The summer stars burned in the dark heavens. A shadow detached itself from the pilings of the new Laketown and glided across the water.  The boat followed a glimmering trail of moonlight across the calm surface of the Long Lake. The only sound was the swish of a paddle cutting through the water and the patter of water droplets falling from the blade to the lake. These quiet noises were magnified in the still, midnight air and carried back to the homes and shops of Esgaroth.

The figure paddling the boat shot a quick, worried, glance in the direction of Laketown, as if expecting to see the good citizens leaning out of their windows demanding what business anyone had with the ruins of the Old Town.

The fear proved groundless; no alarm sounded. The good people of Laketown slept securely in their beds, oblivious to their uninvited guest.

The boat reached one of the shattered pilings of the ruined town that rested beneath the waves of the lake. Rotting fragments of wood pointed towards the night sky in weary accusation. Most of the year, the piling lay beneath the water, but the drought of late summer had lowered the surface and laid part of the sad ruins of Esgaroth open to the sky. The autumn rains would soon replenish the River Running and the piling would sink beneath the waves once more.

The boat stopped and the figure silently studied the aspect of the surrounding night: the brilliant fire of Varda's stars, Tilion's pale light, and the glass-calm waters of the Long Lake. The face tilted up towards the moon’s light was revealed to be female and mortal. It could not be called young, even by the most generous of observers. Moonlight glinted on the silver strands in her sun-bleached, sandy hair. Wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes and mouth and furrows marred her brow, the product of years of squinting into the sun and a habitual expression of bitter resignation.

The soft, warm air held the faintest edge of chill, an early herald of the coming winter. It was cool, but the water was the warmest it would ever be; the traveller had timed her visit with some thought. She had not used her name in many years. It slept uneasily at the back of her memory, along with many other less pleasant things. On the rare occasions that she could not avoid communicating with others, she used the title given to her by one of the Exiles; the Finder.

Calloused but delicately shaped hands secured the boat to the piling. A second rope joined the first. It seemed to glow with a light of its own; a faint, silver shimmer led from the shattered wood to the bottom of the boat, where it lay in many coils.

The Finder pulled a small pouch from her pack and, after a moment's hesitation, removed her homespun tunic. The fabric fell to the bottom of the boat, revealing a lean, taut body, the result of many years of homeless wandering.

She uncorked the pouch. The harsh scent of musk assaulted her nostrils as she daubed half-rancid bear grease over her hands and generously applied it to her exposed skin.  Then she slid over the side of the boat, took a deep breath and dove into the depths of the lake.

With the pressure steadily increasing on her ears, she swam over the sunken ruins of old Laketown. Moonlight dimly glittered upon the hundreds of water-polished diamonds that were Smaug's ruined armour, a path of riches that guided her to her goal. A strong, steady current pulled her towards the Long Falls.  She fought against it with grim determination.

The frigid waters were already sapping her strength. The Finder kicked out with her bare feet, determined to retrieve her target or die in the attempt.

By the time she reached Smaug's crumbling waistcoat of gems her lungs were beginning to ache. Her hand swept over cold gems and sharp bone, desperately seeking something in the faint shadows that penetrated to the lake bottom.

At last her hand encountered a smooth, narrow haft, too narrow to be a rib and too large to be a gem. The Finder grasped the Black Arrow and attempted to draw it from the dragon's rotted carcass.

Whether because the cold had exhausted her strength or because of some ill chance of position, the arrow remained firmly embedded in Smaug's hollow chest. Lungs burning, the Finder stubbornly hooked her feet beneath the smooth whiteness of the dragon's ribs and pulled with all of her rapidly diminishing strength. Lights flickered behind her closed eyes.  She was becoming certain that she would have to concede defeat when the Arrow abruptly came loose.

