You must excuse my boldness, hiril vuin, for I was not permitted to write this letter. It contains things many think should stay hidden, yet you must know. Goheno nîn if you opened this letter expecting an ordinary message from a friend asking about well being and daily activities. You'll get none of that in these words, not even comfort.

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The pub had an air of life to it. It breathed as a creature would, sound of its patrons swelling to a peak and then lowering, then heightening once more. Bitter alcohol permeated the air, sweat and dirt, grease and meat, too. Poorly crafted metal lanterns hung from the wooden walls, a few hanging from the low ceiling, a plate of thin metal protecting the walls from the lick of flames. Only a few lanterns flickered solemnly, as the sun shone through fairly well-cleaned windows. I eyed a few young women wearing brown serving gowns. No doubt they were the ones responsible for the clean windows.

I shifted in my chair, tapping the butt of my pen against the yellowish pages of my new notebook. Well, newish. Since that event with the strangely kind man a few weeks ago, I've been writing nearly everything down. Just in case I forgot everything.

I felt as if a looming hole was being me, threatening to suck me in. The hole was the dark fog swallowing my memories, coming ever closer every day. It was too unnerving, the thought--no the action--of my memories disappearing. Sooner or later, I'll fall into that deep, dark abyss and lose myself forever. As of right now, I'm barely a person. I've no memories of a childhood, no memories of a lost love, none of learning how to defend myself. No memories at all, up until about two months ago.

And this bow, inscribed with the name of an ellon, was the only lead to getting my past back. To filling that yawning hole behind me back up.

Biting my tongue, I twisted the strange quill in my fingers. Supposedly, it was a new thing on the market. A quill that didn't need an ink well. It certainly had its pros for someone who is always on the run. What'd y'know, before I kn--

A group of men entered the pub. I forced myself to sink into my chair, like a girl who was wanting to forget her sorrows. I hooked a few fingers around the tankard of ale I purchased and forced myself to take a bitter gulp.

Sweeping my eyes around the semi-full room carelessly, my eyes met those of the men who walked in. One of them stared at my form and nudged one of his friends.

Dragging my eyes to my notebook, my heart jumped. Squeezing my palms closed, I shoved them under the table.

Please, Valar, don't let that horrid light leak from my hands.

The touch of their eyes didn't leave me, but there was no way they could recognize me. Not with the brown dye in my hair, not with the brown locks covering my pointed ears. I lowered my green eyes, taking a swig from my tankard once more.

The men sat at a table near the bar, calling for a waitress to come assist them.

I breathed out and set the tankard back on the table. I glanced at the kitchen door; if need be I could escape through there. There had to be some kind of back door.

But... I eyed the men--and quickly looked away when I caught one assessing me.

So, acting natural it'll be.

Leaning forward, I took a small sip of oh-so-terrible ale and wished I could taste something better like... like...

I shook my head and snatched up my unique quill, careful not to reveal any light, and inched my leather notebook closer. I quickly began writing today's event underneath what I had already wrote and including what just happened with the men. Nothing intriguing had come about.

Once done, I sat back bored. I traced the grain of wood on the table, casting my eyes once again around the room, taking care not to glance too long at the group of curious men--

A burly man sitting at the table adjacent to mine slammed his fist down on the table, his ale sloshing dangerously.

"That sly whore! If she weren't my own blood, I'd have her thrown into the stockade!" The man took his fist, unfurled it, and ran it through his thinning black hair.

Before I could be seen eavesdropping, I quickly took up my pen and without anything else to do besides wait a short time to leave without seeming suspicious, I began transcribing the man's conversation.

The fellow sitting across from the burly man was silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback.

"Sisila... what has happened? Does it have to do with your inheritance?"

"It has everythin' to do with the inheritance!" The man set his arms on the table, clenching his fist and boring holes in the wood with livid eyes.

