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Chapter Text

“There are some who say that legends are based on truth, that the mythical heroes of yore were no less real than the old man who sweeps the streets of your village at night. But what of history itself? That which we believe to be true because we read it in a book…could just as easily be the collective imaginings of many generations, slowly but surely changing as they are passed along. For what scribe has never embellished the margins, and what minstrel has not changed the lyrics to fit the rhythm of his song?”

The bonfire blazed and crackled as the storyteller whirled around to face the gathered crowd, the hood of his cloak slipping down to reveal his face. Ageless he appeared, with a countenance that was neither young nor old, and sharply pointed ears that hinted at a life unbound by time.

His dark hair was embellished with tiny braids into which were woven colored ribbons and miniature silver bells, and around his neck hung a strand of beads that he had carved from various materials: stone, wood, and shell. They rattled softly as he moved, souvenirs of places visited and times long past.

“I think we have time for one more story,” He said, his eyes bearing the promise of tales both remembered and imagined.

"Many ages ago, there lived a little girl who loved to sing, more than anything in the world. She sang of joy and of sorrow, her melodies so sweet and full of longing that the stars themselves were captivated by them. It was said that her voice was a thing of moonlight and dreams, unlike anything heard before. 

One night as she gazed up at the sky, she began to sing, her voice filling the air and piercing the darkness of the night. It was a song of golden dawns and endless seas, and of all the wonders that the heavens could see yet never be able to touch. From that night onward, without fail, she would sing to the stars, so they would never again be lonely.

She noticed that the more she sang, the brighter the stars seemed to shine. They sparkled in the night sky, creating a brilliant symphony of light amid the darkness as they twinkled in time with the rhythm of her songs. 

The years passed by, and the little girl grew into a woman. Even then she continued to sing to the stars, finding joy in this nightly ritual despite the sorrows of life that had begun to weigh upon her heart. Over time her songs grew increasingly melancholy, yet the stars continued to shine more brilliantly whenever they heard her voice.

But as she grew older, her voice began to weaken, until it had grown thin like the unraveling of a fraying thread. Yet still she sang on…until one night her heart had grown so weary that her voice fell silent, never to be heard again.

And the stars began to fade. 

One by one they retreated into the darkness of the night, unable to bear the silence that she had left behind. The sky, once a canvas of fire and wonder, grew darker and darker as each one of the stars flickered out like the dying flame of a spent candlestick.

Some say that the heavens still wait, pining for the song that once held the stars in place. But alas! It has been too long, for even the brightest constellations have faded away."

A heavy silence followed, the weight of the tale settling upon the audience like fallen leaves. The flames behind the storyteller had dwindled to embers, as if mourning the stars themselves. He allowed the quiet to remain for a moment longer, then with a sudden snap of his fingers, the fire roared back to life in a burst of golden sparks. An audible gasp arose from the crowd as his eyes glimmered mischievously, reflecting the glow of the flames as he began to speak again.

”Even now, though far they seem, 
Though memories fade and days decline
Beyond the veil of broken dreams, 
Do you not see...the stars yet shine!”

With a sweeping bow and a flourish of his cloak, the storyteller broke the trance that ensnared his audience, a bright smile crossing his face as the crowd erupted into applause. 

“I had you believing me for a moment, didn’t I? I saw some of you looking up at the sky.”

The children in the audience giggled while some of the adults shifted about nervously, feeling bamboozled by the sorrow that had been stirred in their hearts by the sad tale. One little girl stepped forward, her freckled face radiating an inner warmth that mirrored the glow of the crackling fire. 

“The stars are still shining because I sing to them now."

The storyteller crouched down to face the child, his heart filled with a sense of wonder. “As do I, my friend.”

He once again thanked the crowd as he picked up a small basket he had placed on the ground and emptied the copper and silver coins into his pockets. He had told many tales that night, and although the reward was meager, it was enough. He pulled up his hood and stepped away from the bonfire, then disappeared into the night. 

Near the edge of the village, his horse awaited him. The wind was turning colder, carrying with it a flurry of autumn leaves and the scent of distant rain. The storyteller stopped and looked to the sky, his keen eyes piercing the darkness of the night as he contemplated the path of the coming storm.

He then swung himself into the saddle with grace and ease, the leather creaking beneath him. The horse let out a soft nicker as if sensing his thoughts...though what those thoughts were, he couldn’t quite say.

For a moment, he glanced back at the embers of the bonfire in the village square, then with a quiet sigh, he loosed the reins and gently nudged his horse forward. The road welcomed him once more, stretching far into the countryside. He didn’t know where it would lead, only that it carried him onward as it always had. And somewhere, beyond the horizon, another fire would burn and another tale would begin.

Chapter Text

The road continued on, taking a turn to the west as it meandered through rolling hills. This was the sort of night that the storyteller enjoyed the most, with a bright moon and twinkling stars, partially obscured by the feathery clouds that occasionally floated beneath them. The storm that he'd sensed a few days ago had already gone on its way, leaving fair skies and crisp air in its place; good weather for one who enjoyed traveling by night.

Early autumn was a magical time, the most wonderful of seasons. Nature was beginning to quiet, the green glory of summer fading to calmer hues. Campfires felt warmer and hospitality was cozier. And as the turning of the seasons fast approached, the storyteller’s mind was directed toward darker tales, the sort of things that made children squeal with fearful delight when the monster made its appearance. 

Ah yes, scary stories. A silent smile crossed his face as he rode on, amused by the thought of how much he enjoyed crafting them. Over the course of his many centuries of life, he’d heard countless ghost stories and had spun even more from the depths of his own imagination. Every race and every culture had its own folklore, a rich tapestry of memory and creativity that often intersected and converged. And for the storyteller, all of it was his to weave together into tales that were at once old and new.

The coming of dawn was announced by the sound of songbirds warbling in the trees, as the trail emerged from the lightly wooded hills and approached the coast. The storyteller took a deep breath as a whiff of salty air hit his nostrils, carrying with it a distinctive aroma known only by those who have seen the sea. 

At the end of the narrow and meandering road was a fishing village, nestled into the low hills that spread out along the harbor. It was a place that he had no memory of ever visiting, a charming destination where he could spend a few days. The storyteller was a nomad, making his home among the inns and boarding houses he encountered over the course of his travels, and exchanging tales and tidings with new friends he made along the way. But he never stayed in one place for long, his wanderlust propelling him ever onward. 

“What do you think, old girl?” He asked aloud as he leaned forward in the saddle to pat his horse’s neck. “This looks like a nice place to spend a few days. We’ve got enough coin to make ourselves quite comfortable for a while.” The grey mare snorted in response, even though she knew the storyteller’s words were directed more toward himself…for surely he understood that horses didn’t speak Sindarin. But when your master is an eccentric fellow who tells himself stories and makes up songs along the way, you get used to it. 

Lenneth had been his constant companion for a few years now, having been purchased at auction for an amount expected for a tired old nag destined for slaughter. Perhaps it should go without saying that not only did the storyteller buy the horse, he gave the Bree-men who were selling her a speaking-to about the evils of treating living things as disposable property, and for having no regard for the sacredness of life. 

He had nursed her back to health himself and given her a proper elvish name, which was undoubtedly better than whatever her previous owners may have called her. Strong and steady-footed once more, she had traveled many long roads and had spent more than her share of nights in various livery stables along the way, a loyal and grateful friend. 

They made their way past the harbor and down to the beach, where the receding tide had deposited shells and detritus along the sand. The storyteller dismounted and gave Lenneth a pat, allowing her to follow untethered as he strolled, his eyes occasionally scanning the ground for things of interest.

For one who had lived for so long, it would seem remarkable to recall memories of childhood, but the earliest thing he could remember was walking barefoot along the seaside, his trousers rolled up above the knees as he combed the beach for shells. 

He remembered it well, the way the wet sand felt on his feet as he occasionally paused to dig small holes in the sand with his toes, then watch them fill with sea water. The cries of the gulls and the crashing of waves took him back; it felt like it was only yesterday.

While the other elflings had amused themselves by playing in the water or running races in the sand, he would spend hours strolling along the shoreline and looking for small treasures. He would often find shells that had once belonged to creatures of various types, interesting pieces of driftwood, and even bits of glass that over many years had been polished to a smooth texture.

There had been times when he would chance upon exceptional specimens; seashells that stood out in their beauty or uniqueness. And being the thoughtful child that he was, he would often find himself wondering about the life that had once existed within these beautiful yet desolate remains. 

But those days were long past, and memory, like the sea, was subject to the ebb and flow of time. 
 
He crouched down to examine a large piece of seaweed, into which were tangled various pieces of driftwood and a few old broken shells, but nothing of immediate interest. From beneath the leaves he then spotted what looked like a conch of some kind, unremarkable in shape and colour and encrusted with barnacles, its outer shell rugged and worn down from being tossed upon the waves for many years.

It was old; weathered and cracked yet still in one piece. Beneath the dull exterior which looked ready to fall apart, the pearlescent inner layer was visible in places, its iridescent sheen catching the rays of the sun.

“Surely there is a story here.” He said to himself as he examined the shell for a moment more, then tucked it away into the pouch that hung from his belt.

When evening came at last, the storyteller was well prepared. He had built his usual bonfire, using the abundant supply of driftwood to his advantage. The night was perfect for a performance; the air was crisp and the full moon was rising high above the water. He had replaced his well-worn traveling garb with a cloak of black velvet, setting the perfect tone for ghost stories. 

The audience began to gather as the fire blazed, and before long, the tales commenced. He kicked off the show with a handful of creepy old fables and folktales, then his mind began to wander toward thoughts of the sea and the moon…and with a surge of imagination, he began to speak again, spontaneously crafting an old-fashioned ghost story to fit the setting. 

“It is said that when the tide is high and the moon is full, and if you listen carefully, you can hear a strange sound upon the wind.”

He paused dramatically as he turned his ear toward the sea, observing how several members of the audience were doing the same. A sly smile then crept across his face as he took a step toward them.

“It was a night very much like tonight, many years ago, when the wailing was first heard. At first, they thought it was the cry of a bird, or perhaps the howling of the wind. But louder and louder it grew, until the sound was unmistakable. It was unlike anything ever heard before, a cry so chilling it could rattle the bones of even the saltiest old sailor. 

For many years it persisted, always at the same time, when the tide was at its highest; the cry of a voice long lost. No one dared walk on the beach at night, for the wailing was so mournful and filled with despair that no person could stand to hear it without being reduced to bitter sobs of their own. 

Then one night a brave young fisherman decided that he would solve the mystery himself, and figure out the source of the terrifying wailing that had haunted the coast for generations.

But when morning came, there was no sign of the fisherman…only his boots upon the beach, beside a set of bare footprints that led down to the water’s edge. 

The villagers searched for many days to no avail, and the fisherman was never found. 

Some say that he was drawn into the sea by the wailing, called to join whatever tormented spirit that had produced it…or perhaps to take its place and free it from its suffering at last. Whatever the case may be, if you listen carefully enough…you can still hear the wails…”

The storyteller’s voice trailed off into the night, then as if on cue, Lenneth let out a loud whinny. Several children screamed in terror, then began to laugh when they realized it was just an old horse and not a restless ghost after all. The storyteller couldn’t help but join in the laughter, delighted by the unexpected zest that his steed’s whinny had added to the tale. 

Already his mind was buzzing, inspired by the idea of an animal being mistaken for a ghost. There was a story there, waiting to be spun. There always was. 

Chapter Text

There is much that could be said about traveling across Middle Earth, but in the known histories of the world, little has been recorded about the nomadic tribes of Men. Perhaps it is because they never bothered to trouble themselves with the worries of more settled civilizations, choosing to live apart. Like many things otherwise forgotten, the storyteller knew quite a bit about these peoples and counted them among his friends. 

On a brisk autumn morning, a caravan of the traveling folk’s wagons was heading southeast along the Greenway when they encountered the storyteller riding in the opposite direction. He halted his horse and lowered his hood, meeting the nomads with a cheerful smile.

“Well met, my friends. Traveling from Bree, are you?”

The driver of the first wagon was the chief of his tribe, a bearded, ruddy-faced man known as Ranor. He slowed his wagon and tipped his hat in response to his old friend’s greeting.

“Aye. Headed south. And what of you? It seems like ages since I last saw you, but the road is long, is it not?”

“Indeed,” answered the storyteller. “Colder days are fast approaching, but even though I typically winter over in Gondor, this year I shall stay in one of the boardinghouses in Bree. I have a friend there who has offered me lodging as a favour.”

