Chapter Fourteen: Nalláma

Azshar was, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner in her room in the Woodland Realm. Although Thranduil remained icily polite, insisting she was free to wander wherever she liked, Azshar found herself flanked by guards every time she left her room. After a while, frustrated and embarrassed, she stopped leaving altogether.

Legolas came when he could to keep her company, but Glorfindel did not return. Azshar had no idea whether he'd healed, or even if he was still in Mirkwood, and she didn't dare to ask. A week passed, and she heard nothing from or about him. She couldn't think of anything else.

'I've had enough of this place,' she said to Legolas when he came in one morning. 'I have half a mind to just leave.'

'I don't know how amenable my father would be to that idea,' Legolas replied apologetically, leaning back against the table with his arms folded.

'So I am a prisoner?'

'Not officially. But you remain the most likely suspect in the escape of Thorin and his companions.'

She sighed. 'How long will this take?'

'I don't know. I'm sorry. But it isn't all bad, I promise. The Woodland elves are good people, if a little suspicious at first, and the kingdom is a beautiful place.'

Azshar ran a hand over her face. In her complaining, she had half forgotten that this was Legolas' home. 'You're right,' she said, a little tersely. 'Of course you are.'

'I'll bring you some books,' Legolas said, standing up straight and moving to the door. 'If there's anything else you need – or want – let me know, I'll have it sent. You'll be comfortable, if not content.'

Azshar smiled at him, her bad mood softened by his obvious efforts to cheer her up. 'Thank you, Legolas. You're a real friend.'

He flashed a grin at her, and left the room.

He brought her several titles, all worn by being read hundreds of times, their leather covers softened and cracked. There was Pennas Aranarth, a heavy looking tome, and Glîr Nimrodel, one that looked older and more worn. Azshar picked up the third, Gobennas Silmarilli, the History of the Silmarils. She sat down heavily, supposing that reading was better than moping about her captivity – or thinking about Glorfindel.

Perhaps he'd been angry at his display of weakness the night that she'd helped him. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd left the very next day, keen to put as much distance between them as possible.

But there was a part of here that insisted that there was a chance he'd stayed. He was the one who had nearly kissed her a week ago. She might have goaded him, but it was Glorfindel who had taken the final step. Would that be enough to keep him near her?

Did she even want him near her? She'd remembered someone, a faceless someone with their arms around her, someone who had filled her with peace. Whether he was the elf from Bree or someone else, she didn't want to break a promise she might have made to him, even if she didn't remember making it.

Azshar groaned aloud and opened the book with a little more force than was perhaps necessary, starting to read from the first page.

Though the elements surrounding the calamitous happenings of the First Age are both abundant and multifarious, it is a rare historian who will claim that the three coveted and inimitable silmarils were not at the crux of it all. These matchless gems are present at, if not culpable for, each turning point in the history of the High Elves in Arda. Indeed, for the silmarils and nothing else is named the War of the Jewels, that awesome and terrible series of conflicts which plagued the western part of the world for centuries. It is reasonable, then, to conjecture…

Azshar stopped reading and turned the pages with a frown. What was the use of reading a book about silmarils if she didn't even know what they were? Another passage caught her eye and she stopped, toying with her locket absent-mindedly as she read.

It is rare to find one among those alive and remaining in Middle-earth today who has seen a silmaril, and thus there is a difficulty in explaining exactly why they seemed to both the elves and their enemies so desirable. The silmarils were not like any other gemstone in appearance, firstly because they were not naturally conceived but, of course, forged by the genius hand of Fëanor. They could catch and refract light, but also emitted a light of their own which recalled (or, it is sometimes said, was) the light of the Two Trees of Aman – a light which, for the High Elves who were stranded so far from their homeland across the sea, painfully reminded them of the serenity of the times before the Trees were felled. The jewels were said to emanate a breathtaking blend of gold and silver light, both like and unalike to that of the sun and the moon, and of extraordinary beauty. It is in no dispute that they were hallowed and revered by the Valar themselves.

