The feeling of paper was ingrained in my hands and confirmed by the ink dust blackening them.

I feverishly sorted through piles of discarded parchment. There was nothing, not one divine light shone forth from the pile, and I was exhausted.

It was likely close to morning, which meant that I had already used half my time with no luck.

As my head swam with words and script, I thought for the hundredth time how much all of these documents were worth, how many ages had passed since their authors had fought against Morgoth with fire in their blood. I knew how many of the letters from Noldor lords had gotten there, of course.

Among the letters were several, clearly intercepted. Uldor the Accursed, the most hated man ever to walk Middle Earth, had betrayed Fingon and his hosts at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Just by his act, thousands perished, those more noble than any that had stood in Arda.

I shook off the general feeling of despair and continued.

I began to feel so drowsy, it was impossible to stay awake. A combination of hunger and exhaustion tormented me along with the general stress of the situation.

I figured that it was worth a try, to disappear into my own world for a time and see if that would rejuvenate my tired body.

I closed my eyes and pictured my other reality.

*****
"Gianna, come on," my mum said, feigning sternness as she held open the door.

I had woken up back at the hospital, seemingly hours from my last visit although it had been weeks in Middle-earth, by my reckoning. I smiled faintly and stood up, noticing she was carrying a fishbowl rather precariously.

"How about I carry Phoenix," I suggested, slipping on my pair of worn Birkenstocks that she must have brought sometime in the past days.

"Fine," she laughed, handing me the bowl.

I nervously tapped my foot as we stood at the front desk.

"Name?" asked the clearly bored nurse who hovered behind the mass of papers.

"Gianna Rhea Noretti," I answered.

"Spanish?" asked the nurse conversationally.

"Italian, actually," I corrected her.

The nurse wordlessly scribbled a few notes and peered at my mother through her wire rimmed glasses.

"She'll need to take this prescription to stabilise her body's functions after the shock," she said, handing a note with a prescription scrawled on it over the counter. "The doctor will call with a follow up tomorrow morning."

"So she is discharged, right?" pressed my mother, squeezing my arm tightly.

"So they say," the nurse said in a worn monotone.

"Thank you," she replied, palpable relief in her voice.

The drive was long, since we were en route to my Aunt's house. I dreaded it--I could not take more "how are you feeling"s.

We passed the sign that said "Ithaca--45 miles" and my mum spoke.

"All good?"

"Yes, but take the curves slowly or Phoenix's water will splash out," I pouted, covering his bowl with a copy of Better Homes and Gardens magazine that was tossed in the back seat.

She smiled. "Your father will be discharged soon as well," she said, with a small sigh at the end. "He's anxious to see you."

"And I him," I said, a small weight lifted from my chest. All my loved ones were safe.

At least all who lived in this world were.

With a start, I realised I was starting to drift off and the pressing need to return and search for the scroll overcame me. I held Phoenix in his small glass orb and breathed out slowly.

Ink dust and the smell of worn words filled the air once more.

I slumped against the wall, still spent but less tired. At the very least, my consciousness was more alert.

I scrambled to my feet and added more and more papers to the pile behind me, hoping beyond a hope that there would be something there for me.

I heard a creak and whirled around, seeing that the heavy door had been opened.

"What?" I said roughly, knowing who it was.

"I simply wished to inform you that you have but six hours in which to procure proof of the famed scroll you seek," Falcon said, in a voice like a viper.

"Thank you, now goodbye," I said irritably, turning away. "That means that I have six more hours to enjoy without you, don't spoil them, now."

"As you wish, my lady," he said, amused.

I kicked the door shut and heard the lock click anew.

Crouching within the plethora of parchment, my eyes fell on a pile of scrolls that I had not touched yet.

Scrambling over to the pile, I opened them one by one, only to be disappointed when not one yielded to be relevant.

Suddenly, I saw one had rolled off the pile and into a shadowy corner. I reached into the cobwebs and pulled out another furled document, yellowed and tattered with age.

My heart sped up, rendering me breathless, as I carefully opened the scroll.