Ranor nodded in acknowledgement, pausing briefly before speaking again. “It is still a bit of a journey to Bree from here, so I invite you to make camp with us tonight. We can exchange songs and tales, and I have food and liquor to share.”

The storyteller met Ranor’s offer with a grateful smile. “How can I refuse such hospitality? Besides, old Lenneth is getting weary. It would be a welcome respite for us both.”

Once the wagons had been parked and the horses unhitched, the nomads worked together to set up camp. A small clearing just off the road would be their home for a week or more, a place both to rest and hopefully make some coin by entertaining the occasional travelers who passed by. At Ranor’s insistence, the storyteller was offered a fine tent in which to stay for as long as he wished, a place of honour near the main campfire.

As evening fell, the fire was kindled. The nomads gathered around, some bringing fiddles and flutes while others bore food and drink. They settled in on rugs and folding chairs, making themselves comfortable while the children played nearby. Ranor lit his pipe and blew smoke rings into the air.

“Please forgive the audacity,” He said as he turned to the storyteller, “but I have always wondered about something. It’s rare to see an elf who lives among the race of Men. So tell me, old friend. What is your story?” 

The storyteller took a generous swig from a flask that had been passed to him by one of the nomads. “I have hundreds of stories. But in all seriousness, I was an orphan and I’ve spent most of my life among your kind. There aren’t many elves around anymore anyway, and I’ve never had much interest in seeking them out.”

“They are a rather odd folk, are they not?” Ranor responded with a good-natured chuckle. “Sometimes I forget you aren’t one of us. That is, until I look at those pointed ears of yours.”

“I like my ears.” A glint of mischief came across the storyteller’s eyes as he passed the flask of strong liquor to Ranor. “They add mystique to my performances.”

Ranor couldn’t help but laugh. “That they do. Speaking of which, I do hope you share a tale or two with our encampment tonight. The children are quite excited.”

“Then I shall not disappoint.”

Three stories later, the children were giggling with glee as the final tale of the evening ended with a humorous twist. 

“You weren’t expecting that, were you?” The storyteller jumped down from a fallen log that had become a makeshift stage, landing with a graceful flourish and a jingle of the multitude of tiny bells that were sewn into his braids. Tonight he would not be passing around the basket, for he was among friends.

As the sky darkened further and the stars came out, the mood grew even more festive. Liquor and music flowed freely as the fiddler played tune after tune, prompting the the nomads to sing. They began to take turns, each one standing up and belting out a song while the rest of the group either listened or joined in. Ranor, of course, made a point to sing as loud as possible when his turn came, his voice carrying over the exuberant music of the fiddle. When at last he had wrapped up the somewhat bawdy tune, he gave a bow as his kinsmen laughed and cheered, then he returned to his seat.

“And what about you, Nyarmo? Have you a song to share?” Ranor asked as he sat back down and turned to face the storyteller.

“A song? I’m afraid not. I am not a weaver of melodies, but of words.”

“Perhaps, but in every heart there is a song. Come now, I insist.” Although Ranor’s tone was light, the look on his face left little room for argument.

“Very well, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The storyteller took another swig from the communal flask, then gazed into the fire for a moment while considering what to sing. An old folksong, perhaps… 

At first his voice was soft and slightly raspy, but as the verses progressed, it grew stronger; low and sweet like warm molasses. The children once again gathered, circling around the fire as they listened with rapt attention to the well-known tune. 

They found themselves enthralled as he began to improvise, his sharp mind effortlessly crafting new lyrics for the simple melody. He sang of stars and moons, of butterfly wings and baby frogs, of whispered secrets and talking fish. With every verse, he built upon the whimsical nonsense, leaving the children laughing so hard that it became impossible for them to sing along. 

By the time the song was over, the storyteller had joined the children in their raucous guffaws. “You should have known I would just make something up.” He said playfully. 

“Another!” One of the children called out. “Do sing another song for us.”

The storyteller sat back down on his seat by the fire and absently twirled a single braid of his hair around one finger. “Another, you say? But I fear it is getting close to your bedtime. Perhaps you can listen to the songs of the crickets instead, and if you are fortunate, you may hear those of the owls as well.”

The children returned to the tents and wagons of their families, leaving the storyteller to sit alone by the fire as the nomads retired for the evening. As promised, the crickets chirped in the nearby woods, joined by frogs and the calls of various night birds.

He sat in contemplative silence for a fair amount of time, eventually climbing into his own tent and nestling under the blankets and furs. The sound of the crickets faded away as he drifted off to sleep and dreams began to take hold, with disjointed images blending together as if an artist were mixing oils and watercolours together on the same pallette.

A long corridor was hung with paintings and tapestries, each one bearing faceless images of lords and ladies, warriors and kings. No matter how close one came to the portraits, their faces never seemed to come into view. A single candle stood upon the floor, its wax spilling over onto the polished marble as the flame sputtered out. 

Then, an indiscernible sound. The moment the dreamer turned his head in the direction of the noise, he was somewhere else, for such is often the nature of nightmares. Dark clouds loomed overhead as he found himself in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by cries of agony and rage amid the clashing of swords. 

But before he could process any of it, the scene shifted again, this time to a moonlit forest wherein stood a small child with dark hair and wide, grey eyes. He held a flute in his hands, which he raised to his lips and began to play.

The song was foreign yet disturbingly familiar, but when the storyteller(or whomever his dream imagined him to be) took a step toward the child, the dream began to shatter, broken by a sudden noise from the waking world.

The battle had not been the stuff of imagination, but the sounds of real swords intruding into the dream state, for when the storyteller awoke, he found himself surrounded by a desperate fight between the nomads and a band of outlaws who were raiding the camp. Ranor and several of his men were battling the bandits while women and children fled into the woods, but the outlaws clearly had the upper hand.

Without hesitation, the storyteller burst out of his tent and charged at the outlaw captain, who had pinned Ranor to the ground and was holding a dagger to his throat. 

“Have at thee, brigand!” He challenged, sounding more like a performer in a stage play than anything else. 

The outlaw captain was taken aback and let his guard down for a split second, giving the storyteller the time that he needed to make a move. Before the captain realized what was happening, he was disarmed and the dagger was now in the hand of his new opponent. He threw a punch at the storyteller’s face, narrowly missing as his target ducked out of the way.

“You must be quick when facing off against an elf!” 

The storyteller feinted with the dagger, then whirled around and landed a kick to the back of the outlaw’s head, his movements precise and graceful like those of a trained martial artist. The outlaw was sent sprawling on the ground, but before he could get up, the storyteller tied his hands behind his back and pulled him to his knees. 

With the captain out of the battle and Ranor back on his feet, It wasn’t long before the outlaws were forced into surrender and relieved of their loot and weapons. Ranor held up a sword that he had claimed, his eyes running down its slender blade. 

“I owe you my life.” He said to the storyteller as he returned the sword to its sheath. “Please, take your share of the loot.”
 
The storyteller responded with a subtle nod, his expression uncharacteristically grave. “It was simply a matter of timing; you owe me nothing. But the road is growing more dangerous with every day, it would seem.”

He strode to where the captured bandits knelt near the campfire, guarded by Ranor’s men. They appeared to be common ruffians, not unlike others he had encountered before. Without a word, he untied the captain’s hands and handed him back a small bag of silver pieces that had been taken from the loot.

“Take this and be on your way.” He said calmly. “It should be enough to feed your gang for several days. And you would do well to not underestimate your opponents.”

He then proceeded to take his share of the bandits’ loot as Ranor had suggested, keeping the captain’s dagger along with a handful of jewels. He clipped the dagger to his belt like it belonged there, then unceremoniously shoved the jewels into his pockets.

Later that morning, after the sun had risen and the bandits were driven away, the storyteller sat alone at the edge of camp, humming to himself as he whittled away at a scrap of wood. He held up the finished piece, a carved bead no larger than the tip of his finger. He removed his long necklace and untied the leather cord upon which the beads were strung, then added the new bead to the end of the strand.

Chapter Text

Although not known for its refinement, the Prancing Pony was a favourite stop for travelers of all sorts, which was reflected in the variety of patrons who had gathered in the inn’s common room. Among them was a well dressed Shire-hobbit who sat alone in a corner booth, sketching in his journal as if he hadn't a care in the world.

And perhaps he did not, for he was Bilbo Baggins, having only recently left his home in Hobbiton once and for all. As the tale would be retold for many years to come, he had disappeared from his own birthday party with a theatrical flourish, leaving everything to his sole heir and returning to a life of adventure. He couldn’t remember a time when he felt more young and alive, despite the grey hairs that had begun to appear with increasing frequency since he left the Shire.

And now, he found himself in Bree to rest for a few days before continuing on his way. The weather was still warm enough for traveling, which would allow plenty of time to reach Rivendell and pay a surprise to visit to Lord Elrond. Bilbo had no idea how long he would stay there or where his next destination would be, but in time he hoped to reach Erebor and be reunited with the rest of the friends he had made on his first great adventure.

He was distracted from his drawing as his attention was caught by a peculiar voice that stood out among the others at the bar; it was surprisingly clear and refined, speaking the common tongue with the slightest hint of an Elvish accent. A linguist of sorts, Bilbo had a tendency to take note of the accents and speech patterns of nearly everyone he encountered. He looked up from his journal and noticed an elf talking to the barkeep, noting both his demeanor and the unusual adornments woven into his dark, braided hair.

The elf immediately made eye contact, causing Bilbo to become flustered over having been caught staring, but that wasn’t the end of it. Once he had been served his tankard of ale, the elf approached Bilbo’s booth.

“Good evening. Do you mind if I join you? All the other tables are full.”

“What’s that?” Bilbo asked. “I mean…yes, of course. Please, do have a seat. A fellow traveler, I assume?”

The elf took a seat and responded with a nod. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.” He took a sip of his ale as Bilbo closed his journal, the Hobbit’s interest in meeting new and interesting people outweighing his desire to sketch the interior of a bar. 

“I’m headed east, myself.” Bilbo continued as he offered a warm smile and a polite bow of the head. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“It is a pleasure, Mr. Baggins. Most folk simply know me as the Storyteller." He sat quietly taking in his surroundings before speaking again. “It has been some time since I last visited Bree, and I forgot how lively these inns can be on a typical evening.”

Bilbo visibly perked up upon hearing the word storyteller. “A spinner of tales, are you? I myself have a deep appreciation for fable and folklore, poetry and song. In fact, I have begun to compile tales and legends of the Elves, which is something you may perhaps be interested in.”

“Tales and legends…” The storyteller smiled to himself as he repeated the words. “Yes, I know quite a few of those myself, and I daresay I may have made some of them up. Perhaps I can be of use to your research; I plan to stay in Bree until the weather begins to warm again in the spring.”

“Splendid!” Blibo was beside himself. One thing he intended to focus on during his travels was gathering and transcribing stories told by people he met along the way, and even better if they were of the Elven sort. Perhaps he could stay for a few days longer and get to know this so-called storyteller.

From somewhere near the bar came a noise; the sound of a heavy hand upon a slightly out-of-tune stringed instrument. A man stood up, lute in hand, then let out a whoop before starting to play. He was the sort of fellow who fancied himself a minstrel but lacked the skill or dedication to hone his craft. 

The singing was as unpleasant as its accompaniment, a boisterous yet dull song about liquor and wenches, like so many others heard in places such as these. Bilbo’s expression turned to one of consternation; he had little patience for such racket, especially at a time when he was attempting to strike up a conversation. 

The storyteller sensed Bilbo’s discomfort, although he himself wasn’t quite as annoyed by the spontaneous outburst. He had been paying more attention to music lately, becoming increasingly interested in old songs and the way they were passed along from generation to generation, much like the stories that had become the focus of his own life.

The melody of the bawdy song struck him as odd however, sounding familiar though he was certain he had not heard it in recent memory. It wasn’t just the quality of the performance that bothered him, but how the tune was being presented. Surely the tempo was too fast, and the verse seemed to be lacking a line or two. And how lovely it would have sounded as a ballad, perhaps in a minor key…

For one who couldn’t play an instrument to save his life, he found it amusing that he’d become such a critic, and it wasn’t long before he found himself impatiently tapping his fingertips on the table as his amusement turned to irritation.

The rowdy singer continued to crow on about how he was a drunkard and how no lass would ever want him, but to the storyteller, it seemed like a waste of a perfectly good melody. In the hands of a competent bard it could have been a thing of beauty, set to lyrics filled with whimsy or woe…or perhaps both. 

