Chapter 20

The morning was very early when Sídhadonnen came across the training grounds of Imladris. It looked like the day was going to be brilliant: there was no cloud in the sky and the light of sun already danced across the vast vaults of heaven. Spring still lingered in this late April morning, but when she stopped and breathed in, she could almost smell the summer.

Only one person was up and about in the training grounds at this time, and it was Glorfindel. He was occupied by shooting arrows at a tall, narrow rod that had been driven into ground. She hesitated to call it practice, for on the rod, there were already six arrows in a neat row and as far as she could tell, he had not missed his target even once.

At the sound of her steps, Glorfindel lowered his bow and turned to look at her.

"Ah, good morning, Sídhadonnen", he greeted her and smiled. He never really seemed to lack that serene look, which made her feel like he was an old friend.

"Good morning, my lord", she answered courteously.

"Now, didn't we agree to put aside 'my ladies' and 'my lords'?" he asked good-humouredly. "Is something amiss?"

"No, not at all. I just woke up early, and... I suppose I wanted to see a friendly face", she said softly. He knew without asking that her night had not been a peaceful one; she was thankful for how he never made a fuss of it.

"I see", Glorfindel said, his voice gentle. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, "Would you like me to show you how to use a bow? I have found it is not a bad way to let out some tensions. Perhaps that would be what you need."

That brought a small smile on her face and she quickly nodded.

"I'd like that, yes. If it's not much of a bother", Sídhadonnen said and an unexpected surge of enthusiasm filled her.

"Of course not, my young friend", said the Elven lord and smiled, looking as if nothing in the world would please him more than teaching her.

He spent a good while explaining her the basics of archery, how she should stand and how to draw the bow. She listened attentively, nodding and hemming every now and then. Though she appeared as if nothing on Arda was as important as this lesson, Glorfindel was still rather surprised when he gave the bow to her and told her to draw it. She instantly took the right position – which was something one usually had to correct before the student had it right – and drew It like this was only one of many, many times she had handled a bow.

Out of curiosity, he gave her one arrow and told her to fire. Sídhadonnen answered with a small smile, took the arrow and shot. In less than an eye-blink, it was quivering on the top of the target rod.

"Impressive", he praised and patted her shoulder. "You must be one of the fastest students I've ever had."

"Perhaps I used to be able to do this before... before..." she said quietly, staring at her arrow as if she wasn't quite convinced of what she had just done.

"That is entirely possible, yes", Glorfindel agreed. That was indeed the more likely answer than that she was an undiscovered genius of archery, though she had not really seemed like a warring type to him. "Would you like to try again?"

It was already time to venture back inside for breakfast when they finished with the archery. He continued to be rather impressed with her skill; though she did not always hit her target, it was undeniable she had a talent for it.

"It feels familiar", Sídhadonnen said quietly as they returned inside. "It's not like I remember doing it before, but there is this... this feeling. I can't really explain it."

"I think I understand", Glorfindel remarked pensively. Then he smiled at her. "Perhaps you should keep doing it. It might help you to remember something, or at least give you arms against your dreams."

"Do you think Master Elrond would disapprove?" she asked a bit worriedly.

"Oh, no. I'm sure he won't mind. Don't worry about it, my friend. I'll speak with him", he reassured her, and then Tirithon joined them, and conversations soon took other courses.

That night, Sídhadonnen slept more soundly than in days.

During her time in Imladris, Sídhadonnen came to know a little of Lord Elrond's daughter, Arwen Undómiel. Descended from all the three houses of Maiar, Eldar and Edain, it was easy to believe it when people said she was the fairest maiden among the living – in her, they said, the likeness of Lúthien Tinúviel had graced Arda one more time.

Arwen was kind to the young woman whose life her father had saved. Sometimes she'd take Sídhadonnen out for walks in the beautiful valley Imladris was located in, or kept company when her nightmares would haunt her, or sit with her and Tirithon. There was something calming about Arwen Undómiel's voice, and when Sídhadonnen listened to her, she could feel the demons that tormented her at nights dissolve and disappear. It was a great honour, she realised, and surely a tale to be told to her children some time. You could not exactly call them friends – that would have demanded more time – but Sídhadonnen would always remember the woman fondly and she hoped there had been more time to get to know the daughter of Elrond.

