When finally Lindir rested his fingers against the strings of the harp to still it, the hall was almost empty. Having determined to play for as long as he possibly could and so prevent Elrond from striking up more conversation with him, he smiled to himself to discover he had been successful; only his friends remained.

Glorfindel beamed at him from the corner as he rose from his seat at the instrument and set it down in its resting place.

'I seem to have the power to empty a room,' Lindir said lightly as he resumed his seat. 'I am not sure if that is a good thing, in a minstrel.'

'You seemed to fall into your music tonight,' Melpomaen said. 'It is truly wonderful to see when one so expert leaves the world behind in such a way.'

'It is true, I can become too engrossed… if I were a better performer, I would pay more attention to my audience.'

'Well, there was no need. Your audience was paying rapt attention to you,' Erestor said. 'At one point Lord Elrond spoke to Mistress Laindis… and she shushed him.'

'He was the one asked for music from Lindir,' Glorfindel said. 'So I am glad she did so and reminded him of his manners.'

'Thank you for your company, and your tales.' Melpomaen nodded to Erestor and Glorfindel and finally smiled at Lindir. 'I will say goodnight, and may your dreams be easy.'

'What was that about?' Glorfindel asked as the young healer walked away. 'Not that he's a bad sort – improves on acquaintance, really.'

'He had some suggestions to improve the quality of my sleep,' Lindir said.

'Then that was kindly done of him.' Erestor rose to his feet. 'And I think it's time I went to my rest. Lindir, if you were serious about the library…?'

'I was indeed, Erestor.'

'Then the hours after breakfast would be most useful if you are free. And I, too, wish you a peaceful night.'

It was bright morning when Lindir woke. He paused for a moment, not quite sure what was different… and then realised, he felt relaxed, rested, comfortable. His dreams had been… not untroubled, but…

He smiled as he sat up in bed and looked towards the window ledge. There, the light glinting off the precious stones dangling from the branches, the dream sifter stood sentinel.

Yes, he had dreamed. And just as the dream began to grow uncomfortable, to get that strange, disturbing sense of dread, he had looked around and seen the dream sifter, inexplicably on a table in the room with him. In the dream, he had looked at it, remembered it, and when the door had opened and the looming shadow of Briot had fallen across him, Lindir had known; it was but a dream, and he had the power to change it.

'You cannot harm me,' he had told the shadow. 'For you are not here, and I am not here, and so you are unable to do anything but haunt me, and I am bored with that.'

And the dream had changed into something different, the peace of the valley on a fresh autumn morning and he had not woken screaming, his heart battering his chest, but with a sigh and a smile and a sense of gratitude in his heart.

Lindir pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms round them, turning his face to look at the dream sifter. Whether it had been the knowledge that it was there, or whether the little trinket had any real mystical, healing properties, Lindir didn't know, but there was no doubt about it, he had slept wonderfully well.

And late. He had slept late.

Hurrying through his morning routine, he arrived at the breakfast table just before the end of the meal, so late that only one or two were still eating. Melpomaen was there, lingering, it seemed, and waved at Lindir as he selected food and looked to decide where to sit; Melpomaen's greeting decided him, and he went across to sit opposite the young healer.

'It is strange how the more empty seats there are, the harder it is to choose a place,' he said as he sat.

'True. I am on duty shortly in the healers' wing, it is my turn to oversee the morning work. Mostly, I will be rolling bandages and checking winter medicines, for if our human neighbours fall ill during the coming season.'

'I am almost ashamed to admit that I had not realised we did much to care for the humans in the area,' Lindir said. 'Perhaps I was always looking too much into the valley, before.'

'But then, there were far more elves than humans in the valley. It is only now, that our numbers are so diminished, that the humans in the settlements around seem to have a larger role to play in our days.'

'Perhaps so. It is our waning time, after all, and the Fourth Age will be the Age of Men.'

Aware that Erestor would be expecting him in the library soon, Lindir turned his attention to the food. He found he had more appetite than he had been used to, the simple texture and flavour of bread more appealing than previously.

Melpomaen watched him eat with a smile.

'I do not suppose we are such friends yet that I may ask after your health,' he said presently, 'but that I am not your healer also, and so ought not presume…'

Lindir shook his head.

'But I think we are friends, and I was going to say, thank you for the gift! I slept well, was able to turn the evil in my dreams to good, and woke feeling much restored.'

'That is good to hear.' As if Melpomaen had only been waiting to learn how well Lindir may have rested, he now gathered his empty dishes together and got to his feet. 'Well, I will be looked for in the healer's wing. I will see you later, perhaps in the Hall of Fire?'

Lindir smiled.

'Perhaps.'

'Ah, Lindir, good morning… I did not specify an exact hour and wondered whether I had not been clear enough…' Erestor's smile of greeting was taut, tight, and Lindir wondered at it, until he saw Elrond ensconced at one of the better reading desks. 'Well, come over here and I will start you off with some general ordering… let me explain the cataloguing system to you… there are several, in fact, but this is the most used section and the most straight-forward so why other uses cannot keep to it I do not know…'

Erestor raised his voice for the latter part of this statement and glared at Elrond who lifted a challenging eyebrow at him.

