AN: will make it quick — I'm SO sorry for the insane time this update took! In my defence, the chapter is very long again, and kind of complex. Starting next month, things are quieting down on my end, so hopefully, updates will improve. I also apologise for the lack of Legolas in this one (unless this doesn't bother you at all lol), we'll see him again soon. The next chapter will be the third and final part of Elena's story, and after that, we are off back to the present.

Thanks so much to everyone reading, and especially to those who take a moment of their time to leave their thoughts with me — you're amazing and keep me going! And finally, an enormous Thank-you with kisses and roses to Ruiniel, my very own (Anti-)Held, for Beta-reading. Just... you rock.

Content/Trigger Warning: depictions of violence

The Ascension

:

III III III

11th of May, 4A36

Elena meets Sindhís again almost a year later. It's the last morning of the spring festival, nearly two months after she has turned eighteen.

The pier is deserted, the cool air soft and fragrant with the promise of rain. The flatbread stand Elena has been minding is decorated with blooming cherry twigs from the eastern lake banks and copper beech wreaths from the Woodland Realm.

Despite the sumptuous decorations, there are fewer guests than in previous years. Elena has heard rumours about the increasing number of robberies on the roads, and also about an aggressive sort of flu that has been afflicting the regions east of Lake-town, and even across the borders to Rhun, by all accounts.

On this dull, overcast morning, the stalls are still being prepared and the sun has barely risen above the brown hills in the east. It's much too early for the festival's guests or even the most fresh-eyed of the townspeople seeking merriment or distraction.

And yet, for some reason, Elena isn't surprised at all when Sindhìs appears on the quay in front of her stall like a ghost emerged from the morning mists. His pleasant greeting rises in warm little clouds between them; dew glistens on his silver hair and the dark green wool of his overcoat.

He isn't here for the flatbread.

For a while, Elena just stares at him and nothing disturbs the early-morning peace but the soft call of a wagtail.

"Why?" It is all she comes up with at last.

He does not bat an eyelash. "Because I never believed in coincidences. Perhaps it was meant for us to meet and lend each other a helping hand."

Elena snorts softly. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but what sort of help could I possibly be to you that a trained and experienced scribe would not be ten times over?" He might not believe in coincidences, but neither does Elena believe in fate, which seems to be what he is insinuating.

A shrewd smile. "You are very humble, Miss Thurgood."

"No, I'm really not," she says drily. "According to people who know me, I am selfish and arrogant."

He laughs quietly. "Oh, believe me, you are humble all the same. Especially compared to those trained and experienced scribes. I will admit though, for the sake of honesty, that I also will not be able to pay you the fee of said scribes."

"I don't understand why you would want to pay me a fee at all."

"I would hardly expect you to work for nothing."

"That's not what I…" She trails off, realising that he knows very well what she meant. "Does this mean you will be staying here for a while?"

"Yes, I think I will," he smiles. "I have grown fond of this town. Plenty of fine people. I hope to find one or two who might be interested in helping with my little cause."

"Progress?" She asks after a moment.

For a breath, his smile glints. Like a beast baring a fang, Elena thinks.

"Yes, progress. Protect what is right and improve what is not."

Elena frowns while trying to straighten one of the blooming branches. "But is that not impractical, conducting your business from here?"

"Not more impractical than anyplace else. Besides, there is a guarded camp close to the mountain range northeast of here, a sanctuary for those fleeing from Rhun and the villages near the border. I was involved in building it, so I wish to keep an eye on how they fare."

Elena stares at him for a moment. "Are they fleeing from the battles? We heard about the raids and plunderings done by those Haradian mercenaries." Should she be ashamed, she wonders dully? Ashamed, that the thought of danger, of battle and bloodshed, excites her more than anything… anything she has experienced herself in years?

"Yes," Sindhìs says quietly, regarding her in a way that makes Elena's skin prickle. Of course, any scribe of mine, if they were to remain in my service, would have to accompany me at some point during my travels. Back to Rhûn and Khand, once it is safe enough. To Minas Tirith, also." He tilts his head, his attentiveness merging into what appears to be solicitude. "Do you find such a prospect daunting?"

Elena is still for a moment, then shakes her head, not taking her eyes off him. "No," she whispers.

Sindhìs nods slowly, brows furrowed. "I did not think so. Then, however, I must wonder at so much resistance."

She shrugs and crosses her arms, only in part to ward off the morning chill.

"I just don't want favours out of pity."

"Do you think that is what I am doing? Asking you this out of pity?"

When she shrugs again, he shakes his head. "I do not think you are pitiable. I think you are stubborn and quite proud. Perhaps so much so that it sometimes gets in your own way. Look at it this way, Miss Thurgood. You possess qualities that I think might be of use to me. I can offer you something you wish to do."

Elena turns her gaze onto the undisturbed lake surface, grey and smooth as glass. Sindhìs waits patiently. It isn't a choice really, and Elena suspects that he knows that.

"Someone once told me that there is nothing like watching the sunrise over Minas Tirith on a summer morning," Elena says at last. "To see the tower of Ecthelion painted golden, and smell the orange blossoms from the queen's garden." She looks back at Sindhìs. "Is that true? Have you seen it?"

He too is quiet for a moment, before giving her a crooked, pensive smile. "Yes, I have seen it. It is quite something. But I have also watched the sunrise over the colonnaded temples of Rhûn. When the hills beyond the river Nûr glow in shades of rose and the distant olive groves are like specks of emerald…"

His slow smile turns almost wistful. "There is a moment where you can hear ancient magic in the voice of the river, of reed and palm tree, and in the whisper of the sand. I have always found that sunrise rather more worth the long journey, to be honest."

Elena swallows and tears her transfixed gaze from him. There is a lump in her throat.

Sindhìs leans in a little, seeking her eyes, and from the corner of her vision, Elena sees that glint of a smile again, hard and sharp as a freshly honed blade.

"Take heart, Miss Thurgood. We can be selfish together."

She lets out a shaky breath she has held for too long. A feeble flutter of exhilaration stirs in her chest and Elena does her best not to let it show on her face when she turns back to him.

"The more polite people of this town called my mother Miss Thurgood.

I am Elena."

21st of May, 4A36

When Elena enters the Golden Coot this time, she is not led to the splendidly furnished main parlour. Instead, that same haughty servant who has greeted her last time directs her to a narrow, dimly lit corridor on the ground floor. Away from the inn's wealthy guests' eyes, she thinks wryly. There are no pretty carpets or brass pots with miniature plants, only bare, scrubbed floorboards and supporting beams darkened with age.

A maidservant passes Elena, carrying an armful of folded linen. The old floorboards groan when Elena leans back against the wall to make room. The girl throws her a bemused glance, no doubt wondering what on earth she is doing here. Elena tries her best to appear indifferent, listening to the smart clatter of the servant's wooden clogs growing fainter, while staring down at the scratched and faded leather of her own shoes.

"Miss Thurgood?"

Elena quickly pushes away from the wall and turns to Duineth, who has appeared around the corner and is briskly striding towards her, carrying a tattered and somewhat grubby-looking stack of parchment in her arms.

This time Elena manages to greet the former seamstress with a polite smile and without flinching — even though the sight of the woman's ruined face sends an icy chill tickling down her spine again.

"Good, you are on time."

Duineth scrutinises Elena, eyes lingering on the hastily done knot of her hair and the threadbare wool of Elena's skirt. Duineth herself is clad in heavy but unadorned silk, dark blue and spotless. Around her neck is a single silver chain with a small amulet — a blue stone, banded with silver. A tiny, silver-grey ornament divides the top of the blue gem; a leaf perhaps, or a feather, Elena isn't certain.

"Follow me," Duineth now says after a moment of furrowed brows and starts walking down the corridor. Elena hurries after her, assuming that the other woman is either satisfied with what she sees or has given up any complaint as a lost cause.

"I understand that you have to return to the orphanage in the afternoon?" the seamstress asks curtly.

"Yes, so I can finish my chores in time," Elena explains, biting her cheek at the apologetic tone in her own voice.

"Very well. And this will not cause problems, I trust?"

"Problems?" Elena echoes, confused.

"Your employers at the orphanage will not cause us strife because of your work for us? Worried that it might interfere with your duties if you continue to live there?"

"Oh no!" Elena struggles to keep up with Duineth's brisk strides. "They were pleased about this job." Master Elendir had not been so much, but that was not important now. Nor does Elena entirely understand her old teacher's grousing.

"Very well then. In here, please—"

Duineth has opened a door to a small chamber on the left side of the corridor. It's tiny — at least by the standards of the Golden Coot, Elena reckons. There is a small desk crammed into it though, and an even smaller window on the back wall of the room.

Duineth places the stack of parchment on the desk. "Your task, Miss Thurgood, will be to create a clean, legible copy for each one of these scrolls. Each copy is to be dated. You will make one copy only. Both the copies as well as the originals will be handed to me or Master Sindhìs himself by the end of your workday. Creating a third copy or taking anything away from here is not permitted. If you cannot read something, make a note and try your best to copy the letters. Is all of this clear to you?"

Y-yes. Elena skims over the parchments. "What are these, exactly?"

Even though Duineth's expression doesn't change, Elena can tell she is displeased by her question.

"Various things — lists of goods, mostly, trading agreements, inventory lists and some donation collections. A servant will bring you some lunch and refreshments after half your time is finished."

"Will I see Sindhís at all?"

"Master Sindhís is not here at the moment. He will no doubt greet you later." Duineth folds her delicate hands and gives Elena a sharp glance. "One more thing Miss Thurgood: You are surely aware that with a scribe's appointment, loyalty and discretion are imperative. Neither youth nor inexperience is an excuse for injudiciousness and poor judgement. Master Sindhís does not tolerate gossip, nor do I. Is that understood?"

This feels rather unfair to Elena. For a moment she is tempted to protest or defend herself or even make a waspish remark, but something about Duineth's matter-of-fact tone has her pause. There is no emotion in the older woman's face but vaguely impatient expectancy and Elena realises that her stern words are not meant to be offensive. Duineth is clearly devoted to Sindhís and probably won't accept anything but the same loyalty from anyone else in the merchant's service.

So, Elena bites her tongue, swallows and nods. "Of course. I understand."

"Do you have any questions?"

Elena shakes her head and Duineth nods, apparently satisfied. "All right, then. You will be notified once it is time to finish for the day."

After the door has closed behind Duineth, Elena looks around the small room again. She steps to the window and peers through the thick glass panes, up to where the sun has just risen above a neighbouring rooftop. The gentle spring morning light warms Elena's face and lets specks of dust glitter like stars in the still air around her.

23rd of May, 4A36

2 carts filled with timber

4 bolts of silk

One casket of metal scraps

One small chest full of silver pennies

Two barrels of apples, one half full…

On and on it goes. When Duineth said that Elena's task is to copy lists, she was not jesting. List after list, and then a few stacks more. Some of the papers she is handed are little more than grubby scraps, others are damp, the smeared ink on them barely legible.

