#sauronxoc

It was as the High Lord Councilor had said. Word was delivered by a runner in palace livery, by the early dawn. Rozêm accepted the message then ran, quietly, back through the house and up the stairs. He knocked at his uncle's study door. 

“My Lord,” he called softly, opening the door a hair's breadth. Hallatar sat before his desk, the candle before him long since melted to the stub. The man stared at a length of parchment, not reading it. His eyes were open but glazed, and deeply shadowed. 

“Uncle,” Rozêm said, stepping in. He came to the side of the desk and beheld Hallatar in the blue light of the window. 

Hallatar closed his eyes briefly. A long, slow lowering of his eyelids that carried the weight of the night with them. He looked to Rozêm, then to the message in his hand, stamped with the seal of the king's administrative offices. 

His hand rose and accepted the delivery. 

“Thank you, Rozêm,” Hallatar said, his voice a dry and clipped thing. 

Rozêm watched for a moment, hesitant to leave. “Shall I tell the runner he is to receive a reply?”

The lore master stared down at the wax seal; a single feather surrounded by two cresting waves. There was once a time where such a seal being delivered would have been an occasion for joy. 

But it was not so now. 

Hallatar breathed in then nodded stiffly. 

“Yes. Offer him our hospitality; I shall have his reply shortly.” 

Rozêm bowed at the waist then stepped away, one careful glance back before closing the study door behind him.  

Hallatar had not told his nephew or Delphêl what had happened the evening prior. There had been no time.

After returning, seeing to the horses, and ensuring Lorna was safely put to bed, Hallatar could not bring himself to wake his household so late in the night. 

When he had gathered enough strength, Hallatar ran his thumbs over the hard wax seal, then broke it with a soft pop. Within was a pristinely arranged letter. 

“Lord Hallatar,

By the invitation of King Ar-Pharazôn, ruler of men, Anadûnê, and the eastern shores of Middle-earth, it would please the offices of the High Lord Councilor that the woman under your care be brought to the House of Lore this day for the lady's benefit and for the realm's invested interest in unknown languages. She is to be received by the fifth bell. 

This invitation is sanctioned by the powers of the King and by the office of the High Lord Councilor.

As ever your servant, Azorath, Steward of the royal offices.”

The page was set down after one reading and not regarded again. For several moments Hallatar sat still and quiet, his fingers pressing against his eyes as though to blot out the memory of what he had read. 

He should refuse. He should have refused the moment the offer was made for her to return, the moment he realized who he had brought her to. There were a number of times he could have ended this. Yet by cowardice or foolish hope, he had not. He let her stay. He let her talk. 

The memory of the Councilor came, cold and sickening. Hallatar leaned back in his chair, letting the weight of him settle as his gaze traveled to the painted mural on the walls. There, ships and great mountains lived a life separate, and far away from where Hallatar lived. 

He recalled the day, fifty years ago, when word had come from Umbar, telling of Ar-Pharazôn's great victory. The merriment that followed was so momentous that it seemed Númenor could be no more triumphant. Yet, when vast sails returned to Rómenna and the truth of the victory was revealed, that their great King had returned bearing the Dark Lord Sauron as prize and prisoner, the joy had too soon run dry. 

His shoulders drew inward at the memory, the chair creaking as he did. 

And now, only fifty years on, the same hand that had served unknowable darkness and struck against drowned Beleriand was sending messages of invested interest under powers of office and crown. 

‘How short the memory of men,’ he thought. ‘What evil have I done? What evil shall I yet do, knowing that she needs the words, and I, the answers to them?’

Hallatar grieved his own inaction in those years of knowing, and seeing, and listening. He had no mercy for himself, or allowed justification for the time he had spent working and offering aid to the people of Númenor, saying nothing. His work spoke for itself for all he could do; his silence was a testament for all he could not do. 

He knew this to the bone. The knowing made nothing easier. 

But now his silence was tested with summons from the King's House, for a woman under his care that bore no family or known tongue. 

‘Her language is not identified. It is not a language spoken in Arda,’ the words of Zigûr came to him, unbidden and too sweet. 

But the sweetness soured to cold dread and colder suspicion. Who had Hallatar brought before Zigûr? 

His gray gaze traveled to the parchment he had written in days past, rolled and placed among his books and other scrolls. 

There was more written on those pages than the palace would have sanctioned, had they known. Eru was in the ink, and yet Hallatar had only seen glimpses of him and his designs. It wasn't enough to be certain of anything. 

To deny the invitation now would draw questions he could not answer; questions about what he had under his roof. Great danger would come to Lorna and his own household if he refused. 

But what more danger was there to her if he let this proceed? 

Hallatar considered his alternatives. None were favorable, or well-positioned for success. And even as he imagined what paths he would take, his mind saw the small woman, hopeful and renewed. 

Though she had been sick and beyond spent by the time they had returned last night, a great light shone in her eyes as though a candle were lit. 

Whatever had been said to her had kindled hope. And should Hallatar go to her, make plain she was not to see Zigûr again… he could not bear her torment. 

Around his neck now hung the suspicion of her significance, the safety of his house, the woman herself, and what refusal would do to her; all of it bringing him straight to the depths.

His gaze returned to the message upon the desk. The parchment was yellowed and ill-looking. 

‘If good can yet come of this, let it be in my strength to offer and guard.’

He drew forth fresh parchment, took up the quill, and wrote. 

‘Azorath, Steward of the royal offices. 

I thank you for relaying the invitation from our great King and his Councilor. Please know that my guest and I shall come at the appointed time and place. 

We await the meeting with great gladness and shared interest in the benefit of the lady. 

