Chapter Six: Muilë


She dreamed of pain.

She was cold and starving and exhausted to her very bones – but none of it mattered, because pain overruled everything.

She was hanging from a cliff by one arm, which was tied with a rope at her wrist. Agonising bolts of pain shot through her arm, her whole body, and it was torture, unspeakable, unbearable torture…

She screamed, her voice echoing off the cliffside and her throat raw.

There was no way to end it.


She was shaken awake, and she realised in horror that she'd been screaming aloud. She instantly leapt to her feet, gasping in air like she'd been drowning. A few seconds passed, and then she leaned over and vomited.

'Azshar?'

She coughed and retched again, then straightened up and wiped her mouth, staggering to the side. There were tears in her eyes. She blinked them away. The emptiness in her chest was overwhelming her whole body with its rotten despair. She couldn't breathe

'Azshar.'

She looked up, gasping and clutching at her chest. She couldn't breathe. 'W-what?'

Thorin was staring at her, still standing over where she'd been asleep minutes ago. 'Are you…'

'It's nothing,' she rasped. 'I just had… a bad dream.'

He nodded, not looking particularly convinced, and she glanced around. Everyone else was awake and staring at her unashamedly. Nori was looking at her worriedly, and Bombur looked faintly nauseated at the vomiting. Gandalf had his lips pursed, like she'd added a problem to his list.

'I've never had a dream that bad,' she heard Glóin mutter to Óin.

Azshar ignored them all and dug her waterskin out of her pack to wash out her mouth. Then, her head still swimming, she rolled up her blanket and packed it away. She could feel Gandalf's gaze on the back of her head, and she determinedly didn't turn around. She thanked her luck that it was dawn, so they could move on quickly.

Surreptitiously, while everyone else was preoccupied with packing their gear, Azshar held her arms up to the light, pushing her sleeves back. There were very faint, white scars encircling her right wrist. She shuddered and tugged the sleeves back down. So, it hadn't been just a dream. It was a memory.

Who was she?

Fíli and Kíli had gone and retrieved the horses and ponies from where they'd been left the night before. Azshar smiled shakily when she saw Winnie.

'Hello, my beauty,' she said, rubbing her nose. 'Nice to see you.' Winnie nickered softly. 'Yes, I suppose you heard my shouting too. Well, the good news is that I'm perfectly alright, only a little… you know. Taken aback.'

'When the elf has finished talking to the horse,' Dwalin announced drily, 'we'll get going.'

Silently, Azshar thanked Dwalin for treating her the same way he always had. 'You don't want to hear what she has to say about you dwarves,' Azshar said, climbing up into the saddle. 'Nothing good, I can assure you.'

'Oh no,' Nori said sarcastically. 'A horse doesn't like me.'

They'd lost the whole day before because of the trolls, so they rode relatively hard to make up ground. Gandalf and Azshar found themselves at the back of the pack, and for an hour or two they rode in silence. Azshar was glad; she knew the wizard was curious about what had happened that morning, but she didn't want to talk about it.

She didn't even want to think about it. She hadn't minded the dreams when they brought her memories of her mother embracing her, her brother swinging her up into the air, or the beauty of the white city. But it was evident that her life before had not been free of pain.

The dream had shaken her to her core, confirming what she had suspected before: that there might be something that was better left forgotten, something that might be best left behind in the past. How badly did she really want her memories back?

And there were things deeper inside her that felt broken. There was her mind, of course, and her missing memories, but there was also the empty ache in her chest. The dream had made it worse. She'd never imagined she could feel so alone.

She never wanted to focus on that feeling, because whenever she thought about it too long, it began to drag her down. It was a wicked, potent concoction of listless despair and nameless agony. It was becoming strong enough to make her desperate, reckless. She needed to make it stop, any way she could.

She didn't know what to do to fix herself. She didn't know her past, so she couldn't pinpoint what had caused those parts of her to be broken. Maybe the elves would have a solution, she thought without much conviction. Gandalf seemed wise; it stood to reason his friends would be too.

