The fire had nearly gone out by the time she made her way back to camp, evidenced by the little lumps of hobbit that seemed to have gravitated closer to the fire pit and meshed together to create one giant ball of shivering Halfling.

It was a colder night, though not unusual for this time of year. Her footsteps were completely silent as she traversed through the maze of bodies to the pile of wood near the campfire. Gently, the woman lifted pieces of bark and dried branches into the pit of embers before sending her senses out.

Deep slow breaths, steady heartbeats, and the soft murmur of sleepy mumbles were all that came back to her. Even the elf in his waking dream would not rise so soon.

With a last cursory glance around the slumbering company, Nárhína stretched her hand out toward the piles of ash and new wood and with a small twitch of her wrist, bright orange fire erupted with a hiss. Fingers twisted, flames weaving with the motion as she poured enough power into the writhing heat to last the rest of the night.

She checked again to make sure none had seen the small display but all was well. She hoped that by the time Aragorn was done with his shift, the young Masters would be warmer. And speaking of, she trailed her eyes over the covered bodies, listening intently to the tone of breaths that puffed white into the air. She heard him toward the outer edge of the circle opposite her and she pulled her cloak tight around her as she stepped to him.

He was nearly completely covered, his shaggy black hair the only thing left outside of his cloak. She moved down to his feet and knelt down, grabbing onto his boot. The slight pressure would be enough to wake him and she was out of range for any sort of startled retaliation. Thankfully, he came awake calmly and quickly, swinging up onto his heels in front of her, silent.

His fingers moved quickly in the low light given off by the fire but she saw easily and understood.

Report.

All clear, her gloved hands signed back. His eyes circled around the sleeping fellowship before lighting on the steadily burning fire. They narrowed before turning to her.

Natural or yours?

Gimli's, her fingers motioned.

His features twisted into a look she knew well. He accompanied it with a gesture that told her precisely what he thought about her attempt at joking.

White flashed in a toothy grin. And such attitude, unbecoming for one of your age.

Dark brows shot high, the incredulous look on his face doing absolutely nothing to stifle her humor. My age, he signed, mock outrage evident.

Fear not, she smiled, for though you are old to others, you are considered a mere babe to some.

Nárhína left him, silently grumbling, and made her way out of the tiny encampment and into the wooded area where she spent her watch.

Thick trunks surrounded her, branches extending and reaching, layering like fingers clasping in the night, the small orange glow from the fire barely visible through their knitted boughs. Without wasting any more time, the woman stopped at the base of a towering evergreen and jumped with arms outstretched, effortlessly pulling herself onto the thick limb. She continued weaving through, up and over as she climbed higher in the tree before stopping nearly halfway. Nárhína left her swords as they were, crossing her back as she sat down, the trunk behind her. There was a smaller thinner branch beside her that she leaned on, thankfully not having to worry about falling or tipping over in her state of rest.

Finally, she thought, sighing in exhaustion.

It wasn't her body that was fatigued, she could go many days and nights without actual sleep and still function properly; it was her mind that could not cope this time.

The elf's tactless questions had dredged up unwanted thoughts that had plagued her through her entire watch duty. Thoughts that slunk and crawled back to the light from the damp and dark recesses she had locked them in, and no matter how she tried to put them back and forget – they would not. Aided by doubt and her own self-hate, they slipped and dissolved only to manifest again when she least expected.

And she was tired of it.

So tired.

And for a moment; a fleeting, incandescent, moment of perceived weakness as she lay her head back, gazing upon the infinite, she wished with startling clarity that she could be anywhere else but there.

*   *   *

She noticed the sun first.

The slow breeze running over her skin and through her clothes took the bite of the warmth away, leaving only a steady heat throughout her body. Her eyes remained unopened, the light bright enough through her eyelids to tell her the sun was hanging high.

Ghostly fingers, such small things, peppered across her cheeks. There was something here, something about the air, everywhere, that smelled so distinctly green.

She slowly opened her eyes, merely peeking through lashes at first to let her sight get accustomed to the drastic switch from night to day.

What is happening?

She was still clothed in her tunic and trousers, swords and knives in their proper places, muddy boots on her feet, but she herself was not where she should be. Flat hands turned to claws as fingertips met the earth below, moist soil clumping and tumbling over her searching fingers as they tangled with grass – grass that still tickled along her face.

She sat up with ease, long braid draping along her spine and she opened her eyes fully to scan the surrounding area, wiping the dark loam on the edge of her cloak.

