The first snow came, and melted under a soft rain two days later. Nights grew long; thrice, the moon faded to nothingness. Falmaramë found her cave cosy enough in the drab forest; with Gyre's help, she was sure not to starve. Now that she didn't venture out as much, she spent several hours each day in quiet meditation — a fleeting boredom sometimes touched her, but that, too, was new, and therefore not unwelcome. In the before times, when she was always surrounded by courtiers from the most noble houses of the Noldor, when she always had something to plan or a jewel to forge, boredom had never had a grip upon Falmaramë's mind.

It was at such a time, when she sat inside, hidden and thinking, that footsteps resounded on the path her feet had begun carving in the fallen leaves. They were irregular — two sets of them — and prudent. They stopped a little way off the doorway, and a man cleared his throat. Hesitation caught her: she didn't know whether she cared or not, but in the end curiosity won and, rising, she walked slowly to the opening.

It took a few instants for Falmaramë to recognise the man — the mistletoe gatherer — dressed in his finery. Good cloth of red and white, clogs of polished wood, and a cap embroidered with a bright pattern: these were garments obviously seldom worn, and taken good care of. He had a cane, and seemed to avoid to carry his weight on his left leg. At his side was a child — a girl, whose head didn't reach all the way to his elbow, and she wore garments cut in the same fashion. A makeshift crown of ivy and baubles rested on her brown hair, and a necklace of bright glass beads hung from her neck. She held something high in her hands, with the quiet gravity of children entrusted with important things.

When Falmaramë appeared, the man averted his gaze and went to his knees, despite the mud and his good clothes. He tugged at the girl's dress, and she did the same, although she risked a look first. The man removed his elegant cap and then spoke, his voice slow and solemn, in a speech that seemed well rehearsed. His words once broke over emotion, but he gathered himself and carried on. When he was done, the little girl stepped forward; when she was about halfway to Falmaramë, she stopped, and lowered her burden on the ground. A short curtsey, and she ran back to her father's side. He struggled a bit to rise, but gently refused the girl's help. After a last bow, they left to a mule who had been tied to a tree a stone-throw away.

Once they were truly gone, Falmaramë knelt by the girl's offering. It was a wide basket, covered in fine linen weaved in patterns of red, black, and white. Falmaramë, always one to honour craftsmanship, carefully folded the cloth before looking at the contents of the basket.

There was a loaf of bread, with white flour on its crust, and a handful of small cakes, some glazed, some with poppy seeds. There was a wreath of wheat and dried flowers. There was a flagon of — Falmaramë uncorked it — some kind of mulled wine. There was also a small doll, that had the worn-out look of a cherished thing, a shawl of lace, and a fine bracelet of leather and bronze. These two items, as the doll, had seemingly been used before, although they were in very good shape.

So the man had manners, after all, and gratitude. Who would have guessed? With a shrug, Falmaramë brought the offerings back inside. She hadn't eaten bread for a long time now. However, it was the cakes that most pleased her: she had always been partial to those flavoured with honey, and all signs pointed to the glazing being precisely that.

Winter lingered over the naked forest; it promised to be long. There was much more rain than snow, and the overcast sky seldom parted for the sun. Falmaramë regretted the sharp frost of Calderiand — but she had found a way to kindle embers that kept her refuge warm and dry, and she got into a new habit of carving wood with her knife. It was a far cry from the delicate work she had once done; the shaft of Aeglos had been a thing of beauty, wrought with tools themselves precious. Still, she found herself experimenting with new shapes, and the constraints brought, sometimes, the fever of creation upon her once again.

It was soon time for the sunburst talaloben to flower again, on rocky soil and southward slopes, and Falmaramë retreated in herself. When she combed her growing hair, she remembered the heavy braid that she had laid upon Gil-Galad's cold breast — the dark locks she had entwined with these first blossoms of the late winter, that endure until singing spring is born, and their sight was painful to her.