After a few hours of riding, Gandalf finally spoke up.

'That's some bruise you have on your jaw,' he began mildly. Azshar reached up to feel her face; it was tender to touch.

'I took a troll to the face,' she said. 'I don't think I came off too badly, considering.'

'At least you still have your teeth,' he agreed with a smile. 'But are you alright?'

Azshar nodded. 'I'm covered in bruises, but I don't think anything is broken.'

'What you did was impressive. You killed a troll, succeeding single-handedly where thirteen battle-hardened dwarves failed.'

'It was just luck, I imagine.'

'Or a well-thought-out plan executed bravely by someone with quite a bit of fighting experience,' Gandalf said lightly.

Azshar stared sidelong at him. 'What are you saying?'

Gandalf looked pensive. 'I merely observed that what you did was an exceptional show of prowess.'

'Gandalf, do you know something?' Azshar asked in a low voice. Gandalf turned his ice-blue eyes to her.

'I know many things, Azshar.'

She stared at him. She desperately wanted to ask. She desperately wanted to know who she was, to remember her history, but another part of her was smothered with fear. She was afraid of the hollowness inside her, and afraid of finding out what had caused it. She looked away.

'Where were you last night?'

'Where was I?'

'You disappeared, then returned to save us at the last minute,' she said. 'Where did you go?'

'I went to look ahead,' Gandalf said haughtily. 'I have other things to do with my time than supervising some wayward dwarves.'

'I can only imagine,' she said with a faint smile. 'What brought you back?'

'Looking behind. And you're mighty lucky that I did.'

Winnie tossed her head and whinnied as though she agreed, and Gandalf chucked. Azshar shook her head and shifted in her saddle.

'Where are we headed now? Still to see your friend?'

'Yes,' he replied. 'We are going to Rivendell, as unpopular as that decision might be. There are people there that can help us.'

'And there are elves there, yes?' she asked, feeling a thrill of anticipation.

'Oh yes,' Gandalf answered, a glint in his eye. 'Elves exclusively.'

They rode on for almost another week. Azshar did everything she could now to avoid sleeping; the thought of another nightmare was still enough to make her feel physically ill. It wasn't difficult for the first few days, but as they journeyed on, exhaustion began to take her. At night, she would sit still, her back resting against trees, and stare mindlessly up at the stars.

During the days, she became quieter and quieter. The dwarves didn't seem to notice, and if they did, they didn't seem to mind. Thorin shot her a few reproachful looks whenever she offered to take watch at night, but Azshar ignored him – just as she did the constant, watchful gaze of Gandalf. The ache inside her had become too strong for her to care about anything else.

They were riding through a wood of breath-taking beauty when the dwarves started talking about treasure. Azshar didn't listen at first; she was preoccupied by the sight of the trees, her head tilted upwards so she could watch the gentle sway of their branches in the golden afternoon light. It was peaceful, lulling; she wished she could stop and sleep.

Their leaves were a dark, rich green, but she could see where new, pale green shoots were blooming between. On some of the trees blossomed large white flowers, their petals spread wide and their faces to the sun. Azshar could smell a hint of their musky perfume in the air.

'Azshar!'

'Hm? What?'

'Typical elf, more concerned with her daydreams than the conversation,' Bombur snorted, and the others laughed.

She shook her head to clear it. 'What did I miss?'

'Kíli asked you what you'd do with your part of the treasure,' Ori said. Azshar frowned.

'My what?'

'Well, each part of the Company is getting an equal part of the treasure we find when we win back the Mountain,' Bofur explained.

'Doesn't it belong to Thorin?' she asked, confused.

'There is more than enough to go around,' Thorin called from the front of the pack.

'And it would include all the treasure we found in that troll cave as well, of course,' Dori reasoned.

'Well, what kind of treasure is it?' she asked.

'Gold, mostly,' Bombur said dreamily.

'Inside the mountain is the remains of a city,' Balin said. 'So there's a lot more there than just gold. Precious metals, countless gemstones, beautiful woodwork and metalwork, expensive cloths…'

'Don't forget the Arkenstone!' Dori piped up.