The reason their friendship did not really get a chance to develop was because on the first day of May a big company, including Glorfindel, Master Elrond and Lady Arwen, left for a long journey towards Minas Tirith, the city of kings far in the south. There she would meet and marry the man she had given her heart to: King Elessar Telcontar, a Ranger of the North turned king. To Sídhadonnen, it all sounded more like a fairytale than something that happened in reality.

"Do not worry, my child. You will be safe here in Imladris, along with my people and young Tirithon", Lord Elrond promised Sídhadonnen, who had come to bid farewell to the company. There was this particular look in her eyes, and that was of fearlessness – at least for things that existed in the waking world. Even though she did not remember what hardships she had faced during the journey that had almost claimed her life, it was as if almost all the fear she had ever might have had left her.

"I know, Master Elrond. I wish you a safe journey", the girl said, so solemn as always, and turned to bid farewell to Glorfindel; the golden-haired elf had more or less taken her under his wing, which was perhaps a friendship one might not have expected to see.

Finally, the goodbyes were finished, and the bridal party rode out, and Sídhadonnen quietly watched them leave the secret valley.

With master Elrond, Arwen, and Glorfindel away, life went on slowly in Imladris. Sídhadonnen spent most of her time wandering in the gardens of the house, practising archery (though it did not feel the same without Glorfindel's company), reading some of the books from Elrond's library, or doing some needlework. Tirithon accompanied her most of the time, and he always sat beside her during mealtimes. She was not unhappy, but she found she missed Glorfindel and the Elven lord's endless stock of smiles.

In Imladris, she also came to know Master Bilbo, a Halfling from the Shire. He had retired to live in Rivendell among the elves for the twilight years of his life. His hair was pure white and his old age had made his face a fine network of lines, but in his eyes there was still a look of wits and ready mind. Most of his life consisted of sleeping and enjoying good suppers, but sometimes he would tell her stories from his homeland and of his adventures; the tale of his journey east along with the company dwarves was her favourite. Sídhadonnen always listened to him attentively (especially since he was very good in telling stories), even though Tirithon did not seem to be as excited about meeting a Halfling and listening to him – after all, he had been in Imladris longer than she and had already got used to all the wonders of the house.

Time went by. Tirithon waited.

News from Minas Tirith came one day. King Elessar had wedded Arwen Undómiel, and Éowyn, Lady of the Shield-arm had married Faramir who was now the new Steward of Gondor. Sídhadonnen did not know why, but for some reason the name Éowyn touched her, like it had some deeper meaning for her. Perhaps it was because of the hardships this woman had gone through, like Sídhadonnen? Not that anything she had done could ever compare to riding for war and killing the Witch King of Angmar, but still she felt some distant kinship to this Rohirric woman. Both of them had travelled through shadows and again emerged to the light of day. Maybe, if it was indeed Rohan Sídhadonnen had come from, she might have even met Lady Éowyn once.

"... and Éomer King, though they say he's turning out to be a good ruler, is just as gloomy as ever. They say there was some woman that he loved, but she died while he was in war and he still deeply grieves for her. Evidently he believes he has to keep the promise he made to her. But the Gondorian ladies... well, you know how they love anything that has a crown on it and they do not care about his lost love or the fact that he is always so grim", the messenger chatted with one of the younger elves and Sídhadonnen could not help but overhear.

Suddenly, the messenger's words sent such an overwhelming sense of loss and sorrow over her that she started to shake. When Tirithon asked what was wrong with her, a broken sob escaped her mouth and soon she was in the middle of near hysterical attack of tears and lament. No one made the connection – they just assumed she reacted that way because some terrible memory had overcome her – and she was practically carried to bed by the terrified Tirithon who insisted on sitting by her bed for the rest of the day and night. She did not tell the truth even to her faithful friend but kept it locked deep inside her heart. For what would she have told it, anyway, when she herself did not understand?

Next day, she felt better and was up and about again. However, she could not tell what had caused such a reaction in her and to be honest, she preferred not to think of it too much.

And so, slowly the year turned into autumn and finally one day a large company of travellers rode to Imladris. Master Elrond had returned with most of the elves who had left with him, but there were other people with him, too: the four Halflings whose names had been on everyone's lips since the tidings of the war ending had come, and the tall white-haired wizard who went by the names of Gandalf the White or Mithrandir. Sídhadonnen felt the familiar disappointment when she saw the newcomers, as she always did – and so absorbed she was by this that she did not take notice of the widening of Mithrandir's blue eyes at the sight of her. And she never did, for then she had spotted Glorfindel and meekly approached her friend to welcome him back, but the blue eyes remained on her for a long while, until the wizard's expression turned into a large smile.

