It had been a clumsy thing, the fall, one easily avoided if she’d had her wits about her. Adanel blamed it on distraction, too many worries with the Rangers missing north of Fornost and the survival of another hard winter. She’d tilted too far on a stool, trying to reach tea that might calm her damn nerves, and landed hard on her wrist, pain radiating up her arm beneath the sickening crunch of bone.

Foolish. At least she could walk to the healer’s cottage on her own two feet. A fine thing it would have been, for someone to come into the Chieftain’s house to find her crumpled on the floor for hours or days, unable to move. Her hand had already begun to swell, and she hid it under the folds of her cloak, opening the door of the cottage awkwardly with her left hand. She refused to let Ivorwen take a look until the other healers had been banished from the room, and Ivorwen’s mouth thinned—whether from concern or consternation, Adanel hardly cared.

“Yes, it’s broken.” Ivorwen probed at the wrist with deft, sure fingers. “Your full weight on it from such a height, you’re lucky it didn’t shatter completely.”

“Funny thing, luck.” A hiss of pain escaped her when Ivorwen pressed deeper, despite her best intentions. “Should have been avoided altogether.”

Ivorwen shook her head, a stray curl escaping her headscarf. She brushed it back and took a tin box off the shelf, emptying the contents into a bowl. “I can give you platitudes, Adanel, but I have a feeling you’d only bite my head off. Suffice it to say worse things have happened.”

Adanel gave her a rueful smile. She and Ivorwen were long past the point of uncomfortable silences and deferences that characterized so many of her actions as Chieftain; indeed, Gilraen’s mother was one of the few in the Angle she trusted to argue with her, whether the need arose or not. That was a comfort in itself, one she supposed she should be grateful for now.

“I’ve not even seen you in here before, have I?” Ivorwen asked, and Adanel shook her head. She had not found herself in the healer’s cottage since before Ivorwen’s time; even Arathorn’s birth, with all the troubles that plagued her pregnancy, had been carried out in her own home. Since becoming acting Chieftain, she had been all the more fastidious about maintaining her health. That she faltered now was a sign of age, that gift of Men. One hundred fifteen was not yet elderly among her people, but her hair had turned fully grey, these past two decades, and her joints bothered her when she sat too long in the cold. Older than her husband had ever been, who had fallen just shy of the century mark, and with no son for her to fuss over, to take her mind off her slowing body.

She sighed. These were old hurts, but ones that skittered close to the surface with each reminder of her own mortality.

She sat still and silent, indulging in her own dark brooding, while Ivorwen set her hand into a splint and wrapped it in fresh linen bandages that carried the mild, clean scent of athelas. “I can give you something for the pain, but ice and rest will be your best healer. And…” here, she hesitated, and Adanel’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, best keep it in your own head,” she warned.

“You’re going to need a hand around the Chieftain’s house. You needed one before, despite your flat denials every time I bring it up.”

Adanel groaned. The pain in her hand was suddenly preferable to the annoyance that settled in the pit of her stomach. “Not this again, Ivorwen.”

“Every Chieftain before you has had a wife, or children, or both, to aid him in his tasks. That you've done it alone for fifteen years speaks well to your fortitude, though perhaps not your wisdom.”

“I’ve hardly been alone,” Adanel muttered. “I do not know where I’d be without your support, or Dírhael’s. Certainly would not have kept the seat.”

Ivorwen flushed a bit, and she took Adanel’s uninjured hand in her own. “We have done what we can. But we do not live in that house with you, and beyond Dírhael’s work with the Rangers, neither of us handle the daily tasks. That has been you, and this—“ she gestured back at Adanel’s broken wrist—“is just one sign of the strain.”

“What do you suggest, then? This is not Rivendell, or Gondor. We cannot just ask someone to abandon their life to play nursemaid to a bitter old woman…”

Ivorwen hesitated once more.

“There is a girl. Faelhen, daughter of Bregor, I don’t know if you’ll recall. We lost her mother, Lothiriel, to the summer fevers.”

“Ah. Yes, I do remember,” Adanel murmured. Bregor had been a Ranger who died six years before fighting orcs west of the Downs. Faelhen was not the only young child to lose both parents to battle or illness, but if she recalled correctly, Bregor’s family had been among the oathbreakers who had left the Dúnedain, and fled to Valar knew where. Certainly not to a place where they could comfort an orphaned child.