'That one technically does belong to Thorin,' Ori pointed out.

'What is the Arkenstone?' Bilbo asked curiously.

'A jewel of the utmost magnificence and indescribable beauty,' Bifur said sombrely. 'The symbol of the King under the Mountain.'

'Sort of like a massive diamond,' Glóin added. Óin nodded emphatically. 'But not quite a diamond. Not quite like any known gemstone, actually. It's one of a kind.'

'It glows from within, like it has been lit by some kind of magical light,' Dwalin said, getting in on the collective excitement.

'It was dug it from the very lowest pits of Erebor's mines,' Nori explained. 'Right out of the heart of the earth.'

'A gift from Mahal, perhaps,' said Bofur.

'And the obsession of dwarves the world over,' Gandalf said wryly.

'Rightly so,' Thorin said with a hint of indignance. 'It is magnificent.'

'Anyway,' Kíli said, 'that won't much concern you, Azshar. I imagine you'll be more interested in the other jewels.'

'So?' Fíli asked. 'What will you do with your portion?'

Azshar felt a warm feeling flush over her at the realisation that they were counting her as one of them – and a hint of sadness that she had to correct them. 'I'm… not part of the Company.'

'Don't say that, Azshar!' Ori protested. 'If you're on the quest, you're in the Company!'

'Even if you are an elf,' Nori said.

'And though we'd sooner cut off our own beards than see our gold in the hands of elves,' Balin added, 'I suppose you're the best-case scenario.'

'That's nice of you to say, Balin,' Azshar said awkwardly. 'But the thing is, I haven't really come along to… you know, retake the Lonely Mountain.'

There was a short silence while all the dwarves in front of her spun in their saddles to stare at her. Óin looked confused, Bilbo looked baffled, and Ori looked downright betrayed. Azshar turned to look at Gandalf.

'You didn't explain this to them?' she muttered.

He looked as sheepish as she'd ever seen him. 'I don't recall how specific I was when I said you were coming along.'

'So – this entire time,' Azshar said, turning back to the dwarves, 'you've all been thinking I'll go the whole way with you?'

'Won't you?' Bifur asked.

'I – well, no, I can't!' she said.

'Typical bloody Elf,' Nori muttered next to her. 'Runs away right as the going gets tough!'

Azshar frowned, feeling tired and irritated. 'The plan from the beginning,' she said, 'has been for me to go with you until we found the elves, so that I can get help with my memory problem.'

'Wait,' Dwalin said. 'What do you mean, found the elves?'

Thorin jerked his pony to a halt, meaning the rest of them had to stop too. He spun to face Azshar, and his face was thunderous. 'Are we looking for the elves, Azshar?'

She stared at him, at a loss for words. 'You… didn't we…'

Thorin's frown grew impossibly darker, but then something clicked in her mind, and she spun to look at the back of the convoy where Gandalf rode.

'You,' she said.

'Yes, me,' he sighed. 'Thorin, whether you like it or not, we are going to Rivendell, where the Last Homely House is found. As I have told you at least fifteen times, we need their help.'

'We most certainly do not need the help of elves –'

'Thorin,' Gandalf said sternly. 'I am going to seek help from the elves, and if you would like to have my continued help, I suggest you come with me.'

There was another long silence, while the Company looked to Thorin. His face turned stony. 'Azshar, you may do what you like, but we will be going our own way.'

Azshar stared at him. She hadn't expected to be friends with Thorin; she hadn't even expected him to be civil. But to be abandoned so quickly after they'd travelled together, fought trolls together, after all the reluctant concern he'd begun to show for her – that hurt.

She was too exhausted to deal with this, she thought hopelessly, and she swallowed thickly, her shoulders hunching in. Thorin had already turned back and had started riding again, but Nori cleared his throat beside her.

'Don't worry yourself, lass,' he said. 'He dislikes elves, not you. And you'll be missed when we part ways, sure as day.'

