The light was dim when her eyes opened, as though the world was veiled in gray mist. Moonlight slipped through gaps in the roof, mingling with the soft flicker of firelight. The air carried the scent of herbs, old wood, and faint smoke.
She wasn't lying in the forest.
She was inside a shelter — simple, shadowed, and unfamiliar. The ceiling was low. The walls breathed with age. Somewhere nearby, a small fire glowed quietly, casting moving amber across the floor.
Her head rested on something soft — fur, maybe, or a blanket. Across from her, just beyond the fire, sat a woman cloaked in silence.
Her hair was long and black, streaked with silver, and her eyes... strange. Brown, perhaps. Or gray. Or something in between. They studied her not with malice, nor warmth, but the calm focus of someone watching a riddle unfold.
She tried to move. Her body resisted. A dry whisper escaped her lips:
"Where... am I?"
The woman didn't answer. A brow lifted — curious, unreadable.
"Do you understand me?"
Still silence. Then the woman spoke — not in any language she recognized.
"Færda lön viria...?"
The words were soft, melodic, like a forgotten song, but offered no meaning.
She blinked, confused. But the woman made no move to threaten her. Only watched.
Then, gently, she offered a clay bowl — steam rising from within.
The scent was bitter and warm. She hesitated, the memory of the poisonous fruit still fresh. But something about the gesture... felt safe.
She drank.
The warmth flowed into her chest, her limbs, her thoughts.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The woman nodded.
Then, she pressed her hand to her chest and said:
"Sarenya."
A name.
The woman watched her expectantly.
She opened her mouth to respond — but no name came.
Blank.
Her hands trembled. She reached instinctively for herself — clothes, fabric, and then…
A chain.
She pulled it gently. A pendant rested over her collarbone — small, metallic, worn.
Etched on its surface: Eirelyn.
She stared at it as if seeing herself for the first time.
"...Eirelyn."
The word felt real. Heavy. Like truth.
Sarenya's gaze fixed sharply on the pendant. Something shifted — a flicker, quickly buried.
She nodded once, but her eyes didn't leave the necklace.
Trying to shift the moment, Eirelyn pointed to the door.
"Is there… a village?"
Sarenya followed her gesture. Her voice returned, soft:
"Serai vel... inàr dulmë."
Then, she took a stick, gathered some ash from the dying fire on the floor, and carefully drew shapes—circles, dots, and lines—tracing a strange pattern in the ash.
But again, her gaze lingered on the pendant.
Later, when the fire had faded to embers and the air had grown thick with night, Eirelyn lay still — but sleep didn't come.
Then — soft steps.
She opened one eye.
Sarenya was approaching. Slowly. Her hand moved toward Eirelyn's neck.
Toward the pendant.
Eirelyn bolted upright.
"Stop!"
Sarenya froze.
From beneath her robe, a dagger glinted.
Eirelyn's breath caught.
"What are you doing?"
No answer.
Sarenya slowly knelt, laid the dagger down, and whispered:
"...Nairë lorien e'saíl."
A prayer? An apology?
Something in her voice cracked — sorrow, maybe. But she didn't move closer again.
She turned away. Faced the fire. Said nothing more.
Eirelyn lowered her hand — the pendant still cool against her chest.
And then... from the woman's lips:
"…Eirelyn…"
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