33 – THE RETURN OF TÍNIEL

AKA 'Mad Chats'. RIP my creativity.

The crowds grew less jubilant and more wary the higher they climbed in the city. No one called out or cheered for her anymore, but Tíniel was nodded a welcome by a few people she recognised. Petakh and Tcharum were given only distrusting looks.

Memories came at her from all angles. It was an experience she'd never had before; the Maruvikh were a nomadic tribe, their stories and traditions attached to a people and a country, rather than a single place. But Minas Tirith was an unmoving city, and she was surprised to find the reminiscences that called from every familiar stone, ghosts of her former self.

She smiled when she passed by the house that she'd first been put in when she was brought to Gondor, the one she'd tried to escape. Her smile widened when they passed Beregond and Anita's home.

"Tíniel!" came a voice, high with excitement. "Tíniel, you came back!"

"Bergil!" she called back, and held out her arms. He ran into them and she hugged him, laughing. "Why, you come up to my chin now! Surely I was not gone long enough for you to grow this tall!"

He grinned bashfully and scuffed his feet on the cobblestones. "We saw you come in from Rohan with all your people," he said. "We thought you were enemies, but then we heard people saying your name, and we knew all was well!"

"Who is we?" she asked. "Is your mother nearby, or has she left the city with the wagons?"

"She most certainly has not," came another voice, and Tíniel looked up to see Anita, dressed as usual in her Healer's dress and her arms crossed over her chest. "Someone has to stay and run this place, and I didn't see anyone else remotely capable."

Tíniel laughed and embraced Anita. "Good to see you again, my friend," she said.

"By the stars, it is," Anita replied. "Things are getting dire here." She released Tíniel and took in the sight of the guards surrounding her. "You are going up to the Steward?"

"Yes," Tíniel said, and she nodded over at Petakh and Tcharum. "I brought some friends along with me, as I'm sure you've heard. ButI'll need to talk Denethor over to my side before he lets them in."

Anita nodded. "Good luck," she said sympathetically. "Remember, you are surrounded by friends here."

Tíniel clasped her hand. "I'll speak to you soon, I hope," she said. "But you should go to the Houses of Healing, and make sure all is prepared. There is battle coming for us ready or not, and I would rather be ready."

"So would I," Anita replied grimly. "There's a storm coming, sure as sure."

"Here," Tíniel said suddenly, holding out the palantír wrapped in the vadi. "Can you keep this for me?"

Anita took it, almost dropping it because of its weight. "What is it?"

"A secret, and valuable beyond measure," Tíniel said seriously. "For the love of the gods, Anita, do not unwrap it. It might undo us all."

Anita's eyes widened fractionally, but otherwise she didn't react. "I'll hide it in the Houses," she said.

"I am lucky to have you," Tíniel replied gratefully. "I have to go."

"Until later, then," Anita replied.

They continued upward, coming to the final gate. With a nod from Ingold they were allowed through, and they made their way toward the courtyard.

"Beware of the Steward," Ingold said quietly, his mouth close to her ear as they passed the dead White Tree.

"I know he is dangerous," she said. "I am as ready as I'll ever be to face him."

"Not only that," he said. "He is changed since last you were here. Boromir's death…" he hesitated, and his voice grew even softer. "He is going mad. You may try to reason with him, Tíniel, but I fear he may no longer listen to reason."

A sense of dread settled in Tíniel's stomach. This was shaping up to be one of the most important conversations of her life. "Nice of him to time his insanity so well," she muttered.

But some of her fears were allayed when she was met at the door by some old friends.

"Impeccable timing as always, Tíniel," Gandalf said, the familiar twinkle in his eye.

"Hello, Gandalf," she replied, smiling wryly. "Hello, Pippin. We weren't parted as long as I feared we would be."

"Indeed," the wizard replied. "I am glad to see you, my friend. I confess that I doubted you would come, given your people's history with Gondor."

"Your doubt was misplaced," she said. "There is a greater enemy now, and I am not given to politics like your Northern kings. But what are you both doing here?"

"I am sworn into the Lord Steward's service now," Pippin said more than a little dolefully. "I was called here to show you in, I think. Or perhaps to escort you out when he wants you to leave. He has a strange sense of humour, the Steward."

"If any at all," Tíniel replied darkly. "And you, Gandalf? Nothing more important calling for your time presently?"

"Nothing more important than gaining a powerful new ally for Minas Tirith," he said. "I am here in case Denethor needs to be reminded exactly how much he needs you and your tribe. And, of course, to be entertained. Now, are you ready?"