'Thank you, Nori,' she said heavily, rubbing at her chest. The emptiness hurt. Nori tugged his beard and looked down, and they rode on in silence.

But Gandalf wasn't yet ready to let the argument go. He cantered along the edge of the path, ducking to stay below trees, until he was level with Thorin, who was glaring daggers.

'Thorin, I'm afraid you have very little choice in this matter,' Azshar heard him say. 'The elves will help us read your map, and identify the sword you now carry. Not to mention, our supplies are severely lacking, and we are all in need of a good night's sleep.'

'We will find supplies elsewhere.'

'There is no elsewhere, you foolish dwarf! It isn't called the Last Homely House because it sounds pretty!'

'We,' Thorin said through clenched teeth, 'are not going to Rivendell.'

'That's a shame,' a clear, unfamiliar voice called from up ahead. 'Because you're already here!'

Azshar stood suddenly in her stirrups and drew her sword, a heartbeat before the rest of the dwarves drew their own weapons. There was a single man standing on the path, ahead of Gandalf and Thorin. He had a drawn bow aimed at Thorin's chest, but he smiled at Gandalf.

'Hello, Mithrandir.'

'Elrohir,' Gandalf nodded. 'I suppose your brother is here also?'

Azshar heard a rustle to her left and inhaled sharply. 'We're surrounded,' she announced in a low voice. It was enough to draw the gaze of Elrohir, the elf with the bow.

'Fascinating,' he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. 'An elf riding with a pack of dwarves. Never have I seen such a wonder.'

'Lower your bow,' she called back, her heart in her throat. There were whispers in the trees around us, and she knew the others had heard. She swallowed. This didn't feel like it was going to end well, and something told her that when it came to it, she wouldn't be able to kill any of them, even if she had the chance. They were her kind.

'We are here as friends, Elrohir,' Gandalf said placatingly. 'I promise on behalf of this Company that if no harm comes to them here, no harm will come to you. We seek only an audience with your father.'

Elrohir's gaze flicked to Thorin, and Thorin – grudgingly and reluctantly, after a very long pause – nodded his agreement. With startling speed, Elrohir lowered his bow and returned the arrow to its quiver at his waist.

'Very well,' he said. 'Follow us!'

The elves emerged from the trees, secretive smiles on their faces. The dwarves put their weapons away, but Azshar saw Fíli checking that he still had a dagger tucked into his sleeve. Pursing her lips, she sheathed her sword.

She gripped the reins more tightly than was strictly necessary as the elves led their party onward. She kept her gaze fixed rigidly ahead, acutely aware that she was surrounded by elves who were regarding her curiously. For some reason, her heart was thundering in her chest.

These are my people, she thought. This is where I'll get answers. She wished Gandalf had thought to give her some warning.

The sun was sinking quickly as they travelled, but it wasn't long before they broke out of the trees and – Rivendell came into view. Azshar caught her breath.

The twilight illuminated a steep decline into a valley that had formed around a twisting river. Sheer cliffs covered in pine trees shielded the valley from bad weather, and from the top of one a waterfall tumbled, sending a fine, rainbow mist into the air.

At the foot of the cliffs and surrounded by forests and gardens, was what she supposed was the Last Homely House. It seemed more a collection of buildings than a house, big and numerous enough to house at least a few hundred people.

The valley was not beautiful in a breathtaking, stunning sort of way, but in a way that made Azshar feel safe and filled her with a gentle awe. It was beautiful in the way that a home was beautiful. She couldn't help but feel drawn to it.

'Mahal's beard, we have to stay in this place?' Glóin grumbled behind her. She heard Óin grunt in unimpressed agreement.

'I thought it was nice,' she murmured.

'Well, you're an elf,' Dori pointed out.

'Keep coming!' Elrohir called from a little way ahead on the path. 'We are almost there!'

'Gandalf has made our bed,' Thorin sighed. 'Now we must lie in it. On we go – but be on your guard.'