Every now and then, she finds a parchment written in tengwar, which adds some zest of difficulty. While Elena can spell out most of the letters, she doesn't know what the words mean. She is especially curious about these messages — if that's what they are — but doesn't dare ask Duineth about it.

The stern seamstress has mentioned that Elena might be asked to take dictations, once she has had some more practice. Something tells Elena that working with Sindhìs directly might be far more interesting than transcribing inventories or commodity lists, and she is not willing to risk that prospect by appearing presumptuous or nosy. So, for now, she is copying lists.

"It looks like they put you in the broom cupboard."

Startled, Elena looks up from her current work, a slender roll of parchment covered in terribly elegant but also minuscule elvish writing. In the doorway stands Raegar, the handsome young man working for Sindhìs, a small stack of parchment in one hand. Elena has met him only once before — when the merchant invited her for tea last year.

"What?" she now asks, distracted.

"This… room—" Raegar leans against the door frame, his eyes darting around the room, and purses his lips. "Not the usual scribe's fare, I should think."

"It's not so bad," Elena says brusquely, having not the faintest idea what might be the usual scribe's fare.

Raegar's mouth stretches into an attractive smile and he raises the paper stack. "I have some more work for you."

Elena frowns at his tone, which she finds rather sarcastic, but decides to ignore it. The last thing she needs is trouble with some belligerent servant, who, as far as she knows, has no authority over her anyway.

So, she gives him an imperious nod and holds out her hand for the parchments. Raegar lifts one eyebrow but then steps forward and gives her the stack. He then looks around himself, tilting his head to the side, which makes his dark locks fall across his forehead in a way that seems entirely deliberate to Elena.

"I hear you grew up in the local orphanage," he says, distracting her from her ungracious thoughts. "The herring hole?"

Frowning, Elena sits up straighter. "The Heron house. Yes."

"I see," he murmurs while peering out through her tiny window. "And yet you walk with your nose held so high."

"Excuse me?" She stares at him.

"Ah, with your head held high, I meant to say." He smirks back at her glare. "Begging your pardon, Miss… Thurgood, was it?"

"Elena," she spits out after a moment.

"Well, Elena, I meant not to offend you. Surely you are tough as a weed, I can tell from that healthy scowl. Still, you seem like the sort of lass who gets her way more often than not."

Elena isn't even entirely sure what he means, but at his words, her infamous pride rears its angry head. "Well, you're wrong. If you grow up the way I did, you do what you must in order to get by. I work hard," she adds, so as not to make it sound too dramatic.

"I am sure you do." Raegar makes a soft noise that sounds like a scoff to Elena. "Didn't think they'd have an orphanage in a town like this, to be honest. Somehow, I imagine it's different from the one in Minas Tirith."

"You grew up in an orphanage?" Elena asks, surprised.

"I wouldn't say grew up." Raegar lets out another wry snort, now examining the assortment of ink pots and quills on Elena's little desk. "One of our wardens was rather attached to his belt. He particularly enjoyed the sound it made on our bottoms." He glances up, raising his eyebrows. "Sounds familiar?"

"No," Elena mutters after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "The children aren't beaten in the Heron house."

"Is that so? How quaint."

Elena leans forward, paying his sardonic tone no heed this time. "Surely, not all your wardens were violent towards the children?"

"Oh, no. Another one was far more fond of boys than of his belt." Raegar's mouth twists into something hard and unpleasant that might count as a smile for some. "If you get my meaning."

Elena stares at him, horrified, her stomach twisting. "Nobody found out about that?"

Raegar shrugs. "Far as I know, they were both reported eventually. I did not stay around long enough to find out."

"You left? How old were you?"

He wipes his hand over the dusty window sill. "Not sure. Nine, ten perhaps."

"That… that must have been harsh," Elena mutters, still appalled that children could be treated in such a way.

He gives a short laugh that sounds like the angry bark of a hound. "It was better than inside. Anyway, that's how Sindhìs found me, living on the pretty, paved streets of Minas Tirith." He gives her another one of those dark smiles. "Same as you, by all accounts?"

Of course, it wasn't the same at all, but to point it out would just feel like mockery, so Elena clears her throat and shrugs. "The Heron house was fine. So are the people here, aside from a few exceptions."

"Well, I suppose it helps, being a decent-looking lass."

She bites her tongue for a few seconds — but then cannot help herself. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He turns around from the window and sighs, as though he has to explain something obvious. "All I'm saying is you have quite a mouth on you, but you seem like the type where folk will let that slide more often than not." He raises his hands in mock surrender when Elena frowns and opens her mouth, but his tone, when he continues, is venomous and cold. "Had you been born in Minas Tirith like me, and perhaps with not quite such comely a face, I wager your lot would have been a different one."

"So I had more luck than you." Elena glowers at him. "That doesn't mean I'm a mindless fool."

"I did not say you were a fool," Raegar drawls as he saunters towards the door. His hand on the handle he looks back at her, his smile sweet now, and fairly insincere. "I do think you are ignorant and spoiled, though."

16th of June, 4A36

"Ah, Miss Thurgood, thank you for coming."

Elena stops just inside the small study on the Golden Coot's second floor. "I am sorry," she glances between Sindhís at the desk and another, finely dressed man, who stands by the fireplace with his hands behind his back. "Lady Duineth said you had a letter to dictate to me. Am I too early?"

"Not at all." Sindhís smiles, pushes a scroll to the side and indicates the second man with his gloved hand. "This is Lord Dirhael from Minas Tirith, an old friend and kindred spirit in some ways. His visit is a little unexpected."

Lord Dirhael bows to Elena while giving her a curious but polite glance. "It is a pleasure, my lady. Sindhís, if this message is urgent I will excuse myself."

"Oh, hardly urgent, just a few matters I need to enquire with one of the mine wardens in Khand. This seems more important, would you not agree? I am certain Miss Thurgood can spare a moment."

Elena glances at the door. "Shall I wait outside?"

Sindhìs' serene face turns to her. "Actually, if you do not mind terribly, I would be interested to hear your thoughts on this matter, my dear."

"Do you think that wise, Sindhís?" There is a barely discernible edge to Dirhael's respectful tone.

"Why not?" Of a sudden, Sindhís' smile is hard and glinting as a gemstone. "If the judgment of the kingdom's defence is beyond any doubt and blame, there is nothing wrong with asking this young lady's opinion, I should think."

Lord Dirhael's mouth becomes a thin line but he raises no further objections. Sindhís' smile turns yet a little brighter — the glint on a blade's edge.

"Now Miss Thurgood," he turns to Elena, "you have no doubt heard of those small rabbles of orcs that have been meandering through the lands lately?"

"Not much," Elena says slowly, uncertain. "I only heard that small groups of them have been spotted camping closer to the cities and villages than they used to."

"And what do you think of that?"

"Well… They are said to be harmless, only asking the townsfolk for old bread or unneeded kitchenware. At least so I heard."

"Hm, I see." Sindhìs rests his chin in his gloved hand, regarding her pensively. "Now, if such a small group were to approach a larger, well-protected settlement like Minas Tirith, not asking for goods but a refuge, what do you think would be the best course of action?"

"The best—" Elena glances between the two men. "I'm not sure I understand."

"That makes two of us," Dirheal mutters.

Sindhís pays his friend no heed, golden-brown gaze still fixed on Elena. "Let us pretend you are the one with the authority to command all action. This small group of orcs, for a better understanding, consists of five adults as well as three children."

Dirhael gives a snort. "Children, Sindhís?"

Sindhìs waves an impatient hand. "Younglings then, whatever you would call them."

"Well, I suppose— I suppose I would ask them to lay down their weapons first?" To her right, Elena hears Lord Dirhael shift slightly, though he remains silent this time.

"Let us further pretend that they possess none, not as such." Sindhìs' voice is dulcet.

"In that case, well…" Elena shrugs, decidedly uncomfortable now. "There is probably no reason why they should not be allowed to enter the town. I mean, if they don't threaten anyone. And I suppose they could also be contained on the lowermost level, or even the soldiers' barracks to not take any chances?"

Sindhìs nods, looking thoughtful, but says nothing. There is a creak of leather as Lord Dirhael shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"You said they were seeking refuge…" Elena hesitates, still not entirely sure if they are speaking of an actual occurrence. "What were they running away from?"

Sindhís smile turns near feral. "Indeed, what were they running away from? Dirhael, I do not suppose you have an inkling that might enlighten us?"

Elena too glances at Lord Dirhael but he remains stoically silent, his expression stony.

"Well, Miss Thurgood, that is a very interesting question. Sadly the answer may forever elude us, since the commander in question — I assume you have concluded that we are indeed speaking of Minas Tirith? Yes? Well, he chose neither of those options you suggested."

"They turned them away?" her question comes slowly, confused.

"Oh no," Sindhìs says brightly. "No, they chose not to take any chances at all. They shot the lot of them before they could give any answers."

Elena stares at them. "All of them? Just like that? Even the…"

"I am afraid so. All of them. The questions were asked later, to be sure."

"This is enough, Sindhís." Dirhael's voice is like a gust of November wind. When Elena glances at him, he does not meet her eye. "Arvegil did his duty, you know that as well as I. And those children as you call them — we both know what they would have grown up to be."

"Do we now? They were unarmed, Dirhael."

"As far as we knew."

Sindhis sighs. "And thus we cut down those already laid low, lest they might rise and challenge our might." The firelight casts a golden shine upon his white hair as is hair as the merchant turns his head towards Elena. "Forgive me, Miss Thurgood, perhaps we should postpone our appointment after all. My apologies for the trouble. Would tomorrow morning suit you?"

"Yes, of course," Elena nods, awkwardly shuffling her feet. "And… It was no trouble at all." Before heading for the door, she turns to Dirhael, offering first him and then Sindhís a quick curtsey. Sindhís smiles, looking distracted, while Dirhael mutters a few courteous but distant words of farewell. As Elena carefully closes the door behind her, she hears the older Lord's quietly rumbling voice.

"Was this really necessary, Sindhís? Or prudent? Even if the girl is trustworthy as you seem to believe, sharing dangerous opinions like this…"

Did he though? Elena thinks as she makes her way down to the Golden Coot's entrance hall. Has Sindhìs in any way voiced an opinion, or rather tried to get her to tell him hers? And in the end… Might such a thing not be more perilous, after all?

4th of August, 4A36

Sindhìs finds Elena alone in her study on a sunny mid-morning, poring over a barely legible scrap of parchment, the letters smeared and faded. He has not been around lately, travelling the regions northeast of Rhovanion, as far as she knows. Elena too has spent little time at the Golden Coot in the past weeks, kept busy with Master Elendir in the greenhouses, harvesting and drying summer herbs.