"Certainly not," she said cheerfully. "Let's go."

The throne room was just as she remembered it: gloomy and too big. The huge statues of kings past stared down from their pedestals, reminding Tíniel now of the Argonath she'd seen on the River.

The hall was shadowy, lit only by a few flickering torches. The throne itself hadn't changed at all – just as it hadn't changed for centuries, she suspected. It sat, grandiose and imposing at the top of the steps. And at the bottom, in his black chair, sat Denethor.

He looked more hunched than he had when she'd last seen him, his grey hair a little longer, the lines on his face a little deeper. He sat brooding, his head down, cradling something in his lap.

They stopped a short way in front of him, Tíniel flanked by Pippin and Gandalf and followed by Ingold and four guards. She touched her fist to her shoulder in a Khandi salute, and Tcharum and Petakh did the same.

"My lord," she said. Her voice broke the eerie silence of the great room, but it settled again just as quickly while she waited for him to speak.

"So," he said at last. His voice seemed older, and Tíniel could hear some subtle difference that she didn't understand. "You return to Minas Tirith without the companion with whom you left."

Tíniel hesitated. "I do," she said reluctantly. This was not where she'd wanted to start.

He raised his head a little, and she caught the glitter of hate in his eyes. "You left this city with my son by your side, and you return not with him, but with an enemy."

"Not an enemy, lord. An ally, and a powerful one. My tribe seeks shelter, and in return we offer our swords."

He rose to his feet quick as a viper, trembling with fury. "You are not welcome here!" he screeched, his voice echoing throughout the hall. "You seek shelter in my halls just as a snake seeks shelter in a baby's cradle! You would throw this city to the Enemy just as you did my son!" Spittle flew from his mouth. "Get out! Get out, you with Boromir's blood on your hands!"

Tíniel stiffened, but gave no other sign that she'd heard his speech. Denethor stood there, breathing heavily, waiting for her reply.

"Father," came a quiet, familiar voice to their left, and Faramir stepped out of the shadows. He looked absolutely exhausted; his clothes were torn and bloodied, and he was covered in dust. He didn't acknowledge Tíniel's presence.

"They have been our enemies for as long as memory, but we are not in a position to turn away such numbers."

Denethor fell heavily back into his chair, his hands clutching tightly the things in his lap. Tíniel looked more closely and saw with a pang that they were the two halves of Boromir's horn.

"You always had a soft spot for the barbarian girl, didn't you, Faramir?" he asked, his voice mildly vicious. Faramir blinked and almost swayed where he stood.

"My opinion on her is irrelevant. This is warcraft, father, simple logic. We need her help."

"Simple logic," Denethor repeated, his reedy voice making it sound sinister, "just as long as it defends your little friend."

Tíniel watched quietly. She knew Denethor was baiting her, trying to make her lash out, but she wouldn't fall into his trap. She wouldn't.

Faramir's eyes flicked toward her quickly, but not long enough for her to see his thoughts.

"I am not asking you to trust her, father, but the numbers," he tried, a note of pleading creeping into his voice.

Denethor turned to him, and now he spoke icily. "Your brother would not have been so weak."

This made Faramir recoil, and Tíniel's fury rose. Denethor had no right, no right to say such things to the only son he had left.

"Do you wish I had gone North in his place?" Faramir asked quietly, his face white. "Is that what you want, father? That our places were exchanged, he here to turn help away and me dead?"

"Yes," Denethor spat, his anger rising again. The veins in his forehead stood out. "Yes, I wish you had gone North in his face. I wish –"

"Let us not forget who ordered Boromir to go," Tíniel snapped, her authoritative voice cutting across his like a hot knife through butter. "Let us not forget how Faramir begged to go, and how you turned him down. But the time for throwing blame will come. Now is the time to prepare for battle. The Enemy marches, and you sit here bickering!"

Denethor's face turned from angry to livid. "How dare you address me that way?" he spat.

Tíniel's hands curled unto fists. "I am not your subject, Steward. I might be, as you so eloquently put it, a barbarian. But I am the queen of those barbarians, and your equal. I am offering you a way to almost double the forces you have here. And you are behaving like a petty fool."

She felt Gandalf's hand on her arm, and she forced herself to take a calming breath. "I fight for the Free People of Middle-earth," she said, "and I know that you do too. If Gondor falls, so does the rest of Middle-earth. Let my people in. Let us fight the shadow together."

