Chapter Four: Helcaruivë
'Why don't we continue our discussion?'
The dwarves' song rumbled through the room as Gandalf watched her expectantly. Azshar shuffled up the bench so that she was sitting closer to him.
'Thank you,' she said gratefully. 'Anything you can tell me – anything you know, I'd like to hear it.'
'I think, in the interest of treading carefully around your memory and its recovery, it might be better if I ask you questions, rather than the inverse. Agreed?'
She nodded. It wasn't ideal, but anything would be more than she had at the moment. 'What do you want to know?'
'How did you enjoy your dinner?' Gandalf asked, and she nearly laughed out loud.
'It was… nice,' she said with a smile. 'Mr Baggins' pantry was well stocked.'
'Very good,' said the wizard with a smile. 'Next question: do you have any clue as to who you might be?'
Azshar hesitated. 'I can't remember my name, or… anything about myself, except…'
'Except?'
'I have dreams,' she said quietly. 'Some of them in the cave where I was trapped, and others when I've been unconscious.' At the mention of the cave, her hands twitched under the table. The memory of her prolonged agony was still fresh.
'And the dreams were memories?'
'I think so,' she said. 'I saw my mother and father, heard their voices. I had a brother, too, with dark hair like mine, and a sister.'
'Anything else?'
'A white city,' she said slowly. 'It was white and shining – and there was a tree there, with white flowers.'
'A pity that there is no shortage in white cities and white trees throughout the history of this world,' Gandalf said with a rueful smile. 'Now, Azshar, when you awoke in the cave, were you wearing the clothes you are wearing now?'
Azshar glanced down at herself. The faded, tattered blue dress looked somehow worse in the firelight, and she pulled the torn skirt over her knees. Her feet were still bare, and raw from walking over the sharp rocks to get from the cave to dry land. The only thing that had changed was her hair, now combed and in long braids down her back.
'Yes. Everything I have with me now, I had with me when I woke. That and nothing more.'
'I am no authority on the styles of the ages, but the remains of your dress do look… old-fashioned,' said the wizard. Azshar leaned forward.
'How old?'
'May I see the locket you are wearing?' he asked instead of answering her question, holding out a hand. She took it off and handed it to him. He brought it up to his eyes and examined it closely in the golden light of the candles. His lips pursed around his pipe, and his eyes narrowed.
'Very interesting,' he said, handing it back to her. His eyes fixed on her face again, and they narrowed as he puffed on his pipe.
'What is it?'
'Do you know the meaning of the device engraved in it?' he asked, avoiding her question.
Azshar frowned, looking down at the locket. 'You mean the sun pattern? I thought it was just… a sun. Decorative.'
'It is a sun, I suppose,' Gandalf said with a twitch of his lips. He was still watching her face as though he was waiting for some kind of reaction. 'But a winged sun, drawn like that – a circle with sixteen rays – well, it's not just for decoration. It's a standard. An emblem.'
Azshar sat forward, frowning. 'Meaning?'
'Meaning, this was the symbol of a very important, very old Elvish house.'
Her eyes widened, and images of her father flashed through her mind. 'Could it… could that mean I'm a part of that house?'
'It is possible,' Gandalf said, his every word sounding measured. 'Your hair is dark, and your eyes blue. But again, there is no shortage of dark-haired and blue-eyed families in the world. Nor is there any way to tell how you came across this locket.'
'I suppose not,' she said, deflating a little.
'Unless… we can manage to get it open.'
She looked down at the locket again, turning it in her hands. The seam where the two halves joined was barely visible, a thin line in the gold metal. There was no clasp, no indication that the locket was meant to be opened.
She tried anyway, grasping and pulling gently – then with more force, more effort. Nothing happened, and she sighed, giving up. 'Perhaps it has been worn away over my time in the cave,' she said dejectedly. The ache in her chest returned, and oddly, she felt like crying. 'Perhaps it isn't meant to open.'
'That's a shame,' Gandalf said, 'because there is certainly something in there.'
She looked up. 'What do you mean?'
'Give it a shake.'
Warily, she shook the locket from side to side. Sure enough, she felt something shift inside it. Her eyes widened as she looked back up at Gandalf. 'Do you know any – any spells or anything that would make it open?'