"I am glad to see they finally tidied this room," Sindhís says, glancing from the sparkling clean window panes to the pretty rugs now covering the floorboards, and finally to the new shelves on the left wall, where freshly transcribed parchment can be stored until the ink has dried. "Is there anything you need, Miss Thurgood?" He turns to her with a smile. "More parchment, or perhaps another lamp? It still seems a bit sombre in here."

Elena shakes her head, feeling a warm little glow of pride that he has come to inquire about this himself. There seems to be a nervous sort of energy about her employer today, and Elena is struck by the oddly certain notion that he is anxiously waiting for something. Then again, it might be just her.

"Thank you," she tells him. "I have everything I need."

"Very well." Elena sees his eyes darting to her desk. "My apologies for the state some of those are in. Sindhís' smile turns a little sour as he indicates the copy she has been working on. "The fellow who… wrote that, for lack of a better word, is an overseer in one of the gold mines in Khand that are in my charge. He happens to be exceptional at his job, so I am afraid I cannot get rid of him for his poor penmanship."

"Oh, it's fine," Elena says, quickly stifling the little burst of laughter his words caused. "I am having more trouble with the rolls written in tengwar, to tell the truth."

Sindhìs glances up from the little painting he has been admiring; a delicate drawing of a bent old willow tree — or rather Elena's diligent copy of the little painting that someone saw fit to add beneath their message.

"Oh?"

"Well, as I said, even though I know the letters, I understand almost none of it. I was actually wondering if I should borrow a wordbook on Sindarin from Master Elendir… you remember, the elf who teaches at the orphanage? Of course, I know I don't need to understand the content," she adds swiftly, "but it does mean that I am not always sure I am getting every letter down correctly."

Sindhís seems to be contemplating this, regarding her silently for a moment before his gaze turns to the small window. In the bright morning light, his prematurely whitened hair shines like mithril. The even features are perfectly blank, as though carved out of marble. It briefly occurs to Elena that he must be looking directly at the sun.

"You need not worry about such trifles, Miss Thurgood."

"Oh, I just— Yes, all right," Elena mutters. She feels inexplicably chastised. It twists in her stomach.

"I was impressed, by the way," Sindhís continues, "at how neatly you replicated those maps of northern Rhovanion." The bright raptor eyes find her. A bracing smile. "The detailed drawings, the minuscule lettering; truly, small pieces of art. And I know the red ink is particularly unforgiving to work with."

Heat strikes Elena's cheeks at the praise. She has been quite proud herself of how those maps turned out. Still, she is glad now that she hasn't given in to curiosity and asked what they are for. There is something else though, and Elena feels emboldened enough at this moment.

"I was wondering if I might ask something…"

Sindhìs tilts his head. "Yes?"

"Well, those lists and letters written in Tengwar…" she swallows, hoping she is not nearing thin ice again. Sindhís is willing to share many things, she has found; others, he keeps under close guard. "I was simply curious if there are people other than elves who use them. I never heard of such a custom," Elena finishes cautiously.

For a moment she fears that she might have gone too far, but Sindhís merely laughs softly.

"You are inquisitive, Miss Thurgood, but understandably so. I believe we have spoken about the Avari being seldom known to use tengwar letters. Well, here we have a few of them who do."

He suddenly turns towards the open door, his smile brightening. "Incidentally, the timing of your inquiry is impeccable, because as chance would have it—"

There is the soft ring of sheathed steel coming from the corridor; an even softer rustle of fabric. A second later, a tall figure wrapped in a cloak appears in the doorway.

"Well met, Tareg," Sindhís says, sounding relieved.

"Greetings, Sindqwes," the elf replies softly, bowing his head. He has sharply cut features and large, exceptionally long-lashed eyes, making it appear as though they have been rimmed with charcoal. His voice is clear and very deep.

"Raegar told me you were finally about to arrive. I hope you did not run into much trouble. Where are the others?"

"Little trouble." The elf's lips curl ever so slightly. "The others are downstairs, resting and enjoying refreshments."

He speaks with an accent different though not stronger than that of the Woodland elves. His skin is darker than theirs, darker than Elena's even, a deep, coppery olive. The elf's woollen cloak is dyed a vibrant russet red and he wears a scarf wrapped around his neck.

Like some of King Thranduil's people, his hair is woven into braids, but his are finer and look far more elaborate, gathered at the nape of his neck and mostly covered by the scarf. A single, long, thin plait falls from his temple down his wool-covered chest. Small beads, ruby red and gold, are woven into the dark strands, gleaming in the sunlight.

"Very good," Sindhís says. "I am afraid your rooms are still being prepared, but it should not be long. I am sure Miss Thurgood won't mind you leaving that here." He glances at several heavy-looking packs the elf has slung over one broad shoulder, then towards Elena.

"Ah, forgive me… Miss Thurgood, this is Tareg, son of Hartû of the Hisildi from the east. Tareg is head of his house, commander and protector of land in one of the Avari settlements south of the Sea of Rhûn. He also happens to belong to my little order of mischief-makers, scholars and explorers." Sindhís throws Tareg a sidelong glance; the sun momentarily glows in his eyes. "Protect and pursue."

Elena watches the men curiously. The way Sindhìs spoke the words almost sounded like a parole or a motto. Tareg inclines his head once more, and Elena thinks he mutters something in response but the elf's quiet lilt is too soft for her ears to discern.

There is a glint of Sindhís' smile before he addresses Elena. "Tareg and I have known one another for quite a long time."

"Well met Lord Tareg," Elena mutters, bending into a half curtsey for good measure, not entirely sure what might be the correct form of address. He does not correct the title and barely inclines his head when Sindhís proceeds to introduce her in turn. When the Avari steps closer to unload his packs in a corner of the small study, Elena means to only dart at him a brief, furtive look, but then finds that she cannot lower her gaze again.

The elf has slung back his cloak and halfway unwound his shawl, revealing not a tunic or shirt but only light leather armour, strapped across the left side of his chest and shoulder. The right side of his chest and his stomach are uncovered; so is the lower half of the elf's long, lean legs. To Elena's astonishment, he is not wearing leggings or trousers but something like a kilt, held by a broad leather belt, and the hem doesn't quite reach the elf's knees.

Elena has never seen so much bare skin on a grown man. For a moment she cannot tear her gaze from the firm symmetry of the elf's taut belly and the shifting of powerful muscles as he finishes unwrapping his shawl. When Tareg bends down to pull some garments from one of the packs, Elena's eyes are caught by a wide golden band that encircles his upper arm. It is adorned with an emblem — a circle of some very dark metal with a stylised feather in its centre, or perhaps a leaf.

Finally, the Avari turns and straightens, his dismissive gaze returning to Elena, catching her staring. Mortified, Elena bends her head over her illegible roll of parchment again while blood rushes to her head, warming her cheeks and ears. She dimly registers Sindhìs making some pleasant comment on the 'good weather they have been sent' and manages a somewhat squeaky hum of acknowledgement.

As the men excuse themselves, she can't help glancing back up at Tareg, and finds, to her dread, his eyes still trained on her. Before he turns away, the corner of his mouth pulls into a strange, raw sort of smile.

Even once Elena is alone she finds it difficult to concentrate on her transcription. There are, admittedly, certain things that she knows very little about, so it's hard to tell whether the lingering thump of her heartbeat is caused by maidenly giddiness or rather her body's way of warning her against something sinister. Nor does Elena know which prospect is more alarming.

13th of August, 4A36

The spacious assembly hall of the Golden Coot hums with nervous anticipation, making Elena feel like she is sitting in one of Master Elendir's bee hives. She glances around, wondering who all these people are and how Sindhís might know them. There is a fair number of inhabitants from Lake-town — even a few women among them, which surprises and pleases her — but also a lot of guests from out of town who speak with the soft rolling accent of Minas Tirith. They look like wealthy tradesmen or perhaps even nobles. Elena catches herself seeking Master Amunds's face among their group, but he isn't there, of course.

Elena is not at all sure why she herself is here, to be honest. Early that morning when she arrived at the inn, Duineth informed her that she should be there. Therefore, Elena sits here now, at the back of the hall and huddled on one of the few benches where there was some room left when she arrived. A servant has placed a cup of honeyed spiced wine on the linen-clad table in front of her.

Elena sips cautiously from the bitter-sweet drink while listening to her employer as he — by all appearances — is putting a spell on the room. This sounds rather grand, yes, but Elena cannot think of another way to describe it.

Ever since Sindhìs has appeared on the small dais at the far end of the room and started speaking, all eyes are on him. Elena can't blame the people either, truth be told.

It isn't so much the merchant's physical presence, but rather something more… intangible, something about the room around him. Perhaps it's just the wine but the bizarre thought hits Elena that the very air around Sindhìs is different, as though it's hesitating, not sure how to behave around him.

She imagines she can even see it, like a faint shimmer of heat. Elena snorts at herself and her foolish musings, but when a moment later, Sindhìs' eyes meet hers and she spots the corner of a smile, she still sits up a little straighter and feels the whirr of her blood quicken for a few seconds.

As he continues, Elena watches, a small part of her envying Sindhìs' ability to seemingly capture a room full of people with nothing but words. Admittedly, he is doing it quite well. He seeks people's gazes, he is respectful and never haughty, and he just seems to know what to say. A carefully contained glimmer of fine, dry humour and that soft-spoken sharpness make you want to listen to him; agree with him. There is something potentially dangerous about this combination, Elena thinks, but she cannot quite parse where it lies.

At the beginning, Sindhìs had thanked the assembled company for their interest and their support — polite, humble. There was quite some talk then about that refugee camp for the people from Rhûn he had mentioned to Elena earlier as well.

Sindhís stressed the importance of helping the fleeing folk; not only as a valuable trading partner — at this, he had glanced at the group of men from Minas Tirith, who had nodded and muttered somewhat approvingly — but also to ensure the safety of the people from both lands.

"Queen Renethre," Sindhìs says now, "is a just ruler, wise and generous. Those who lend her aid in these trying times will receive aid in turn. As we speak, the regent, her commanders and her circle of chief advisors are trying to regain control over lands plundered by groups of haradian mercenaries. The fast spreading of the strange flu that we have no doubt all heard about by now, is yet another reason for people to flee their villages and seek refuge in Rhovanion."

Sindhìs' gaze lowers, amber eyes seeming to lose focus as though he thought of something unpleasant. A second later though, his attention returns to the crowd, the winsome smile back in place. "In times of hardship, it is easy and perilous to forget that we must stand together for strength. For is it not in unity, in lending our power to others and to a worthy cause, that we find it in ourselves?"

More consenting murmurs, also from the townspeople now.

