Astray

by antiheld

Anne loves stories, but she doesn't much care for this one. Why is she here? Who is Elena and what is this fearful whisper about the altered ones? Left in the unwilling hands of an aloof, tight-lipped Elf, she soon learns that Middle-earth can be a harsh and unforgiving place. Reality is a fragile thing, but the crack was already there. She didn't do it. Fourth Age, AU

32. Then

AN(the 1st): Friends, I am so, so sorry for how long this took, and now I will shut up and not waste everyone's time anymore. Apologies in advance too, because this is only the first half of what was intended to be one chapter; when I reached the point just shy of a 20,000-word count, I decided to split it in two. I'm currently catching up on review replies; if I haven't responded to yours yet, I will :)

A HUGE thanks to my Beta Ruiniel for the invaluable help cleaning up this beast.

Warning: This chapter contains (subtle) depictions of violence.

---

Then

:::

III III III

What determines the course of a life?

Does it happen at birth or even before, as the elves seem to believe, that a person's story is written?

Is it decision after decision? Every little left or right, each small yes and no that weave a rag-rug of an existence, and every turn might lead to a different outcome?

Or is there really one choice, one day, deed, chance or meeting for everyone that irrevocably decides their fate? This concept appears to be the most popular, both in belief and tales, or perhaps it is just the one people fear the most. Yet if it were true — if one moment had the power to change everything, to wipe out all that was before, then one cannot help but wonder…

What is the point of the rest?

---

April 18th4A35

A curtain of rain billows at the greenhouse's tall windows. Through the layer of sliding water, the world outside looks blurred and distorted. The rickety old log wall surrounding the courtyard and the rooftops and chimneys of the alley beyond appear to curve and quaver. Raindrops play on the roof like fingers on a drum, and the building's wooden structure creaks and moans with every little squall of wind.

They had to light the lanterns, even though it is still early afternoon. Their stuttering flames cast more shadow than light, turning the spacious room into a sombre, stuffy tunnel. The air feels thicker than usual; heavy with moisture and wet earth, the pungent scent of tomatoes and cabbage, and the sweet fragrances of rosemary and sage.

Someone has left a trowel on the windowsill, crusted with long-dried soil. Water drips at a steady rhythm into an old, rusty pot that has been placed beneath a small leak in the roof. The sound is monotone, lulling.

"Elena."

She tears her gaze from the rain-washed windows and turns her head towards the desk that has been crammed between two potted blackcurrant shrubs in the corner.

"I am sorry, what?"

The tall figure behind the desk makes a tutting noise of displeasure.

"Are you watering a horse or a yarrow? Have a care, girl."

Elena glances back at the yarrow plant and her watering can. The small flowerpot is indeed overflowing and muddy water is slowly forming a puddle on the worktop. With a muttered curse, Elena grabs a rag and hastily wipes up the mess. She can almost feel the disapproving glance she is being given from behind the desk.

"Mind your language, young lady. What is the matter? Your head is in the clouds today and they are darker than the sky above."

With a muffled groan, Elena wrings out the rag over a bucket. "I am sorry, Master Elendir."

The Elf sighs, places his magnifying glass on the desktop and wearily rubs his face, carefully avoiding the scarred tissue surrounding his left eye. "Go on, you may leave. I am in no need of further assistance today."

"Oh." Elena puts down her can and slowly starts gathering up some string and a pair of shears she has been using to prune the tomato vines. "Are you sure?"

"Quite so, yes. That gloomy disposition of yours is wilting my concentration, not to mention my plants, may Yavanna help them."

"All right." With a relieved sigh, she pulls off her stiff apron. "Should I go and prepare the lesson room for tomorrow?"

"Never mind, I will do it later myself. Go and take a walk."

Elena stops in the motion of returning several small tools to their respective shelves and boxes. "A walk?" she echoes dubiously, thinking she must have misheard him.

"You look sickly." Master Elendir has already returned to the heavy tome on medicinal herbs and spices in front of him. "Young women should not be cooped up inside so much."

Elena glances between her absent-minded former teacher and the clouded window panes.

"But it's raining," she feels the need to point out.

"And are you a sugar cone?" The Elf mutters without looking up. "I promise you will not melt, my dear. However, in the unlikely case that you should, you may be excused from your evening duties."

While Elena pulls on her cloak, she rolls her eyes in the secure knowledge that the schoolmaster cannot see it. Just then, his clear, dispassionate voice rings out again.

"While you are out there, be so kind and bring me back some myrrh from the apothecary." He turns a page in his book and waves a thin, long-fingered hand in the direction of the door. "There are coins in that satchel on one of the coat pegs by the entrance."

Elena turns back and stares at him in disbelief for a moment, but then sullenly does as she is told.

"Just say so from the start," she mutters under her breath.

"Even though my eyesight might not be what it once was, my hearing still works fairly well, Miss Thurgood."

Elena ducks her head and makes her escape out into the wet yard.

:::

Once she steps out of the apothecary, the rain has eased into a faint drizzle. After shoving the sachet with myrrh into her pocket, Elena hesitates but then makes a sudden decision. Wrapping herself more tightly in her cloak she strides past Swamp-weed End, which is the narrow street that will take her back to the orphanage. Instead, she turns left into a tiny side lane that leads to Rush-leaf Road, the broad main street where the houses and shops are larger and much prettier. Apart from the town hall, there are bakeries and butcheries, tailor shops, several nice inns and — slightly removed, in one of the backstreets — Halward's Forge; the largest and best blacksmith shop in Lake-town.

Elena's steps grow lighter as she nears the end of the shadowy alley. Elias used to be her best friend. She misses him, and this has gone on for long enough, she decides. He will just have to get over his stupid, wounded pride.

So focused is Elena on imagining what she is going to say to her former fellow resident, that she only takes note of the three young men who are leaning against one of the grimy house walls near the end of the alley when she has almost reached them.

The youths are passing around a large skin of what appears to be wine, judging from the stains on some of their tunics. Muttering a curse, Elena slows as one of the boys pushes away from the wall and steps into her path.

"Now, look who we have here," the boy sneers. "I don't think that's a proper word for a well-mannered lady, do you, lads?"

The other two boys snicker. Elena glances at them with as much contempt as she can muster, before turning a long-practised haughty stare on the young man in front of her.

"Get out of my way, Alwis. I don't have time for you brats."

The boy's face darkens at her scornful tone. "And where do you think you're going, mudface?"

Elena rolls her eyes at the old insult. She has spent so much time indoors lately that, even though her skin looks sallow now and still has a distinctive olive tinge, her face is not much darker than anyone else's. But of course, that doesn't matter to any of them.

"Can't imagine what business the likes of you could have among decent folks," Alwis says now while eyeing her patched old cloak as though it were a personal offence to him.

"Decent folks such as you?" Elena scoffs with a glance at his wine-stained — although admittedly expensive-looking tunic. "Having wealthy and respectable fathers might have some advantages, but I'm sorry to have to tell you this: it doesn't automatically rub off on you."

"I know where you are headed, Alwis taunts, ignoring her jibe. "I can put two and two together, you know."

"Well, I am so glad to hear you have finally mastered your sums," Elena says impatiently. "If you could please move now—"

"You are going to the forge, aren't you? I bet you are still running after that Elias," the young man says venomously. "Even though he is betrothed to my sister."

"You don't know what you are talking about," Elena hisses.

"Everyone knows you two were romping about with each other when you were both living in that stray house," the baker's son says gleefully. Like mother like daughter, eh?"

Elena snorts in disdain and crosses her arms. "Go on, Alwis. Let's hear how well-mannered you are."

Cackling, Alwis throws the wineskin to one of his friends — Hallam, the town hall secretary's youngest son — who catches it with some difficulty and then smirks at Elena.

"Didn't they find your mother in some ditch on the mainland, only a couple of days after she dropped you off at the orphanage?"

"Who was it that spawned her again?" Alwis asks his friend with a malicious grin. "Some Haradian deserter? I hear they practice witchcraft over there."

Hallam guffaws and shoves the wineskin at his other friend — a slender lad with pale golden hair, a handsome face, and eyes so strikingly blue they almost seem unreal. Elena recognises him as the boy whose parents own the delicacy shop; she thinks his name might be Lif or Lunt. Unlike his friends, he doesn't laugh, but quickly takes a swig from the wineskin and throws her a wary glance.

Meanwhile, Alwis has turned to Elena again. "Maybe you should try some witchcraft too, Elena — try and bewitch that dreadful hair of yours, so it doesn't look such a fright."

He reaches for a loose strand of her brown, frizzy hair. Elena slaps his hand away.

Both Alwis and Hallam laugh even harder. The third boy — Lunt or Lif — on the other hand, looks decidedly uncomfortable by now.

"Come on, let's go," he throws in half-heartedly. "Just leave her be."

His friends pay him no heed but Elena does, and suddenly she realises that she remembers him from somewhere else than the delicacy shop.

It was the first day of the spring festival when she had just turned eight years old. She was excited and giddy, clad in a new dress from the orphanage donation collecting — perhaps not brand new, but certainly newer and prettier than anything she had ever worn.

A group of town children was playing there as well, laughing and running across the festively decorated market square. Several of them snickered and pointed at the children from the orphanage, away from the watchful eyes of their decorum-abiding parents. And there was the boy from the delicacy shop with his pretty blue eyes, dressed smartly in a waistcoat and matching jacket, and he was smiling at her.

Elena did not know his name then either, only that he was roughly her age, perhaps a year or two older. She had shily smiled back, and he twisted his upper body as if to throw her a ball during a children's game.

The last thing she saw was the wicked grin on the handsome boy's features before the load of mud hit her square in the face.

Mudface, mudface!

She had cried all the way home, mud-streaked tears staining the silk of the already ruined, not quite new dress. All she could think of was the handsome boy and the other children staring after her, while their laughter and her new nickname still rang in her ears.

The handsome, blue-eyed boy remembers that day too. His discomfort becomes an almost tangible thing, hovering in the air like the foul-smelling fumes of the fish smoke-house. Elena stares at him until he looks away.

"Let's just go," he mutters again, but Elena has had enough.

She doesn't need anyone's pity, and quite certainly not his. She takes a step closer to Alwis, wrinkling her nose when the stink of stale ale and wine hits her.

"Do you know, Alwis," she says pleasantly, "I can tell by that oafish grin of yours that all those things you say must sound very witty and droll inside your head. The problem is that they are so unintelligible. I barely understand half of your slurred babbling." She gives him her best sympathetic, patronising smile. "How about you try this again, once you have pulled yourself together a bit?"

Alwis looks confused for a moment — then his expression hardens. "Do you think you can be smart with me?" he snarls.

Elena knows that provoking or angering people like him will do her no good — other than that brief moment of satisfaction. However, there are days when this brief satisfaction is just too much to resist.

"To be honest, I think a five-year-old can be smart with you, it really doesn't take all that much—"

Elena is cut off when the young man grabs her by the front of her cloak with surprising swiftness and pulls her close enough she can smell the wine on his breath.

"You useless little piece of muck!"

His voice is filled with so much venom that Elena involuntarily squirms backwards. He doesn't let go.

"You truly need to learn your place in this world, that has always been your problem," he hisses at her. "Become a tavern wench or a whore like your mother. Stop pretending that you are the same as us. It's just pathetic!"

