The calming draught from Master Oren was a deceptive balm, a temporary truce in the war between my ancient soul and this wretched vessel. It muted the throbbing behind the blindfold, but it could not quiet the tempest of my mind. I feigned sleep, every nerve straining to gather information, to understand the currents of this new, terrifying reality.
Elara's footsteps were soft, hesitant. I sensed her leaning over me, a fragile weight of concern. "She rests, Master Oren," she murmured, her voice a reedy whisper. "But… that strange noise, before she fell… what was it?"
Oren grunted, a dismissive sound. "The shock, old woman. Her senses are fragile, and the eclipse was a powerful omen. It can stir the spirits, even the ones in our own minds. Nothing to concern yourself with, beyond a child's fright."
A child's fright. The words were a fresh insult, burning like acid in my ethereal veins. They had seen something, or at least heard it. The animal sound I had made. It was undeniable. My momentary display of raw power, however brief and uncontrolled, had left its mark.
"But Master Oren," Elara pressed, a tremor of doubt in her voice, "her eyes… they seemed to glow for a moment. Just a flicker. Like embers in the dark."
My phantom heart quickened. She had seen. Or sensed. The terrifying truth was, even in this body's blind state, some flicker of my true essence had escaped. This vessel, this prison, was more permeable than I had initially believed. It was both a curse and a terrifying opportunity.
Oren scoffed, a dry, rattling sound. "Nonsense, Elara. The light plays tricks on old eyes. Rest, both of you. I have other patients, other duties. Remember those dozen coppers by nightfall." His footsteps, heavy and unhurried, receded, then the faint squeak of a door, signifying his departure.
Silence descended, broken only by Elara's shallow breaths and the persistent, dull thrum of my internal power, a constant reminder of its turbulent awakening. I waited, feigning deep slumber, allowing the remnants of the draught to lull the body into a state of profound relaxation, while my mind, Zalara's mind, remained acutely alert.
Elara settled into a nearby chair, the creak of old wood accompanying her sigh. I heard the rustle of fabric, then the rhythmic scrape of a needle against cloth. She was mending. Always mending. The monotony of human existence, the relentless pursuit of trivial tasks, was truly baffling. Yet, it offered the perfect cover for my clandestine observations.
I began to extend my senses, not through magical means, which this vessel still resisted, but through the heightened awareness this body possessed due to its blindness. The faint scent of her worn hands, the subtle shift in the air when she leaned closer, the infinitesimal vibrations her breathing sent through the wooden floor. I imagined the healer's hut, piecing together its layout from the echoes of sounds and the varying density of the air. A single room, perhaps with a smaller, curtained-off area for brewing herbs. Simple. Primitive.
My focus narrowed. The whispers of the village. Even from within the confines of the hut, carried on the gentle breeze, I could discern faint conversations. Farmers discussing their crops, a child's distant laughter, the rhythmic pounding of a blacksmith's hammer. Mundane. Harmless.
Then, a new sound, distinct from the village hum. Footsteps. Light, almost skipping, approaching the hut. Not Elara's shuffling gait, nor Oren's measured tread, but something… vibrant. And as they drew near, a faint, almost imperceptible resonance emanated from them.
It was not the cold, controlled darkness I was accustomed to, nor the raw, untamed surge of my own lunar-attuned power. This was different. Like a tiny, pure wellspring bubbling to the surface. It pulsed with a gentle, consistent rhythm, a quiet thrumming that spoke of innate connection, of harmony with the natural world. It was subtle, almost benevolent, a stark contrast to the malevolence I associated with magic in my own realm. It was a power that did not seek to dominate or destroy, but simply was.
The footsteps passed the hut, paused briefly, then continued on, their energy fading into the general village sounds. My mind, Zalara's mind, cataloged this anomaly. Who in this pathetic village could possess such a thing? A potential resource? A hidden threat? Or merely another piece of this bewildering human puzzle? The specific source remained elusive, a mere echo within the chaotic symphony of human life. I stored the information, a seed of curiosity planted amidst my growing fury.
