The Finder slowly drifted back to a reality of aching muscles and a pounding headache. Every breath burned as though it had been drawn through the Crack of Doom.

She was propped in a half-seated position, a carefully positioned pack supporting her back. The way the dim light slanted through the cracks in the walls told her that it was either early morning or late evening. The Finder could not begin to guess either the time of day or how long she had been asleep.

She could ask the Elf, but he was nowhere to be seen. As she struggled to breathe, the Finder wondered if he had given up hope and taken the Black Arrow to Círdan. A quick glance at the hearth told her otherwise. A small pot simmered over the fire, suspended by an arrangement of iron poles. The contents of the pot remained a mystery. Only the most powerful of odours would register upon her blocked nose.

Upon becoming aware of the food, her stomach growled loudly, complaining of its lack of nourishment. She ignored it. There were more important things to consider than her belly.

If memory served her correctly, the Black Arrow and her boots should be somewhere behind her. She attempted to sit up and turn around to reassure herself they were still there but her muscles stubbornly refused to co-operate. Irritated by her own weakness, she hove herself upwards and twisted her body. With that supreme effort, she just managed to lift and turn herself so that she could see the opposite wall.

Her boots were carefully arranged directly behind her, the point of the Black Arrow protruding from the top of one of them. Immensely relieved but exhausted by the movement, she slowly sank into the straw of her nest, unable to muster the strength to move again.

The dried grass and flowers of the nest tickled she face. She was silently cursing her own weakness and becoming uncomfortably aware that her already laboured breathing was becoming steadily more difficult when another pair of boots materialised before her.

She lifted her aching head to find her blond saviour towering above her. He gracefully bent, grasped her by the shoulders and gently positioned her against the pack. Without a word he straightened, stepped over her and approached the hearth.

She coughed weakly and idly watched the way his golden hair shimmered in the firelight as he busied himself over the fire.

He held a steaming mug in his hand when he turned around. Still without speaking, he arranged himself next to her and studied her intently before tacitly offering the mug.

"What is it?" she asked weakly, forcing herself to accept the cup and doing her best to keep her hand from shaking. She placed her opposite hand around the mug to steady it. To her disgust, it trembled as well.

"Soup," the Elf answered with his lilting, melodic voice. "Well, broth," he corrected himself as she raised the cup and peered suspiciously at its contents through the steam. "There were some difficulties with solid food."

"As in you couldn't find any?" she teased, raising the broth to her lips and taking a cautious sip. It tasted of salted water.

"No, there is plenty of food to be had at this time of the year," he said in perfect seriousness. "You would not chew while you were ill. It seemed better to give you broth."

"How long have I been ill?" she asked, lowering the mug before she spilt the liquid over herself.

"Seven passages of the sun," he answered softly, his features masked in worry. Then he smiled, covered her hand with his and squeezed it gently. "I am happy to find you awake."

"Seven..." she whispered in awe, looking into his bright blue eyes and very aware of the soft warmth of his hand upon hers. "Your nursing skills are to be commended. I never expected to survive, Lord...."

"Inglor," he said, inclining his head gracefully. "Of the House of Finarfin."

"Inglor," the Finder murmured. She prided herself on her knowledge of the Elf Lords of the Elder Days. As much as she searched her admittedly incomplete memory, his name was not among them.

She abruptly became aware of an expectant silence in the room. She watched the steam swirling up from the mug to avoid the question in the Elf's blue eyes. The pressure of the silence built steadily as she clumsily spun the cup in her hands. He was patiently waiting for her to give him her name, but that was a thing she had forsaken long ago. She would do what she had been doing for years and simply steal someone else's. It would make communication easier.

The rising steam cleared her nose. She could just begin to detect the scent of herbs and stewed rabbit. The question was which name to choose. She could call herself Emeldir after her own ancestress, the mother of Beren, but that would be an insult to her foremother.

A list of potential names drifted through her clouded mind while Inglor patiently waited. There was Morwen, the mother of Nienor and Turambar. But Morwen had been cursed. The Finder had enough of her own self-imposed burdens without taking those of another. Besides, her colouring did not match the name. There was Rian, Finduilas, Lothíriel...

"Haleth," she heard herself saying aloud. She raised her eyes to meet Inglor's steady gaze. "Call me Haleth."

If his suspicions had been aroused by either the length of time it had taken her to answer or the odd wording of her pronouncement, he gave no sign of it. "Lady Haleth," he said.

"No, Lord Inglor," she immediately corrected him. "I am no lady."

"But you are," he said, studying her intently. "I see it in your eyes. You have the blood of..."

"It takes more than blood to be noble, Lord Inglor," Haleth interrupted, unwilling to be reminded of her heritage. "One’s behavior must also be noble."

Her tone brought him up short. For a moment she was worried he would demand an explanation.

"Inglor," he said quietly, releasing her hand and turning away. "Call me Inglor."

"Of course, Inglor," the newly christened Haleth said after taking another sip of broth, wondering at his reaction but unwilling to pry into the reasons for it. He acted as though he was guilty of something. Her suspicions about his timely appearance sprang to life once more but she was far too tired to pay them any heed. "If you will excuse me, I think I will finish this excellent broth and then sleep."

"Sleep is the best thing for you," he said, recovering his tranquil demeanor.

Haleth watched the light and shadows cast by the fire dance across his face, mesmerised by him until she mentally slapped herself. "The Black Arrow still has to get to Círdan," she said tersely. She took another sip of the broth. It had become lukewarm while she had been mooning over her new companion.

"Yes," Inglor agreed. "We will sail down the Anduin. From there we can find passage to Mithlond."

"I was planning on going over the Hithaeglir," Haleth said shortly. She set the empty mug on the floor beside her.

"It will be too late in the year. By the time we reach them, the passes will be blocked with snow," he said reasonably. "Would you like more?" he added, picking up the cup.

"How late do you think it will be?" Haleth immediately challenged him.

"You will not be ready to travel for at least two cycles of the moon," he said apologetically.

"Half a cycle at the most," Haleth corrected him, then glared and daring him to disagree. The effect was spoiled by an eruption of coughing. She covered her mouth with both hands and leaned forward, waiting for the hacking to stop and slumped against the pack when it finally passed, too exhausted to argue.

Inglor gently pulled the cloak over her.

"Shall we wait fourteen days and then re-assess the circumstances?" he offered as a compromise.

Haleth grunted. Then she closed her eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.