He shot her a look that said shut your mouth, you silly girl. 'It is a clue, at least,' he said. The dwarves ended their song behind Azshar, and a reflective hush fell over the hobbit hole.
'I have something else,' she said, unbuckling her scabbard from her belt and carefully laying it on the table before the wizard. The leather sheath shone in the firelight like it was made of liquid, and the topaz in the hilt caught the light and threw it back into the room.
Gandalf lifted it up with careful hands, his eyes roaming over it with what could almost be called awe. He drew the sword, just as the dwarves launched into another song, and held it up in front of him.
'It is undoubtedly of elvish make,' he said slowly, 'though I could not tell you by whom. But whoever they were… their skill is outstanding. It is a beautiful weapon.'
'That's all I have,' she said. 'That, and the locket.'
Gandalf was bending over the blade, squinting near its hilt. 'There are letters engraved here, as is often the case with old swords,' he said. 'Let's see if I can read them… hel… helca… ah. Helcaruivë.'
The word seemed to thrum in Azshar's chest. It was familiar, in a language she knew.
'Do you know what that means?' Gandalf asked, looking up at her, and she nodded slowly.
'Ice-fire,' she said. 'It means ice-fire, yes?'
'You are right. It is in Quenya, an old Elvish language. It is a good name for a sword.'
'Helcaruivë,' she whispered, taking the sword back when he offered it. She noticed for the first time that its hilt was a little worn down in places, and the grooves fit her hands perfectly. It felt natural, instinctive to have it resting in her grip. 'Another piece of the puzzle?'
'Perhaps,' Gandalf said. 'But it is a puzzle for which I fear I am inadequate to solve. Azshar, I would like you to come with us on the way to the Lonely Mountain.'
Azshar paused in her movements, the sword halfway back into its sheath. 'Are you sure that's a good idea?' she asked. 'I could point you in the way of twelve or thirteen dwarves who would disagree.'
'Their bark is much worse than their bite,' Gandalf said reassuringly.
'But I don't understand what their quest has to do with my missing memories,' Azshar said, still unconvinced. 'I thought – perhaps speaking to other elves might help. I could find someone who might know me.'
'I don't mean for you to go all the way to Erebor,' Gandalf said around his pipe. 'There is a house where a very wise, very old elf called Elrond lives. I haven't told Thorin yet, but I think we will stop there on our way to the Misty Mountains. And if there is anyone in this part of the world who knows how to deal safely with memories, it is Elrond Half-elven.'
Azshar chewed on her lip, glancing back at the singing dwarves. 'Alright, I will come,' she conceded at last. 'But you will be the one to tell the dwarves.'
'I already have to convince Bilbo to come along some time tonight,' Gandalf sighed. 'I suppose adding Thorin to the list of people to persuade won't make too much difference.'
'Good,' Azshar said, stifling a yawn as she strapped her sword back to her belt. Her exhaustion was insistent, and the singing of the dwarves was lulling her into a doze. Gandalf's eyes crinkled in amusement.
'It's high time for bed, especially for recent cave escapees,' he said. 'If you hurry, you might be able to get Bilbo's guest room before anyone else does.'
'Thank you,' she said with a smile. 'And thank you for… your questions.' She stood up and hit her head hard on a rafter. 'Ow!'
'Goodnight, Azshar,' Gandalf chuckled, and she blinked the stars away and shook her head at him.
'Goodnight.'
Bilbo's spare room was easy to find, and although the bed was just over half the length of Azshar's body, it was better than the floor. She unbuckled her sword before lowering herself onto the bed with shaking arms and curling up under the blanket. She was fast asleep in minutes.
She dreamed she was a child, sewing with her mother in the shining white city.
She was sitting on the ground in a garden. Green boughs dotted with blue flowers hung low over her head, and the chimes hung in them sang softly with every breath of wind. She breathed in deeply. The cool air tasted clean and sharp and familiar. It tasted like home.
'Pull your stitches tighter, my love,' came her mother's voice. She was sitting on a stone bench, a large, thick cloth lying in her lap. It was a tapestry, and she was sewing an intricate pattern into it. Azshar had a smaller one on her own lap.