When they got to the bottom of the valley, night had almost fallen, and the sky was a deep bluish-purple. They dismounted in a courtyard, and a tall, elaborately robed Elf stepped forward, flanked by two others, one dark haired and the other blonde. His face reminded Azshar of something, someone, but she couldn't remember what. She moved to stand behind Gandalf, half hiding herself from view.

'Welcome to Rivendell,' the elf said with a smile. 'Gandalf, I am always glad to see you. And – I assume – Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, of Erebor?'

'At your service,' Thorin said darkly, in a manner that made it sound like he very much wasn't at the elf's service.

'Forgive me,' the elf said with a small bow. 'I gather news from as far as I can manage. I have heard tales of you, and your ancestors.'

The elf, and his manner of speaking, was growing more and more familiar to Azshar. She rubbed her forehead; her brain felt fuzzy again, like it was slowly knitting pieces of itself back together. If she hadn't known this elf before she lost her memory, he reminded her of someone she had.

'And whom do we have the honour of meeting, might I ask?' Balin cut in, stepping forward and speaking in a tone which communicated that the honour of the meeting was dubious at best.

'I am Elrond, the master of this house,' the elf said. 'I bid you all welcome.'

'Gosh, thanks,' Glóin muttered.

'I look forward to speaking with you more,' Elrond went on, his mouth quirking, 'but I am sure you are in need of rest and food first, and I would be a poor host to deny you them.'

Bombur's stomach rumbled loudly, and Kíli snorted. Fíli punched him on the shoulder and he fell quiet. Elrond made a gesture, and the elf at his left hand stepped forward.

'This is Erestor, my steward,' Elrond said. 'He will show you to a place where you may rest and recover.'

Without a word, Erestor turned and began walking away. Thorin followed him, and the rest of the dwarves followed. Azshar did too, keeping her head down – until Gandalf grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

'Just a moment,' he said quietly. She winced, and he frowned at her. 'Are you quite alright?'

She let out a shaky breath. 'I… I don't know,' she confessed quietly. 'Are you sure this is the right thing to do?'

He smiled and squeezed her arm. 'Not to worry. You'll be just fine.'

The courtyard was quieter now, and empty except for the four of them – Azshar, Gandalf, Elrond, and the golden-haired elf. Drawing in a steadying breath, Azshar turned to face them.

An expression of pure astonishment crossed Elrond's face when he saw her, and it stayed for a second before he schooled it back into its previous aloof politeness. Azshar's eyes flicked to the elf at Elrond's right.

He was staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face. His hair was the shortest Azshar had seen out of all the elves she'd met so far, cut just above his shoulders. His eyes were a blue so dark she could barely make out his pupils – and they were icy cold. Their eyes met, and Azshar looked away quickly. She felt goosebumps rise on her arms.

Elrond drew in a breath to speak. 'You –'

'This is my friend, Azshar,' Gandalf interrupted him smoothly. 'We have been travelling together for a little while. Azshar, this is Lord Elrond.'

Azshar nodded at the elf. He bowed back and smiled warmly. 'Azshar,' he repeated. 'What a – strange name.'

'It was given to me by the dwarves,' Azshar said. Then she blinked; she wasn't speaking the Common Tongue. She hadn't even realised.

'Azshar,' Elrond said again, still smiling a smile that now seemed a little perturbed. He turned to face the stone-faced elf beside him. 'Glorfindel, would you go make sure our guests aren't causing Erestor trouble?'

The elf – Glorfindel – nodded, glanced once more at Azshar, and then left silently. Azshar released a quiet breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Gandalf was staring at her, waiting for her to say or do something. She frowned at him, confused.

'An elf dressed in men's clothing,' Elrond said with a smile, rubbing his hands together. 'One might call you a wolf in sheep's clothing.'

'They were the only clothes we could get,' she replied, trying not to fidget. She suddenly felt strange, the inside of her chest more warm than empty.

'Shall we go inside?' Elrond suggested, looking at Gandalf. 'I have – one or two questions.'

'Excellent idea,' Gandalf agreed. 'I think a good talk is overdue.'

Elrond gestured for them to follow, and he led them out of the courtyard.


