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.

The Finder awakened to the unpleasant realization of not being dead.  As impossible was it was to believe, it was the only thing that explained the events of the previous night. A tide of bitter disappointment ripped through her heart. 

She stared at the ceiling until the flood passed and wondered at the reaction; her unremembered life must have been terrible. But what truly puzzled her was a faint but nagging impression of déjà vu. 

The morning sun was far too bright.  She rolled away and a burning pain shot up her arm.  She sat up and rolled up her sleeve.  Her arm was red and swollen but there was no obvious injury.

‘Are you well?’

Her head whipped towards the door.  The dark haired man stood framed in the doorway.  He was holding a cup.  She groaned inwardly, writhing with embarrassment.

‘Not entirely, no,’ she said, covering her arm.  There was little point in denying it. With a great deal of difficulty and a complete lack of grace she struggled to her feet.

‘Master Elrond,’ she said, inclining her head.

‘Good.  You know who I am,’ he said.

‘Now, yes.  I am sorry for mistaking you for your brother,’ she said.  ‘I do not believe I should drink that any more,’ gesturing towards the goblet.

‘I believe you are correct,’ he said.  Striding into the room he placed the cup upon the bedside table.  ‘This potion can take away pain but it has other, less desirable effects.’

‘It removes the memory,’ she said.

‘To some extent it does,’ he said. 'I am sorry.'

‘Will it return?’ she asked.

‘In time it may,’ he replied.  ‘Do you know who you are?’

‘I am the Finder,’ she said automatically.

‘You are called that by some,’ he said.  ‘But do you remember your name?’

She sighed and shook her head in frustration.  Her arm ached abominably.  ‘I was rather hoping you could tell me.’

‘I would if I had ever learnt it,’ he said.

She bit her lip in disappointment.  It was both disconcerting and embarrassing to be without a name.  Still, she had a title of sorts, or perhaps a job description.  That, at least, was something.  ‘Are we on Tol Eressëa?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

She scrubbed her face.  ‘I had hoped the hobbits were wrong,’ she sighed.  ‘I trust I did not overly frighten them?’

‘They were surprised to find another mortal here,’ said Elrond.

‘I shall not be here long,’ she said.

He looked at her quizzically.

‘My people are not to set foot upon the Undying Lands,’ she said.  ‘It has happened before.  The consequences were unimaginable.  Is there a boat that could take me to Middle-earth?’

‘There are no ships to carry you back across the sea,’ he said.

A rising tide of panic threatened to engulf her.  She shoved it away; there was too much at stake for her to give way to hysterics.  ‘Then how did I get here?’ she demanded, her voice harsh.

Elrond looked away. ‘You were brought here,’ he said reluctantly.

The statement was obviously true and completely unhelpful. The frustration did nothing for her mood. ‘Why?  And by whom?’

‘From what I could gather you were injured by a poison arrow,’ he said.

That sounded interesting, at least.  She must have been in a fight.  The prospect did not alarm her as much as it should have. ‘Who told you this?’ she asked.

‘The one who brought you,’ he said.

‘Master Elrond, please, who brought me here?’

Elrond was silent for so long that she thought he would not answer.

‘He said his name was Inglor.’

‘Inglor,’ she echoed, sitting on the edge of the bed.  The name set her heart thumping but she could not say why.

‘Do you remember him?’ asked Elrond.

‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.  ‘But I should. Is he here?’  Perhaps this Inglor could answer some of her questions.  He could start be informing her of her name.

‘No,’ said Elrond.  ‘He was summoned to Valinor while you were still unconscious.’

‘Oh,’ she said. The news filled her heart with dread. 

‘As you shall be soon, I imagine.’

The room seemed to darken as though a veil had been thrown over the sun.  The image of an immense wave arose in her mind. 

‘I cannot go to Valinor,’ she gasped.

‘If you are summoned…’ he began.

‘I cannot go to Valinor!’ she insisted, raising her voice.

‘You shall be summoned,’ he said calmly.  ‘You shall not be forced to go.’

‘Good,’ she grunted, mollified.

‘But if you wish to recover your memories, it would probably be best if you did.’

Her shoulders slumped in defeat.  For all that they must be bad, she wanted her memories, or at least her name, back.  But the Ban forbade her people from setting foot in the Undying Lands.  ‘We shall see,’ she said.

