[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir's attempts to struggle to his knees and stand upright met with little success. Earlier, his leg had given way under the surging flood of bones and his ankle had twisted underneath him, an injury that prevented him from moving swiftly. Although the sprain was minor and would soon heal, the Elf lacked the ability to rush forward and climb into the bucket to offer assistance to his friends.

Still, he could feel the presence of the Diviner through the minds of the brothers. She knew him too well. Yet he could not say the same of her. He could feel her implaccable will bearing down upon Orëmir, threatening to bludgeon the Elf into submission. Lindir had spent years thinking and dreaming of her, berating himself for his inability to find and bury her body. She had always been proud and haughty, yet she had once possessed a gentler side, a caring side that had responded to laughter and to his personal touch and voice. Where was the Elf that he had known? He saw no resemblance to the woman he had loved in this half mad Diviner who bore down upon them all.


How many knew her real name? As far as Lindir knew, he was the only one. Elliel, sweet one.... He whispered the name under his breath but there was no sign of recognition from the shrouded figure whose devouring presence seemed little different than a cataclysmic force of nature, impersonal and empty. Lindir tried to remember back over the endless years. Once, long ago, he had almost managed to make peace with himself and accept the fact that she was gone with a certain grace and resignation. But then had come the time he would rather forget, when he had put his hand to the forge in helping to fashion the rings. There had been no peace for him from that day forward. The events of the First Age had returned yet again to haunt him. She had filled his mind and life, not the real Elliel but some hideous apparition. Yet this is what she had become.

Reeling under the pressure from her mind and the weight of his memories, Lindir pulled back in horror. Never would he let this creature touch him! The thought filled him with revulsion. Whatever feeling and warmth had bound them together in the First Age had long disappeared. He could not save her. Perhaps that was why he had come here, with some foolish thought of undoing what had been done. But there is no undoing the music of Arda, a fact he recognized with a feeling almost akin to relief. He was not responsible for what she had become. There were things he could do and mend, but this was not one of them. As he felt the Diviner's presence pull back to rush forward to face Idrahil, Lindir was filled with peace and resolve. It was time to go home. His job here was finished, but there was another that called out for his attention. For the moment, at least, his home lay to the east, in the heart of Middle-earth.