"Meanwhile, King Elessar's toils ever increase." Sindhìs' pale brows draw together in a regretful frown. "Our ruler gets distracted and lured astray — torn from his kingdom by unnecessary fights in remote lands, but also by those within his own council chamber. Deceitful words that seek to poison and corrupt, uncaring for the lives of the hardworking and the honest. We must remember though, that as the people who are granted to live in this blessed world, we are not mere subjects. We have a duty, a responsibility to do right by her; to act, mend and better, in whatever small way we can."

He raises his left hand — clad in dark leather as always — and twists it, long fingers spread. It is an odd gesture that might signify both question and deference.

"This may seem an ungrateful task," Sindhìs now says, "but as we all know… or are bound to learn—" Elena can see the sparkle of warm lamp light reflected in his eyes even from her seat in the back, "—the gods reward those who carry the right intent within their hearts."

Elena is puzzling over these words when there is a disruption; a small group of people has entered the hall through the side door behind the raised dais, three men and a woman. Sindhís glances towards the door before he excuses himself with an apologetic bow, declaring there will be a short break.

The men who have just entered are elves. Elena recognises the one walking in front at once, it's the Avari from Rhûn with the beaded braid; Tareg, Elena recalls the strange-sounding name.

The others must be members of his people, they are clad in the same types of garments, are copper-skinned like Tareg, and are wearing their dark hair in intricately woven patterns. No bare skin this time; underneath the short cloaks, the elves wear snug-fitting tunics that shimmer like silk, and their legs below the hem of their kilts are covered as well.

The woman is human, brown-haired and slightly sallow-skinned, and — Elena cannot help thinking — looks decidedly bland next to the tall elf-men in their colourful robes and their sumptuous long braids. Her face is nondescript and so void of expression that she looks all but vacant.

Sindhís had stepped from the dais and approached the small group. The Avari bow and return his greeting but the woman is staring at the assembled people, her head swivelling slowly from one side to the other as though idly searching for something.

And then — just as Elena, who is becoming slightly bored herself, happens to take a closer look at the small group — the woman takes a step towards the crowd.

Immediately the elf to her left snatches her arm, stopping her. The woman slowly turns her head towards the Avari. Elena cannot see her face, but she sees that of the elf man. He seems to freeze, his lips thinning, the large, dark eyes fixed unblinkingly on the small human in front of him. Elena can see the convulsive movement of his throat. Then he quickly releases the woman, whose arm falls back to her side like that of a rag doll.

Elena blinks, wondering if she has imagined the odd little exchange. She straightens up to get a better look at what is happening but at this moment, someone drops into the empty spot on the bench next to her, startling her and making her jump.

"Quite the assembly isn't it," Raegar mutters at her, looking around himself, his expression one of distaste.

Elena sees his eyes wander over the people from Lake-town who are now quietly chatting among themselves, and then linger on the small gaggle of men from Minas Tirith. "Dressed-up bumpkins and pompous fools, the lot of them. I bet you a penny most of them don't understand half of what he's saying."

Elena snorts as loudly as she dares. "Quite the charmer, aren't you? So busy being nasty to everyone around you."

The corner of the young man's mouth rises by a fraction, his eyes still on the crowd. "It's not an easy lot, but what can I do?"

"For a start, you could not talk to people you regard as so ignorant and spoiled," she hisses before turning back towards the dais where Sindhìs is now in quiet conversation with the elves; the brown-haired woman is standing meekly beside them and Elena wonders if she has imagined the odd little exchange from earlier.

"I suppose that is true," Raegar's thoughtful voice interrupts her musings. "But you are preferable to the rest of them, you see."

Elena glares at the young man. "Am I now? How gracious of you."

Raegar chuckles and reaches for her wine cup. Elena quickly snatches it out of his reach. "Go bother someone else you dislike, will you? From the sound of it, there must be plenty of them around."

For a moment, there is silence. Elena sips from her spiced wine, but when she senses a movement next to her she glances at Raegar and finds him watching her with a crooked smile.

"You know what," he mutters, "if it wasn't for those pretty, soft cheeks of yours, I should wager there are some tremendous stones hidden underneath that skirt."

Elena manages not to choke on the wine. With a suppressed cough, she turns fully towards the young man who is smiling expectantly at her, obviously waiting for a reaction. At once, Elena bites down on the indignant retort already on the tip of her tongue and instead gives him the calmest, most withering look she can manage.

"You are even viler than I thought."

He breaks into soft laughter. "You're not one to be easily cowed, are you? I respect that. I reckon I was not very kind to you the other day."

"I assure you I am past it."

"Evidently so." He says, sounding amused. "Most lasses would have simply started to cry when spoken to like that."

Elena snorts. "No doubt you speak from experience. And besides," she adds sardonically, "what makes you think I didn't start bawling my poor eyes out the second you left the room?"

"Ah, but you didn't, Miss Thurgood." Raegar bares strikingly white teeth. His voice is filled with mirth. "In fact, you only made that vexed huffing noise — sort of like you did just now — and then started scratching away on those papers of yours."

Elena slowly turns to stare at him, incredulous. "You listened at the door?"

His smirk widens. "Only for a moment."

Despite her outrage at the young man's audacity, Elena has to fight a ridiculous urge to laugh. She does feel strangely flattered, silly as it might be.

"You are despicable," she finally deadpans, turning away to face the room again.

"Perhaps." She can hear the laughter in his voice. "But I was told it is part of my…"

"What?" Elena scoffs, glancing at him as the silence stretches.

Raegar isn't looking at her, but staring straight ahead. He is no longer grinning. As Elena watches, she thinks some of the colour is draining from his face. Frowning, she follows his gaze; her eyes are caught by a table close to the dais where the elves and the strange woman have taken their seats in the meantime.

The elf men and Sindhís seem engaged in conversation, but the human woman doesn't appear to be listening at all. She sits slightly twisted around in her seat, facing the length of the room — including the table where Elena and Raegar are seated. Elena's heart does an odd little lurch.

The woman is staring directly at them. Her eyes, Elena thinks, look too dark somehow. There is no movement in her face whatsoever. But then, slowly, she tilts her head. The movement looks odd; small, jerky motions, like the stuttering swing of a door that is stuck.

Elena feels as though something small and wriggly is scuttling down her spine. Suppressing a shudder she glances at Raegar again. He is still staring at the woman. It looks like he is gnawing on his tightly closed lips, all swagger gone from his posture.

"Who is that?" Elena mutters.

"The formerly honourable lady Ivoreth."

"Formerly?"

"Daughter of one of Minas Tirith's wealthiest and most high-arsed." The quiet disdain in Raegar's voice does not quite match the slight hunch of his shoulders.

"Alas, She got involved with the wrong type of folks. Stuck her high nose in something she perhaps shouldn't have."

He glances at Elena's bewildered expression. His voice becomes softer still as he continues.

"The sort of business that makes decent folk crap their britches if they believe in it. Nightly gatherings… Blood and spells…"

"You can't mean…" Elena gives a quiet snort. "Like evil magic or something?"

A hint of Raegar's smirk returns. A servant has placed his own cup of spiced wine on the table in front of him, and he picks it up. "You don't believe in such things?"

"I do find it a bit difficult. Elvish powers and such are one thing, but magic cults? Dark spells cast by humans? That sounds a bit too preposterous if you ask me."

"Does it now? Perhaps, perhaps not," Raegar mutters, staring into his cup as though intent not to look anywhere else. "All the same, the rumour was that she saw the error of her ways — after her shady acquaintances had been caught by the capital guard one night performing some dubious ritual and were chased from the city. Lady Ivoreth tried to reclaim her place in the noble society but some stains don't wash out so easily."

Raegar's eyes dart toward the table by the dais. "The good lords and ladies of Minas Tirith wanted nothing more to do with her. She was shunned even by her own family."

"What is she doing with Sindhìs?" Elena asks curiously. "Is he trying to help her?"

It seems like Raegar's willingness for conversation has come to an end, however. He shrugs and drains his cup, before rising. "I need a sniff of fresh air."

"What? Wait—"

But Raegar is already gone, slinking through tables and benches and around the few guests who are taking the opportunity to stretch their legs. Elena looks after him for a moment. Then, hesitantly as though afraid of what she might find, she turns to look at the table where Sindhìs is still speaking with the Avari elves.

Lady Ivoreth sits quietly next to them, her stare now directed to her pale and thin hands she has folded on the table. Yet even though the woman is no longer looking her way, Elena cannot shake a certain unease, a feeling akin to cold, invisible fingertips tenderly prodding at her, raising goosebumps on her neck and limbs. It's the sensation of eyes fixed upon her — dark and glossy, and utterly bare of expression.

28th of September, 4A36

The marketplace of Lake-town is quite generously sized, considering it is built on pillars ten feet above the water's surface. Today, with most of the town gathered here, it seems altogether too small. A mist of rain has draped itself over the Long Lake like soft, wet fleece, but for once, no one seems keen to complain about the weather.

Mayor Wilbur has already begun his speech when Elena arrives, standing on the low, wooden platform erected in the square's centre, one of his assistants hovering beside him. By the time she finds Ava and Thordis in the crowd, he has rattled down numbers, droned out grim descriptions that he somehow manages to make sound dull, and reached the unavoidable conclusion.

"A curfew?" blacksmith Halward, who is among the men standing in the first row, demands.

Elena cannot see the blacksmith's face but the deep rumble of Halward's voice is bristling with indignation. Nor is he the only one; agitated mutterings and scandalised whispers can be heard erupting all around, like little fires.

"As I believed to have just clarified, my dear master Halward," the mayor drawls, looking quite peevish himself with moisture dripping from the ends of his moustache, "such a measure will be taken once it becomes necessary. For now, we shall hope that strict controls and certain restrictions will suffice. Mind you—"

Wilbur glances at his notes before carelessly shoving them into his assistant's hands, "—Over six dozen ascertained cases of the Red Flu in villages of Rhovanion over the last few weeks. Nearly half of them alone in Little Runnington, less than fifty miles from the Long Lake. I should expect our good, sensible citizens to welcome any sanction that might prevent this plague from reaching us as well."

"What about merchants and those of us who need to visit the mainland for their business?" another man questions.

The mayor wipes his forehead and nose with a finely embroidered handkerchief and peered through the spray of rain at the alarmed faces of his citizens. "They will of course continue to do so, provided they mind the required precautions and permits," He cries over the swell of voices among the crowd. "Tightened controls and — in case of foreign merchants — restricted town access is obviously the first step to protect ourselves. Fortified guard posts on the mainland by the bridge entrance. More sentries by the canal entries and on the bridge itself."

The mayor lifts his arms in a rather pompous gesture. "I will not lie to you, my dear friends and neighbours. We may very well look at times of hardship and privation, but we shall get past it as we always have. For the sake of Lake-town and its people…"

"I can tell you right now who will be the last to suffer privations of any sort," Thordis mutters to Ava and Elena as the three of them weave their way through the throng a little later. They stifle their snorts of laughter under the stern glances they are given by a group of stately-dressed older women.