Elena dimly notes that even his friend Hallam seems to become concerned; he makes an odd strangled noise and cautions Alwis to calm down. The delicacy shop boy — Lif or Lunt — shouts something along the lines of "Stop, we will get in trouble!"

That seems to be sufficient enough threat to penetrate Alwis' head. With a last threatening growl, he shoves Elena away but lets go of her cloak a moment too late; the threadbare fabric between two of the front fastenings gives way with an ugly, rasping rip, a second before she loses her balance and falls hard to the ground.

"Oy! What do you boys think you are doing there!"

Some passerby on Rush-leaf Road must have finally glanced into the back alley and regarded it their good citizen's duty to intervene. There are some very unrefined curses and then the hurried pattering of running feet.

Rubbing her thigh she has landed on, Elena turns to look towards the exit of the alley, but the narrow gap between the two buildings is deserted. The good citizen has already disappeared. Elena begins struggling to her feet and then starts; the boy from the delicacy shop is still there, awkwardly standing before her and now extending a hand.

Ignoring the offer, Elena shifts on the ground, wincing when several tiny rocks dig into her kneecaps. "There is nobody watching," she tells the young man coldly while getting to her feet by herself. "And I'm not going to thank you if that's what you are waiting for, so you can get lost."

He looks taken aback and almost — oh, how ridiculous people can be — a little hurt. His hand drops back to his side and he avoids her gaze.

"I wasn't waiting for that," he mumbles, frowning at his shoes. It is an odd frown; Elena thinks she can see both reproach and regret in it.

"Alwis shouldn't have done that," he continues quietly, still not looking at her. "But it isn't just us. You…"

He trails off, at last looking up at her, and there is something open, strangely vulnerable in his eyes which Elena doesn't understand at all. It angers her more than Alwis' rude remarks have done.

"I what?" It comes out harsh and biting like January wind.

He winces ever so slightly and looks away again. Shrugs.

"Nothing. Never mind. I am sorry."

And with that, he turns and swiftly walks away. Elena stares after him, wondering what he just apologised for and if she shouldn't perhaps attempt a derisive laugh as well, just like he did so many years ago. But it's her own skirt that is wet and muddied from her fall, and despite the boy's subdued retreat, she doesn't feel like laughing at all.

:

The smell inside the blacksmith shop envelops Elena the moment the heavy doors fall shut behind her. She has never much cared for the darkness, nor the mix of acrid burnt coal and the confusingly sweet, almost honeyish scent the heated iron gives off.

The small front of the shop is deserted, so Elena, following noise and smell, passes through a narrow passage and descends a couple of steps into the forge itself. She grimaces at the ring of steel on steel as she approaches the hearth where Elias is bent over a large anvil.

Her former best friend is focused on the thin iron rod he is working with. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he doesn't seem to notice Elena. She stops a couple of feet away and watches the young man work for a moment. He is striking the orange-glowing rod with a hammer against the half-moon-shaped blade of a chisel that has been placed inside the anvil.

When at last he manages to sever a small piece of the rod, and there is a pause in-between the loud clanking, Elena clears her throat. With a mixture of regret and satisfaction, she watches him flinch, curse, and then spin around to face her — eyes wide, dark-brown locks slightly damp, clinging to his temples. Elena thinks he is a little bit thinner and quite a bit taller than she remembers him. An odd sort of fear pinches her chest. How long have they not seen each other?

"Elena! You startled me!"

"I am sorry." Elena's cautious smile fades. He doesn't seem glad to see her, if anything he looks puzzled. She aims for flippancy to mask her disappointment.

"Have you taken over for old Halward, already?"

"He is out making a delivery."

"Himself?"

"It's the new name plaque for the town hall."

"Oh, I see." She glances around, awkward and uncomfortable. Perhaps she shouldn't have come, after all. She has never felt this self-conscious around him. "So," she tries again, "this is where fancy armour and splendid swords are being crafted?"

Elias snorts. "Sometimes. Seldom. Among many other things."

Elena pounces on the chance of an innocuous topic, no matter how dull she might think it. "What things?"

"You know, mundane everyday goods." He knows she thinks it, too. "It would bore you." He bows his head over his work again.

"Nonsense." She takes a step closer to the anvil, where he has started clipping off another short piece of the metal rod with the chisel. "Those look like mighty small swords, if I may say so, however."

Elias does not lift his head, but his eyes dart to her face for a second, before he concentrates on cutting the rod again. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"They are nails, smartmouth."

Elena feels like the weight of a Dorwinion wine barrel has been lifted off her chest. She presses her lips together to hide a grin. "Oh, I must apologise. They do look quite professional."

"Don't mock."

"I wouldn't dream of it! What would this town be without nails?"

"Just so. And I'll have you know that I make exceptional nails."

"I wouldn't expect any less of you." Elias does not respond, but Elena thinks she sees his timid ghost of a smile grow a little wider.

"Congratulations, Elias." She all but blurts it out before she loses her nerve again. Elias looks up at her, a small frown crinkling his brows.

"Well, they are just nails in the—"

"No, I mean… on your betrothal."

"Oh."

His mild expression doesn't seem to change, yet the air in the dimly lit room feels heavier somehow. Elena takes a deep breath. The coal dust itches in her nose.

"That was a while ago," Elias says now. He sounds oddly cautious as though he is wary of appearing too reproachful.

"I know it was, and I meant to come sooner. Or at least send a note, or…" Elena shrugs helplessly. "I am sorry, Elias, I really should have—"

"Forget it." A quick glance, and a wry smile. "And don't apologise. The last time you came here I was not exactly— well I was a bit unkind to you, I suppose."

"Not unkind, only… very quiet." She scrapes the tip of her shoe against the hard-packed dirt floor. "I felt shut-out."

"I am sorry," he mutters. "I should be surprised that you came here again at all."

"Don't apologise," she echoes his earlier words with a smile. "And despite the coal dust clogging my nose already, I am glad I came."

"Good." He looks up from the forge again, his face orange in the fire's glow and smiles — the first real, joyful smile Elena has seen from him in what feels like years. "How are things back at the Heron House? Is it your free afternoon?"

Elena shakes her head. "No, Master Elendir threw me out, I was getting on his nerves, apparently."

Elias looked up and gave her a lopsided grin. "Remember the evenings when you, Thordis and I had to tidy up the large greenhouse? It was never clean enough for him, and you were convinced that Master Elendir was tiptoeing around behind us and scattering more dirt on the floor."

Elena snorts. "And I have yet to be convinced of the contrary."

Elias chuckles while placing the iron rod back into the heat of the forge. "How are they, he and Madam Hulda?"

"Oh, they are well, I suppose," Elena says brightly — the sound of his soft laughter has made her almost giddy with relief. "Madam Hulda has hired a new kitchen maid and now she is beside herself with delight at having someone fresh to order about. Master Elendir is pretty much the same as he always was, grumpy, haughty and impossible to please. Sometimes, it seems to me that matters with his leg are getting worse, however."

Elias makes a regretful sound. "Perhaps that is normal. He was injured by orcish weapons, wasn't he? Certain injuries like that never heal properly, or so I have heard."

"I suppose so," Elena raises her shoulder in a vague shrug, doing her best not to sound too light-hearted. It's difficult to be bothered by her aloof teacher's ailments when she feels happy for the first time in months. "I used to think he would get better at some point. Sort of some superior elvish self-healing power, or something of the like."

Elias smiles a little sadly. "They might be stronger than us mortal folks, and more resistant, I expect, but they are still beings of flesh and blood, Elena. Some wounds don't heal so easily, even for them. Well, for everyone, I guess."

For a moment the low hissing of the fire is the only sound, while Elena winds a loose strand of hair around her finger and Elias examines the finished nail.

"How is that new teacher?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"Oh, he is nice enough," Elena says quickly, glad for another harmless subject. "I don't see much of him truth be told. He has rented a room near the town school since he teaches the girls' class over there as well." She allows herself a sardonic smirk. "I should think that the parents of those precious little poppets would protest at having to share a teacher with the likes of us."

Elias utters a soft huff of laughter, but it sounds a little forced, and a hint of disapproval has hardened his face. "Sometimes people will surprise you."

"Perhaps." Casting around for something else to say, Elena remembers that she should probably inquire after her friend's betrothed.

"How is Kelda?"

Elias does not look up from the rod he is now retrieving from the fire, but his expression softens. "She is well, thank you."

"I still cannot quite believe that you are going to be wed—"

Elena feels a small, icy pinprick of shock as she realises what has tumbled out of her mouth. She has meant for a harmless and perhaps a little wistful remark. Yet, to Elias, who initially asked her to marry him, it will probably be neither.

"To… to Kelda Delling, of all people," Elena adds in a hasty attempt at damage control. Not very elegant perhaps, but surely better than reminding him so crudely of her refusal.

Elias glances at her while placing the hot iron back on the anvil and from the weak, mirthless smirk forming on his handsome features, Elena knows he sees through her blunder.

"Why is that?" he asks quietly, sardonic smirk still in place. "You don't mean to say that I don't deserve the fancy baker's daughter?"

"Don't be so foolish!" Elena snaps, the sense of guilt making her brusque, as it always does. Not least because a small part of her is angry that Elias is making her feel guilty in the first place. They were such close friends, more than friends even; like brother and sister. Why did he have to go and ruin everything?

Elias has straightened and turned to face her; the wry humour gone, eyes narrowed in perplexity. "It was a jest, Elena."

"Well, not a very clever one," Elena retorts with forced calm as she feels the situation starting to slip from her grasp. "Of course you deserve her, that is not what I meant." She pauses and picks up one of the finished nails from the worktop, studying it with rather more interest than it warrants, to avoid her friend's gaze.

"I just meant… Well, it was always us and them, you know?" When she looks up from the nail she finds Elias furrowing his brow in clear incomprehension.

"Us and them?"

"Well, us from the orphanage," Elena clarifies, hoping to steer them back to safer territory. "And them. A little sniffy, a little stuck-up. The proper town children, with proper families and proper homes."

"Ah." Elias nods and grimaces slightly, as though he has tasted something unpleasant. "But as you say, we were children, Elena." With a sigh, he returns his attention to the anvil chisel and another nail. "We have all grown up. Those things don't matter as much anymore."

"We have grown up," Elena says pointedly. "Because we had to. And yes, some of them might have also, but I am not sure they all have. Take Kelda's brother for instance—" She sniffs in disgust at the thought of Alwis. "I am sorry to say this, but—"

"I know," Elias raises one hand in what is presumably meant to be surrender. "Alwis can be nasty, but he is just one ignorant young man. You cannot blame them all for one single fool with a bad temper."

"His friends aren't much better, if you ask me," Elena says snidely. She is still thinking of her recent encounter in the side alley, but she is not in the mood to share that ugliness right now.

"Perhaps so, but my point is that they are not spoiled and cruel children anymore. Most of them are decent enough now."

"Well, they hide their decency pretty well then, or at least a fair number of them do," Elena mutters, folding her arms. She wanders over to a small workbench and examines the utensils laid out there with an incurious glance. "But then I suppose people treat you differently than they treat me."

Elias glances at her, frowning at her comment. "I am not sure that they do."