Caught off balance, she pitched backwards, the Black Arrow clutched in both hands. A stream of silvery bubbles escaped her lips as she crashed through the crumbling swath of diamond and bone. The moonlight was immediately gone, shrouded in a roiling murk of shattered bone and rotted flesh. Gemstones and other less pleasant things brushed her exposed skin on their way to a new, deeper resting place.

Clutching the Black Arrow to her chest, the Finder grasped the rope attached to her waist and pulled herself out of Smaug's chest. Jagged ends of fractured ribs tore at her skin as she emerged. Once in open water she launched herself towards

Tilion's pale light, her lungs urgently demanding air.

The water seemed to grow colder and the current, stronger. Her legs were lead weights and her free arm moved with unnatural slowness; the urge to inhale became almost overwhelming.

Her instinct for self-preservation shrieked for her to drop her prize. If she released the Arrow, she might manage to regain the surface. But that would only mean she would have to dive into the lake again and the next time the Arrow would not be so easy to find. Still grasping the arrow, she struck upwards with fresh determination.

'Stay calm,' she told herself sternly as she twisted the slack of the rope to bind the arrow to her hand. 'You will be at the surface soon. Then you can breathe.' With her ears ringing and black spots dancing before her eyes, the Finder clawed her way towards the light. Her efforts grew more and more feeble and the world and its cares slipped away. A small part of her mind chuckled at the irony of death by drowning. It was an oddly fitting yet completely pointless end.

The current tugged her downwards. She dimly hoped that the Arrow would not break when the current took it and her body over the Long Falls. She also hoped that her successor, if there was one, would be more successful in retrieving it.

The world would go on without disturbance as though she had never been and that, too was more than fitting.

She watched Tilion's silvery light, determined to meet her lonely death with a modicum of grace. With an unfamiliar feeling of peace, she stopped fighting and allowed the current to carry her towards the falls.

'At least there is light,' she thought as her chest blazed with urgent fire. 'So long as there is light, there is hope.'

The illumination grew in size and brilliance as the blood roared in her ears.

Instead of receding, it seemed to be moving towards her as she sank deeper into the lake. She watched it with a detached interest.

As it grew nearer, it became of a being of light. Perhaps Tilion himself had come to save her?  More likely it was a servant of Mandos, sent to make certain she heeded the Judge's call.

The Finder regarded him with dull welcome as he floated directly before her.

'I give you my life,’ she thought she said. And then last of her consciousness faded as she inhaled the icy waters of the lake.

~*~

'I give you my life.' The unspoken words ricocheted within the Elf's well-ordered mind. The exact instant after making this startling pronouncement, the mortal woman's eyes rolled back in her head. With horror and helpless to stop it, he watched her inhale water. It seemed an extremely inauspicious way to make someone’s acquaintance.

Wrapping one arm around the unconscious diver, the Elf propelled them both to the water's surface. The woman was unresponsive and had somehow contrived to tangle an arrow in her hand with the rope that tied around her waist.

As their heads broke the water's surface, he quickly searched for the rope’s other end. Its thin, ghostly glimmer led to a boat that was tethered to a broken piling. He wove one arm around the woman's shoulder and over her chest so that he could tow her. Then he swam towards the boat. In a moment they had reached the piling and the small craft. He climbed the slippery timbers with her unresponsive body in his arms.

At the last moment, the arrow contrived to slip from tangle of rope. For a brief instant, the Elf thought to leave it to sink to the bottom of the lake. But the woman had gone to some lengths to keep it. It had to be important and its loss would bring unhappiness. He wondered at the mortal tendency to become dangerously attached to insignificant objects.  His own people were far from innocent of this, but they, at least, claimed treasures of surpassing beauty and splendour.  The water-logged arrow seemed anything but splendid.

Shifting the woman so that she was draped over one arm, the Elf allowed his feet to slide down the rough edges of the piling. Just as his hand closed around the shaft of the arrow, a stray swell shoved him forwards. He attempted to simultaneously catch the arrow, hold the woman and not fall into the lake. He might have succeeded if another wave had not driven the boat into his legs.