'I am trying, amya,' she said with the voice of a young girl, looking back down at her embroidery. She was halfway through filling in the shape of a winged sun with golden thread, but her stitches weren't as perfect as her mother's.
Azshar looked back up at her. Her amya had long, golden hair, but she had the same face as Azshar. She smiled back. She was beautiful, and her eyes were filled with love. Her mouth curved into a knowing smile.
'You would rather be riding, wouldn't you, melda?' she said, amused.
Azshar shrugged. 'I like sewing, but I have no talent for it.'
'The more you do, the better you will be,' her mother said. She stood and came over to kneel by Azshar. She smelled sweet and warm, like ripe pears. She put her hand on Azshar's shoulder and traced over her work with a finger. 'It is good. It is well done, if lacking in a little skill.'
Azshar smiled broadly at the praise. 'Good enough to give to father?'
'He would love it,' she said, kissing her on the temple, 'for he loves truth and beauty, and your work is sincere and bold, like all things you do.'
Azshar looked up at her. 'You are right though, amya,' she said, her smile widening to a grin. 'I would rather be out riding.'
Her mother laughed – a beautiful, vibrant sound that made her heart ache. 'You are too much like your brother, and your father.'
'Who is speaking of me behind my back?' came a familiar voice, and they turned to see her father striding into the garden. He hadn't changed at all since the last memory she had of him, and she leapt to her feet to run and meet him.
'Tatanya!'
He seemed tired, but when he saw her, he smiled. 'Where are your shoes, my love?'
'I lost them,' Azshar said, watching her mother as she came over and took her husband's hand in hers.
'I have a gift for you, little love,' Azshar's father said, shooting her mother a pre-emptively apologetic look. She clapped her hands in excitement, and he handed her a long, thin bundle wrapped in cloth. She knelt down to unwrap it. The cloth fell away to reveal a scabbard, engraved with swirling vine patterns. She gasped at the same time as her mother did.
'You made her a sword?' she said beseechingly. 'But she is still so young!'
'She is young, but she is fiery in spirit,' her father replied. 'She will teach herself if we do not.'
'It is much too big for her.'
'It is not a sword for a child,' he said. 'I forged it full-sized, so she can grow into it.'
'I would rather a needle in her hand than a blade.'
'You have one daughter already with the heart of a healer,' her father said consolingly. 'This one, I'm afraid, has much more taste for adventure.'
Their conversation barely registered in Azshar's mind, so preoccupied was she with reverently pulling the sword free of its sheath. The blade's tempered steel glinted silver, it too engraved with a winding, curling pattern that extended all the way down its blade. There were small runes engraved near the hilt, spelling its name.
'Thank you, tatanya,' she whispered. 'This is the best gift I have ever received.'
He smiled at her fondly. 'I forged it myself,' he said. 'It is called Helcaruivë, and Valar willing, I will teach you to wield it.'
She stood up and flung her arms around his waist and her mother's, who laughed in surprise. She felt her father's heavy hand on her shoulder, and her mother's hand resting on her head.
And then they disappeared.
She awoke with a sudden intake of breath, early morning sunshine spilling through a round window and onto her face. She was in Bilbo's house, she remembered. She was sleeping in his spare room. And they were to leave at dawn…
Azshar sat bolt upright, listening hard. She breathed a sigh of relief when she realised she could hear the quiet rustlings of the dwarves in the kitchen. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing carefully and pausing to gauge her strength. To her satisfaction, she felt stronger still. The food and rest had done her good.
She caught sight of a neat pile of clothing by the end of the bed – something that hadn't been there the night before. She examined the pile; they were too big for a hobbit, and too long for a dwarf. They were for her.
'Gandalf,' she muttered. Then, checking the door was closed, she pulled off the rags of the blue dress and stepped into the new clothes.
She surmised that they must have been made for a Man. There was a rough-woven white undershirt that had sleeves to her wrists, and a pair of dark trousers. A linen tunic that fell to her knees was next, and she buckled her belt over the top, her sword at her left hip. Finally, she pulled on boots that were a little too small, and a woollen cloak which fastened at her neck.
She tucked her locket under the tunic and took a moment to draw in a deep breath. The gnawing emptiness was still there, eating away at her insides. She pursed her lips and – making sure to duck this time – she made her way out to where the others were.