Denethor seemed to sink further back into his chair. His head tilted left toward Faramir.

"You," he whispered. "Since your brother is gone in your place, you must go in his. Go to Osgiliath."

Faramir's weary eyes widened. "Father… resistance in Osgiliath is useless. I tried to hold Cair Andros for you, I swear, but Osgiliath is a hopeless –"

"Go."

Faramir deflated, and he bowed his head dejectedly. "If my death is what you wish, father, it seems you will have it." He glanced over at Tíniel briefly, but looked away just as quickly. "If ever I return... think better of me." He turned and left.

Denethor's eyes drifted back down to the cloven horn in his lap. "Your people have already been granted access to the city," he said quietly to Tíniel. "I saw that you would come, and I gave orders long before you arrived here."

So she had been fighting him for no reason, Tíniel realised with frustration.
"In your palantír?" she guessed. "It is a dangerous thing to look within, no matter how strong your mind. There is another who looks also, and his mind will bend most others."

Denethor looked up sharply, his teeth bared. "You have no right to that information."

She shrugged. "I may be a savage, but I am not stupid. There is a fleet of Corsairs coming up the Anduin to attack Gondor from the South, have you seen that in your little stone?"

"I have seen more than you know, girl," he growled. "You have what you want. Now get out."

Tíniel nodded thoughtfully. She had angered him again, but she didn't care. He'd angered her too. "Boromir loved me, you know," she said coldly. "As his own sister. I want you to know that."

Then she turned on her heel and strode out.

The others followed her, Pippin jogging to keep up.

"That was unnecessary," Gandalf said when they were back out in the open. "He is a man in grieving. To say what you did was only cruel."

"The knowledge that his son loved me was cruel?" Tíniel asked him. She did feel a twinge of regret at her parting words, but it was outweighed by the fury that Denethor had provoked. "Have you considered that he was cruel to me? Because he was, and he was cruel to Faramir too. He has sent his last son to die, but I must be nice because he is in grieving?"

Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow, but made no further comment.

Tíniel marched past the White Tree and over to the wall. She looked down at the city. True to his word, the Steward had allowed the bamyë into the city. From above, they looked like ants swarming into their nest. It seemed they were being housed in the second circle.

She turned back to Tcharum and Petakh. "They're in the city now. Begin preparations for battle." she ordered.

"What kind of preparations?" Tcharum asked. "We've never fought in a city before."

She hesitated. "It will be a siege at first, I imagine," she said. "Gather anyone who's half good with a bow, and have the mothers make extra arrows, as many as we have the materials to make. Assemble all the horses we have and find riders. As for the rest of the variag… well, they'll come in useful later on."

"As you say," Petakh said. "And you?"

"I need to speak with someone," she said. "Then I will join you."

"Varamir,' Tcharum guessed. "That was him in there, wasn't it?"

"It was," she acknowledged. "And I need to talk to him, if he'll let me. But go now. Time is short."

"Khuma," Tcharum said, and he and Petakh left together. Tiniel turned back to the others.

"They are going back down to make preparations. I am going to find Faramir before he goes."

"I'll take you to Faramir, if you like," Ingold offered.

"I know where he lives, you know," Tíniel said to Ingold as they made their way toward the sleeping quarters. "It hasn't been that long since I was here."

"I know," Ingold said. "But truth be told, the Captain isn't overly fond of you these days. I don't want to know why, or what happened between you. But I thought I'd best come along, just to be sure everything stays civil."

Tíniel looked sideways at the gruff older man. "That is good of you, Ingold," she said sincerely. He shrugged it off, and she shook her head, nonplussed. "You know, I always thought you didn't like me."

Ingold smiled slightly. "I don't talk a lot, but that's no reason to think I don't like you."

"And did you?"

He hesitated sheepishly. "Well…"

"Ha. I knew it."

"I thought you were young and impetuous."

"I don't even know what that word means."

"Impetuous? It means rash, impulsive. You threw yourself headlong into everything. You always wanted to come along with the army wherever we were going, even though you weren't a man. You had a hot temper, you were impatient, and you said the first thing that popped into your head…"

"You paint a flattering picture."

"But you never failed to be there for Boromir and Faramir. You were always smiling. You were loyal, I always noticed that. And when I lost my arm…" he held up his stump glumly. "Some were horrified. But you weren't."

Tíniel bit her lip, remembering the frightening few days after the men had returned from Osgiliath, bleeding and unconscious.

"I tried my very best not to like you," Ingold said. "But you ended up making me like you anyway."

