PART TWO: TUILË


Chapter Nineteen: Caimassë

She was a small child. Her feet were bare, the hem of her dress flecked with mud, and her hair a tangled, dark mess down her back. She was hiding in the sweeping fronds of a tasarë, a willow tree in the corner of the courtyard.

'Where are you, hína?' came her sister's voice. 'I know you're nearby!'

She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to stifle an excited laugh. She tucked her feet closer in so they wouldn't be spotted.

'Where could she be?' came her sister's voice, terrifyingly close. The little girl laughed again, grinning so hard her face hurt. Her sister suddenly appeared around the side of the tree with a cry, and she shrieked with laughter, covering her face as though it would stop her from being found.

'Very well done, melda,' said her sister, planting a kiss on her head. 'Now it's your turn to find me.'


She woke to pitch blackness.

Sensations came to her slowly, one at a time. She was cold, her limbs stiff. She was lying on her back, on hard, cold stone. She could hear her breath in her ears, steadily in and out. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again; there was no difference. It was dark as pitch.

She sat up with an effort, her body protesting at the movement. Where was she? She couldn't remember how she'd come to be there. In fact, the more she tried to think…

She couldn't remember anything.

There was the dream she'd been having, the one where she'd hiding from her sister… but she didn't know whether that was even real, and there was nothing else. No name, no place, nothing.

She stood unsteadily in the dark and ran her hands over her face and body. There was a chain around her neck, and hanging from it a large, circular pendant. A locket, maybe. She was wearing a cloak and boots. There was a sword at one hip and a dagger at the other. Her hair was long and tangled, coming out of its braids.

Hours passed, and nothing happened. No memory surfaced; no speck of light was seen. There was no sound except for her own breathing. After hours more, she decided to explore the space as best she could.

She ran her hands carefully over the floor and walls. It was a room, constructed from rough-hewn stones, some of which were damp. The room was tiny, no more than five feet wide and seven feet long. The ceiling, when she reached up to feel it, was close above her head.

Her heart began beating faster, and she curled up into a small ball and shrank into the corner, pulling her cloak tightly around her. She was trapped.

There had to be air coming in somehow, she thought through the haze of anxiety that occupied her head. But how? Where? How could she get out?

Hours passed in long silent darkness, and they turned into days. She was starving, thirsty and freezing cold. The needling horror of the tiny space she was trapped in didn't leave her. Eventually, exhaustion took her, and she fell asleep.


She was hanging from a cliff by a rope tied around her wrist. She was exhausted and in relentless pain. Someone beside her screamed, and with an effort, she raised her head to look.

There was an elf hanging beside her, fixed to the cliff by an iron band around his right arm. His auburn hair was tangled, and his clothes were ragged.

'Maedhros,' she whispered, but he only screamed again.


She jerked awake with a shout, leaping to her feet. Not being able to see, she stumbled and fell forward, skinning her palms on the rough stones beneath her. She sat back on her heels, put her face in her hands, and cried.

She spent another two weeks in the room, growing weaker every day. She tried everything she could to get out. She pushed with all her strength at the stones in the walls, floor, and ceiling. She shouted for help until she felt deafened by her own voice, muffled and thrown back at her by the stones.

Nothing worked. She chose a corner and curled up there, shaking and starving.

There was no hope of escape, and slowly, she began to wish for death. She had a vague feeling that she had something to live for, but she couldn't remember what it was. As far as she was concerned, she was a nameless, soulless, faceless being, trapped in a cold, dark room that no one would ever find.

There was no way for her to measure time, and it made her imprisonment infinitely worse. The hunger, thirst and cold were one thing, but the lack of light, sound, and sense of time were a different torture altogether. It was utter, ruthless isolation.

She had no idea how many days she'd been awake when she heard faint sounds above her. She jerked. It was the muffled clash of blade against blade, shouting, an inhuman shriek… someone cried out in pain, and she leaned heavily on the wall, clawing her way to her feet.