One late afternoon, Falmaramë was thus lost in harrowing memories of the past, sitting inside, wrapped in blanket and shawl, eyes unseeing, when the sound of one trespassing brought her back to the present moment. A child, out of breath, cheeks dirty with snot, had rushed into her refuge, and come to a stop. It was a girl, the girl who had come before, although she was barely recognisable for the tumult on her face. She hurriedly knelt and touched the cold floor with her brow.

"What is it, child," asked Falmaramë. "Do you require your doll back? I have taken good care of it, but it was a gift, you know."

The doll she had indeed propped over one of the chests that the grey mare had carried all the way from Osgiliath. It was a shabby thing made of cloth and filled with wool, but Falmaramë, beyond her own understanding, had taken a liking to it.

As if these words had broken a barrier, the girl got up and leapt to Falmaramë's side, taking her hand, and talking very fast in that unknown language. She tugged at her arm and pleaded for something.

"I cannot understand you," said sharply Falmaramë. "What is it with you?"

There was no mistaking it: the girl was begging her to come and follow. How young was she, that such urgency could permeate her voice? The girl was desperate. Because she had once been a desperate child, too, (and because if she stayed there, she would wallow in memories that would hurt again), Falmaramë rose and followed the girl.

Once they were outside, she caught the girl by the shoulder before she began to run. "This way," she said. "If you're in such a hurry, we shall ride."

It was to the girl's credit that Grey's tall frame didn't make her falter, although Falmaramë had to lift her all the way up to the mare's back. She jumped lightly behind her, and caught the dark mane in her steady grasp.

Night was falling when they reached the village; it promised to be humid and dark. This time, no one noticed them: in truth, no one at all was about. The girl directed Falmaramë to a house somewhere in the middle of the village; if there had been streets, it would have been on the main one. Light filtered through closed blinds.

"Where are you taking me, child?" wondered aloud Falmaramë, as she alighted from her mare and helped the girl down. Before she could take a step, a terrible cry tore through the night — pain, anguish, and raw suffering. It was woman's voice, and it came from inside the house.

The girl wiggled from Falmaramë's grasp and took her wrist, once again tugging at her until she followed, and, after ramming at the door, ran inside as another shout resounded.

Falmaramë entered a large room, longer than is was wide, lit by oil lamps that swung from wooden beams. Several people was gathered there, and they blocked her view. There was a smell of fire, of herbs, of stale sweat and of blood. No one turned to look at her, the stranger arrived in their midst, until the girl elbowed her way through, to a woman who lay on a bed, her belly huge and her cheeks brilliant with sweat and tears. Excited, the girl tugged at her shift, and spoke fast. Silence fell. The Second Born all turned to Falmaramë.

They were all women, some older than others; one of them had rolled her sleeves up. Her brown hair was tied in a braid under a kerchief. She seemed the only one not stricken by fear — but her brow was knit, and she tried to shoo Falmaramë away. A crone with white hair muttered something that sounded like a prayer; her eyes were closed and her hands were joined. But Falmaramë didn't move: she had seen the only man present in the room. It was her mistletoe gatherer; he was sitting by the bed and caressed the hair of the one in pain.

When the woman with the braid tried to shove her away, she caught her arm in the vice of her grip. But the man spoke, and the woman fell back, eyes glaring. After a few instants, she went back to the bed and coaxed the lying woman's legs open. With a last glance to Falmaramë, that seemed to warn her not to come any closer, the midwife knelt and said something to her patient, who nodded and swallowed hard. And she deftly slipped her hand inside the woman's body, reaching for something that eluded her, because she cursed. A contraction tore through the woman; she screamed, and her scream resolved in sobs. The midwife pulled back, and absent-mindedly flattered the woman's knee like one might flatter a horse, saying soothing words. The crone brought a cup to the woman's lips, holding her head; the liquid must have been bitter, because she grimaced, but she must have been thirsty, because she drank it all. A younger woman — but not a maiden either — brought a water pan to the midwife, who washed her hands, muttering below her breath. They all acted as if Falmaramë had become invisible. But the child looked up to Falmaramë, and her face was alive with hope.