But in spite of the noisy distraction, the two travelers opened their journals and began to share tales; everything from fables to histories to the wide swath of stories that dwelt somewhere in between. It quickly became apparent that not only were there stories that they both knew, but each possessed a wealth of folklore and prose that the other had never encountered. 

“You say you make up most of your stories,” Bilbo mused. “So I must ask, where do you get your ideas?”

“Good question…but to be honest, quite a few of them are fabricated on the spot, right there in front of my audiences. I can think quickly on my feet, which serves me well. Other ideas come from my dreams, which are often detailed and at times frightening. But what use is there for dreams but to spark imagination? I am rather fond of ghost stories, after all.”

Bilbo listened intently, growing almost jealous of his new friend’s creativity. “Fascinating. And what of the time you spend on the road? As for myself, I get some of my best ideas when I’m alone with my thoughts.”

The storyteller remained silent for a moment, his eyes drifting upward as if chasing a memory. He responded with a subtle nod as his attention returned to Bilbo.

“I do spend a great deal of time on the road, but my mind wanders incessantly and my thoughts are often fleeting. For that reason I always carry a journal in my pocket, so I can write down my ideas the moment they emerge, else they evade me like leaves upon the wind.”

The drunken minstrel at the bar finally stopped playing, the inn growing quiet as Bilbo Baggins opened his journal to sketch a portrait of the most interesting person whom he had met in quite some time. 

Chapter Text

It was nearly dawn when the storyteller finally made it to his room in the boardinghouse, having spent more time than expected in exchanging tales with Mr. Baggins at the Prancing Pony. Bilbo was an interesting fellow to say the least, and his tales of dragons and magic rings had been captivating. But before they knew it, the night was over and the barman was sending them on their way.

The room was humble yet clean, featuring plain furnishings and a single window that overlooked a courtyard. Facing the window was a desk that had been fully stocked with papers and quills, no less of a priority than the fresh linens that were neatly folded and stacked upon the bed. A package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string had been left on the bed as well, with a note attached.

The storyteller sat on the edge of the bed, watching the sun rise over the rooftops beyond his window and feeling the weariness of his travels more keenly than before. He had not been sleeping well as of late, his nightmares increasing both in frequency and intensity, haunting him every night and leaving him little respite.

Although he expected dreams to be strange and often unsettling, they were less welcome when accompanied by restless nights where his half-awake mind perceived things that were not there. He had begun to hallucinate; he saw things and he heard voices.

And always the music: ghostly, beautiful, terrifying.

He told himself it was only his imagination, the curse of one steeped in old stories, of one who has heard too many ballads under too many stars. But truth be told, it was beginning to frighten him. 

Sometimes it was all he could do not to nod off while traveling, and there had been times when he suddenly found himself disoriented in the saddle as if having awakened with a jolt. Lenneth, of course, never seemed to notice. If her master had indeed been sleeping in the saddle, she just kept plodding along. The roads were winding and the days were long, but that was just the order of things for a wanderer and his horse. 

He closed his eyes and laid back on the bed, letting out a heavy sigh as he sunk into the mattress.

“I didn’t even bother to open the package.” He sat back up, remembering the gift that had been left for him by his hosts. He removed the note and read it, a faint smile of appreciation crossing his face.



We are honored and pleased that you have accepted our offer of room and board, and it is my hope that you find these accommodations to your liking. You may stay as long as you wish, for I cannot thank you enough for the kindness that you have shown my family in our time of need. 



Inside the package was a small zither, no larger than a child’s toy. He ran his fingertips across the strings as he stared out the window, his mind wandering as he tried to recall what he had done to forge a friendship between himself and the landlord. 

I must truly be exhausted, he mused silently as the memory continued to evade him. 

A melody began to emerge as he absently plucked at the strings of the zither, his eyes closed and body swaying gently as if in a trance. It was a song he’d never heard before, made up on the spot like the majority of the stories that he told.

“But you don’t know how to play music.” He mumbled to himself as he laid back onto the bed and pulled a blanket over himself, still fully dressed except for his boots. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, finally succumbing to exhaustion so deep that it verged on delirium. 

The next few days would bring the rest that the storyteller so desperately needed. He spent many hours writing and sketching, conversing with fellow travelers, and exchanging tales with Bilbo. Eventually the landlord of the boardinghouse returned from his own travels and greeted him enthusiastically.

“It is good to see you again.” The landlord said with a warm smile. “I take it you received the gift that my daughter left for you? She is excited to hear that you have returned; she hasn’t stopped talking about you since I told her you would be staying for a while.”

“Yes, it is quite lovely. And I do thank you for your hospitality.” The storyteller returned the smile, even as his mind struggled to remember this man whom he knew he should recognize as a friend. 

It was not the first time he’d ever experienced a memory lapse, but this was especially troubling. He vaguely recalled accepting the offer of hospitality, and he remembered the boardinghouse well enough to find it. But other than that, he had no recollection of the events that had led up to this moment. 

Suddenly a young woman burst through the door, her eyes brightening with joy when she saw the storyteller. She turned toward a group of people sitting near the fireplace and began to speak excitedly, just within earshot.

“Look! There is the Elf who sang to me when I was dying of the fever as a child. I told you it was true; he healed me with his spell!”

The storyteller fell silent, too stunned to react. He was no healer or magic user, and he had never been one. To make matters worse, he had no recollection of the landlord’s daughter or the incident in question, even as the young woman embraced him. 

Something was very wrong. 

 
Later that evening, he took a walk through the village, hoping to clear his mind. The air was cool and brisk, a light breeze carrying with it the sound of someone playing a fiddle in the distance. He followed the music to a cobbled square where a gathering of some kind was taking place. 

As he grew closer he saw that the revelers were elves, and by the looks of them, they were traveling and this was one of many stops along their journey. Among the group one elf in particular stood out, his black hair and olive skin contrasting with the more typical appearance of the others. He appeared to be a scout of some sort, dressed for adventure with a sword at his side.

Before the storyteller realized he was staring at the gathered elves, the scout approached and offered a friendly bow before speaking.

“Well met. Are you traveling west as well?”

The storyteller shook his head. “No...I am a nomad, but I’m staying in this village for the winter before resuming my travels. I take it you are headed to the Grey Havens?”


“The others here are, but I'm actually on my way back to Imladris after having delivered a message from Lord Elrond. Not many Elves stay long in Bree, I must say.” 

As the stranger spoke, his words were interrupted by a swell of music coming from the gathering as the fiddler took up his instrument and was joined by a chorus of flutes and lyres. The silver-haired fiddler wore a green robe embroidered all over with vines and leaves, very much the picture of what most would expect an elf to look like. The others gathered around the musicians, lifting their voices in song.

“As I was saying,” The scout continued with a trace of laughter in his voice, “These folk are in a festive mood because they’re on their way to sail west and leave Middle Earth once and for all. I, on the other hand, have too many responsibilities for such things.”

They watched as the other elves began to dance, twirling about gracefully to the joyful music. The storyteller couldn’t help but smile.


“This is just what I need to lift my spirits.” He said as much to himself as to his new acquaintance. “I have been quite tired and somewhat distressed as of late. But this is a much appreciated diversion.”

“Indeed.” The other elf replied. “My name is Anordil, by the way. And you?”

“They call me Nyarmo. I am a traveling performer, a storyteller.”

“As the name implies.” Anordil raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “It seems that there are many interesting folk gathering here tonight.”

The song wrapped up and the dancers all bowed to their partners, then the fiddler waved to get Anordil’s attention.

“Come join us, friend!” He called out. “Play a song or two!”

“If you insist.” Anordil answered without hesitation, then excused himself and joined the musicians. One of them handed him a lute, which he inspected carefully as he prepared to play. Everyone who knew him was familiar with his love of ancient music and its history, and many had heard his countless tales of the minstrels of old, most of whom he was too young to have ever met.

With a bright smile he began to strum the lute, jumping wholeheartedly into an obscure melody from times long past. 

It was just an old song, nothing more. But in that moment, the storyteller suddenly found himself short of breath, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. He leaned against the wall of a nearby building, struggling to regain his composure as tears stung his eyes and his knees threatened to collapse beneath him. 

“What is happening to me?” he whispered shakily to himself. “And if this is not madness, then why does it feel like I have lost something that was never mine to begin with?”
 

Chapter Text

No longer are my dreams the flights of imagination they once were, having been replaced with troubling scenes that play out nightly like carefully produced theatrical performances.

Other nights I find myself wandering places I do not recognize, though I know every turn of their winding streets. Yet in my waking hours my memory has begun to fail me, seemingly replaced by utter nonsense. 

This morning I thought I heard a voice crying in the distance, singing a lullaby that I imagined I wrote. I do not know what is stirring within me, but it has begun to feel like I’m being followed by a ghost. Either I am being haunted or I’m losing my mind, neither of which I welcome.

With trembling hands the storyteller closed the worn leatherbound journal and placed it in his lap, then reached for the pint of ale that sat in front of him on the bar. But before he could take a drink, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“I was hoping I would find you here.” It was Anordil, standing alone with a concerned look in his eyes. 

“Hm?” Nyarmo put the the tankard back down and clutched his journal tightly.

Not bothering to wait for an invitation, Anordil pulled out a stool and sat down. “You nearly fainted last night; I saw it. Although I’m a stranger and your business is your own, I couldn’t help but find it troubling. It isn’t often that my playing causes people to fall to their knees and weep.”

“No, I suppose not. I don’t know what came over me; I have been tired lately and it seems to be affecting me in unexpected ways.”


“I see.”  Anordil’s tone was surprisingly soft and patient. Like most elves, his true age was obscured beneath a youthful exterior, yet his eyes spoke of many centuries filled both with adventure and sorrow. But sorrows be damned, for Anordil was better known for his kindness and his wit than his history as a warrior.

But as he sat across from this mysterious stranger whom he suddenly found himself quite worried about, he was at a loss for words. He observed the way that Nyarmo fidgeted nervously with the string of beads around his neck, and the way his eyes darted about as if searching for something he didn’t know he was looking for. Nothing escaped Anordil, for he had been trained both as a scout and a spy, and his mind was honed as sharp as his blade.

The storyteller continued on after an awkward silence. “I have not been myself as of late. I don’t know what caused me to break down like that, because I was in good spirits before. But something strange and unsettling did happen in the morning; an old acquaintance brought up a past event that I had no recollection of…something that supposedly was of great significance. I still cannot remember what happened, and I was quite undone by the notion of having no memory whatsoever of the incident.”

“That is indeed strange.” Anordil said thoughtfully as the barmaid brought his drink and set it down. “If you don’t mind my asking, have you been under a great deal of stress lately?”

“As I said, I have been suffering from fatigue. But stress? No, quite the opposite. I am a teller of tales and a spinner of yarns, following my own path through life. I collect stories and tell them to children. My life is carefree; I dance in the moonlight and sing to the stars.”

Anordil nodded slowly as he listened. Never before had he met an elf quite like this storyteller, and he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the notion of this solitary wanderer who preferred the company of mortals over his own kind.

“Perhaps I should speak to the landlord’s daughter.” Nyarmo continued on. “It may help to jog my memory. But I dare not reveal that I forgot what transpired between us nearly twenty years ago. The girl claims I used a magic song to heal her and that I saved her life, which is something I know I cannot do.”

Anordil’s eyes widened as he processed what he was hearing. A song of power… 

“Are you certain you recall nothing about this? For surely if you were a healer you would remember. And if what the girl says is true, she was speaking of a skill that takes many years to refine, and few can truly master.”

With a sigh Nyarmo pushed his tankard away and set his journal in front of him on the bar. “I must get to the bottom of this; I will speak with her again today. And no more ale for me for a while. I’ve been drinking like a Dwarf as of late and I doubt it is helping my mental state.”

Anordil remained at the bar, quietly sipping his drink as if lost in his own thoughts. The atmosphere in the tavern was beginning to grow more lively, yet neither elf seemed to notice. 

After a long moment of hesitation, Nyarmo spoke up again. “One more thing before I leave, for it is not likely our paths will cross again. That song you were playing…did you compose it?”

“Compose it?” An amused look came across Anordil’s face. “No, of course not. It's an ancient melody, likely originating in the first age. I am not that old. But as to who actually did write it, I don’t know for sure. Like most old tunes there are many versions, but what I played was close to the original…at least from what I could gather from my research. I assume the song holds personal significance to you?”