I wish peace upon you and your households. 

Forever loyal, Lord Hallatar, son of Zuratar.’

The response was written, sealed, and sent before the sun had risen over the Meneltarma. 

It was done. The little or great evil he had committed to for the hope of greater good to come was done. 

Hallatar remained in his study until deepening sunlight cast rainbows across the main floor. By then he was dressed for riding, sliding on his gloves as though a spider might reside within. 

Each step down weighed heavier on his shoulders than the last, eventually bringing him to the main floor. His shadow bent across the floor as he came to the library door.  

‘She will be within, asleep perhaps, or still ill,’ he thought, recalling how grave she had looked when he set her on Zîyan. He did not know the cause, and in many ways there had been no need to know. 

A part of him wished that, despite himself, she would still look ill and withdrawn. That perhaps the night had revealed to her the truth of her meeting with Zigûr and she would not want to return. Such was possible. 

Yet when he opened the doors to call for her, he found her couch empty. A dropping sensation filled his gut and his gaze hardened. Since Lorna had begun sleeping there, this was the first time she had not been on the couch when he arrived. 

“Lorna…” he called, stepping through the door. When no reply came, he turned and searched the main floor. 

An interior panic took him as he went from the receiving chamber to the dining hall, even looking through the front windows to be certain she wasn't out there. 

Yet, when he found her, she was in the kitchen, with Rozêm and Delphêl, a knife in one bandaged hand and a helpless turnip in the other. 

He froze at the entryway, a breath held between his teeth, silent as he watched. 

“So, you hold the turnip like this,” Lorna said in her tongue. “Then you put the knife along the side while making sure your fingers are curled in, like this. Keep your elbows in and cut slowly.” 

Lorna began cutting the turnip in slices, then turned them and cut perfect squares. 

“Like that.” 

Rozêm and Delphêl hummed, then began chopping their own vegetables.  

“Sikil-mag izrê.”

‘Pretty knife work.’ Delphêl said, but she found the ease Lorna had demonstrated was not so easily repeated. 

Delphêl had prepared various vegetables for that day's lunch, all washed and cut as normal. But there was a pile of chopped carrots that were not prepared as Delphêl usually made them. They were perfectly square and small. 

Lorna took her knife, cleaned it on a cloth, and watched Rozêm struggle to get his fingertips under his knuckles. 

“You'll chop your finger off like that,” she said, her voice soft and a little amused. Lorna reached, placed her wrapped hand over his, then tucked his fingers in with gentle pressure. 

“Cut slowly, fingers in. There you go!” 

Rozêm cut his turnip with a smile then laughed as though she had shown him some grand trick. Delphêl huffed in amusement at his easy joy. 

Hallatar swallowed what panic had taken him and forced it into his gut where it waited. He then came into the larder and beheld Lorna's tutoring. 

He had not known, or had the moment to consider, that the woman had skills. Not that she was incapable of such things, the thought had simply never occurred to him given her grave otherness. 

Quietly, he adjusted his obliviousness to her potential capabilities and admired them. 

‘Perhaps she was a scullion for her people,’ he thought. 

When Lorna saw him beside his nephew, she placed the knife down and offered him a different smile. It was quieter, familiar, the smallest question at the corners. 

Hallatar inclined his head to her, mirroring her expression. 

She looked well. Her hair was brushed, her day clothes were on, and the same light he had seen in her gaze still burned there. Unsnuffed. 

Rozêm looked back to his uncle. 

"Sîrân ûri-îdô, bâr hê-an. Nakhân Lorna ûri-dalad azul. Saphad-dâ sî hê sikil-mag sî.”

‘Good morning, my Lord. Lorna has risen early. She was showing me her knife work.’ Rozêm said. 

Hallatar reached and held up one of Rozêm's attempts at cutting.

“Saphad hê. Kâlâd.”

‘So I see. That is good.’

Hallatar returned the piece to the table then raised his gaze to Lorna again. She had not stopped watching him. 

Hallatar drew in a slow breath through his nostrils, bearing the weight of her eyes and the question that was in them. 

“Lorna,” he said.

She blinked, then nodded in three quick beats, no hesitation in her. 

He betrayed himself and smiled. Then with the same gesture he made yesterday morning, he mimicked a horse and raised one fist. 

Without a word, she left the table, abandoning the knife and vegetables, then going straight up the stairs to her room. It was the fastest anyone had seen her move. 

Rozêm and Delphêl froze in place, both looking to Hallatar with wide, searching eyes. 

“Where are you riding to, my Lord?” Delphêl asked.

Hallatar brought his hand to his mouth and held it, as though pained. He stood there a moment, eyes closing before he could bear to move again. 

“I must speak with you both,” he said, voice weary to a whisper. The smile he had given Lorna was gone and replaced by the colder truth of his grief. 

Lorna was not long upstairs. She returned with her cloak on and riding boots on, hair pulled back with a simple ribbon, and gloves in hand. She found Hallatar, Rozêm and Delphêl in the kitchen where she had left them. Only, Rozêm was pale as he faced Hallatar, and Delphêl had hidden her face behind her hands completely. 

 Lorna stopped at the entry way, lowering her head. 

‘What happened…?’ she thought, uncertain whether to come forward or stand there. 

Rozêm saw her and tried to replace his expression with something softer, but failed. Delphêl did not look at her at all. 

Hallatar turned toward her, his smile more believable than Rozêm's. He extended a hand to her shoulder, nodded, then made the horse gesture. Lorna nodded, but glanced back to the others before following Hallatar to the front door. 