Little did she know what kind of an effect this visit would have.

When one looked at Gandalf the White, it was easy to understand where his reputation came from and why he was so respected. He was tall with looming presence, and his lordly appearance was in par that of Lord Elrond himself. He dressed always entirely in white and the sunlight was caught in his shining hair and beard. Time had marked his face with lines, but his bright blue eyes were ageless and wise. There was something familiar about the wizard's face, like he were someone Sídhadonnen had met before.

She could only wonder what kind of stories this man could tell if asked, but as the wizard strolled through the gardens, deep in the conversation with Lord Elrond and Glorfindel, the girl did not dare to approach and disturb him. She did get to spend some time with the Halflings, who proved to be impossibly sweet and cheerful people (except for the Ring-bearer, who seemed very quiet and reserved, except in the presence of his uncle Bilbo). Especially the charming duo, Merry and Pippin, proved to be quite a pair. They sometimes even succeeded in tempting a small laugh out of the cool woman (something Tirithon greatly envied) with their stories of the Shire and of the great journey that had immortalised all four of them in the tales of Men.

However, the company was not to stay in Rivendell for a long time. The Halflings wished to see their home once again after their long absence. Gandalf would accompany them as far as Bree, after which he would go on in his own way, and as the days passed Sídhadonnen began to fear she might not get the chance to even meet the wizard. But on the last day of their stay in Imladris he asked to speak with her.

The young woman was surprised by the request, but also very delighted when the summon came. Quickly, she turned to Tirithon, who was as usual sitting with her.

"Do I look presentable? I do not want to look haggard when I finally get to speak with him!" she asked hastily. Tirithon just smiled.

"You are absolutely beautiful. Do not worry, Sídhadonnen", he assured. She flashed a rare smile at him and then hurried off to meet Gandalf the White.

The wizard was standing on one of the beautiful terraces, looking down to the valley. As Sídhadonnen approached him, he turned to face her. His smile was kind and his eyes warm as he looked at her, and she instantly felt he was someone she could trust.

"My lord", the girl greeted him and curtsied. "It is a great honour to finally meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine, my lady", the wizard said. After exchanging some necessary pleasantries he urged her to sit by a stone bench as he himself sat opposite her.

"Master Elrond has told me how you came to be here. It was a very amazing tale, I must say. Have you regained any recollection of your past during your time here?" he asked finally.

"Not really, my lord, but only one or two things", she said quietly.

"What do you remember, if I may ask?" he inquired. His voice was kind and gentle, and though she didn't usually like to talk about these things, something about the wizard made her feel like she could and should trust him. So, after a moment of hesitation she began to speak.

"There is this face. I have dreamed of it ever since I came here and returned to the world of the living. I do not know who he might be, but I feel he is of great importance. The other thing is... it is very vague. I do not know if it is a memory or just a dream. In it, I am walking through a dark forest and I am hurting all over, but there is gentle light at the very reach of my eyes, and I follow it", she explained slowly. The wizard listened to her quietly.

"Might this face belong to a tall bearded man with golden hair and dark eyes?" Gandalf asked. Something stirred in Sídhadonnen and for a moment she was sure she would start crying uncontrollably like that one day, but she got a hold of herself and simply nodded.

"I see. Do not fear, child, for I feel your final remedy is near. All will be well", Gandalf said gently. Something in his words lit a small spark of hope inside her and as she returned to Tirithon, he saw the glint of light in her eyes that had been so dark for past months and he wondered what it was the wizard had told her to make her seem so much more at peace than she usually did. Then again, Mithrandir was a wizard, and it was said he could create light even when there was none.

As for Sídhadonnen, she had begun to hope again.

Next morning the Halflings and Gandalf the White bid farewell to Rivendell and its inhabitants. Sídhadonnen was there to bid farewell to the travellers, and she was sorry to see her new Halfling friends leaving so soon. They made promises of trying to meet her again some day, but she was uncertain if those promises would ever be kept.

"I will look forward to it and expect for your return. How shall I laugh now that you leave me here?" Sídhadonnen asked, even smiling a bit.

"That is a good motivation to return as soon as we can! We cannot leave the fair lady sorrowing!" Pippin exclaimed. The young woman smiled and leaned down to hug each of the four Halflings.