Nyarmo shook his head, the bells in his hair tinkling softly. “I have never heard that melody before. Not even in my dreams.”

The landlord’s daughter was sitting in the common room when the storyteller returned, her expression brightening as he approached. Her eyes fell onto the string of beads around his neck.

“I see the one that I made for you!” She exclaimed. “It’s the blue clay. Right there between those two wooden ones.” She pointed to a single cobalt blue bead, crafted by the hands of a small child grateful for a healer’s mercy.

Nyarmo ran his hand over the strand of beads, suddenly remembering why he wore them. One might assume that each bead stood for a tale in his repertoire, like the traditional storytellers of some Mannish tribes. But that was not the reason. Each bead represented a life saved, most of which he had no recollection of. Some had been made as gifts of thanks and others were carved by his own hand, like the wooden one he recently made after defending Ranor against the bandits. There were more than two dozen of them, each one different.

As he continued to fidget with the beads, foggy memories of the landlord’s daughter began to re-emerge. She had been desperately ill, nearly on the verge of death when the storyteller boarded at her father’s house for the first time. The landlord had offered to trade lodging for entertainment for his poor sick child, and she had begged for a lullaby.

Tears began to cloud his eyes as it came back to him. It had not been a so-called song of power like what Anordil spoke of, but something his own mother sang to him may centuries ago, a song that lingered somewhere in the corners of his mind. 

He gently placed his hand on the young woman’s shoulder for a moment before excusing himself, needing nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts. But there would be no time for solitude today, for waiting beside the staircase was Bilbo.

“Forgive the intrusion,” the Hobbit said brightly, “But I've been talking to that elven scout that you met at the square last night, and it turns out that he is also on his way to Rivendell, just as I am.”

Nyarmo crossed his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows. “Oh really now? And what does this have to do with me? And pray tell, how do you know of the acquaintances that I make?”

“Oh, Anordil is the nosy one, not me.” Bilbo’s nose twitched slightly as he spoke. “He did mention you though, and there aren’t many who match your description. And he told me that you've found yourself in the midst of mysterious circumstances, which I must admit we both find intriguing. Leave it to a hobbit to get involved in such things, but I suggested that rather than spending the winter here in Bree, you depart with us tomorrow and come to Rivendell. Lord Elrond is quite ancient and is a master of both lore and healing; perhaps he can help you to solve this puzzle…”

Nyarmo’s head spun as Bilbo continued to ramble on. This Elrond fellow would likely tell him he was going insane and recommend that he sail west and get it over with. Yet, he did have to admit that a chance to travel with new friends and explore new places was an opportunity he could not resist. 

“Very well, then. When do we depart?”

Chapter Text

It took little effort on the part of Bilbo and Anordil to convince Nyarmo to travel with them, for he was eager to figure out the cause of his troubles and Elrond sounded like the sort who could help him. Not to mention, the thought of embarking on a journey of any kind with new friends was enticing.

They wasted no time in setting out, leaving early in the morning as was discussed. Bilbo hadn’t bothered to mention that he was traveling with some of his Dwarven friends, and the elves were taken by surprise to see three Dwarves waiting for them at the livery stables. 

“Good morning, my friends!” Nyarmo greeted them cheerfully as Dori, Nori, and Dwalin looked on, perplexed as to why Bilbo was now bringing elves along for the next leg of their journey. It would explain why they were now buying ponies, since the elves were both traveling on horseback and it would be impossible to keep up with them on foot.

Dwalin stepped forward first, eyeing the two dark-haired elves with scrutiny. “Good morning, lads. Bilbo told me that you’re on your way to Rivendell, and that our parties will traveling together for a few days.”

“Indeed we are.” The storyteller responded as Anordil silently busied himself with the horses. “I know this is hasty, but I had little choice but to accept Bilbo’s invitation. He and Anordil, whom we both also just met, mind you…they decided on a whim to conspire against my troubles, and suggested that I come along to Imladris…”

The Dwarves stared as he continued to chatter nervously. What was this strange elf going on about?

But as wary as Dwarves tended to be regarding elves, they trusted Bilbo well enough to know that the new additions to the party were probably harmless, at least to them.

Bilbo and the Dwarves went on to select their mounts, and as much as Bilbo preferred to take his time and travel on foot, he could not refuse Anordil’s generous offer to provide ponies for the entire party. Soon they were on their way, leaving Bree and heading east toward the rising sun.

They rode quietly for nearly half an hour before Anordil spoke up, turning toward Bilbo and breaking the silence. “We have a long day ahead of us, but I’m sure you know quite a few traveling songs, do you not?” 

“Oh, of course!” Bilbo blurted out excitedly. “I know many... as do you, I would assume. Do you have anything in mind?”

Anordil appeared thoughtful for a moment, then began to sing in Sindarin. It was a well known tune that Bilbo was familiar with, and he and Nyarmo immediately joined in, much to the amusement of the Dwarves. At first they all sang in unison, but it wasn’t long before the elves took it upon themselves to sing harmonies, with Anordil’s voice soaring above those of the others. Not to be outdone, Nyarmo went back to singing the melody line with Bilbo, this time with an intensity that even the Dwarves found impressive. 

Suddenly finding himself in the middle of an opera, Bilbo just kept on singing. 

When at last the song was over,  Anordil couldn’t resist the urge to laugh. “Well, that was unexpected. Perhaps this journey will be more fun than I was beginning to fear. What else do you have up your sleeve, I wonder?”

“Good question.” Nyarmo answered wryly. “Only time will tell, I suppose.”

He glanced around the rest of the party, taking stock of the expressions on all of their faces as they continued on their way. Ever the showman, he had to keep his audience guessing, right? But this was no performance, he kept reminding himself. Save the theatrics for the village square and be yourself…though he had begun to doubt what that even meant.

The remainder of the morning was spent conversing and jesting, the proverbial ice between the group now broken. Lenneth was sure-footed as usual, the sun was shining, and Nyarmo was the happiest and most relaxed he had been in weeks. It wasn’t often that he found himself traveling with others, but his spirits had been lifted by the idea of making new friends, and by what he hoped would be a fruitful quest. 

He had begun to daydream, until the sound of Bilbo’s voice broke his reverie.

“I do believe we have missed elevensies. Is anyone else hungry? Perhaps we can stop a while for a brief repast, and a smoke for those of us who partake.”

“Elevensies? I have never heard of such a meal. We’ve already had not one but two breakfasts and it is already time to eat again?”

Bilbo nodded slightly and looked over his shoulder at the storyteller. “Yes, my friend, you heard correctly. Elevensies. And I daresay, you look like you could use a few extra meals. So let us eat, shall we?”

“Very well, you have convinced me.” He couldn’t help but be amused by Bilbo’s comment; perhaps the Hobbit was right. 

The party led their horses to a grassy clearing just off the road, then sat on a grouping of large rocks and opened their packs. Bilbo had fresh fruit which he was happy to share, and the Dwarves traded some of their jerky for a few of the yeasty bread rolls that the elves had purchased in Bree. 

Anordil noticed the little zither peeking out of one of Lenneth’s saddlebags. “Could I please see that for a moment? I didn’t bring along any instruments and I feel like playing a song or two.”

“Do you ever tire of music, or am I just more keenly aware of its existence since it has been on my mind as of late…haunting me like a phantom and driving me to question my sanity?” Nyarmo cocked his head slightly as he passed the zither to Anordil.

“Do you always speak like a performer upon a stage?” There was a hint of a playful challenge in Anordil’s voice as he plucked a single string. 

“Only when it serves my purposes. Now pray tell, what are you going to sing now?”

Anordil plucked idly at the zither’s strings while the Dwarves lit their pipes and Bilbo leafed through his journal, preparing to sketch the scene. Finally he spoke, nodding subtly in Nyarmo’s direction. 

“An old song, but this time with no minor keys or gloomy chord progressions.”

He began to strum and pick at the strings, drawing surprisingly rich sounds from the tiny instrument. The others offered their undivided attention as he played and sang, the Dwarves taking note of the intricacy of both the melody and the lyrics. It was a tune that neither Bilbo or Nyarmo knew, so this time they simply listened. 

When at last the song was over, Anordil chuckled as he handed the zither back to its owner. “The way that you all were watching makes me want to pass around a hat. I daresay, the lot of us could pass for a band of troubadours, especially if you Dwarves had any bardic tendencies that you’re hiding from the rest of us.”

“I don’t sing much.” Dwalin grumbled. “We shall leave that to you merry elves.” The other Dwarves nodded in agreement, content to watch and listen rather than join in. 

The song had been merry indeed, the sort of melody that mortal folk would assume was typical of elven music. But in all his travels and collaborations with fellow itenerant performers, Nyarmo had never learned it. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t know that one.” Anordil said. “It was composed by Daeron of Doriath many centuries ago, before the fall of Beleriand.”

Bilbo noticeably perked up at the mention of ancient lore. “Daeron, you say? I have heard tales of him. The greatest of all Elven bards, was he not?”

Anordil nodded slowly. “One of the greatest, yes. Not only was he a minstrel and a poet, but a loremaster and linguist as well. He was actually responsible for developing the runic alphabet that was once used by the Sindar and eventually picked up by the Dwarves, but he was best known for his unrequited love for Luthien.”

“Ah yes,” Nyarmo said as he sat down upon a fallen log. “The tale of fair Luthien and her mortal lover. It is one we all know well. But do tell, what more of this poor lovesick bard?” 

“Daeron was in the service of Luthien’s father, the king of Doriath.” Anordil paused briefly as the others settled in to listen to the tale. “As the story goes, Daeron and Luthien often played music and sang together, and she would dance while he played his flute. But although he loved her, she didn’t return his feelings…and it was when they were making music together in the forest that Luthien first encountered Beren. At first Daeron was afraid and distrustful of the mortal man, but his fear grew into jealousy and eventually heartbreak when he learned that Luthien had fallen in love with Beren. We all know the tale of how Luthien’s father sent Beren off on an impossibly perilous quest as a price for the hand of his daughter, and of Luthien’s courage in challenging the dark lord himself to rescue her love. But for Daeron, there was only sorrow and loneliness. It is told that he wandered away in search of Luthien, never to be seen again.”

“A sad story indeed,” Nyarmo looked up at Anordil, a wistful expression coming across his face. “But there are many such tales, are there not? I often wonder how much of our known history comes from the versions recorded by Mannish skalds, then passed along around countless campfires. Or perhaps our ancestors truly were the stuff of legends.”

He arose from his seat and stretched his limbs, then excused himself to see about his horse. They still had much traveling to do, and what was intended to be a brief rest had been longer than expected. Although Anordil’s story was similar to many others he’d heard, he did find it interesting that this time it wasn’t the maiden who wandered off to likely die of a broken heart.

“We elves sure are a dramatic lot.” He muttered to Lenneth as much as himself as he inspected her saddle and reins. “At least that’s what the loremasters say.”

The Dwarves were tending to their mounts as well, leaving Bilbo and Anordil standing in the clearing. A puzzled look came across Bilbo’s face as he ceased his note-taking and closed his journal.

“You don’t think…” Bilbo muttered, his words trailing off as he gathered his thoughts. “What I mean is…was this lost bard that you speak of known to have magic in his voice?”

Anordil slowly shook his head. “All music is magic, Mr. Baggins. It was how the world was made, and how chaos was sewn into it by Melkor. It is at once creation and destruction, and can either heal or inflict harm, depending on how the notes are sung.”

Chapter Text

The first frost came overnight, catching even the birds by surprise. A lone grey dove sat with puffed feathers upon a low branch, glaring as if the coming of winter were a personal affront.

“Cheer up, friend.” Anordil said as he tossed a crust of bread onto the nearby ground. “It’s only going to get worse.”

The storyteller stood a few paces apart, his old woolen cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders, humming something tuneless under his breath. Hints of a melody drifted in and out until finally the humming ceased, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the sunrise. 

“That’s one way to offer reassurance.” He said with playful sarcasm. “Are you talking to me, or to the bird?

Anordil responded with a wry smile, handing him what was left of the piece of bread while the dove landed and began to pick at the crumbs on the ground.

Unlike the Dwarves who paid it no mind, Nyarmo held no fondness for cold weather. He returned to the campfire where the others sat drinking mulled tea, sitting so close to the fire that Bilbo feared his cloak would ignite.

The travelers had been on the road for over a week now, and although the weather had remained clear and generally pleasant, the approach of winter was making itself known more and more each day.