She withdrew her hand from Ivorwen’s and clenched it tight.

“Dírhael and I have taken her in, for the time being. But I have my work here, and Dírhael is gone so much of the time. Rían has offered a more permanent arrangement, but…the girl’s spirit is so clouded by grief, still. I think it might do her good to feel useful.”

Adanel gave her a long, piercing look. “You’ve already thought this out, haven’t you.”

“I was going to bring it up to you soon. But now…” Ivorwen shrugged. “She’s a good child, with none of the mischief that runs through so many we know. Take her on for a fortnight, least until your wrist heals. You won’t be getting much cooking done with one hand, at the very least.”

“I can manage on my own,” Adanel protested.

“You will not,” Ivorwen said sternly. “You’ll only aggravate it, and let me tell you, my lady Adanel, the only thing worse than a broken hand is no hand at all. I expect young Rangers to test my healings, foolish in youth, but I will not have it from you.”

Adanel let out a low, frustrated growl in reply.

“Take the girl,” Ivorwen said, and her voice softened. “Something tells me it is not just your bones that ache, this winter.”

***

The throbbing in her wrist woke her before dawn the next morning, and Adanel lay on her back in bed. Thoughts of the missing Rangers in Fornost consumed her until the sun crept through the windows, when she finally threw back the covers with her good hand and dressed for the day. It was slow, awkward business, leaving her shoulders bare longer than she’d intended and her teeth clattering from the cold. The fire had gone out in the night, and she did not bother now to relight it, wrapping a fur around her instead before she descended to the main floor of the house.

Some mornings, the senior captains of the Angle would take breakfast with her in the map room, to discuss news from the Wild and where to reorganize Ranger patrols. Now, most of them were either out themselves or consumed with training a new crop of youngsters, and she found that pain had sapped away her appetite. She sat alone before the great map her husband had drawn, running a hand over the black tile that sat beyond Fornost. It was the problem that plagued them each time Rangers went too long without returning to their post—were they dead or captured, or was it simply taking them longer to find their way home? She would have to decide soon if they could spare the men for a search party.

Ivorwen arrived around midmorning, Faelhen Bregor’s daughter in tow, a small satchel clutched in her right hand. Adanel glanced down to give the child an appraising look. She could not be older than ten or eleven, mussed dark hair pulled back into a braid, her limbs somehow too long for her growing body. She looked well cared for—Adanel would have expected no less from Ivorwen—but there was a shadow behind her eyes that Adanel recognized well, one of loss and too little sleep. Grief that should not have come to one so young.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Faelhen,” she said, and the girl bobbed in a small curtsey.  

“And you as well, Lady Adanel.” A soft voice, but clear—none of the mumbling Adanel had had to train her own son out of. The old grief shot through her once more, but she forced herself to smile kindly at the girl. It had been so long, she prayed it didn’t come out as a grimace.

But Faelhen did not shrink under her gaze, and Ivorwen knelt down to squeeze the girl’s shoulders in farewell. “If either of you has any trouble, you come to me, understand? Though I think you will be well suited for each other.”

Faelhen nodded in silence, and Ivorwen rose to spare Adanel a knowing, resigned look.

“A fortnight,” Adanel mouthed at Ivorwen, but the dratted woman only smiled before she turned back toward the path.

They stood facing each other in silence, Faelhen staring down at her shoes, before Adanel finally sighed and shook her head.

“Well, let’s get you settled,” Adanel said. She started down the main hall towards the stairs, and turned when she did not hear footsteps after her. “Come, child, I do not bite." 

Faelhen seemed to give herself a little shake, and followed after Adanel. She waited for Faelhen to catch up to her before she gestured toward the back of the main hall with her left hand. “The kitchen is back there, with a dining room for the family to the left. Over there is the map room, which I’d prefer you not enter unless I am with you. The archives are stored in the room just past it.”

Faelhen’s eyes widened as Adanel spoke, and she gave a little nod after each room. Adanel took the hidden stair in the back of the kitchen that led directly to the Chieftain’s bedroom, which had stayed empty the past fifteen years. “I’d prefer you not use this stair, either, but it’s good to know about for emergencies.” She led Faelhen off to a smaller bedroom next door, in between the Chieftain’s room and her own. It was empty save for a bed, wardrobe, and a little table and washbasin. A fine layer of dust sat over everything, and Adanel cursed inwardly. Another thing that had fallen through the cracks.

