"Arya, come here," Pelleas calls, waving his sister over. The small Elleth runs over to us, a smile on her face. She wraps her arms around Pelleas, giggling.

"Ada!" she says.

"No. I'm Pelleas, not Ada," he corrects, poking her nose.

"Sorry, Ada," Arya says, hanging her head. I shoot a small smile towards Pelleas, but when I see his frustrated look, my smile fades.

"What's wrong?" I ask him. He glances at me,"I'm trying to stop her from calling us Ada and Naneth. I don't want you to get in trouble." I sigh, pursing my lips a little,"I wouldn't get in trouble. You would. But that's a good idea, getting her to stop." Arya gets up, and runs off to go play in the field.

I pick my mother's journal up from where it lies next to me, and start to read.

My condition grows worse every day. Festering like a wound, it bubbles below the surface, reminding me that I will never be okay. Blood stains most of my clothes now, but Lura tries to help me get it out, before any one can notice.

Legolas can tell something is wrong with me. He wants to know what it is. I haven't the heart to tell him.

"Alida," Pelleas says, interrupting my reading. "Your father is coming over." My head shoots up, as I close the journal,"shit! Don't let Arya come near me!" I quickly get to my feet, brushing off my skirts in a hurry.

"Ada," I greet, going over.

"Alida. I was worried," he tells me. He notices the journal in my hands,"is it a good book?" I quickly look down, nodding,"yes, it is."

"What is it about?" he asks, holding out his hand. I give a small whimper, then hand it to him,"you are not going to be pleased, Ada." I watch as he starts to flip through the journal his eyes widening at every page.

"Where did you get this!?" he asks me, his voice angry.

"I found it in the library," I lie, looking down. He looks back at me,"I am confiscating this."

"What!? Why!?" I ask, shocked.

"Because you do not need to be reading this," he whispers, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Trust me."

"You shouldn't blame yourself for her death," I tell him. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was, Alida," he says. "You don't understand." I watch him walk away, a frown on my face.

"Aunt Lura, he does not understand," I huff, flopping back onto my bed.

"It is because he's afraid of losing you, too," she tells me, gently. I sigh, looking at her,"I know this, but he barely tells me about her anymore. I have not even seen a picture of her." Lura's face comes into my line of vision, a sad smile playing on her lips.

"Come," she says. "I will show you." I stand up, and raise my eyebrow,"what do you mean?"

"Follow me," Lura says. "Just come." I watch her pick up a candlestick, and she leads me down the hallway. We walk a long ways, until she comes to a door and unlocks it.

"Go in," she urges as she hands me the candlestick. I take tentative steps as I walk in, scared of what I might find.

The light from the candle seems bright against the inky darkness that encases the room. I stumble around, to hopefully find more candles to light and I do. Using the flame from my candle to Light the others, I can now see curtains on one wall, hopefully opening to a window.

I cross the floor, and pull them open. The curtains are heavy with the dust they stir up, making me cough. Someone has not lived here for years. I turn, to see a bed covered with flowers and pieces of folded yellowing paper.

I walk over and pick up one, part of the paper disintegrating in my fingers. I slowly unfold it, noticing the scrawling writing that covers the page.

I used to say "I fear nothing" but I feared losing you. I remember when your world was crumbling, and I was the only one who could hold it up. Everyday I feared that I would wake to the news that I had lost you.

But now that fear is true. Everyday without you by my side is another day I see Alida look more like you. Everyday a new pain in my heart, a new emptiness in my soul.

I need you, Yara. Like a flower needs sunlight and water. And without you, I am wilting.

I set the unfolded paper-no, letter-back on the bed. My father wrote to my mother after her death. His fears were losing her, and they had came true.

Quickly, I unfold hundreds more of the yellowing letters, until, finally, I stop at the last one.

She's 500 now. Five hundred years old. Our daughter is beautiful. I love her so much.

I know you don't see these, so I'll stop writing them. There's no use in talking to a dead person.

My new fear is losing her. Losing her the same way I lost you.

I've become my father. I've become what you begged me to not be. I'm so sorry, Yara. I'm so sorry.

With a loud grunt of frustration, I ball the paper up, and chuck it across the room. I can't believe this. I was so close. So close to finding out more about her. And all I got was letters. I lie on the floor, the cold of the marble seeping through my clothes and into my skin.

"Get up," I order myself. "Look at you. Get up." But I still lay there, my eyes shutting. I crave Pelleas' touch. I crave for him to make my skin feel heated, crave for what he can offer me.

"Stop," I say. "Stop. You're not ready for him in that way." Even as I think of him, I can feel myself grow uncomfortable in my clothes.

"Stop," I say, again. "Get up. Get to your feet. NOW." Slowly, I get to my feet, trying to ignore the tight knot in my stomach. I'm not ready, I'm not ready. I tell myself this over and over again. I blow out the candles, but as I do, I notice a rectangular object covered in a piece of cloth. I take the cloth off of it, and am faced with a painting.

Brown eyes stare at me from behind a shadow, the face emotionless and hauntingly beautiful. There's a scar across her neck, and her eyes look wearied. I study the painting, noting out the similarities and differences between me and her. I soon come to the decision, not an easy one might I add, that she is my mother. Everything fits her, and some of her features match with mine, like our eyes shape and the shapes of our faces.

"Hello, Naneth," I whisper, brushing my fingers against the canvas. I wish it were really her. I could hug her, and she could tell me that I an doing well. She could tell me about what do to about Pelleas, how I should proceed our relationship.

But she is dead. And I am motherless.

"Alida, what are you doing in here?" my father's angry voice comes from behind me. I spin around, to look at him,"Ada, I'm sorry, I-"

"I let her come in here, Legolas," Lura interrupts me. "I felt that she deserves answers." My father glares at her,"you do not get to make that decision."

"She needs to know," Lura insists. "And if you're not going to tell her, then Valar be it, I'll give her answers."

"That is not your place," he hisses.

"I know my place, brother, and it has been to help raise that Elleth since the day Yara died!" Lura counters.

"You are not permitted to speak of her death," my father hisses. Aunt Lura's face is by now bright red with anger,"then you do not get to speak of Pippin's."

"At least that Fool of a Took got to raise his children," he snaps. "Yara never got that. She died in pain. Pippin died peacefully."

"Ada, stop!" I yell, tears starting to form in my eyes. "Just stop! You're blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault, that you couldn't have stopped!" Both the voices of my father and aunt quiet, as the two look at me.

"I hate you," I hiss at him, then run out of the room.

"Alida!" his voice calls out to me, but I ignore him. I hate him, I hate him, I wish he wasn't my father.

As I run, I slam into a body, and fall to the ground. I lay there and sob, not even caring about the Elf who I crashed into.

"Alida, calm down," a gentle voice whispers.

"Pelleas, I can't," I sob. "I can't." I feel him pick me up, so I bury my face against him.

"It's going to be alright," he whispers.

"No. It's not," I tell him. "Nothing is going to be okay." Pelleas tips my head so I am looking at him.

"It will be, Ali," he says. "Trust me." He places a chaste kiss on my forehead, then carries me to my room.

"They're going to find out about us," I whisper, intertwining my hand with his.

"Let them find out," Pelleas says.

"They would try to break us apart," I mumble.

"I won't let them," he promises me.

Don't you worry your pretty little mind, people throw rocks at things that shine. But they can't takes what's ours. The stakes are high, the water's rough, but this love is ours.