'Thank goodness,' Gandalf said when he saw her. 'I was starting to think you weren't coming.'
'I was sleeping,' she said.
'Keep your voice down, Azshar,' Bofur said. 'We don't want to wake Bilbo.'
'Isn't he coming with us?' she asked, frowning.
'He said he didn't want to come last night,' Kíli said glumly.
'But we're all happy that you're coming along with us instead,' Ori said, patting her on the shoulder. 'Well… some of us are happy.'
'Meaning some of you are unhappy,' she added, glancing over at Thorin. He had been glaring at the back of her head, but he had the grace to look away when she made eye contact with him. 'Wonderful.'
'Time to go,' Balin declared to the group at a whisper. 'Nice and quietly, now.'
Dwalin opened the door and they all began filing out. She glanced around the hobbit hole; it was nice and tidy, with almost no evidence of the party that had happened last night. Say what you will about dwarves, she thought, but it seemed they were wonderful house guests.
Gandalf tossed her a pack with a strap to go across her chest so she could carry it on her back. She caught it and swung it on before stepping out the round green door and closing it behind her. She groaned a little as she straightened.
'Oh, but it feels good to be able to stand up again.'
'Don't know what you mean,' Glóin said smugly in front of her. Óin snickered beside him, and Azshar smiled slightly, glad they were at least being civil towards her.
'Hm. Very funny.'
'You look very fetching in your new clothes, Azshar,' said Bofur. She smiled slightly.
'Gandalf's doing, I think.'
'You think correctly,' the wizard said. 'They were the closest I could find to your size on short notice.'
'She looks like a scarecrow,' Kíli whispered a little way back. Fíli guffawed.
It was a beautiful early morning in the Shire. There was dew on the grass, and the early birds were singing loudly. There were one or two hobbits out and about; one who was pushing a wheelbarrow full of beetroots along the road nearly upended his load when he saw the mismatched party meandering along.
Gandalf kept throwing glances over his shoulder, looking back the way they had come with a frown. The fourth time he did it, they were at the edge of Hobbiton, and Azshar squeezed past Nori and Bombur to walk alongside him.
'What's wrong?'
'Hm?'
'You keep looking back,' she said. 'Did you forget something? Are we being followed?'
'I hope not,' he replied with a sigh. 'But I did think Bilbo might change his mind about coming along.'
'You couldn't convince him, then?'
'I really thought that I'd be able to,' Gandalf said. 'He's created a character for himself which is very… proper, but underneath all that bluster is a hobbit that loves an adventure. I think there's more Took in that boy than there is Baggins.'
'The dwarves will be alright without him though, won't they?' she asked. 'Perhaps you can pick up another burglar along the way? Are they very rare in these parts?'
'Quite rare,' Gandalf nodded. 'And Azshar, I'll let you in on a secret – Bilbo himself isn't a burglar.'
She frowned. 'Well then why on earth –'
'Hey!' came a cry behind them, and the whole Company spun to see a Bilbo the fat little hobbit, running at full pelt down the road. 'Hey there! Wait for me!'
Gandalf shot Azshar a knowing look, but she frowned back at him. 'You lied to the dwarves!' she whispered, but the wizard wasn't listening.
'Bilbo! At last!'
Thorin looked like he wanted to roll his eyes so far up into his head that they would never come back down, but instead he managed to just growl. 'Keep moving.'
They went on, most of the dwarves a bit brighter now that their burglar was coming along with them. Bilbo stoically ignored Thorin's scowl and instead walked alongside Balin, chatting away quietly. Gandalf stayed beside Azshar, emanating smug satisfaction. They made it a half-hour before a horrified cry brought us to a halt.
'Stop!' Bilbo bellowed. 'Stop, everyone! We need to go back!'
'What on earth for, laddie?' Balin asked, aghast.
'I forgot my handkerchief,' Bilbo explained, distress clearly written on his face. Nori snorted loudly; Balin looked like he was trying not to laugh, and Dwalin stifled a heavy sigh. Beside Azshar, Gandalf's lips twitched.
'It's going to be a long journey,' she said, and he shook his head.
'Indeed it is.'
Travelling with the dwarves was good.