She seemed to be on the tallest hill, overlooking many smaller ones as they sloped and rolled across the world in front of her in emerald waves, bright colors of pink and yellow dotting the surface of expanding hillside. There were no trees, she noticed as she turned, save for the large weeping willow behind her. Its flotsam limbs swayed side to side with the wind, mixing in with the taller grasses as they brushed the ground.

The scenery was wholly and utterly unfamiliar to her, for she would have surely remembered such a place had she encountered it before. She flared her senses out but they were muted somehow and felt... muffled. As if she were encased in wool. It was most certainly not right but she felt untroubled. A conundrum to which she had no solution and she was helpless to resist the tranquil scene, temptation and curiosity overshadowing any wariness she should have felt.

The sky was a light blue, breathtaking in its flawless expanse as it stretched above her, save for the unyielding brightness of the sun overhead. And so she finally stood, determined to figure out her apparent misplacement, though there was no urgency in her movements as she made her way to the towering tree.

It was beautiful, this unsettling sort of natural haven she was in. Perhaps Olorin would know of this place, she thought, black gloves stark against the vibrancy of the willow leaves as she parted its heavy curtain.

"Nárhína."

Startled – more than she should have been – the woman curled her arms back into her as swiftly as she could manage, as if bitten, and watched wide-eyed as the elf disappeared behind the sheet of leaves.

It was only for a moment but it was more than enough.

Glorfindel.

He was sitting at the base of the tree, one leg bent with his arm draped over top, head tilted back and blue eyes smirking.

When one smirks, it implies a knowledge and a level of self-satisfaction – often times at another's expense, her mind supplied.

Insufferable.

She knew Glorfindel was not an unkind being at heart; fierce, even ruthless at times, but merciful and kind to a fault. It was always one of the traits they differed in and on more than one occasion, it had the both of them spouting off in moral or ethical debates on matters pertaining.

So while she knew that smug look was not in any way demeaning, it was still present on his features and she was still lost as to why.

Come girl, observe. Orient yourself and think. Stop wasting time.

A voice in a faceless silhouette whispered through her thoughts. Unwelcome but warranted.

She had been sleeping – as it were, and for the first time since leaving Imladris. She was never one to actually fall into the deep cycle that humans and other beings did, instead she chose the light resting period that elves –

Impossible!

Her hands shot out, roughly pulling aside the willow branches as she narrowed her eyes on her counterpart.

"A waking dream?" Her tone conveyed her thoughts on the matter and he noticed, the lines around his eyes softening.

"It is. I have been waiting for you each night with hope that I could meet you here." Pale, slender fingers ran over top his head, a movement expressing an insecurity he is not known for and she frowned.

"And where is here?" Slowly, Nárhína moved under the canopy provided by the tree, the sheet of wispy branches closing behind her. Small, slim flecks of golden light filtered through and danced with shadow in between the parting leaves, giving an entirely new meaning to sun kissed as she watched them touch upon the elf lord's seated figure.

Sun kissed? Do not lose yourself Nárhína.

He shifted once again, stealing her away from frivolous things and she noticed he was happy – content, more so – but there was a sheen to his eyes and an edge of white to his tilted mouth that suggested a fond but otherwise difficult matter.

"There was no name, it was an uninhabited region beyond the hidden valley of Gondolin," her breath caught deep in her throat at the name of his home. "I dare not dream of the towering marble towers or walls, for some things are best left cherished in their final rest; but this, this I revere often and openly." A palm, pressed down beside him, gently beckoning, "And I wish to share it with you."

Share it with you.

This man, her breath drew in sharply. How he disarmed her when she least anticipated and she was hit suddenly and harshly with the fact that he was real. He was real, these feelings that circled around and through and teased and unmade her were real.

Long days and even longer nights, discussions, heated subjects and small knives of quick words and sharpened tongues, skimming the surface of what and who matters, neither caring nor concerned to the point of questioning or delving deeper into the pool that was beyond. They knew nothing about the other. Nothing worth knowing, at the time, nothing that made them desire more for they barely tolerated the other's presence.

Then this bond that so conveniently made itself known at the most inopportune time clearly did not care that they had not been so comfortable with each other, had been acquaintances at best and rivals at worst. Did not care that peace teetered on the edge of a shattered blade, nary a concern for her history nor what could possibly happen once it was brought fully into the light.

"Nárhína," he murmured.