"Still, much as I regret to say it, what mayor Wilbur proposed sounds sensible in a way," Ava demurred, her expression becoming serious. "Dreadful thing, isn't it? Did you know people call it the red flu because those afflicted by it start bleeding from their eyes and mouths after several days of fever? And it's said that most are overcome by a raving madness towards the end."

"That's ghastly, to be sure," Thordis nods, pursing her lips. "And the stories about those poor fellows going after their own families… I'm not quite certain I believe all of it."

"I do," Elena mutters. "Sindhìs spoke of that as well."

Ava shakes her golden curls. "I do not wish to see it for myself, that much I know." She throws Elena a concerned glance. "I do hope they won't make your Master Sindhís leave if they start refusing to let foreign merchants enter the town."

"I cannot imagine they would," Elena replies with a shrug as they turn into one of the streets that lead away from the town square. "With the time he has spent here already, he hardly counts as a foreign merchant."

"He looks foreign enough if you ask me," Thordis muttered.

Elena gives her friend a sidelong glance but before she can say or ask anything, someone roughly jostles her shoulder. A second later, the stench of stale beer is in her face.

"Didn't see you there, mudface."

Elena glares after Alwis as he saunters past the three women, giving Ava a rude, leery stare over his shoulder. At a second glance, Elena thinks that Alwis looks sickly. There is a yellowish tinge to his skin and his eyes are bloodshot. Far more glaring though, is the half-healed bruise gracing the young man's temple. It's the size of a small apple and still an angry purple shade.

"Now at least there is a plague to which we may soon bid good riddance," Thordis says tartly, her eyes on Alwis' retreating back.

Nonplussed, Elena glances between Thordis' grim smile and the subtle curl of Ava's lips. "What do you mean? And what on earth happened to his face?"

"You haven't heard?" Thordis asks, eyebrows raised.

"What?"

"Oh dear, you have been squirrelled away far too much in either the orphanage or the Coot, I reckon."

"Heard what, Thordis?" Elena demands over Ava's gentle laughter.

"All right, keep your hair on. So, it would seem that our poor Baker Delling's patience has finally reached its tether after the scandalous business with those foreign elves the other night."

"You have heard nothing of that brawl either, then?" Ava asks when Elena shakes her head in incomprehension. "Of course, Alwis being seen at the Red Lantern would be quite enough—"

"The Red Lantern?" Elena echoes. The establishment in question, a less-than-reputable house, is one where Elena's mother had worked — a well-known fact Alwis in particular never tires reminding her of.

"Yes," Thordis says, bright green eyes narrowing with relish. "One of their kitchen maids is fast friends with one of our girls at the Yellow Flute, and she saw the whole thing from the first row, so to speak. When Alwis and one of his friends arrived, they were already quite drunk, by all accounts. Alwis did some more drinking and boasting, and at some point, he approached the elves and started accosting them as though seeking a quarrel."

"Just how drunk was he?" Elena asks, incredulous.

"Well, apparently Alwis had his eye on one of the lasses serving ale, and he accused the elves of stealing her away from him," Thordis snickers. "When those Avari told him to get lost, he aimed a swing at one of them."

Elena nearly slows to a halt, staring at Thordis, almost impressed in spite of herself. "I suppose that explains the bruise."

Yes, the whole affair ended quite fast and with Alwis on the floor. If you ask me, he's lucky that was all he got out of it. In any case, when word of all this reached his father, he finally snapped. He has enlisted Alwis for one of the training camps of the Gondor border guard."

"Hard labour and strict discipline," Ava mutters. There is a sweet sort of sympathy in her tone but also no denying the mirth rounding her cheeks. "Alwis will not be happy about that."

"No, he will not," Elena agrees. Is it cruel of her, she wonders, that this stupid young man's misfortune brings her a little surge of happiness?

The street around them is slowly emptying. The women and men of Lake-town hurry home, back to their shops or wherever else their business takes them, grumbling about either the weather or the troublesome state of affairs in general.

Ava leans sideways while walking, gazing at Elena with a mild smile on her fair face. "This is rare. I do not believe I have seen you look this happy in a long while."

"Hm," Elena says while people bustle past them, ducking their heads against the drizzle that is slowly building into a steady downpour. Unable to quench her smile, she raises her face to the rain and the grey clouds above. "Today is a good day."

3rd of October, 4A36

Elena strides down the corridor to her little study, awkwardly balancing a stack of parchment that Duineth has pressed into her hands upon her arrival. She curses as she feels her journal slip further down her side beneath the cloak, where she has hastily tucked it the moment Duineth beckoned her over in the Golden Coot's entrance hall.

Elena is not entirely sure why she felt the need to hide the diary, but something tells her that Duineth — and possibly Sindhís as well — might not approve of every candid thing she has written down. It was foolish to bring it to the inn, but she had hoped to find a chance to finish her entry from last night during her midday repast.

With her head bent over the small heap of scrolls and pieces of paper, Elena only becomes aware of the small procession approaching from the other end of the corridor when she is nearly upon them.

"You there, watch out!"

Startling, Elena comes to an abrupt halt and looks up at the three stern-looking Avari and Lady Ivoreth. The sallow-faced woman stands at the front of the small group, her expression seeming just as vacant as the last time Elena saw her.

Elena makes to move aside and let them pass, but at the sudden motion, she loses her precarious grip on the stack of paper. Promptly half of the parchments slide to the floor.

"I am sorry," Elena mumbles and hurriedly crouches down to gather up the various lists and short notes. Her face is growing warm as she tries to stack them into a halfway-neat pile as quickly as possible. It annoys Elena to no end; how incompetent she must look! She can hear one of the elves make a tutting noise.

Elena straightens up so fast she nearly drops one of the parchment scraps again, and finds herself face to face with the strange woman — Lady Ivoreth, she reminds herself. Elena is about to mutter a greeting, but the words get stuck in her throat when the woman leans forward, staring into her face.

Ivoreth is about her height, and now she is standing so close that Elena can smell her — somehow pungent and stale, like garments that haven't been washed for far too long, but there is also something sour like spoiled meat.

Ivoreth's eyes seem too dark as she gazes at Elena with an almost unsettling intensity. Elena is struck by the distant and fleeting notion that the woman's eyes are the only thing that looks alive in that greyish face.

Then, Ivoreth smiles. There is something horrible about this smile but Elena can't quite pinpoint what it is. Her heart is doing something odd, like a stumble, a slow stutter, before speeding up again.

There is no time to puzzle anything out; one of the Avari, who wears a fresh scar across his high cheekbone, utters an impatient hiss now, something irritable-sounding in his own tongue.

"Nahîla."

Another one of the elves has taken a step forward and now murmurs something to the first. It's Tareg, the one with the red and gold beaded braid. What he tells his kinsman almost sounds like an offhand reprimand, but the only other word Elena manages to pick out is 'Sindqwes' — the name Elena heard him greet Sindhís with when he first arrived.

"Aside, if you please, maid," Tareg says to Elena in Westron. "Quickly now." He is not smiling, but his slightly drawled command still sounds more friendly than the mutterings of his companions.

Elena darts another quick look at Lady Ivoreth, whose glassy stare is still fixed on her. With some effort, she manages to shake off the strange stupor and flattens herself against the wall to let the group pass, avoiding meeting any of their eyes again. With her heart still thudding against her ribs, Elena turns to continue towards her own door.

"Maid."

Startled, Elena stops and looks back at Tareg, who stands only a few yards down the corridor and has turned around to face her as well. The other two elves and Lady Ivoreth are waiting behind him, all of them staring at Elena. After a moment of confusion, Elena's eyes fall to the elf's raised hand, holding something out to her; a small book, bound in blue-dyed leather.

Her journal. It must have slipped from underneath her arm when she picked up the scrolls. Now it lies open on Tareg's long, outstretched palm. Perhaps it even fell open when it hit the floor. Elena cannot discern which entry it is from here. She sees the elf's eyes dip briefly towards the open pages, then back to her.

"Yours?"

Elena swallows. "I— Yes."

With a soft thump, he snatches the book shut. His lips twitch.

Elena rushes forward and, after making sure she has a secure hold on her stack of parchments this time, reaches for the journal. The elf does not immediately let go.

"You should be more mindful," he says quietly. There is a spark of something Elena cannot identify in the Commander's eyes. They are quite striking, she notes rather irrelevantly. Grey, like those of many of the Woodland elves, but darker, like molten lead. Impervious.

"I will." Elena squares her shoulders and forces herself to hold his sharp gaze. "Thank you."

The corner of the elf's mouth rises a little higher. He lets go of the journal. Elena quickly shoves it underneath the rest of her burden, bows her head and turns her back on him, crossing the last couple of yards to her door with a few long strides.

Instead of the anticipated solitude, she finds Raegar inside, perched on the edge of her little desk and idly perusing one of her finished map transcriptions.

Elena deposits her papers onto the desk with more force than necessary, making sure the journal remains at the bottom of the stack and then snatches the map from Raegar's hands.

"You have no business looking at that!"

"Then you shouldn't have left it lying out in the open. And besides, who do you think picks up the original maps, or those scrolls and letters from the postal office?"

"That doesn't mean you may read them! I was told to hand everything directly to Duineth or master Sindhís, without anyone else seeing the content."

He snorts. "Don't go flattering yourself too much, little reed princess. You're not as important nor as involved as you think, and you should be glad for it."

Elena bites the inside of her cheek so hard it will probably leave an imprint of her teeth on the tender flesh. "Did you want something?"

"You should keep out of their way."

"I was not aware that I got in anybody's way."

She sees him jut his chin in the direction of the door.

"Yes, yes I remember what you said about lady Ivoreth." Despite her earlier discomfort, Elena rolls her eyes; Raegar's condescending tone is enough to make her want to appear as unconcerned as possible.

"Not just her. You may think those Avari the handsome and strapping stuff of your maidenly dreams, but they are not like the woodland folk you know from your quaint little markets. I have seen them in the sort of taverns no decent woman should set foot into."

"Well splendid," Elena retorts drily. "No need to worry then, unless you are suggesting I am no decent woman."

His grin grows wider. "I should suggest no such thing. I'd merely advise you to…" he purses his lips, eyes narrowing with mirth, "try and keep a clear head where they are concerned."

For a moment, Elena just stares back at him, doing her best to keep her expression blank. She ignores the guilty little tingle at the memory of glimpsing Tareg's bare chest. But she is certainly not mooning over him!

Raegar's deliberate uncouthness makes her stomach knot with indignation rather than giddiness. Still, Elena refuses to tell him that she finds the elf far too unnerving to think of entertaining any sort of foolish maidenly dreams — whatever Raegar might mean by that.

"You may consider me advised then." She turns away and pulls off her cloak. "Was there something else, or do you simply have too much time on your hands?"

