Revised: August 2022

Anne's last morning at the little cave dawned grey and with a cool breeze that felt more like autumn than summer. It blew into the cave, causing the flames of the campfire to flicker, and even found its way into the blankets Anne had wrapped around herself as the night grew steadily colder. With a groan, she rolled around so she was facing the fire, the warmth of it barely reaching her face. The air smelled of rain and burnt wood.

Anne propped herself up on one elbow in an awkward wobble; one of her arms was still asleep, feeling numb and too heavy. She blearily looked around for Delior — Anne had decided to stick with that name for now — but the Elf was nowhere in sight. The wooden tripod and spit had been placed over the fire, Anne saw, and a small pot was suspended over the flames, quietly bubbling away. A sweet, warm, and yet invigorating scent was wafting over, like from both sharp spices and fresh herbs.

Yawning and grimacing at the dry, fuzzy feeling in her mouth, Anne tried to clear the cobwebs from her mind. She hadn't slept well and could still recall some hazy remnants of a dream in which she had been trudging through a field, trying to keep up with Delior. Anne had fallen behind and the distance between them kept growing until she looked down to find herself in the middle of a bog, tick, muddy water already reaching up to her waist.

She had fought desperately to free herself but sank ever deeper as she struggled. Delior had ignored her cries for help and kept walking without glancing back once, his figure growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Anne did not remember how the dream had ended, which was probably for the best.

Another gust of wind found its way into the cave, making the fire moan and the empty water jars rattle softly against the wall. Anne shivered and sat up, rubbing her arms. When she pulled her clothes towards her, she found to her chagrin that the tunic was still damp.

Nothing to be done about it now, Anne thought morosely. She slipped the too-large shirt over her head, pulling a face at the clammy feeling on her skin. Perhaps Delior would lend her another one.

The subject of her thoughts entered the cave at this moment, carrying a saddle and a blanket over one arm, as well as a bundle of fabric under the other. His long hair was wet, making it appear almost ink-black, and the length of it was wrapped into a piece of cloth and slung over his shoulder. Why he would wash his hair — and presumably himself — in weather like this was beyond Anne. The Elf now carefully put saddle and blanket on the ground next to the fire pit, crouched down and began untying the bundle.

Anne finished tying the laces on her boots and struggled to her stiff feet, thinking longingly of her mattress at The Rolling Barrel and a pillow that wasn't her own arm. Her hip felt like it had a dent in it, and a dull sort of twinge ran down the back of her neck. Anne doubted she could ever get used to sleeping on the ground, soft sheepskins or not.

Rubbing her sore muscles and wincing at the pins and needles in her left arm, Anne sat down at the fire pit opposite Delior. As usual, the Elf had already laid out some breakfast for her on a plate of pine bark, consisting of nuts, berries and a few strips of dried meat. Next to the plate was also a steaming tin cup, emitting the same fragrance as the bubbling pot. Delior had made a concoction like this before, reddish-brown in colour, spicy and pleasantly tangy, but Anne could only guess at its ingredients. She now muttered a greeting and thank-you slurred into one, and gratefully reached for the hot drink.

Delior, who had picked up a cast iron ladle and was stirring the pot, glanced at her briefly.

"Take that off," he said, pointing the dripping ladle at her tunic.

Anne blinked, the cup suspended halfway to her lips. Why, good morning to you too, she thought surly. Then the Elf's words registered properly and her stomach did an unpleasant little lurch. She let the cup sink.

"What— why?"

"It has cooled down, and that tunic has not dried." There was a hint of impatience in Delior's voice as though he was irritated at having to explain himself further. "Keep running around in wet clothes and soon you will no doubt contract one of those lingering, tedious mortal diseases, and Eru alone knows how long that will delay us."

Anne fleetingly wondered if he had slept poorly too. She had glimpsed another makeshift pallet, looking a lot more frugal than even hers, in the dark alcove that she assumed to be Delior's resting place. Perhaps the Elf missed a proper bed as well, which might explain quite a bit in regard to his temper. Still, there was no need for him to take his bad mood out on her, Anne thought grumpily. She had plenty of that herself right about now.

"This will be fine," she bit out. "It's better than nothing."

Delior looked back up at her, his dark brows drawing together in disbelief. "Are you saying that you brought nothing else to wear? What of your pack that Glorfindel brought?"

