Chapter Text
The light of dawn found her curled on the sand, the sea sighing against the shore that cradled her.
She shifted, her eyes fluttering open to meet a sky washed in the soft gold of morning.
For a brief while, she remained still, aware of the cool, damp ground beneath her and the steady rhythm of her own breathing.
Then she pushed herself upright.
The first thing she saw was her hair, falling smooth as water over her shoulders, the color of autumn leaves caught between sunlight and dusk.
It was a deep, golden red, a living flame licking at the pale linen of her gown.
Then the girl found her ears.
Her fingertips found the curve—down, then up—until they met the delicate point at the tip.
She did not remember this. Did not remember much at all.
The girl looked out to the sea. The waves broke against the rocks below; the tide was quiet, the air still.
Behind her, the land rose into a forest of tall, dark trees, their leaves shifting faintly in the breeze.
The girl stood. She took slow steps forward.
The grass did not yield under her bare feet, as if she were nothing more than a whisper against the earth.
The girl looked down.
She was small—so small the grass could have hidden her if she crouched low.
She went still. This, too, was new.
The girl knew she ought to be afraid. Waking on a shore she had no memory of demanded it. Forgetting the shape of her own life demanded it.
And yet her hands did not shake. Her heart did not race.
Only there was the certainty that she had been somewhere else before this. That she had been someone else. The memories were within her, but they were like fish deep in water, darting away the moment she reached for them.
The forest seemed to lean toward her, its branches swaying, the leaves rustling as she passed by them, all in greeting.
She touched the bark of the nearest tree, rough under her fingertips, and wondered if she had ever done such a thing before.
Had she once known the names of these trees? Had she once known the name of the wind?
The stream found her before she thought to look for it.
Water slipped over old stones, clear and singing. The girl knelt, cupping it in her hands, and drank until the dryness in her throat eased.
The cold of it startled her, sharp and sweet. It seemed to wake her, sharpening her senses as it flowed through her.
A sparrow alighted on a nearby branch, its head cocked as it regarded her.
She heard the rustle of its feathers—each one distinct, like parchment being turned—and the rapid flutter of its heartbeat, a sound that should have been lost beneath the stream’s murmur.
Behind her, a vole scrabbled through the underbrush, its tiny claws scraping against roots.
The girl didn’t turn, but she knew: the way its breath hitched when it paused, the damp earth clinging to its fur.
A breeze stirred the trees, and with it came a hundred whispers.
A fox’s padded footfall, three ridges away. The slow unspooling of a snake’s body over warm rock. The distant snap of a twig—a deer, perhaps, or something less familiar.
Her fingers tightened around the damp hem of her gown. These sounds had always existed, but now they unfolded around her, precise as a map.
The sparrow chirped, a bright dagger of sound. For a heartbeat, the world was unbearably loud.
She sat back on her heels. “Lasto nin sui 'wasser, pen nîf gwannatha.” (I am well enough for water. But a little hungry yet.)
The words felt foreign on her tongue, strange for how naturally they flowed.
The sparrow chirped once more, then flitted to a further branch. It paused there, watching her with dark, knowing eyes before darting deep into the forest. The light shifted as she followed, dappling the forest floor in patterns of bronze. Time slipped past—an hour, perhaps two.
The sound of the forest grew as she passed. She tilted her head, listening, though she understood nothing except that they welcomed her, dearly.
The sparrow led her up a slope where the air grew warmer, carrying the scent of thyme. Then, as if stepping through some unseen threshold, the trees parted.
Before her stretched a clearing, wide and sunlit, and at its edge stood a farm.
The farmhouse was small but sturdy, its wooden walls a washed grey. A stone chimney rose from its thatched roof, thin tendrils of smoke curling into the sky. Beyond it, a barn stood with its doors thrown open, and chickens pecked at the ground in a scattered, contented flock.
The sparrow alighted on the fence post nearest her, its tiny chest puffing out.
One hen, bolder than the rest, wandered closer to where she stood, its head bobbing as it regarded her with curious eyes.
The girl knelt and murmured. “Le suilon, sí vi ú-'eriar.” (Hello, we have never met.)