Hours bled into a long, agonizing afternoon. The sun, a vague warming on the blindfold, began its slow descent. Master Oren returned briefly, his assessment brisk and perfunctory. "She'll be fine by morning, Elara. Just needs rest." He left again, his coppers secured.
Finally, as the last vestiges of twilight began to fade, Elara's frail hand found mine. "Come, lamb," she murmured, her voice laced with exhaustion and relief. "Let's get you home. The air here is… heavy."
The walk back to the cottage was slow, each step a further indignity. The walking stick, my despised crutch, tapped against the familiar path. My senses, though still confined by the blindfold, were heightened. I felt the subtle unevenness of the ground, the cool kiss of the evening breeze, the faint scent of damp earth and woodsmoke growing stronger as we approached the cottage.
Once inside the familiar, woolen-scented darkness of the cottage, Elara gently guided me to my pallet. The relief of being "home" was a foreign concept to me, but the sheer exhaustion of maintaining my pathetic charade was undeniable.
"You gave us quite a fright," Elara sighed, her voice soft as she helped me settle. I heard the rustle of her movements as she prepared for the night. The comforting presence of the loom, usually an object of torment, felt almost benign after the tension of the healer's hut.
This was my opportunity. To probe. To gather more information about this strange, quiet power I had sensed.
"Elara," I began, my voice still weak, but with an underlying current of deliberate curiosity. "When I was… confused… at the mill, and then in Master Oren's hut… I felt… strange things."
Elara paused her movements. "Strange things, lamb? The eclipse, it unsettled many folk. Nerves, mostly."
"No," I insisted, allowing a hint of childish fear to tinge my voice. "Not just nerves. Like… a feeling in the air. A warmth, but not of fire. And then, a stillness, a deep quiet. Like a river running beneath the ground, but you can feel it."
Elara's breathing hitched. A prolonged silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken apprehension. The rhythmic clack-clack of the loom in the main room of the cottage seemed to fall silent. I could feel her stillness, the subtle tension in her frail frame.
"What nonsense are you speaking, child?" she finally whispered, her voice surprisingly sharp. "There are no such things. Only the wind, and the sounds of the forest."
"But I felt it," I countered, pushing gently. "Like a… a quiet song in the earth. Does anyone else in Noldor feel such things? Perhaps someone who lives near the forest, far from the village?"
Another pause, longer this time. The scent of worry, subtle yet distinct, emanated from her. "Lyra," she said, her voice dropping to a near inaudible whisper, "you must not speak of such things. Not to me, not to anyone. It is… dangerous to speak of such things."
"Dangerous?" I echoed, feigning innocence. "Why, Elara? What could be dangerous about feeling the quiet song of the earth?"
"There are… old stories," she began, her voice barely a breath, "of those who walk too close to the wild, who listen too deeply to the whispers of the ancient trees. They are best left undisturbed." Her hand reached out, trembling slightly, and gently squeezed my arm. "Promise me, Lyra. Promise your old grandmother you will not speak of this again. It is for your own good."
The raw fear in her voice was unmistakable. Elara was truly worried. Not just for me, but by the very topic. This quiet power, this "song in the earth," was clearly known, and feared, by the villagers. It was not a random anomaly. It was a recognized force, and one that was best kept secret.
I lay still, allowing the warmth of her hand to linger, the human touch a strange, unsettling comfort. "I promise, Elara," I murmured, my voice meek. But my mind was already racing, connecting the dots. This quiet power. The village's fear.
Noldor was far more complex than a simple, primitive village. It held secrets, hidden energies, and old fears. My path to regaining power would not be a simple smashing of a crude cage. It would require cunning, a delicate unraveling of this new, intriguing tapestry. And somewhere in this small, fearful village, there was another, a quiet one, who held a thread of power I might yet unravel for my own.