It was cold and dirty, and they gave her more harrumphs than kind words. But they were noisy and funny, and their constant jokes and bickering distracted Azshar from the emptiness in her mind and her chest that threatened to drown her. She remained wary of them, and they of her, but she found herself growing to like them.
She volunteered to stand watch most nights, because she didn't feel the need to sleep as much as the dwarves did. Thorin would purse his lips and reluctantly agree, as long as she was accompanied by one of the Company.
In the close darkness of the nights, she would sit at the edge of the camp and look up at the stars, her hand closed around her locket and her cloak wrapped tightly around her. She didn't like the quiet, because it gave her time to think.
Was the sickening, rotting, empty feeling in her chest was because of her missing memories, or because of something else? She began to wonder why she had lost her memories in the first place. At the back of her mind, she feared that there was a reason she didn't know who she was. That there was something dangerous she was being protected from.
A few days into the journey, they passed around a little town called Bree. Óin and Glóin went into the town while the others made camp, and emerged an hour later with fourteen ponies.
'Bravo!' Dori crowed when he saw them. 'These will speed us up a good deal!'
'Whatever are we going to feed them?' Ori asked anxiously.
'Grass, you numbskull,' Nori muttered.
'We got them free as well,' Glóin said smugly to Thorin. 'The man owed Óin a favour from some years back.'
Óin grunted, nodding vigorously.
'What good are they going to do us though?' Bofur asked. 'There are fourteen of them, and sixteen of us.' The thirteen dwarves – and Bilbo – all turned to look at Gandalf and Azshar.
'I doubt either of them would fit on a pony anyway,' Bilbo reasoned timidly.
'And elves like running,' Bombur added uncertainly. 'Right?'
'Hmph!' Gandalf snorted. 'I see what you think of us. A wizard and an elf ever so kindly offer to help you in your quest, and you think to make them walk behind you while you ride ahead like kings!'
Thorin, whom Azshar had recently discovered actually was a king, looked puzzled at the metaphor. The rest of the dwarves stared guiltily down at their feet.
'We didn't mean –' Fíli began weakly, but Gandalf cut him off.
'No matter! Azshar and I shall go in ourselves and get our own horses. In the dark, I might add!'
Then he was marching back to the path. Azshar hurried after him with a smile.
It was a beautiful evening. It had been cloudy and threatening rain all day, but now the sun was right on the horizon, and it stained the underside of the clouds so that the whole sky was red like blood. Azshar stared up at it as she walked with Gandalf, lost in thought.
She had her mother's voice in her ear, whispering it's time to wake up.
'If it isn't too much trouble,' Gandalf said wryly, 'we might want to move faster. It will be dark soon.'
'Sorry,' she said, blushing and lengthening her strides. 'I was thinking.'
'I'm sure you were.'
'Where are we going?' she asked.
'We're going to buy a pair of horses,' Gandalf said. 'I know someone who is trustworthy. That said, she has never once sold a beast at a fair price. You would think they were horses from Rohan judging by what she charges, but mark my words…'
Azshar suddenly stopped listening and froze in place, her hand drifting closer to her sword. She could feel eyes on her, somehow; a prickle on the back of her neck that wasn't entirely friendly…
She whirled on the spot, her heart racing, but behind her in the gathering dusk she could only see a small house, its shutters drawn and no smoke coming from the chimney. She frowned, staring. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Could she trust her instincts?
'Azshar! Come along, this is the place,' came Gandalf's voice, jolting her from her stupor. He was beckoning her from up ahead, standing at the door of a house. She could hear the faint sound of horses nickering and harrumphing out the back.
'You go in,' she said, walking over to him. Her hand gripped the hilt of her sword. 'I don't mind waiting outside.' Gandalf narrowed his eyes at her, and she shook her head. 'It's nothing. Don't worry, you go ahead.'
He didn't look convinced, but he turned and rapped on the door with his staff. It opened after a few seconds, and a red-cheeked woman – a human woman, Azshar realised – appeared in the doorway.
'Well I'll be, the old man is back!' she exclaimed, looking Gandalf up and down. 'You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you've been the same age since I was a girl. What can I do for you?'