The hen pecked at the ground, then nudged something toward her with its beak—a single, brown egg, smooth and warm. Another chicken joined it, adding a second egg to the offering.
“Hannon le.” She said, before cradling them in her palms. (Thank you.)
The chickens bobbed their heads in unison and waddled back to the flock.
With that, the sparrow vanished into the trees, its duty done.
The girl found little reason to linger. With the same quiet steps that had carried her here, she turned and walked back into the trees, the eggs nestled securely in the folds of her gown.
Though she had walked for hours before, the way back seemed shorter now. She emerged from the forest just as the sun began its slow descent toward the sea. The shore stretched before her once more.
A low-hanging branch beckoned, and without thought, she reached for it, her fingers curling around the bark. She pulled herself up with one hand, the other holding the eggs.
The tree embraced her. Its bark molded to her form, supporting her back while the broad limb became both seat and cradle. She arranged the folds of her gown, watching as the sun slipped beneath the world’s edge.
The girl broke an egg open, swallowing the contents raw. The taste was earthy, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered that this was strange, that civilized hands should cook such offerings over fire. But the voice was faint, easily ignored.
She leaned back against the broad trunk, watching as constellations began to prick through the darkening sky, their reflections shimmering on the restless sea below.
The moon carved its slow arc across the heavens while the girl remained motionless.
Not sleeping, not awake. Her eyes reflected the light of the Moon and stars wheeling overhead, drinking in the cold fire as a child of Men might drink from a spring.
As the night deepened, she realized with wonder that she felt no urge to sleep. The tree's embrace was enough. The distant song of the waves was enough. The light of the Moon and stars was enough.
As the first pale fingers of dawn brushed the eastern horizon, the visions came.
Shards of memory surfacing through dark water. A voice calling. Is it a name? Hands (whose hands?) braiding flowers into copper-red hair. The scent of crushed herbs and distant laughter.
Nerys.
Was she then no spirit of the woods, but one who bore a name?
“Nerys,” she said. The name tasted familiar on her tongue. She turned it over in her mind as the sky brightened.
Dawn broke like a wave upon the shore of night, and what the dark had swallowed, the day returned–wholly, unbroken, hers.
A new restlessness took hold.
Nerys ate the second egg and brushed flecks of dried yolk from her fingers onto the bark. The eggshells lay beside her, brown and brittle. A sudden guilt prickled at her. She should return them to the mother who made them.
The walk back to the farm felt shorter this time. Nerys moved with light steps, the broken shells cradled in her palm.
How strange, she thought, that the world could hold such kindness—that chickens would share their eggs, that trees would offer shelter, that a girl could walk through this twilight without fear.
Nerys placed the shells gently near the chicken's nest.
As she turned to go, she looked up into the face of a man, his features twisted in anger, and he seized her by her arm.
Words she didn’t understand barked from his lips, his grip biting into her skin. She didn’t resist as he hauled her toward a mill.
Inside, a woman stood by the hearth. At the sight of Nerys, she shook her head and spoke in hurried tones to the man.
“This is one of them!” The farmer spat. “Crushing the eggs, loosing the pigs, poisoning the cows—caught her right in the act!”
His wife folded her arms, then stepped closer, studying the girl. “Good Lord,” she murmured. “Look at her. There’s a light about her. She’s not one of the village children.”
The man's eyes remained hard.
The girl tried to speak, the words spilling from her in a language like music, like wind through leaves.
The couple exchanged glances.
“She doesn’t understand us,” his wife said.
“Then I’ll take her to the village center. Someone will know her.”
“Husband, think... Have you not heard what happens to those who cross the fair folk? She could be one of them! Do you want their vengeance?”
“What harm can come from creatures of nursery tales and grandmother's stories? If they were so mighty, why do they hide in their fading woods while we till the land?” The farmer laughed.
Without another word, he yanked the girl forward—then, with a grunt, hauled her off her feet.
Aragorn halted at the water’s edge, his boots sinking slightly into the damp silt.
The river of Isen was ahead, its dark currents glinting. Somewhere to the east, the White Mountains loomed, their peaks lost in shadow. To the west, the land sloped into the wilds of Enedwaith, where the Dunlendings stirred like wargs scenting blood.