Elrond had been the healer; Falmaramë had never been taught much in that regard, besides what was necessary either in accidents of the forge or on the battlefield, when none was at hand. She looked back at the little girl with compassion, and her gaze then wandered to the woman who must be her mother. How long since the arduous work of this birth had begun? Elves experienced nothing of the sort; to them, childbirth was a day of joy, free from any pain. It was easy — no one suffered, no one bled, no one screamed in unrelenting pain. If Falmaramë had remained childless, it had been by choice and not by fear of the birth itself — for in Imladris, in those years where the Númenoreans were still welcome, she had heard whispers. A young woman from Elendil's house had refused to marry, for fear of dying in childbirth like her mother. Falmaramë remembered having thought the lass dramatic. Now that she saw what it was about, she apologized to her memory.

What should she do? She could leave. These people were none of her concern. She wanted to leave, to forget those screams and the midwife. Their life was so fragile and short anyway; what was it to her if that woman died? What was it to her if the child was born limp and blue, dead before it was even alive? What was it to her if the mistletoe gatherer spent the rest of his days mourning in grief, and the little girl, too?

Another contraction — the mother groaned, biting her lips. Her knuckles, on the hand that grasped her husband's, were bone-white. How had Falmaramë ever thought of the Second Born as weak? There was more strength, here, in this room, than she had ever seen on the battlefield. A fleeting thought came to her: oh, that Isildur had been born a woman.

She could leave. She was intruding — she probably should. Besides, what could she even do? She had always been the one to come with clever schemes and, when her wits failed her (which was seldom), she had trusted her own strength and long-honed skills. She knew nothing of healing, and even less where it concerned the Second Born. She should leave.

The midwife was now explaining something to the woman, slowly, almost reluctantly. The woman refused, as vehemently as her exhaustion allowed; the midwife tried to argue, but raised her hands in helplessness and went to sit. Pity as she hadn't known in a long time engulfed Falmaramë, pushing her to step forward and walk silently to the bed where the woman lay. The woman looked at her with surprise, her big hazel eyes surrounded by dark rings of weariness, and the little girl rose to give her seat to Falmaramë, who disregarded the offer and sat, instead, on the bedding, harsh with straw. Then she put one of her cool hands on the woman's brow, and the other on her shoulder, that felt clammy under the sweat-soaked shift.

The mother took several deep breaths; her heart beat wildly — the pulse on her temple that was thrumming like a drum appeared to slow. There are lullabies to sleep, songs to wake, and melodies in between, Falmaramë had once told a man. She knew songs of power — to infuse a deep spell into a blade or a jewel, but also to lift hearts and chase darkness away from the soul. While healing was beyond her reach — she had spent too long at war for that — peace, perhaps, was within her grasp. She began to sing, searching for the fleeting flame that was the woman's spirit; it was faltering, and Falmaramë nursed it like the last ember of a fire.

A soft languor stretches through space;
Smell the rising green herb of grace
While a moist wind saddens the lea.
Water shivers and chips at thee
In the pool's broken waves of lead.
All things appear to be afraid;
A strange taste is in the dark air.

Thy hand holds mine; let me guide thee
Out of that evil dream into
A sweet shadow where flowers three
Bow under the evening dew.

The leaves that grew above are cold;
See them quiver, tremble and fold.
A fragrance acute like a blade
Imbues thy soul, comes to your aid.
The forgotten past rises; see
Beloved ghosts walk around thee.
Let go your pain into their care.

The woman's eyes darted around the room, for it is the virtue of elven song to conjure a world for the listeners to walk; what consoling wraiths she saw, she didn't tell, but she grabbed Falmaramë's hand on her shoulder and said something to the midwife. She sounded stronger, although another contraction made her cry out, again, for the better part of a minute.