"And here I was worrying for your honour and welfare," he says softly. Elena can't say if he is irritated or still trying to deride her.

She snorts. "I assure you it isn't necessary."

"Begging your pardon then. I have to pick up a few things for Sindhís. Do you need anything?"

A barb of annoyance; this time, Elena can't be mistaken. It puzzles and annoys her in turn, as she was fairly certain that Raegar never liked her much to begin with. But then why does he bother with this nonsense?

Elena takes a few moments to arrange her cloak over the backrest of her chair. "Red ink is running low."

"Red ink. Understood." He slips from the edge of her desk.

Elena bites her tongue — literally — until he is halfway through the door. "What were you doing there? In the house where no decent woman should set foot into," she adds at the frown he sends over his shoulder.

The frown turns into a smile, slightly too bright to be wholly convincing. "I was enjoying a pint of brown after a hard day's labour. What else?"

"Mmm-hm," Elena says to the closing door. What else indeed?

25th of October, 4A36

On a cold evening in the last week of October, a hurriedly scrawled note by Thordis reaches Elena through a haughty servant of the Golden Coot, just as she is about to head back to the orphanage.

Must speak to you, urgent!

Meet me at The Yellow Flute.

Thordis spots Elena as soon as the latter enters the cosy little tavern. She mutters something to the older woman who is filling tankards next to her, then quickly darts around the counter and pulls Elena to a small, empty table in a corner where the candles aren't lit yet. Elena rubs her smarting arm.

"Thordis, what on earth is—"

"I don't have much time, so just listen." Thordis throws a wary glance towards the counter. "It's about that master Sindhìs of yours. Something isn't right about him."

Elena almost laughs at the solemn expression on her friend's face. She has heard mutterings like this before; there is no denying that Sindhìs has a few odd traits and everything out of the ordinary will attract gossip.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember Herb? That scullion from the Golden Coot?"

"Yes of course," Elena mutters, more sober now. "He was the boy who drowned last year, wasn't he? I didn't know him much, though."

"Well, neither did I, but Dagna — one of our girls — used to work in the Golden Coot's kitchens, and she was friends with him. He did all sorts of little jobs for that Sindhìs when he stayed there last time. Sure, for some extra coins, but Herb was also rather taken with him, apparently."

Elena shrugs. "He is kind to the servants. Not everyone is, as we both know."

"I'm sure," Thordis says grimly. "Dagna thought so too, at first. But then, Herb told her a little something. Something dreadful." She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice to an ominous hiss. "The day before he died."

Despite how absurd the whole thing is starting to sound, Elena has to suppress the urge to hunch her shoulders at the slight prickle flitting down the back of her neck. Thordis is skilled that way.

"What was it, then?" she demands, more brusque than intended.

"So, one night, a few days before that accident, Herb went to see Sindhìs. He had meant to ask him if he would like his supper served in his private room, as seemed to be his preference. Before Herb had a chance to knock, however, he heard some strange groaning sound from inside the parlour. Eerie-like, he said. Still, he was worried that his kind master might be hurt or in pain, so he tried the door and found it unbolted. And inside…"

"Yes?" Elena prompts, raising her eyebrows when Thordis' dramatic pause stretches.

"Inside," Thordis finishes in a baleful murmur, "he saw Sindhìs… with a woman."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Thordis—"

"Not like that!"

Thordis glances around them, but nobody seems to have heeded their momentarily raised voices. "The woman lay reclined on a couch, looking pale and still as dead, Herb said. Indeed, he felt sure she was dead, were it not for that horrible noise she made again. Sindhìs sat beside her, holding out to her a cup to drink from. They did not seem to mark the opened door, or so Herb thought. He told Dagna that he crept away as quietly as possible, but I bet he hightailed it at once. He was never the stoutest lad, from the little I remember."

Elena shakes her head. "I don't see what is supposed to be so dreadful. It all sounds rather harmless if you ask me. The woman might have been Duineth," she adds, though the sickly-looking Lady Ivoreth also crossed her mind. "Perhaps she felt faint and he had her sit down and offered her a drink—"

"Perhaps so. If it wasn't for the drink itself." At Elena's dubious frown, Thordis throws another glance towards the counter and the surrounding tables, before leaning in further. "Herb told Dagna it was dark red and looked oddly thick," she whispers darkly. "Almost like—"

"Oh, now stop it," Elena interrupts sternly. "That sounds like a badly made-up old wife's tale. And how could he possibly tell all that from the door?"

"Fine," Thordis hisses after a moment of silence. "But Herb said there was something unnatural about the whole business, and he was too frightened to speak any more of it when Dagna asked what he meant. Herb didn't turn up for his kitchen duty that night, and the next morning—" she gives Elena a meaningful look, "those boys out fishing found him, floating dead in the water."

"Which was terrible and sad, but you have to admit it all sounds like one of those ghostly stories we told each other back at the Heron House," Elena says drily. "Inside that cup was probably wine. Perhaps the girl made the whole thing up as an excuse for leaving her old job."

"Dagna? I can't imagine!" Thordis says fervently. "She nearly fainted when that fine-looking helpmate of Sindhìs' turned up here the other night for a drink. That's when she told me the whole story. She was a timid thing, to begin with, mind you, but now she will hardly leave her chamber, claiming she's ill."

"The kitchen boy misunderstood what he saw, then." Elena hesitates. "I don't mean to speak ill of him, but I heard the servants from the Golden Coot talk about that business. Herb stole a small keg of ale and got drunk, by all accounts. Everyone said he must have fallen from the pier, possibly knocked his head and then drowned, robbed of his senses as he surely was."

Thordis is silent for a few seconds, her eyes darting towards the counter. The landlady is beckoning to her now, looking impatient.

"Perhaps he did drown," Thordis mutters darkly while getting to her feet. She meticulously straightens her apron before looking back down at Elena. "But nobody saw how exactly he ended up in the water."

2nd of November, 4A36

"Have you spoken to Elias?"

"No." Elena peers over the shoulder of the customer standing in front of her. "Look, they have cheese from Dale."

"It's too expensive."

Ava is right, but the truth is that most things have become more expensive these days. Not every merchant is willing to be examined by nervous healers with wrapped-up faces or to be forced to have their wares rafted into town — in some cases without them. Dale, by all accounts, is having trouble battling the red flu as well.

Ava now makes a disgruntled sound. "Look, you must, Elena. Surely you miss him, and we both know he did not mean what he said to you."

Elena turns to throw her friend a narrow-eyed glance as the two women inch forward in the line for the cheese and sweetmeat monger.

"And how do we know that?"

Ava frowns back at her while tightening her scarf against a gust of cold autumn wind. "Because that lad has not a mean bone in his body. His heart was sore Elena, and I'm not blaming you for it so do not give me those eyes. He spoke in hurt and perhaps aggravation and surely regrets it now."

When Elena is silent, Ava lowers her voice, leaning closer. It's a brisk but bright day, despite the lateness of the year. More people seem to be crowded around fewer stalls, and many of them have a good ear for any sort of gossip.

"I refuse to believe you two stopped caring about each other," Ava murmurs. "There might be a number of things not quite right with the world but you and Elias not speaking needn't be one of them."

"There hasn't been a chance," Elena mutters, watching morosely as the woman in front of them buys the last of the honeyed plums.

"Then make a chance," Ava hisses, rather unlike herself. More calmly, she continues, "I just feel like this is important, you know? I'm not saying you were wrong to refuse his hand, he is far too mild for you—"

Elena snorts.

"—but you were fast friends before all that sad business, and such a thing isn't worth losing over some hurt feelings."

"Do you really think that one needs any encouragement to chase after lads that ain't hers, Ringlet?"

Both women turn towards the sneering voice. Alwis Delling, dressed in a waistcoat and smart overcoat, stands near the honeycomb stall next over and regards them with an unpleasant smile.

"Give it a rest, Alwis," Ava says sharply.

"Now, don't get cross with me, Ava." Alwis eyes Elena gleefully up and down. "I don't mind if the saucy little vixen wants to earn some extra pennies. I simply would appreciate it if she found another fellow than my sister's betrothed."

Ava clicks her tongue, looking outraged. "You truly should be ashamed of what comes out that mouth of yours—"

"Oh, pay him no heed, Ava," Elena tells her friend over Alwis' snicker. She smiles at him, a smile both derisive and full of distaste that Elena has practised and perfected over years. "I have heard that even stout-hearted, grown men will not remain dauntless when faced with the toils and perils of a border guard's lot. Now, imagine how someone like Alwis must feel at such a prospect."

Ava coughs delicately, her hand covering her mouth. The smirk fades from Alwis' face like a dying flame at the end of a candle wick. He takes an angry step towards Elena, but obviously doesn't dare to do anything else under the reproachful frowns he is being given by some of the people around them.

"You always pretend," he growls. "Acting the smart, high lady… As if a foolish wench like you knew anything!"

His scornful demeanour seems strained, however, and Elena thinks she sees raw uncertainty, if not a spark of fear in his eyes.

"Well, I know those guards' work is important and honourable," Elena says earnestly. "Your family must rejoice." She smiles at the shadow of confusion on Alwis' face, before continuing in a lowered voice, "At least you will be someone else's embarrassment from now on."

Alwis looks livid, but he seems unable to come up with a retort. After a moment of mutely glowering at Elena, he whirls around and stalks off, followed by several scandalised looks.

Ava gives Elena a sidelong glance, looking like she cannot decide whether to smile or reprimand her friend. "You know those stout-hearted, grown men from the border guard well?" At Elena's smirk, she shakes her head. "I know he deserved it, but—"

"Then don't ruin it, my dear." Elena breathes out a satisfied sigh.

"Fine, we shall forget about Alwis, and return to what truly matters."

"Which is?"

"Come now, Elena," Ava huffs out, clearly exasperated. "You truly should mend things with Elias! He is obviously daunted by that awful quarrel you had, and also being a fool, so you need to be the wiser person and approach him." When Elena remains stubbornly silent, Ava tugs on her arm. "What do you think?"

Bowing her head in response to the cheese monger's greeting, Elena picks up a small wheel of goat cheese that is wrapped in sage leaves. "I think we have been sent nice weather for November."

Ava sighs and turns her attention to the cheese.

6th of November, 4A36

"Thank you, Miss Thurgood, that should be all for today."

Elena lays down her quill with slightly stiff fingers and scrutinises the finished text Sindhís has just dictated to her; a long and rather dry list of instructions and requests for the custodian of a vineyard in Rhûn.

"I thought there was another one?" Elena asks, glancing up at Sindhìs, who is rolling up several rolls of parchment he has been consulting while dictating his letter.

"Yes, but nothing urgent. This turned out rather more lengthy than anticipated, and your poor hand needs a rest, I deem." Sindhìs darts a knowing smile at her, while carefully storing the scrolls away in a large, iron-bound chest. "We shall continue this delightfully tedious business tomorrow. As it is, I have a few things to discuss with Tareg, he should be here shortly."