He adjusted the strap of his pack, feeling the weight of his task. Find the creature. Track him before the Enemy does. Gandalf’s words had been urgent, though Aragorn needed no reminders of what was at stake.
The banks of the Isen were treacherous here, pocked with loose stones and tangled roots. His gaze swept the ground. The creature-Gollum was cunning, more so than most gave him credit for, but even he left traces. A scuff in the mud where a foot had dragged. A broken twig, its sap still wet. The faint, sour tang of unwashed flesh and old fear.
Aragorn knelt, fingers brushing a patch of moss. There. A scrape, too deliberate to be an animal’s passing. Gollum had come this way, slinking along the river like a shadow.
The realization should have brought relief, but Aragorn only felt the familiar heaviness settle between his shoulder blades.
Gollum would be heading north, towards the Fords, where the water ran shallow enough to cross. Or perhaps to Isengard, though Saruman’s grip on that fortress had grown strangling of late. Aragorn’s mouth tightened. The White Wizard’s dealings were another concern, one he could ill afford to dwell on now.
He rose, scanning the tree line. The night was thick with the sounds of the wild—the rustle of leaves, the distant cry of an owl—but nothing spoke of Gollum’s presence. Not yet.
Aragorn allowed himself a moment, no more, to listen to the river.
The Isen had once run as a clear border—the swift grey division between horse-lords and wilderness. Now its waters seemed but a frayed rope, its strands unraveling into the troubled lands on either shore.
Aragorn knew these parts well; he remembered this very village from seasons past, its thatched roofs huddled against the wind like sheep in a storm. The memory of its baker’s good brown bread and the blacksmith’s keen-edged knives decided him. He would restock here again, though the place sat heavier on his spirit now than in former days.
The village smelled of bread and damp hay. Aragorn moved through its narrow lanes, gathering what supplies he needed. The market bustled with farmers and herdsmen. None looked twice at the travel-worn ranger in their midst.
A shout broke through the peace.
A man, broad-shouldered and red-faced, dragged a small figure through the square by the arm.
The child—barefoot, her dress the color of earth and sea—stumbled after him, her eyes wide but dry. She did not cry out.
In an instant, Aragorn dropped the ropes he'd been examining and stepped forth.
This was a child of six summers, perhaps, with arms and legs like willow shoots and a lightness to her that seemed untouched by the air of the world.
Her hair was the color of autumn’s first leaves, a soft, burnished red.
And then there were her ears—delicate, pointed at the tips, peeking through the fall of her hair.
For a breath, the world seemed to tilt. Aragorn gripped the hilt of his sword.
The farmer shook her, barking something about stolen eggs.
Murmurs rippled through the gathered villagers. Some craned their necks curiously while others turned away - just another stray child causing trouble, nothing worth interrupting their market day.
“Ú-chebin, sí laithon. Nan ú-dhartha mabar lin, bo men ú-chebin!” The elfling's voice rose like a frail melody above the noise. (I didn’t steal, I swear it. And I’d never hurt your animals, not for all the world!)
Now, there was no mistaking what she was.
An elfling.
In all his years among the Elven kind, from Rivendell's halls to Lothlórien's glades, never had he heard one give their word and speak falsehood. Like a stream cannot flow uphill or a tree cannot grow against the sun, it simply was.
“Unhand her.” Aragorn's voice cleaved through the tumult as a sudden wind parts the reeds.
The farmer wheeled about, his face darkening like a thunderhead beneath his coarse beard. His gaze raked over Aragorn—the worn cloak, the mud-caked boots, lingering only briefly on the sword at his hip before hardening with contempt.
“By what right does some hedge-knight meddle in honest folk's affairs?” he demanded, spitting into the dust at their feet. “This is no concern of drifters and road-worms.”
Aragorn looked upon him, and his eyes were as the sea before storm - grey, fathomless, and terrible in their quiet. “By what right does any man drag a child through the village like a common criminal?”
“She's a menace to my farm! Stealing from me, terrifying my livestock!”