The midwife agreed, although she looked somber, and bent, once again, between the woman's legs. Falmaramë readied herself; she kissed the woman's brow, and wove a song of sleep, deep and dreamless so that pain had no hold on her. The crone brought to the midwife a tray of instruments made of metal — clumsy things, that had a sinister air about them. The midwife's free hand hovered over a thick hook, sharp as a hunting knife, but her face suddenly lit up in surprise, and she concentrated on her work inside the woman's womb. Through clenched teeth, she cursed; her gaze was locked to a point somewhere over the woman's belly, until she caught her breath in victory. The muscles on her arm tightened; she was holding onto something, and she carefully started to pull. But the woman stirred; her womb contracted once again. The midwife kept her hold, although she winced; for the first time, she looked at Falmaramë with something else than hostility or indifference, and gave her an order.

Make her sleep. The request transpired beyond language, its understanding clear as day. So Falmaramë sang, once again, the music of her voice floating to the woman's ears. Her limbs became soft as a rag doll; her breathing evened. The man cradled her head against his breast; he was silently weeping. The younger woman had taken the girl upon her knees and soothed her, best as she could. The crone watched, still holding the instruments of last resort at the ready. And the midwife worked on the limp woman, one hand pushing outside her belly when it contracted, one hand inside her womb, her lips thin and her expression taut. Little by little, she pulled her hand out, in the slow and sure movement of a mistress of her craft; her pale skin was streaked with humours. Her strong wrist emerged, and then her fist, curled over a single foot. Then her other hand went in search of its twin, and two legs emerged from the mother's body.

The crone unceremoniously dumped the tray she held and rushed to the fireplace. A pan, full of water, had kept warm there by the side, and the old woman brought it as the midwife called. She wet a clean linen cloth, and the midwife wrapped the child's hips with it, for he was covered in a slippery, greasy, thing. Gently, she supported his weight before another contraction pushed out his back. When it was time, she slid a finger along his back and helped release a shoulder; a chubby arm appeared, with a curled hand small as a cat's paw. The other shoulder was harder to pass. The midwife timed her work with each contraction, rotating the child, taking care not to harm the delicate neck and fragile body, until only the head remained to birth. As Falmaramë weaved her song of peace, she saw how the midwife gathered herself for that last effort.

The midwife supported the child's body with her left hand and forearm. The fingers of her other hand she wedged along the nape of his neck. With an ample and focused swinging movement, when the woman's womb next contracted, she helped the child along — his head slipped out of his mother's body.

The crone and the younger woman lost no time and wrapped the babe in warmth, tying and cutting the cord over his navel, as the midwife took a step back. But he didn't cry; his fingers were blue, and he moved sluggishly. The crone brought him by the fireplace, where she rubbed him with vigour and removed muck from his mouth. Then, after some minutes, he mewled, and Falmaramë noticed that she had been holding her breath. Her song had ended: the mother stirred when her child was put upon her naked breast, and her fingers twitched when she caressed his damp, dark, locks. His skin was a healthy pink, now.

The heat was dizzying. Falmaramë rose and went outside, where the night air slapped some sense back into her. What had happened back there? She should go. Where was her mare?

Someone, by her side, touched her elbow, which made her jump. The midwife. She had cleaned up and held a steaming mug of some tea. Fatigue drew fine lines, like cobwebs, around her mouth; when she drank, she sighed and closed her eyes. Then, she said a single word.

"You're welcome," replied Falmaramë.

The midwife nodded. Time stretched between them; the quiet noises of the night were mixed with a muffled sound of voices and, sometimes, the rough whimpers of a newborn. Drip — a raindrop fell nearby. Drop — another. The midwife looked up, as if her feeble sight could pierce the darkness of an overcast night, and, with a groan, started back to the house. Before she opened the door, she turned to Falmaramë and, by a gesture of the hand, invited her to come.

Now would be the time to leave. Falmaramë therefore walked back inside.

The old woman was busy washing something. Before Falmaramë could see what it was, however, she was hit in her midsection by a running child. The little girl held onto her waist with enough strength to strangle a young buck. It was hard to muster the will to peel her off, and a hint of a smile came to Falmaramë's lips as the new mother chuckled from her bed before calling her daughter back to her side.