Anne had sorted through the clothes in her saddlebags the previous evening, only to verify what she had already been suspecting; amongst the various dresses and undershifts, there was next to nothing that would be suitable for a long journey. Or any journey, really. Presumably, she would be walking all day during the upcoming weeks. Apart from looking ridiculous in floor-length gowns, she would probably ruin them within a couple of hours. The undershifts perhaps, she might be able to use if she folded up the skirts and somehow managed to secure them in place.

"Those are mostly very long dresses and such," she tersely explained to the Elf. "I don't think they are meant for travelling on foot."

Delior raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "And thus splendidly prepared you set out for Edoras? Ai, what do they teach their children in Ecthel? Or Esgaroth, for that matter."

Anne suppressed an irritated groan. "Well, that journey was not exactly planned either." When would it enter his head that she wasn't a child? "There is nothing to be done about it. Everything I brought with me is inside those bags. Well, apart from the things I was wearing when you... when we met. The ones you cut apart," she added for good measure.

"If it is any consolation to you," Delior said, looking utterly unrepentant, "they were already ruined beyond repair, and on top of that, downright unsightly."

Anne scowled. Oh really, she was ever so sorry that they had not been to his liking.

"Fine," she snapped. "But unsightly or no, I have nothing else, so it will have to do."

"Not necessarily."

Without warning, Delior tossed her the pieces of folded material that Anne had seen him unwrapping earlier, though thankfully with little force. Anne caught them, narrowly avoiding dropping one rolled-up piece of fabric into the fire. Curious, she unfolded the small bundles. They were indeed garments, similar to the ones the Elf wore, though plainer in material and style.

There were two pairs of leggings that could be laced at the calves, several unadorned tunics made of a coarse type of linen, and a couple of woollen shirts. The weave of the cloth was fairly rough and the wool felt a bit scratchy. Unlike Delior's clothes, the fabrics looked undyed, the colours ranging from yellowish grey to darker, dappled shades of brown. More important than anything else, however, was the size: The garments were small, far too small for the Elf if Anne were to guess, but they probably would fit her quite well. They smelled a little dusty but did not look too worn.

"Are these women's clothes?" Anne asked, wondering why Delior had not given her these in the first place instead of parting with some of his own.

"Of course not." Delior appeared faintly perplexed at her question. "I discovered them in one of the abandoned settlements of the Woodmen and had forgotten about them until now. I expect they were made for a boy."

Anne regarded the clothes with growing enthusiasm. The coarse material of the tunics and shirts might be uncomfortable to wear on bare skin, but perhaps she could fit some of the thinner linen shirts and shifts underneath them. Her shapeless, knee-length underwear was another matter, she feared, as the breeches looked to be cut fairly narrow.

Anne thanked Delior and went to the back of the cave in order to change into the dry clothes. They fitted her well enough, but unfortunately, she had been right in her assessment of the breeches. In the end, she asked Delior for a knife, and after a lot of hacking and ripping at the long underpants, she managed to cut off a large portion of the legs. It looked horrible, but it was either this or no underwear.

No matter, Anne told herself while stuffing the spare clothes into her pack. After all, she had no intention of letting anyone see them.

This way at least, it was only her legs that came in direct contact with the material of the leggings. Anne grimaced when she finally pulled them on. They felt as scratchy as they looked. First, men's clothing, now boy's clothing, she thought sardonically. She had to look a right state, with her hair in an unruly tangle and not having had a proper bath for weeks. What would she not give now for a hot bath with soap, and to be able to properly brush her teeth.

On her third day at the cave, Delior had thankfully been kind enough to show her how to use the twigs of a certain plant to clean one's teeth. Well, if truth be told, she had watched him doing it several times, and finally asked what that was about. The plant in question was a bristly, low-growing bush of sorts, though it looked a little like a conifer, too. The plant was called Luinêg in the elvish language, which according to Delior, could be translated as Bluethorn, and could be found growing pretty much everywhere. The name said it all, as the Luinêg-twigs were prickly and of a silvery, bluish-green colour, tasting strongly of resin and something like very sharp mince. They did serve the purpose fairly well Anne had to admit, if one did not mind having the mouth full of needles and tiny shreds of bark afterwards.

Delior had shown a rare degree of tact and left the cave while Anne had been dressing. He returned now, just as she was rinsing her mouth after cleaning her teeth. To Anne's surprise, the Elf wasn't alone — walking obediently next to him was a second horse, a long-legged, very dark liver chestnut. The skewbald nickered softly as Delior lead the other animal next to it, his hand resting lightly on the horse's bowed neck.