'Help,' she rasped, and then she coughed. She needed to be louder. 'Help!'

A minute later, the fighting above seemed to have stopped. She could hear muffled voices speaking. Panic filled her with new strength, and she pounded her fists on the stone ceiling.

'Help me!' she shouted, her voice rough and desperate. 'Help me! I'm here, beneath you! Help me!'

The voices stopped, and after a moment, she heard footsteps above her head. They stopped, and she heard the person speak. Their voice went up at the end, like they'd asked a question. Frantically, she started again, hitting the stones with her palms and shouting.

'Help me! Help me, please!'

She fell silent when the footsteps receded, and for a long, horrible moment, she thought they'd left. Dread filled her. But then a rhythmic thumping began above her. Gasping with relief, she scrambled to the edge of the room. The thumping continued, and finally, one of the stones fell to the floor with a crack. Moonlight and starlight flooded the little room.

'Is there someone there?' asked a man, and she nearly collapsed.

'Yes! Yes, please help me…'

She must have sounded desperate, because the voice was gentler when he spoke again. 'I'm coming for you. It's alright.'

The thumping started again, and after another minute, three more stones crumbled from the ceiling to crack against the floor. She looked up to see a sweating, travel-worn man staring down at her. He got to his knees and held out his hands.

'Here,' he said. 'I'll pull you out.'

She was lightheaded and weak as she stepped forward and took his hands. He pulled her out with a grunt, and she collapsed on her side, out in the open. The relief nearly made her weep.

It took her a moment to recover before she could take in her surroundings. They were on top of a hill. It was night, but the sky was clear, and by the light of the moon, she could see she was with the man who had saved her, and four hobbits.

One of the hobbits was lying on his back, groaning, and a second one was kneeling beside him, staring over at her. The other two were beside the man, watching her with wide eyes. She couldn't stop herself from shaking.

'Who are you?' the man asked. 'What happened here?'

'I don't know,' she said, on the verge of tears again. 'I don't know… please, do you have water?'

One of the hobbits ran to the fire they had lit, and brought back a waterskin. He handed it to the man, who handed it to her. She opened it with shaking hands and drank gratefully. Then she closed her eyes and tried to draw in a deep breath through her nose. She needed to calm down. She was safe; she was free.

'Who are you?' the man asked again, this time with a hint of urgency.

'I can't remember my name,' she said, slowly sitting up. 'I can't remember anything. I was trapped…'

She looked around again. They were among the ruins of a castle, built on top of the hill and worn down over the years to almost nothing. The tiny room she'd been buried in was below the stony surface, some kind of sealed cellar or hidden basement.

'You saved my life,' she whispered. 'Thank you.'

The man glanced at her, then over at the unconscious hobbit, torn. Then he pursed his lips. 'Merry, Pippin, you are in charge of caring for this elf. I need to help Frodo. Sam! Boil some water, quickly.' He glanced at her once more. 'I'll be back soon.'

Merry and Pippin exchanged a glance as the man disappeared. Then they turned their curious gazes back to her.

'What did you say your name was, again?' one of them asked.

'She forgot her name, Pip,' the other said.

'Oh. I forgot.'

'How long were you in that hole?' the one called Merry asked. The elf shuddered involuntarily.

'I – don't know. I think I was sleeping.'

'I miss sleeping,' Pippin said mistily. 'Ever since this quest business has been going on, I've slept dreadfully.'

'Not good for the constitution,' Merry agreed.

'I mean, we've been up all night thanks to those awful – what did Strider say they were? Ringwraiths?'

'Terrible business. Not good for you in the long term, this lack of good sleep.'

'Well, look at how Strider has turned out. That's something to be avoided at all costs, if you ask me.'

'Though no one ever does ask you,' Merry pointed out, and they both turned back to the elf as if by prior agreement.

'So, you can't remember your name,' Pippin resumed.