"All right." Elena starts tidying away her quills, inkwells and unused parchment, then looks up at Sindhís. "May I ask why he calls you Sindqwes? At least I believe I heard him do so several times now."

Sindhís casts her a glance over his shoulder, and then breathes out a soft huff of laughter and turns back to the scrolls on his desk.

"An old jest between friends," he says while rolling up the report on grape yields, stocks and sales of the vineyard. "Tareg was not the one who came up with it in the first place, though. The name Sindqwes — or Sindquessë, more accurately — originates from an ancient Avari tale.

It tells the story of the impending end of the world brought on by a wrathful deity, who summons a great black tide that is to swallow all beings and place them under an endless sleep."

The corner of Sindhís' mouth quirks at meeting Elena's puzzled expression. "It is quite grim, complex and long. But some hope comes in the shape of a hapless young huntsman, who is set a series of trials to possibly avert the deity's bale."

"And the hero… the young huntsman's name is Sindqwes?" Elena guesses.

"Not quite," Sindhís says with a sardonic twitch of one eyebrow. "Sindqwes roughly translates to Greyfeather, and is the name of a goshawk, who is the huntsman's faithful and loyal friend and companion of many years."

"So they named you after the goshawk?" Elena tries to hide her grin, thinking of how she herself has compared Sindhís to a bird of prey more than once before.

As though guessing her thoughts, Sindhís inclines his head in wry acknowledgement. "Evidently someone possessing a spirited wit found the notion amusing. Nevertheless, I must not complain. The bird Sindqwes is a beloved figure in the Avari culture, and the elements of his name, the grey feather, a symbol of hope and fight for justice within their belief. The order Tareg and I belong to bears it as its crest."

Elena has seen this; the small grey feather on the emblem on Tareg's arm at least. Now that she thinks of it, Elena believes she has once spotted a feather symbol on Duineth's pendant as well.

"Then the goshawk is the true hero?" she asks.

"It's not quite as simple as that. The story has no actual end or closure in the fashion you might expect. In the tale, The goshawk does betray and desert the huntsman when the latter considers sacrificing the life of beasts in order to save his own people, the elves."

"The bird betrays him?"

"As I said, these old tales of the Avari are quite complicated and deceptive in some ways. Perhaps the goshawk was never a goshawk at all?"

When he sees Elena's baffled frown, Sindhís breaks into soft laughter. "I am afraid my memory of this obscure fable is failing me now. You will have to ask Tareg if you wish to learn more."

Elena echoes his laughter, thinking that — despite the idea being oddly tempting — she is unlikely to do any such thing. As she stands, Sindhìs has already retrieved her cloak and is holding it out to her.

"May I ask a question in return, Miss Thurgood?"

Elena looks up at him in surprise while fastening her cloak. "Yes, of course."

"I heard there was some trouble at one of your markets, a few days ago. That young man harassing you and your friend? Forgive me," Sindhìs adds, seeing Elena's astonished frown, "I do not mean to intrude on your private affairs. It just so happens that Tareg and one of his men were visiting the market that day and saw what happened. I believe they were close to intervening, but then, of course, you handled the unpleasant business yourself — rather deftly."

Elena answers his smile with one of her own awkward ones, if a little uncertain. "It was a trifle. I didn't realise I was being watched."

"No, not watched." He bows his head as though by way of apology. "It was chance, nothing more. Apparently, Tareg and the others had noticed that fellow causing trouble before, which no doubt made them worry for you. As it does me. Forgive me, I do not mean to pry, but such distasteful behaviour should not be tolerated."

Elena shakes her head, with a wry smile. "You are kind to worry, but you needn't. That man is Alwis Delling. His family owns the pretty bakery shop, you will have seen it. I'm hardly the only one with cause to complain about him, but for some reason, he has always despised me. In any case, this will end soon."

Sindhís raises one eyebrow. "Oh?"

Elena tries to hide her gleeful satisfaction but doesn't quite succeed. "He has aggravated his father one too many times, apparently, when he tried starting a brawl the other night with Commander Tareg and the other elves. Now, Master Delling is sending him to the northeast, to train with the Gondor border guard."

"I see." Sindhís breathes out a thoughtful hum. "I cannot imagine that you are overly distraught by this?"

Elena shakes her head, feeling the corners of her mouth creep upward. "Not overly, no."

Sindhís' smile brightens and she thinks he might say something else but then a soft knock sounds from the entrance and a moment later, Tareg steps into the room. Elena's first glance at the Avari commander leads to a double-take; on his leather-clad forearm, the elf is carrying a brown-striped buzzard, long fingers wrapped protectively around the bird's fine-boned body.

"Forgive the interruption," the Avari speaks in his usual deep, calm voice.

"Not at all, Tareg, we were finished for a while—" Sindhís' mellow expression turns into a mild frown. "Do we have a problem?"

"We might."

Even though she would very much like to know what is going on, Elena assumes the role of the well-behaved scribe, drops a quick, perfunctory curtsey and excuses herself. She only remembers the letter when she has reached the stairs.

All finished dictations are usually taken to the shelves in her own little study to let the ink dry before they are rolled up or sent away. This time, distracted by Tareg's sudden appearance, Elena left it lying open on the desk in Sindhìs' study. It's not a disaster, but she loathes the thought of appearing negligent or careless.

After a few seconds of quarrelling with herself, Elena decides to run back and fetch the parchment. They will send her away if she disturbs them, and surely it will look better than making it seem like she forgot about the letter entirely.

Having slept in a dormitory almost all her life, Elena has learned to move quietly. It happens without thinking, nor does she mean to eavesdrop when reaching the door, her mind still on her lapse with the latter. She has already raised her arm to knock, but then Sindhís' voice, muffled but clear and utterly calm, stills her hand, inches from the gleaming wood of the door.

"They must die."

In the short moment before Tareg's quiet reply, Elena feels as though her blood has been replaced with something cold and rigid, like icy, half-dried mud.

"You agree then there is no other course left?"

"Much as it rues me. But the risk is too great. We cannot let them endanger everything we have built."

"Of course not." There is a pause before the elf asks, "Do you wish her to take care of it?"

"Yes, that will be best, she should have the strength for that much by now."

Elena hears a quiet sound, which she then realises is Sindhís sighing.

"It will not do for those men to simply disappear, more of their people might come in search of them. Where do they hail from?"

"Some remote hamlet," comes Tareg's dismissive reply, "roughly five miles south from the pass of Angcirith."

"Very well. Send word back to the others, they are to let both of them go — they must think themselves safe. And please make sure Ivoreth is aware of what needs to be done. It must happen close to their village, where they can be easily found."

When Sindhís continues, his voice takes on an odd sort of tone that Elena has never heard from him before — almost acerbic.

"Those poor fellows might be granted a purpose after all if their fate were to discourage others from following in their footsteps. Everyone is very frightened of the red flu, Tareg."

There is a soft snort from the elf and a few seconds later his voice —"I will see to it then,"— from the other side of the door.

Elena feels like her heart has received a violent strike, jerking her into panicked motion. She frantically scrambles backwards, all the while knowing she will never be able to get out of sight in time without making a lot of noise. But then she hears Sindhís speak again.

"Tareg."

In the ensuing silence, Elena pictures the elf halt and turn back to look at Sindhís. She takes two more cautious steps, edging towards one of the chests of drawers that line the broad corridor, and can only barely make out the merchant's following words.

"Make certain that Ivoreth's door is secured lest someone disturbs her. Every so often, the servants have unfortunate timing."

Elena cannot hear Tareg's response. She has reached the chest, slipped past it, and now crouches down against the wall next to it, just as the door to Sindhís study opens with a soft click.

Her heart hammering, Elena waits, pressed against the wall behind her. The door closes with another quiet, wooden thud. For several seconds, there is only silence, and Elena starts to think the elf must have noticed her. Then, there is a rustle of fabric and the barely discernible creak of leather. The sounds grow fainter. Only after several more seconds, Elena lets out a slow, shaky breath. She doesn't dare move until her thighs begin to cramp.

7th of November, 4A36

The haughty young man named Farman at the Golden Coot's reception informs Elena that master Sindhís is enjoying his morning date tea and prefers not to be bothered at such an early hour. Elena claims Sindhís is expecting her, lying through her teeth. Farman looks sceptical but apparently decides not to challenge her bold statement.

The morning is early enough for the large, splendid parlour to be all but deserted this time. Elena finds her employer in one of the sheltered alcoves. It's a smaller one than last time, furnished with only a small table and a high-backed, cushioned bench. The window faces north, granting a hazy view of the Lonely Mountain, its top shrouded in heavy rain clouds.

Sindhís looks up from the scroll he has been reading when Elena steps around the divider.

"Miss Thurgood! What a pleasant surprise. I did not expect you until the afternoon. Are you not busy this morning?"

"Yes, I have some errands to run for Master Elendir. Some orders at the apothecary… I left early because I was hoping you might have a moment of time this morning and—" With some effort, Elena pauses in her rambling and takes a deep breath. "I was wondering if I could speak with you?"

"Of course." Abandoning the scroll, Sindhìs indicates the bench, a slight frown replacing his questioning smile. "Is something the matter?"

Elena tenderly lowers herself onto the cushioned bench next to him, without taking off her cloak. She stares down at her hands, chilled and reddened from the icy morning winds and half-buried in the folds of her woollen skirt.

"Lady Ivoreth. What does she do for you?"

Elena winces at her own words. She has imagined different, more elegant manners to lead up to the topic, but a sleepless night and a whirlwind of wild and frantic thoughts tormenting her overworked mind have left her head feeling sore and sluggish.

Sindhís does not react how she expected. To be honest, Elena isn't entirely certain what she did expect. When she glances up from her lap, she finds him watching her, looking neither surprised, nor angry. For one heartbeat, Elena thinks he looks almost pleased, then his smooth brow knits into something different, pensive.

Perhaps she should have remained silent. Perhaps this will be her premature end, like Herb found his, or those unknown two men in the mountains. It's probably too late for such worries though, and Elena distantly wonders at her own stoicism. The truth is that she trusts this man; she trusts Sindhìs not to do anything to her, even though it's an odd sort of trust, both wary and absolute.

At length, Sindhís sighs. "I apologise, Miss Thurgood."

"You… what?"

"I should have anticipated this. After the time you have been with me — with us — you deserve honesty. Clearly, you have sensed that Ivoreth is no ordinary woman but an exceptional and powerful being." He regards her bewildered expression for a moment. "The things and creatures that are strange and unfathomable will daunt, if not frighten us. Do you feel troubled by her?"

"Well, I…" Elena hesitates, still uncertain as to how much she wants to share. "The times I met or saw her, the way she would look at me—"

I didn't feel like a human woman looking at me. It felt like something else, something lurking and hungry.