As it was the day before, Hallatar and Lorna rode from his home on the fourth tier of Armenelos, up the paths of the city to the main road, and then to the highest tier. 

Lorna's thighs were not as sore as they had been yesterday, and her demeanor was greatly improved, despite sleeping poorly the night before. 

Her stomach ached and her mind was alight with the memory of English. Blessed, sweet English. All night she tossed and turned between the memory of one word and then another. 

‘Help me. Understand. See you tomorrow,’ she recalled Zigûr's voice. 

The implications were mind wrenching. She had found someone who could not only understand her but speak to her. Lorna didn't question how or why that was possible, not now, not while the thrill of it was in her blood. 

She had been up all night with those words and the memory of what his presence felt like. 

The terrible anxiety of being next to him was not forgotten. At worst, she was exhausted and at the end of her patience when she had seen him. Her mind and body were so overwhelmed by all that had happened that she couldn't handle meeting someone new. At best, he was simply so strange in appearance that she had frightened herself. 

She accepted both options as the truth. 

When sunlight finally crept through the library window, she rose, dressed and waited for Hallatar. Lorna paced, read the markings on scrolls and books without reading them, and stared at the silver tree through the windows. 

She didn't even know when she would be allowed to return to see Zigûr, only that it would be today. If he understood her then maybe, just maybe, he could help her get back home. He had said he would try. 

When Lorna heard Delphêl in the kitchen, she went out and made use of her pent-up energy. It had been over a week since she held a proper kitchen knife or prepared a meal. Small things like cooking for herself, getting to the restaurant for work, or doing the dishes had been so trivial and ordinary. 

Lorna missed the ordinary. 

She wondered how long it would take to return to her slice of normal.

After riding for a quarter hour they came, at last, to the copper library in the top tier of the city. Lorna gripped the reins and watched as the greenish doors came closer through the garden plots. 

Before they reached the horse hitch, Zîyan made a high-pitched whinny and yanked her head back. Lorna yelped and jerked away, letting go of the reins at once. 

“What's wrong?!” she gasped. 

Alvôtin snorted loudly beside Zîyan, stamping his hooves upon the cobbles as though a snake were beneath him. 

“Whoa!” Hallatar called, dismounting at once. He came to his stallion's front, taking the reins and speaking quietly. The horse flicked his ears back, pawing at the stones with thunderous smacks and grunted. 

Zîyan paced in place, unable to keep still as she waved her head from side to side. Lorna sat in the saddle like a puppet with its strings cut, clueless on what to do, or what was happening. 

Hallatar, one hand still on Alvôtin's reins, reached out and held Zîyan’s muzzle. 

“Shh…” he hushed, calm rolling off him like fog over a mountain. The mare thrust her nose into Hallatar's chest as Alvôtin pressed his forehead into the man's shoulder. 

"Saphad hê. Kadô kan ki izindi-hê îdô. Zâir hê.”

‘I know. But you must trust me now. Please.’ he spoke, low and careful. The large, brown gaze of the mare bore into him. Her tail swished in fierce swipes, and her ears were back flat. 

Lorna watched, feeling useless as Hallatar brought both horses close and calmed them. 

“I'm sorry…” she said quietly, then brought her hands forward to pet Zîyan's neck. The horse sighed through her nostrils, a nikker puffing from her lips. 

Hallatar ensured the two were calm and encouraged them to follow him until they decided to move on their own. Alvôtin bit Hallatar's shoulder, nothing that tore fabric, but there was certainly intent.

Lorna looked down on Hallatar, expecting  him to scold her for upsetting the horses, but he never did. 

Once he tied off the reins to the hitch, Hallatar turned, offered his hands to her then helped her down from the saddle. He gave her the same reassuring smile, shrugged his shoulders, then held her hand. 

Lorna blinked, and then returned the smile as she took his hand. She kept one eye on him as they climbed the steps to the copper doors, just to be sure she caught if he was upset.  

Once inside, Hallatar did not seek attendants or guide her along the side aisles. He walked straight through towering bookshelves. The dim lamp light casting strange shadows about them until daylight from high windows shone across their faces. 

Within the center of the house, under the domed ceiling, the dark bookshelves circled around the inner perimeter. 

The lecterns and slanted drafting desks of the attendants here were aligned north, south, east and west of the center; allowing easy access to guests and stewards. Here the sunlight gathered, illuminating the couches and low tables. Upon one such couch lounged a very tall man reading a book. 

Lorna's stomach twisted, her hands squeezed, and her heart skipped a beat. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron and kept going. 

Upon the low table, before the occupied lecti, much had been brought. Fruit of various types, meat, cheese, wine, water, a type of cream. It wasn't decadent but it was certainly welcoming. 

Hallatar stood before the low table, his expression composed. 

“Bâr Zigûr,” Hallatar greeted, bowing at the waist. Lorna glanced at him once, then copied the bow awkwardly. The barest crinkle at the corner of Hallatar's eyes betrayed his approval.

The High Lord Councilor's head tilted. He then closed his book and placed it upon his lap, his fingers draped upon the cover. 

Zigûr wore a pleasant expression that was framed by thick, curly honey-blonde hair. The hair was braided up and back along his skull and adorned with one iron circlet at his brow. His garment was a long-sleeve robe that had been trimmed at the wrist, exposing dark brass bracelets. The robes were layered, darker shades of burgundy speckled with gold cascaded across him, gathered at the waist by an iron belt of chain and beaten brass. A sash the color of smashed berries was tied under the belt, its length flowing down and across the lower robes. 

A sensation of slow suffocation and hopeful need to speak came over her. But Lorna quickly suppressed both. 