Grunting in surprise, he swung off balance. The woman slipped from his grasp. Before he could catch her, her stomach slammed into the gunwale of the boat.

He tossed the arrow carelessly into the bottom of the craft and reached for the woman before she slid beneath the water. As his arm locked around her waist, she made a dreadful retching noise. A trickle of water flowed from her mouth.

It was immediately followed by a terrible, choking cough that came from the very bottom of her lungs. Water and stomach fluids poured from her nose and mouth.

The Elf held the woman as best he could as her body was wracked by wave after wave of violent tremors. It seemed impossible for so much water to have fit within her chest.

But when she finished, she drew breath for herself.

Carefully lifting her over the side, the Elf placed her gently into the boat. She immediately slid to the bottom with a dull thump. He lowered himself to her side, steadying the violently rocking boat. She reminded him of an imperfect sculpture, the sort that his less talented kinsmen might fashion. Her features were peaceful in the moonlight, the lines upon her face smoothed although her awkwardly splayed limbs spoiled the effect.

She coughed again and her eyes fluttered open. She noted him briefly and began to glance around.

"It is here," the Elf said, handing the arrow to her. Her fingers tightened convulsively around its shaft.

"You are safe," he murmured to reassure her. She may not understand his words, but his tone should calm her.

He was so focused on comforting her that he did not notice her fist until it connected with his jaw.

The effort of hitting him took the last of her strength. As the Elf gingerly rubbed his chin, the woman collapsed to the bottom of the boat and lay still.  He had not realized mortal women could be so dangerous.

He found her shirt and covered her with it, as best he could.  He was careful to watch her hands in case she became violent, but she did not move again.

Untying the boat, he paddled for the shore where half ruined huts huddled on the water's edge. 

AN.  I must thank my two beta readers for their outstanding help. It wasn't bad, but they made it shine.  Any mistakes are my own. 

Mint, sage and ashes were the first things of which the Finder became aware; those and the faint, sour scent of a voided stomach. She would never have imagined Mandos' Halls would be so aromatic.

Other sensations impinged on her slowly returning awareness: many tiny prickles that brushed against her skin, an incredibly soft yet warm blanket that covered her, the faint song of breathless wind rustling over undying grass, and of the distant, rhythmic lap of ethereal waves upon an eternal shore. She felt far more corporeal than she would have expected. There was a dull, burning ache in the chest that she should no longer have.

It was slowly beginning to occur to the Finder that she might not be dead after all. She gathered her courage to open her eyes, not knowing what sights would greet her. Part of her expected that there would be nothing but a formless, featureless mist.

She opened her eyes to the barest of slits and took in her surroundings. The world around her was disappointingly ordinary. She lay in a crude wooden hut; golden sunlight flowed through the gaping cracks between the rough wall planks. The floor was hard packed dirt, and she lay on a fragrant bed of hastily assembled grass and herbs. A grey cloak of fine weave was tucked carefully around her to preserve warmth while allowing her limbs to move freely. She turned her head to the left. A solid stone hearth filled with acrid, grey wood ash filled her vision.

With agonising slowness, she moved her aching head to the right. Her eyes felt as dry as several beaches worth of sand. Several grains of it had spilled into her nose and throat, where they grated her flesh raw.

A half familiar figure sat cross-legged on the ground beside her, watching her with placid intensity. Sunlight glistened upon his golden hair, hurting her already smarting eyes. The same perfect features that she had briefly glimpsed beneath the water were arranged in an expression of unalloyed tranquility. Only the wide, blue eyes betrayed the ghost of emotion which might be interpreted as relief.

"You are awake," he said. The three simple words were spoken in lilting Sindarin. To the Finder's perception, they were the most beautiful sounds ever heard, either upon Middle-earth or in Mandos' Halls.

She blinked at him stupidly, and, with all evidence to the contrary asked, "Am I dead?" The words, spoken in the same language, sounded little better than a crebin's croak.