“I am not ill; I’ve just always been cold-natured.” He reassured Bilbo, noting the concerned look on the Hobbit’s face. “Elves don’t get sick, and from what I have heard, most are tolerant of cold weather. I just don’t like it, which is why I usually travel south for the winter like some kind of migratory bird. Being a nomad has its advantages.”

Anordil, who was content to go about in nothing but his trousers and a linen tunic, sat down beside them and poured himself a cup of the warm brew. 

“The cold never bothered me, yet I cannot help but wonder what the weather is like in Valinor. My parents were born in Tirion before the exile of the Ñoldor, and I remember hearing them complain about how cold Middle Earth is compared to the west. I suppose perhaps we shall all find out someday.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Nyarmo said absently as his eyes drifted toward the flames. “But to be honest, I’ve never given much thought to sailing. Middle Earth is all I have ever known.” 

They sat quietly sipping their tea for a long moment, enjoying the peaceful morning despite the cold. The frost sparkled like tiny gems upon the ground as the sun rose in the sky, illuminating the camp and warming the air with her bright rays. 

“We are approximately halfway to Rivendell.” Bilbo broke the silence as he studied a map that he produced from his knapsack. “Just beyond that treeline is the river Hoarwell and the Last Bridge…but on the other side, as you may already know, the woods are infested with trolls. Perhaps if my memory serves me, I can find the petrified bodies of the three that once tried to eat me.”

Nyarmo stood up and stepped away from the fire, removing his cape and folding it up. “Trolls, you say? I have never had the opportunity to cross paths with a troll, and I plan to keep it that way. Unless, of course, they are those that you speak of.”

Bilbo’s great adventure had been one of the most entertaining tales he’d ever heard, and from the moment they met, he knew that they would become good friends. It wasn’t often, after all, that the storyteller met others who shared both his love of wandering and for sharing tall tales.

The morning continued to grow warmer, setting the scene for a much needed day of rest and recreation before setting out on the last leg of the trip. From there on, they hoped to make good time and reach their destination before the first snow of the season.

“Now that we are halfway along on our journey,” Nyarmo said cheerfully, “I propose that we take this day to rest, both for own sake and that of our mounts. And if what Bilbo says is true and the river is nearby, perhaps we can spend some time fishing. I shall go foraging…and while I’m at it, I will look for cane with which to make fishing poles.”

With that, he turned toward the woods and stepped into the brush, leaving the others at the fireside.  

After a long moment of silent contemplation, Dwalin turned to Anordil and spoke. 

“You’ve got an inkling about him, don’t ye? The storyteller, I mean.”

“What?” Anordil was surprised by Dwalin’s unexpected words. “An inkling, you say?”

“Aye.”

“To be honest,” Anordil said cautiously, “I suspect he may have suffered memory loss at some point in his life, although such things are extremely uncommon among our kind. He insists his dreams and visions are not memories but hallucinations, but I’m beginning to have my doubts. I just wish I could get him to talk about it. He seems more afraid of what he is seeing and feeling than he lets on.” 

“Is that so?” A clear voice rang out from behind Anordil, catching him off guard. “If I were a snake I would have bitten you, which is surprising considering your history as a scout. But I digress, do I not?”

Nyarmo strode forward and faced Anordil and Dwalin, his expression unreadable as he waited for a response. He had been standing nearby the whole time.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Anordil said with a heavy sigh. “What were you doing, hiding in the bushes?”

“Precisely. But what of the things you were saying about me? You wish to talk, so let us talk. Tell me more about this ‘inkling’ that Master Dwalin speaks of, for I am quite curious indeed.”

“Very well then.” Anordil said as Nyarmo sat down beside him on the log. “It is as I was saying, I suspect that something may have affected your memory. It would be a more logical explanation than suddenly going mad or being haunted. Hallucinations, after all, are random. What you have described appears not to be.”

“Perhaps,” The storyteller said, his voice no longer tinged with anger. “But I fail to see the connection between my dreams and the memory lapses that I have experienced in real life. Dreams are not real; even I know that. But memory…it is a fragile and fleeting thing. Some days I cannot recall where I have been only days before, but every now and then something transports me back to what I assume are childhood days; scents wafting from a bakery, the sight of an unusual plant growing in a garden. The bark of a dog. Shadows of memory lurk in every corner, though I do not always know their names.” 

Anordil took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking again. “That isn’t normal, even for one who has lived many centuries. I am over 5,000 years old and can recall everything I have ever experienced, for better or for worse. You are an elf, but you speak as if you have the mind of a mortal man. You do not.”

The storyteller ran his fingers over the beads of his necklace. “I just wish I could remember where I got all of these, because I feel like they may be clues to memories I have lost. Do you think perhaps I was once a healer? But how could I forget something so important?”

“The landlord’s daughter claimed that you cured her illness with a song. Do you remember it? The song, I mean.”

The moment Anordil mentioned the song, Nyarmo’s mind was met with silent strains of the melody. He did not speak, but instead started to sing, his voice soft yet clear. Anordil and the Dwarves listened as if mesmerized, though the song itself was nothing but an old lullaby.

Something about singing it again stirred a recollection of the landlord’s daughter, the memories of her illness and healing coming back with startling clarity. The storyteller had not visited her with the intention of healing her, but providing her with comfort in what her father feared would be her last moments. Indeed, he had been the most surprised of them all when the child’s fever suddenly broke, her illness passing like the final notes of a fading tune. 

“I did not expect her to recover.” He said quietly the moment he stopped singing. “I am no healer or magic worker, but a wandering performer and nothing more. I remember it clearly now, but I still do not understand. It’s as if the very act of singing the song is what lifted the fog from my memory.”

He inhaled deeply, his heartbeat increasing as a thought suddenly crossed his mind. What about the music that haunted his dreams, and the lyrics that lingered just beyond his consciousness? The more he thought about it, the more he began to wonder. Were there secrets hidden behind those strange and troubling songs, waiting to be called forth…by his voice?

It was almost as if Anordil could sense his thoughts, because it wasn’t long before the scout asked just that. 

“What of the songs that you hear in your dreams? Do you think perhaps if you try to sing them, it can help you to understand their meaning?”

“I do not think I can.” Nyarmo’s voice was low and quiet as he looked down into the embers of the fire. “Most are songs that I have never heard nor sung, but are those that come from…inside.”

A heavy silence hung in the air as he went back to fidgeting with his beads and poking at the glowing embers with a stick found conveniently by the fireside. A small flame flared up in some dry leaves that lay among the ashes, kindled by restless stirring.  Anordil stood up and went to the tent where the supplies had been stored, from which he retrieved the zither. He paused for a moment as if deep in thought, then returned to the campfire and sat back down beside the storyteller. 

“You say you are no musician, but if your mind truly is being consumed by music…then you must let it out. Do you remember the first time you heard a song that rattled you to the bone? When did it all start? The haunting melodies in your dreams…and the disturbing familiarity woven into the chords of tunes you had never heard before? Do you remember?” 

Nyarmo responded silently with a slow nod of the head. He remembered it well; it had been a song played by Ranor and his tribe the day after the bandits raided their camp. Like the tune Anordil performed at the gathering in Bree, it had stirred unbidden emotion, bringing tears to his eyes in the midst of a joyful occasion.

The following night, he had experienced a nightmare so vivid and intense that it roused him from his sleep, its images fading instantly from his mind while the music remained. It was as if the song had a life of its own, a mournful cry that lingered long after the nightmare had ended. Surely it was a coincidence, he had told himself…for the melody was the same as the song that had brought him to tears the day before. 

The storyteller said nothing, gathering his wits for a moment before starting to hum. Anordil handed him the zither, which he began to pluck, having learned to play the simple instrument in the short time since it was gifted to him.

The melody sounded undeniably ancient, and mournful indeed. And if the look in Anordil’s eyes was any indication, it was one that the scout knew well. 

Chapter Text

It started slowly, like the kindling of the dry leaves that now smoldered among the ashes of the dying fire. With every note there came a feeling, a physical sensation that vibrated deep within his body, as if his very bones were an instrument.

Soft humming became halting words, eventually growing into a song that soared beyond all control or inhibition, surging forth like waters breaking free from behind a ruined dam.

But it was not a dream. Not this time. 

And then, silence. The storyteller dropped the zither and opened his eyes, taken aback by the stunned expressions upon the faces of his friends.

“I did not realize it had words,” He said at last, a weak attempt to dissipate the tense silence. “But I suppose it does. I couldn’t have just made that up, after all.”

He waited for someone to speak; anyone. Surely Anordil had a quip at the ready, or Bilbo a question. But they just stood staring, saying nothing. 

Finally Bilbo spoke up, his words filled with wonder. “Your voice…it is like nothing I have ever heard before. But the song itself...it is a lament, is it not?”

“It is.” Anordil answered gravely, before Nyarmo could speak again. “It is called Ñoldolantë. It was an ancient song composed long before I was born, a lament for the fall of my own kin and for the bloodshed caused by their pride and folly. There are few alive who know it, for it is has been all but lost to time and legend.”

He turned toward the storyteller, an unspoken inquiry in his eyes.

“I had never heard it before…” Nyarmo said tentatively, “At least not until Ranor played something similar, a tune with no lyrics. The traveling folk pick up countless songs and pass them along, just as I do with my stories; it is not difficult to imagine one of their ancestors hearing an old Elven lament and learning the melody. But when I started singing, I had no idea what I was doing…until the the music itself took over, compelling me onward. It was as if something else was singing through me, bringing forth something ancient and forbidden. If there is magic in my voice, then so be it…but let it be used to heal and delight, for it is mine and mine alone.” 

Anordil observed silently, both listening to his words and watching the expressions that crossed his face as he grew increasingly agitated. Finally he spoke up, placing one hand on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort and reassurance. 

“It is as I said before; I suspect the answer is more simple than you think. Whatever is stirring…it comes not from some fell and forsaken spirit, but from within. You said it yourself, your voice is yours alone.”

“Then I have witnessed terrible things.” He said softly. “Perhaps it is best that I do not remember.”

He slowly pulled away and turned to face the woods, saying nothing more about it.  

For the rest of the day, he went out of his way to avoid bringing up the incident, spending more time than usual conversing with the Dwarves about miscellaneous topics, whittling little animals out of sticks, and tending to his horse. 

Lenneth had always been a good listener after all, having heard countless ramblings and anecdotes since the day she was rescued from the auction block. She was now receiving the most thorough brushing of her life, to the tune of her master’s nervous chatter. 

“You should have seen it; they stared at me as if they were seeing a ghost, for surely I sounded like one. All this time I thought I was being haunted…but what if the ghost is me? No wonder I’m so good at frightening the children with my stories!”

Sensing a presence behind him, he whirled around to see Bilbo, standing nearby with a look of concern upon his face. He took a deep and calming breath and held it for several seconds before letting it out.

Are you alright? Bilbo asked gently. “You seem quite upset, and you haven’t spoken a word to me or Anordil since this morning.”

The storyteller patted Lenneth on the neck and stepped away, taking note of the worried look on Bilbo’s face. Now that he was calm, he felt rather self-conscious and stupid, for the last thing he wanted was to been seen ranting like a madman over a song.

“I am alright,” He said as he forced a smile. “Just thinking aloud, though I doubt you would want to see the inside of my head right now. I fear I am quite mad, and I have been for a long time.”

Bilbo responded with a good-natured chuckle. “My dear lad, you are far more sane than you think, else you would have long ago fallen into delusion and despair. Whatever awaits you at the end of your quest, be it treasure or a dragon, I am confident you will have the courage to meet it head on…and slay it if you must.”

For the first time since the early morning, Nyarmo felt a sense of relief as he remembered that he was not alone after all, for he now had friends who cared about him whether he liked it or not.

As the road continued eastward toward their ultimate destination of Imladris, the travelers put aside all worries, at least for now. The weather during the day was warmer than usual for this time of year, with bright sunshine that could warm even the weariest heart. And for the storyteller, the nightmares had temporarily ceased, allowing him some much needed respite.  

When at last they reached the entrance to the valley, they were met by a small group of elven guards whom Anordil approached while the others waited close behind. They were tall and stern, clad in light armor and carrying a surprising array of weapons for inhabitants of a hidden sanctuary. 

“I have returned from my mission,” He addressed the guards with familiarity and confidence. “And I’ve picked up some fellow travelers along the way. I assume you’re already familiar with Mr. Baggins and his Dwarven friends, and my Elven companion is one who seeks the counsel of Lord Elrond.”