Zigûr raised his hand in greeting, the bracelets tinkling softly at his wrist. 

"Sîrân ûri-satta, Bâr Hallatar. Batân ki sîlû-mâ mag-ân, saphad hê.”

‘Good afternoon, Lord Hallatar. I trust your journey was uneventful,’ Zigûr said. 

Hallatar inclined his head fully.  

"Batân sîrân kadô izrê, bârim, bâr hê-an. Ûri-dâur izrê pharaz.”

‘Uneventful and enjoyable, thank you, my Lord. The weather is most pleasant.’

“Kâda.”

‘Indeed,’ Zigûr hummed, then motioned for them to sit on the lecti across from him. As they sat, he took up the carafe of wine and poured a cup each. Hallatar took the cup but did not immediately drink; Lorna did the same. 

"Saphad hê burôda ki, bâr hê-an. Zâir hê bâ-dulgu bat ki hê-ada. Izindi-zâir: bâ mag hê dulgu-u ki-ada.”

‘You look weary, my Lord. I hope coming to see me has not troubled you. Please be assured that I intend no dismay upon you.’

Zigûr said as he placed the carafe back upon the table silently.

Hallatar smiled.

"Bâ-u kâlâd, Bâr-Saphad-ân. Izindi hê. Kan hê abâr-saphad ganâd hê lômi-azal satta. Kâlâd-u sî nîk-mâ.”

‘Not at all, my Lord Councilor. Please excuse me. I merely kept a careful vigil over my guest last night. Her health is delicate.’

"Saphad hê. Zabathân-pharaz ki abâr sî-ada, Bâr hê-an. Zîr-pharaz sî azal du mag ki kâlâd. Bêth hê, sî bâ-kâlâd-an?”

‘I see. You are most diligent in your care for her, my Lord. She is surely grateful for all you have done. Tell me, is she unwell?’

"Kâlâd-an sî, bâr hê-an. Nîk-dulgu satta mag-ân sî. Îdô kâlâd-azal sî, abâr sî-an du.”

‘She is well, my Lord. Merely a mild illness. She is recovered now, of her own strength.’ 

"Bârim pharaz. Abâr ki bârim azal. Sî izindi-pharaz saphad-ân. Du ki-pâ hê bêth sî-mâ, bâr hê-an? Zabathân-pharaz sî mag-ân.”

‘Excellent. Again, your care is to be praised. She seems most resilient. May I have your leave then to speak with her, my Lord? She has been very patient.’

Hallatar inclined his head in reply. 

Zigûr returned the bow then looked at Lorna. 

“Hi,” she blurted, brows raised, a half smile on her face. “It's good to see you again.” Her ears burned, her back was damp from sweating, and her stomach knotted into cramps. But none of that mattered, not if she could hear him speak English again.  

“Hi. It is good to see you, Lorna,” he replied. His speech was still halting and the accent lingered at the end of some words. But he had it. He actually had it! 

Her half smile became an ear-to-ear grin. Zigûr reflected the grin back to her. 

“Please,” he gestured to the table. “Eat. I have many words to understand.” 

Lorna nodded. 

“Yes. Thank you, I appreciate that.”

She looked once at the table, then back to him. There were many items of food she would have wished to eat but her mouth couldn't hold anything but words. 

“I want to talk to you. There is so much I need to say and figure out. And, I don't even know where to begin. It's alot.” 

“I understand,” he said. “There are many things to talk about. Much time. First, can we talk small? Talk about you?”

Lorna processed his words as though he had paid her the highest compliment.

“Yeah, sure. We can do that,” she said, then thought about what she wanted to say, because if she didn't think first, too much would be blurted out at once. 

“You already know my name. You know I'm not from here, I grew up in a small town called Creek-dell. I live in a trailer there and have a job as a line chef.”

Zigûr raised a finger from his lap. Her words stopped instantly. 

“Line chef, what is it?” he asked. 

“Oh, it's a person who cooks food for people. I cook, make food.” Lorna gestured with her hands the motion of cutting and eating. 

Zigûr followed her gestures then nodded once. “Line chef,” he affirmed. 

“Yes.” 

She was relieved at how easy it was to speak with him. Many of the smaller forms of vocabulary and general sentences he already had. But there were hundreds if not thousands of words that she would have to explain to him as she talked. 

And, in truth, Lorna was happy to. The act of teaching was comforting. Sharing what she knew in a world she didn't know made the not knowing a little more bearable. 

And so, she talked with Zigûr, telling him about her life and the things in it. That conversation became about the world she lived in and its vast differences. And then that became explaining how electricity worked, what cars were, and why it was necessary to adjust the antenna on her roof for watching television.  

Lorna was not an encyclopedia on the modern day of Earth, but she explained as much as she could in a way that someone who didn't understand may grasp. 

The mid-day gold of high windows lengthened as she talked. Robed attendants of the house came and went. One visitor in fine apparel retrieved several books, and then was gone. Eventually, as early evening settled into shades of lavender; only she, Hallatar and Zigûr remained. 

Lorna was on her feet, pacing between the couch and low table, a plum between her fingers. The initial anxiety and dread of just being there was not gone, but was dulled into something managed and almost forgotten. Almost. 

“My favorite episode was the one where she showed us how to cook the duck,” Lorna explained. 

Zigûr was upon the lecti, a cup of wine in hand as he watched her walk and talk from left to right. Hallatar remained where he had sat, his cup hardly touched, his gaze lowered upon its silver rim. 

Lorna raised her hand holding the plum, and motioned as though slicing the air. 

“I was always nervous about cutting, especially when it came to meat. But the show really helped me confront that fear and be more comfortable with knives.”