Anne swallowed, feeling like little nervous bubbles were bursting in her stomach. This looked very much like they were not going to walk after all. True, she had suspected as much when the Elf had turned up with the saddle, but her brain had refused to deal with this new piece of information until now. Apart from not being quite sure how she felt about the idea of riding such a long way — or riding at all, for that matter — now that she did think about it, she spotted another problem. When they had left from Carrockton, the white-splashed little gelding had been brought along as a packhorse, so there was only one saddle.

When Delior entered the cave while pulling the length of cloth from his hair and went to pick up the saddle, Anne hesitantly raised the problem with him. He nodded and stopped her with a wave of his hand.

"You may use mine. Dûrfang is taller than the naugroch, but they are both high-withered and have a similar build."

What was taller than what? High what?

While failing to make sense of his words, Anne followed Delior back outside, where he handed her the rectangular blanket. It was made from a grey-green, finely woven fabric, the edges trimmed with silver thread, and felt sleek and somewhat cool to the touch.

Delior now stepped next to the skewbald horse, speaking in a soft, calm voice once more, the words incomprehensible to Anne. She watched as he placed the saddle on the horse's back, almost level with the base of the arched neck. Then he carefully slid it backwards until it came to lie in the right spot.

Anne stepped close to Delior's side in order to get a proper look at what he was doing. Still, she made sure to stay halfway behind him in case the horse decided it didn't like to be saddled. Perhaps she had stood a little too close for the Elf's liking or he simply didn't care for being used as a shield, because he suddenly raised a hand to his hair and tossed it over the shoulder in a rapid and somewhat impatient movement.

Anne felt like she had been hit square in the face with a freshly laundered sheet. A faint herbal scent and something spicy, like clove, filled her nose. Startled, she staggered a step back, sniffing and rubbing her face with one hand while clutching the blanket with the other.

He must have something to wash his hair with, Anne thought with mild indignation, but decided that now was perhaps not the best moment to ask about it. Meanwhile, Delior had finished fitting the saddle and seemed satisfied. He took it off and motioned for Anne to hand him back the blanket. He then repeated the procedure from before with the blanket underneath. Finally, he went around the horse, drew a small tool resembling a blunt dagger from underneath his belt and inspected the hooves one by one, showing Anne how to clean them as he did so.

Anne watched attentively, guessing that this was probably important. She kept her distance, though — from the Elf, not the horse — having learned her lesson.

When all preparations were done, the sun had risen. More precisely, Anne guessed that it must have risen, but at least the colour of the sky had changed from a deep to a lighter shade of grey.

Since Anne had been lent Delior's saddle, his saddlebags were also on the skewbald horse. Most of their lighter belongings, such as clothes and some cooking utensils had found room in the bags, and the rest of the baggage was stored in smaller packs that were easy to carry.

Anne, who was standing next to her horse and clutching the reins, glanced up at the ominously low-hanging clouds. Her stomach was in knots, although she wasn't particularly bothered by the weather. It appeared that the moment she had dreaded had come at last when Delior came over and began unbuckling the stirrup straps. After he had shortened them quite a bit, he went past Anne to take her place next to the horse's shoulder and, with a tilt of his head, wordlessly indicated for her to go ahead.

Anne nodded glumly, took a deep, resigned breath and once more prayed for her breakfast to remain where it was. While trying to keep an eye on both Delior and the horse's ears flicking back and forth, Anne took hold of the saddle, but before she could do anything other than wonder how she was supposed to lift her leg up high enough to reach the stirrup, Delior had reached out an arm and took her by the shoulder.

Startled, Anne looked up at him, but the Elf turned her around so she was standing with her back to him, facing the horse's tail. To her surprise, Anne found that she was now able to reach the stirrup with her left foot, if only just barely. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the back of the saddle and bounced on the ball of her right foot for a moment before with as much strength as she could muster, pushed off the ground.

Perhaps she had pushed off a trifle too hard because she almost went tumbling back down on the other side. With some difficulty, she managed to find her balance and swing her right foot over the animal's back.

"Lower yourself down, but gently," Delior told her, as he patiently watched her struggle.

Easy for you to talk, Anne thought angrily, but still obeyed as best as she could. Then she sat up and fished around for the other stirrup with her right foot. Delior gave her a scrutinizing look as she shifted about in the saddle. At length, he turned away, either pleased with what he saw or giving her up as the lost cause that she no doubt was, and went towards the cave entrance.