'I would like to purchase two horses, for myself and my friend,' he replied, gesturing at Azshar. The woman's eyes widened slightly as she glanced over at her.
'You've come late in the day, but I'd be happy to oblige,' she said, beckoning Gandalf inside. 'We even have a couple of elvish-raised mares, if the lady would prefer…'
Gandalf glanced back at Azshar, and she nodded at him. 'I won't be long,' he said to her, and the door closed behind him. She sighed and closed her eyes as the quiet of night enveloped her. She could hear the small sounds of the town – a baby laughing somewhere, chatter from a bar, the clattering of some plates, a woman singing some tune… and footsteps, careful, quiet footsteps behind her.
Her eyes flew open and she spun around, half convinced that the street would be empty again – but it wasn't. There was a tall, slender man standing there, wearing a hooded cloak that covered his face. Azshar pulled her sword halfway out of its sheath as a warning to him.
They stood there for a moment, watching each other in silence. Her heart was racing, and her blood felt like quicksilver in her veins. The man was utterly still. His face was entirely in shadow, and she couldn't make out any features or expression.
'It was you who was watching me before,' she said quietly into the evening air, barely trusting her voice to be steady. The hood inclined in a nod, and she pursed her lips. She adjusted her grip on the hilt of her sword. 'Do you have something to say?'
Slowly, the man reached up and pulled down his hood. He had dark, wispy hair, high cheekbones, pointed ears. His face was unlined, but his eyes… they were old. Something flickered in Azshar's mind, and her eyes widened. She knew this man. He was an elf, and she knew him.
She didn't know what to say. Her head felt strange, as though there were strings inside it that had been cut for a long time, but were fusing back together. She knew him. She stood there in silence, watching him with wide eyes.
'Lalaith,' he said at last. His voice was deep and lilting and disbelieving. He took an involuntary step forward, and his cloak shifted back. She saw his hands were trembling. 'How are you here?'
'Who are you?' she whispered, her heart thundering in her ears. His eyes widened as he stared at her, and then his gaze dropped to the locket at her neck.
'You… don't remember?'
She shook her head slowly, backing away a step. Mirroring her, he took another step forward.
'Then I can still fix this,' he said unevenly, taking another step. It almost sounded like he was talking to himself. Swallowing hard, she drew her sword and held it ready. 'There's still time… You need to go back.'
'No further.'
'You need to go back,' he said again, his blue eyes filling with despair. 'By the Valar, I thought this was done…'
'What?' she whispered through clenched teeth, gripping her sword with shaking hands and taking another step back. 'What was done?'
'You really don't remember?' he asked.
'Do you know who I am?' she said at the same time. But just then, she heard the sound of voices growing nearer from the direction of the house. They both glanced over – Azshar could see the tip of Gandalf's hat bobbing along behind the fence – and when she looked back, the elf was gone. She was brandishing her sword at an empty street.
'Azshar?' Gandalf said sharply when he emerged through the gate in the fence, two horses in tow. He looked left and right along the road. 'What is it?'
She sheathed her sword, trying to slow her breathing. She was shaking. 'It was… he's gone,' she said. 'It's nothing. Let's just… get back.'
Gandalf regarded her with his pale, sharp eyes, but wordlessly handed her the bridle of one of the horses. It was a glossy brown, a white patch on its nose. 'You don't want to talk about it?'
'Not yet, no. I don't think so.'
'Let's go, then.'
Still frowning, Azshar gripped the saddle, inserted her left foot into the stirrup, and then… then it was as though habit kicked in, and mounting the horse was as easy as balancing on one leg.
'Your horse was raised and trained in Rivendell, according to that woman, so she should be perfect for you,' Gandalf said. 'Not too hard to handle.'
'Hello there,' Azshar whispered, leaning forward and stroking the horse's neck. The horse snorted softly, and she felt some of the tension leaving her. 'Do you have a name?'
'Winnie, apparently,' Gandalf said, sounding supremely unimpressed.
'Ah, I see,' she said with a smile. 'Like whinny. Very funny.'
'I've heard better,' the wizard muttered, and began to canter away. Her smile widened, the unease from her strange encounter slowly fading, and she patted Winnie's neck again. Then she sat up in the saddle.