'No,' she said. 'Where am I?'

'On Weathertop, near the Trollshaws,' Merry said. 'Do you want something to eat?'

The elf nodded vigorously.

'Is that a sword?' Pippin asked, his mouth dropping open. 'It's so much nicer than Strider's!' Merry returned with some kind of hard cake, and he passed it to the elf, who turned it over in her hands. 'Merry, look at her sword,' Pippin said.

'Fancy,' the hobbit remarked. 'Very elaborate and old-looking. That's how I imagine the swords in all of Bilbo's stories.'

The elf pressed a hand to her forehead, grimacing as she felt something in her mind suddenly reseal itself. There was something about what they'd just said…

'Hobbits,' she whispered with a frown, trying to piece it together. 'Bilbo the hobbit, from – from the Shire?'

Strider returned from wherever he'd gone, dropping a handful of leaves in the kettle of boiling water and kneeling beside Frodo. An aromatic smell filled the air, and the elf stiffened. She knew that smell; she'd smelled it in Laketown when…

What was Laketown? Why had she been there?

'Kingsfoil,' she muttered, pressing her hands to her head again. It was pounding, an acute pain growing quickly worse. There was a high-pitched ringing in her ears.

'Strider,' Merry called nervously, 'I think something's happening here!'

'Just a moment,' the man called back distractedly, his focus on the unconscious hobbit. The elf groaned. She knew the smell of athelas, because Tauriel had used it to heal Kíli in Laketown. Who was Tauriel? Where was Laketown? She groaned again, the bread falling from her hands.

'Strider!' Merry shouted, and then calloused hands were gently pulling her hands away from her face.

'What happened?' Strider asked, looking at her with concern.

'My name is Azshar,' she whispered, breathing unsteadily. 'It's – it's coming back –'

'Azshar like in Bilbo's stories!' Pippin hissed, elbowing Merry.

'My memories,' she hissed. 'They're returning, I can't…'

The pain was blinding. Strider glanced between her and Frodo, looking increasingly worried. 'I don't know what to do,' he said urgently. 'Tell me what to do?'

But Azshar couldn't see him anymore. Her eyes and ears were filled with images from the past. Her last coherent thoughts were relief at the fact that she did indeed have something to live for, and fear that she wouldn't be living much longer at all.

She was plunged into a swirl of memory, an unending avalanche that steadily crushed her beneath its weight.

'I promise, Lalaith,' Maglor told her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She was crying. They were on a beach. Her locket was heavy and warm around her neck, and she wanted to die.

'How much?' she whispered, holding a waterskin in her shaking hands. The smell of its contents made her feel sick.

'All of it. As much as you can.'

She looked up at him, and he stared back at her, his eyes filled with pity, sorrow and remorse. He was supposed to have been the last thing she ever saw.

She drank from the skin as much as she could before the numbness took her and she fell to her knees. Maglor caught her before she hit the ground, and then she was too far gone to notice anything else.

She regained conscience as the sun was rising. Every part of her body hurt, but the pain in her head was blinding. She moaned.

'Strider! I think she's awake!' came a voice, but before anything more could be done, the memories pulled her back under.

She slept for millennia. The enchantment in the water was strong, and her sleep was deep, but as the centuries passed, she began to wake. For long years, her dreams were stronger and more frequent than her periods of tortured wakefulness. That soon changed.

Her spirit was too strong to stay dormant. She woke more and more often, bewildered by the darkness and silence around her, the cold and the crushing weight of the stone. She suffered a long time before breaking free.

She remembered the fisherman and his wife who brought her to the Shire, and meeting Ori, Nori and Dori in Hobbiton, and the dinner party at Bag End. She remembered Gandalf. Gandalf was important because – because he knew who she really was.

So did Elrond, the Lord of Imladris. Rivendell, where she'd stayed for too short a time. Rivendell, which might have become her prison. Rivendell, where she'd first met –

Glorfindel.