‘May I see your arm?’ he asked.

She rolled up her sleeve, taking care not to rub the tender area.  The skin was a swollen, angry red.  Her breath hissed through her teeth when he touched it.

‘I can make a poultice for it,’ he said.  ‘It should soothe it somewhat.’

‘I would appreciate that,’ she said.

‘And something for the pain?’ he asked.

‘As long as it doesn’t affect my memory, such as it is,’ she replied.

Several nights later, the Finder made her way out of Master Elrond’s home on Tol Eressëa. She stayed in the shadows, alert for any sound that would betray the presence of another person.  The sun had set a long time before, but the Elves loved the stars, so the lateness of the hour was no guarantee of there being no one out and about.

Her arm still hurt, but thanks to Master Elrond’s tending the pain was bearable.   She felt a pang of guilt for leaving without thanking him or saying good-bye.  The guilt was easy to rationalize away.  Surely Master Elrond would be happy to see the back of the uninvited invalid who referred to him by his deceased brother’s name and who frightened his legitimate guests.

She traveled by day, keeping to the wild lands and the hedgerows and moving steadily to the east.  The ease with which she adapted to her new situation surprised her and once more she wondered about the life she had led before she had awakened on Tol Eressëa.  The single vivid recollection she had had seemed to have pointed to her having a noble background.  By her admittedly hazy recollections, nobles lived a soft life; most would not be able to live off the land, nor would they be so comfortable sleeping out of doors.  She had most likely been a servant living in a noble’s house and her memory of Tar-Minyatur being the founder of her family was incorrect.

If she could not remember anything of her own life, she was quite able to remember tales of the founding of Numenor and the events that led up to it.  She passed the time silently telling herself the old stories. It made her feel better to think that at least two mortals had set foot in Valinor without dreadful consequences. She hoped to slink away before the Valar became aware of her presence.

After several days of travel she arrived at the eastern coast.  The city of Avallonë lay somewhere on the eastern shore but she was determined to avoid it.  Unlike the cities of Middle-earth where she could blend into the background, in the Blessed Realm no matter what she did she would be conspicuous; and knowing this, she kept to the wild and lonely shores outside the civilized areas.

She passed by solitary huts with only one boat; and this, she knew, could not be taken from the owner without causing great hardship. 

It was several days before she found what she needed: a small hamlet with many ships: Some of them were obviously pleasure craft, and these were kept on shore about the tide line. She settled in to wait for nightfall. 

When she was fairly certain no one would see her, she sauntered up to one furthest from the village and pushed it into the water.  Before long she was steering along the coast as quickly as she could.  Her plan was to take the boat to the mouth of a river she had passed a few days before and hide it while she gathered supplies, particularly fresh water.  Once she had what she hoped would be sufficient provisions, she would strike out to the east. 

The simplicity of the plan was very appealing, but there was something more, a rightness to it.  After years of wandering the Finder longed to return home.

Things went relatively well.  Although her arm hurt, she reached the river’s mouth before dawn and hid the boat in the tall reeds.  Then she sloshed through the water until she reached dry land, found a good spot to camp, wrapped herself in her cloak and fell asleep.

Thirst and an aching arm awakened her. The sky was leaden and air heavy with the promise of rain.   

Raising her head, she looked in the direction of the boat only to find the view obstructed by a pair of legs.  She blinked, hoping the legs were an illusion but they remained stubbornly solid.  Defeated, the Finder looked up.  The legs, which were long and lean, were attached to an equally lean, youthful torso.  Above this was a face that would have been quite fair if it had not been frowning.

Her heart sank.  She had been caught and by a rather imposing individual, too.  There was explaining to do so she climbed to her feet.

‘Are you…’ said the youth.  His frown deepened.

‘Am I?’ she asked helpfully.

‘There are no other mortal humans on Tol Eressëa, so it must be you,’ he said. ‘I am Eonwë, herald of the Valar.  You are summoned to Valinor.’

She looked at him expectantly.

‘And?’ she said.

‘And?’ Eonwë echoed.

The Finder knew the old stories.  When Eonwë had summoned Eärendil to Valmar he had given a very flowery speech.  But that had been the Elder Days and Eärendil was a hero.  She was just an Aftercomer with no memory.

‘And I guess we should be going,’ she sighed.