There was a heavy feeling in the room. Rain crackled outside, now, hitting the blinds with full force. Most seemed ill at ease, and eyed Falmaramë with prudence. When she stepped to the crone, in order to see what she was doing, the old woman fell back a few paces. Falmaramë's curiosity was picked by what lay in the water pan, until she made sense of what she saw: the afterbirth1, from whence the cord emerged in a blue-white twine. Embarrassed, she turned away.

The crone then hurried back to her task. She gently dried the ugly thing and tied a cloth around it before putting it away in a woven basket that appeared made for this purpose. The younger woman busied herself by changing the bedding of the new mother's couch. There was respect in the mother's expression, although it was tinged with some wariness — but she was hard to read, for her exhaustion and relief at her ordeal being finally over. She murmured something to the mistletoe gatherer, who first tried to denegate, before relenting and looking as one chided — no, as one remorseful and terrified. Meanwhile, the midwife watched all with a sort of mocking air. Who were these people, and why were they not elated at the birth of the boy?

A log crashed in a fountain of sparks. The old woman, for the first time, looked Falmaramë in the eye, and spoke, slowly, as if to be understood — to no avail. She tried to mimic something, with her knotty hands marked by a lifetime of hard work, but Falmaramë just shrugged. This was growing more awkward by the minute; she had to leave, now.

At last, the crone sighed and, muttering unknown rambles, went to the new mother. She bent to the babe in her arms; the woman paled and tried to shield him. But the man put a sad hand on her shoulder; tears were in her eyes, and the woman cried out. Unfazed, the crone walked to Falmaramë and handed her the child.

He was so small! As she took him and cradled him in her arms, Falmaramë marveled at the tiny perfection of his nails. She put her finger in the palm of his hand, and when he closed his hand in a too strong fist, she beamed. It had been so many years since she had held a child that she had forgotten that they did that. Falmaramë raised her head to share this moment, only to feel as one doused in cold water. Everyone in the room had a face full of regretful suffering.

Awareness hit her.

With extreme care, Falmaramë walked with the child towards the bed. He made a heavy bundle indeed. She put one knee to the ground to steady herself, and put the child back into his mother's arms. The woman gasped and engulfed him in her arms, kissing his hair as if she had believed him lost. Which she had, thought Falmaramë.

Still, Falmaramë wasn't done. She caressed the child's cheek with her folded knuckle; his skin was soft as velvet. Loudly, distinctly, so that there would be no mistake, she pronounced: "Elrûn."

Both parents repeated the name. She nodded, and said once again: "Elrûn."

While they were all stunned, Falmaramë swiftly made for the door. In her mind, she was already calling Grey and jumping on her back, slick with rain, before galloping away from the village. Unfortunately, the rain outside had become a gale. No one could have found their way in such a weather; the wind threw sheets of water around like a listless giant throwing wet towels around. Falmaramë groaned internally.

Only a little while later, Zina, the midwife, made her way back to the birthing house. She was wet and tired, which made her only a little grumpy, and she sat with a groan on her favourite chair by the fire. Her patient was asleep, the baby softly cooing in a nearby crib. Zina's attention wandered to the good luck charms that hung on the wall. It had been a close call.

"What have you done with the elf?"

Old Morag's hoarse voice startled her. The crone had once been her teacher; she had been through many wars and hardships, and had taken care of the women of their people through it all. Her hands, warped by age, were now curled over a plaid as she sat on a bench by the wooden wall.

"I put her up in the barn," replied Zina.

"The cows will go barren."

The midwife shrugged. "I don't think so. Tales say it only happens when the elf is scorned. She looked happy enough for a dry place to spend the night. By the time we got there, we were both drenched as drowned rats. That weather is foul. Where's the happy father?"

"I sent him home. It was long past Tisha's bedtime. I never even noticed when he sent that brat away to fetch the elf."

