A dull throb behind my blindfold was the first sensation to pierce the thick fog of unconsciousness. It was not the agonizing surge of uncontrolled power, but a persistent, mundane ache. My ears, Lyra's ears, registered the faint murmur of voices, then a sharp, indignant tone that immediately drew my full awareness.
"—and I tell you, Master Oren, a fall like that, especially after the eclipse! My Lyra, she's fragile. She needs more than just… just a look-over!" This was Elara, her voice thin but surprisingly fierce, laced with desperation.
"Fragile she may be, Elara, but my time is worth coin," a deeper, gruff voice retorted. "The herbs for the calming draught alone cost me a morning's foraging. And the poultice… that's rare elderbark. Do you know how far I travel for that?"
I lay still, discerning the context. I was no longer on the cold floor of the cottage. The air around me was different – thicker, imbued with the sharp, earthy scent of dried herbs and something faintly acrid, like burnt resin. A rough blanket was pulled up to my chin. I was on some sort of cot, the straw rustling beneath me with every subtle shift of my weight. My head felt heavy, and the ache pulsed with each beat of Lyra's frantic heart.
"But Master Oren, she has no coin!" Elara pleaded, a desperate tremor in her voice. "We weavers, we live by what we spin. And with Lyra… well, she provides little enough, bless her heart. I can offer you a length of my finest flax, woven with the spring flowers pattern."
"A tapestry? What am I to do with a tapestry, old woman?" Oren scoffed, his voice drawing closer, as if he paced. "Do I eat it? Does it pay for the rare remedies I need to cure the afflicted? My daughter needs shoes, Elara. Not flowery cloth."
The sheer audacity! To squabble over the meager earnings of this pitiful Lyra, when a queen lay broken before him! My fury, usually a cold, controlled flame, flickered with a fresh surge of indignation. This was the true face of human existence: petty concerns, constant haggling, a life dictated by the constant struggle for survival. It was nauseatingly small.
"But Master Oren, she's all I have!" Elara's voice broke, raw with genuine anguish. "My poor blind lamb, fallen out in the dark! You must help her!"
"She's fine, Elara! She just hit her head, clearly, hard enough to rattle her senses, but nothing more serious than a knot the size of a pigeon's egg!" Oren snapped, then sighed heavily, a sound of exasperated defeat. "Look, I'll apply the elderbark and a healing charm, and she can rest here. When she wakes, if you can find me a dozen copper pieces, I'll be satisfied. A mere pittance, all things considered."
Copper pieces? My mind, even in its fog, conjured the image of the Underworld's vast, glittering vaults, overflowing with gems and precious metals gathered over millennia. The thought of such a paltry sum being a subject of such intense dispute was beyond comprehension. My fury, however, was still trapped within Lyra's weak body.
"A dozen… coppers?" Elara repeated, her voice still laced with disbelief, but now with a glimmer of hope. "I… I will find them, Master Oren. Thank you. Thank you."
The conversation continued, fading into a softer murmur as Elara, I presumed, moved to examine me. A cool, damp cloth was gently pressed to my forehead. The touch was surprisingly soothing against the dull ache. I opened Lyra's eyes beneath the blindfold, though it made no difference. The darkness remained.
"She's stirring, Master Oren!" Elara's voice was suddenly close, filled with a renewed hope. "Lyra? Can you hear me, lamb?"
I blinked, or rather, Lyra's eyelids fluttered. I tried to speak, to assert myself, but only a soft groan escaped. It was enough.
"Ah, the sleeping draught wears off," Oren observed, his footsteps approaching my cot. I felt his presence loom over me, a broad, solid shape even through the shroud of darkness. "See, Elara? Nothing a good knock to the head can't explain. No deeper malady here."
He knelt beside me. His hands, surprisingly nimble for their gruff owner, began to prod gently around my temple, tracing the line of my hairline, then the bandage that must have been wrapped there. A low, guttural murmur came from his throat, a series of strange, rhythmic sounds – a charm, I recognized, from my vast, albeit ancient, knowledge of human magics. A primitive, yet potent, form of healing incantation.
"She just needs to rest here for a few more hours, Elara," Oren said, his voice calmer now. "Let the spirit settle, and the healing herbs do their work. I'll check on her again before nightfall."
"Thank you, Master Oren," Elara said, her voice thick with relief. "Truly, thank you."
I felt the medicine man's hands move, untying the knot at the back of my head. The blindfold loosened slightly. Then, a cool, slick sensation as he began to apply something to the throbbing area near my temple. A fresh, sharp, intensely aromatic scent filled my nostrils. It was woody, slightly bitter, with an underlying sweetness. A fleeting image, ancient and powerful, flashed through my mind.
"Is that… Aethelwood paste?" I found myself asking, the words escaping before I could stop them. My voice, though weak, held a distinct note of recognition, of knowing.
Silence. Heavy, immediate, complete. The rhythmic thrumming of the loom from the distance, the faint chirping of a bird outside – all seemed to cease. Even Elara's breathing seemed to hitch.
"Aethelwood paste?" Master Oren's voice was sharp, a sudden, almost disbelieving edge to it. He paused in his ministrations. "How… how did you know that, Lyra? Very few people in Noldor recognize the raw herb, let alone the paste." He held his breath, waiting.
My mind raced, the internal panic a swift kick. I had spoken without thought, a lapse in control. Lyra, the blind weaver, could not possibly possess such knowledge. This was a grave error.
"The… the scent," I stammered, scrambling for a believable lie. My voice, Lyra's voice, was remarkably convincing in its meekness. "It's… distinct. I smelled it. Sometimes… sometimes my nose is sharper, without… without sight."
A long silence stretched, punctuated only by the hammering of my heart against my ribs. I could feel Master Oren's intense scrutiny, even though I could not see his face. He was assessing me, calculating. For a moment, I feared he would pierce through my flimsy deception, that he would see Zalara beneath Lyra's skin.
Then, Master Oren slowly let out his breath. "Yes," he said, the word drawn out, thoughtful. "Yes, the scent is quite distinct. And perhaps… perhaps your other senses are sharper, Lyra. A curious mind, even in the dark." He finished dressing the wound, a gentle touch. "Rest now. You still need to gather your strength."
Elara, too, seemed to accept the explanation, though I heard a faint, lingering note of surprise in her voice when she spoke. "See, Master Oren? Lyra is a bright girl, despite her troubles." She was looking at me with a profound, almost desperate concern, a mixture of love and fear etched onto her frail face. I could feel her presence, leaning over me, her hand brushing my hair. It was a warmth I despised, a sentimentality that repulsed me, yet one that I recognized was crucial to my current masquerade.
I lay there, feigning drowsiness as the calming draught slowly took hold. But my mind was anything but calm. Aethelwood. Yes. The same herb, or a variant of it, had grown in the shadowed, twilight forests near the borders of my realm, its sap used in ancient rituals to sharpen senses and to ease the transition for dying souls. The smell was etched into my ancient memory. This world, this human world, was not as separate as I had assumed. There were threads, ancient, faint, but undeniable, connecting it to my own.
This was a dangerous game I was playing, but a necessary one. If I was to regain my power, if I was to break free, I would need to understand these threads. I would need to find the knowledge hidden in the forgotten corners of this realm, knowledge that might awaken the full force of Zalara within Lyra's weak, blind shell. The cost of a momentary lapse, like revealing knowledge of Aethelwood, could be catastrophic. But the potential reward… the thought sent a cold thrill through me. There was more to Noldor than met Lyra's unseeing eyes. And I, Zalara, would find it.