"You speak the truth," she said ruefully. "I was rash, and impatient and foolish. And I was probably worse than you remember, because I always shut up a bit around you."

"Why? Were you afraid of me?"

She considered it as they turned a corner. "Not so much. I think I wanted to impress you."

Ingold gave his lopsided smile again. "You just showed up outside the city with a following of more than seven thousand. Consider me impressed. But you have changed, you know."

"Really? How so?"

"You're not the girl that once lived here and chattered the ears off my soldiers until someone would fight with her. I think you've found yourself."

They stopped outside Faramir's door. "It only took a prophesy, three betrayals and several broken hearts to do it," she replied. Her smile was bittersweet. "Shall we?"

Ingold squeezed her shoulder. "After you."

She knocked, and the door was soon opened.

"What do you want?" Faramir asked tonelessly. Tíniel winced. She'd prepared herself for animosity, but it still hurt.

"To see you," she replied. "Can I come in?"

Faramir paused for a moment, but then stood back. She entered, followed by Ingold, and Faramir snorted humourlessly.

"You've brought a bodyguard, I see," he said.

Ingold made no comment, and Tíniel clenched her fists to prevent herself from doing something stupid. "I am so sorry, Faramir."

"So you said when you chose your tribe over your promise to me," he replied coldly. "If that's all you came to tell me, I suggest you leave. I have a stint in Osgiliath to pack for."

A little bit of her mask splintered, and she looked up, pleading. "Don't go, Faramir. Osgiliath is hopeless."

"I am going," he said shortly. "I, unlike some, don't go back on my loyalties."

Tíniel's fists clenched tighter, and she felt her fingernails drew blood. "You vouched for me before. Thank you."

"I did no such thing. I argued for Gondor's survival."

Her shoulders slumped. "Faramir, please," she said, emotion leaking into her voice. She reached out to him. "We are standing at the end of the world. Does it have to be like this?"

He caught her wrist, his grip vice-like. "This is not my fault," he hissed. "I begged you to stay. I begged you. Betrayals have consequences, Tchakhura, you of all people should know that. So forgive me my anger."

She stared into his eyes, her own brimming with tears. His grip on her wrist hurt, but it was a pain that she felt she deserved. He stared back, breathing hard, the emotion written on his face alternating between anger and sadness.

For a moment they stayed that way, and then Ingold stepped forward. "Let her go, Faramir," he said. Faramir seemed to realise what he was doing.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, releasing her and stepping back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

"Me too," she said quietly, one of the tears spilling over.

He nodded slowly. "Well. You should go then."

She went to argue, but Ingold touched her on the arm gently. She sighed. "Goodbye, Faramir."

"Goodbye," he said.

She nodded. "Your father loves you, you know," she said. "He'll remember it before the end, just as mine did." Faramir's eyes met hers again, but she turned and left the room. She and Ingold walked together in silence, but when they were almost at the turn, Faramir called.

"Tíniel!" he said. She turned to see him at the door to his quarters. "Next time," he called. "Next time I see you, I'll forgive you."

She nodded, not saying what they were both thinking. Osgiliath was a death trap, and the Enemy was coming for Minas Tirith. They would never see each other again.

"Next time," she whispered. He shut the door, and she and Ingold went on.

"There," she said. "Another broken heart to add to the list."

"It would be hard for that to have gone worse," he said pragmatically. She shot him a look.

They made their way down through the city, Tíniel's heart heavy. Ingold didn't try to speak to her, and she was grateful for it. He'd seen and heard many strange things that afternoon, and not once had he questioned her.

But when they were almost at the gate to the second circle, Ingold pulled her aside into a building. It was someone's house, and it seemed to have been hurriedly abandoned in the evacuation.

"What's wrong?" Tíniel asked, looking about in confusion.

"Nothing," Ingold said. "Nothing. It's just…" he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I don't like to ask it of you. But you promised me something before, at the gates of the city, and…"

"You want me to tell you about Boromir," she said slowly, her heart sinking further still. "Of course."

"I am sorry."

"No," she said, sitting heavily on a wooden chair next to the cold fireplace. "No. You of all people deserve to know." Ingold stayed standing, but he moved closer to listen, his face expressionless.

Taking a deep breath, she began. "He told you about the dream," she said, and he nodded. "Isildur's Bane. It was a ring, a golden ring, that belongs to the Enemy. When we reached Imladris – Rivendell, they call it – Boromir joined the company that was to take it to Mordor, where it could be destroyed."