“How old were you?” Zigûr asked, his halting had altogether ceased and his questions had smoothed completely. The accent was gone. 

“Seven.” She smiled, then took another bite of plum before looking at the low table again. “I wasn't good until around ten. But things really picked up in high school when I got into culinary classes.”

“Does every child go to high school?” Zigûr asked, then took a sip of wine. 

Lorna bobbed her head as she selected a piece of what looked like flat bread off the table. 

“Mostly. I went to a public school, you don't have to pay for that, so anyone can go. But there are schools you need to pay for if you want a fancy education.”

“Your family didn't want a fancy education for you?” 

Lorna shrugged. “It's less about want and more about not being able to afford it.”

“Ah,” Zigûr hummed. “How did they make their money?”

“Mom was a cashier sometimes, and dad was a courthouse clerk.” She didn't elaborate. 

“And those jobs don't make good money?” He asked.

“I think having five kids was the issue.” She smiled, the grin not reaching her eyes. “Kinda puts a damper on the finances.” 

“I see,” Zigûr said. 

Lorna nodded and bit into her bread. She chewed in silence for a moment then paced again. Her gaze was far and away to some unknown place, grazing by an uncomfortable memory that was long rooted within her. After a moment of being in her own head, she looked up at him, and raised her brows as if recalling something important. 

“I don't mean to be rude.” She began softly. “But I have to ask you something.” 

Zigûr lifted his chin toward her, a curious delight warming his expression.

“It isn't rude to ask questions. I have been asking a lot of things this whole time. It's only fair if you ask me something," he said. “What is it?”

She nodded then came to sit on the couch beside Hallatar. The lore master blinked, a bit drowsily, then offered her a small smile that she returned. 

Once assured Hallatar was well, Lorna spoke, bringing her attention back to Zigûr. 

“I have never seen anyone with ears like yours before. With pointy tips.” She gestured to her own rounded ears. “I just want to know if there are more people with ears like that?”

Zigûr blinked slowly, not appearing insulted but rather intrigued. He raised two fingers to the curve of his left ear, showing her that tapered edge.

“No one on Earth has ears like this?” 

She shook her head. “No, no one. Everyone back home has round ears like me.” 

He seemed to consider that with some surprise. 

“...That is very interesting. To answer your question, there are other people with these ears, though you will not find them in Númenor. They are called nimrû-an. I do not know the word for that phrase in your language. But it means beautiful people who live across the sea. I am the only one here with these ears.” 

Lorna leaned back slightly, hands going to her knees. 

“Oh. So…” she took a moment to consider her next words, uncertain of how to ask the burning question in her mind. 

“I don't know how to say this without being up front, but are you… human?” She pressed her lips together once, hating her own voice. “I'm not trying to say you aren't human because your ears are different. I just don't know if pointed ears are a genetic thing or… a different kind of people thing…” her words trailed off into silence. 

Zigûr smiled, gently. “No,” he said. 

Lorna froze, ears burning. 

‘So… he isn't human.’ 

The thought should have horrified her. He wasn't human. Non-humans were a thing in this place. What did that mean about her, humanity, evolution, the universe?

She put a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath. Her brain only had room to process so much information at a time and decided to scale her own horror down. 

“So, are you a nim…rû-an?” she asked, lowering her hand. 

Zigûr's smile warmed. “No. I am your friend, and a guide to the king.”

Lorna watched him for anything else that he would say on the matter but he didn't. She wondered if he was confused about the question or didn't understand. But he did not continue and she didn't press. If she could avoid upsetting, or insulting him then she would. 

He seemed unbothered by her or her question though, and reached for the wine carafe to fill his cup again. The low burn of his amber eyes rose just once. Across from him Lord Hallatar's head was propped on his fist, eyes closed. The man's spirit was weary, his mind heavy and so willing to rest. He did not snore, make a sound, or move.  

Zigûr reclined, cup in hand, and returned his attention to her fully. As though the sleeping man and his silence was as he had intended. 

“I want to ask another question,” Zigûr continued, drawing her attention from a piece of cheese she was eyeing. 

Lorna looked up and nodded.

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

“I want to talk about how you came here from Earth.” Lorna's eyes widened a fraction, her body going still. 

“Yesterday, you said you had fallen into Arda near a city. That was good but I would like to know more about how that happened. Can you tell me everything before, during, and after the fall?”

Lorna exhaled from her nostrils, closing her eyes at the name of this world, as if that would lessen the weight of it. She set her piece of bread down, then looked at her lap. Her fingers tugged on the bandages around her hands. 

“Yeah, okay.”

Zigûr inclined his head and drank from his cup. Listening. 

“I was in my trailer, getting ready for work at the restaurant,” she began. “I washed my face, got dressed, and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. While I was there, I heard…” she stopped speaking, staring down at her hands as though they were the source of her grief. She remembered the moment, the sound, fearful of what remembering could do. 

‘Not again,’ she thought. 

“What did you hear?” Zigûr asked, so softly she almost didn't hear him. Her breath caught in her throat as she blinked rapidly, not realizing she had begun to cry.

“I heard a sound in my living room. I followed it. And then… I fell,” she hiccuped, looking from her hands, to his knees, to the floor, to her hands again. 

Zigûr spoke behind his raised cup. 

“The sound, what was it?”

Lorna shook her head. “I don't know. It wasn't even a sound, it was like- a feeling. A memory. I can't explain it.”

“Try, Lorna,” he cooed. “Try.”

She huffed, exhausted and strained. 

“It was beautiful, clear, and calming. I wanted to remember it, try to sing it back, or something stupid like that.”

