I would like to thank my wonderful beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and all of the writers at the Garden of Ithilien who really helped to make this story shine.

‘Is there anything outside of this room?’ she asked one day. 

Tar Minyatur glanced at the light streaming through the gauzy curtains. ‘There is,’ he said.

‘May I see it?’ she asked. 

Tar Minyatur sighed quietly. ‘In time,’ he said.

‘When I remember my name?’ she asked.  He did not reply. ‘That is why I am kept here, is it not?  Apart from the others.  I cannot leave until I speak to Mandos and Mandos cannot speak to me until I remember my name.’ 

Tar Minyatur studied her for a long time without speaking.  ‘Lord Námo would know your name whether you remembered it or not,’ he finally said.

‘Oh,’ she replied, abashed.  Of course the Vala would know her name.  She was being foolish.  Yet it had all made sense when she had first thought of it.  ‘May I ask him?’ she said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Tar-Minyatur.

‘May I ask him my name?’ she repeated. 

‘Not yet,’ he replied.

‘Oh,’ she said, crestfallen. ‘When can I ask him?’

‘I imagine you can ask him when he summons you,’ he said.

She frowned.  ‘Why hasn’t he summoned me?’ she asked.

Tar Minyatur looked at her without comprehension. The expression was eerily familiar.

‘None can know the Valar’s reasons,’ said Tar Minyatur.  ‘But I suspect you will be summoned soon.’

‘Good!’ she said.  ‘Then I can ask my name.’

‘Until then, you must sleep,’ said Tar Minyatur.

She obediently closed her eyes.  But this time sleep refused to come.  She waited, feigning slumber, until he stood up.  She waited a while longer, just to be certain he was gone, before opening her eyes to slits.

She was alone in the room.  Her ancestor was very kind and patient, but he wasn’t very forthcoming. It was time to learn what she could for herself.

Gathering her strength, she dragged herself upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed.  It was hard work, but she was determined to practice a little every day when she was awake and alone.  She knew without asking that Tar Minyatur would not approve. 

Fighting vertigo, she slowly forced herself to stand.  Her legs felt like water and it was difficult to walk.  She lurched around, holding the edge of the bed for several minutes before giving in to exhaustion and collapsing. 

Tomorrow, she vowed, she would walk all the way to the door and back.

It took much longer than one day for her to finally walk from the door back to the bed.  For the longest time, the least bit of movement made her dizzy and unspeakably tired; too tired to worry over her lack of a name.

At last, one very fine evening she decided to walk outside her room.  She tested the door, half wondering if it would be locked.  Interestingly enough, the prospect of a locked door did not bother her, and she wondered if this was a clue to her identity or simply the logical extension of not caring about much of anything.

It was ridiculous to wonder.  She had spent many nights debating the reason for her apathy with nothing to show for it except for the rather lame excuse that the dead were incapable of worry.

It proved a moot point for the door was not locked. 

She peered one way, then the other down the hallway.  Only when she had assured herself that the corridor was quite empty did she leave the sanctuary of her room.    Her bare feet padded on cool marble floors.  She made her way, supporting herself on the walls, reached the end of the hallway and slowly peered around the corner.  To the left there was another corridor with gauzy curtains fluttering in the breeze down the length of the hall.  To the right there was a door.

She tiptoed to the first window, pulled back the curtain and looked into a garden.  From where she stood she could see bushes and flowers, part of a pathway and something that might have been a bench; but it was impossible to see more because of the trees blocking her view. 

The sweet scent of the night flowers filled the air.  The unmistakable gurgle of water came from an invisible stream. A gentle breeze caressed her face. 

Somewhere in the distance a door closed, and she returned to her senses.  She should return to her room before she was caught. She shuffled around the corner and was confronted by a hallway full of doors.  A wave of panic engulfed her.  Which door led to her room? 

By the time she collapsed on her own bed she was utterly exhausted.  She lay there, drenched in sweat, and stared at the wooden ceiling beams, a dim sense of satisfaction in her heart.  It seemed ridiculous to take pride in walking down a hallway without being seen.  She examined her emotions with cool detachment as she forced herself to crawl beneath the blanket.  It seemed she was capable of caring after all, at least a little bit.

She drifted off to sleep in spite of a dull, nagging ache in her left arm.

