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Mellonin rolled over and sat up, squinting at the dust in the sunbeams, and stretched, and rubbed her eyes. She dressed quickly, hoping that the grey serving staff had the teakettle on. Snatching up her pen and parchments, she rolled them together, and then placed the newly mixed bottle of ink (made from the blackest soot she could find in all the Seventh Star kitchen) into her apron pocket. Then she paused. What if the cork wasn't tight? She removed it, and carried it carefully upright down the stairs.

No one had arrived yet, but the grey serving staff did indeed have the teakettle hot. She thanked them, and brewed some, and sat down to study her runes. When she finished the tea, she stood, and walked slowly around the Common Room, rune by rune sounding out the signs. When Morien came downstairs she was engrossed in the label of a bottle of wine. He cleared his throat, and she guiltily put the bottle away.

"Well? What did it say?"

She blushed, picked the bottle back up, and stuttered, "The finest shimmering harvest from Dor-En-Ernil on the bay of Belfalas."

He snorted. "Well, it's good, and good enough, but I won't say I've never had better. Good morning, lass," he said, nodding at the waiter in grey, who placed a steaming plate of breakfast before him. Her set to with a will.

littlemanpoet

Raefindan walked into the commons, rubbing his forehead as if trying to remove cobwebs of sleep from his mind. He made his way to a table on legs that did not wish to work right and rested an elbow on the table and used his hand to prop up his head.

"Good morning! Are you well?" It was Melonnin.

"I'm not sure. Bad dream."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Are you hungry?"

Raefindan nodded. He looked around; it seemed quiet. "If you have a moment...?"

"I think I can spare a little time. I'll be back with some food and tea."

She soon returned. He was hungry, and ate a few bites and sipped his tea before he began.

"I was someone else, a prince of some seaside fortress city. I was walking in the woods nearby, and saw an Elven woman who was lost. I took her to safety and I learned her tale from her. She - she was beautiful! I - I -" Raefindan broke off, a weight of sorrow pulling at the edges of his mouth. He face Melonnin, his eyes filling. "I fell in love with her." He looked away and stared at his bowl of porridge. "She did not reject me, so I don't know why I feel as if she-" he shook his head. "-died." He wiped at his eye. "I do not know who she was, but it felt as if what I dreamed was real. I dreamed someone else's life, I think." He turned to Melonnin. "Have I gone daft or worse?"

littlemanpoet

Mellonin said, "Maybe it is your past you dream of?"

Raefindan nodded. "Maybe. Or yes and no. I don't think that I lived near water where I come from. And the two Elven women, I had never seen before. But that she died - or someone died - maybe that did happen." He allowed a rueful smile. "George or no George."

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Mellonin studied Raefindan. "You do not seem to me like one who has gone... daft, " she said slowly. "You seem sad, but not moonstruck."

"Moonstruck..." He shook his head, and ran a hand through his fiery hair. In moments, his eyes glazed.

Mellonin glanced at his bowl of porridge, knowing that the workday would begin sooner than Raefindan wanted it to.

"Raefindan?"

He frowned, wishing she had left him in his reverie.

"A busy day will help you to forget your bad dream."

"It wasn't all bad, " he replied.

There was something about this that reminded her of Mellondu, if only she could remember what. Now it was her turn to frown.

"You two think too much, " said Morien. They both jumped; perhaps he was right...

"Red, you can scrub the empty room across the hall from where you were yesterday. And Mel, didn't you notice we've had breakfast arrivals?" He returned to the bar and began preparing pots of mulled cider.

Raefindan shoveled porridge into his mouth, grimacing with the effort it took to swallow, but knowing he would rue it later if he left any now.

Mellonin touched his sleeve. "I will visit when I may, " she said, and swept toward the breakfast customers, smiling and chatting. Raefindan finished his porridge, and with a last shudder brought the bowl to the kitchen and climbed the stairs gritting his teeth.

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She sat at the bar for a moment, just a moment, and rested her forehead on her hands. The dizziness persisted. Folding her arms, she laid her head on them and closed her eyes. Her head hurt and she suddenly regretted her breakfast.

A customer called, and with a glance at Mellonin, Morien tended to the customer himself. Mellonin was left sitting alone at the bar.

To the north, snowflakes eddied and swirled, smoothing the details of the land. The golden leaves of Lorien hung heavily under its weight. The leaves stirred in the wind, but the wet snow clung and did not fall. Amroth paced the forest, searching, hunting, feeling that she was always just over the next hill or around the next bend. Desolation crept in with the wet and cold; he shrugged it off, pressing deeper into the forest.

