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.