Lorna's hands ran across her face and down her neck. She rubbed away tears and sniffled, buying time to think. 

“It felt like- like nostalgia. All I wanted to do was cook, bake and be with people I love. So, I sat,” she raised her arms and motioned. “And I listened for a while. I don't know how long or what I actually did. The feeling was so strong that I just stayed in it.” 

Her hands went to her sternum. Zigûr looked at them. 

“I remember being warm and feeling so good, and then…” her fingers tightened at her chest. “I fell.”

He sat very still across from her, only his eyes betraying the smallest movements. 

“The sound,” he said. “Have you heard it before on Earth?”

“No,” she breathed. 

“Are there others on Earth who have heard the sound?” 

“I don't think so.”

“Was this the first time you had experienced something like that? The… nostalgia and wanting to make?” 

“No, not like this.” 

He considered her and ran his thumbs along the rim of his cup, as though the answers were a scratch away. Lorna continued to talk, the urge to spill everything she could think of growing with her recollection.  

“A few days ago I was in my room at Hallatar's house. I tried to remember the sound again and… this is fucking crazy, when I remembered, I heard myself,” she said, looking at him fiercely. 

“I heard my own blood in my body, I could see it. I saw my bed, I knew what kind of feathers were in my mattress. The kind of wood the frame was made of, what tree it came from, where it grew.” 

“As if you could hear and see everything,” Zigûr said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. 

Her mouth hung open and trembling. 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

Zigûr held his cup, the vessel looking tiny in his hands as he held her gaze. She couldn't guess what he was thinking. His face was so completely neutral that she struggled to look at him; desperate for a reaction. 

“When you saw everything, was this the same day that Athzúng came to visit?” he asked casually. 

“Yes.”

Zigûr's head tilted the barest angle, his jaw tightening in a way she almost missed. He then placed his cup aside without a sound and stood. Lorna inhaled as his shadow passed over her face and extended from his body. He walked away a few steps, his back to her, facing the high dark windows. 

He was far taller than she was ready to process, and moved so easily that he may as well have floated away. 

‘What did I do? Did I upset him…?’ She thought. He breathed once, Lorna watched him as his hands lowered to his sides and remained there.

When he finally turned to face her there was nothing of anger, fear or disbelief on his face, nothing except concern or careful uncertainty. Lorna leaned back a little further, she couldn't help it. He was far too tall, far too other in appearance and presence that a part of her wanted to hide. 

She ignored the urge. 

“I am sorry. I don't mean to scare you,” he said, coming back toward his side of the table. “What you have described, what you have experienced is not what I was expecting.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked up at him. 

“Do you… know what it is?” she asked. 

“Perhaps,” he said, quiet and calm. “Are you able to make the sound with your throat?” he asked, then pressed his fingertips to his neck. 

“No.” She shook her head. “I can't. I tried once but… it sounded awful.”

He nodded, expecting that answer, like he understood. 

“How did you hear the sound? What did you do to feel it?”

Lorna gripped the couch's edge and hunched her shoulders.

“I just remembered how it made me feel. Here.” She pointed to her chest, right over her sternum. “It was like knowing how to move my hand or how to breathe.”

She watched him for any sign that he understood. He gave none. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

Zigûr observed her hands at her chest for a long moment before speaking again. “There is a material that holds the shape of everything,” he began. “And some people are able to hear it, see it, and use it.” 

The pallor of her skin became an ashen pale. 

“What does that mean?”

“I mean that there is an aspect of existence that can be interacted with by some. But I don't know what that means for you,” he said. “Your people are not supposed to hear it.” 

“People from Earth?” she asked. 

“People who can die,” he corrected. 

Lorna felt all the air leave her lungs without permission. She was silent for a long while, just remembering how to breathe again before she asked another question. 

“Very few can hear what you have heard, Lorna. It is not common.”

Lorna grimaced bitterly. 

“Okay. What does that even mean? Why can I hear it then? I don't want to hear anything, I just want to go home.”

Her hands shook and went to her forehead as more tears fell. “Can you hear it?”

Zigûr was silent for a moment more, allowing his eyes to lift from her chest to her face.

“Yes, I can hear it. The music.” 

Her head snapped upward so quickly that tears flew from her chin. The question of if he can die, or what he even was didn't cross her exhausted mind. 

“You can?”

Zigûr nodded. “Can you tell me what to do? Is it dangerous?” 

“I don't know. This has never happened before, that I know of. The best thing you can do is not panic,” he said, simply. “I want to help you. I think I can help you. But to do that I need to know more.” 

“Whatever you want,” she said, immediately getting to her feet and pacing again. “Just, please. Whatever it is, music or seeing things, I don't want it.”

“I understand, Lorna, I do. Calm down first. Breathe,” he said, coming toward her carefully. She tried to force several deep breaths but his towering height made that difficult somehow.

“I want to help, but I have to know if what you are describing is true,” he continued. 

Lorna sniffled harshly and glared at him with wide, red eyes. 

“You don't believe me?” she asked, her tone desperate. 

He raised a hand and motioned for calm. 

“I believe you have experienced something profound. I believe you are scared, that you know things you shouldn't, and a lot has happened you can't explain. But to be certain, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” she said.

He nodded and then said, “I need you to remember what you heard exactly as you had the other day and before you fell. I need you to hear it again.”

Lorna exhaled a near sob. Her hands went to her abdomen, tears falling from her face as she shook her head.

“I… I don't want to do that. I can't. I'm scared I'll see too much or fall again.”

“I know,” he breathed, leaning toward her, his shadow falling over her completely. “I am asking a lot. But I need to know in order to help you. Then maybe I can use what I learn to get you home.”