“Welcome back.” One of the guards responded, her stern demeanor softening as Anordil introduced the rest of his party. “Lord Elrond is out on a hunting expedtion, but he is expected to return home within two days. Follow us, and we shall see to it that your guests are well taken care of.”

They followed the guards along the winding and hidden path that led to the Elven stronghold of Imladris. Built onto the hillside was the house of Elrond, and at the base of the valley, an ancient city was laid out along both sides of the river Bruinen, its elegant structures made of intricately carved stone. To the storyteller, who had spent many centuries living among the race of Men, it looked like nothing less than a scene from a fairytale. 

“It is larger than I imagined.” He said to Anordil. “I did not expect a city of such proportions.” His eyes drifted past the houses and towers along the river, toward an expansive structure in the distance that could only be a fortress. “Perhaps I have underestimated how many elves remain in Middle Earth.”

Anordil nodded slowly as he spoke. “Most of our kin prefer the company of their own kind, and they have kept their cities well hidden for the most part, since the first age. But it is a matter of security above all else.” 

The group approached the gates of Elrond’s estate, where they were greeted cheerfully by a small contingent of elves who welcomed them in. Anordil chatted with them about his travels while the others took in their surroundings, the storyteller even more awestruck than Bilbo and the Dwarves. 

One of the elves who had greeted them stepped forward and addressed him, offering a slight bow and a polite smile. “I am Lindir. Anordil told me you have come to seek advice from Lord Elrond, so I would like to personally welcome you. I will show you and your companions to one of our guest houses, so you may rest while you wait for his return.”

“Thank you.” Nyarmo answered graciously. “Your hospitality is much appreciated.” 

He found himself feeling a bit out of place among these other elves, his well-worn, Mannish styled attire a stark contrast to their embroidered silk tunics and gowns. Most of them wore their hair long and loose, topped by circlets or tiaras of shining silver, unlike his own dark and unruly waves with their randomly placed and decorated braids. 

Despite the differences in their outward appearance, he felt a sense of comfort and belonging in their presence, and quickly lost any feelings of apprehension that he had been harboring. Lindir led the way to the guest house, which was a lovely and welcoming cottage nestled against the mountainside, not far from one the valley’s numerous waterfalls. Once inside, the travelers settled in, claiming their respective bedchambers and unloading their packs while a stablehand tended to their horses. 

Anordil had taken his leave to meet with Erestor and several other councilors, leaving his companions at the cottage while he took care of business. Bilbo and the Dwarves busied themselves about the kitchens, taking delight in the well stocked larders and cupboards while Nyarmo explored the verandas and balconies, looking for the perfect spot to sit alone and meditate. 

He sat himself down on the floor of the upstairs balcony and closed his eyes, taking slow and deep breaths as he released the tension from his body. Perhaps this would be the place where he would finally find answers, and ultimately, peace. 

Chapter Text

“A dinner invitation? Splendid!”  Bilbo had barely unpacked his bags and was preparing to join the Dwarves outside for a smoke, when a messenger appeared at the door with a letter. It was written in Elrond’s own hand, welcoming his guests and notifying them that he would be home before the evening.

Bilbo thanked the messenger and ran excitedly up the stairs, where he found the storyteller still on the balcony, standing at the railing and looking out over the valley. 

He had heard the conversation between Bilbo and the messenger, stirring an unexpected sense of apprehension at the mention of dinner. Tonight. With the lord of Imladris. He looked down at the shabby garb that had made him feel awkward before, and let out a sigh. 

“I look like a vagabond.” He muttered. “Not that I am anything else, but I doubt it would be proper to show up to dinner dressed like this, much less in the motley that I wear for my performances.”

He went back inside and sorted through his belongings, finding nothing that was satisfactory. He picked up a lone puppet and tossed it aside, along with a parti-coloured hat, a small silver flute, and a rabbit mask. This would never do.  

Perhaps he could find clothing for sale at the marketplace, though it was unlikely that an Elven merchant would have much use for the copper pennies that he carried. It was still worth a try. Besides, it would be refreshing to get away from his companions for a while and explore; his restless nature was starting to get the best of him.

“I must procure something more appropriate, lest I present myself as a fool.” He tied his coin purse to his belt next to the dagger that he had taken from the bandit chief, and went on his way.  

It was a short walk to the settlement below, where elves went about their business in the streets and courtyards. The market square was easy to find, though it was notably different from those in the Mannish villages he often frequented. Eventually he found what he was looking for, a dark grey tunic with blue embroidery along the hems, which was traded for a song and the single gold earring that he wore. 

When he returned to the cottage, Bilbo and the Dwarves had taken their leave, apparently having felt the urge to roam as strongly as he had. He dressed in the new tunic and brushed the dried mud off his boots, then sat down to carefully unbraid the ribbons and bells from his hair, wash it, and comb it out. 

“You look almost respectable,” He said with a trace of laughter in his voice as he studied his reflection the mirror. “Though I hardly recognize you.”

It would still be several hours before he was expected at dinner, so he took it upon himself to explore the gardens and courtyards of the main residence. The meandering paths led him through flowerbeds and under arbors, until his ear was captured by the soft strains of music in the distance.

Naturally, he followed the sound, his curiosity leading him to a courtyard where several elves gathered around a large, intricately decorated harp. Anordil sat plucking away to his heart’s delight, while Lindir stood nearby along with two small elflings, whom Nyarmo assumed were either music students or his own children.

“Ah, there you are!” Anordil greeted him cheerfully as he ended the song with a flourish. “I was hoping you would come and join us.”

“I was out exploring the village and doing a bit of shopping. I did not come prepared for a dinner invitation, after all.” Nyarmo held out his arms as if to show off the grey silk tunic that he bought, a bright smile coming across his face. “Although…I cannot remember the last time I wore my hair down like this. Some of those braids had been in there for a while.”

Anordil chuckled in spite of himself. “You didn’t have to do that.” He then stood up from the harp and moved aside, his eyes glancing toward Lindir and the elflings. “Does anyone else want to play a song or two?”

“May I?” The storyteller asked tentatively. 

Anordil nodded, then picked up his lute as the children moved closer and settled in to listen. “I didn’t know you could play.” 

“I can’t. But I didn’t know that song I sang the other day, either.”

The comment surprised Anordil, who had seen for himself how troubling the incident had been. He leaned in, closely watching Nyarmo’s hands as his fingers slid across the strings, seeking the placement of the notes. 

The storyteller began to sing, accompanying himself with simple chords and occasionally plucking the wrong strings. His voice rang out clear and sweet, for the song was no dark and forbidden lament, but verses he only recently learned from Bilbo.

"Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known."

Anordil couldn't help but join in, having also learned every version of Bilbo’s traveling songs since meeting him.

"The Road goes ever on and on,
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say."

They continued on in unison until the song ended in laughter and an exuberant strum of Anordil’s lute. Lindir’s students clapped their hands as if having just listened to a great orchestral performance rather than a playful rendition of a Hobbit’s traveling song, while Nyarmo ran his hands noisily over the harp strings, imitating the gestures of overly dramatic professional musicians. 

Then the laughter ceased. 

Near the edge of the courtyard stood Elrond, having arrived early from his excursion and eager to greet Anordil and his guests. He slowly approached the group like a hunter cautiously honing in on an elusive quarry, then suddenly froze in his tracks.

“It cannot be.”

The storyteller stepped forward with a polite nod, not certain whether or not Elrond was jesting…because the joke, if it were one, made no sense. He tilted his head slightly, wary of the strange expression on the newcomer’s face.

“Good day, kind sir. Have we met?”

Elrond shook his head in disbelief. “How can you say such a thing?” His voice wavered, not with anger but something deeper. “Do you know how long I searched for you, hoping against all odds you were still alive, and that I would someday find you? And here you are, six thousand years later, appearing no different from the day I last saw you.”

“I’m sorry, but you are mistaken. I am not…”

“Yes, you are.” Elrond interrupted, his voice sharper than usual. “You used to sing me to sleep when the storms rolled in. You told me and Elros stories every night, and taught us to have courage, and to trust. And then you were gone…called again by the darkness that not even you could resist. And you say you do not remember?”

Chapter Text

Maglor.

The name lingered in the corners of the storyteller’s mind, repeating itself like the vestiges of a song that once heard, could not be forgotten.

You are mistaken, he had insisted repeatedly, with the sort of vehemence typically reserved for denying accusations of wrongdoing. And an accusation it was, for the implications were preposterous. 

Not that he hadn’t heard the tale of the tragic minstrel before; quite the opposite. But for Elrond to stand there and claim that he was none other than Nyarmo himself…it felt more like something from a poorly written melodrama than real life. So what better ending for such a scene, than for him to make a dramatic exit and run back to the guest house?

And that was exactly what he had done.

“This is madness.” He said aloud to himself as he paced back and forth across the cottage floor like a tiger trapped in a menagerie. 

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if the fresh air could somehow cleanse his mind of the darkness that had begun to cloud his thoughts. Anordil and Bilbo were likely in the main house with Elrond, engaging in speculation that he would eventually have to confront.

“Let them talk. Let them call me whatever they wish, for soon I shall be on my way.”

He turned around to begin packing his things, only to find himself face-to-face with Anordil, who had let himself in through the open door. 

“You seem rather undone for someone who has simply been mistaken for another. May I come in?”

“You already have.” Nyarmo said with a scowl. “I might as well put the kettle on.”

“Good idea. It would be better than just leaving and trying to forget about the whole thing, especially after traveling such a great distance to get here. That’s what you were about to do, is it not?”

“What do you care? This whole business is absurd.”

Anordil pulled out a chair from the small table in the corner of the room and sat down. “You don’t have to run from this.”

“I’m not running.” Nyarmo grumbled as he began to haphazardly shove his belongings into a large leather satchel. 

“Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know!” He tossed the open satchel onto the bed and pressed his hands to his head. “I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what is real anymore. I dream of places I’ve never been and songs I have never heard, and now Elrond is trying to convince me I was some ancient warrior who wandered off to sing eternal laments over some stupid cursed oath? Not even I could conjure up such a tale!”

“It does sound preposterous,” Anordil said patiently. “But you deserve to know the truth. I heard everything that Elrond said, but what do you actually remember from your own life? You told me once that you have dreamed of war.”

“I know I was orphaned as a small child, which is proof right there that I was no prince. I have memories of an elfling being carried in the arms of a warrior as he fled the aftermath of battle, something that has haunted me for longer than I can remember…even before my mind started slipping. Surely the child was me, because the memory always stirs intense and unwelcome emotions.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his brow furrowing as he attempted to weave the tangled threads of his memory into something more cohesive and less fragmented. It was as if unseen gears were turning in his mind, akin to those that powered the fantastical machines found in some of his more imaginative stories. But truth be told, it wasn’t coming together.

Outside the cabin, an owl let out a plaintive cry, but the elves hardly noticed. Nyarmo stood up and resumed his pacing, muttering to himself in Quenya, his voice so low it was barely audible. His words were nothing more than fragments of some ancient lyric, repeated incoherently in an attempt to quell the sudden onslaught of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

His hands were visibly trembling now, his eyes growing wide with panic as the pieces began to fall into place like shards of a broken mirror. The orphan in his dreams of the battlefield had not been him, but Elrond. And the warrior who rescued him…

It cannot be.

He ceased his pacing and faced the window, his eyes staring blankly into the darkness beyond as he slowly shook his head. 

“Surely you cannot believe I was once a completely different person, especially one who took part in acts of aggression against his own kind, however misguided he may have been. Such things go against all that I am.”

“Lord Elrond recognized you.” Anordil answered calmly as he stood up and joined him beside the window. “This is not simply a case of mistaken identity, and you know it.”

Nyarmo abruptly turned to face him, his tone becoming more desperate as he spoke. “Do you even hear yourself? Have you any idea how completely daft all of this sounds? And I thought I was the one with an overactive imagination.”

“But what other explanation can there be?”

“I can think of quite a few actually, none of which involve claiming the identity of one who is both infamous and long dead!”

Anordil took a small step forward, uncertain whether or not to speak as he placed a hand on the storyteller’s shoulder. It was a silent gesture of reassurance, a moment of grounding.

“Only say the word, and I will leave you in peace. But do tell me this: where did you get that scar on your hand? Do you remember?”

Nyarmo held up his right hand, his eyes falling upon a deep and prominent scar that covered most of his palm and the undersides of his fingers. It had been there for as long as he could remember, dismissed as the result of some long forgotten childhood mishap. 

“I do not.”