It was a farfetched story, even to her ears, but Ingold simply watched her, waiting for her to continue.

"I joined them later. The Ring… it did to us what it did to Isildur three thousand years ago. It corrupted our minds, twisted us. Our wills were too weak to withstand it…" Her voice grew thick and she swallowed. "Boromir tried to take it from the Halfling who carried it, and soon afterwards I tried to do the same. My mind was so bent upon taking the Ring that I barely heard the horn."

"His horn," Ingold breathed, his voice barely audible. The pain was visible on his face now, but she continued.

"His horn, yes. It called me, and I ignored it for the Ring. And that knowledge haunts me –" she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "It haunts me still. But at last I went to him. It was too late. He was pierced by four orc arrows."

"Valar be merciful," Ingold whispered, and a tear slid down his cheek.

"I spoke to him at the end," she went on, "before he died. He told me that Minas Tirith was mine to protect. He told me to tell Faramir that he died with honour, for he did. He died protecting our companions."

"And me?" Ingold choked out. "Did he have words for me, who loved him?"

"He told me to tell you nothing," she whispered, her own tears returning. "He said you already knew."

At this, Ingold fell to his knees and sobbed. He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist, laying his head on her lap in his blinding grief. Tíniel felt her face twist with anguish, and she laid her hands on his head to comfort him.

"I loved him in every way that a man can love," Ingold wept, his tears dampening her tunic. "I loved him with everything I was, and now he is gone."

"I know," she whispered. She could think of nothing else to say.

"And I must hide my tears, grieve in secret," he went on. His whole body was shaking, and his arms encircled her tightly. "Just as I loved him in secret. No one can know that I cry." He looked up, his face tear-stained and ugly. "That is the worst of it."

"I know that you cry," she said to him, taking his face in her hands and looking at him earnestly. "I know how you loved him. I know, and Faramir knows. You can cry with me."

He held her gaze for another moment, then he got to his feet and wiped his face. "Sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, standing too. "I saw how he loved you, you know. It was so clear. Every time he looked at you, he would just… soften. And sometimes I would ask where he was going, and he would say nothing. But he would smile, and I knew he was going to see you. Love like that goes beyond death."

"Tell me that again someday," he said. "The grief is too near now."

She nodded. "I should go. Time is short."

"Yes. I… thank you, Tíniel. I think I will stay here a while."

She looked at his bloodshot eyes and a smile tugged at her lips. "Good idea."

"If you need anything, anything at all, come to me." He hugged her quickly, then let her go. "I hope I'll see you again before the end."

"You will," she said. "It isn't upon us yet."

She stepped out the door into the unnatural darkness of the late afternoon. The street was a hive of activity, soldiers milling about, shouting and putting things into order. Some of them greeted her, but she couldn't respond.

She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. There was so much to do, so much to think about, so much to prepare… she had to be there for Faramir, for Anita, for Ingold, and most of all for Tcharum and her people. She felt the tug of grief, the memories of Boromir and Borund.

But just for a fraction of a second, she allowed herself to think about him, to wonder if he had made it through the Paths of the Dead, and if he was still alive…

"Tíniel!" came a voice, jolting her out of her mind. "I heard you came back! I was just showing your lot into quarters in the circle below, and by the stars they are an imposing bunch! Glad they're on our side for once!"

"Iorlas," she sighed, opening her eyes and recognising the Guard who had spoken. "Good to see you. I'm on my way there now, actually."

"See you on the battlefield then, I suppose," he said, trying to sound jaunty but his face falling just a little.

Tíniel grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Chin up, soldier. Nothing like a good orc fight to raise the spirits!"

His face brightened at her words, and she left him and went down to the second circle.

Tcharum was waiting for her.

"Right," he said, immediately grabbing her by the arm and steering her into a house. "Time for you to sleep."

She snorted as soon as she caught sight of the bed before her. "I think not, brother. Don't know if you've noticed, but certain death is knocking on our door. I have better things to do."

"No, you don't," he said firmly, shoving her forward and then blocking the doorway with his arms crossed. "Certain death is coming indeed, but I would rather my Khondyë be sane and know what she's doing than have her senseless from exhaustion. Petakh has already ordered the rest of the bamyë to do the same."

Tíniel paused. He had a good point, but there was so much for her to do…

"Last I checked, I was the Maruvikh Khondyë, not you," she argued weakly.

Tcharum sighed. "Tchakhura, I've been watching you. You haven't slept properly since the night before Borund died. It is unnatural."