“It hasn’t been cleaned in some time, I apologize. I would have this morning, but…” Adanel held up her right hand with a wry smile. “That would have rendered all this unnecessary.”

“It’s fine,” Faelhen murmured, and set her satchel down at the end of the bed. Adanel stood in the doorway, suddenly uncomfortable. The acting Chieftain’s business did not often involve children, and she had not spent so much time with one since her own son was young; her sole grandchild hidden away in Rivendell. It occurred to her, with a pang, that if Arathorn had lived, Aragorn might have had a little brother or sister Faelhen’s age.   

“Do you know how to build up a fire?”

“Yes,” Faelhen said. “And I can dust, and sweep, and wash and mend clothes. Dishes, too. I can’t cook very well yet, but Ivorwen was teaching me, a bit, and I can help. I won’t be a burden.”

The last words left her in a rush, and Adanel blinked in mild surprise. Faelhen’s hands had clenched into fists at her sides, and her eyes were bright. Where has she heard that before?

“Of course you won’t,” Adanel said briskly. “You wouldn’t be even if you couldn’t do all those things. Now come, let’s make the house warm.”

***

It was strange, having someone else in the house again. It had been built to hold generations of the Chieftain’s family—and had, when Adanel moved in after her marriage to Arador nearly ninety years before. Her son grew up here, his grandfather Argonui watching over them as Chieftain, Arador taking his father’s place when he died. In her wildest dreams Adanel never imagined she’d be left as the sole inhabitant of the house, caretaker of her people’s legacy and future both. She'd wept bitterly, those first nights alone, hating the way her sobs echoed through the empty halls. The solitude nearly drove her to despair, only the thought of her duty keeping her afloat, and fifteen years resigned her to the silence. She jumped, now, when Faelhen approached unexpectedly, and had to still her racing heart so as not to unsettle the girl.

It helped that Faelhen’s presence was too unique to dredge up old ghosts. Her son and grandson had both torn across the flagstones with the boisterous surety of boys promised the world, with even Aragorn’s toddler mischief enough to drive her mad. The line of Elendil had not seen a daughter in three generations, and Faelhen stepped quietly through the house, as though aware she did not quite belong. Adanel did not ask much of her beyond help with the cooking and other household tasks her injury prevented her from doing, such as keeping the fires stoked or fetching water from the well. But Faelhen soon began to chip away at tasks Adanel would never have thought of, dusting untouched rooms and scouring out hearths, and Adanel gave up trying to stop her after the second day.

Chieftain’s business slowed in the winter, and Faelhen’s help granted Adanel a long-forgotten luxury—time. So much so that she found herself in the archive room for the first time in months, shuffling through old letters and logs that needed to be sorted into the musty shelves. Faelhen sat quietly in a corner, mending a stocking in her lap. Her hands worked furiously at the needle, but apart from that it was the stillest Adanel had seen her in days. She wondered if she’d run out of things to clean. 

“How’s your Sindarin?” Adanel asked. Her own mother had been somewhat lax with her education, compared with her brother, and she always hoped that was an individual failing rather than the practice of most daughters’ mothers.

Faelhen sat up a bit straighter in her chair. “A Elbereth Gilthoniel, silivren penna míriel…” she sang the full hymn, her pronunciation perfect in a high, clear voice, and she smiled slyly at Adanel when she finished. “I can speak it, too,” she said, continuing in the language.

Adanel suppressed a delighted laugh. “Very good. And your Quenya?”

Faelhen wrinkled her nose. “Less good. What does anyone need Quenya for, anyway?”

“This.” Adanel held up the sheaf of parchment she’d been reading, though the text was in Sindarin. “Our people’s history is intertwined with that of the Eldar, for good or for ill. It behooves us to know where we came from, so we grasp a bit better where we are headed. And that includes knowing the High Elven.”

Faelhen looked unconvinced, and Adanel smiled as she shook her head. Valar knew she had her own feelings of resentment towards the Elves, since Lord Elrond had deemed her incapable of protecting her own grandson. But it had not always been so, and she imagined that, when Aragorn returned to them, it would be with deep respect for those who raised him and an education finer than even the most learned Dúnedain. The least she could do was encourage the children of the Angle to take advantage of the few gifts they had. 