It was several days before she left her room again.  She had wanted to build up her strength before attempting her next campaign, which was to explore the garden.

Tar Minyatur visited several times during that period.  He was as calm and polite but singularly unhelpful about her identity which she found strange.  She also thought it odd that none of her other relatives had come to visit, until she remembered that she did not know who they were.  She did not even know who she was.  How could her immediate family be expected to know of her presence?

The next time she set about exploring she paused to tie a piece or string she had taken from the cuff of her sleeping garment to the door latch.  She frowned at the white thread that stood in bright contrast to the dark wooden door, worried that it would attract the attention of passersby.

There was nothing for it.  The only other possibility was to scratch the door itself.  No matter how lightly this was done, it would leave a permanent mark which would be a poor way to repay her ancestor for his kindness.

A warm summer evening greeted her as she crawled out of the window and crouched behind a large bush.  When she was satisfied no one was following her, she made her way onto the pathway.  After taking careful note of the landmarks so she would know which window to crawl back in through, she began to shuffle along the winding trail. 

Rounding a corner, she stumbled upon a remarkable sight: there, sitting upon a bench, were two children. Only these were some of the strangest children she had ever seen: one was bent and wizened like an old man, and both held pipes in their mouths. Their feet, which were hanging suspended well above the ground, were quite hairy.  The area was enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke.

‘Hobbits!’ she thought, surprised she could put a name to these strange creatures.  An equally puzzling thought fluttered into her mind: how had they come to be here?

The hobbits were watching her with equal surprise. She wondered what she should do.  There was no point in running.

‘Hello,’ she said, feeling very awkward.  ‘Pleasant evening for a walk.’

The older hobbit seemed to recover from the surprise first.  ‘Indeed it is,’ he said pleasantly.  A faint quaver in his voice betrayed advanced years. 

She wondered what to do.  She was very curious about the hobbits; who they were and where they had come from.  Perhaps they could even tell her where she was. 

This was going through her mind when she realized the silence had gone on a fraction too long.

They younger hobbit took the pipe from between his lips.  ‘We were just taking the evening air.  Would you join us?’ he asked politely.

She examined him carefully for the first time and was surprised to note he was missing a finger on his left hand.  The ghost of a memory stirred at the back of her mind.  This was the sign of something important, but she could not recall what it might be.  ‘Yes.  Thank-you,’ she said, seating herself on the far side of the bench.

They sat in uncomfortable silence, wreathed in blue smoke.

‘Have you been here long?’ asked the younger hobbit.

She opened her mouth, then closed it, not certain how to answer the question. She had no idea how long she had been there.  She was not even sure where ‘here’ was.

‘Not so very long,’ she said.

The hobbits exchanged puzzled glances.

‘Have you?’ she asked.  ‘Been here for long, I mean?’

‘Several years, I should think,’ said the older hobbit.  ‘It is difficult to keep track of time in a place like this.  It hardly seems to matter. I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he continued after another awkward silence.  I am Bilbo Baggins and this is my cousin, Frodo Baggins.’

‘The Ring Bearers!’ she burst out, surprising herself.  She did not know exactly what that meant but she knew it was important.

Frodo shifted uncomfortably.  Bilbo, on the other hand, seemed pleased.  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said.  ‘Although it was Frodo who did most of the hard work.  I was more the Ring Finder.’

Finder.  The word echoed through the empty halls of her mind.  It was tied to her somehow.  She shook her head and found the hobbits watching her nervously.   ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ she asked.

‘Only that the house of Elrond is the best place to enjoy a summer evening,’ said Bilbo.

‘The house of Elrond?’ she asked, looking around at the unfamiliar garden with its strange plants. ‘Are we in Rivendell?’

There was another long silence.  The hobbits examined her with pity.  ‘We are on Tol Eressëa,’ said Frodo gently.

‘Eressëa?  The Lonely Isle?  But that cannot be.  My kind are forbidden from…’  She stopped, her head whirling.  The hobbits must be wrong.  They had to be wrong.  But what reason would they have to lie?  ‘Thank-you, but I believe I should go now,’ she said.  ‘Good evening to you.’

She tottered back the way she had come.  It was a struggle to climb into the window.  When she reached her room she threw herself on the bed, her mind spinning. 

Her sleep, when it finally did come, was filled with unquiet dreams of armies, tall ships, oily smoke and a wave so large it could engulf the world.