This would turn out to be a disaster, Anne just knew it. Once she was assured that the horse was not about to dash off with her at any moment, she tentatively turned her head to take a last, rather unsentimental look at the cave. The Elf had finished covering the fire pit with dirt and now went to pick up his bow and quiver that stood propped against the rock wall.

Anne gingerly picked up the reins, while Delior stepped next to his own horse, whose name she had by now worked out to be Dûrfang. The liver chestnut's soft leather bridle, Anne noticed, had no bit attached to it.

Delior leapt onto the tall horse's back with seemingly no effort at all. He did not even jump, but instead pulled himself up with one arm in an elegant sort of sweep, while still holding onto his pack and bow with the other hand. His arms, Anne decided incongruently, had to be ridiculously strong.

The elf now swiftly slung both his pack and bow across his back and adjusted the quiver strapped to his belt. Then he took the reins in one hand and turned to look at Anne.

"Keep the reins slack for now. He will no doubt understand where to go. Let me know if anything is the matter."

The Elf turned his horse around with seemingly nothing but a slight shift of his weight and started walking him down the slope, along the barely visible path that would lead them westwards into the denser growing forest. Delior had been right; as soon as the other horse started moving down the path, the skewbald followed unprompted and without hesitation — fortunately so, since Anne was far too busy holding on to the saddle for dear life to be able to direct the animal, even if she had known how to do so.

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Over the next couple of hours, Anne slowly became accustomed to the horse's steady gait. When she finally began to feel cautiously optimistic about the whole thing, Delior turned his head and told her to 'stop cowering, sit up straight and let go of the saddle already'.

Reluctantly, and with only slightly shattered confidence, Anne did as she was told. Soon she discovered that it was easier to balance if she tried to relax her lower body and match herself to the horse's movement, rather than tensing up while clinging to the saddle and thus unwittingly interfering with its rhythm.

When they been underway for about four or five hours, they stopped to rest in a small clearing that was surrounded by dense-growing thorn bushes. There was a small pond here, and since Delior wanted to use their water as sparingly as possible, they led the two horses to the bank to water them.

Anne, who had begun to feel increasingly sore quite some time ago, was glad to be able to stretch her legs a little. However, Delior appeared unwilling to linger for too long. Anne noted that he kept his bow slung across his upper body and every now and then his eyes would dart up and search the fringe of the thicket that sheltered the clearing.

Truth be told, Anne did not feel too comfortable either. Perhaps it was just the Elf's unrest that made her nervous, but there was something odd about this place. The weather had not improved by a lot — it remained cool and a little windy. At least the sky had brightened up a little, but even though the sun was now almost discernible behind its thin veil of clouds, the small clearing didn't feel any more welcoming. The heavy afternoon silence did not seem peaceful but somehow oppressing, stifling.

Eerie, Anne thought while glancing around the dark thicket, the hard, cracked earth and sun-parched moss. For a moment, she felt as though something very small with tiny scrabbling legs was making its way up the back of her neck and across her scalp. Anne hastily wiped one hand across her neck and head, but there was nothing. Still, she could not suppress a slight shiver.

In the centre of the clearing there grew a single tree. It looked like it might have been hundreds of years old if not more, and was gnarled and knotted. Anne wasn't even sure what caused this feeling, but it felt almost... unfriendly, if you could say that of a plant.

While Anne was staring at the tree and still nibbling unenthusiastically on some dried fruit, Delior stood and walked along the edge of the glade. She could see him pause between the trees now and then, hands outstretched towards the trunks, his slender fingertips lightly brushing the rough surface. Frowning, Anne watched him for a moment. What was he doing? The way he tilted his head from time to time, it almost looked like he was straining to hear something.

With a sigh, Anne turned to look around the clearing once more. Was it just her imagination, or did the thorn bushes seem to be closing in on them? But no, that was ridiculous. The bushes were growing close to the outer trees, and they were obviously no whit nearer than they had been before. And yet, there was something about those bushes that made Anne slightly uneasy. She looked closer at them, feeling not a little silly. They looked ordinary enough; dark wood with small, blackish, jagged leaves, and a lot of thorns. Several of them were bearing a number of small, scarlet berries.

They reminded Anne of something. But no– no, that wasn't right… it wasn't the berries…

"We should move on."