'Through here, Lindir…'

Leading the minstrel almost to the farthest regions of the library, Erestor stopped at a set of shelves, a table nearby laden with books.

'All these are to go away,' he explained, taking a small collection of papers from inside his robes and thrusting them into Lindir's hands with a shake of his head to silence the question forming on his lips. 'They are filed simply by author and title. Now, when an author names himself of a place, we use their first name, so Gudron of Rohan is filed under G while Gudronnion Rochir is under R… do you see?'

'Yes, I think so…'

'Lord Elrond is making a study of some linguistic matters this morning,' Erestor said pleasantly, his expression belying his genial tone. 'And so some of the books I was going to look out for your work are already in use…'

Here he pointed to the documents he had passed to Lindir, who now glanced at the top sheet which seemed to be an apology and an explanation on similar lines in Erestor's clear hand and made motions towards Lindir's pockets. The minstrel hastily put the papers away.

'That's all right,' he said. 'It is not of great importance.'

'So, if I can leave you to work, I have some scrolls to attend to. I'll come and see how you are getting on presently.'

Lindir had almost cleared the table by the time Erestor came back. He nodded and gave his terse smile.

'You've got on well. I meant no disrespect when I said this was simple work; it was merely the easiest way of keeping Elrond away… I am afraid he has appropriated all the materials to do with the language of the Fiefdoms and taken them back to his study with him… I rather think he does not wish you to learn it, mellon-nin…'

'He has tried to warn me that Kovalia is best left in my past, a figure of hope and comfort, and not brought into my future or dwelt on in my present,' Lindir said. 'I am sure he means well, and he has lost his daughter to a human attachment, which I think may colour his judgement…'

'Not to mention that many have sailed already and the loss of more household members would be far too noticeable for comfort,' Erestor added. 'But, Lindir, you must follow your heart, not Elrond's wishes in the matter; however wise he is, he is not in love with Kovalia, after all. Besides, I copied all the relevant information to take with us on our trip; the notes I passed you. And I kept the best grammar aside; we could make a start now, if you wish?'

'Thank you, Erestor. I would like to do so. As I say, I am sure Elrond means well… but, as you say, he does not always know what he is talking about.'

'You are not the only one, mellon-nin, to think so. Well, then. The first thing to know about this dialect is that it is even less predictable than Silvan variants on Sindarin…'

An hour passed in tortuous grammar and letter forms and finally Erestor set the grammar aside.

'Well, we should leave it there for the moment. Will you come back tomorrow?'

'I will indeed, Erestor. My thanks.'

And so Lindir slipped gently into a comforting routine of work in the library and language lessons most mornings, afternoons spent composing or practicing and evenings in the Hall of Fire. Every week he would make the trip up the valley, often accompanied by Melpomaen, sometimes by Glorfindel, and occasionally by both, while the last of autumn wore on into winter and the days shortened, and with each visit to the planting site of the mesri-stone, he noted how he felt compared to the previous week and so, as the dark days of winter began to approach he was able to realise that, yes, he was not over his ordeal, perhaps, but he was much further along his personal road to wellness.

In fact, were it not for Elrond's occasional enquiries after the progress of Lindir's Song for Kovalia and the raised eyebrow that inevitably followed, Lindir would have thought Elrond had lost all interest in Lindir's interest in her. It was almost as if, Lindir thought, that the longer the song was left unfinished, the more Elrond believed Lindir's feelings for Kovalia were diminishing.

Lindir said nothing, studied the dialect, visited the planting site, and allowed Elrond to believe whatever he wanted.

And privately wrote a letter, under Erestor's tuition, to the Fiefdom of the Desert Winds seeking news of Kovalia which Erestor slipped into the messenger bag for Gondor with the other letters heading south.

One morning, finding the library in worse state than usual, Lindir had decided to defer his inspection of the planting site for a day or so while he got on with the reshelving of books and scrolls and had been getting on well when a little commotion outside preceded the arrival of Glorfindel and Melpomaen. The Balrog-slayer had his hand on the young healer's shoulder as he caught his breath, his eyes bright with excitement.

'The mesri-stone,' he began.

'Forgive me, Glorfindel! I forgot to say I would be working here today…'

'Erestor said. We went up anyway and… and it's sprouted. That gardener chap – Tulusson? – he said it was that heavy frost we had a few weeks ago, shocked it into doing something.'

'I'm sorry you weren't there to see it first, Lindir!' Melpomaen said with a smile.

Lindir smiled in reply, shaking his head.

'Well, in truth, I wish now I'd gone. But the work here needed doing and I do not begrudge you the sight. I'll take a walk up there tomorrow.'

'We'll all go,' Glorfindel said.