"Tell me, Jed," the fuming man began. "If your own sister stole your pa's only inheritance, which was supposed to go to his first born, would you be furious? Would you want to storm her house and demand the money go back to its rightful owner--me?!"

He seethed, hitting his fist on the table again. "It's--it's--I'm goin' t'kill her. I swear it. I swear on my wifes own life, I'll kill her!"

"Bran, just... give it a few days. Let your anger settle." I had to agree with Jed as I hurriedly scribbled down the words, the dark brown ink bleeding magically from my pen.

Bran ran his fingers through his hair, holding his face in heavy silence despite the active room around him.

"I'm broke. I have no money." He looked to his friend. "I have five children, how am I suppos' to feed them? I have barely enough coins to buy two loaves of bread."

The depression bled away from him, and in its place fire took root.

"Sisila--she's damned my family! She practically murdered my children, my wife! My own sister!"

Jed remained quiet, calloused fingers rubbing circles in the wood. I wondered what job he had in life, with that calculating brain of his.

"How'd she get access to your inheritance, it being in a vault and all?"

Bran barked a bitter laugh. "A key. A damn key! He left me an inheritance, locked tight in a vault, with no key. My pa was tricky, he was. Tricky as a fox. My whole life he was leavin' riddles around, wantin' me to solve them. But I never had a mind to solve 'em. My sister did, though. Sisila always earned pa's approval, always solvin' those riddles. She solved pa's last one a'right. Solved it straight."

Another bitter laugh. A waitress, hair long and brown, raised up a pint of ale in offer. The man waved her off and continued. "I was visitin' pa's study, hopin' to open pa's vault. But their was Sisila, kneelin' in front of it."

The man stopped a moment before continuing. "She took off a necklace she was wearin', a little locket she always wore. I was always wonderin' why she never took it off, why she always got quiet when someone mentioned it. Overprotective, she was. But it, something she always had, was the key to the vault. She only needed access to the vault to use the key."

I looked up from my writings, suddenly intrigued. Jed leaned forward as well, perching on the edge of his rickety chair like it was a springboard.

"That whore took out a small portion of coins, just enough to weigh down a coin purse. But that vault wasn't full. How long was she expectin' to siphon out those coins? Perhaps she'd leave me only one coin to feed my children with."

Jed's brows rose in interest, tapping fingers silently. "How'd the locket open the vault?"

Bran glared at Jed, as if the question was an insult.

"The locket fit the lock, you cowpatty. Once I almost strangled Sisila, she explained that Pa had left us plenty of tinkerings to open the vault with. He made lots of things, you see. It didn't have to look like a key to be a key."

Jed glanced at me, those brown eyes of his disturbingly clear, as if he knew I had been following every word. Quickly, I looked away, but didn't turn my ears off. I kept writing.

Jed leaned forward, his shaggy soil hair swaying. "So whatever he made could open the vault?"

Although Jed whispered, my elven ears tickled as his coherent words met me.

Bran shrugged, an odd gesture for a man of his size. He almost looked like a child doing it. Before his friend could catch me in the act, I went back to scribbling down their exchange.

"Sure, it only had to be a certain shape. But Pa had a certain way of makin' things, It was like whatever he made was of him. Everything he made looked almost the same. Here--"

I couldn't help myself--I gave in to deadly curiosity and looked up as Bran pulled off a wooden family ring and unsheathed a small man's knife from his waist. "See."

From this angle, I could just make out what he was talking about. He was right, his father did make things similarly. The ring had a protrusion in the shape of a four-sided diamond with a few etched lines, the dagger hilt had the same shaped-bump.

"Huh." What an odd thing. Why would someone create the same, boring shape on everything he created?

Jed whipped his head to me, eyes as sharp as the arrowheads in my quiver.

"What's it to you? You working for someone? Working for Feor?"

My eyes widened, but I straightened fast enough that he tensed.