She looked down. "It is true. I cannot lie," she mumbled. "But nightmares will come."

"The nightmares will be worth it, for every minute of sleep it gives you," Tcharum said, his tone brooking no argument. "Sleep, sister. I will look over things while you do."

She gave in gracelessly. "Fine," she snapped. "Wake me after three hours."

"Five," he said. She glared at him, and he relented. "Four. I'll wake you after four. Now sleep, for the love of all that is good."

The bed felt inhumanely good. She sank into it with a groan, not bothering to take her boots off her feet or her vadi off her head. She fell asleep, and for a few blissful moments, there was peace.

Then she was dreaming.

She was in the Khondyë's patchi, sitting cross-legged on the floor. A single lantern lit the tent. Opposite her sat her father.

"Khuma, daughter," he said.

"Khuma, Vadrë," she returned. "I am glad to see you."

"I wish I could say the same," he said coldly. Once, Tíniel would have felt cut by such a remark, but now she just felt sad.

"Even in death you cannot be kind to me?" she asked. "What did I do?"

"Who can say?" he replied, and she looked back up sharply. Her father's face had changed into Akhund's. "Grief is a strange, twisting thing."

"It didn't twist me," she returned. "And I've seen enough of it."

"Really?" he asked. Tíniel's heart ached; Akhund had changed into Boromir. "Have you really not changed at all after losing so much?"

She looked down at her hands. Their palms were scarred from the times she'd cut them, singing for her dead. "Ingold said that I have changed."

"He is right," Boromir said.

"Is this real?" she asked. "Is this really you? Or is it the gods, using you to speak to me?"

"Who can say?" he answered. His face melted and shifted, and suddenly she was speaking to Borund. "Can't it be the same thing?"

"I don't think so," she said. "Or maybe it can. I don't know. I don't understand death, or the gods."

"Nor does anyone who lives," he answered, smiling widely.

"What was the point of the prophecy if we're all going to die in a few days?" she asked.

"You speak as it the prophecy has been fulfilled, my friend," he said.

"Hasn't it?" she asked. "I betrayed those who held me dear. I am torn between two worlds. Isn't it enough?"

"The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn, the lowest among you," he said, quoting the prophecy. He suddenly morphed into Akhund again. "The Khondyë's firstborn."

"So, somehow I must become the greatest among my people," she said. "Am I not already Khondyë?"

"There have been Khondyës before," he said, smiling a smile that looked exactly like Gandalf's. "You will be what has never been before. The greatest."

She sighed, and buried her face in her hands. Wizards were useless. "Why am I dreaming now?"

"Why do you ask?"

"There is always been a purpose to my dreams. They give me clues, try to tell me something. What is this dream trying to tell me?"

"Perhaps it is telling you to hope," Akhund said gently.

"Ha. Hope is a rare commodity these days. I'm afraid my hope went walking down the Paths of the Dead."

"What?"

Tíniel looked up sharply, catching her breath. The man before her had shifted from Borund into…

"Aragorn?" she whispered.

"Tíniel!" he exclaimed.

Even though she knew it was a doom dream, her heart pounded with fear. "Does this mean... you're dead?"

"What? No. Halbarad made me go to sleep, that's all. Is it really you?"

"I think so," she said. She couldn't help but smile. "So, you made it through."

He returned the smile lopsidedly. "I did. And you'll never guess who I found on the other side."

He became blurry, and her smile faded. "I'm waking up," she said.

"I'll see you soon," he said. "Promise. I love you."

"Tchakhura," Tcharum said, shaking her gently. She sat bolt upright, breathing hard. "Are you alright?"

"I think so," she said. "How long did I sleep?"

"Seven hours," he replied. "Sorry. But you needed it. How do you feel?"

She stood up and grinned at him. "Good," she said. "I feel good."

Ha, you didn't think we were done with the doom dreams yet, did you?

To my reviewers:
Lady Istalri – binge readers are my favourite, bless YOU!
LH Wordsmith – the mystery of Remuil will soon be solved...
patrigt410 – gracias por tu mensaje – ¡tratarle de subir los capítulos regularmente!
And pineapple pancake – Dessa is in fact an indulgence of mine. She is the star of a different story which will one day be published here. I couldn't resist putting her in.

To everyone who reviewed, and everyone who wished me and my family well in the fires – thank you. They continue, but some rain and cooler temperatures over the weekend have been heaven sent. The extra-long chapter is for you.

Holidays are over in a few days for me, but fear not: the next chapter won't be too long in coming!

S