“My husband thought much the same as you. He would tell me often how he detested learning language and lore in his youth, even in the haven of Rivendell. It was the irony of the Valar, he said, that our son loved it so much.”

“Lord Arathorn loved Quenya?”

“Oh yes. We were alike, in that way. It’s thanks to him, truly, that we have this room at all. It had fallen into such neglect under Argonui and Arador, not that they’re to be blamed. So much rests of the Chieftain’s shoulders…” she trailed off, and fought to keep her own burdens from taking root again in her mind. There was such a thing, she had learned, as worrying too much.

“Does it pain you, very much?” Faelhen asked softly. “To speak of him?” 

Adanel’s breath caught in her throat, and she looked back up at Faelhen. The girl’s expression was shuttered, her lower lip suddenly trembling. Adanel had forgotten how quickly grief could break through the surface, so soon after a loss, and she berated herself for not being more attentive. It was only her own uncertainty that stopped her from going over to take Faelhen’s hands in her own.

“Every day I mourn him,” she murmured. “Arathorn, and Arador too. But it does not pain me as it once did. Indeed, it gives me solace, to tell you how they lived. We gain a bit of them back, each time we do.”

Faelhen did not respond, only looked down at her lap and sniffed.

“Did your mother teach you the hymn to Elbereth?” Adanel asked gently.

Faelhen nodded. “She loved music. She knew the whole Lay of Leithian, I think. She would sing to me the part where Lúthien and Huan defeat the werewolves. I used to ask for it every night.”

“Perfect for a young lady,” Adanel said, and her dry tone coaxed a smile out of Faelhen. But she did not volunteer any more information, and Adanel decided not to press it. They resumed their work in silence, Faelhen humming quietly to herself, a tune Adanel only barely recognized. She sat for a moment, losing herself in the child’s melody, and her heart tightened in something she almost recognized as tenderness. 

She snorted quietly. Perhaps Ivorwen was right.

***

The days grew darker, and there had been no word from Fornost. Adanel directed Faelhen in making enough stew for four, and Dírhael and Meldroch took supper with her in the map room. The soft, fragrant parsnips of the stew tasted dry in Adanel’s mouth, and she set her bowl aside while she listened to Dírhael and Meldroch argue, a haze of smoke above them both. She did not care for the smell of pipeweed, but tonight she allowed it, anything to make the decision less difficult for herself and her two most trusted captains. For herself, she preferred a cup of strong Elvish brandy, but that would have to come later.

“We cannot risk the loss,” Meldroch said. “I say this every time, and I stand by it now. If we send scouts after the men they are just as likely to fall.”

“You cannot know that,” Dírhael shot back. “What of Brandír’s group over the Hithaeglir, seven years past? We saved nearly all of them, kept them from death in the mountain pass.”

“It was summer, Dírhael. They did not have the added danger of blizzards or frostbite. And, to be blunt, the only reason you found them is because you led that party yourself.”

“I’ll lead it again—“

“Trolls have roamed that land for decades, now,” Adanel said quietly. “All of us here have lost loved ones to them. Scouting the North Downs is always going to carry risk.”

Dírhael’s eyes narrowed in anger. “So, what then? Are you saying we cede ground? Write off the land in defeat?”

“Of course not,” Adanel snapped. “Glamren stands as it always has. But I will not lose more men to an area that’s cost us so many before.”

Only when the words left her did she realize she’d made her decision. She wanted to look to Meldroch for validation, a reassurance she’d made the right choice, but she could not show such weakness even among her staunchest supporters.

Dírhael glared at her for a moment before he sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Someone will have to tell their families.”

“I will,” Adanel said. “It is the Chieftain’s task.”

“They could still be trapped from the snows, or wandering circles through the Downs.” Meldroch said. “We should tell them not to give up hope fully.”

But Adanel shook her head. “We owe it to them to be realistic about their chances. We would not be having this conversation if we thought they would emerge in the spring.”

The three of them sat in silence, the stench of pipeweed heavy in the room, dim light from the fire flickering across the room. There were other matters to tend to, before Dírhael left to rejoin their Grey Company for the winter, but Adanel did not have the heart to muddle through them now. Her wrist ached more than it had in days, as if all her sorrow had gathered at the bones cracked beneath her skin.