There was judgement in Old Morag's voice. Zina kicked her wooden clogs away and removed her soaked stockings. She then curled up to warm her feet under her skirts; once she was comfortable enough, she replied that they had had more important things to do at the time than check what a man was doing. Old Morag chuckled.

"True," she said. "It had been long since I had seen a bairn only show us its side and refuse to turn either to its breech or to its crown. But what he did was foolish."

"It turned for the best, in the end. I was ready to cut the child away in order to free Coira."

They both looked at the sleeping woman, who didn't stir at her name — the conversation was low enough not to disturb her. So pale and wan her face was that she looked both younger and older than she was. Zina wondered aloud what she would have to say, when she awoke, to her husband asking for the help of the elf.

"She loves him well enough," mused Old Morag. "And it did turn for the best, so she may forgive him. Better a child taken by the elves than a dead one, she might say. Why do you think the elf refused to take him, by the way?"

"Perhaps she's not the motherly type," wryly replied the midwife. Her eyes crossed Old Morag's, and both laughed, for no good reason apart from the fact that it was absurd and they were tired. Elves took children away to raise them deep in the forest, where they were nursed on silver dew and fed strange meats. If they even came out of the trees, years later, they were clad as princes and spoke a new language — and they followed the elves always, slaves to their will. So did the ancient tales say, at least. It had been long since an elf had been seen in these parts.

"The elf will require payment, though," and both women sobered up at Zina's remark. Elves always required payment, and their prices were usually too dear for mortals to pay. Unexpected, too, for the Fair Folk were crafty in their bargains.

"Mishe and Coira won't get away with a gift of a shawl and a few cakes this time. This is a life they owe; she even named him. Elrûn; what's the meaning of it, anyway?"

Old Morag raised her shoulders, widening her rheumy eyes as her wrinkles contorted in a grimace of ignorance. Names bestowed by the elves were said to carry power and doom.

"I don't know everything, girl," she said. "The ways of the Fair Folk are inscrutable."

Logs crackled in a shower of sparks. The wind outside howled. Zina stretched and told Old Morag to go to bed, and that she would start the customary watch over the newborn. She felt too wound up to sleep anyway. It would take her at least two days to get over that delivery.

The crone rose. She wrapped herself in her plaid as in a great shawl and hobbled to a bed on the other side of the room.

"Wake me up when he next feeds. It would be bad luck if you drowsed away and he was the only awake soul here on his first night in this world."

Zina didn't say that she knew: the elderly took comfort in repeating their wisdom.

Hay, prickly and smooth, had made an uncomfortable imprint on Falmaramë's cheek. Daylight seeped through the cracks of a wooden door — downstairs, where cows were stirring, tapping their hooves on the paved floor. So late, already? What had become of her resolution of slipping away as soon as the storm settled? This morning smelled of warm dung, almost sugary, and dried grass. Falmaramë should have moved. She should have gotten up. But there was an exhaustion in her bones — satisfaction, too, as well as a weariness of the mind and the wish that time would stop until these floating sensations made sense. Pigeons hooted somewhere on the roof. Unless they were doves.

Nothing lasts, thought Falmaramë. She thought about going back to sleep: she had grown lazy since she had renounced her forge and her people. How long would this child live? Would he make it past infancy? Plagues often claimed mortal children, that much she knew. In the blink of an eye, he would be gone. Elrûn, little star of the East; why had she named him thus? What sudden inspiration had stricken her?

This trail of thought became too uncomfortable to allow her to rest anymore. Falmaramë got up and brushed stray hay away from her cape in a swift movement. Forsaking the short ladder that went to the platform where she had slept away the night, she lightly jumped down. Her dear grey mare was waiting amongst the cows, eyeing her with a sort of distaste that judged her for this night spent with cattle.

"Don't look at me like that," Falmaramë said, scolding her in a low voice. "We would never have found our way back. We'll be on our way now; you shall find again the freedom of the woods, and me, the solitude I crave."