He took them to a room filled with hundreds and hundreds of ancient books. They lined the walls from floor to ceiling, their cracked spines emblazoned in faded gold lettering that Azshar couldn't make out in the flickering firelight.

There fire was lit at the end of the room, and Elrond gestured for Azshar to sit in an armchair. She did so, and Gandalf and Elrond seated themselves opposite her. Azshar twisted her fingers together in her lap.

'Now,' Elrond began. 'I believe there is a story to be had.'

'It is your story, Azshar,' Gandalf said. 'No one will tell it better than you.'

She swallowed. 'Well… I suppose the short version of the story is that I woke up in a cave a few months ago, and I think I had a life here before I woke up, but I can't remember anything from it.'

'Very well,' Elrond said. 'Now, what is the long version?'

She stared at him, her fingers threading together. Then everything that had happened, everything she remembered, came spilling over her lips. She told him about everything: the cave, and her perilous walk to the beach. She talked about the fisherman and his wife who had braided her hair. She told him about meeting Gandalf in Hobbiton and showing him her locket and her sword. She told him about the memories, and how they came to her in bits and pieces while she slept.

'The first memories came back when I was still in the cave,' she said. 'The others come in my dreams, or while I'm unconscious.'

'The memories will doubtless provide some clues to your identity,' Elrond said. 'Supposing… that is something you wish to recover.'

Azshar's head jerked up and she stared at him. Elrond was watching her carefully. Did he expect her to say no? Was there really something terrible in her past that he knew of, and was trying to warn her of now?

As though he could read her mind, he smiled slightly. 'I am not trying to influence your choice, Azshar,' he said. 'I am not trying to imply that you should be afraid to regain your memories.'

'If I did want to remember everything,' she said slowly, 'would you be able to help me do it?'

Elrond steepled his fingers pensively. 'Memory is a very delicate, powerful thing,' he said. Azshar nearly sagged with disappointment. She should have known it wouldn't be that easy. 'Once we experience something, it is imprinted in our memory forever. There are ways to change the way we remember things, or to prevent us from recalling them at all, but the memories will still be there inside. Even for mortals, when they grow old and forgetful, their memories still exist inside them – just in a place which is hard for them to reach. They will forever be shaped by what they have experienced.'

'Memories can be hidden from the waking mind with a variety of methods – none of them particularly good, and all of them particularly dangerous,' Gandalf said. 'Sometimes the recovery of memories will have no effect on an individual. Other times –'

'Other times, they are killed by it,' Elrond said calmly.

'Oh,' Azshar whispered. Had the painful, empty feeling in her chest been there because her memories were returning in her dreams? Was… was she dying?

'It is a complex science,' Elrond went on. 'When memories are removed, the intricate intertwining of fëa and hroa – of soul and body, that is – is brutally ripped apart. Parts of your soul, your memories, are detached from you. This is why it usually requires dark kinds of enchantments.'

'If my fëa and hroa are separated, why have some of my memories returned in my dreams?' Azshar asked.

'Because they still exist in your mind,' Elrond said, 'though they are hidden. Imagine you held your memories in your hands your whole life, and then someone came along, snatched them from your grasp, and put them in a box to which you don't have the key.'

'I see,' she said slowly.

'If we control the return of your memories, it would be as though you found the key, unlocked the box and began taking out your memories in a calm, orderly manner, at your leisure,' Elrond said. 'But if your memories return too quickly, or by accident… it is as though someone has picked up the box and opened it by breaking it over your head.'

'So you understand, then,' Gandalf added, 'that even if the loss of your memory didn't kill you, its sudden, uncontrolled return likely would.'

Azshar nodded, starting to feel sick.

'What all this means,' Elrond said, 'is that until I know what exactly caused your amnesia, I am reluctant to push you to remember. Your best chance at the moment is to shelter yourself from the outside world and allow the memories to return on their own, slowly.'

'How long could that take?' Azshar asked.

'It would take years, I imagine,' Elrond said gently. 'Perhaps decades. Perhaps…'

'Centuries,' she said. 'I see.'