She surged into a canter after Gandalf. It was exhilarating, and like before, it felt like her brain was reconnecting parts of itself. This was something she remembered; this was something from before.
Azshar urged Winnie to go faster, and soon they were even with Gandalf, at the gates of the city. She whooped loudly as they overtook him, standing in the stirrups and letting go of the reigns, trusting her elvish steed to be steady beneath her. Excitement and power coursed through her veins, and she sat back in the saddle before kicking Winnie into a gallop.
The horse took to it like a fish to water and they shot down the road, leaving Gandalf and Bree in the dust. Azshar's heart thrummed in her chest. This was familiar – this rush, this exhilaration, the elation she felt at the gallop. This had once been a part of who she was.
She pulled on the reigns after a minute or so, breathless and smiling, and wheeled Winnie around to canter back and find Gandalf. He hadn't bothered in the slightest to keep up with them, and he raised an eyebrow when she appeared again.
'So you can ride, I see,' he said, and she laughed.
'It seems so, old man.'
'Why did you have your sword drawn in the street before?' he asked suddenly, and the smile slipped from her face. She didn't know how to explain what had happened. She could barely rationalise it to herself.
'There was… a man,' she said at last.
'A man?'
'An elf. He was watching us on our way into Bree, and when you went in to get the horses, he approached me. I felt like…' she shook my head, frowning. 'I knew him, I think. Before I lost my memory. But… I don't know how. I don't know.'
'Did he say anything to you?'
'He said… he recognised me. And he kept saying I needed to go back.'
'Back?'
She sighed, rubbing at her temple. 'I don't know, Gandalf. That's just what he said.'
'Anything more?'
'He called me Lalaith.'
Gandalf stiffened, almost unnoticeably. 'That didn't… bring forward any other memories, did it?'
She frowned. 'No. Should it have?'
'Not necessarily. Anything more?'
'You came out, and he disappeared,' she said shrugging. 'But… I don't have a good feeling about all this, Gandalf. He was… he seemed dangerous. Desperate, maybe.'
Gandalf leaned over and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it. 'You have friends, Azshar,' he said. 'You aren't alone.' She jerked her head in a nod, and he let go of her. 'Here we are,' he said.
The dwarves were impressed at how beautiful the horses were, until Gandalf told them they were elvish horses. Then they were declared to have shoddy shoes, mangy coats and dull eyes.
'Their saddles are a bit plain too,' Bifur said, his nose turned up, and Azshar huffed.
'That's hardly their fault, is it? And nor is it the fault of the elves, because we bought them from a woman in Bree.'
'If you say so,' Bombur muttered, lying down and pulling a blanket over his sizeable belly. Azshar frowned.
'You're sleeping already?'
'We ate while you were gone,' Bilbo said sleepily.
'I saved some for you, though,' Nori said, bringing her over a bowl. She took it and nodded her thanks.
'Who's on first watch?' Thorin asked from the far side of the fire, already wrapped in his blanket.
'I can do it,' Azshar said, ignoring the fatigue that had been increasing the past few days.
There was the usual prolonged silence while Thorin seemed to weigh how much he distrusted her against how much he wanted a good night's sleep, and this time, Dwalin was the one to speak up.
'I'll watch with her,' he said gruffly.
Azshar rolled her eyes and took a mouthful of her hot dinner. She turned her back to the fire so that the light wouldn't blind her to someone. Around her, the Dwarves settled down and gradually began snoring.
'I miss my bed,' she heard Bilbo whisper sadly to himself, before drifting off to sleep.
After a half hour, Dwalin trudged over and dropped down beside her, drawing his axe and tapping it reflectively against his boot. He seemed lost in thought, and for a long while, they sat there in a silence that was almost amicable, each of them staring out into the trees.
Inevitably, Azshar's thoughts drifted back to the man in Bree. The sense of foreboding she'd felt at seeing him hadn't faded, and suddenly she felt anxious. He knew she was out there now, just like she knew he was near. He'd looked at her with such bone-deep weariness in his eyes, such despair at the sight of her.
You need to go back.
Back where? Back to the cave? Why would anyone want her there? Again, she wondered whether getting her memories back was even a good idea. Her old self had been trapped in a cave, and there had to be a reason for that. Had someone done it to her? Had she done it to herself?