"Safe travel to you, my friends!" she said and then nodded at Gandalf the White who had just mounted his magnificent horse, Shadowfax. The wizard gave her a smile and bowed his head; there was a look in his blue eyes that puzzled her and she'd have liked to ask what it meant, but now it was too late.

After last goodbye, the company rode out, but Sídhadonnen stood for a long while to watch as the group urged their horses and ponies until they finally disappeared from her sight.

Tirithon came to stand beside her, laying an arm on her shoulders. Sídhadonnen did not mind it but let the man stay there beside her, and surprisingly, it felt good to have him there... even if he was not the one with the serious face and dark eyes.

The memory of those eyes was all the clearer now... but she did not think she'd ever see them again.

December 3019, Edoras

It was Yule night again.

There was a new kind of abandon in the air this night, something that had not been there last year. Éomer King of Rohan could sense it very well and he knew where it came from, even though he did not really share the feeling with the people of his household.

Perhaps it was that atmosphere that made the memories so very tangible. It was hard to believe it was only a year ago that he had seen her across the hall with her friends. She had been so beautiful in her blue and silver, her eyes burning as she looked over to him. She had been so full of life then... and the way she had kissed him in the shadows of Meduseld! He still remembered his wonder when he had understood that she loved him just as much as he loved her; it was something he had not dared to believe true. Those few precious nights with her now seemed like a dream.

After the war, the return to Edoras had felt somehow unreal. The prospect of his uncle's funeral had loomed over everything like an ever-present shadow, and he had felt equally uncomfortable about would come after. And then there was the fact that her presence still lingered in the Golden Hall, as if her spirit had refused to fade with her life. Half the time he was expecting to see her approach him on corridor, or reach for his hand from behind, or hear her laughter echo in the chambers and hallways of the Golden Hall. She was all over this house, even if she had lived here for such a short time. Éomer wondered whether he would some day come to hate this place because of all the lost happiness it meant for him. It was not just the shadow of her that seemed to haunt him; so many familiar faces were gone now, so many things changed for ever... he wondered if he'd ever get used to it. And the burden of the throne was all the heavier.

At least there was always work to distract himself with. The restoration of the Mark required his attention in many things small and large, and re-organising everything after years of Gríma Wormtongue's virtual rule was not a task of small importance or proportion. He tried to keep himself occupied all the hours of the day, but even that could not chase away the dreams. Oh, the dreams! They were agonizing and exquisite at the same time, because in them she was still alive.

There was much to be done: houses to be rebuilt, lives to be mended, new plans to be made. Already the rebuilding of his land was going rather well, which was one of the few things that brought pleasure for him these days. Even if he could not find peace, at least his people would.

Not long after his return he had sought her friend, Erfréa, and asked to talk with the girl. He remembered her as a carefree young woman whose joyful spirit could never be repressed, but the death of two of her friends had taken away that playful happiness. On the top of that, her brother had lost his leg in the battle and Éomer knew the young warrior had not come to terms with that yet – which only ever increased the young woman's concerns. Indeed, Erfréa appeared to have that joy of life she had possessed, and had become serious and quiet. Companions in sorrow, she soon started to become a friend of sorts to Éomer. He placed her under the supervision of his new housemistress Léah who had come to replace his beloved sister, thus making Erfréa the potential successor one day.

The final truth about her fate was not clear to Erfréa either, but she did believe Lothíriel had perished that night. Erkenbrand's daughter had seen her get hit by an arrow and then her horse had galloped away into the darkness, the princess slumping over her steed. Erfréa had been the one to insist continuing the searches for the princess' body for almost two weeks until her father finally had pulled the men back to their positions, and so she had been left grieving for her friends.

Upon visiting his beloved's grave, Éomer had recovered her possessions from Hornburg and brought them back to Edoras. Most of her things he sent to Dol Amroth for her family, but some he kept for himself: her blade and bow and the gown she had worn that day when he had last seen her (her scent still clung to it and it never failed to bring him into tears). But the most prized possession, along with the ring she had given him and the handkerchief she had made for him so long ago, was the small wooden horse he had made for her when they had been children. After finding it on her table he had placed it by his bedside table. Looking it always took him back to simpler, happier times.