'Don't lose hope,' he said. 'Can you remember anything at all from before you woke up in the cave?' Azshar shook her head.

'Nothing. Except the memories I've had in my dreams, which aren't much help.'

'What is it that you've remembered?'

'The faces of my mother and father,' she said quietly. 'A brother and a sister. A white city with shining streets.' She didn't mention the nightmare of the cliff. Not yet.

'Are these early memories?'

'Yes.'

'What did they look like? Your family?' Gandalf asked.

'Like me, I suppose,' she said. 'My father and brother had dark hair like me. My mother and sister were blonde.'

Gandalf and Elrond exchanged a look. 'Are they all the memories you have?' Elrond asked.

'No,' she said. 'I remembered sparring with another elf in the white city. She was called Nerwen.'

'I see.'

'I remembered weaving with my mother, and my father giving me a sword he forged. This sword.' She had to force her voice to remain steady as she indicated the sword at her hip.

'Anything else?'

'There was a memory,' she said quietly, 'where I was hanging by one arm from the top of a precipice. I couldn't escape.'

Both Elrond and Gandalf were silent for a moment, and she got the impression they were fighting the urge to look at each other.

'May I see the sword?' Elrond asked at length.

Azshar stood from the armchair and unbuckled the sword from her side. She handed it to Elrond. He drew the sword from the scabbard and examined it, wonder written all over his face.

'Helcaruivë, ice-fire,' he murmured. 'What remarkable craftsmanship. I have not seen its like for thousands of years.'

He sheathed the sword smoothly and offered it back to Azshar. She took it gingerly and sat down again.

'My father forged it himself,' she said. 'That's what he told me.'

Elrond nodded. 'It would have few equals that still exist today. The only one I have seen which is similar belonged to the Lady of the Golden Wood, and it was given to her by her father. But it is lost now.'

Azshar reached into her tunic. 'There was this too,' she said, pulling out the locket. 'I was wearing it when I woke up.'

Elrond stared at the rayed sun engraved on it, pressing his hands together. 'That… is the device of the House of Finwë.'

Gandalf looked sharply over at Elrond, as though in warning, but Elrond's eyes were fixed on Azshar's face. She shook her head. 'Who is Finwë?'

'Finwë was a king who ruled a faraway land, many years ago,' Elrond replied. 'Sadly, he is gone now.'

Azshar frowned thoughtfully. Could Finwë be her ancestor? Or had she come by the locket some other way? 'Might it mean something?' she asked.

'It might. But Finwë has dozens, hundreds of descendants, not to mention all those who married into his family.'

'There's something else I think I should mention,' she said. 'I met someone in Bree, a man wearing a hooded cloak, and he seemed to know who I was.'

'A man or an elf?' Elrond asked.

'An elf. He kept saying that he thought this was done, and… I recognised him. I don't know why, or from where, but think I knew him from before.'

'Do you think he recognised you?' Elrond asked.

'I think so,' she said. 'I – I should have said so before, but he called me Lalaith. I think it could have… well, it might have been my name. But I don't know.'

Elrond had gone almost imperceptibly still, and his eyes were fixed on Azshar's face. But after a beat, he relaxed back into his chair, and the strange look was gone.

'Well, there is much to think about,' he said. 'I hope I will be able to help you, Azshar, but I can make no promises.'

'I understand,' she said. 'Thank you for… for explaining everything.'

'I think it is best that you stay here when your Company moves on,' Elrond went on. 'We would be more than happy to have you stay here with us.'

'If you say so,' Azshar agreed. She stood to go.

'One more thing,' Elrond said. 'We don't know what might trigger a memory return for you. It could be anything as small as meeting someone you knew before, or hearing a word that once meant something to you. It is impossible to predict, so… be careful.'

'How can I be careful if I don't know what to be careful of?' she asked.

Elrond arched an eyebrow at her. 'Just be careful, Azshar.'

She nodded at him and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She turned to face the open corridor, and realised she had no idea where to go.