Anordil paused and took a deep breath before speaking again. “Perhaps you should ask Elrond. It is a well-known tale, one that you may have already heard.”

“I know of the story.” Nyarmo clenched his hand into a fist, then let it fall to his side. “When at last Maglor held the Silmaril in his hand, it burned him…for all had been in vain. He cast the accursed thing into the sea and was never heard from again.”

His eyes began to fill with tears. A storyteller shouldn’t be so affected by thoughts of tragic old fables. 

A heavy silence hung over the room; even the crickets and frogs had ceased their songs. Anordil sat back down on the bed, uncharacteristically quiet as the storyteller took a seat beside him. 

He composed himself, wiping away the tears that stung his eyes. Finally he spoke, his words raw with emotion.

“What if all I believe myself to be is just a mask, crafted by a broken mind as a means of escape from reality? And if it is true, and I do emerge from this waking dream, will I lose myself? Will I be left only with that which broke him? What if he was cruel? What if he was a monster?”

“Makalaurë,” Anordil said softly, daring to speak his true name for the first time. “I know you’re afraid, but there is no him to speak of, only you. I have seen your kindness, and I have heard the sorrow in your song. You have been dismissing your own memories as imagination for a very long time.”

“What did you just call me?” The look in the storyteller’s eyes was indescribable. 

Anordil silently took his hands in his own, then placed them over his heart, now pounding wildly in his chest. “Do you feel that? Your heart remembers. And you don’t have to face this alone.”

Chapter Text

Three days had passed since Elrond’s return, but the storyteller had not yet gathered the courage to face him again.

It was as Anordil had suspected. The songs that had been haunting him were his own, and through tear-filled, sleepless nights he had surrendered to them, for he was theirs to claim. And in the stillness of the night, he offered himself not to the past, but to the present; to fear, to sorrow, and to hope. He had no choice but to face the truth with courage and humility, no matter how much it hurt.

The thought of what might be waiting in the depths of his memory brought a nagging sense of dread, yet the clarity that came with accepting his past was sharp as a knife. It cut through lingering denial with a sort of finality, leaving not despair in its wake, but the promise of healing. 

He now stood alone in the gardens, illuminated by the light of the waning moon as he pondered things he was once afraid to allow into the periphery of his consciousness. As usual, his old grey cloak was drawn about his shoulders, but tonight the cold didn’t bother him. His eyes were closed, face turned upward toward the stars.

His melancholy reverie was unexpectedly broken by the sound of footsteps approaching from behind, quiet and unhurried. As he opened his eyes, Anordil emerged beside him with a pottery tankard in each hand, and silently offered one.

“Thank you,” The storyteller murmured as he wrapped his chilled fingers around the warm mug. “You’re always up so early.”

“I like the quiet…it’s better than staying up all night and singing to the sky until your voice breaks. I put some honey in your tea, by the way.”

Anordil sat down on a finely carved stone bench, pressing no further. He could sense the ache in his friend’s heart; something long buried was finally coming loose. 

“I was so afraid,” Nyarmo said at last, his voice low and hoarse. “That if I allowed myself to believe, I would remember everything…and I would shatter. But, you knew all along, didn’t you?”

Anordil nodded slowly. “I had my suspicions, yes.”

“Then it seems my greatest tale was the one I told myself.” He took a sip of the tea, then looked up again at the stars. “I feel so lost. Where do I even go from here? I cannot be the elf I once was, for he is a stranger to me.”

“You don’t have to.” Anordil said, standing up from the bench and taking a step closer. “Just be who you are now. If you’re meant to remember the past, you will. But it’s called the past for a reason, and you are no longer needed there.”

He reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out the strand of beads that had been left behind on the bedside table at the cottage, his eyes drifting across the variety of shapes and materials. He had always been curious about them, especially since hearing the story of how the landlord’s daughter had been healed by the storyteller’s lullaby. 

A wistful smile crossed Nyarmo’s face as Anordil silently handed him the beads.

“I never told you the reason I wore these, did I? Long ago, though I don’t remember when, I made a vow to myself to save as many lives as I could. I counted them with the beads, but I have forgotten most of them. I do remember now how it started, when Elrond gave me the clear crystal ones. One for him and one for Elros. I carried them in my pocket for a long time, but eventually I strung them onto a cord. That was the beginning of my collection. Perhaps someday I will remember who they all were.”

He ran his fingers lightly over the beads, then pulled the strand on over his head. Anordil had told him not to worry about losing himself in memories of the past, to just be who he is now. He made it sound so simple.

“There is something I cannot get out of my head.” Anordil said at last. “When we spoke about the incident with the landlord’s daughter, and you remembered what had happened, you said you were surprised that you healed her with your song. Do you think that was the first time you had ever done such a thing?”

Nyarmo shook his head. “I don’t know. It…it is often said that those who have taken sentient life cannot heal…and though I still cannot fathom the notion of me leading soldiers into battle, I…I do not…”

He stuttered and his words trailed off as he closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts, lest they once again be sabotaged by shame and confusion. 

“As I said,” He continued, determined not to succumb to his emotions. “I do know that before I was compelled to fight, I was a poet and an entertainer, just as I am today. Unless I am mistaken, I did not study the healing arts, nor did I serve as a medic on the battlefield.”

“We don’t have to talk about it. Not if you aren’t ready.” Anordil placed one hand on his shoulder. “Come, walk with me.” 

They went back to the guest house, where a slow fire burned in the hearth, warming the common room. There was no need for further conversation. The two elves sat quietly for a while, sipping the aromatic herbal tea that Anordil had brewed, then retired to their respective quarters for the night. 

The sun had risen high in the sky by the time the storyteller awoke, stirred by the bright rays that shone directly onto his face through his chamber window. He rolled over, grumbling to himself in Quenya before finally sitting up and climbing out of bed. It hadn’t been a dream after all. He was still in Imladris, and he was still—

“Bloody hell.” He ran his fingers through his messy, unbraided hair and let out a heavy sigh. He was going to have to face Elrond whether he liked it or not, and today would be as good a day as any. 

He dressed in his traveling garb, which was more comfortable both physically and emotionally than the silk tunic he had purchased at the market; he had come to associate the garment with his tense encounter with Elrond in the garden. He brushed his hair and braided it into a single plait down his back, woven and secured with a grey ribbon onto which he tied several of the tiny bells that he had been wearing before.

Be who you are now.

And with that, he left the guest house, humming to himself to calm his nerves as he made his way through the expansive gardens of the house of Elrond. The main house loomed ahead, its elegantly carved ornamentations gleaming in the early afternoon sun. 

He reminded himself that he was not preparing for a performance, but this was far more intimidating. It had become second nature for him to tell stories, recite poetry, or juggle and jest for gathered crowds…yet the thought of sitting down with Elrond and confronting his forgotten past was terrifying.

Just beyond the garden gate stood a guard who escorted him into the main hall. Lindir immediately approached and dismissed the guard, a look of curiosity coming across his face. 

“It is good to see you; Elrond has been hoping you would seek his counsel. Is that why you have come?”

“It is. And please accept my apologies for my behaviour in the gardens the other day. I assume Anordil and Bilbo have spoken of the events that led to my coming here in the first place.”

“It is…true then?” Lindir asked, his voice dropping to a hushed tone.

“I’m afraid so. But I do hope my identity can be kept a secret.” 

Lindir nodded, his expression difficult to read. “Of course.”

The young minstrel had been rather reserved when he first greeted the travelers, but as he and the storyteller walked together through the hall, he spoke freely and enthusiastically, not bothering to hide his excitement.

“Perhaps it is presumptous of me to say it, but I have always been an admirer of your music, though I never imagined I would have the opportunity to meet you. I have spent many years studying your songs, as well as searching for the lost verses to some of your greatest works.”

“Presumptous? Of course not.” Nyarmo said somewhat tentatively, not expecting such things to be brought up. “But please understand, I am not the elf I once was, despite what you may have heard. I have forgotten nearly everything, having spent more than an age in a fugue state from which I have only begun to emerge. And I’m afraid some things are better left in the past.”

“I suppose so. But what of your music? Is it not the music that has stirred your memory?”

This Lindir was a curious sort, yet it was a relief that he was interested in music rather than the darker parts of the past, which the storyteller was not ready to talk about. He remained silent for a moment, then answered the question. 

“It all started with dreams and nightmares, and songs that lingered in my mind after waking. But it wasn’t until I heard certain songs…my songs, being played by others, that I started having flashbacks and questioning my sanity. I feared I was losing my mind, but now that I think about it…I probably already have, many millennia ago.”

“I see.” Lindir’s expression had grown serious. “I cannot even begin to imagine what that must be like. But we elves do not lose skills the way mortal Men do, when they are not practiced for many years. If you wish to regain your mastery of music, it would be easy for you.”

Nyarmo responded with a wry smile. “So you say. But you heard for yourself the dreadful racket that I pulled from your poor harp. Dare I say it, Elrond was probably just as shocked by my lack of finesse as he was by my face.”

Lindir laughed in spite of himself, not expecting his childhood idol to have such a sense of humour, especially given the circumstances. They continued down the corridor until they reached the entrance to Elrond’s study, then the storyteller silently stepped inside. 

Chapter Text

The study was a sanctuary of ancient knowledge, well organized yet unmistakably lived in. In the centre of the room sat a large desk cluttered with maps and old letters, along with artifacts of all sorts. Bookshelves lined the walls, bowing under the weight of centuries of knowledge and lore, all carefully gathered and preserved in this one place. 

Elrond stood motionless beside one of several tall, arched windows, one hand resting upon the delicately carved frame. He gazed out beyond the view of the balcony to the forest beyond, where the first snow of the season had begun to fall. 

“Please come in.” He said, not turning around. “I was hoping you would stay.”

“I owe you more than silence.” Nyarmo stepped forward into the bright light that streamed into the room. “And…I need your help. I want to remember.”

“Do you?” Elrond turned to face him, his tone calm yet inquisitive. “What if the past comes back to you, not like the words of a forgotten lament, but like a storm?”

“Then I shall face the storm and weather it.”

Elrond slowly walked toward his desk and picked up an ancient, leather bound book. “And what if it poisons the peace that has managed to find you? Even when I was a child, you would try to sing your memories away. Even then, you were loathe to speak your own name.”

Nyarmo nodded slowly. He had spent much of the afternoon practicing what he planned to say to Elrond, something that now felt shamefully foolish as the words caught in his throat. So instead, he began to sing. 

It was a song from his dreams, a sweet tune that had brought him not fear, but comfort. It had become one of his favourites to sing to himself in moments of turmoil, a melody that surfaced in his mind long before he’d begun to question his sanity. His eyes were closed, oblivious to the single tear that now trickled down Elrond’s face. 

The melody carried with it echoes of time, gently stirring images of two twin children; crying, laughing, singing. Like the lullaby for the landlord’s daughter, the song awakened memories of the past, each note bringing a wave of emotion. When at last the music stopped, the storyteller silently bowed his head.

“I…I remember now.” He said at last, his voice quiet and halting. “That was the lullaby that I sang to you and Elros when you couldn’t sleep, when the nightmares came. I told you it was a magical song, one that would protect you from all dark things. I only wished it were true, but somehow you both believed me. You trusted me, even after what I had done…and all I had failed to do.”

Elrond slowly nodded in acknowledgement, having discreetly wiped away his tears. “You were always so kind to us; so gentle that it almost frightened me sometimes. It was as if you were afraid to let us see the darkness behind your eyes.”

“Were you ever…afraid of me?”

“No, but I feared for you.” Elrond crossed back to his desk and put the book back down, pausing there for a moment. “There were entire days when you wouldn’t come downstairs, spending hours singing to yourself in a language I did not yet understand. You would talk to the sky, with words that were not meant for this world. Sometimes you would stop in the middle of telling us a story…and just go quiet. Your eyes would change, like they were watching something that wasn’t there.”

“It seems I had already begun to unravel, then.”

“Perhaps,” Elrond said, “But you held on long enough to give us something beautiful, something real. You didn’t need to be whole to love me.”

Nyarmo inhaled deeply, eyes drifting downward toward the floor as his hands clenched at his sides. There was so much he wanted to say, but like memory, the words hung just beyond his grasp. His nails dug into the scarred flesh of his palm, only serving to remind him of the inescapable weight of the past.

“Can you ever forgive me? For surely I deserve to be cast out and shunned…or worse.”