Another thing that made Meduseld feel so unfamiliar was the fact that his sister was gone, for she had married Faramir and left to live with him. Éomer missed her more than he had known he would, but he never told her that, as he knew it would only have given her regret and guilt... and that was not what he wanted her to feel, not now that she was so happy. Éowyn had always been sort of a bedrock for him, which he only realised when she was gone. Not only had she always been there to stand behind him when the battles between him and Gríma Wormtongue had raged, she had also supported him when the war was finished but the ghosts remained. Had she not been there, he didn't know how he would have survived those first days.

He had stayed firm on the matter of his marriage (or, rather, the lack of it). His advisers had tried everything to persuade him to find a wife, but Éomer would not relent. As the time went by, the angrier he would become every time the prospect of marriage was brought to his attention. Soon people learned it was better just to leave matter alone for now. Perhaps he would find another woman after some time when there were no more tears to be shed for her, the one whose name was not to be spoken in the King's vicinity.

Whenever he could, he would ride up to Hornburg to visit her grave. Lovingly he would trace the letters on the headstone, almost as if it was her he was touching. He would sit hours after hours there, talking of his worries and concerns and his longing and loneliness. It helped to think she was somehow listening to him, even though she could not answer anymore.

This morning, he had felt the bite of grief stronger than in many weeks. Perhaps it was because this day he had a wreath made of Simbelmynë on his door, identical to the one he had taken to her grave yesterday. Probably it was because this day he was so aware of what had happened only a year before. It seemed to be a lifetime ago... if things had gone different, he might have woken up today and find her there beside him, and they would have spent their first Yule together... But that was a painful thing to think of, so he had briskly pushed away those imaginations and tried to concentrate on other matters.

Éomer would not have really wanted to take part in Yule celebrations, not only because he knew his gloominess would not help to raise anyone's spirits, but also because it was not easy to endure the atmosphere of love and happiness no matter how much he tried to be glad for those around him. But as a king his presence was essential. He knew what his dear late uncle would have said. Théoden would have smiled gently and placed a hand on his shoulder, speaking softly: "Do not weep for the dead, sister-son. Live, Éomer, live for the Mark."

But it was a hard thing to do, to live when he felt that in his own life he had so few things to live for. He just did not know how to say goodbye. Oh, he'd fulfil his duties and go on for the Mark... but not in the way his uncle might have wanted.

His people had already learned that he preferred solitude and quiet and that attempts to cheer him up usually just annoyed him to no end, so mostly they let him be alone. And so it was tonight too, and for a long time he just sat by the table, not really following what was going on around him and seeking comfort with his drinking horn. Finally he sighed and decided to go get a bit fresh air. When he passed by, Éothain gave him a concerned look (well, the captain rarely had other looks these days), but Éomer tried to offer a reassuring smile; hopefully it convinced his second-in-command that he wouldn't jump from the stone terrace head first or anything like that.

The sun had set and the stars were aflame, and he wrapped his cloak around himself to keep away the chill. The winter so far had been curiously warm, as if the very nature was still celebrating the defeat of Sauron. Indeed, the first proper snow had fallen last week, only to melt away during the day.

The sky was clear and the moon shone so brightly that the plains around Edoras were very well illuminated. Éomer lifted his eyes and sought for the Star of Eärendil from the night skies, remembering all the stories his dearly departed Aunt Lótesse had told him and his sister. What a agonizing thing it must be, to sail forever those endless oceans of heaven and listen to the moans and cries of people here in Middle-earth... but perhaps some of the moans would fade now that the shadow had passed.

With a sigh, he pushed his fingers into his pocket and drew out the faded piece of cloth that he always carried with himself. Gently, he unfolded it and studied the faded golden horse, like he had done so many times before. The scent of her touch was long since gone and instead, the smell of mail and sweat seemed to be more or less instilled to it, but the handkerchief was as dear to him as ever, perhaps even more now than before. Like the ring in his third finger, it was a physical proof that she had existed, that once there had been such a light in his life. If he had not possessed these small things of her, Éomer might even have believed that she had been just a dream... it certainly sometimes felt like that, what with the way they said she had ridden into the night and disappeared never to be seen again.

Feeling the agony of his grief pierce through him once again, he breathed deep and closed his eyes. And there she was, her image perfectly preserved in his memory... that last sight of her on the day he had left for war. He should have known it would be the last time he'd see her. There would have been so many things he should have told her, and not least of all to tell her how very dear she was to him.

Sighing, he wished the memory of her away, at least for a moment, and gently folded the handkerchief. Éomer put it back on its place by his heart and lifted up his eyes to gaze upon his lands again.