Would that make her sound mad?

"She made me very uneasy," Elena finishes feebly.

Sindhìs watches her for a moment longer, then utters a soft hum. "She has a knack for that. But believe me, Miss Thurgood, she will not harm you. You have my word."

"But she harms others?"

Elena whispers the words, all but breathes them out, even though she knows the parlour is empty aside from them. Sindhìs sits very still, considering her with a tranquil sort of alertness. When at last he speaks, his voice is so calm he might be talking about the regretfully cold weather.

"Only those who mean us harm in turn."

Us?

Elena swallows, feeling like she has a lump of lake weed stuck in her throat. "Things like that camp with refugees? And your order?"

"Yes, Miss Thurgood, like those things. And everyone who is a part of it." He reaches out and lightly touches Elena's arm with the ungloved hand.

Did she become part of an 'Us' without realising it? Part of his… progress? Does she want to be? Elena supposes she does. Something small and restless stirs in her stomach and chest like a moth slowly awakening from winter sleep.

"I cherish them all." Sindhìs continues watching Elena, calm and steady. "I wish them to be safe, and Lady Ivoreth helps defend us if need be." His gaze envelops her, unutterable threat and promise rolled into one. Elena could look away, it's her choice, she knows. "You understand that, yes?" he asks her quietly.

She doesn't look away, doesn't even nod. "Mm-hm."

He gives her a lop-sided smile, one dimple softening his sharp features. "Thank you."

There it is again, that light fluttering in her chest that only he brings about. It is not attraction, at least none of the flesh. Elena doesn't desire him, even though she has never been this drawn to anyone in her life, and something tells her she never will be again. His pale fingers spread warmth through her arm — and further — more than should be possible. She resists the compulsion to reach for his hand, not sure if she would push it off in alarm, or cling to it like a lost child.

"You want to protect them," she says slowly, remembering how Sindhìs greeted Tareg on the day the Avari arrived in Lake-town. "'Protect and…" She cannot think of the rest he said to the elf.

"We all protect that which is dear to us. Those, who entrust their fates with us." A predatory gleam enters his eyes. "But yes, I go to great lengths in order to do so."

His hand drops away from her arm and returns to his lap. Instantly, Elena feels colder.

"That sounds rather grand," she murmurs.

His eyes narrow with mirth. "Oh, surely you know by now that I have a propensity for that. But you should also know this, Miss Thurgood," he adds more seriously, "I consider trust a precious gift. And as such, I treat and return it."

Oh, you are so very good at this, Elena thinks. She may have figured him out, at least in part, but that doesn't mean she can't admire what he does. Still, she knows him well by now. She won't let herself get befuddled.

"I would like to ask a few things, then, if I may."

He leans back against the cushions and tilts his head. The soft, slanted light of the winter morning sets his hair agleam like fresh snow. "You may."

"Do you remember a boy named Herb?"

Sindhís' pale brows lower in what appears to be astonishment. Elena is startled herself; she cannot believe this was the first thing on her mind. Perhaps Thordis' dramatic warning has been nagging at the back of her consciousness more than she thought, especially after some of the things she overheard the day before.

Every so often, the servants have unfortunate timing.

"I believe I do," Sindhís says slowly. "Does he work here, at the inn?" His puzzlement seems to clear somewhat, his eyes darken with a shadow of regret. "Of course, poor Herb. He perished in that sad accident, did he not?"

"Yes, he drowned in the lake…" Elena bites on the inside of her lip, wondering if Sindhís is able to hear the hard thumping of her heart, just as she can. "Was he also harming… or endangering anything?"

For a moment Sindhís is silent and the minuscule tightening and twitches in his face speak of genuine astonishment. Then the confusion fades into a rueful smile.

"No, Miss Thurgood, of course not. And I assure you that Lady Ivoreth had nothing to do with that poor lad's untimely end."

Elena releases her throbbing lip from the grasp of her teeth. "Of course," she mutters. "I— I didn't really think so."

Stupid.

Stupid Thordis and her foolish gossip.

"You spoke of a few things you wished to ask?"

He does not sound angry, and Elena nods quickly, flushing with relief. "How does Lady Ivoreth— how does she defend people?" She tentatively lowers her voice. "If she doesn't leave her room?"

How is she exceptional?

Sindhìs expression doesn't change but for one raised eyebrow. "And?"

"And…" She hesitates but then decides that the time for games is past. "The red flu. Does she… does Ivoreth have something to do with it?"

Sindhìs eyes flit back and forth between hers as though reading her unspoken thoughts. For a moment, Elena thinks he is about to reprimand her for listening in on Tareg and his conversation, for surely he must know by now. However —

"Pursuing the truth may lead to a point of no return. You truly wish to know those things?"

It should be frightening perhaps, instead of thrilling. But Elena doesn't want to return. She wants to move forward, to a place where there is no need for conscience and demureness. She wants to be part of something powerful and feel strong herself. There is no point of return, not for her, and perhaps there never was. Because, and the realisation engulfs her like a slow, warm tide, Elena wants to be exceptional too.

When she nods, he smiles gently. "Then you shall."

"When?" she blurts out, feeling like a child that has been lured to a house filled with wonders and strange, exciting mysteries, only to have the door shut in her face.

But Sindhìs rises, gathering up his scroll. "Soon, my obdurate little scribe. This is not the place or time and I have things to attend to. So do you, I believe; the apothecary closes early on Wednesdays if I am not mistaken." His gaze darts up to meet her disappointed expression. "You may also want to take the opportunity to think things over."

"All right." Elena bites her tongue to stop herself from arguing any further. He then glances back at her, lips curling at her discontented frown.

"A little patience. I make no hollow promises," he then adds, his tone more solemn.

"Of course," Elena mutters, lowering her eyes in a show of contrition as she stands and picks up her bag.

It comes to her then, so sudden and clear, like those oddly sharp little memories from childhood — the words Sindhìs spoke to Tareg in her little study, and which sounded like a motto to her then. Without thinking, Elena softly calls out to Sindhìs, just as he has reached the ornate, wooden divider.

"Protect and pursue."

Sindhìs pauses and stands motionless for several seconds. Then he turns his head just by a fraction, so Elena can see the corner of his smile and a flicker of long, pale lashes.

"Purge and progress, Miss Thurgood."

And with that, he is gone.

When Elena leaves the inn in a sort of daze, she doesn't merely step out on her tired little feet; a part of her floats out, hovers and then soars upwards like a freed bird. In an absurd way, she feels both heavier and lighter than she did before.

Think things over, he said. It won't change anything. Elena wants to know. She wants to understand, even if the truth might be strange or frightening. Even now, there is an echo of that light, hard exhilaration fluttering in her chest. It makes her feel like she could do anything if she wants it badly enough. She cannot let go of that, even though she has a feeling that it will come with a price.

So, name it, Elena thinks as she turns into a quiet, little alley that leads back to Rushleaf Road, to the apothecary and back to her own daily, monotonous business. Her monotonous life. Away from anyone's eyes, she slows in her walk and lifts her face to the narrow strip of pale sky above her. An errant gust of icy wind cools her cheeks, and Elena lets out a long sigh that turns into a breathy and mirthless giggle.

It doesn't matter what it will take to stay a part of Sindhìs' strange and wondrous world. There is something about this man that has her convinced he will yet do something extraordinary, even though she isn't entirely certain what it will be. Elena believes his wish to make the world better is a genuine one, but she has also sensed a side to him that is calculating, cunning and very smart, and somehow she suspects that he can be quite ruthless in order to reach his goals.

Vaguely Elena wonders what it says about herself that this doesn't bother her. Sindhìs knows how to bewitch people, and he does it exceedingly well; she has watched him at it. Still, he won't try to do that with her, not in earnest. He cares about her, Elena is sure of that much, and she also would like to think that he is a little fond of her by now.

Why else would he have done what he did — helping her, giving her the opportunity to do what she always wished for? What does he really have to gain from any of it?

While walking past grubby backs of houses and small piles of kitchen scraps, Elena glances up at a flock of geese flying past above the roofs and high above her head, honking loudly and somewhat disorderly.

The answer is nothing, she tells herself. He did it because he recognised something more, something worthy in me, something better than everyone else sees when they look at me. He knows I trust him, and he said he would return that trust.

The light, giddy flutter of that exhilarated something is bubbling up in her chest again as she nears the mouth of the alley. Elena doesn't know about the world, but things will become better for her. Her fate will change, and as she wrote in a hopeful, childish scrawl into her journal many years ago — she will become something more.

The frantic flapping of wings sounds from behind her; through a haze of light-headed excitement, Elena wonders if one of the geese has somehow made its way into the small alley. In the tiny moment before turning her head, the flapping grows louder and suddenly it doesn't sound like the sound of bird's wings anymore.

Something strikes Elena's temple with so much force that her head is knocked sideways, the jerk tearing sharply down her spine as though her neck has snapped. The impact on the ground is dull and muted; her face lands in something soft and wilted and foul-smelling.

Then comes the second blow — her left eye socket, her brow, her cheek — it's all on blazing, choking fire; the pain is a screeching, grating thing, as though her face is being smashed and shattered.

Something crunches, right next to her ear. Waves roil through her face and over her head, sharp, blinding, bleeding, and she can't breathe. There is no flapping now, but a ringing, like so many bells, growing louder. A voice, familiar and savage reaches through the din. It sounds happy —

"You think you can talk down to me, mudface? Make fun of me? Of me?!"

The foul-smelling stuff beneath her head… it's a pile of rotting potato peels, she sees now, bleary and fuzzy, and streaked with red. Above it, a pale and blurry oval, horrible and distorted like the face of a monster, leering and sputtering at her.

Elena reaches up, fingers sliding over the packed dirt of the ground and through stinking bits of rubbish until they find her own face — slick and warm, and sticky to her feeble touch.

"Are you going to miss me," the monster speaks. "Perhaps I should come back for a visit sometime, so you won't forget me. I hear it's not so cosy up there anyway."

Please no, stop… go away, Elena wants to plead, but all that comes out is a wheezing whimper. Something feels very wrong with her face, with her eye. Everything is throbbing dully, even inside her ears.

The tip of a boot scrapes over the dirty ground, close to the eye that still sees somewhat clearly. It jerks back and then forth; her head is knocked more firmly into the potato peels and hot-white, burning knives thrust into the mess that is the side of her face.

Elena gags and gasps.

"You want to call me a coward again, you worthless little whore?" Alwis hisses close to her ear. "Want to call me an embarrassment? Go on…"

The fourth blow isn't so bad, it barely hurts at all anymore. The red-streaked speck of potato peel-covered ground shrinks sluggishly to the size of a nailhead, and despite the persistent ringing, Elena can still hear the mournful calls of the geese, so very high above her.

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