The first word made my chest constrict painfully.

Record of--

I stopped, my ears ringing.

Shipments of wine

The following words were "Shipments of Wine".

"Thranduil probably has three hundred of these in his basement," I muttered bitterly, tossing it aside. Who knew how this has gotten here.

I stepped backwards in frustration, running my hands through my hair in a vague attempt to do something other than sort through ages of paper.

I stumbled over it when I did, sending the worn leather purse skidding across the floor.

Curiously, I reached down and picked it up. It was made of delicate white leather, soft and supple. It had a single strap of braided--bowstring?

I frowned at the stiff sinew, tugging at it briefly. Definitely bowstring, but it was completely lost on me why. It would have easily hung on a horse, and seemingly held a weapon. The purse was longer than it was wide, probably for a dagger, but I untied it and realised that a hilt would never fit in there.

Brow furrowed, I reached inside and first felt the rustle of paper that had become so familiar to me. Newly excited, I pulled out the parchment and felt it unraveling as I pulled it upwards. I reached in farther and closed my fingers around the end of the paper, pulling it out completely.

It was a scroll, no doubt. Made light and particularly closely worded so it would fit, it was made for travelling--this was not the content of someone's library, rather it was something that must have been carried around.

My eyes widened as I read the first line.
"Illuin and Ormal, Lamps of Manwë and Varda, established in the Spring of Arda." I quickly jumped to the next entry.
"Laurelin and Telperion, F.A. 1," I whispered. The Two Trees of Valinor. I scanned the next line eagerly, recognising a few of the lines of script as I hastily read until I reached that which made me freeze in disbelief.

"Moonstone of Tilion, Blessing of Lórien, S.A. 3," I murmured. A thin bracket linked it to the line of script below it. "Sunstone of Arien, Blessing of Varda, S.A. 3."

In the margin, a cramped line of text was visible next to the two entries. I barely made out the words.

Together are those who conquer the darkness.

I looked down to realise my hands were shaking. It was here, with no doubt.

The last surviving record of the gifts of the Valar.

My mind spun with a quandary of questions, dizzying me profusely.

This was the moonstone of Tilion I had around my neck. It was impossible that it wasn't--Lórien himself had informed me of that fact.

But the second phrase was puzzling; I had not heard of the Sunstone of Arien, nor what it had to do with the moonstone, other that the obvious fact that one referenced the sun and one the moon, both relics of the beginning of the Count of Time.

I scanned the list and thought back to Legolas' original reference to a record of the gifts of Lórien that was stolen during the Dagor Bragollach--would the origin of my blessing be included here, or would it only be present in the specific lists dedicated to the deity?

Frowning, I looked down further and saw no more mention of Lórien, even under his other name, Irmo.

Either way, this was exactly what we needed. Smiling to myself, I recalled that Falcon's oath forbade him from keeping me here even a minute past midnight, and made to delicately place the worn scroll back in the purse.

A deep breath left my lungs as I slumped against the wall, desperate to leave the confines of such a place.

I suddenly leapt up and moved at the lock, pounding at the heavy door.

"Falcon!" I shouted, "Valar help me, you had better let me leave!"

He threw open the door and it hit me hard in the chest, pressing all the air from me in a dull impact.

"Well well, given up yet?" he asked.

"I don't need to give up," I said with malice, "For here is the last surviving record of the gifts of the Valar." I held up the leather purse.

His green eyes widened in poorly hidden shock.

"It does not exist," he said firmly, with hardly a semblance of his collected demeanour.

"Read it for yourself," I shrugged. "That is, if your very eyes can handle the truth."

"There is no truth in myth," he told me, sighing.

"But the truth sets you free," I laughed darkly. "How very ironic. Now, escort me back, or you will be tormented for the rest of your life."

"I am already tormented," he said dryly, "And I feel no pain. I doubt the bickering Valar could inflict anything else."

"Would you tempt them?" I raised an eyebrow. "To break an oath is to forfeit the meaning of your life."