The corners of his lips twitched upwards very slightly, but the blue eyes were filled with compassion.

"No," came the soft reply.

The Finder closed her burning eyes and winced at the unwelcome but not unexpected revelation.

"You pulled me from the water," she said accusingly.

"Yes." The single word was infused with profound regret.

Firmly shoving her disappointment aside, the Finder nodded. The slight movement jarred her head, sending a bolt of pain from the back of her neck to her forehead. Ignoring that discomfort and the growing agony in her chest, she struggled into a more upright position. She wondered who this Elf was and what had brought him to her aid. The circumstances were far too unlikely to be brushed off as coincidence.

With a jolt she remembered why she had dived into the lake.

"The Black Arrow," she demanded, her voice like a wood rasp. "You have it?"

"It is beside your pack." He indicated the pack which lay behind him with a graceful flick of his wrist. The Arrow was carefully placed against her boots. She heaved an inward sigh of relief, as much to see her much beloved footwear as to find her prize.

Outwardly, her face remained mask-like.

If the Elf was disappointed or surprised in her reaction to being alive, he gave no sign of it. "I thought I might have to break your fingers to remove it from your grasp."

"I can be somewhat..." she studied the uneven planks of the wall, searching for the proper word.  She had not spoken Sindarin in some time.

"Determined," she finished weakly.

He laughed. The sound, as sweet as the sunrise after a hopeless night, startled her and she smiled wanly, again wondering why an Elf had chosen that particular time and location to take a moonlit swim. She pushed her curiosity aside; there were other, more important matters that needed to be arranged.

"Listen," she said when he was over his mirth. "You must take the Black Arrow to Círdan."

An air of gentle puzzlement descended on his matchless features. He gave the impression that he had been sitting in the same place for several weeks, watching her.

"But does it not belong to the Bardings?"

Her head slid backwards so that she was staring at the ceiling. The hut's roof was of thatch. The woven turf showed signs of recent, careful repairs. He had not been sitting the entire time after all.

"It was," she agreed. Her gaze followed individual pieces of straw through the tangled mass above her while she wondered from whence he had come and who had sent him.

"Bard used it to slay the dragon."

"Then should it not go to Dale?" came the gentle question.

The Finder heaved herself onto her side and carefully regarded the guileless blue eyes. She was drawn into the azure depths, wells of time and tranquillity as blue as a cloudless autumn sky and as deep as the ocean. Those eyes gave the impression of great age and complete innocence. The question was not meant as an ethical test; it was an honest query voiced by someone who simply could not comprehend duplicity.

She dropped her gaze, shuddering slightly, having witnessed something as high above her, as beautiful and as unattainable as the stars. She hated herself for doubting anyone so fair and so apparently naïve. But the world was filled with those who could act the part of an ingénue. Her suspicious nature would not allow her to trust anyone, yet this time she would have to make a leap of faith.

"If it were an ordinary arrow, yes," she said, idly twisting a piece of grass around her fingers. "But the Black Arrow is made of the stuff of legends and that time is passing. The Bardings will not have to face another foe the likes of Smaug. "Besides," she added. "It will be needed later."

"By the Bardings?"

"No."

The conversation was interrupted by a sneeze. She wiped her watering eyes and immediately dissolved in a coughing fit. The Elf frowned worriedly and reached into his pack.

His arm snaked beneath her, his flesh warm beneath the sleeve of his tunic. Without a word he lifted her into a seated position and waited for the coughing to subside. Exhausted and miserable, the Finder leant her head against his warm chest and closed her eyes. She pictured how the scene would appear to an outsider. He was the image of perfection. She, in contrast, was an aging, bitter mortal whose time had long since passed.

The Finder wished that she knew the Elf's name. Even a fake name would be acceptable. She could simply ask, but that would undoubtedly lead to him ask after hers. She did not want to be rude, but she had no intention of sharing that particular piece of information. It was best to just leave the entire issue alone.