In the south, the grey sea surged and sighed. The air was warm; the breeze whispered of peace, of calm, of hope that had been. Memories of the sun were sweet and gentle, but the sun was hidden, and the northern sky was dark. Imrazor searched the woods, calling, calling. No one answered. Ever and anon, he looked over his shoulder to the sea; if she had taken that road, she was lost to him forever. He turned back to the woods. Where was she? He crested another rise, and called again. His words were lost in the fog.

In the north, a storm rumbled, whipped by a wild wind. All but imprisoned by glistening ice, a small cascade of water yet sang as it tumbled over cold stone. Liting, lyrical, the stream sang on and on, lost in the tearing wind and rumbing thunder. Few heard the song, and those that did heard only the echoes of an old melody, and heeded only the memories of that which was past. No one heeded the despair that was present.

Fog. Ice. Darkness. Despair, echoes, silence. Mellondu's breath came in short gasps. He gazed into a stream, and golden and brown locks of hair swirled in the water. At the seaside, women's voices echoed in his ears, whispering, singing, pleading. He searched for them, calling, running. There were no answers. He was drenched with sweat. He ran on. Or was he swimming? He could not breathe. He cried out; was it fog, or darkness, or water, or storm that took away the sound of his cry? Or had he made no sound at all?

"Are you all right, Mel? Mellonin?"

With a start, she woke, and looked around, wildeyed. "Mellondu?" she whispered.

"You look pale, lass," Morien growled. Then he leaned closer, whispering. "Don't you go getting sick here in the common room in front of all these customers."

"My brother, " she whimpered, and lurched to her feet. Her wide eyes strayed to the staircase. "Raefindan--" Then she swayed and clutched at the chair with one hand and at her stomach with the other.

Customer's heads were beginning to turn. Morien gestured at a few of the staff; one of them stepped to the bar while Morien took Mellonin's elbow and firmly escorted her out of the common room.

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Morien escorted Mellonin to the doorway of her room. She followed his gesture and went to the bed and sat down. Morien kept going down the hallway, to the linen closet where he fetched several folded blankets. Returning to Mellonin's room he looked in. Mellonin was already curled up under her blankets. He leaned into the room, and draped the folded blankets across the headboard.

He turned, closing the door behind him, and went to find Raefindan, who with hardened eyes and set jaw was scrubbing another floor.

"Mellonin looks awfully pale. Get her a bucket. Make sure her floor stays clean, and try and get her some fresh air without giving her a chill."

Raefindan nodded, wondering why Mellonin was sick, but he got up, and found a bucket and brought it to her room. He knocked hesitantly. No answer. He knocked harder and was answered with a muffled "Go away..."

"I was told to bring you a bucket, Miss Cheerful," he retorted.

"Leave it," came the muffled answer.

He opened the door, and slid the bucket along the floor towards the bed. She pulled the covers up over her head and disappeared completely.

For the next three days, very little was seen of Mellonin. She complained of fever, aches, pains, strange dreams, and the smallest of noises sounding like thunder. Although the grey-clad wait-staff met her needs, Raefindan checked on her every day and asked how she was feeling.

She was hardly sociable, or even civil. Raefindan came to dread his visits as a chore. But he persevered.

littlemanpoet

Over three days, Raefindan adjusted to life at the inn. Morien pressed him to step in for Melonnin in the commons, which he enjoyed much more than scrubbing floors.

The only thing he did not enjoy were his dreams. They all followed the same theme. He was glad they did not come every night. He had found his dreams persuasive and bothersome enough to ask Morien if he knew anything about people named Amroth, Nimrodel, Imrazor, and especiallly Mithrellas. For the people in his dreams spoke these names.

Morien told him of the legend of Amroth and Nimrodel, in which Imrazor and Mithrellas played a role. It all made sense, except for one thing: why was he dreaming this legend? It boggled his mind.

The two most bothersome things about his dreams were that he was Imrazor, and that he was falling in love with Mithrellas, who, for him, was somehow more than the Mithrellas of legend, but how he could not put into clear thought. It was not exactly as if she herself one thing in his dreams and another in legend. Rather, in his dreams, his response as Imrazor was out of keeping with the legend, as if he foresaw her death, or remembered it somehow.

He checked in on Melonnin several times a day, hoping she would be better. He hoped that she would be able to tell him more than Morien could. He didn't know why that might be so, but so it was.