"Very well, I will set you free," he said, with no emotion. He turned to leave, adding "You are not to remove anything else from this room. Including that pouch it was conveniently hidden in."

I sighed, and gingerly tugged the paper out of the white leather. The purse fell to the floor with hardly a sound.

He nodded once and two Orc guards step out of the shadows, both armed.

I step back in revulsion.

"Escort her out," Falcon commanded. "Recall what we spoke of."

"What is that, pray tell?" I inquired, my eyes darting to each monster in turn.

"Let you free, not free and happy and not free and unmarked." Falcon cocked his head and said "Pity."

"This was never part of the agreement!" I exclaimed furiously.

"You're right, it wasn't," he agreed. "But I do love to see you in pain. It brings me great pleasure."

"Psychopath," I muttered. The two Orcs stepped into the room and grabbed me suddenly, by each arm.

I struggled against their grip, kicking out as much as I could, though it was fruitless. This was all such a disaster.

Eventually I gritted my teeth and relented, submitting to the ensnaring grasp of the orcs.

They dragged me from the room unceremoniously, leaving the ruins through another door and emerging again in the frosted evening light.

It was almost exactly like what happened before, initially. Then, I realised with a sinking heart that they were not going to dump me in the snow again, which frankly seemed a much better option to be taken hiking by Orcs.

I lost track of time, focusing on the now-crumbled scroll I had tightly clutched in my first.

The orcs mumbled something to each other in their hideous language and stopped.

I waited.

I felt my hands being roughly tied behind me, and I shrieked and cried out, even more terrified, if possible, than the time I was in this situation with Falcon.

Falcon may have no conscience, but he had motives and cunning. These monsters had none of that, a truly disturbing feeling.

They could do anything to me.

I prepared to run, to break from this hold in the only way I knew how. Even with my hands bound, I doubted that two heavily armoured orcs could follow for long. I would have, too, but were it for the sight before me.

One held the scroll in front of me, dangling it before my face, the other held me fast.

I saw the torch too late, saw the orange and yellow tongue of flame as one sees a dream. Detached and far away, almost as an afterthought.

The smell of paper is what roused me, and I screamed, lashing out at my captor with panicked fervour. I just heard a guttural laugh, and felt the sharp jab in the back of my neck with the pommel of one of their black knives that left me on the ground, whimpering, as I watched the paper slowly become covered in flames.

I frantically tried to kick snow onto the fire, but hardly moved an inch, wallowing deeper into the snow without the aid of my hands.

There was nothing I could do.

"Please, Manwë, let there be another way," I begged out loud. "Let there be an answer."

In that moment, the sound of hurried footsteps met my ears, and I struggled to position myself in a way that I could see.

"Legolas," I called out, in desperation.

It was him, Maldor beside him. Both had weapons drawn.

"Gianna," Legolas said, skidding into the snow next to me. "What--"

"Not me, the scroll," I said wildly. "Quick--"

In one decisive movement, Legolas took up the burning parchment in his bare hands and ground it into the snow.

After a brief moment of silence, he turned to me again.

"What happened?" he asked. He motioned for Maldor to cut the rope that bound me and I sat up.

"I searched and I found it," I said, my words rushed and disjointed. "The orcs, they--they bound me and burned it, Legolas, how can we--"

I broke off, at a loss. Tears of both despair and exhaustion pricked at my eyes threateningly.

"It is not destroyed," Legolas said softly. "It was first written in Aman, thus it was protected. Unless the the entire paper is burnt to ashes, if only one tiny piece is left unburnt, all of it will survive."

"It is all ashes, Legolas, you see that as well as I do," I said hopelessly.

"Open your hand," he said.

I had not realised my fist was still curled around a small fragment of the scroll. The orcs, in their brute force, had left me the ultimate prize.

I slowly opened my fingers and as I watched, the ashes in the snow stirred and soon I was holding the scroll once more.

"From the ashes rises a Phoenix," I said, for the second time after losing things in a fire.

"So it shall be fulfilled," Legolas said softly, looking into the darkening sky.