"What do you say, that I imagine those things? Imagine the mudface and the olivehead?" Elena picks up a pair of tongs and stares at the tool without really seeing it. "Or the whoredaughter, or the Easterling bride?"

"No." Elias' voice is calm; soothing and placating, or so he, no doubt, thinks. "I do say, though, that you have always been rather bent on seeing the worst and foulest in people, even those who wish you no ill. And I think it can make you rather blind to their fairer traits. I know you are not fond of this town and you always wished to leave, but lately, it seems you are distancing yourself from those who care about you also."

Elena turns around and stares at her friend in disbelief. "That's not true," is all she can think to say at last.

"What about Thordis and Ava, you barely visit with them anymore, do you? And you cannot deny that you often act very proud and, well, a bit uppity-like, to be honest."

When he sees her glare, Elias draws up his shoulders in an odd sort of shrug, as though to ward off an attack. "Don't be cross, I just think that if you were to make a bit of an effort to fit in, to be more gentle—"

Indignant, Elena opens her mouth but Elias pre-empts any angry retort of hers with a swiftly raised hand.

"Oh, never mind, I don't wish to quarrel with you." Even in the dim light of the forge, his face looks tired suddenly, as though their conversation is exhausting him far more than his hard work.

"Nor do I." Even to herself, Elena's voice sounds frigid.

Elias glances up at her face and whatever he sees there makes him quickly look back down at his anvil. "Perhaps you are in the right and some people do treat you differently. And I suppose what you say about the town children… Well, it is true in some way."

"You don't have to be so patronising about it." Elena bites her lip until it hurts. She is not even sure why she feels so belligerent of a sudden — they have had similar debates before — but something about Elias' tone and his presumably well-meaning suggestions makes it hard not to clench her fists.

"All I said was that they have it easier," she says, striving for an appeasing tone because it's true — she doesn't want to quarrel. Not with Elias. "If they want something, anything really, they usually get it. If necessary with the right amount of coins. We, on the other hand, have to fight for everything."

Elias stares at the metal rod he is still holding in his gloved hand above the anvil. Elena's knowledge of smithing is fairly limited, but even she can tell from the dull, reddish glow that the iron has gone too cold to be worked. Still, Elias does not place it back into the forge.

"Is that what you are doing now?" he asks slowly. "Fighting?"

Elena turns the tongs over in her hands. "What do you mean?"

Elias hovers the rod over the chisel, although it must be far too hard to cut now.

"Staying at the Heron House, refusing to do anything but wait…" He turns the cooling iron over several times as if trying to figure out where to strike it. "Even though you must realise that master Amund will never return?"

Elena feels as though a chunk of ice has slid down her stomach. "You don't know that."

Elias turns away and finally shoves the rod back into the fire, more forceful than necessary. "All right, I don't. So why not find work in the meantime, something that pays a few coins."

Elena realises that her hand clutching the tongs has started to shake and hurriedly moves to replace them on the worktop. "I can't."

Elias reaches for the bellows without looking at her. "Why not?"

"I just can't, so leave it, will you!"

The pair of tongs rattle loudly against the worktop as they slip from Elena's fingers. Elias, who has started at her shout, turns his head and stares at her, his hands still on the bellows' handle. There is a strange, uneasy flicker in his eyes, as though he has suddenly discovered something repulsive and disturbing in a familiar place.

Elena attempts to fight some composure into her voice and face.

"I can't become a tavern wench, or…"

Become a tavern wench or a whore like your mother!

"Or…" Elena swallows, the smell of coal dust makes her suddenly sick to the stomach. "Or do some other mindless job that the good people of Lake-town deem me worthy enough for. Perhaps with a sensible, befitting marriage on top."

Still regarding her in that queer way, Elias slowly turns away from the forge to face her, abandoning his iron. "You mean like Thordis or Ava?" His tone is measured, vigilant. "Or me, for that matter?"

Stunned, Elena stares back at him for a moment. The low hiss of the forge seems to become louder, taunting, and jeering at her.

"What? No, that's not what I—"

"Is that sort of life so beneath you?"

"Stop it!" It is all Elena can do not to stomp her foot. "That is not what I meant at all, and you…" She trails off when she hears the weak, shameful tremor in her own voice.

"You call the other town children stuck-up," Elias says, little more than an urgent whisper that seems to join in with the mocking hiss of the flames. "But aren't you a little stuck-up yourself?"

She winces and opens her mouth to protest but he continues before she can, louder and his words coming faster now, as though eager to get something out.

"You keep speaking of 'us from the orphanage' as if it means something. Even though you always talked about nothing but leaving. Even though you are so desperate to get away from this town…"

He pauses for a few seconds, drawing breath, and his shoulders seem to sag. When he continues, more calmly, there is a bitter tinge to his voice. "And away from the people."

"But, not… Not…"

He makes an impatient noise. "Not what?"

Not from you, Elena wants to say, you were always the one who made things right. But she falters, thinking, of a sudden, about silly scraps from their childhood.

The two of them at five or six years old at one of the Summer markets, all dusty, grazed knees and sweat-damp locks clinging to rounded cheeks. Holding tightly onto each other's small, sticky hands as they stare up at the dark-haired Woodland elf, who has crouched down before them with a gentle smile and a large strawberry for each of the children in his long, white palms.

The two of them in the kitchen when they're about nine, having to clean dishes for hiding Master Elendir's cane. They are giggling and making silly jokes, even though both of them feel bad about the cruel jest already.

The two of them at Yule breakfast when they are four years old, bawling loudly in the small orphanage refectory with an exasperated Madam Hulda before them and an overturned bowl of apple and spice porridge on the ground. It's only Elena who has spilt her porridge, but back then, Elias would always cry when she cried, even when he didn't know the reason.

The two of them, twelve years old, on a chilly autumn day in the courtyard where they are supposed to sweep. Their brooms lie forgotten on the ground where they squat next to an injured sparrow and discuss excitedly how best to persuade Master Elendir to let them keep the bird in the greenhouse.

The two of them…

The two of them at sixteen in that same courtyard, just as the shadows begin to lengthen on an early summer evening. Elena has just stopped speaking, explaining, pleading with him to understand why she can't, why it wouldn't be right for them, and that they are too young. She knows he has not heard any of her cautious, carefully picked words, except for those that matter: She does not want him. She wants something else. And Elias nods, saying he understands, but he looks like he is about to cry for the first time in ten years, and Elena's heart shatters into a million pieces.

The orphanage was where they stayed, where they slept and ate, but Elias has been her home there, and perhaps she has also been his.

As if from a distance, Elena realises that he is still staring at her, perhaps waiting for her to finish her sentence. She can't think of anything that would help, though, not after all that has been, and not now that everything is different. The coal dust stings her eyes, and her throat feels tight, perhaps from the smoke.

It makes her feel disorientated and so she just looks back at him, trying to find some trace of the boy from her past in this angry, frustrated young man and his deprecating stare. Elena has never felt more homeless in her life.

The silence stretches, and then Elias sighs and shakes his head. When he speaks again, the bitterness is still there, now joined by disappointment.

"You know… It almost seems like your obsession with that whole scribe business and Master Amund has made you deaf and blind to what is real, to what is there… But also to how things are."

Elena stares at him for a moment longer. Her lips have gone oddly numb. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asks hoarsely. "What things?"

Elias hesitates for a few seconds, pain and sadness dart across his face, then he scoffs and his expression becomes stony. "He was humouring you, Elena, and I think you were the only one who never realised it."

Elena's mouth feels dry. "He was not."

Elias' lips twist into the mockery of a smile. He looks almost scornful now. "I never thought I would call you a fool, Elena, but in this matter, you seem intent on being one."

"He was not humouring me," Elena spits out, her voice shaking.

"Yes, Elena, he was!" Elias sets the hammer onto the anvil with a sharp thrust that causes a metallic screech. He looks more exasperated now than angry.

"With those stories of Minas Tirith and that little book he gave you to write in… It was like telling small boys tales of adventures and warriors on daring heroic quests and giving them wooden toy swords to play with. Only the small boys grow up and understand that life is not a fairy tale." His tone becomes more gentle and there is a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "We don't all become heroes and warriors, Elena. And women don't become scribes in fancy old libraries."

Despite her steadfast, sturdy surroundings, Elena feels like she is standing in the middle of a collapsing building. Rooted to the spot, there is nothing but to watch the rubble fall. Yet if there is one thing she has acquired over the years, through trial and tribulation, it is standing her ground whenever possible.

"Some women are scribes in Minas Tirith!"

Elias makes a dismissive gesture. "One or two daughters of noble lords who are rich or spoiled enough that people will indulge their whims."

Elena raises a hand as if that might repel the things she hears. "So, you say that any interest they take in something other than childbearing or serving others cannot possibly be taken seriously? Simply because they are women?"

"I am saying no such thing, don't twist my words, Elena." He does not meet her eyes. "But face it — that is the way of things."

Still unable to accept what is happening, Elena just gapes at him. How can Elias say such things? Elias, her defender no matter what happened when they were small. Elias, who would give her his own poppyseed cake when she dropped hers into a puddle; Elias, who had, as a scrawny, tiny seven year old, tried to bite Master Elendir when the Elf gave Elena detention for spitting on her sums practice paper. Elias, who is always on her side.

"You were the one who told me to apply for an apprenticeship at the town hall," Elena says at length, and with some difficulty. Inwardly she pleads with him to take back his words, to laugh and tell her it was just another bad jest. "Why would you do that if you never expected it to happen?

Elias picks up the hammer again, even though his iron is still in the fire. "Because I thought you would go either way," he mutters, his eyes fixed on the tool in his leather-clad hand. "I thought if they refused to take you on it would make you realise it will never happen. We don't always get what we want, Elena."

What we want.

A dreadful thought strikes Elena, like a bee sting that you never saw coming. "Is that why you encouraged me?" Her voice sounds like a dying thing, every other word a weak whistling of air. "You believed telling me what you truly thought would hurt your courting chances with me?"

For a moment he does not react to the awful accusation. Then Elena hears a quiet snort. When he looks back up at her, his eyes are like shuttered windows.

"No," he says coldly. "I believed it would hurt you. But to be honest, I'm hardly surprised anymore that you would accuse me of such a thing."

Heat scrapes Elena's throat and she drops her gaze, her chest constricting with regret. Despite her lingering anger and sore pride, she is about to speak; to turn this around, to apologise. But Elias beats her to it.

"Believe it or not, I did not want that." He heaves another sigh and shakes his head as though to rid himself of the annoyance and frustration she is causing him. "I hoped that if enough people sent you away or told you how hopeless that endeavour is, you would come to your senses at some point. I just did not wish to be the one to deliver that blow."

Elena feels like he has struck her. She can feel the blood drain from her face, and it's like something inside her has been cut, and it stings and burns and bleeds. At the same time, a spiteful, vindictive little voice inside of her is sneering with grim satisfaction.

He is just like the rest of them. He never really cared for you, he just wanted someone to warm his bed and tried to trick you into that trap with false kindness and assurances.

It's ugly and bitter and miserable, this little voice. There is another, more sensible part of her that knows, dizzyingly, that it might not be telling the truth. But the ugliness is dulling the pain with a layer of ice, hard and unforgiving, and it wants to strike back.