“Do not speak like that.” Elrond said sternly, yet without anger or judgment. “It was you who showed me the meaning of mercy, and of hope. History may remember you harshly, but I do not. You taught me that no matter how dark the world became, to look for the light…even as you yourself were beginning to fall apart. I assume you do not recall the last time we spoke, but it was the day that I left Amon Ereb to join the host of Gil-galad and march off to war. Do you remember what you said to me then?”

“Only that my words were harsh and spoken in anger. I was afraid; not only of losing you, but of what you would become if you survived.”  

He looked away, avoiding eye contact as his gaze drifted toward the window and to the snow beyond, his expression blank and distant. But this was a conversation that could not be avoided.

“You tried to stop me from leaving,” Elrond said. “But I wanted nothing more of what you had to say, for I believed you had grown cowardly and bitter. I was barely of age and I yearned both for glory and a chance to make a difference.”

Nyarmo took a deep, calming breath before speaking again. “You turned your back on me and walked away, before I could tell you I loved you, and that I was proud of you. That was the last you saw of me, was it not?”

Elrond shook his head. 

“Let me tell you a story. It was late in the war, and our resolve was failing under Morgoth’s relentless assaults. The enemy had gained the upper hand on the battlefield, leaving us no possibility of retreat. It seemed that all was lost, until without warning, a lone horseman charged through the enemy lines. His armor was plain and unmarked, and he carried no banner. And do you know what he did next? He sang. 

He threw off his helm and lifted his voice, his war song carrying across the field and shaking the very ground beneath us. Orcs and Men dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. Some pressed their hands to their ears and screamed, while others simply fell dead. It was a song of power; one that had never before been heard on the battlefield…nor has it since. The rider’s voice was one that that could bring down both walls and minds, fell and terrible. Not even a Balrog could stand against it. 

It was more than a diversion; it was salvation. By the time the dragons came, Morgoth’s armies had already taken such heavy losses that it was impossible for them to regroup.”

“Dragons?”

Elrond simply nodded. “That is a story for another day. But by then, the rider had disappeared, never to be seen again. There are few alive today who can tell the tale, and most have long since sailed west. But I remember it well, the day the tide began to turn. It was more than just a show of courage or might, but what was meant to be the final stand of one who had nothing left to lose.”

“But it was not.” Nyarmo said quietly, though still afraid to believe the implications. “If what you say is true, I still had much to lose. I lived not to tell the tale, but to forget…and to follow my dark path until the end. But it was not just the Silmaril that I threw away, but everything. I deliberately sang myself into oblivion, until all that remained was an empty shell.”

“Or so you thought.” Elrond said gently. “Your story goes on, as do you. But it seems that more than just memory has been stirred within you, for with that memory comes the rekindling of a hidden power. For your own sake and that of those around you…you now have no choice but to once again know yourself, and to heal.”

Chapter Text

The coming of winter brought with it a sense of peace, and as the days grew shorter and the nights longer, nature itself set the scene for rest and introspection. Memory, like the sun at solstice, was surprisingly gentle and unhurried in its return. It came not like crashing waves, but like the creeping light of dawn; inevitable yet patient.

The same magic-laced voice that Maglor had once used as a weapon, then eventually turned against himself, now carried songs of hope. As he began to delve into the secrets of his power and learn how it could be used for good, it was his own heart that had begun to heal.

Only those closest to him would ever know his true name, for some things are better left alone. Understanding one’s history is a different thing from allowing it to consume the present, and all things considered, it would be in his best interests not to spoil the common assumption that he was either dead or still crying on some isolated beach somewhere. But life goes on, even under the most unexpected of circumstances.

For one who was generally regarded as little more than a myth, Makalaurë was surprisingly human, if such a thing can be said about an elf. He now found himself feeling rather foolish for being so afraid of losing the person he had become, as if remembering the past would somehow destroy the free-spirited storyteller and replace him with some dark and forsaken figure of ancient legend. But such things were not to be. 

From deep within his memory, there emerged dreams illuminated by the light of the Two Trees, of a spirited young elf known for his mettle and spunk as much as his talents for music and verse. Long before the darkness, before the centuries of horror and woe that would break him, it was he who had sung to the stars every night. And as the story goes, they continued to shine…as if to say It was you all along.

Over a month had passed since his initial meeting with Elrond, and during this time he had spent many hours engaged both in introspection and active study. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the extensive libraries of Imladris, but even more so, the magnificent Hall of Fire, where stories and songs were shared beside the great hearth. It was in this hall that he made an unexpected discovery. 

There were several alcoves along one wall, some of which were quite cozy with comfortable seating intended for more intimate conversation, while others held  displays of ancient musical instruments. They represented the diversity of Elven culture and musical tradition, and were a fine collection indeed. And among the priceless artifacts that lined the walls, one in particular captured Maglor’s attention. 

He was strolling through the hall with Bilbo when he saw it; a stringed instrument similar to Anordil’s lute but much more ornate, with inlays of gold and pearl, and a pegbox carved in the shape of a horse’s head. His heart nearly skipped a beat when he laid eyes upon it.

“That instrument. It is…I mean…it was mine. And I daresay, it was one that I built myself.” 

Bilbo’s nose twitched. “Indeed? It is truly a work of art and a fine example of Elven luthiery.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.” Maglor’s pensive expression brightened as he looked down at Bilbo with a warm smile. “But it’s a museum piece now…though I must confess it is taking some effort not to touch it.”

He once again looked at the lute, his expression growing serious once more as he pondered its age and origin. He had crafted it when Elrond and Elros were in their youth, during the brief years of respite before everything came crashing down. Like the songs he composed during that time, it had been a desperate attempt to cling to what had once mattered most to him.

“As much as I would like to hold it in my hands once more,” he said to Bilbo, “This is where it belongs. In a museum, among the other relics. It is believed by some that not only is all craft sacred, but that everything you make contains a part of your very essence, some things more than others. There are songs that I once composed that are bound more tightly to my fëa than I would like to admit, as my spontaneous performance beside the campfire can attest. But enough of that, for the point I am trying to make is that I must now create anew, and certainly not compose new songs on old instruments…no matter how finely crafted they are.”

He knew he was rambling on again, but if anyone could understand the reasoning behind his words, it would be Bilbo. 

They continued to walk together through the spacious gallery until they reached the main hearth. Maglor carefully picked up a guitar-like instrument that had been left beside a nearby settee, running his fingers over the neck.  

“Ah yes.” Bilbo said cheerfully. “Anordil told me he would be gifting that to you, and it appears he left it here for you to find. He has been occupied as of late, involved in some sort of investigation into suspicious activities in the wilderness. Surely you already know of this.”

“I do." He tuned the instrument as if second nature, then strummed a simple melody. “But perhaps when he returns, we can impress him with how much my playing will have improved by then. It seems that Lindir was correct in his assumption that relearning music would be easy for me.”

Bilbo nodded, sensing a hint of worry in his friend’s tone despite his words of optimism. But he said nothing more about it as he settled into the soft upholstery of a nearby settee. 

The music began, soft and unassuming, yet bearing traces of the ancient virtuoso who now saw himself as a mere student. His eyes closed as his fingers moved gracefully over the strings, bringing forth a new melody that had never before been heard. Bilbo simply listened.

Chapter Text

The winter solstice was a time of celebration for nearly all races and cultures of Middle Earth, and in a place such as Imladris where all were welcome, the revelry lasted for several days. And though the longest night had already come and gone, elves and their guests now gathered for the last party of the season.

In the courtyard stood a spacious gazebo, intricately carved of fine white stone with a lattice made to resemble interwoven vines and leaves. In the warmer months one could expect it to be covered with fragrant wisteria, but like the trees themselves, it had shed its greenery. In place of summer’s flowers, there now hung numerous golden lanterns that shed their light onto the stage below. 

A musical quartet had just wrapped up their performance and the crowd was beginning to drift away, when their attention was captured by a sudden burst of multicoloured sparks in the center of the gazebo, the display of pyrotechnics announcing that the evening’s entertainment had not yet ended. 

“My goodness.” Bilbo said to his Dwarven friends who sat nearby. “I do believe we are in for another performance.” 

The smoke from the fireworks began to clear, revealing a lone figure standing in the centre of the stage. With a flourish he whirled around and tossed his cloak aside, the multitude of tiny bells in his freshly braided hair jingling merrily. He took a step toward the audience, his bright grey eyes appearing luminous in the moonlight.

“It is Nyarmo! A young elfling standing near Bilbo exclaimed, a look of delight coming across her face. 

Bilbo had certainly not expected this, but the surprise was a happy one. He focused his gaze on the storyteller who stood before him, already commanding the attention of the crowd by immediately jumping into a lively tale. There was a spring in his step and laughter in his voice as he spoke of magic and whimsy, occasionally breaking into pantomime or song. 

Not since before their arrival in the valley had he given such a performance, despite having spent many hours sharing fables and verses with those who gathered in the Hall of Fire. Yet it seemed he had gained quite a rapport with the elflings, who like the hundreds of mortal children he had entertained over the years, were entranced by his tales. 

As he turned his face upward to dramatically recite a poem, his eyes caught the glow of the lamplight, appearing not unlike those of a cat. But it was more than just the fire that lit them, for beneath the surface shimmered an uncanny radiance, like starlight reflected in water. To the audience, the effect was subtle enough to question, yet undeniable.

“Dare I say it,” Bilbo whispered to the Dwarves, “But I don’t think that’s an illusion.” 

After the performance had ended and the storyteller took a bow, the faint light behind his eyes remained clearly visible. And by the time he and Bilbo encountered each other again at the feast that followed the entertainment, Bilbo’s curiosity had grown so much that he could no longer resist the urge to ask. 

“My dear boy, I am not certain what I should call you...but I...er…”
  
Bilbo’s stammering was cut off by a wry chuckle, punctuated by the tinkling of tiny silver bells. “My name will do splendidly, though you now have several to choose from. That being said, what is it? You seem a bit flustered.”

“It’s just…your eyes. Surely you are aware that your eyes are glowing? I must say that if it is an illusion, it’s a rather convincing one.”

Maglor crouched down in front of Bilbo, so the Hobbit could get a closer look. “Glowing, you say? Are you certain? It is said that the light of the Two Trees was reflected in the eyes of the Eldar born before the darkening of Valinor…but if I myself ever carried such a light, it has long since been extinguished.”

He could not remember when the tree-light had begun to fade from his eyes, for he had forgotten that such a thing even existed before Bilbo brought it up. But it was true; at one time they had shone like silver, many centuries ago.

“How very odd indeed.” Bilbo said gently. “For it seems that what has faded away, has been rekindled.”

The feasting went on into the night, but Maglor's mind wandered in spite of the festive atmosphere. 

He smiled to himself as he was reminded of Anordil’s advice: to not obsess over the past, but to be who he is now. To embrace change like the ebb and flow of the sea. To leave wandering, lamenting ghosts where they belong—in legends. The scout certainly had a way with words, but they had needed to be heard. And now Maglor's eyes were glowing. Perhaps it was a sign, he dared to ponder, that he was not forsaken after all.

He’d always had an introspective nature, and even in his youth he was known to either be commanding the attention of everyone around him, or lost in his own thoughts. Some things never change, it would seem. Now he found himself drifting into reverie as he left the feast and walked alone toward the stables, where the horses stood idly in their stalls.

“Lenneth, my dear…how art thou today?” He sang playfully as he produced a shiny red apple from his satchel. Lenneth responded with a snort, clearly happy to see him. Overwintering was boring, and even though Imladris had better stables and paddocks than the Mannish villages they typically frequented, she had already begun to long for spring.

The coming of spring would mean a return to the road, after all. Soon the snow would melt and leaves would reappear on the trees, and the ground would be covered in the sweet clover and grasses that all horses look forward to. Then they would surely be on their way, likely heading southwest, back into the lands of Men. As she contentedly munched on the apple, The old mare’s simple mind was already filled with anticipation.

“Missing Tallagor, are you?” Maglor muttered as he scratched behind Lenneth’s ear. Tallagor was none other than Anordil’s own steed, an impressive dark bay stallion. “Fear not, for he is on a quest with Anordil, searching for signs of trouble in the woods. But soon they shall return, and we shall see them again.”

Lenneth let out a soft nicker, though she had no idea what her master was saying. She was quite accustomed to listening to him talk to himself under the guise of talking to her, and he could say whatever he wanted as long as he petted her and brought treats. As was to be expected, she received a thorough grooming as she listened to a long and rambling monologue in several alternating languages, ever the confidante of an ancient soul who was still learning to trust his own heart.

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