The mare's velvety nose quivered with skepticism under her fingers. Damn, that horse is cheeky. Aloud, she replied: "Don't you dare question my judgement, Grey: I'm the one who stored apples to last you the whole winter."

That was definitely a point Grey could agree with, and she followed Falmaramë to the door. A great wooden lock barred it; the mechanism felt smooth under Falmaramë's fingers as she coaxed it open.

The outside air was fresh; the rain had cleaned away any and all dust, and smells were sharp to the senses. Clouds ran low under a washed-out sky. Before Falmaramë could take another step, however, she was greeted by two women, that she nearly failed to recognize — lamplight had been softer to their features than the morning was. Once again, unease tugged at Falmaramë's mind; it was uncanny to see such youth, such raw youth, such terrible youth, in such bodies, worn out before their time. Although the midwife stood tall, her eyes were already lined and her mouth was hard; as for the crone, she was bent like a goblin.

They greeted her; the old woman grabbed her elbow and gently nudged her to a covered hall; it could have been an empty marketplace. Squat pillars carried a high roof covered in grey slates; below, great eaves were the nesting place of swallows, now gone. And there, on a table, was food and drink.

"Thank you," said Falmaramë, "but I would rather be on my way."

Despite that, she hardly moved, and allowed herself to be coaxed to sit on a stone bench by the long table. There was tea, spicy and dark, which she drank with relish, and some kind of meat, dry and fruity, and bread. She ate from each food offered, her polite aloofness at odds with the pleasure of such complex tastes that she hadn't had since the end of the war. The two women looked at each other with increasing satisfaction. Very few people were around; it could be that the muddy promise of the day encouraged inside work.

"She has drunk our tea and eaten our meat," said Old Morag with satisfaction. "The laws of hospitality bind her now; we ought to be safe."

Still, Zina the midwife found this somehow too easy, and she frowned. A few sparrows fluttered by, patrolling the ground for scraps; she tried to chase them away with a short wave of the hand. The elf looked at her with a quizzed expression on her beautiful face, and pronounced a few words of that soft, musical, language she used.

"They're pests that won't stop bothering you," explained Zina. "They're bold as brass and steal like the wicked thieves they are."

The elf's expression mellowed as she smiled an ineffable smile. She lunged on the table, taking a fresh loaf of bread for herself, and she scrapped the seeds that topped it, letting them fall to the birds. They hurried to peck them from the cobblestones, like so many brown leaves brought to life by a sorcerer's spell. Once the sparrows were done eating, they flew away in a flurry of chubby wings.

The elf rose. She bowed gracefully to each of them. Zina breathed out; they were nearly free of her and her weird manners. Zina found that she had been, however, too optimistic, as the shape of Mishe's head emerged from the market stairs. He was grinning like a fool. When he saw the elf, he removed the cap from his head, and he calmed his gait to a respectful walk. His limp was nearly gone, now.

When the elf saw him, a look of patient weariness came unto her face, and she greeted Mishe with a nod. As for him, he gave half a bow, interrupting himself as an afterthought struck him: another man was climbing the steps, and he introduced him to the elf before resuming his bow. The elf, however, gave almost no sign of acknowledgement to the newcomer. Zina couldn't fault her: the burggraf was a boring man if there ever was one. Master Ilya was a good enough man, slow to anger, and expert a mediating quarrels — but his live and let live attitude meant that oftentimes he would let a situation fester in the hope that it would resolve itself. He was thick in the waist, and his hair had deserted the top of his head to form a collar of beard along his neck.

"Coira and I have thought about a lot of things," said Mishe, although the elf couldn't understand him. "You saved me when you could have left me to the wolves, and you saved Coira in her hour of need, and our child, too. His life could have belonged to you, and rightly so, but in your kindness you gave him back to us. There is nothing we own that can repay all of this. You are our protector, dame of the Fair Folk."