Delior had silently reappeared next to Anne. He now started gathering up their belongings and packing away the food.

Anne, who had jumped at the Elf's voice, scowled at his broad back. "I wish you would stop doing that," she muttered as she got to her feet, brushing dried leaves and grass off her wool-clad legs.

Delior ignored her reproach and went back to the horses to stow away several flasks and skins he had refilled with water.

Soon they were heading off again. Anne, who had managed to get in the saddle a little better this time, kept twisting around to look back towards the clearing which was still visible between the high trunks. The deep red dots of the thornbush berries were almost shining in the dim light.

"What is this place?" she asked Delior.

"It was used by the Drúath, though to what purpose I cannot say." The Elf glanced back as well. "Drúath we call the Woodmen," he continued at seeing the puzzled expression on Anne's face. "The people who settled in this forest beside mine."

"So, they live nearby?"

"No," said Delior, turning away. "Not anymore. But you shall see one of their villages tomorrow."

He fell silent after this. Anne followed suit, now wondering what might have happened to these Woodmen but not quite daring to ask.

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As the day progressed, Anne gradually felt more at ease. No doubt she still looked like a sack of turnips, but it was progress nonetheless. She suffered a bit of a setback when Delior ventured to let them trot for a while; no matter what Anne did, it seemed to be impossible to sit still at this pace. She couldn't help noticing that Delior, despite not using a saddle, was sitting on his horse's back as though it was an extension of his body, without ever losing one iota of poise.

To Anne's relief, they soon fell back into a walk, which gave her the chance to settle back into the saddle properly. Delior slowed Dûrfang until the two horses were walking abreast. Anne groaned inwardly and braced herself, fairly sure she was about to be berated or scoffed at. Therefore the Elf's following words threw her slightly off track.

"Did you dream last night?"

For a moment she frowned at him in puzzlement. "What?"

"Did you dream something? You were talking in your sleep."

Somehow, Anne had a bad feeling about this.

"I did?" she stalled.

"Yes." His face remained impassive. "Mainly a lot of incoherent muttering and moaning."

Anne felt her face heat up. She didn't like this, not even in her sleep she was safe from his sharp observations. Her dreams were hardly anyone's business, were they? Having said that, what on earth had she been dreaming about?

"You also mentioned my name," the Elf continued helpfully.

Anne glanced up at him, now vaguely horrified.

"Are you– are you sure?"

"Quite so."

Even though there wasn't the slightest hint of a smile on his face, Anne would have bet anything that Delior was, at least to some extent, enjoying her discomfort. And just when Anne had started to think that he wasn't so bad after all.

"How fortunate that you have no nightmares. Mortals can be quite resilient."

Oh, he was horrible!

Suddenly, and to her immense relief, Anne remembered her dream.

"Actually, it was more of a nightmare..."

He looked back at her, head cocked slightly. His expression suggested mild interest, so after a moment, Anne continued.

"I was in some sort of moor or bog," she explained, the memory giving her another twinge of unease. "You were there too, somewhere in front of me. I was sinking into the bog and called out for you to help me, but you kept walking..."

Anne trailed off, suddenly worried she might sound like she was fishing for pity or hoping to be comforted or something. Sure enough, Delior was regarding her, brows slightly furrowed and his gaze pensive.

Perhaps he didn't believe her, Anne thought, disgruntled. Maybe he had really suspected her to have some sort of infatuated dream about him, even if the mere thought was absurd! Maybe he—

"Do they ail you often? The nightmares," the Elf interrupted her indignant musings.

Anne looked up. He was once more a couple of paces ahead of her, so she couldn't see his face. His tone had been light and seemingly unconcerned, but the sudden attention made her wary.

"Not really. I mean—" Anne hesitated, thinking back to the time she had spent in Carrockton. "No, actually. At least none that I could remember."

Delior remained silent for a minute or two. Anne had just started to think that he must have lost interest in the matter, when—

"Perhaps it is not the dreams you are unable to recall, but rather the things they are about."

Anne frowned at his back, wondering what on earth he was talking about.

"That sounds pretty much like one and the same thing to me," she said cautiously.

"Does it indeed?" the Elf asked quietly. "I should think that there is a vast difference between forgetting your dreams and forgetting your life."

For several seconds, Anne stared at Delior in incomprehension. Then the meaning of his words struck her like a whiplash.

He knew.