It would be a moot point in a few days anyhow.

These thoughts were swirling through her head when a cold, metallic smoothness was pressed against her swollen lips.

"What is it?" she asked, drawing back so that she could see what was against her mouth. Wordlessly the Elf offered her an intricately engraved silver vial. Without touching it, she sniffed the contents.

"It will help you to sleep, which you need to heal," he said gently.

"What is it?" Her tone was cold; almost hostile.

"It is miruvor."

"Keep it," she ordered. A violent shudder ran through her body. She tried to shove the vial away and only succeeded in knocking herself off balance.

"But it will help you," he said, tacitly asking for an explanation for her incomprehensible refusal as he adjusted his arm to keep her from falling.

"I said keep it!" With more strength than she had displayed since she had been plucked from the lake, she pulled herself away from both the Elf and his miruvor.

Her stamina exhausted, she sank once again onto her straw pallet. The hut was filled with the noise of her laboured breathing.

"Take the Black Arrow to Círdan," she said.

"We shall take it to him together." If her outburst had surprised him, the Elf gave no sign of it. His voice was utterly calm.

A gruff, mirthless laugh erupted from the Finder's lips and threatened to dissolve into another fit of coughing.

"I won't be going with you," she forced herself to croak. The room suddenly seemed unbearably cold and she tried to burrow further into her fragrant nest.

"There is no hurry," he said calmly, arranging the cloak over her. "It can wait until you regain your strength."

"You don't understand," the Finder said through her chattering teeth. "I will not regain my strength."

"But if you rest..."

"Oh, I'll rest," she assured him. "You are of the Eldar; you do not know sickness. The Second Born are not so fortunate. I breathed the waters of the lake. I will get lung fever; very few survive it."

Her pronouncement was met by a brief pause. As the Finder watched, the Elf’s expression went from polite confusion to vaguely unhappy.

"You should drink the miruvor," he said. "It will loan you strength."

"No."

He seemed on the verge of arguing. Then, without another word, he closed the silver vial and replaced it in his pack. Without asking permission, the elf rummaged in her pack for a moment and extracted her cloak. Standing over the Finder, he unfurled it above her so it settled over her huddled body.

"Is there anything I can do to ease your condition?" he asked as he gracefully seated himself next to her.

"Willow bark tea will help the pain," she said. "But you needn't stay."

"I do need to stay," he said firmly.

"Thank-you," she whispered. "Please bury my boots with me."

"What can I expect?" he asked, ignoring her intimations of mortality.

"I will become very cold, then very hot by turns," she said distantly, recalling others who had succumbed to the same ailment. "At least it will seem that way to me. To you, my skin will feel hot. Try to keep me cool, no matter how much I complain. Not now!" she added crossly as he began to pull away one of the cloaks that covered her.

"I will likely have fever dreams and call out strange names," she warned him, hoping that her ravings would be too jumbled for him to understand. "You can try to comfort me, but I doubt it will work."

"You will have to eat," he said quietly.

"Broth, if you can get it down my throat," the Finder said, smiling grimly.

"Is there anything else?" he asked. He had been listening to her intently, as if both of their lives depended on his recalling every word she spoke.

"Yes. Take the Arrow to Círdan," she said, grateful for the added warmth of the extra cloak.

"We will take the Arrow to Círdan," he gently corrected her.

Before she could object he rose fluidly to his feet.

"I shall check the snares," he said.

The Elf turned at the door and studied her carefully. He flashed her a quick smile that was likely meant to be reassuring. Even in her misery, the way it transformed his face took her entirely off guard. Her breath literally caught in her throat at the beauty of it. Mentally slapping herself for her lack of control, the Finder forced herself to return his expression. It undoubtedly looked more like a grimace than a smile, but that did not seem to matter to the Elf. His smile broadened. Then he was gone, leaving her to sink into fevered delirium.

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.