He'd heard her screaming in her sleep and run to help. He'd told her where her dagger came from. He'd dreamed about her once, though they'd never met before. He hated himself, but he loved her. She thought he'd loved her.

When she next surfaced, there were voices speaking urgently above her. She forced her eyes open; sunlight pierced her head and she groaned, rolling onto her side. She dry-retched, her body desperately trying to throw up, but nothing in her stomach. Warm hands helped her upright, and she saw Strider crouching beside her. She collapsed against him.

'Azshar,' he said. 'You need to eat something, drink some water, or you won't last much longer.'

'I can't,' she rasped. It felt like there was something around her chest, keeping her from breathing properly.

'You have to try,' he said earnestly. 'I'm going to make sure you're alright, but help isn't far away. I'm going to get you to Rivendell, but you need to survive until then.'

'No,' came a voice from behind Strider that was flat, cold, emotionless, and deeply familiar to Azshar. 'I will take her.'

'Glorfindel,' she wheezed, trying to turn to see him. She was too weak. Had she imagined his voice?

'If you do not take Frodo, he will die,' Strider said quietly. 'There is some dark magic at work in him.'

'As there is in her,' Glorfindel replied stiffly. 'The water of the Enchanted River is more dangerous than even the stories tell.'

'I will do all that I can for her, I swear it,' Strider said urgently. 'Take the Halfling, and come back for us. Please.'

Let me go with him, she tried to say. I want to go with him. All that came out was a breathy sigh. She was fading again, the world darkening around her. Strider's grip on her tightened.

'I'll take them both,' Glorfindel said, but she could hear in his voice that he was wavering. He knew it was a lost cause.

'It will take too long. Please, my friend, go.'

Glorfindel stepped into Azshar's narrowing view and looked down on her. There was no hint of affection or pity in his eyes; they were cold and blank. She had forgotten how dark they were, like a part of the ocean that the sun barely reached. She wanted to reach for him, to tell him what had happened – but what had happened? She was too weak, and she couldn't remember. She realised faintly that his hands were trembling.

'If she dies, I hold you accountable,' he said to Strider. Then he was gone. She heard the sound of hooves fading into the difference. The tendrils of her memories grasped at her, pulling her under.

'That's the first time I've ever known Glorfindel to care about something,' she heard Strider say to her, 'and I'm not sure whether it was a good thing.'

She couldn't reply. He glanced down at her, and his eyes widened. He put a hand to her cheek. 'Azshar. Azshar –'

'Azshar.'

It was Glorfindel, looming above her as she violently regained conscience after being strangled by the orc in the Misty Mountains. There was a split second where she could see concern written clearly across his face, but when he realised she was awake, his shields slammed back down.

'Glorfindel –' she choked, trying to sit up, but he pushed her back down.

'I'm here.'

He'd supported her all the way down the mountain, half-carrying her when she couldn't run herself. He'd held her to him as they sat in the tree, watching the fire Gandalf had thrown and waiting to die.

'Promise me you're holding on,' he'd said.

'Yes. Yes, I promise.'

She remembered Beorn's house, the warm barn that smelled of dust and hay, and the meadows outside that were filled with bees and sunshine. He'd been kind to her, but it hadn't lasted long. They stayed only a few days before leaving for Mirkwood.

'I know her,' someone said in Sindarin. 'She came through with Bilbo and the company of dwarves.'

She couldn't manage to open her eyes, but she recognised the voice. 'Elrond's son,' she whispered, and there was a quiet intake of breath.

'Azshar?' said Strider. 'Can you hear me?'

'Yes,' she breathed. 'I think so…'

Something cool and wet touched her lips. Water trickled into her mouth, and she realised how thirsty she was. She had drunk nothing since waking up on Weathertop.

'Swallow, if you can,' said the elf. Elrohir, she remembered his name was. She felt his gentle hands at her neck, checking her pulse. 'I'm going to take you to my father.'