Perhaps she had made some sound, because Delior twisted around to look at her again, resting one hand on his horse's back.

"I was right, it would seem."

"But... how—"

"You exude it." He turned back forward. "A sense of forlornness that goes beyond anything a person, even lost, could possibly bear. Yet, there is no pain to it, no grief."

Anne stared down at her hands, clenched around the slack reins. Perhaps that was the reason he had seemed so wary of her at first, and why he believed her to be one of the altered people. She must have appeared very odd to him if he was telling the truth, and Anne could see no reason why he should lie.

"You never asked to be taken home, yet you appear to know where you hail from," the Elf was saying now. "Esgaroth, Ecthel... and seemingly no bond with either."

He briefly glanced back at her. "Furthermore, you suffered a blow to the back of your head quite recently. Other than the one you received on the day we met, that is. A bruise is still visible underneath your hair."

Anne's hand flew to her head. "How did you—"

He interrupted her with an impatient sigh while looking at her over his shoulder. "You spent quite some time unconscious in my arms, and even back at the cave, you did not properly wake up for another day and a half. I feared that you might have sustained a yet graver injury, obscured by the obvious ones."

Of course, she had nearly forgotten about that. It was a disconcerting thought, being unconscious and at the mercy of a stranger for such a long time. Not to mention that, on the topic of lying in another person's arms, Anne was of the opinion that her circumstances left a great deal to be desired.

"To be sure, that wound might have nothing to do with it," Delior continued. "I cannot say. There were other things — small matters, but strange nonetheless. Were I to guess..." — Another shrewd glance — "All that was before your arrival in Ecthel... you remember none of it?"

Anne remained silent for a few moments, biting the inside of her cheek and watching the ears of her nameless horse flicking back and forth.

Fine, she thought grimly. He wanted to stick his stupidly straight nose into this, then he might as well hear the whole disturbing mess of a story, such as there was.

So, Anne told him. She spoke about everything, or at least the little that she knew and that he had not already guessed. About waking up in the dark bedroom in the Rolling Barrel, about the people's distrust and her confusion and frustration at not being able to remember, or be any more helpful in explaining anything.

She told him of Liecia, Nesta, Odo and Nardil, and everyone else she had met, about the attack on the Ashgrove house in the middle of the night, and how terrified everyone had been. She told him about not being able to remember the name of her dead brother. She also talked about how unreal the whole situation seemed to her at times, about her feeling of isolation and of not belonging.

Frankly, Anne had no idea why she was telling him all this; her sanity and reason were obviously going down the drain. She could not see the Elf's face, and therefore had no idea whether he was even paying attention, but she kept talking nonetheless. It was deeply peculiar, but as she spoke, a weight she had not even realised she had been carrying, seemed to be lifted from her, bit by bit.

Then, all of a sudden, there was nothing left to tell, and they rode in silence for a while. Anne, who was feeling somewhat drained, briefly wondered whether Delior now thought her to be completely insane. Finally, he turned his head around to look at her, his face impassive as ever.

"Have you noticed how much better you are carrying yourself? As you talked you forgot about feeling insecure and unknowingly adjusted yourself to the movement. You seem much more at ease and confident than you did less than an hour ago."

Anne stared back at him in disbelief, and with an odd, plummeting feeling in her stomach that she wasn't able to quite make sense of. All she could think to herself was: That's it?

The elf turned forward again and Anne huffed a quiet snort, wondering what on earth she had been thinking. "Thank you," she muttered in response to his comment on her riding. Manners cost nothing, after all.

Delior remained quiet for so long that Anne suspected he might be done talking for the day. Thinking up a number of unflattering names for him, she assumed her own gloomy silence. However, the elf proved yet again how perceptive her assumptions of him could be. After a few minutes, his deep voice startled Anne from her sullen pouting.

"Your memories may return I suppose, but I am not versed in such things."

"Oh... Yes, I know," Anne muttered once she had somewhat recovered from her surprise. "One of the men in Carrockton said something like that." She had a feeling that Delior wasn't finished though, and this time she was right.

"It is likely that not your wound robbed you of your memory, but something else," the elf said quietly. "If that were true, you might ask yourself if you truly wish to reclaim it. Some things are better left to rest."

He said nothing more after that, and neither did Anne. While the possible meaning behind his words was sinister enough in itself, there had been a strange tone to his voice — didn't start somehow, and grim. Anne couldn't shake the feeling that his last remark had not been solely about her alone.

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