Lorna's breathing caught. 

“You think this music can bring me back?”

“It is possible. If it brought you here, then perhaps we can discover how and why. But you must show me, then I will know.”

Lorna lowered her gaze from his, looking anywhere that wasn't unfamiliar so she could think. The task was impossible. 

“I don't want to fall again,” she whispered. 

He nodded and lifted his fingers, mid-air, drawing her attention to him. 

“I don't either. Let me help you. I'll be here to guide you. I won't let you fall.”

She stared at him, watching the strangeness in his eyes stare back. Lorna didn't know him, could hardly say his name, let alone know what he was. He wasn't even human. But he was here, offering to help her, seeming the only one who possibly could. 

“You promise?” she asked, voice hoarse. 

“I promise, Lorna.”

Zigûr extended his hand, the same plain golden ring on his finger glinting in low lamp light. She looked at it. 

‘You have no other options, no one else can speak to you or help you right now. This is the only way,’ she thought. 

Lorna bit the inside of her cheek, coughed on her own wet breath, then shut her eyes tightly. 

“Okay.”

She reached forward, took his hand, and gripped. His palm was very warm, and far too large, but grounding; like an anchor. 

Lorna forced herself to take several deep breaths and imagined holding onto a bright, warm rope in the middle of a black ocean. She held firmly, his fingers curled around her hand like rigging. 

Only when her hand met his did Zigûr behold the substance within her. His sight was far-reaching, but could not easily pierce flesh and see all that was hidden. Now however, he saw. 

There, within her, as ink may run through water, the tune was held. A foundational, underlying note that ran beneath the more elaborate chords of creation, but it was pure. A single note of the Ainulindalë. 

He could not have perceived it within her without touch, even at this distance. But it was the same resonance he had heard from Rómenna and in Hallatar's home. 

The resonance had come from her. 

The cold rage that seethed throughout his being ate at the edges of him. Such was an insult that had not been experienced in many long years. The insult was not her, not her mortality, or her existence. But that here, before him, in his grasp was something not of his knowing or understanding.

A thing Eru had placed or wrought in secret. 

Such was the greatest blasphemy against all that was sung into being. That the Ainulindalë, the music only he, his kin, and the Valar could weave was within a mortal not even of this weaving. 

There was no word in all the old tongues, elvish, or of man that could name this betrayal. 

Yet nothing of this inner rage or hate for what had been done was seen. He held her hand with the gentlest pressure, his eyes closed, and his expression calm, even tranquil. 

Yet, in his malice, he unfurled his own thread of will through the music toward her. It was not a chord he expected her to perceive, given her claimed ignorance. Yet with it he could press and prod her awareness and experience the tune as she recalled it. 

When Lorna had calmed, her breathing deepened, and her heartbeat slowed; the grip she had on his hand loosened but did not release. She exhaled from her nostrils, last blades of distress drawing from her mind. 

And there, within her, the tune resonated. She need not open her mouth to sing, or speak. Lorna merely sought the place where the chord lay and allowed it to sound. 

Through her being, and in turn, through him, the resonance thrummed. Waves traveled through all that was creation, awakening their own threads, and singing. All rang in the truest chord of their making, each in tune with one another. As it was to be. 

The only chord that sang on its own, whose harmony was its own thrum, was Zigûr's. Where the threads of creation rang as clean chime, his dragged over the threads in a long, low glissando. 

Zigûr knew his own melody. It was his in essence, and nothing of it bore shame or regret. His was singular. A chord that, given time, would weave across all and tune creation to sing in harmony with him. 

‘And so, it is revealed to me,’ he thought. 

Now the disturbance in the Ainulindalë was discovered, this lost woman from another world. But in the knowing, more uncertainties and questions were uncovered. And he was not satisfied. 

Zigûr opened his physical gaze, seeing her before him, unaware and peaceful. 

He recalled, in the untouched places within himself, that the tune she carried was one he had heard before. It had been a different age, when he bore a different name. Zigûr dwelt in the recollection for a brief moment, assessing the quality of the chord. He knew what she held was a piece of the music he could never sing again. 

Such gifts had been lost to him since he turned from great forges and smithies of the elder master's house. Ever on with Morgoth, Sauron had only corrupted and twisted, unable to truly create as he once did. 

Yet now, sitting there in utter ignorance, was a thing harboring what he had lost. The essence of creation.

The memory was beautiful, true, and long since buried in him. 

Zigûr knew his will. He sent forth his music, terrible as molten earth over glass and sought to take. If he could ensnare what she carried, reconduct the harmony to serve him, then what was lost might be regained. 

He wove will that slid across the waves of creation, displacing the harmony, changing the tempo completely.

Zigûr did not smile, he did not laugh or revel against great Eru. He merely reached through gliding threads, ready to weave himself a new chord in the music.

Such was his right. 

Yet, when his will's resonance rolled over hers, intending to dominate the melody, the ripples recoiled. 

The music within her withdrew, the fundamental melody echoing out and away returned in an instant. Zigûr was then pushed back by the recoil and Lorna was thrust down against the table. Food and drink scattered beneath her like a defiled altar. 

All the lit oil-jars and candles of the library were gutted and smoking, though no wind had risen to smother them. The house fell into darkness. 

Lorna gasped, her eyes shut tightly as her body curled inward, and trembled violently. A long, shrill cry escaped her lips once before she went completely silent. 

Zigûr recovered his balance and rose to his feet again. The sheer height of his frame leaned over her like a tree bent in bitter winter, his eyes bright in the dark. 