Azshar flipped further through the dusty pages, reading passages here and there that caught her eye. Of all the books Legolas might have brought her, it wasn't the most riveting, but then again, he didn't strike her as the most avid of readers.

She stopped at a page near the end of the book.

The disappearance of the three silmarils signified the end of the War of the Jewels, the end of the First Age, and the end of the sons of the line of Fëanor, but the jewels did not go easily. It has already been mentioned how Eärendil – perhaps mythologically – took one silmaril, by the bidding of the Valar, to be carried each night across the sky. The remaining two jewels fell by violence into the hands of Maedhros and Maglor. Since they had been hallowed by Elbereth, they painfully burned the hands of Fëanor's sons, who had committed such heinous crimes in their pursuit. Maedhros, in despair, cast himself into a fiery chasm in the earth and died. Maglor flung the final silmaril into the sea and was never seen again. Thus it was that the silmarils were separated: one in the bowels of the earth, one in the depths of the sea, and one in the sky. But though the jewels were lost forever, it may be argued that the long shadow of Fëanor's misdeeds persevered…

Azshar read for hours, ignoring the meal that was brought and left on the table in her room. She wondered if she had been alive during the First Age, along with Fëanor and his apparently miserable sons. She thought the name Maedhros felt vaguely familiar, but she wasn't sure. She hadn't expected anything from it, but fact that the book hadn't triggered any memories was vaguely disappointing.

She looked up from her reading in the middle of the night, when there was a knock at the door. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, closing the book and putting it back on the table. But after a moment, the door still hadn't opened.

'Is someone there?' she called. There was no response, and with a frown, she got up and opened the door.

To her surprise, Glorfindel came in was standing there, a bottle held loosely in his hand. He stared at her, as though he hadn't expected to see her there.

She had almost forgotten the way his eyes looked when they were fixed on hers. Every time she saw him, Azshar imagined she could read a little more into them, see a little bit further behind his shields. He looked much better than the last time she'd seen him, on the verge of collapse; the antivenin she'd given him seemed to have worked. The torchlight from the corridor glinted dimly off his golden hair.

'Do you want to come in?' she asked, unsure of what to say. The guards on either side of the door were resolutely not looking at Glorfindel, who hesitated, then nodded once, not meeting her eyes. She stood back, and he stepped inside.

There was a long silence after she closed the door behind him. Azshar stared at him, her heart skittering in her chest.

It was Glorfindel who spoke first, looking down at the bottle in his hands.

'I didn't want to drink alone,' he said unsteadily. She could tell right away that he was already properly drunk.

'I thought you'd left,' she said slowly.

'No.'

'But you didn't come to see me.'

'Was I obligated to?' he asked, an edge of cruelty in the question. Azshar pursed her lips, forcing herself to ignore the jibe. She changed the subject.

'You said you don't drink.'

'I said I didn't drink wine. Ordinarily.' He looked back up at her, and she saw a sudden flash of anger in his eyes. Somehow, she didn't think it was directed at her. 'I'll go,' he said, but before he could open the door, she stepped forward.

'Wait!' she said. He paused. 'I don't have any cups.'

He rubbed his hand over his face twice, like he was trying to wake himself up, then shrugged and loped across the room to sit on the floor with his back leaning against the bed. 'We can drink from the bottle. If you don't mind.'

He was speaking slightly slower than he usually did, and he moved sluggishly. She sat down beside him, and he passed her the bottle. The wine tasted sharp and sweet.

'Why are we drinking, then?' she asked, passing it back to him. He took a long swig, watching her out of the side of his eyes. He didn't reply, and she huffed. 'Is this why you came? To drink yourself into oblivion in silence?'

'No.'

'Why did you come then?' she asked. He stared at her, then drank again. Azshar narrowed her eyes at him. She wasn't about to push him into a repetition of the night of the feast.

Draw your own conclusions.

'Let's play a game,' she said, reaching for the bottle. 'I will ask you a question, and you must either answer honestly, or drink.'

Glorfindel smiled sardonically. 'I will be needing another bottle.'

