that, in letting my tongue fly so wildly to a man at least three times my age."

"It must have been long ago, then," Melmeleth commented with raised eyebrows, "if you were young."

"It was in the beginning of the Third Age," Galdor remembered fondly, "when Círdan first took me under his wing. I was more reckless, then."

Silence settled again, for a little while, until Elrond broke it.

"I would caution you, before we part. Knowledge of a name does not make knowledge complete. There are still many questions to be answered. Pay careful attention to where your thoughts take you, and do not reveal her identity against her will."

With that, they dispersed.

"I can't pay you," Yara said with a flat smile as she handed over her shoes.

"You think Lord Elrond would let anyone in Imladris walk barefoot, my lady?" Bronwor replied, and for the first time, she saw him smile.

"Bilbo Baggins doesn't have any shoes," Yara answered.

"Halflings don't wear shoes," Bronwor informed her lightly. Yara relaxed a little and sat down on a wooden bench.

"My father always used to say that you could learn everything about a person just from their shoes," she smiled. Bronwor changed his mind a few times before he answered.

"I would have agreed with him," he frowned, "until you gave me these. I can make no sense of them. What are they?" Yara broke into laughter.

"Sneakers," she replied, "and cheap ones at that. I should have thrown them away before, but I only have my dance shoes, and they're not good for outdoors."

"I won't attempt to mend these, but I think I have a pair of sandals that I can adjust for you," Bronwor said, still examining the broken shoe. "I just have to remove the ankle strap. Unless your tastes have changed?"

Yara's mouth formed a small 'o'. She remembered him now. She saw him kneeling on the floor, adjusting the ties around her boot. She felt … impatient. Why hadn't he gotten the measurements right the first time?!

"What are these soles made of?" Bronwor entreated, and his voice snapped Yara back to the present.

"Uh, it's … blood from a tree," she stuttered. "Rubber."

Bronwor gave her sneakers one final look, as if to scold them for eluding him so, and then disappeared into a back room.

Yara noticed how he didn't really look her in the eyes a lot. He didn't seem uncomfortable, really, just reserved, but something bothered her about it. Sure, she had one memory of being annoyed with him, but that was just one, and he had kind of deserved it, hadn't he? She looked down at her sneakers again, and was struck with another pang of sudden knowledge. She would never have worn those monstrosities back then. She would rather have gone barefoot in the snow.

Bronwor came back a while later, a pair of brown leather sandals in his hand.

"There," he said, "I've taken off the ankle strap, and adjusted the heel a little. I know they're a bit simple, perhaps, but I'll gladly make you whatever you desire if you just give me the time."

He wetted a towel in a bowl, and made as if to clean Yara's feet. She quickly snatched the towel from him.

"I'll do that," she said, not entirely able to hide the shock of knowing he had just been about to wash the soles of her feet.

"My apologies, my lady," Bronwor said quickly. Again, his eyes didn't meet hers.

"No," Yara winced, "I just don't…" She finished her sentence with a sigh, and washed and dried her feet in silence. Bronwor looked on as she slipped on the sandals.

"They're lovely," she smiled, and now Bronwor finally looked at her face, but with an expression of intense disbelief. "No, really," Yara continued, "they're just my size, and very … nimble? No, that's not the word. I mean … elegant."

Bronwor stared at her, but as she continued to smile at him his expression relaxed a little. Yara flexed her feet a few times, and then settled a little in her seat. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him, but she didn't know where to begin. It was a strange thing, trying to piece together yourself from others' knowledge, and she wasn't even sure she liked Bronwor, yet. How could she trust him to tell her the right things, and to not keep secrets?

Bronwor examined the woman he had not seen for over 7000 years, and wondered at the change. Even though elves did not age as men, time could always be seen, especially in those as old as himself. Elves like him, and Círdan, and Galadriel, they set, like a muddied pond resting until the water was clear – but the woman in front of him was still moving. Perhaps even more so now, than she had been then. Yet time could also change people, he conceded, and he had always been just her shoemaker, not privy to her inner workings.

"What did you tell Elrond," Yara asked, "when we first came into his room?"

"I wanted to reassure him that I would not reveal your identity to anyone," Bronwor replied. "There are many who would be unsettled by your return."

"Yes," Yara replied contemplatively, "I saw how Elrond reacted." Bronwor searched her face for a moment, and then looked away again as he spoke.

"You need fear nothing from Lord Elrond, my lady," he said, but did not elaborate.

Yara shot him a frown.

"He should be the one to reveal why," Bronwor said thinly. Yara felt sad at his short answer.

"Why would people be unsettled by me?" she asked, her eyes on her feet. "Melmeleth did not seem surprised by my death." Bronwor's face hardened a little.

"It is not your return from Aman that would unsettle them," he replied, and when Yara showed no sign of understanding he continued. "Although few remain who knew you in life history itself is not forgotten."

