This is a work of fanfiction.  There is no intent to make any money from it. 

I would like to gratefully thank my beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and the writers at the Garden of Ithilien for helping me to beat this into shape. 

She awakened to a world of white, unable to recall how she had gotten here or when she had arrived.  Upon further consideration, she could recall if there had ever been anything other than white.

She was curiously detached from her body, and it would not have surprised her to see it somewhere below her, if she could ascribe a direction to down.  She knew she should be afraid or at least curious, but she seemed as incapable of emotion as she was of feeling her body.  She was adrift, alone and lacking identity, in a sea of white. 

Something impinged on her awareness.  She tried to understand what it was.  Part of her disjointed memory told her it was music: someone nearby was singing.  But as hard as she struggled, she could not make out any words, only that the melody was infinitely sad.

It hardly seemed to matter.

The singing grew louder.  She had the impression of someone standing above her.  There were gentle hands, a cup raised to her lips, a bitter draught; then the world slowly faded from white to grey and then to darkness once more.

When she next become aware, the world was misty grey.  This was more familiar, more comforting than the white.  She could almost make out shapes in the fog, but the individual pieces were stubbornly elusive. Each time a shape seemed about to solidify the edges would blend together with the shadows. A feeling of breathless anticipation settled over her, as though she was about to embark upon a perilous journey. Even in her half-conscious state she knew this was odd and she tried to understand why she would feel this way. Inevitably, the effort proved too great and she drifted away again.

The periods of awareness slowly grew longer until the day she saw a face hovering above her.  It was a wise and gentle face, filled with concern and framed in dark hair.  She had the nagging feeling of recognition, but there were nothing on which to hang a name. 

It was a kind face, though; and she instinctively knew that whoever he was, she could trust him.

A cup was raised to her lips. 

‘Drink.’

The draught was as bitter as wormwood, and the world receded once more.

It was dark when she next awakened, and she lay in the comforting blackness and contemplated the face.   

She had never seen the actual person before, yet she felt she knew him.  An image sprang from the back of her mind of an ancient, leather-bound book with delicate, yellowing pages,on a podium in a dim room that smelled of musty paper.  She was balanced before it on a stool; her hands, enclosed in soft, white gloves, trembled as she turned the crackling pages.  The echo of fear mixed with excitement coursed through her.  The book was not only ancient but forbidden; and that, not the information between its covers, was what had drawn her to it.   There would not be much time for her to skim the parchments without being caught, and she flipped to the first page.  There was a sketch there, a line drawing of a solemn, dark-haired man.  It was the face of the man who was tending her. There was a name inscribed at the bottom of the page. 

Tar-Minyatur.

A door opened behind her and someone shouted in anger.

She awoke to find it daylight once more and the details of her surroundings were plainer. She was lying in a soft bed.  Something she had meant to do before she had come here pricked at her mind - something urgent.  But she couldn't remember what it was, and strongly suspected it was no longer important. 

Quiet voices murmurred outside of the place where she was being kept.  She wondered who the other person was for she had only ever seen the dark haired man, The identity of the second person did not matter, but the dark haired man certainly did.  It was important that she should greet him with the proper respect.

With a great effort, she hauled herself upright and struggled to get out of bed.  Her legs were weak, almost insubstantial, but if she ordered them to, they would hold her for long enough.

He entered the room and examined her carefully; it was obvious he had not expected her to be upright.

She bowed deeply. ‘Your Majesty, you do me great honour,’ she said.  The greeting was not as she had imagined it.  Her voice was muted and the words ran together in an incomprehensible mess.  Then her knees gave out and she sank to the floor.  The last thing she remembered was the man’s sad, worried expression as he bent over her.

The next time he came to visit, she did not get up. 

He sat upon her bed, picked up her hand and asked, ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Of course,’ she replied.  ‘You are Tar-Minyatur, the first and best King of Númenor and the founder of my family.’

The ghost of a smile crossed Tar-Minyatur’s face. 

‘If you know who I am, do you know who you are?’

She stared at him in incomprehension. 

‘Your name, child.  Can you tell me your name?’

She lay back and searched the empty depths of her memory.  It was a pathetically short search.  ‘No,’ she said.  ‘I do not.  But I know you.’

Again the tiny smile crossed his face.  ‘What do you remember?’ he asked.

‘I was in a library,’ she said quickly.

‘Is that all?’ he asked when several minutes passed and she said nothing else.

‘I was there, then I was here, with you.  And I know you,’ she insisted.

‘How do you know me?’

‘From the book,’ she said.

‘The book?’ he asked.

‘The book in the library,’ she said.  ‘Your picture was in it and your name beneath your image.’

‘Is there anything else?’ he insisted.

‘I…the book was forbidden to me,’ she admitted, averting her eyes from his steady gaze.

‘Forbidden?’ he asked. 

She risked a quick glance at him.  He did not seem angry, only puzzled.  He also expected an answer. ‘It was a very old and important book and I was not to touch it lest the pages crumbled.  Yet I was careful.  I even wore the gloves!’ she said.

He examined her for a very long time.  She twisted the plain band of silver that rested upon her finger while nervously awaiting a scolding.

‘It was good that you wore the gloves,’ he finally said.  ‘Do you remember anything else in the book?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘It is a start,’ said Tar-Minyatur.

She wondered about the cryptic remark, but he seemed disinclined to say any more. 

‘Do you know my name?’ she asked.

‘Not your true name, no,’ he replied.

He had phrased his answer strangely, but she was disinclined to wonder about his choice of words. If her name was still important, she somehow knew her ignorance would bother her.  But it was no longer important.  She was as certain of this as she was that Tar-Minyatur was beside her.

‘Are you in pain?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she replied.

‘You sound doubtful,’ he said.

‘Not doubtful, no.  I do not understand.’

‘You do not understand pain?’

She laughed and leaned back against the pillows. ‘I do not understand how the dead can be expected to feel pain.’

Tar-Minyatur examined her gravely.  ‘You do not feel pain yet you know what pain is?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, no longer sure of herself.  The conversation was very confusing. 

‘Sleep,’ he said.  ‘I shall visit tomorrow.’

She obediently closed her eyes and drifted into oblivion.