"That must be the most cowardly thing I've ever heard," Elena says quietly; she takes great care to make her tone as glacial as his has been and the vindictive little part of her revels in Elias' little flinch, knowing she has hurt him too. "Well, I wish you had told me what you thought. I wish you had hurt my precious feelings. It would've made refusing your hand so much easier."

She turns abruptly and makes for the stairs, refusing to acknowledge the glimmer of sorrow in her friend's eyes. There is a clank and muffled swearing behind her.

"Elena—"

She walks faster.

"Elena!"

He catches up with her in the small front room of the workshop, just as she yanks open the door, seizes her arm and moves in front of her.

"Elena, I didn't mean—"

"Oh, you meant," she snaps. "You meant everything you said. Isn't this nice, some honesty at last?"

His unhappy gaze shies from hers, slowly drops to somewhere around her shoulders. "If you would just, for once…" The misery in his face is almost enough to tug at Elena's heart, but then Elias trails off and eyes her cloak more closely, eyebrows drawn together. "Why is your cloak torn?"

You useless little piece of muck!

Aren't you a little stuck-up yourself?

Elena stiffens as she watches his eyes trail down further, taking note of the mud stains on her skirt in the light from the open door.

"What happened?"

I never thought I would call you a fool, Elena…

It's just pathetic!

Elias shifts and tilts his head, trying to regain her attention.

"Elena, what happened?"

Now there is concern and also — so it seems to her — the first traces of pity laced in his voice.

Elena's stomach churns.

Shame burns her cheeks, and the cold, hard layer around her heart seems to thicken. Perhaps it is an indicator of how much is not quite right already, that she would rather be hated than pitied.

It's the spiteful, vindictive part of her that meets Elias' worried gaze. Her voice cuts with blame, Elena makes sure of it.

"Nothing that a stuck-up fool doesn't deserve, I am sure!"

She wrenches her hand from his grip, presses past him and through the door.

He calls out once more, perhaps twice, Elena isn't certain, but he does not follow her again. As she strides down the passage towards Rush-leaf Road, the pretty shop fronts and smartly dressed people who throw her curious glances seem to blur together.

Elena knows he can still see her, might even be watching her retreat. Her eyes are stinging. It makes her angrier than anything else and she furiously wipes at them as she marches around a corner, into a street that leads the wrong way. With her vision still misty, Elena only barely sees the shape of a tall man whose head is bent over a square of parchment before she crashes headlong into him. There is a startled grunt and the sound of tearing hide.

"I am so sorry," Elena says hurriedly as the man steadies her by gripping her arm.

"Are you all right, my dear?"

The voice is deep and melodic, with an unfamiliar lilt to it, and for a moment, Elena thinks she has run into an elf. She quickly wipes the last traces of wetness from her eyes with the hem of her sleeve, before venturing a closer look. A dark blue, finely tailored cloak hangs off broad shoulders, fastened with a jewelled brooch. High, polished boots, fanciful, embellished belt. Her renewed, muttered apology is brushed away by a gloved hand. Only one glove, she absently notes.

"Really, there is no need," his tone is kind, light. "I was rather distracted myself."

A long, aquiline nose, narrow lips. Dark brows and sharp eyes of such a light brown they are almost the colour of honey. Silver-grey hair reaches his shoulders. Elena is forcefully reminded of an eagle she has once seen a picture of. He doesn't look elvish, but she still finds it difficult to guess his age. There are fine lines around his eyes and mouth, but otherwise his face is smooth. He is not a young man, but his bearing and speech are not those of an old man either.

Elena's gaze falls on the piece of parchment he is holding; their collision has resulted in a long tear in one of the edges.

"Oh no, your parchment…"

The man inspects the mangled, thin leather, his mouth twisting into a slightly sour smile. "Ah, yes. My own fault, I am afraid, for marching around with my nose in a map. Yet, it would seem that I did the greater damage," his eyes dart to the front of her cloak. "I am terribly sorry about that."

Elena follows his glance and grimaces at the gaping rip and the ensuing memory. "Don't worry," she says tightly, shaking her head. "That wasn't you."

He pauses visibly and Elena notes how his gaze drops to the muddied front of her skirt. When his eyes meet hers again, there is something very funny in the way he regards her; sharper, more attentive… a hint of distaste. And Elena has the strange feeling, only for a moment, that this man knows — or at least guesses at the incident that has left her clothes dirtied and torn. But how could he?

"I see," he says simply. His tone betrays nothing.

Elena says nothing and instead watches him roll up his damaged map.

"I could repair that for you if you like, sir."

He looks up at her with some surprise, eyebrows raised. "You can?"

She is surprised of herself, in all honesty. The offer was past her lips before she realised it.

"Yes, it really isn't that difficult. If you tell me where to send it I will take care of that tear for you. I won't steal it, my lord," she adds when he appears to be hesitating. "My name is Elena Thurgood, I work and live at the Heron House, the orphanage in Swamp-weed End. Most people here know me."

The man laughs softly. "I am no lord, Miss Thurgood, merely a humble salesman with perhaps more luck than others. My name is Sindhís. And I was not worried about you stealing anything. However, allow me to make a suggestion."

"A suggestion?"

His amber eyes narrow and crinkle as he smiles, a friendly bird of prey. "Yes. I am staying at an inn called The Golden Coot. Do you happen to know it?"

"Of course, everyone knows the Coot."

It was the best and most expensive inn in Lake-town and — as most townspeople like to make a point of mentioning to anyone who would listen — also in the whole area of Rhovanion.

"I have a lady in my service who is travelling with me and happens to be an exceptional seamstress among other talents. She will make short work of that tear, I am sure, you will probably not be able to tell it was ever there. Would you consider being my guest for some cake and a date tea? I hear it's a speciality of the house."

Elena frowns, slightly overwhelmed by the offer, even though the man appears genuinely kind. Perhaps too kind?

"That is very nice of you, sir, but not necessary. As I said, the tear wasn't your doing."

"Neither was the one in my map entirely yours. The parchment must have been damaged from the start, or it would not have torn so easily. If someone does me a favour I insist on returning it."

Sindhís has a slow, unpretentious smile that is oddly disarming when it should be unsettling, Elena thinks. She wonders when it was the last time someone insisted on doing her a favour, or even on returning one. The stranger's proposal is unusual enough to be slightly disquietening, but Elena is intrigued as well.

"I have to return to work,"she begins haltingly.

"My apologies." A referential bow. "I did not mean to keep you from your duties."

Elena cannot remember somebody bowing to her either.

She hesitates another moment before holding out her hand for the map.

"Will your invitation still be valid tomorrow afternoon?"

Sindhís stops, already half turned away, and looks at her curiously.

"Of course."

"By then I will have your parchment fixed and could bring it over myself."

Elena briefly wonders what on earth she is doing, accepting this peculiar invitation of a complete stranger. An odd, mutinous recklessness seems to have seized hold of her though, and she tells herself that nothing could possibly happen to her while in the parlour of the Golden Coot. Elena has never set foot inside the inn — she has had no reason to — but she has heard that it's a marvellous sight, furnished with the grandeur and style of distant and exotic lands.

Also, she has never tried date tea.

---

April 19th4A35

When Elena pushes open the heavy front doors of The Golden Coot, she is immediately stopped by a smartly dressed young servant who demands to know her business and name.

Raising her eyebrows at the less than polite reception, Elena complies. "I am here to meet with Sindhís, the tradesman from Rhun. He is expecting me."

"Master Sindhís," the young man says pointedly, "has already taken his seat in the main parlour."

He turns and imperiously beckons a young woman over who has just emerged from a passageway that seems to lead to the kitchens. "You, girl — Hattie, is it? Take Miss Thurgood here into the main parlour and to Master Sindhís' table."

"Right away, Mr. Farman."

The girl bows, looking like she would rather duck her head, then leads the way through another set of gilded doors and through a spacious parlour where Elena stares at the large brass pots with miniature trees in them. Elaborately carved dividers are placed around some of the tables and alcoves to provide the wealthy guests with some privacy. The floor is covered with colourful, valuable-looking haradian carpets, depicting detailed and exquisite little scenes of battles or everyday life — Elena isn't entirely sure which.

The visible furniture is made from various kinds of smooth, gleaming wood and different-coloured marble. Chairs and even footstools are padded with thick, red cushions, and the tables are fashioned in the shape of animals. The marble surfaces shimmer in shades of rose, gold and pale greyish-blue in the afternoon light that falls through tall windows.

Two finely dressed men, perhaps in their sixties, are lounging at one of the centre tables. They are smoking pipes and loudly discussing the merits of Dorwinion wine in comparison to certain vintages from the vineyards of Khand. One of them throws Elena a disdainful glance, his eyes wandering over her worn, patched skirt and the frayed hem of her cloak.

Elena stares back, wondering why on earth one should need a cushioned footstool while wearing boots.

With an irritated click of his tongue, the man leans towards his companion. "I should think they'd have their kitchen wenches use the servants' entrance," he mutters in a carrying tone.

The young maid named Hattie winces and quickens her pace. Elena can see a flush creep up the back of the girl's neck. She follows, her jaw feeling tight and her insides writhing in angry knots.

Let them talk, she thinks. What does it matter? Ironically, Elena doubts that the owners of The Golden Coot would ever consider hiring her, likely for the same reason that the town hall would not.

They leave the men behind and step around a divider where Sindhís, clad in dove grey today, is seated at yet another richly ornamented table in the centre of a windowed alcove.

Elena has never seen windows like these: They span from ground to ceiling, with large, well-cut panes in ornately carved frames, offering an unimpeded view across the lake and the north-eastern banks, where cherry trees fringe the shores and evening mists are already gathering between bogbeans and reeds. Two braziers at the foot of the windows provide comfortable warmth. The scent of smouldering apple wood hangs in the air like perfume.

The large table's legs and crosspieces are made from a snow-white wood — this one is carved into the likeness of a bull. The tabletop is marble like the others but to Elena's astonishment, it has the colour of coal, veined with streaks of gold. Most of it is obscured by trays with teapots and crystal carafes, plates with cakes and biscuits, and opulent silver candelabras. At least, Elena assumes them to be silver. The warm light of their candles is reflected in the shimmering, dark marble akin to stars in a night sky.

With some difficulty, Elena tears her gaze from the lavish sight to greet the peculiar man who has invited her. Sindhís has risen to his feet the moment the two women appeared, after quickly shutting a book in his lap. Now he bows in that respectful but reserved way of high-ranking people, lowering only his shoulders and head.

"Miss Thurgood, good afternoon. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He gestures to an empty, deep-red cushioned chair, before turning to Elena's young guide, who is nervously wringing her hands. "Thank you, Hattie. Would it be terribly insolent of me to bid you find our young Mister Raegar and tell him to fetch lady Duineth from upstairs? I expect she will be in her room."

Hattie shakes her head. "Not at all, Master Sindhís. I could run up myself, though, if you like."

Sindhís smiles, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "No, my dear, I have troubled you quite enough. That fellow has too much free time on his hands as it is."

"Very well, my lord."

After Hattie has gone, Sindhís resumes his own seat and turns to Elena, who has been running her free hand surreptitiously over the soft, red cushion of her chair. Feeling silly and self-conscious, she quickly stops, but then her eyes are caught by the armrests of the chair; they are carved into the shape of oliphaunts, looking exactly like the drawing in her former lesson room.