She swallowed the water and fell back into unconsciousness.

Legolas and Tauriel, she could see them now. One with silver hair, grey eyes and a quick smile, and the other with hair like fire and a faint frown that rarely left her face. They'd been together in Laketown when the dragon had come.

But the dragon had left her friends alive inside the Lonely Mountain. Thorin had changed, and not for the better.

'I renounce any friendship that was once between us,' he'd said. The words cut her as much at their remembering as they had when he'd first spoken them. Then – the battle.

She didn't know who had survived. She didn't know who had won, the orcs, wargs, and bats, or the elves, men and dwarves. She'd been torn from the arms of Glorfindel by –

'Help me. Save me,' she slurred, sagging to her side as the enchanted water dragged her into sleep. Maglor shook his head.

'It's too late, Lalaith…'

He'd poured all the water that was left over her face, giving the enchantment as much strength as he could. Whatever she had known, all those years ago, he didn't want her to remember.


When she woke, days later, she felt weaker than she ever had before. She tried and failed to sit up, to lift an arm, to turn her head. At the very least, it didn't feel like she was going to lapse back into her memories. She had made it to the other side.

She had only remembered things that had happened to her after waking up in the cave, nothing more from her life before – except the image of playing hide and seek with her sister, and a clearer memory of Maglor giving her the enchanted water to drink on the beach.

Maglor. He had poisoned her again, tricked her into drinking herself to sleep. The first time, she'd drunk as much as she could before losing consciousness. This time, it had only been three mouthfuls, and the rest poured on her skin. Azshar could remember that with clarity, though some of her other memories were confused, hazy and out of order. She wondered how many days – or months, or years – she'd been sleeping this time.

She swallowed and opened her eyes. She was lying in a bed, her hands folded on her chest. There was sun on her pillow, and a sweet breeze blowing. She recognised it as Rivendell.

It wasn't long before her door opened, and a woman entered. Her hair was long and dark, like Azshar's, and her face had a familiar shape. She looked like Elrond, and her eyebrows shot up when she realised Azshar was awake. She hastened to the bedside.

'Do you want anything? Food, water?'

Azshar tried to speak, but her voice failed her. The elf seemed to understand. With great care, she bent forward and pulled Azshar upright, helping her sit and propping her up with pillows. Then she went to the fire that was burning in the fireplace, and took a kettle of water. She poured the boiling water into a bowl. The steam smelled fragrant.

She sat at the edge of the bed and smiled at Azshar. 'I'll help you eat. It is a recipe I made with my father's help. It will hasten the return of your strength.'

She dipped a spoon in the broth and blew to cool it before holding it to Azshar's mouth. Azshar swallowed, and warmth filled her.

'My name is Arwen,' the elf said, holding up another spoonful. 'I've been doing what I can to make you comfortable, while Lord Elrond has been occupied by another patient.'

'Frodo,' Azshar rasped. Her voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

'Yes. The situation was very serious, but he is recovering now.'

'How…' she tried, but she couldn't continue. Arwen smiled and fed her another spoonful.

'Your situation was also very serious. Aragorn wanted to bring you and the halflings to Imladris as soon as possible, but you were growing worse with every hour, and he couldn't travel with you. So he made camp in the wilderness until Glorfindel returned with Frodo, and told us you were in need of urgent help.'

'Aragorn?' Azshar croaked.

'He is the man who helped rescue you from your prison.'

'Strider… he was called.'

'Ah. Yes. Strider is another of his names,' Arwen said, brushing a hair back from Azshar's face. 'Anyway, my brothers came for you. Elladan told me – you were near death when they crossed into the valley. I thank the Valar you are still alive now.'

Azshar drew in a deep breath. She could feel her strength returning, like warmth from the sun slowly seeping into her. She was starting to feel hungry for real food. 'How did I live?'