He did not call her name or panic. He heard her heart beating and her breath was rapid but consistent. She was not dead or dying. Though such was secondary. Instead of tending to her he raised his hand and pressed his fingertips over her chest. 

‘It is still there…’ He thought, quiet and soft. 

His first instinct had been that the music was broken or scattered. That he had misjudged himself and moved in haste against the little music that was in her. But no, he had not misjudged himself, only underestimated the quality of what she held. 

The music had rejected him. 

The sensation that came over him was not anger at being thwarted. No. The material he had hoped to procure was made of more sturdy metal than he had perceived. Such was not a flaw, but a feature of a great work to be made. 

His gaze lifted from her chest to her face. She was in pain, grave pain, and unconscious. Various fruits and nuts were strewn about her. Red wine had spilt, bleeding across the table and through her hair. 

He observed her for any further reaction or stirring in the music but none came. He leaned forward then, hovering over her. 

‘This is my inheritance, my right to creation.’

He raised his arms as though to gather wine, fruit and woman to him. Yet, before he could collect, a hand seized his shoulder and drew him back. Zigûr pulled back but moved only an inch and no more. 

Hallatar had come and stood over Lorna on the table, his hands holding her face. 

“Lorna… Lorna?!” The lore master called. “W-what have you done?” His voice was loud and rough, just snatched from sleep, and fighting for control. 

Zigûr cooled the brightness in his eyes, blinking before stepping forward. He watched as Hallatar fretted over the woman, checking her forehead and pulse. 

The Lord Councilor spoke to Hallatar in crisp Adûnaic.

“My Lord Hallatar, the lady is ill. A great panic came over her that I could not prevent. She collapsed upon the table.”

Zigûr placed a long hand over the man's shoulder, the expression of concern and even fright on his face. Hallatar stepped away from the touch, making a sound he did not regret. He then pulled Lorna into his arms and off the table. Wine and fruit fell from her hair like blood. 

Hallatar turned, no longer acknowledging Zigûr. He had every intention of leaving at once and getting Lorna to safety. But the long arm of the High Lord Councilor grasped his shoulder once more. 

“Peace, my Lord,” Zigûr spoke, his voice calm but instructive. “The infirmary will receive her. Walk with me and we will assure she is attended to, together.”

Hallatar forced his shoulder free and kept walking. But as he went, the voice of Zigûr followed. 

“You are concerned for her, you are frightened, that is understandable,” Zigûr said. “Be reasonable, she is in pain. Please, come with me, let us help her.”

The lore master carried her through the aisles and back to the copper doors. Hallatar pushed them open with his shoulder and carried her out; she seemed to weigh nothing in his arms. 

Zigûr followed him through the doors and down the steps of the house. 

“My Lord, you are turning your fear against her.” 

Hallatar ignored him, holding Lorna close. He rounded the side of the house to the waiting horses. 

“Hallatar,” Zigûr called. 

The lore master did not look back. 

“Put her down.” 

Zigûr reached and took the man's shoulder once more. Hallatar yelled out and wrenched himself away, pulling back, keeping Lorna from Zigûr's reach. 

“No!” Hallatar asserted. “Hear me. This woman is a guest in my house, under my care. I know not what you have done to her. You will not be permitted to do it again.”

Zigûr stood in full moonlight, bringing his hands up as though offering, or waiting to receive. 

“You are being unwise, Hallatar. She needs aid, yet you deny her for fear that I have harmed her. I have not. Set aside your panic, let the palace physician tend to her. No other care in the city is finer and the wing is not far.”

He came toward Hallatar, arms out, imploring. Before Hallatar could reply or move, the clattering of hooves ran up to meet them. Zîyan and Alvôtin broke their reins from the hitch and had come to Hallatar. Alvôtin screamed and reared up, thrusting one hoof outward toward Zigûr. The Councilor did not retreat or blink, even as the hoof came within inches of his face. 

Zîyan stood by Hallatar who was hoisting Lorna into the saddle. He had to place her on her stomach before swinging his leg over, then pulled her against him, ensuring she was upright. 

Zigûr watched, standing where he was, grave concern upon his expression.  

“You are unwise in this, my Lord.” he said, his voice gentle despite the furious, kicking stallion before him.

Atop Zîyan, Hallatar took what was left of the reins with one hand and supported Lorna with the other. She was still unconscious, wine sliding down her face and neck.  

He looked down to the Lord Councilor, not giving ground or the woman to the thing under moon light. 

“Call it what you will, I will not dwell here and risk further evil be done to her. Do not call upon her, or my house. This matter is closed, Lord Councilor.”

At this Hallatar nodded to Zîyan who bore them away at once. Alvôtin stamped his hooves at the Lord Councilor, snapped his ear back, then ran after his master and stable mate with great speed. 

Zigûr did not run after them or call out. He watched until the horses were out of the pavilion, and even then he still watched. 

The old lore master had made his choice. 

‘Brave Hallatar. Perceptive, faithful, foolish, Hallatar.’

By what means could he ever hope to speak to her? What did Hallatar possess that could guide her through the music she bore? He had none. The man would return to the shelter of his home, tend her, coddle her, ever ignorant of what he was harboring.

Lorna would wake, pained but whole, unaware of what had happened. And Hallatar would be unable to communicate his fear in a way she understood, or that mattered. She would sit, surrounded by his household, unable to speak to them, unable to tell them her fears. Alone in her knowledge. 

Zigûr had time. 

He took up a section of his robes, tossed them over his forearm and departed. He did not return to the house of lore but to the palace itself.  

‘So be it. The music shall be a gift to myself. Wielded as no power has been, nor ever shall be again.’