Realising that Sindhís is watching her, Elena clutches the scroll case in her lap more tightly, wondering what she is doing here. Perhaps she should just quickly give him back his map and have this whole strange encounter be over with.

Her host speaks before she has a chance to act on the impulse, a polite smile accompanying the words. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."

She awkwardly shifts in her seat, resisting the urge to run her fingers over the soft cushion again. "Thank you for extending it."

"So, you said that you work at the orphanage? That is a very honourable and important job."

"Not really."

The retort comes out with a little more bite than is called for. Elena suspects he is only trying to be kind or perhaps polite, but she feels nettled all the same. She might have ground her life to a halt in the vain hope that fate or luck, or whatever is out there will remember her, thinking that the waiting would be easier to bear than giving up. Now, there is nothing but to live with that choice, but at times it is easier thought than done.

Apart from that, Elias' words still ring in her ears, and the fresh grazes they have left on her heart and pride still sting.

He was humouring you, and I think you were the only one who never realised it.

Elena sniffs and works her features into a long-practised smile, both serene and self-deprecating.

"The truth is that I grew up there, so I am just fairly late in leaving, one might say."

"Ah." He pauses. "I see."

She darts a quick look at him but finds no pity in his eyes. There is something thoughtful in his gaze; other than that, his expression is hard to read.

"You must have your reasons, I am sure," Sindhís now says with a polite tilt of his head.

Elena doesn't know what to say to this. She jerks her head in a motion that might or might not be a nod and then looks out the window, towards the distant shore.

The cherry trees are in full bloom, their white and pale rose-coloured blossoms a stark contrast against the dull brown of the hills beyond and the overcast sky. Every now and then, gusts of wind send petals across the shallow waters like flurries of never-melting snowflakes. A flock of wild geese has alighted on the marshy banks, and the low honk of their calls echoes across the calm lake surface.

"You do have a beautiful home."

Elena glances at Sindhís; he has followed her gaze out the window.

"It has pretty spots," she concedes. "At least from certain perspectives. My own window is quite a bit smaller and leads to a back alley. It's not so bad," Elena adds quickly, not wanting to sound like she is fishing for sympathy. "I know immediately when the man from the shop on the opposite side forgets to shut his chimney flue."

"A bakery at least, I hope?"

"Smoked fish." Elena suppresses a grin when he grimaces. "One gets used to it."

Sindhís huffs a breath through the nose, a soft, cynical noise. He makes a twisting motion with his gloved hand, indicating the whole of the parlour. "This place must seem ridiculous to you."

"What? Oh, no!" Elena glances from the bull-table and its black marble top over the silver tableware and to the oliphaunt-armrests of her chair. "I mean, it's quite pretty. Very unusual, I am sure."

Sindhís laughs. "You are remarkably generous, Miss Thurgood. This house was recommended to me by a friend and it fits certain criteria of mine, but let us be honest: The people are snobbish, and the whole ambience is garish and overblown."

Elena feels a smile creep onto her face, and she looks out the window again to hide it. A couple of the wild geese have moved further onto the lake; they have a group of goslings with them — tiny balls of down, the bright yellow patches in their plumage seeming to glow against the water's dark shades of grey and green.

"Perhaps a little overblown," Elena concedes, still watching the goslings as they follow one of their vigilant parents in a small, orderly formation with the second adult goose bringing up the rear. "But you cannot deny the view."

"No, indeed."

For a moment, the hiss of the braziers and the geese's muted chatter are the only sounds. They seem too loud somehow, almost drowning out the distant clattering of cutlery from the kitchens and the murmur of strangers' conversations.

Elena feels Sindhís' eyes on her and she clears her throat, lifting the ox-hide case and carefully placing it on the table.

"I have your map."

"So I see," Sindhís replies with a smile while picking up a slender pot and pouring from it a pale-golden, steaming liquid into a small brass cup.

He is wearing a single, tight-fitting glove on his left hand again, and Elena wonders if it's there to cover some gruesome injury or perhaps the limb is missing entirely. He is clad in an elegant, high-collared doublet made from a heavy, expensive-looking fabric that Elena cannot name. The left arm, as far as she can tell at least, looks unharmed and whole.

Sindhís now offers the cup he has filled — presumably the infamous date tea — to Elena, and suggests she try the walnut cake or the cherry biscuits to best go along with it. Only then does he reach for the leather case.

"May I?"

"Of course, it is yours after all." She sips from the cup; the date tea is tongue-numbingly sweet with a rich, almost buttery note to it. Trying not to pull a face, Elena quickly swallows and puts down the cup. "I only carried it in the case to protect the map from dampness. It's bad for the goat-hide that parchment is made from."

Sindhís huffs a quiet chuckle while unbuckling the scroll case. "And there I was, marching around with it in the drizzle. I expect you must have thought me a bit of a fool."

"Not at all," Elena lies swiftly. "Not everyone has an interest in such things, after all."

She does not miss the shrewd little smirk curving Sindhís' lips as he turns his attention to the map, which he has unrolled now. A moment later, he throws her a quick, curious glance, before studying the parchment again. "You sewed it up," he says with evident surprise.

"Well, yes—" Elena furrows her brow, wondering what he might have expected. "It is the best way to repair a tear and prevent the damage from worsening. I have read of a method where a substance made from plants is used to reattach the torn edges and even one where the scribes use a liquid that is secreted by certain insects. However, I have no access to such a solution, and sewing is considered to be the cleanest technique with the most durable results..." Elena trails off as she notices Sindhís' slow smile growing wider.

"I'm sorry," she mutters. "I am not as odd as it sounds." To her surprise, and mild indignation, he bursts into quiet laughter.

"Please, do not apologise. And forgive me, I was not laughing at you—" He inclines his head by way of apology. "It just pleases me to see a young person so enthusiastic about an unusual subject matter. In any case," he straightens in his seat, bowing again, "you did a formidable job, Miss Thurgood. I thank you."

"Ah, well," Elena says, feeling awkward and bewildered at the unexpected praise. To cover her fluster she reaches for a round, palm-sized biscuit. It's decorated with a cherry blossom that looks almost too realistic to be appetising.

"So—" She carefully places the biscuit on the shimmering plate in front of her. "Do you plan to travel the lands north and west of the Long Lake?"

"Ah…" Another one of those inscrutable smiles. "You concluded this through the map, of course. Indeed I hope to explore that area if the weather stays agreeable." His smile turns into a chuckle at seeing her frown. "I have spent much time in the far east and south, so I quite welcome the dampness and chill for a change."

"You have been to Khand as well? And Harad and Minas Tirith?" Elena sits up a little straighter, not quite able to quench the longing and envy in her heart and voice. "So, you trade with goods from those regions, then?"

"Not so much these days, no," Sindhís shakes his head. "I did, for some time though, both in the golden cities of Khand and the mines of Harad. I made some favourable choices — with more luck than judgement, I shall admit. But, undeserving or not, my past business has left me with not inconsiderable wealth, as you no doubt will have deducted already as well. This, in turn, affords me the privilege to offer help where I feel it is most needed, as well as the opportunity to pursue some other less profitable interests of mine."

"What sort of interests?" Elena asks curiously. She sees the corner of Sindhís' mouth twitch, and wonders, belatedly, if it might not be too personal a question.

"Oh, this and that, fancies and studies," he says lightly. His eyes shine like amber in the candlelight. "I should not burden you with the tedious details— ah, here comes Duineth now."

At his glance behind her, Elena turns her head in time to see a tall woman in a plain, dark-green gown step around the divider. She does not seem to acknowledge Elena's presence at all but merely addresses Sindhís.

"You needed something from me, sir?"

"Indeed I do. I was hoping you might perhaps help me repay a favour that Miss Thurgood here was so kind to grant me."

He gestures to Elena's cloak, which is hanging over one of the oliphaunt-armrests. Elena has mended the ripped part with a couple of rather untidy stitches, and her perfunctory handiwork lies in plain sight.

"Could you do something about that tear if it is not too much trouble?"

"It is no trouble at all," Duineth says drily. She has a deep, sophisticated voice and speaks with that soft accent of the people of Minas Tirith. "Truth be told I welcome anything to occupy myself."

Elena is about to protest but when the other woman turns towards her to reach for the garment, the words die on her tongue. While the right side of Duineth's face is pale and smooth save for some faint lines around the eyes, the left side is covered by a web of vicious-looking scars. Elena feels like a cold hand has seized her guts and squeezed.

"Let me take that, Miss."

Elena swallows her protest. Somehow — perhaps because she is used to the scars on Master Elendir's face — she manages something akin to a smile before averting her eyes and muttering an awkward 'thank you'.

"No need to thank me, Miss Thurgood," Duineth says briskly while eyeing Elena's half-hearted attempt with a sceptically raised eyebrow. "This will not take a moment."

After she has left, Elena turns to Sindhís. "It is really kind of you to do this, but I feel bad that you are troubling her on my behalf."

"Oh, I assure you Duineth spoke the truth. That poor woman despises idle time, of which she is provided with plenty right now, I am afraid. Now, please do not think me meddlesome, Miss Thurgood, but you simply must try the walnut cake."

"It does seem a bit unusual to travel accompanied by one's seamstress," Elena says cautiously while helping herself to a slice of walnut cake, hoping she doesn't sound too rude.

With a wry smile, Sindhís inclines his head. "I am sure it must. And in truth lady Duineth's position is rather that of a much-valued housekeeper, who also sometimes deigns to prepare my meals and overall makes sure that I stay out of trouble and presentable."

"Oh," Elena says, bewildered, "I thought you said—"

"I did." Sindhís' serene expression appears to sober somewhat. "Lady Duineth used to be a seamstress in a very renowned tailoring establishment in Minas Tirith. You have probably gathered that there was a heinous incident in her past that has left those traces on her face?"

Elena nods mutely. Her stomach gives an unpleasant twitch.

"In the aftermath of that, she was encouraged by her employers to find another occupation —" Sindhís pauses for a moment, before continuing, his voice carefully measured, "— in order to avoid any unpleasantries. Such as to disturb or unsettle the noble ladies and lords who come in for a fitting or to pick up their purchases."

"But that was awful of them!" Elena exclaims without thinking. "I mean…" She falters at the look Sindhís is giving her; sharp and attentive, and for a second there seems to be something calculating in his gaze.

The next moment, however, he smiles at her, albeit a little sadly. "Go on, please."

"Well, I just mean to say… if they or anyone had a problem looking at her, then they shouldn't look."

Sindhís nods slowly, still with that grieved smile. "It is scarcely possible to argue with that. But leaving any matters of injustice aside for now, that is how Duineth ended up in my service."

A little perplexed at this abrupt conclusion, Elena looks up from her cake, but Sindhís is gazing out the window again, his attention apparently caught by a large heron that flies low over the lake with slow, measured beats of its wings and then gracefully lands in the tall reed grass near the banks.

"Majestic creatures, are they not?"

Elena glances at Sindhís, whose eyes are still trained on the heron in the distance.

"I suppose so," she says. "When I was small, the first time I saw a heron it was dead and I accidentally stepped on it. It stank and there were maggots everywhere. I am sorry," she adds when the man makes a sound that might be either an expression of sympathy or repulsion, while slowly putting down his cake fork. "I am really sorry," she says again, aiming for an apologetic smile. "I think the image sort of stuck with me." She puts down her own fork.