'We'll make do with what we have,' Azshar said with a faint smile of her own. 'First question…'

'Make it easy,' he murmured.

'Let's see,' Azshar said. They were sitting so close together that she could feel the warmth from his arm, almost touching hers. She wondered how she'd ended up on the floor of her room, babysitting a drunk Glorfindel. 'What is your name?'

Glorfindel reached for the bottle in her lap, and Azshar laughed in surprise, snatching it away. 'You aren't allowed to pass this one,' she said.

'Fine,' he sighed. 'My name, in Sindarin, is Glorfindel.'

'In Sindarin?'

'It came from my Quenya name. Laurefindelë.'

'Very well,' she said, filing away the information. 'Next question –'

'I think not,' Glorfindel said grandiosely, snatching the bottle from her hands. 'I get a turn too. Otherwise it won't be fair.'

Azshar shrugged. 'Anything in the name of fairness. I'm an open book.'

'What's your name?'

'Azshar.' He shook his head at her, and she hesitated. 'Then… Lalaith. Maybe.'

Glorfindel's dark eyes narrowed slightly. 'Lalaith. Interesting.' Then he held the bottle up. 'But the fact remains that you don't know the answer. Drink.'

Azshar raised her eyebrows at him. 'This game is rigged.'

'We're playing at your request.'

She grabbed the bottle from him and took a sip before levelling him with her gaze again. 'How old are you?' He held his hand out for the bottle, and she moved it out of reach with a frown. 'These are the easiest questions I could think of!'

He relented reluctantly, his brows creasing as he thought. 'I don't know exactly,' he said at last. 'We didn't count years the same way in the early days.'

Azshar blinked at him. 'Did you live in the First Age?'

'That's another question.'

'It's a follow-up question,' she protested, and he sighed.

'Yes, I lived through the First Age.'

'Through the… that was thousands of years ago.' She had barely one year's worth of memory, and he had millennia. He seemed to follow her train of thought.

'Yes.'

She stared at him for a moment, suddenly wondering if he'd been this way when he was young, or if something had happened during his centuries of life to make him so hard and closed-off. He looked down at her, catching her stare, and she quickly offered him the bottle.

'You don't know the answer to the question,' she said. 'Drink up.'

His fingers brushed hers as he took the bottle, and his eyes stayed on her face while he drank. 'My turn,' he said, swallowing. 'Why did you leave Rivendell?'

'I think I already told you,' she said.

'Did you tell me honestly?'

She paused to think. 'I left because… Elrond knew who I was, and I couldn't stand the thought of him knowing everything I didn't, every time he looked at me. Not just him, either, but everyone in Rivendell. I don't know. I couldn't stay.'

Glorfindel nodded slowly. 'Very well.'

'My turn?' He hummed his assent, and she looked up at him. 'Why did you come here tonight? Here, to my room?'

He glanced down at her. Their faces were close together, and Azshar couldn't help but think of how easy it would be to kiss him. She wanted to kiss him. He was so near to her, so real and solid and warm and touchable –

He leaned back to take a long swig from the bottle instead of answering her question, and she felt a stab of disappointment. He cleared his throat.

'My turn, then,' he said. 'Your necklace, what is it?'

Azshar pulled the locket out from under her clothes, glad for the excuse to look away and hide her flaming cheeks. 'It's a locket,' she said, holding it up so that he could see it. 'I don't know how to open it.'

He nodded once, not commenting. A question designed to give them both a chance to recover from whatever had just happened, she thought dully. Being drunk seemed to lower Glorfindel's rigid inhibitions, but he was still being frustratingly evasive.

'What… is your favourite colour?' she asked him, following his example and steering away from anything deeper.

'Blue.'

'Why blue?'

He shrugged. 'I don't remember. What's yours?'

'My favourite colour?' she smiled. 'I don't know. I don't remember if I even have one.'

'Drink,' he said, so she did.

'Favourite food?' she asked.

'I don't have one.'

'Your favourite drink, then?'