"N-no, I'm sorry, I only--"

His soil eyes widened a fraction of an inch, and as I followed where his gaze had settled—I saw that my cloak had fallen open. Revealing a long and white puckered scar along my neck.

Quickly—too quickly—I fastened my brown cloak shut. But his eyes met mine—my too vividly green irises—and then he took in the long, thin scar running from my brow bone to my cheekbone.

He glanced at my hair, but the dye didn't seem to discourage the thoughts that had entered his mind.

His skin flushed bone white.

"Jed?" Bran glanced in my direction, yet he didn't make the connection.

His friend stood shakily and gulped—I reached for my bow and quiver—

"We're leaving, we've got something to do."

His friend opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. He stood, throwing glances my way as I tried to keep my face neutral, but failing as I clenched my teeth.

Jed took off, stumbling into a chair, then was out the door before Bran had finished laying a few coins on the table for the barkeeper. With one last silent glance, Bran left swiftly.

I released a breath, rotating in my chair somewhat subtly to see if anyone had seen the strange exchange. Everyone was either deep within conversation or deep into drink.

"You're an idiot, Lumornel," I breathed. If that was even my name.

I twisted the braided and beaded bracelet around my wrist, allowing myself to admire it for a short time. Three braids of leather, each a varied shade of brown, with each individual strand decorated every so often with engraved beads. The image of a sword, a star, a leaf, and even others on some wood beads. Others had words on them; hope, light, savior, friend, warrior. Some had names that I did not remember; Gimli, Sunngifu, Esgarbes. There were only two names that I cared about. Lumornel; the name I assumed to be mine since it was bolder and darker than the others. And Legolas; only because that name was inscribed, in tengwar, on the bow I carried.

Briefly, I wondered who Legolas was. A brother? Could it have been the name of my Father? A friend? Or worse; was it the name of some elf I stole the bow from. But... his name was written on one of the beads in my bracelet.

What of the other names? Who were they?

My chest tightened.

Oh, how much I'd give if only I could find them. If only I knew who they were! Maybe they could help me restore my memory. Or maybe I 'stole' this bracelet the same place I 'stole' the bow from.

Biting my tongue, I forced the thoughts aside and finished writing out the exchange between Jed and Bran, including Jed silently discovering my identity.

Gnawing on my lip, I twirled the pen—and then scribbled in the margin:

'Why is everyone afraid of me?

Why?'

Tasting blood on my tongue, I snapped the journal shut, tucking both it and the magical pen back into my pack. I set a couple coins on the table as payment and waved over the waitress before some honorless fool stole her earnings. Adorning my quiver carefully on my back, I picked up my bow—possibly a bow that belonged to a 'Legolas,' and weaved between the tables towards the undecorated door.

Although the sun was up, and would be for some time yet, alcohol was ripe in the air. Despite the clean wooden tables, dust motes floated through sun beams and cobwebs hung in too-high corners. But the residents of the pub couldn't care less. Too involved in belly-laughing or drowning their sorrows, the patrons didn't even notice a monster was in their midst.

I bit my tongue, tried to ignore the tight fist in my chest. It wasn't my fault they were all terrified of me—

But I don't remember who I was. I could've been a murderer. I could've—

Stop, stop.

I set my jaw, pushing those thoughts away when all I wanted was to wallow in those thoughts, to dissect them and find out who I was. If only someone wasn't afraid, and was willing to answer, what I did that wronged everyone.

Later. I'll do that later.

First, I needed to find someone willing to talk. Someone that actually knew where the 'Western Hope' was.

"Maybe then I can actually find Legolas," I muttered under my breath, brushing tacky brown hair out of my face and quickly gazing around the semi-lively room. Only to make sure no one was gazing at me wondering if I was insane.

Highly possible, I guess.

I pushed the door open, the wood grain under my fingers feeling wrong. It didn't respond or pulse with emotion like live trees. I kept my hood down, as keeping it up while the sun was still up would cause too much attention, lowered my eyes, and made my way to a somewhat hidden path beside the pub.