"Very understandable," Sindhís says kindly.

Elena gestures towards the window. "But they do look pretty when they fly."

"Indeed, which is true for most creatures, I believe."

"Hm," says Elena, not sure what he means by that.

Sindhís picks up the teapot, chuckling when Elena hurriedly shakes her head at the wordless offer. "I am curious, Miss Thurgood. Is there a particular reason the orphanage is called Heron House?"

"Oh, I expect it has to do with the old children's tale. You know," she says when Sindhís frowns in incomprehension, "the one about the heron and the lost child?"

Sindhís shakes his head. "I am afraid I am not familiar with that one."

"Well, you know how the heron is a symbol for protecting and helping the innocent? In this story, a woman loses sight of her babe while playing with him on a lake-shore among the reeds. A heron finds the child and is surprised that the babe cannot walk nor speak, and seems more helpless even than his own chicklets. He wishes to help though, so he asks a fox, a deer and a snake if they know where the babe belongs to, and then a dwarf and an elf who he meets in his search.

"No one can help him, even though he does each of them small favours, but the elf at least tells him that the babe is a human child. Therefore, the heron builds a mat out of reeds and carries the babe to the human village that lies close to the lake. Because of the mother's distraught weeping, the heron guesses which house to fly to, and so the babe is returned to their family."

"Quite a moving story, it would seem."

"I suppose so." Elena snorts. "To be honest, I always thought it was rather stupid and irresponsible of the mother to lose her child like that in the first place. I mean, did she just put the little one down and then wander off and forget about it? Perhaps the babe would have been better off with the heron."

Sindhís makes a choked sound and sets down his teacup. His cough turns into soft laughter as he dabs his chin with a napkin. "A very valid objection, I admit."

Elena tries not to look too pleased. "Not shared by many. They even have a sort of festival here in Lake-town, to celebrate it. You can buy all kinds of things, fancy foodstuff and children's toys and such, and they raise money for the orphanage."

"That sounds like a commendable effort."

Elena smiles sardonically. "Well, the orphanage only gets to keep a third of the donations, but at least people try to appear a little more generous than most days."

Sindhís tilts his head, looking curious. "You do not think much of this town's generosity?"

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," Elena mutters. "I just think that most people don't care about each other as much as they would like to believe or pretend."

Sindhís nods, looking thoughtful at her again. "As much as I would like to tell you otherwise, I am inclined to agree with your assessment."

Before Elena can think of anything to say to that, they are interrupted by the reappearance of Duineth who steps around the divider with Elena's cloak neatly folded over her arm. With her are Farman, the haughty servant from the entrance, and another young man, lean and dark-haired, who is scrutinising Elena with unveiled curiosity.

Once she has thanked Duineth, awkward but profusely, Elena finds it difficult not to stare right back at the strange young man. He looks to be around her own age, perhaps a couple of years older, and bears himself with the careless, languid grace of a cat. Tousled black curls and finely-cut features, he is the sort of stomach-flipping handsome that — as Thordis would call it — is bound to lead to trouble.

Farman clears his throat once there is a pause in the exchange. "Dinner shall be ready to be served in half an hour, Master Sindhís," he announces pompously.

"Dinner! Already?" Sindhís looks askance.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, how about that. Lady Duineth, Raegar — it would seem that the two of you are very nearly in time. Miss Thurgood, would you perhaps care to join us?"

"Thank you, but I really need to get back," says Elena, slightly thrown by the renewed invitation.

"Of course, I understand." Sindhís rises to his feet and bows politely. "Let me thank you again — for your kind help and charming company. It has been a delight to meet you. I hope we shall meet again, perhaps before my departure even."

Elena mutters an awkward response and then, while unfolding her repaired cloak, throws the young man — Raegar, she assumes — another surreptitious look. To her chagrin, she finds him returning it, a smirk dancing on his lips.

He pulls out a chair for himself next to Duineth, who is already seated, and leans over to the former seamstress, his glittering dark eyes still fixed on Elena and his following murmur very audible: "Who is the new stray?"

Duineth makes a soft, huffing sound of disapproval. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. Raegar. Miss Thurgood is Master Sindhís' guest today."

Elena feels heat rise up her neck and face. She concentrates very hard on fastening her cloak, her stomach churning in angry knots again, but she can still hear the young man's quiet chuckle.

---

April 21st4A35

The spice merchant sifts freshly ground cassia powder into the waiting sachet and carefully wipes the parchment clean of pale brown powder smudges. Making a show of grumbling and rubbing his presumably aching back, he leans forward to hand the container over the counter.

Sindhís takes the small packet, respectfully with both hands — he is wearing two gloves today — and raises it to his face, inhaling cautiously. With a soft gasp of surprise, he turns to Elena, who has been waiting for his verdict with her arms folded and her eyebrows raised.

"Well?" She cannot help but smile at his astonished face.

"This is incredible. The quality matches what you might find at the markets of Harondor, or even Khand."

"I told you so," Elena says, feeling quite satisfied.

"So you did, yet I confess I did not quite believe it."

"Well, my good sir, you'd better believe it now," the merchant chimes in while straightening his stained tunic. "My wares are the best. Prime goods only."

Elena answers Sindhís' questioning glance with a sardonic smile. "That they are."

"And well-priced," the merchant adds slyly, brushing some breadcrumbs from his large and oily-looking moustache.

"That they are not."

The man accepts the coins from Sindhís and glares at Elena. "You crush my feelings, sweeting. And discrediting poor old Kemik in front of customers again! They will come for my stall, my donkey, they will chase me from town—"

"That's dreadful, but I will learn to live with it somehow," Elena says impatiently. "Now, I would like three ounces of curcuma, please, dried and ground."

"I have no curcuma today," Kemik sniffs, looking shifty.

"Yes, you do," Elena says with the most unconvincing, sweet smile she can manage. I saw you shove the bag underneath those bunches of dried thyme over there when you saw us coming."

"Oh, that—" Kemik positions his broad backside in front of the pile of thyme. "That's pre-ordered, that is. Reserving it for another customer as it were. If I sold it to you — even part of it — he would be very upset with me, very upset indeed. Wouldn't want to make business here no more, and rightly so. I cannot—"

Elena interrupts him with a groan. "How much, then?"

"Three farthings an ounce, and then I might just recover even with my poor customer abandoning me—"

"I pay you two farthings an ounce as always, and will throw in three copper mites for your poor donkey," says Elena, groping in her satchel. She shoves eight little bronze coins and three copper ones underneath the merchant's nose. "And as we both know, that is still overpriced. I only need three ounces, so should your elicit mystery customer indeed show up he will still be left with plenty."

"Two farthings an ounce, you are ruining me," Kemik laments, but he starts weighing and packing up the bright yellow powder anyway. "Soon I shall have to sell my cart and my poor old donkey. And my children won't be eating tonight."

"You have no children, Kemik."

"Well, if I had some they wouldn't be eating tonight then."

"I am heartbroken. Oh, and before I forget, I need nigella and tamarind seeds as well, please." She points at two other bags — both of them neatly labelled — in a row of smaller ones that have been shoved to one side of the broad counter. "Five ounces each, if there is enough left."

"Appreciate your business," Kemik growls, packing up the spices and shoving the packets over the counter.

"Always a challenging pleasure,"Elena retorts while paying for the seeds and picking up her packets.

After Sindhís has arranged with Kemik to have his own purchases sent directly to The Golden Coot, they weave their way past other stalls and shoppers, towards the more quiet section of the outer platform, which also serves as a pier and leads back into the town itself.

"That was very eloquent, Miss Thurgood," Sindhís says with an amused curl of his lips.

"Hardly," she waves a dismissive hand. "Kemik is a pig and a churl, but he tries the same shenanigans every time. I don't think he actually expects them to work. His spices are the best you can get in Lake-town however, so I have to put up with his nonsense."

"No doubt you must have a fine understanding of spices to have discovered him?"

Elena shakes her head while they make room for a boy with a bucket full of crayfish in each hand. "Not particularly. But I have to do the purchases for Master Elendir, one of my former teachers, who happens to be exceedingly picky."

"Ah, I have heard people mentioning him. Very extraordinary, an elf teaching — and living — at a human orphanage, is it not?"

"Well, he was one of the people who founded the Heron House. That was back after the great War, with much support from King Elessar and Queen Arwen, or so it is said."

Elena frowns, trying to recount what little she knows of her austere teacher. "Master Elendir was rather severely injured during the battles around Lothlorien. He is very versed in all sorts of plant lore, like healing properties and how best to grow them. Much of the orphanage funding comes from our greenhouses. We sell vegetables and fruit at the markets and some herbs to the apothecary. Now, Master Elendir might be half-blind and can barely walk without a cane, but he still manages to scare people."

She allows herself a smirk. "Like Kemik, for example. Which is an added bonus and another reason why the old crook won't ever try to pull me over the barrel in earnest."

Sindhís breaks into soft laughter. "Well, he sounds like a formidable fellow — this Master Elendir, that is — and now I shall be doubly glad for our second chance meeting. Although perhaps it was fated, and not chance at all."

"A fate to get almost knocked down and into a puddle by me? And to have your map get torn? That's a very inauspicious thing to be fated."

"Perhaps so, but it yielded me the acquaintance of a charming young lady, as well as a favourable bargain on cassia and gallows-weed beans."

Elena snorts but then looks at Sindhís, unable to quench her curiosity. "May I ask what you need them for?"

"I expect you mainly refer to the beans?"

"Well, yes," she admits. "Master Elendir uses gallows-weed bean seeds in some mixtures as well, but only tiny amounts, and he never lets anyone else touch them."

"That is no doubt very sensible. So then you know that in small doses, their seeds can have beneficial effects and even some healing properties," Sindhís voice lowered to a more serious tone. "Deadly poisonous though they are, when used in the right amount."

"Well, at least it sounds like you know what you are doing, "Elena says with a dubious frown.

Sindhís laughs. "I certainly hope so. To be sure, I do not have the knowledge or expertise of your elven teacher, nor am I a healer. Still, I have done some studies of my own and would like to claim that I have managed to learn the odd thing or two."

"Oh, I see," Elena nods, wondering if there is anything this man doesn't know the odd thing or two about. "That sounds like it might come in useful someday."

"Yes, I thought so, too."

Elena shoots Sindhís another curious glance; he has tilted his head back and raised his face skywards to study a group of herons flying past overhead, despite the soft drizzle that hangs in the air like vapour.

Dampness has gathered on his silver hair like dew and cast a gleaming web on the exquisite, dark fabric of his cloak. Sindhís does not seem to mind the rain; perhaps, because he has lived for so long in a place where it almost never falls, Elena muses.

They are passing by the entrance to the great west pier, which connects the town with the mainland. To their left, and several feet below, the dark green waters wash against the columns with soft slaps. The muted calls of sandpipers and dunlins ring softly across the lake.

A narrow set of stairs leads down to a jetty where several boats and rafts are tied. It is late morning, so most of them are deserted, but onboard one or two, merchants and their respective assistants and helpmates are still busy unloading or stowing cargo.

In the bow of a slender skiff, two elves sit together, wrapped in brown cloaks, with their hoods drawn up. They are talking quietly and sharing a drink of something steaming from a silver capped flask. One of them is smoking a long-stemmed, snow-white pipe.