The corner of his mouth curled up. 'Miruvorë,' he said, leaning his head back against the bed. 'Very sweet, very strong. We used to drink it at festivals.' She didn't ask who the we referred to, and he kept talking. 'Why do you like the dwarves?'

She shrugged. 'They're good people,' she said. 'That's all.'

'We agreed to answer honestly,' he said, and she laughed unexpectedly, bumping her shoulder with his without thinking. He stilled quickly at the touch, swallowing. 'They are good,' she said, her smile fading. Good, but long gone. Time for another subject change, she thought grimly. 'That ring on your finger,' she said. 'What is it?'

Glorfindel held up his hand before them, the ring glinting golden on his little finger. The stone in it threw out a warm yellow light. The hand shook slightly, but as soon as Azshar noticed, Glorfindel dropped it to his lap. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Someone gave it to me, I think.'

'You think?'

'My turn,' he said. 'What makes you happy?'

The question was asked with such startling earnest that Azshar was taken aback. She thought about it seriously before answering.

'I don't know whether I've really been happy since waking up in that cave,' she said at last. Glorfindel watched her silently, waiting for more until somehow, she felt compelled to give it to him. 'Before we got to Imladris, I felt… not unhappy, but hollow. Like someone had cut a hole in my chest and pulled out my heart, leaving me to bleed to death from the inside.'

'What changed, then?' he asked. She shrugged.

'You tell me. I woke up in the bed in Rivendell, and the hole had been filled. Something in the air, perhaps.'

'And since then… you've been happy?'

'Ah, I have seen too much of you for that,' she joked, but Glorfindel looked down, unsmiling, and she instantly regretted it.

'It's your turn,' he said.

'I didn't mean that, Glorfindel.'

'Of course,' he said impatiently, the moment gone. Azshar swallowed.

'Why… why do your hands sometimes shake?'

Without hesitation, Glorfindel drank from the bottle. She decided to try using his own trick against him, watching him silently until her silence forced him to say something. Then, to her surprise, it worked.

'There is no one left alive who knows the answer to that question,' he said stiffly. 'Anyway. They don't shake as badly as they used to.'

'Tell me something else then,' Azshar whispered, a little more beseechingly than she'd meant to. 'If not that, then something else. Something about you that no one else knows.'

He stared into the middle distance and sighed. Azshar suspected that if he hadn't been as drunk as he was, she wouldn't have been privy to his answer.

'I haven't been happy either,' he said slowly. 'Not since the First Age. And even then… I can't remember what used to make me smile.'

Azshar seized every shred of courage inside her and reached for Glorfindel's hand, threading her fingers through his and feeling them tremble slightly. His breath hitched at the contact, but she didn't look at him. She didn't give him a chance to scare her away.

'Your turn,' she said simply, and Glorfindel's fingers tightened slightly around hers. His hand was warm and dry, and gradually, the trembling slowed, and then stopped. After a long stretch of silence, he spoke.

'Where would you go, if you could leave?'

Azshar hesitated for a long beat before simply pulling the bottle out of his grasp. When she swallowed, she realised Glorfindel was staring at her.

'What is it, a secret?' he asked, a hint of irritation in his tone. Azshar huffed a laugh, just enough alcohol in her now that she didn't want to bother hiding her irritation.

'You refused to look at me at the dinner with Thranduil,' she said. 'You have expressly avoided me for a week, and you've answered perhaps… two of my questions honestly – but now you're upset that I won't tell you where I plan to go?'

'You didn't ask me to visit, so I didn't,' he growled, snatching the bottle from her grasp with a hand that was shaking again. The hand that was holding hers tightened into a vice-like grip.

Azshar twisted to fully face him.

'Why would I ask? You behave as though you despise me!'

He glared at her. 'I owe you no explanation, no answers to your questions. In fact, I owe you nothing.'

He infuriated her. He somehow knew exactly what to say in order to push her away in the most precise, unretractable ways.

'Answer me this,' she said in a cold, level voice. 'Why did you come to my room, drunk and lonely?'

He snorted. 'Lonely?'