Zina knew Mishe well: she was only older than him by a handful of years, and had seen him grow up. He was a ploughman, serious about his work, who worked his own land and lent the strength of his arms to his neighbours in need. Mishe made fast friendships that he cultivated with care, and was loyal sometimes beyond reason. So, Zina watched him with caution; Coira his wife was little better than him in that respect, and was prone to be carried away by her good heart.

"I know you live in the Holy Man's cave, and I suppose that you are happy there, as it is your choice. But living is rough in the forest. There used to be a wisewoman here in the village; her name was Mairet, and she was my aunt. She died the year before last. No one has taken her place. Her home is empty and has passed to me. If you would wish to, you could dwell there. Your needs would be taken care of by my family, in our gratitude."

By the midwife's side, Old Morag hissed. Was Mishe stupid, she wondered aloud, to invite an elf to live amongst mortals? Did he not know that the Fair Folk lived to trick mortals and break them to their will? What evil would he invite in the village? An argument broke out. Voices rang under the eaves — until the burggraf spoke, his deep steady tones like calming oil poured over water. Letting the elf go unrewarded, he argued, would only invite some later plotting on her part, and with that both Old Morag and Zina heartily agreed. But if she were a guest of the village for as long as baby Elrûn lived, the laws of hospitality would bind her closely and prevent any further harm. And with that, master Ilya won.

When they turned again to the elf, she was observing them, an impenetrable expression over her whole being — like a queen, thought Zina, who wonders about the doings of a bunch of cockroaches. They gestured for her to come, and she followed with a mild curiosity.

A house, then, thought Falmaramë. The villagers' intent couldn't be clearer. It was small and dark, unlike any place where she had ever dwelled. Dust covered everything in it, but it smelled healthy. Dried flowers and leaves, tied in bunches, hung from low beams. Falmaramë slowly walked through the rooms, taking it all in. Why did they think she would accept? She didn't want to live with people.

Still, not to be rude, and pushed by curiosity, she visited. A room was lined with shelves, that were heavy with flasks and bottles. Whatever light filtered from the outside gave them an eery glow. Falmaramë uncorked one and took a whiff — she scowled at the odour, that reminded her of some of Elrond's potions. Two books stood at the place of honour, leather-bound tomes of great weight. To Falmaramë's surprise, one of them was written in Adûnaic, that she knew. It was a medical treatise.

As she turned the pages, seeing but not reading, she thought she understood. They wanted a healer. It was too bad she had never been one. Besides, the midwife had seemed more than able. Falmaramë put the book back where it belonged.

Her stroll next took her to a small kitchen that overlooked a garden. Beside it, on the other side of the fireplace, was a bedroom. None of it was precisely cheerful, but the house felt nonetheless welcoming. Falmaramë was acutely aware of the villagers' presence by her side. If she just walked away, would they understand her decision?

She had never been a healer. She had never had any interest for it, except in passing. It would be something new. And that thought dug its teeth into her mind, until Falmaramë realised that she was dying for novelty. For the first time since Gil-Galad's death, she felt something other than sadness and indifference — she had forgotten how potent a drug curiosity was. But still… Second Born.

These people were nothing like the Númenoreans she had met, nor like the Easterlings she had fought. They had none of that arrogant pride, and none of that cocky confidence that said I deserve to rule and I shall stop at nothing to reach my goals. They, too, were new.

Accepting would lay a great responsibility on her, though. Could she learn enough from the books that were in the house?

Falmaramë walked out; Grey had found her way into the garden, and was munching with appetite on overgrown weeds. The air was soft, heavy with the night's rain. Someone was baking bread not too far away. A life here, in this alien place, with this alien people, would be so different from what she had left behind that it made her breathe out audibly, and her fingers itched. Spring was underway; she needed distraction from her grief. Besides, she wouldn't be a prisoner. She could leave anytime.

"Yes," she said aloud. "I shall accept your gift."

Former English word for placenta, 1580s, perhaps based on older, similar Scandinavian compounds. Cognate with Danish efterbyrd and Swedish efterbörd.[↑]