Elena raises her hand in greeting as they near the bark. "Hello, Inglor."

The elf with the pipe bows his head. "A good morning to you, Elena. And to your company."

While Sindhís pleasantly returns Inglor's greeting, the second elf addresses Elena with an expression of mock indignation.

"Now, why is it that you only greet one of us in person and by name, child? I cannot but assume you aim to wound my feelings."

"I don't think you ever told me your name," Elena points out.

"Oh, I am quite certain I did, at least once and not that long ago; perhaps a decade and a half, not more."

"Oh, honestly, you cannot expect me to remember some obscure elvish names you told me when I was three or four!" Elena darts an imploring glance at Inglor, who watches the exchange in contented silence while drawing at his pipe.

"Cold-hearted maid!" The Elf places a hand across his chest. "You shoot words like arrows, straight through my tender heart."

"I am sure," Elena says drily. "Will you tell me then, or no?"

"Gelmir, at your service, and now you had better remember it, cruel daughter of men."

Elena utters a non-committal grunt while next to her, Sindhís stifles a snort of laughter.

"Where is your little friend, sun?" Inglor asks her by way of intervening, his eyes twinkling. "The pretty one with the golden ringlets and the fair voice?"

Elena frowns, thinking. "You mean Ava? She got married last year. We don't live together anymore."

"Ah, such a shame. You will have to do, then — come sit with us and provide some entertainment. Sing us something nice. Your polite friend there may stay as well."

"Unlike you, I need to run some errands and don't have time to laze about," Elena drawls, wrinkling her nose when Inglor blows a stream of smoke in her direction. "And speaking of errands—"

"Cold-hearted and ill-mannered," Gelmir grouses, eyeing Elena with blatant mirth. All the poor lads admiring her must despair!"

"Yes, Elena, where is that handsome fellow you used to bring to the markets?" Inglor smiles around his pipe. "Have you broken his heart already?"

"Can we just leave it, please?" Elena mutters, not in the mood for this particular joke.

Inglor regards her for a moment, his grey eyes shrewd and knowing. He exhales a cloud of blueish smoke that smells like cloves, marjoram and burnt pine needles. "Of course we can, sun. You mentioned you were in a bit of a hurry? We must not delay her then, Gelmir."

"Yes, I promised to show Sindhís here the rest of the docks," Elena says quickly, swaying between gratitude and resentment towards the elf. "And then I do need to get back to the orphanage."

"Well, don't lead the poor man astray," says Gelmir, before addressing Sindhís with the air of someone sharing a grave secret. "Look out for this one, my friend. Not as harmless as she looks."

Elena rolls her eyes, but Sindhís counters the advice with a thoughtful hum.

"I confess that I have always found that to be a quite positive trait," he says pleasantly, which prompts a clear, silvery laugh from Gelmir.

"Fair enough," the elf chuckles. "To each their own. Still, Elena, I would ask you to lose the whetstone, that tongue of yours doesn't need sharpening."

"Keep the sharp tongue, I say, and rather lose that frown," Inglor objects, pointing his pipe stem in the vague direction of Elena's face. "You are far too young to take everything so seriously, sun, and that includes yourself."

"I will keep that in mind," Elena grumbles, waving a hand in both defence and goodbye while turning to leave. "I will see you next week at the market, no doubt. Have a safe journey home."

"Thank you, and give our greetings to dear old Elendir," Inglor calls after them.

"Yes, yes, I will."

As they resume their path along the platform, Sindhís gives Elena a sidelong glance.

"You need not show me the docks if there is work you must get back to."

Elena turns in time to catch his sly smile. "Oh, there is no hurry, really," she mutters. "I only said that to get away from the elves. Once they start to get into their merry antics, there is no stopping them. They won't have believed it anyway, I should have come up with something more convincing than the docks."

Sindhís laughs at her sheepish expression. "They do seem fond of you."

"Oh, I doubt that, they just like to have their fun with people. Inglor is all right, though. I have known him since I was small, he used to bring strawberries for me and…" She clears her throat, trying to rid it of the sudden, dry feeling. "To me and the other children."

If Sindhís has noticed her faltering he doesn't let it show. "Miss Thurgood, may I ask you a personal question? There is something that has been preying on my mind."

"I suppose so…" She shifts the basket with the spices on her arm. "I don't exactly have any secrets worth keeping."

"Feel free to tell me if I am being too intrusive, but my curiosity is once again getting the better of me. How does a young woman working at an orphanage come to learn things like repairing parchment, not to mention with skill such as yours—"

"You flatter me," Elena mutters.

"—Or how to read Tengwar?"

Elena stops in her tracks and stares at Sindhís. "What?"

Sindhís has stopped as well and now gazes across the lake, his bright eyes narrowed against a spray of rain carried by a sudden gust of wind. "You do read elvish letters, or am I mistaken?"

The question sounds offhanded, but Elena thinks she senses something like anticipation beneath the casualness of his tone. "Not very well," she says slowly. "And I don't know a lot of words. But how did you know that?"

"The tamarind seeds and nigella you bought," Sindhís mouth curls at her nonplussed expression. "You pointed at the respective bags, the correct ones, even though they were tied shut and looked just like the rest of them. The only way you could have been sure about their contents was by reading the labels. And those were written in Tengwar — which in itself I found rather surprising."

"Ah, yes…" Elena nods, distracted and impressed by his accurate observations. "I believe Kemik does some trading with one of the elven settlements in Rhun."

"Interesting…" Sindhís watches a small row-boat leave the jetty below them, steered by two boys with fishing rods. "The Avari are not known to use Tengwar."

"He does not deal with them directly, I think; there are some merchants from Ithilien in-between."

"Ah, I see. That explains that small riddle."

Sindhís looks satisfied, almost vaguely relieved. Elena is starting to suspect that he quite enjoys solving small riddles. Or, perhaps, he just dislikes not having the answer to one.

"I did not mean to interrogate you," he now says as if in confirmation of her thoughts, eyes still on the row-boat. "Yet, I could not help but wonder."

"You are attentive." It leaves Elena a little ill at ease, this attention, but she is also impressed and oddly flattered.

"I strive to be." A glance; his smile seems vaguely apologetic.

"Well, as I said, it's no secret," Elena says in response to Sindhís initial question. "Master Elendir owns countless books on plants and herb-lore. Most are written in Tengwar, but some have both the Westron and Sindarin names for the plants written beside the pictures, and one or two also have the elvish names written out in Westron. So I asked Master Elendir if he could write down the alphabet for me and then tried my best to memorise it."

Sindhís lets out a quiet whistle. "Impressive."

"Not really. I only know a couple of plant names, after all. I just like writing and different sorts of lettering and that sort of thing."

"Is that how you learned how to sew parchment as well?"

"In a way…" Elena crosses over to the edge of the platform and places her hands on the low parapet, letting the basket dangle from her arm. "We had this teacher while I was growing up, Master Amund. He used to be a scribe in Minas Tirith before he came to Lake-town, and he told me all sorts of stories and lent me some books, so I just started teaching myself a couple of things… the proper treatment of parchment, what's needed to make ink, you know."

She glances at Sindhís, who has stepped beside her and is leaning against the parapet, listening quietly with the hint of a frown creasing his high brow.

"Well, at some point I had this firm idea in my head, of going to Minas Tirith and becoming a scribe myself." Elena huffs out a mirthless snort of laughter. "Perhaps Master Amund was encouraging me a little too much, telling me he might be able to help me get there, and where to apprentice… advising me to keep a journal and practise writing as much as I could…" Elena shrugs and trails off. She wonders — and she has to check an overwrought giggle at the notion — why in the name of Estë she is telling all this to a man who is practically a stranger to her.

"I take it this Master Amund is not a teacher at your orphanage anymore?"

"No, he returned to Minas Tirith to take over his father's business, about two years ago." Elena stares down at the dark ripples of the lake's water. "I shouldn't have believed something like that could happen, no matter what Master Amund promised me. I was only one child of many, he probably didn't think much of it. It was a stupid, silly fantasy."

Sindhís looks at her closely, his frown seems to have sharpened. "You believed the words of someone whom you trusted and respected, I see nothing silly about that. Why should a promise made to a child mean so little?"

Elena keeps her gaze fixed on the balustrade, her fingers tracing the swirls and knots in the worn wood. "Well, that's just the way things usually go, isn't it?" She starts picking at a small, brittle chip of sodden wood that has nearly splintered off the rail. "People don't take children very seriously, especially young girls."

Or women, for that matter, the acerbic thought rakes like hawthorn spines.

"I actually wrote a letter to him." Elena's cheeks feel warm against the spring chill as she remembers this foolishness. Still, her tongue seems to have grown a mind of its own. "Well, two letters to be honest. I received a note in return, written by Master Amund's secretary… or his steward, I'm not quite sure which it was."

"I hope he apologised at least?"

"Oh, no," Elena forces out a short laugh, hoping it sounds careless. "But I was told that Master Amund is quite busy and I should please refrain from troubling him anymore." She scoffs, trying her hardest to sound unconcerned. "I suppose he was polite about it, at least."

"I just thought it sounded quite rude, to be honest."

There is an edge to Sindhís' voice that Elena has not heard before. The small, rotten piece of wood has come loose. Elena closes her fingers around the splinter for a moment, feeling it disintegrate in her palm.

"Oh, it doesn't matter anymore," she mutters while opening her hand and watching the remains of the splinter tumble into the water below. "It was a silly idea to begin with. I am sure Master Amund has long since forgotten about me."

"I find that very hard to believe, Miss Thurgood," says Sindhís. The edge is gone, his tone gentle and respectful once more.

She looks at him, dreading to find pity or perhaps the 'Well, what did you expect'–expression that she knows from Thordis and Ava so well. Instead, Sindhís regards her thoughtfully, and not for the first time Elena thinks she glimpses something searching, almost calculating in his sharp eyes.

"I expect you have sought to apprentice with a scribe here? The town hall comes to mind."

"Yes," Elena says haltingly. "But the mayor's steward told me they didn't want… he said—"

"Oh, never mind, Miss Thurgood. I have been around long enough to claim that I can venture a fairly accurate guess at what he said to you."

After his pleasant-toned interruption, Sindhís turns to look out across the lake again. "Sometimes I wonder if the world will not be first to tire of its children, rather than the other way around."

He leans forward upon the balustrade, lacing his long fingers together. The leather of the black gloves makes a soft, creaking sound.

"Miss Thurgood, the other day at The Golden Coot you asked me about those unprofitable interests of mine that I mentioned."

"Ah, yes…" Elena frowns, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. "But I did not mean to pry."

"Nor did I mean to respond so cryptically. The truth is that some of my interests are no doubt mere fancies. There is one, however, that lies by far closest to my heart as I believe it to be of great significance."

Elena straightens up, shifting her basket from one arm to the other. Something prickles across the back of her neck. "And what is that?"

He glances at her before turning his face back towards the lake; there is a taut intensity in the gleam of his eyes, in the way his lips curve.

"Progress."

"Progress?" Elena echoes, bewildered. "Progress of what?"

"Of everything. At the risk of sounding grand, I shall say: Progress of the world."

"You mean things like new knowledge and inventions?"