'It is anyone's guess. There was nothing we could do for you, not even my father, who is a great healer. We made you comfortable, changed your clothes, got you warm. I think that must have helped. But for ailments of your kind…' she shrugged. 'Lord Elrond said we could only watch and wait.'

'Well. It worked. Here I am.'

'Here you are,' Arwen agreed with a smile of startling beauty. 'You'll have all the time you want to recover. There are many who wish to see you and speak with you, but that can wait another few days. We will work first on regaining your strength.'

Azshar managed a nod. 'Alright.'

Arwen hesitated. 'There was something… I wanted to ask. Perhaps it is important, perhaps it isn't. But your sickness was caused by a sudden return of your memories.'

It wasn't a question, but Azshar nodded again.

'How much did you remember, exactly?'

'I remember… only what happened after… after the cave,' Azshar said, slurring the words a little. Her tongue still felt heavy. 'I still… don't know who I am.'

Arwen looked both relieved and disappointed, but she smiled anyway. 'Then to me, you shall be who you want to be.'

'Azshar,' she said.

'Well met at last, Azshar.'


True to her word, no one but Arwen saw Azshar over the next two days. Their conversation was light, and mostly consisted of Arwen answering Azshar's questions, but Azshar couldn't help but like the other elf. She was patient, empathetic, and capable.

'Do you know how many years I have been sleeping?' she asked on the second day, her apprehension of the answer made worse by Arwen's obvious reluctance to answer.

'It has been seventy-seven years since the Battle of the Five Armies in the east.'

Azshar looked down at her hands. Seventy-seven years. That meant… she didn't know. Would the dwarves still be alive? Would Bilbo? They would be ancient now, if not dead. Her heart ached.

'Who won that battle?'

Arwen hesitated again. 'There are people here who can answer that question better than me. I will introduce them to you soon.'

Azshar swallowed. That answer didn't bode well.

'There are some things I want to ask you too,' Arwen said, a little carefully. 'Firstly, about the circumstances in which you left the battle, if you remember them.'

Azshar frowned. The question was different to any Arwen had asked before, and she couldn't imagine she was asking out of her own curiosity. 'Is it your father who wants to know?'

'It is,' Arwen admitted. 'He has a number of questions. We heard some… disturbing things after you disappeared.'

'Why doesn't he come to see me?' Azshar asked, puzzled.

'He doesn't want to offend you,' Arwen said. 'Your recovery is his priority, and he doesn't want to delay it by coming in to ask questions or pressure you.'

It didn't make any sense. 'But… he told you to ask instead?'

Arwen sat down and cleared her throat. 'Truth be told,' she said, 'and he would probably rather this remain unsaid, but I think honesty is best – your departure from Rivendell the last time you stayed implied that you perhaps weren't entirely comfortable around him.'

Guilt struck Azshar. Elrond had done nothing wrong except keep a secret from her, and she knew he'd done it because he was trying to keep her safe. She'd left without a word. She hadn't left a note, and she'd asked Glorfindel to say nothing.

'Tell him to come, if he will,' she said. 'I owe him an apology.'

Arwen smiled. 'He'll be glad to hear it.'

'I think I want to try walking.'

Arwen laughed, shaking her head. 'I have never had a more ambitious patient than you! We will try walking, if we must.'

They walked to and from the window a few times, arm in arm. They talked about food and music and the good weather. Silently, Azshar wondered whether Glorfindel was still in Imladris. She wondered whether he had come back for her after bringing Frodo to safety. She wondered why he hadn't come to see her now.

It hurt more than she cared to think about. She missed him, and it ached.


Welcome to Part Two everyone! I'm getting excited. I want to let you know that Part Two gets a bit more serious than Part One did, so please be aware of the T rating for occasional descriptions of violence, panic attacks, and further mature themes. If there's something in particular in a chapter, I'll do my best to put up warnings.

Apart from that, I couldn't be happier to be back on my bs. Stay cool! S