As soon as he did that, he spotted a lone rider speeding towards Edoras across the plains. His brow lifted: who was riding with such haste on the Yule night? Ill feeling threatened to take over him – perhaps something bad had happened in Gondor and Aragorn was in need of his help? He would gather his forces as soon as the sun rose, but it would be an unpleasant task since most of the men in Edoras would be feeling weak after a night of celebration... but then he realised his error. The rider was not coming from east, but west.

Who could possibly be riding from west at this time?

He waited anxiously, thinking wild thoughts of Dunlending attacks, until finally the rider entered the courtyard and dismounted in a way so graceful that even an Eorling who had spent his life in the saddle might have envied him. The stranger was an elf! The situation began turning more curious, as he could not imagine what business would an Elf have in the Mark. But that question was quickly answered as the traveller spoke up.

"I bring message to Éomer King from Mithrandir", called a bright bell-like voice as the rider swiftly climbed the steps up to the terrace. The guards there looked just as flabbergasted as the King himself felt.

"Here I am. Who are you, friend, and what has made you travel here on this night?" he asked as he took the letter, wondering what Gandalf had in mind.

"I am Firith from the house of Lord Elrond. Upon his departure from Rivendell Mithrandir asked me to deliver this message for you, Sire. He hopes it will bring some comfort for you", the elf said mysteriously. Éomer frowned, but did not comment on the elf's remark.

"I thank you, Master Firith. Please, join the celebration and help yourself with food and drink. I shall have a place prepared for you to stay for as long as you want. Your horse shall be taken care of", Éomer said and nodded to the elf.

"I thank you, my lord", the messenger answered and Éomer escorted him inside. When the visitor had been taken care of, Éomer returned outside to read the message in peace.

Heavily he sat down by the bench near the entrance, opening the letter and folding it open. The wizard had beautiful, steady handwriting, but that was soon forgotten about as he read the message that made him hope for the first time ever since March:

October 4th 3019, Imladris

My friend,

You are no doubt wondering why I should be writing to you so soon after our escort left your beautiful capital. It is not out of idleness, however. I have news for you that will likely amaze you just as much as they amazed me when Queen Arwen Undómiel first spoke to me of this. It is to her that we owe our gratitude for discovering something that has been lost.

Last April, Lord Elrond received a very unusual visitor as one of the great eagles carried a young woman from Lórien to receive his attention. She is not, however, an Elf; Lady Galadriel says that a party returning from Isengard encountered her two days journey from the Golden Wood. The woman was seriously ill and near death, but in Lord Elrond's care she has been healed – at least physically, for her mind remains wounded. They call her Sídhadonnen, for they know no other name for her.

She seems to have lost virtually all recollection, but one memory has persisted even despite all the darkness she has gone through. She speaks of a tall warrior, golden-haired and dark-eyed. If I should guess, I would say she is not much older than 20 summers; her hair is dark and her eyes grey, and her build and looks suggest Númenorean descent. In her third finger, she bears a ring of gold with a red jewel.

I do hope this information might bring you joy, for I have seen this woman before and I am convinced that she is Lothíriel, the lost Princess of Dol Amroth.

With warmest greetings,

Gandalf

A/N: I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter - it feels a bit forced to me at some points, but I've not been able to fix it. It has some new stuff that wasn't in this chapter before, so maybe that's the reason for it not flowing the way I'd want it to.

One thing on Éowyn and Faramir: I haven't found any references as to when they were married, but here I chose to place that event during the year 3019. However, I don't know if this is canonically correct, as their betrothal was announced during the funeral ceremonies of Théoden.

You may also be wondering why doesn't Gandalf address to Lothíriel in her own name or tell her who she is. That question will be discussed in the next chapter, so I haven't forgotten about that.

As always, I hope you enjoy, and thanks for all the comments!

Recovering4Life - Oh, I'm glad to hear that! I was truly worried whether I had managed to write something barely comprehensible. :)

Talia119 - I suppose I should say I'm sorry? :D

Hannibal Lectrice - That is good to hear! I try to keep my language simple anyway, because I know attempts at being poetic would probably end badly. :D

Memory Bleeds - Yes, that is something that bothers myself as well... I've mulled endlessly over how I could make it more plausible, but in the end the only solution seemed to be to just rewrite the latter part of the story, and to be honest that seemed a task too enormous... hence the warnings at the beginning of this story.