[Lasbelinion]

‘What are you called?’

Lithmîrë turned cold grey eyes toward the speaker. The man asked a simple enough question. And how simply, too, had he announced himself. ‘Falowik Stonewort’ he said, the two words falling easily from his lips. A name that belonged to him and tied him to some greater line of descent. Or one at least that lay stretching behind him and perhaps before him, too.

And which one in his litany of names should he give to this man?

Maggot . . . muck-worm . . . cur . . . carrion . . . kindling . . . nasty bit of Elfspawn . . . foul Elf . . . filthy Elf . . . Elf dung . . .

Those last, at least, had paid some deference to his origins, his kindred. He swallowed the rising bile. Across the scarred map of his face flickered briefly a grim smile.

‘Lithmîrë,’ he rasped out, taking up his mug for a soothing drink, lest he begin to cough and choke with the effort of speaking. ‘Lithmîrë . . . late of Lithlad.’