And if either of these were true, did she really want to find out why? Because seeing the man in Bree today had driven the point home: remembering who she was would mean remembering the troubles, the enemies and all the problems that her old self had had. And those troubles had landed her buried in a cave, miles from anywhere.
Of all things, she was fairly certain that her being trapped in a cave hadn't been an accident, but something sinister. She remembered the runes that had been carved into the stone of the cave's entrance. Someone had put them there for a reason. Someone had known she was inside.
Then again, it seemed that in the end, she wouldn't have a choice about whether or not she remembered her past. The further east she travelled, the more memories returned. They were in her dreams at night, or triggered by things that happened while she was awake, like riding the horse or seeing the elf in Bree.
Azshar sighed heavily and drew her sword, letting its tip rest in the dust at her feet. The red firelight flickered off its engraved blade, and the sight filled her with an odd sort of calm. Her father had forged it for her himself. She had a father; that was something to hold onto.
'Does it have a name?' Dwalin asked suddenly. Azshar's head jerked up at the unexpected question.
'Hm?'
'The sword, I mean. Most swords have names.'
'Helcaruivë,' she said, the word rolling off her tongue. 'What about you, does your axe have a name?'
'It's in Khuzdul,' Dwalin replied, as if that answered her question. But then she remembered the conversation she'd overheard Ori, Nori and Dori having.
'Khuzdul is secret, yes?'
Dwalin nodded slowly, his gaze on the dark horizon. 'That language is only for us. Our proper names as well, we only go by those among dwarves.'
Azshar stared down at the sword, her brow furrowing. 'I heard a name today,' she said quietly, 'one that could be mine.'
Dwalin looked sideways at her, but didn't say anything, allowing her to go on.
'I came across a man in Bree. An Elf. He recognised me, and he… he called me Lalaith.'
'Was he your kin?' Dwalin asked. 'Did he tell you anything more about who you are?'
She shook her head, staring but not really seeing. 'I don't know. No. He just said that name, Lalaith.'
Dwalin was silent again, and she was grateful. There was nothing much to say to something like that.
'Lalaith… sounds right,' she said quietly after a minute. 'It sounds like something I've heard before. Something that might mean me. But somehow, it doesn't sound right enough. I don't know. I could just have everything confused.'
'Did you ask Gandalf if he knew the name?' Dwalin asked.
She shook her head. 'Gandalf… already seems like he knows more than he's letting on,' she said. 'If he doesn't think that I should know who I am…' she trailed off, staring into the dark. Then she shook her head and turned to Dwalin. 'I've been wondering if maybe it's for the best that I don't know anything.'
He scratched his bald head. 'Well, that's… a thought.'
'It's just… now, with no memories, I can have a fresh start, no matter what happened before.' She rubbed absent-mindedly at the empty feeling in her chest. 'Maybe some things are meant to be left behind. Maybe somethings are better off forgotten.'
'If you were to ask me, though I can't imagine why you would,' Dwalin said, 'I would say that you ought to stop running from your past.'
She looked at him side-on. 'Go on.'
'I don't like running from things. I'm better at fighting than I am at running. I find that whatever's chasing me tends to catch up in the end.'
'So you think I should just face it? Whatever it is?'
'Think of it like this,' Dwalin said. 'You're alive now. That means you've survived every battle you've come across so far. Whatever you had to face before you lost your memory, you did it and you survived. That means you can do it again.'
A light rain began misting down. Dwalin pulled his hood up, but Azshar let it fall on her hair. 'Maybe you're right,' she said.
'Of course I am,' Dwalin replied. 'I'm going to look south.'
He got up and made his way around to sit at the other side of the campfire to sit alone. Azshar shook her head and sighed.
'Lalaith,' she whispered. 'My name is Lalaith.' It felt strange, not quite right on her tongue, but it felt like something she might have said before.
As promised, here is the early update (so as not to interrupt Gandalf for too long...). I hope you enjoy, and thank you, as always, for reading! Follow and favourite to stay up to date, because Chapter Five, in which Azshar does some Sherlock-esque deducing, Gandalf dabbles in ventriloquy, we enter Cave #2 of the story, and the very worst swear word of all is revealed (booby). See you soon!
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