She didn't know how to get back to the dwarves. She doubted she'd even be able to navigate her way back to the courtyard in which they'd met Elrond. It seemed Elrond had been too preoccupied to think of giving her directions.

She could still hear the muted sound of voices from the closed door. She stared at it. Elrond had said that hearing things about her past could trigger memories, and the process of her memories returning had the potential to kill her.

And yet…

Her curiosity got the better of her, and shaking her head at herself, she pressed her ear to the door.

'… already saw him once, and she didn't seem to react,' Gandalf was saying.

'Just because she didn't recognise him the first time doesn't mean he won't trigger memories if she sees him again.'

Azshar frowned, pressing her face closer to the door. Did they know who the elf in Bree had been?

'But if we expose them to each other carefully, casually, with others present, it may start the process of her recovery.'

'That is another thing that worries me,' Elrond said, sounding distressed. 'Is her recovery even desirable? Why has she lost her memories? How did it happen? Where has she been all this time, and why has she suddenly emerged now?'

'I do not know,' Gandalf said wearily. 'Everyone simply thought her dead, killed by Men.'

'I remember all too well. And Mithrandir, death would have been a mercy. You didn't know her, how she was at the end. I would wish it on no one.'

'Yes. She doesn't seem to be fading now, though.'

'There could be any number of reasons for that,' Elrond said. 'It is a puzzle too intricate to be unravelled in the time we have.'

'And yet, she doesn't seem entirely… happy. Not just because she is confused and without memories, but – she seems troubled, too. Especially when she is alone.'

'It is possible that she continued fading, but simply forgot the reason for it.'

'I suppose that could be it. I wonder if having seen him will change anything in that regard.'

'I am troubled by all this, Mithrandir,' Elrond said. 'I can't believe she's alive… and I fear that I –'

Azshar heard the sound of quiet footsteps coming up the corridor, and she leapt back from the door a split second before Erestor and Glorfindel rounded the corner. If they were surprised at seeing her, they didn't show it, but Glorfindel's gaze was piercing. The two of them came to a stop in front of her.

'I – hello,' she said awkwardly. 'Elrond is talking to Gandalf at the moment.'

Erestor nodded once. 'Thank you.'

There was an awkward pause. Glorfindel was still staring at her silently, and she wondered if he ever talked.

'Are you waiting for something?' Erestor went on when she said nothing.

'I… am not sure how to find my way around,' she confessed.

'Ah, of course,' he said. 'I will take you to a room where you can stay. And I will have something found for you to wear that isn't made of sackcloth.'

Azshar almost felt offended on behalf of the man who'd once owned her tunic, but Erestor was being kind, and she didn't want to be found loitering outside the door when Gandalf and Elrond finally emerged. She nodded.

'Thank you.'

'Follow me,' he said, and continued down the corridor. Azshar walked after him, feeling Glorfindel's eyes burning into the back of her head.

'We haven't yet been properly introduced,' Erestor said as they made their way through the hallways. 'What is your name?'

'My name –' Azshar began, but then she hesitated. She was among the elves now, but she had a dwarvish name. Unless… Was Lalaith the right name for her? There was still something slightly off-feeling about it, and she decided to let it lie for now.

'The dwarves call me Azshar,' she said.

'Well met, Azshar,' Erestor said. He stopped in front of a door and turned to face her. 'It is my pleasure to welcome you to Rivendell. If there is anything I can do for you, do not hesitate to ask.'

'Thank you,' she said.

'I look forward to getting to know you,' he said with a warm smile, and opened the door for her. She stepped in, and he closed it behind her.

She went to lie on the bed for a moment, and she frowned, rubbing at her chest. She'd been too busy before, too preoccupied to dwell on it, but – the empty feeling…

It was gone.


The plot thickens! Join me next chapter when Azshar gets a stalker, Gandalf and Elrond keep secrets, the dwarves take a bath, the boys take out their swords, and exactly two potatoes are thrown.

Love to all my readers, followers and reviewers (especially to the eloquent Diarona and, as always, my friend and sounding board, LH). See you soon! S