“We’ll tell the Rangers,” Meldroch finally said. “The rest can wait til morning.”

Adanel nodded, and the two men rose and bowed to her in farewell. Dírhael squeezed her shoulder briefly as he passed, and she knew he was not angry with her—rather, that they were faced with such a choice at all. It was not their worst year for losses, not by far, for their fortunes had ebbed and flowed the past decade. The Battle of the Five Armies had made the roads safer, for a time, safety paired with good harvests and health among the Dúnedain. But orcs were growing bolder, the past couple years, and life was harder than it had ever been when Arador was Chieftain. Whether that was due to poor leadership on Adanel’s part or the ever-growing length of the Shadow, she could not say. Pointless to give in to such doubts, but they crept towards her in moments like these, alone after admitting defeat, whispers of the dead voiced through the logs crackling in the hearth.  

“Lady Adanel?” a soft voice sounded from the door, but Adanel could not bring herself to look up and see Faelhen, likely standing half-hidden in the doorway. “Would you like some tea?” 

“Please,” Adanel rasped. She did not know how much time passed until Faelhen returned, but the girl set the mug down hastily on the table. Adanel reached forward with her left hand, the warmth merging with her palm, and watched the steam curl up from the cup. She inhaled deeply, chamomile dispelling some of the tension that sat so deeply in her shoulders.

“Thank you, Faelhen.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

Adanel shook her head, hating herself a bit for it. “Stay, if you’d like.”

Faelhen nodded and sat down in the chair beside Adanel. She looked comically small in a seat usually occupied by Ranger captains twice her size, and she knit her hands tightly together in her lap while she stared back at Adanel, her gaze unflinching. Adanel could not quite parse what she saw there, and decided she was too tired to find out. She stared into the fire, the faces of dead and lost Rangers swirling up among the flames, her hand throbbing in time to a death march.

It was not til she noticed Faelhen had fallen asleep in her chair that she rose, her joints stiff, and gently led the girl to bed. She glanced toward the Chieftain’s bedroom as they passed it, the door closed once more, and pictured Rivendell to the north, where her grandson lay safe. Happy, she hoped, unaware of his birthright and all that would come with it. Seventeen, now—still a child. Too young to weigh lives, and find their loss worth the alternative. 

Hurry up and grow, Aragorn, my Estel. Come home so that I may rest for awhile.

***

She slept poorly, and she did not see Faelhen in the morning before she grabbed a stale bun from the kitchen and made her way to the homes of the lost Rangers. The sky was a steely grey, and snow fell in a slow, mournful sort of way, the flakes catching on her eyelashes as she walked. The first house was a bit beyond the blacksmith’s, the Bruinen just visible beyond, and a woman stood in the doorway, a small child clinging to her skirts. Adanel clenched her good hand, the leather of her gloves tightening around her knuckles in dread. She had had too many of these meetings, the past decade, and they always stirred her own sorrow, memories of her son and husband's deaths. She supposed it was good, that she had not become inured to grieving wives and mothers—her heart had turned hard enough as it was.  

She wept a little, once she returned to the safety of her own home, tears for the lost men and those they’d left behind. She drew in a shuddering breath when she crossed the threshold, remembering now she was no longer alone, but the main hall stood deserted.

“Faelhen?” she called. Her voice echoed through the house, but the girl did not answer. Adanel frowned and made her way through the house, checking the kitchen and map room before heading upstairs to check the bedrooms. Faelhen often disappeared during the day to carry out some of the more arduous chores like fetching water or fresh milk, but she usually let Adanel know before she left. She hardly minded if the girl came and went as she pleased; she only worried a bit, now, about what might have sparked the sudden change.

She was in the last of the empty, unused rooms, just starting to worry, when she heard the creak of the main door downstairs. She sighed in relief and made her way back down the steps.

“I was wondering where you’d—“ Adanel stopped dead, the bottom dropping out of her stomach at the sight of Faelhen. Her hair had fallen halfway out of its braid and her dress was torn, an angry rip down one sleeve and a gaping hole around her knees. Her face, embarrassed and miserable, bore the marks of a recent scuffle; blood dripped down the corner of one eye.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“I fell down,” Faelhen murmured. She would not meet Adanel’s eyes. “On the path to the well.”