'Yes, lonely, as I suspect you have been for the thousands of years you have been alive.'

He leaned closer, crowding her and causing her heartbeat to hitch in her chest. He was like some kind of predatory cat, deadly and unpredictable.

'Why do I keep thinking of you?' he hissed accusatorily. 'How did you get so far into my head, so quickly?' He moved closer still, so he was only a breath away. Azshar's hand was starting to sweat in his grip, and her breath caught in her throat. He was too close for her to think…

'You're a weakness,' Glorfindel whispered, and he pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. She could smell the wine on his breath, warm and sweet. 'But you feel like – like you could just fix everything.'

Azshar exhaled shakily when his hand came up to cup her cheek, and her own eyes drifted closed. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

'We shouldn't,' she whispered, more to herself than to him. She had to think of the man who'd held her in her dreams. 'If I'm a weakness, then –'

He cut her off by pressing his lips to hers so lightly that it could barely be called a kiss. But it was enough to make Azshar feel like the ground had dropped out from beneath her. Her fingers tightened on his, and his other hand crept into her hair to pull her closer. She gave in, leaning into him, and the kiss deepened quickly.

Glorfindel's fingers curled in her hair, inhaling like he was doing his best to breathe her in. Azshar had never been so overwhelmed; she kissed him back desperately, hungrily. It was the best thing she could remember ever feeling. Everything between them and around them fell away until it was only him, beautiful and open and hers

But it only lasted a moment before he pulled away, his mouth open and his eyes dark. He stared at her, both of them breathing hard, before he scrambled to his feet and slammed his fist into his palm, making her flinch as she stood up too.

'I shouldn't have…' he breathed, shaking his head. 'I shouldn't have… Valar, every time I see you it gets harder –'

'Don't run away,' Azshar said in a low voice. 'Not this time. Don't run away –'

But he shook his head at her, stepping back and then turning to stride to the door. She felt a surge of irrational panic. 'Where are you going?' she asked in a high voice.

'I'm going to go kill something,' he muttered irately, and then he was gone.

When she finally managed to sleep, she dreamed of the cliff, of agony arcing through her body. She woke, sweat beading her forehead and hands clenched painfully tight, half expecting him to be there. He wasn't.


She was quiet and distracted when Legolas came to visit her the next day. She sat at the edge of her bed, trying to pay attention while he talked to her of the guards' latest theories on how the dwarves had escaped the dungeons of the elven king.

'Are you alright, Azshar?'

'Hm?'

'Are you alright, I said.'

She smiled thinly, shaking her head. 'Perfectly fine. What were you saying about barrels?'

'That Thorin and Company hid in them and floated downriver to Laketown,' Legolas said, watching her with a hint of concern. 'But you didn't seem interested in the least.'

'I…' she sighed. There was no way she would tell him the root of her distress. She could remember, very clearly, how Glorfindel's lips had felt against hers. She also remembered how cold it had been when he'd slammed the door behind him. 'I am tired of this room. I am tired of these halls. I want the sky.'

'I could sort something out,' Legolas said tentatively. 'I could have a party accompany you for an afternoon –'

'That isn't what I mean, Legolas, and you know it.'

He pursed his lips and looked down. 'There is… maybe…'

Azshar's desolation was trumped for a moment by curiosity. 'There is what?'

Legolas grimaced. 'I shouldn't tell you. But I'm flaunting the King's orders so much already, what's one thing more?'

She stood up. 'What, Legolas?'

'Tauriel and I have a – a plan,' he said, lowering his voice despite the fact that they were behind closed doors. 'We've heard from the sentries that a large party of orcs have been following the dwarves downstream.'

Azshar straightened, alarmed. 'What is being done about it?'

'Nothing, not by us,' Legolas said. 'At least, that is what the King has ordered.'

'So you and Tauriel…'

'We're planning on following them. To do what we can, since the enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that,' Legolas said, seeming slightly beleaguered.

'Ah, I see,' Azshar said, smiling faintly. 'Tauriel wants to help the dwarves, and therefore you do too.'