Sindhís inclines his head. "That is part of it. Another part, and a matter that perhaps carries far more weight, is understanding and change. And, of course, the peoples' willingness to accept and further it."

"Understanding…." Elena furrows her brow. "Is that not the same as knowledge?"

"Is it? One might be able to recite an elvish ballad or a poem written by a Haradian warrior, but does that mean one understands them?"

"I suppose not," Elena says after a moment of hesitation, mainly because it sounds like he expects her to.

"Understanding," Sindhís says, his tone so light he might be speaking of the weather, "comes through experience and compassion. It comes from taking a step further, from looking a bit closer. And only through understanding, change will happen. At least that is my belief."

"But eventually, the world will change no matter what people do, won't it?" Elena asks cautiously.

Sindhís nods slowly as if in acknowledgement, his gaze returning towards the Long Lake's calm waters, or perhaps the misty hills in the distance.

"From your teachers," he says, sounding absent and somewhat wistful, "you have no doubt learned that Middle-earth has seen much greatness in the past. Some of that greatness was good, some was evil. Some of it was so wondrous that no living creature today could hope to imagine such things, bar a certain few. That greatness however is, for the most part, lost or fading. Likewise, are the elves fading or leaving, and much of the things they have taught men will no doubt be lost in the haze of time as well."

A shadow seems to cross his face and for the first time and just a moment, Elena thinks she can see the weight of many years on him. Too many.

"But we live in the fourth age; the Age of Men it is known as already. In the end, we can but hope and trust in the greatness of men, I am afraid. So yes, you are correct — the world will change, and changes as we speak of course. The question is: In what way? And what part — small though it might be — might we play in it?"

Sindhís gives Elena a sidelong glance. A flash of his slow smile. "You must think this an odd thing to care about, I expect."

"Not odd, no, just… difficult to have any sort of control over, I guess." She hesitates. "You sound like you haven't much hope in the… the greatness of men. I mean, I don't know much about such things, but at least people say that King Elessar is a good and wise king and a great man. And there has been peace, apart from those skirmishes in the east, they say."

"So they say," Sindhís agrees with a thoughtful hum. "And King Elessar is indeed a wise ruler and an exceptional man. However," he adds in a measured tone, "he is but one man. One man with a great realm to rule and weighed down by duties that are extensive and numerous. I believe it is important not to forget that, as a resident of that realm, we may also take part in shaping it. And again, at the risk of sounding grand — make it the world we wish to dwell in."

Elena wonders why he keeps saying we. What part could someone like her possibly take in shaping anything?

As though guessing her thoughts, Sindhís turns to look at her, his lips tugging at meeting her sceptical frown. He remains silent.

"Well in any case that is a very ambitious interest you have there," Elena says after a moment.

Sindhís laughs. "Yes, to be sure."

"And I cannot help but wonder… what would the world you wish to live in be like?"

"Ah. A complex question." There is a gleam in his raptor-like eyes and the corner of his mouth tugs a little higher. "I believe it would be a world where people are willing to fight against ignorance and prejudice. Where men strive to understand the things they fear, the strange and unknown, instead of seeking to destroy them."

Sindhís expression darkens ever so slightly and his voice becomes more sombre. "It would be a world where children are not forced to live on streets, and where hard-working women are not expelled from their job because their misfortune might offend someone. A world in which we see it our duty to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves, and to listen to an appeal for clemency, even if it comes from a hated enemy."

Sindhís turns to look at Elena, the grimness in his face softened by a crooked smile once more. "And finally, it would be a world where a talented young person is not denied the path of their heart's desire for no other reason than who she is."

Elena stares back at Sindhís, and for a moment she finds herself unable to say anything. Her throat is tight and a stifling heaviness seems to have settled upon her. At the same time, something stirs in her chest, timid, hard and fluttery.

"That sounds like a very pretty dream," she says at last. She is surprised herself at the dull weariness in her voice.

Still smiling, Sindhís cocks his head. "Why would you say dream?"

"Because for all of that to happen, and moreover within the span of a man's life, you would have to change the way people think." She shrugs, wants to appear dismissive about it. Still, there is that fluttery sensation inside her, tingling at the base of her throat. "Most people, at least."

"And?"

Elena lets out an exasperated huff. "And, that's impossible!"

Sindhís' smile broadens, narrowing his eyes into bright slits. "I respectfully disagree, Miss Thurgood." He leans upon the balustrade again, seemingly watching the row-boat with the young fishermen.

"I believe it to be entirely possible."

---

:

---

Silence had settled itself over the small parlour like a large, sleepy, predatory beast; deceptively tranquil, claws and fangs hidden from sight. Anne had stopped speaking some time ago, yet her words seemed to have left an echo, still ringing softly over the crackle and hiss of the low-burning hearth fire.

"Anne."

Legolas' soft voice seemed to cut through the quiet like freshly honed steel, leaving him to feel almost obscene for disturbing it. He straightened slightly in his chair, grimacing at the renewed cramp that pinched his chest, and regarded the woman across the room with slowly waning patience.

Anne stood in front of the small, clouded window and methodically wiped the mist from the rectangular panes. She did not respond to the sound of her name, but stopped in her motion and stared at her hand as if she had no idea what to do with it next. Legolas could see the moisture glistening off her fingertips.

He rose and slowly closed the distance between them. Anne still made no move to turn around but her head moved the slightest bit, and the shifting shadow of her lashes told him that she took note of his approach.

"Will you not speak further?" He was close enough now that he could hear her heart beating, harder and faster as he came to a halt behind her.

What frightens you so?

"I thought you—" her voice caught; then the words tumbled out more quickly as if to make up for the lost few seconds. "I thought you might have questions."

He was allowed questions? It felt too close, too intimate. And how could she even answer them? Legolas doubted she had suddenly regained her memory.

"Perhaps rather once you have told me the rest?"

She was quiet for a moment. He waited, but when she reached out as though to touch the window again, Legolas swiftly caught hold of her hand. Anne flinched terribly but then stilled in his grasp. Her fingers were still wet from the glass and felt chilled to the bone. Legolas, involuntarily, closed his own more tightly around them. He felt her pulse throb inside his hand, like the frantic heartbeat of a trapped bird.

"Unless you wish not to?"

He heard the soft sounds as she licked her lips and then breathed in and out.

"No… I do."

Tentatively, as if wary of the movement, Anne pulled her hand out of Legolas' grip and finally turned around to look up at him. Her eyes, large and liquid, found his like a deer staring at her hunter. Unlike before when she had been speaking, she was not avoiding the Elf's gaze but studying his face almost too intently. It was not the glance of a maid admiring a man; instead, it reminded him of an anxious pupil desperately striving to memorise an exercise before it gets taken away.

Legolas took a step back, putting some distance between them. He could still feel the wet traces her fingers had left inside his palm. She was watching him, wide-eyed and unblinking.

Suddenly he was not at all certain that he wished her to continue. It had intrigued him at first, this lost past of hers, and then he had begun to think that uncovering her secrets might even be of use to him. But this knowledge, Legolas knew, was not one he could turn away from once he had decided to pursue it.

He stared back at her, into those eyes that shimmered with the reflection of the dying embers and still seemed too dark somehow, like a shuttered well.

What lies at the bottom?

The wind rattled at the window. An invisible draught made the fire groan, and Legolas saw Anne shiver, almost imperceptibly. Down her throat and above the neckline of rough linen, tiny elevations had sprinkled the woman's vulnerable skin. The Elf descried the thrum of blood in the hollow between her collarbones, rapid as a beast's preparing for flight.

"I am still listening," he spoke against his premonition.

Anne made an odd motion, like nodding and shaking her head at the same time. Then she moved around him in an awkward, too large circle, like following steps to a dance only she knew.

Legolas turned and watched as she crossed the room towards the hearth where she held out her hands towards the dying remnants of the fire. He was just beginning to wonder for how long he would have to wait, when she spoke.

"Were you the last one left?"

He had been about to return to his chair; now he paused and frowned at the back of Anne's bowed head.

"What?"

"At…" He heard a dry swallow. "At Angcirith." Her tongue stumbled over the name, mispronouncing it. It did not matter.

Legolas' heart faltered, his insides turned to ice.

He felt like it covered him whole, as though the crystalline mountain air had coated his skin with a sparkling layer of frost. It numbed the cuts and scratches, numbed his legs as he dropped to the ground and scree bit through leather and into his knees. The nick across his cheekbone was throbbing dully as he leaned over the crumpled figure.

"Please…" Her voice was weak, dying.

"I will help you," he told her.

It was a lie. Too much of her insides were out. Legolas wondered if he should try and shove them back inside her, where it was still warm.

"Please," she sounded vague, disoriented. A wet gurgling had started to accompany her words, her shallow breathing. "My girl… Is she safe?"

His unwilling gaze found the small shape a few yards to their left. So, so small… His cloak covered the body completely, and his hands had been an awkward fit around the slender neck. Her eyes had been the palest shade of blue. Those eyes had stared at Legolas, even after the little clouds of her breath had faded into the cold air, after the faint flutter of a pulse had turned to stillness beneath his fingers, and the pain had vanished from her face.

"Yes," Legolas whispered, turning his attention back to the mother. "She is safe." He reached out.

The cut beneath his eye was deeper than he had thought. His tears stung in it as they ran down his cheeks, and by the time they fell upon his hands and the woman's face, a few of them were tinged crimson.

"You mustn't cry," she admonished him, her speech more slurred than before. A bubble of bloody spittle burst on her ashen lips. "You will frighten her. Such a fair face, you should smile…"

… "Legolas?"

At some point, snowflakes started to drift off the mountain peaks that shone in the wan midday sun. The blood on the ground had frozen. Legolas stirred then, found that the stains on his hands had turned brown and crumbling. He bowed his head over the cooled body and kissed her brow, like her daughter's before. As the wind whipped his hair and bit into his flesh, he brought his lips close to the woman's ear.

"Namárië."

The wind whistled. All else was silence.

"Legolas, please!"

His eyelids felt heavy and dry. Focusing took too much effort. A cautious touch on his arm — cool fingers, small and olive-skinned against his pale flesh. Slowly, Legolas raised his head. Anne was staring up at him, her hand fell back to her side.

"What—" His voice, hoarse and brittle, did not obey Legolas. Darkness tugged at the frayed edges of his mind.

"What do you know of that?"

Anne took a step back. "Please… I'm sorry—"

"What do you know of that?"

"Not much," she said quietly.

Legolas believed her. The way she looked at him, his expression must have told her things much worse than whatever she learned before.

Anne's gaze did not leave him as she ducked her head, drew up her shoulders. "I want to tell you the rest now."

Legolas tried to read her expression and failed. Not shock, not quite fear… Nor could he parse the tense concatenation of emotions in her voice. He gave up and resumed the steps to a dance he had long since learned by heart.

He breathed, slow, conscious, and deliberate. When he stepped towards her, his stride was even. When he took her arm and gently steered her towards the bench by the hearth, his hand was steady.

It was steady still when he went to fetch her cup and refilled it. By the time he sat down beside her, took her hand and wrapped her fingers around the goblet with wine, his mind was focused, deep and calm once more. He ignored the way her body quivered, just as he ignored the cramp in his chest and his aching heart.

"Go on, then," he told her kindly.

:

III III III