Yara waited a long while, but Bronwor seemed perfectly content with his shrouded answer. Yara sucked her lip for a little while, pondering whether or not to continue the conversation at all, but then a thought struck her.

"Were you there, in the battle where I died?"

"I was not," Bronwor replied. "I heeded my king when he forbade us to fight beside the sons of Fëanor."

"Why would he do such a thing?" Yara questioned, feeling an unexpected rush of anger within herself. Bronwor's face paled, his expression bordering between bitterness and sorrow.

"If you truly do not remember," he said coldly, "I will not be the one to tell you."

Yara repressed her anger with great effort, but Bronwor heard her heavy breaths.

"It was a long time ago," he said. Yara looked up at him.

"How long?"

"Over 7000 years."

All the air left Yara's lungs. It seemed an impossible amount of time, and yet her memories were as clear as if it was yesterday. Bronwor, too, seemed to have no trouble remembering. That was the first time that the knowledge of her immortality, which she had managed to evade at every turn in an unconscious effort to retain her sanity, truly hit her. She felt the bonds between her fëa and the earth, and she knew she was forever knitted together with the fate of the world. But then, where had she been, those 7000 years, before being born in Damascus?

"It doesn't… It doesn't fit," she spat through her teeth.

Bronwor gave her a look of mild concern.

"I have no memory of those years," she breathed. "I have no memory beyond the moment of my death, not until Syria."

"Syria?" Bronwor inquired.

"The place where I grew up again," Yara murmured. "I lived there for 24 years. Not 7000." Bronwor pursed his lips very slightly in thought.

"You should not speak to me of these things," he said slowly, and Yara could discern a note of fear in his voice. "I have no knowledge of death."

Yara gave him a sharp look, but said nothing. Silence reigned as she stood up to leave, tired of his vague answers and sharp refusals. But the sandals were nice, her feet reminded her, and she turned in the doorway.

"Thank you for the shoes," she said, and he inclined his head as she left.

Yara had returned to her room at speed, and felt blessed to have encountered no familiar faces on the way. She knew, she thought as she was sitting by her window, that she had wished for answers, and in truth she was happy for the knowledge she had received so far, but it was very much, very fast. It wasn't really the content of the memories – not many of them she had truly engaged with yet, anyway – but the fact that she now felt she held two distinct persons within her, each as real as the other, but somehow still not reconciled.

"Ecyáwen," she whispered to herself.

It was her name, there was no doubt about it. If she closed her eyes she could hear echoes of it from the past; whispered, shouted, and laughed, in a hundred voices or more – but the name Yara felt less distant. She had never really thought about her name before. She knew it meant 'little butterfly', but she had never identified with the meaning. Not that she didn't like butterflies, but she had never felt like one. That was probably a good thing, she thought, and smiled to herself a little.

'Ecyáwen' meant 'sharp lady'. It was the name given to her by her father, and the one known most widely, but, she remembered now, it was not the only name she had listened to. Her mother had given her a name as well, but she had never liked it. 'Eryanel,' – the only daughter. And then there was the name she had taken upon herself when she was still but a child, the one she had only given to her friends, her brother… Yara's fingers covered her mouth, as if the gesture would somehow keep the memory behind bars. It could not be a coincidence.

"Too much," she muttered in Arabic. "This is too much to take in." She sank to her knees and closed her eyes. "Allah, Eru – even you have too many names! Why is this happening to me? Help me understand, please. Who am I? I cannot see the point of all these names, if I do not know what to ascribe them to. I want to understand. I want to find some comfort. Help me see that I am not alone."

She took deep breaths, and she could smell the stone below her. It was not like the warm earth of Mithlond. It was too perfectly smooth, to distantly cool, to darkly grey. Yet here she was, and for now she could not leave. The thought echoed in another memory. The stone of the fortress Himring, where she had spent so many years, had been colder and darker than this, and yet she had stayed. She had stood by her father and her uncles – so many uncles – into the last. Her brother had been there too, but her mother had not been there. Yara tried to remember why, but couldn't seem to find any order in the images conjured.

She saw her mother's face. Bright eyes, but a stern expression. Curly hair slapping across it in the wind. They were at sea.

Yara was little, running across the bright green grass towards the horses. Her mother's arms swept her from the ground. Yara screamed to be put down, but her heart was not in it. Her mother's embrace was too warm.

Then, she saw her second mother, her Syrian mother, lying dead and maimed, half covered by a collapsed building.

'But I never saw that,' Yara thought as she opened her teary eyes. 'I don't know what happened to her.'

War, her mind supplied. War took them both. Yara shivered.

A/N: I nerded out a bit with all the names. Sorry, not sorry. It does have bearing on the story, but you don't need to remember all of them. She will continue to go by Yara.

Also, I love to hear your thoughts on her evolving backstory. I know it's all a bit intense right now, but hey, at least she can talk to them, right? :)