Most likely, drunken pub patrons wandered this path, or even people from neighboring towns. Maybe. The trail was cold, the chorus of fiery leaves overhead preventing the sun's heat from reaching me. No grass grew on the path and autumn showers made it muddy. Good thing my shoes, where ever they came from, were made warm and sturdy. No water in these babies!

Smiley softly, I pulled out my journal looking for the name of the, hopefully cooperative, informant.

Kian son of Aider, otherwise known as the Mongerer.

I clapped the notebook shut.

This was it. Finally, finally found the little scoundrel. Well, almost. If my previous informant was correct. Being feared was useful when I wanted information. One look at my once white hair and vividly green eyes had the person blanching bone-white. Like Jed.

Tucking the journal away, I pulled out a pair of old gloves and tugged them over my hands.

Wind rustled hollowly through dead leaves, sending leaves cascading upon me. I pulled my fraying brown cloak closer, embracing myself in its warmth.

East, go east, then look for a sword painted on a house.

I shook my head. Why did everything have to be so obscure?

I started down the path, the trees leaning in cage-like, almost bare branches covered sparsely with decaying leaves. Like a fungus. The pronged branches entangles overhead, forming a prison. Like a cell...

My brows furrowed as I walked, gazing up at the strange scenery. Why... was it so familiar. A cell...

A bird cawed somewhere along the path, a vortex of wings shooting and flapping towards the gray sky—

A calloused hand wrapped around my mouth, a second encircling around my waist. As fast as a gust of wind, I was forced against a body. A male one.

I jerked wildly against him, screaming though his hand as I struggled to break free from his tight hold.

The man shushed in my ear. "Quiet, darling, or I'll snap your neck."

I rose my booted foot—and brought it down hard upon his shoe.

My ear drum felt assaulted as the man garbled a yell, his grip loosening enough for me to break free. Leaves kicked up as I scrambled away, knees and palms stinging as I fell. Cold mud dug under my nails as I hurried to get up. I whipped off my bow, and strung it with an arrow, sighting the cursing man—

And noticed several other men. Recognition sparked.

These were the men from the bar.

The one who grabbed me—I could still feel his warmth on my back and where his hand had been—straightened, lifting his injured foot slightly. His dark hair was pulled back, a few strands framing his face as he sneered at me.

I made my grip firmer as I adjusted my aim on him. The arrow shined just above his head.

"One step and you're dead," I announced, shifting on my feet. One of them men moved. I swung my arrow to him. "All of you."

How did this happen? I was careful, how did they—?

The man whose foot I injured laughed and held his hands out. "You can't kill all of us."

"Maybe not," I said, forcing as much menace behind the words as I could, "but I sure can try."

One of the men stepped forward, thinking he was being slick. Except that my ears picked up on the barely imperceptible crunch under his stiff boots.

I shoot his foot.

He cried out, kneeling down over the arrow, strong hands gripping the shaft.

I reloaded the bow, aiming again at the lead man. His smirk was gone, leaving behind shock, then anger.

"I told you," I forced, my eyes darting to the man in pain, then back to the leader. "Leave and I won't shoot you."

The tense anger flowed from him and ease filled his form, but he didn't move forward. Not one bit. "No can do, Sweet. My men and I, we take pricey things and sell them to a willing buyer."

He risked a step forward—I took one too, pulled the string more taunt.

"That bow of yours, anyone with an eye can see it's elven-made. It'd fetch a pretty coin in the market, wouldn't you say? Hand it over and we'll leave you be." He flourished a hand. "By Turin's honor, I swear it."

I lifted my chin. This bow, it was my key to finding Legolas, for him to unlock my memories. "No."

His eyes flashed. "Fine, but we'll get that bow."

His dark eyes settled on something behind me.

Ice flooded my veins. In a flurry, I twisted—

Something hard collided with my temple, sending my world black and weightless.