Legolas looked faintly panicked. 'You… what?'

'I don't think your regard for Tauriel is as subtle as you think it is, my friend.'

He shook his head furiously. 'That's… something we can talk about later. Or not at all, ever. Right now, I'm telling you about the plan.'

'Right,' Azshar said. 'I'm in. What do you need from me?'

'Nothing for now,' he said, looking faintly relieved that they were back on safe conversational ground. 'I'll get a horse for you, and a cloak. Be ready, because we'll be leaving soon.'

'I'll be ready,' Azshar promised, energy filling her at the thought of freedom and new purpose. She ignored the niggling reminder of Glorfindel, and the fact that this would be putting distance between them that part of her – most of her – really didn't want.

In the middle of the night, Tauriel brought her a leather satchel with travelling clothes inside.

'There will be a horse and saddle for you too,' she said in a low voice. 'We leave at dawn, at the change of the guard.'

'Thank you,' Azshar said, taking the bag.

'I'm glad you're coming,' Tauriel said, and then she left her alone again. She dressed quickly in the dark green tunic, typical of the Woodland elves. She liked it; she felt it suited her.

But the matter of Glorfindel weighed on her as she waited for the time to pass. He'd lost control last night, let her in further than he'd intended, and now he would stay away until his restraint dropped and his patience wore thin again; that was his pattern. Azshar felt foolish at how much she wanted to wait around for that to happen.

The better part of her, the logical part, knew that leaving without Glorfindel was a good thing. She didn't like being discarded every time he ran away, and she knew she didn't have to stand for it. The way she felt when he was with her was incomparable, but he was hardly ever with her. The dwarves had no such depth of emotion regarding Azshar, but at least they were constant.

She changed into the new clothes and buckled her belt around her waist, Helcaruivë at her left hip and Picarca at her right. She tucked her locket under her shirt and tunic and braided her hair back tightly so that it wouldn't get in the way. When she judged it was nearly dawn, she put on her cloak and sat patiently at the end of her bed.

It wasn't long before there was a knock at her door. She opened it to find Legolas, the two guards that were usually ever-present at her door missing. The silver-haired elf looked her up and down, then gestured for her to follow him. He looked nervous, Azshar thought as they made their way quickly and quietly up through the cavernous halls. She could only imagine what was going to happen when Thranduil found out what had happened.

There were two guards stationed at the gates, but they didn't ask questions as Legolas and Azshar hurried out into the brisk morning air. Tauriel was waiting a little way into the trees with their three horses. She greeted them with a small smile, and they rode off together into the shadows of Mirkwood.

Legolas' best guess was that the dwarves had followed the river east, out of Mirkwood and towards Laketown, so they did too. They rode hard, putting as much distance between them and the Woodland Realm as they could before they were discovered to be missing.

'They'll realise Azshar is gone first, when the guards change at midmorning,' Legolas said when they paused to water the horses.

'I'm on a guard rotation that starts at midday,' Tauriel added.

'And I don't think it will be long before they realise that I've gone too,' Legolas said. He smirked. 'Here's hoping we'll be too far gone to stop by then.'

'We should press on now,' Tauriel said, 'use the head start to our advantage while we still have it.'

'Wait, do you hear that?' Azshar interrupted with a frown, trying to hear over the rushing of the river.

'Hear what?' Tauriel asked, but Legolas had already drawn his sword. Azshar did the same, her heart in her throat.

'Hooves,' he said, turning to face the trees. 'Valar. We've been followed.'

She didn't know what to expect – elves sent to bring them back, or orcs of the same kind that had attacked her in the Misty Mountains – but she didn't have to wait long. It was only moments before the mysterious rider appeared before them, and Azshar's mouth almost dropped open with surprise. It was Glorfindel.

He looked utterly unsurprised to see them as he reigned in his horse. After a moment of silence, Legolas huffed a laugh and sheathed his sword.

'Is something the matter?' he asked. 'Have you come to bring us back?'