“Terror?” Aragorn's gaze swept over the slight figure - the pointed ears peeking through soft copper hair, the bare feet caked with forest soil. “This child could no more harm your livestock than a moth could darken the sun.”
“Fine words don't fill empty bellies. It is the law that gives me redress.”
Aragorn reached for the worn leather pouch at his belt. “A farmer's livelihood is sacred,” he conceded, counting out pieces of silver coins—and pressing them into the farmer’s calloused palm. “But so is a child's dignity. Let this compensate and end the matter.”
The farmer's fingers closed reflexively around the silver. His grip on the elfling loosened. “She could have just asked—”
“The common speech binds her not, and you would have grasped no word of hers.” Aragorn’s gaze flicked to the elfling, who stood frozen. Her little legs seemed barely capable of holding her upright. The tattered hem of her dress fluttered about knees that were scraped raw. Every muscle in that tiny frame was coiled tight, ready to bolt.
There was a beat of silence. Then the farmer’s posture shifted—shoulders loosening, voice losing its edge. “This is… fair. You want eggs for her? Proper ones, fresh-laid?”
Aragorn followed the man's eyes, sliding two fingers across the pommel of his sword. He smiled, but there was no mirth. “Go now. And pray we do not meet again.”
With that, the farmer retreated, muttering into his beard.
Aragorn knelt in the dust, facing the elfling.
The elfling stood frozen, her gold-flecked eyes wide with animal wariness. Slowly, he extended his open hand.
“Ú-moe edaved, tithen pen,” he spoke. (You need not fear, little one.)
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then, like a startled deer, she spun away - her bare feet kicking up puffs of dust as she fled toward the trees.
Aragorn moved the moment she fled, his stride long and sure.
But the elfling was quicker, weaving through the trees, her bare feet barely touching the earth before she was gone again.
Even a child of the Eldar, weakened and afraid, could outpace a ranger in the depths of the wild.
The very woods conspired in her flight, branches shifting to guide her way, roots rising less under her step than his. While behind her, the same root would rise against Aragorn's pursuit.
A lesser hunter might have cursed such sorcery. But Aragorn, who had walked in Lorien's golden glades and heard the Old Willows' songs, felt only wonder stir beneath his breath.
Abruptly, Aragorn slowed, his eyes tracing the signs—a crushed fern here, a single thread of copper hair caught on bark there.
They told him she was not a ghost.
And she was tired. The way her steps had begun to drag in the soft earth told him that much.
Then, at last, he saw her.
Perched high in the arms of an ancient oak, she clung to the trunk. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her small fingers digging into the bark.
She had run herself to exhaustion, and now she trembled, whether from fear or fatigue, he could not say.
Aragorn did not climb. He knew the folly of chasing what needed to choose stillness on its own terms… deer, dove, or something far more precious.
This was no mere wild creature to be gentled.
No elfling had graced these lands for an age beyond counting, not since the Eldar, foreseeing the gathering shadows, ceased bringing their young into a world they meant to forsake.
Two thousand years of fading light, and now…
Perched in a common oak, her bare feet swinging, her hair catching the sunlight like the embers of a fire that had burned before the rising of the first dawn. Such glory even the oldest songs struggled to capture.
How had she come to be? And why, when all wisdom said such joy had passed from the world?
“Tolo sí, tithen pen,” Aragorn called. (Come here, little one.)
She flinched but did not answer.
“Ú-law edraithannen vi, nan noron vín,” Aragorn pressed his palm to his chest. (No shadow of danger will find you here while I tread.) “Sí laithon na Chaeros Eärendil.” (This I swear by the Light of Eärendil.)
The elfling's huge, luminous eyes watched him, unblinking.
“Nan i·hûr Eärendil, síla enni, ú-chebin le trasta.” (And by the blood of Eärendil that flows in my veins, I will not harm you.)
He reached slowly into his pack and drew out a piece of waybread, placing it on the highest branch his fingers could brush. “Hen lín na, a goston.” (This is for you, if you would have it.)
For a heartbeat, nothing stirred—not the wind, not the birds, not even the dappled shadows beneath the trees.
Then—swifter than a kingfisher's dive, she dropped before him, waybread disappeared into her small hand.