“Horse shit,” Adanel snapped. “Who did this? Tell me.”

Faelhen’s eyes filled with tears, and the blood dripping from her cheek turned into a steady stream. Adanel cursed again. “Stay here.” 

She fled back to the kitchen to grab two clean dishcloths before tearing out the back door. The yard was covered in fresh snow, and she knelt to awkwardly scoop some up with one cloth, using the splint on her right arm as a brace. She held the cloth between her teeth and twisted it so that it held the snow within, before she returned back to the main hall where Faelhen stood, tears now coursing freely down her cheeks.

“Sit.” She gestured toward the stairwell and Faelhen sat obediently, staring down at the floor between her knees. Adanel tilted her chin up with her injured hand, using her other to clean the blood from the cut on Faelhen’s cheek. At last, she pressed the icy cloth into Faelhen’s hands and lifted them up to her face.

“This will help the swelling. Now tell me, child, what happened?”

Faelhen dropped one hand into her lap, the other still clenched tightly around the cloth, and she looked back down at her knees. “I was in a fight. With some boys.”

“I see.” An icy rage took hold in her gut, but she struggled to keep it at bay, at least until she had an answer to her next question. “Did they attack you first?”

“No, I…I hit one of them.” Adanel raised her eyebrows with some surprise. Faelhen looked up to meet Adanel’s gaze once more, earnest anger behind her eyes. “They were saying things about you, my lady, horrible things. Elros said you haven't a soul, that you don’t care about those Rangers we lost. I told them that wasn’t true, that you wanted to save them, but they called you an old cow. I just got so angry, I didn’t mean to…”

Adanel burst out laughing; she could not help it. Faelhen looked up at her, bewildered, and she covered her mouth with a hand, forcing herself to stifle her dreadful humor. “Oh, child. I have been called so much worse. We never do mean these things, do we?”

“Mama used to say it doesn’t matter what we mean,” Faelhen sniffed. “It only matters what we do.”

“And she was quite right.” Adanel sat beside Faelhen, and this time she took the girl’s small hand within her own, still cold from the ice. “Listen to me, Faelhen. Fights and scrapes are a part of youth, much as we like to pretend otherwise. But you cannot fight my battles for me." 

“Who will, then?” Faelhen cried.

“Captain Meldroch, Captain Dírhael—myself, to name a few.” Adanel smiled. “I may not look it, but I am perfectly capable of dealing with discontented grumblings. Indeed, sometimes it is better they are aired. Young Elros, for instance. His uncle is one of those missing, is he not? He has every right to lash out in his grief.”

“My father died a Ranger, too,” Faelhen muttered. “Mama never blamed it on you.”

Not aloud, at least, Adanel thought. “We all grieve in different ways. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is a bit of your own, too.” She smoothed out the tangles in Faelhen’s hair and wiped away a fresh tear that had fallen on her cheek.

“’Tis a hard thing, faced with sorrow we cannot name. Easier to dole out punches and harsh words. But I cannot have someone in my household rolling in the dirt in the Chieftain’s name. Do you understand?”

Faelhen’s lip trembled once more, but she nodded. “I’ll try, my lady.”

“I need you to do more than that,” Adanel said. “I need you to promise me no matter what you might hear, no matter what those boys or anyone else might say, you save your temper for behind these doors. Can you promise?”

Faelhen stared at her for a long time, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, and then she drew in a deep breath. “I promise.”  

“Good.” Adanel tucked another strand of hair behind Faelhen’s ear, and the two fell into silence.

“So,” Faelhen said, her voice tentative. “Are you still sending me back to Ivorwen?”

Adanel made a startled noise, and shook her head before she realized what she was doing.  “Merciful Eru, no. Much as it pains me, you’ve proven yourself quite useful. And I can’t leave Ivorwen to teach you Quenya. Her accent sounds like a Breelander speaking Dwarvish.”

Faelhen giggled a bit, and Adanel squeezed her hand. The girl leaned against her shoulder, a soft sigh shuddering through her, and Adanel sent a brief, silent prayer to Mandos, that he might deliver it to Lothiriel beyond the circles of the world. I will do right by your daughter, I swear. I am only sorry you cannot see her as she grows.