Azshar's eyes were glued to Glorfindel. The last time she'd seen him… It felt like it was written all over her face, but neither Legolas nor Tauriel seemed to notice anything. He hadn't even looked at her yet.

'No,' Glorfindel replied. 'I assumed you were going east to find the dwarves?' Legolas nodded, and Glorfindel's cool gaze finally found Azshar's. Her blush deepened. 'I was planning on going with you, if you'll have me.'

To her surprise, Tauriel and Legolas looked to her for an answer. Azshar cleared her throat.

'You've come this far,' she said with forced lightness. 'No point in turning back.'

'On we go, then,' Tauriel said, and she and Legolas urged their horses into movement.

Azshar quickly did the same, trying not to notice the appraising way in which Glorfindel was watching her. She felt his eyes on the back of her head as they rode through the day, but very determinedly, she did not turn back.

They stopped for the night two days later in order to give the horses a proper rest. They had made it to the edge of the wood by then, and the stars were thick and bright in the clear sky above. Azshar lay on her back with one hand loosely clasped around her locket and let the hours pass, watching the sky. Her eyes were drawn to the brightest star in the sky; as the time passed, it crept closer and closer to the horizon.

She could hear the low murmurs of Legolas and Tauriel, a little way away. A gentle wind siffilated through the thinning trees around them. It was utterly peaceful, and so was she – until quiet footsteps approached, and she heard Glorfindel sit down somewhere near her head.

The silence was suddenly thick and heavy-laden, and she fixed her gaze on the brightest star she could see, slowly climbing through the sky from the horizon, as she waited for him to speak. He didn't, and eventually, she couldn't stop the words bubbling up.

'Have you something to say?' she asked softly, and a little hopefully.

'No,' he replied, but there was no malice in the word. Azshar resolved that if they were going to speak again, he would be the one to initiate it – but he didn't. She lay there on her back, the locket warm in her hand and her eyes fixed on the faraway star, while Glorfindel sat quietly less than two feet from her.

An hour passed, and then another. Almost without her realising, the silence between them slowly lost its heaviness and became something altogether different. There was a strange intimacy in it, she reflected. Glorfindel couldn't seem to have a conversation without withdrawing or becoming hostile, but this – him just being there… maybe actions came easier to him than words.

Another hour passed, and the first flush of dawn stole into the eastern sky. A frost had settled over the still landscape, but Azshar hadn't moved. She had her cloak for warmth, and the silent Glorfindel nearby as further incentive to stay where she was, so she did.

As the sky grew paler still, the stars began fading and disappearing. The bright one, the one Azshar had been watching, remained. It was then that Glorfindel spoke, his disembodied voice strangely fitting with the hallowed stillness of the near-dawn.

'Have you ever heard of Eärendil?' he asked quietly. Azshar blinked.

'I read his name in a book.'

'He was a mariner that I knew once, long ago. They sing many songs about him. Some of them say he sailed up into the sky to become a star.'

She smiled slightly. 'Was he a particularly incandescent mariner?'

'He wore a silmaril on his brow,' Glorfindel replied, and she could hear the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. 'Or so they say.'

Azshar looked more closely at the star she'd been watching. Its light had a slightly different quality to the others around it, yes, but she would attribute that to its different size sooner than to its being a mythical, lost gemstone.

'And what do you say?' she asked. There was a minute of quiet before Glorfindel answered.

'Sometimes it doesn't matter whether or not a story is true,' he said finally. 'All that matters is whether or not we believe it.'

'And do you?'

'He was only a child when I knew him,' Glorfindel said. 'But… sometimes when I look at the star, I imagine he's looking back.'

When the sun broke over the horizon, the four of them roused the horses and continued their journey toward the Lonely Mountain.


Another chapter in absolute record time, and another monument to my amazing immunity to peer pressure. Oh well. This chapter gave me a fair bit of grief, so I hope it's okay! I dedicate it to all the astrophysicists reading.

Keep an eye out for the next chapter, which smells of fish. There are also children, and finally (FINALLY) a dragon (A DRAGON!). Not to mention a confrontation we've all been waiting for. Catch you then.

S