"This should not be possible." She struggled, voice thick, slow, weighed down with impossible implications on more than one affair without meaning to. Thankfully, he chose to address the most prominent question instead of laying claim to hidden things.

"Normally it would not be. Galadriel and her daughter are the only elves that I can recall that have use of this gift. Truthfully, I did not think it would work." He seemed almost embarrassed now, a shy look that was foreign to her and far more attractive than she cared to admit. "I believe it is only due to who you are, the nature of your parentage and this bond that I am even able to connect with you. Dream walking was never one of my abilities, even after the blessings of the Valar."

Dream walking.

It is much easier for Mother – with Nenya, you understand – but for me it is different, and more difficult. I am unable to communicate thusly with anyone except Elrond, and even then it helps if he is thinking about me.

So sweet she was, it almost overrode the bitterness that came with hearing her dear friend's soft voice even in memory. Her eyes stayed frozen on Glorfindel's, desperately burying the searing pain that came with her specter's delicate laughter, the lightness of her presence that still lingered.

"Essentially, I am an intruder?" A gentle smile graced his lips.

"A visitor." Of course he would say that.

"How frequently will this occur?" She asked as she walked toward him, deft fingers running across her throat to unclasp her cloak. She folded it roughly, settling it onto her lap as she sat down in the spot he had suggested earlier, though farther than she was sure he preferred.

"As often as possible."

She barely managed to keep her eyes from rolling upward, though a quiet chuckle from her right told her she had not hidden her expression well enough.

Silence reigned, though not uncomfortable and she found herself thinking deeply about the elf beside her.

She was perplexed and each moment spent with him only added to the puzzle that was forming. Student, teacher, soldier. Graceful, beautiful, ruthless. Such strength and wisdom lay upon him, his hands and his brow. His prowess in combat was almost unmatched, an unrelenting fierceness and skill. He was Death to those that lay claim to the dark. Balrog Slayer, they still whisper. He merely bows his head in gratitude, the tightness around his eyes hidden when he looks down. Such sorrow, she knows. And yet he is light and happiness when he smiles. Joy bounds in his wake, gently touching those around him and they are helpless to his unconscious charm.

The heart of a warrior with a pacifistic soul. In all her lifetimes, she had never met someone such as him; even she recognized his conflicting traits when they first met.

Perhaps that is why she had harbored such thinly veiled animosity.

Because she did not understand him.

Because she did not know him. She still does not.

But I wish to.

And so with little more than trepidation, she made a hasty decision.

"I dislike winter." She nearly choked as the words flew from her mouth. Weather, Nárhína? Truly? This is how you start to bridge the gap? She dared not look to him, she could feel the heat rising from her neck and she could count on hand how many times she had ever blushed and she knew he would be laughing. If he was not already.

"Oh?" She scowled at the humor that laced his short question.

You cannot back out now.

"I understand its draw," she sighed, "the mastery behind its design is unparalleled." The woman chanced a glance at her counterpart. He had shifted slightly, his shoulders facing her more openly as his eyes roamed her face. "But it is devious and merciless. The cold does not affect me, the weather itself is inconsequential... but I do not enjoy the meaning behind such a season." She was frowning now. "There is no beauty in death, no pleasure in the barrenness of life. Stripping souls to bare bones and fleshy roots only to bury them in a frozen wasteland of stunning inevitability with such a risk of hope to see the rising sun is cruel and unforgiving."

The miniscule lines around his eyes deepened. Her response was morose, she was aware. But it was how she truly felt and she could not lie. Omit things, of course, but something inside her would not let her do even that, not to him.

"I favor the color orange." Her eyes widened. Orange? Of all the colors. The temptation to ask him why was strong but she refrained. Barely. If he would not question her, she would not question him.

A soft smile formed on her lips to match his. "I am terrified of butterflies." He laughed then and her smile widened, almost to a painful degree as she marveled at how carefree he looked and she realized that she caused that.

"I tend to spend more time taking care of my hair than I should," he said and she finally let herself laugh at the sheepish look on his face.

And so on it went, no questions, only answers. Some trivial, others layered with too many emotions to just pass over and yet, that's exactly what they did.

Nárhína sat, slumped against the greying uneven bark, riveted for what seemed like hours. He was remarkable. Captivated, helpless to do anything but bask in his presence and soak up his warmth, his unending acceptance like water to dying earth. In this time, she observed.

Glorfindel talked with his hands. Long, slim fingers waved about as they punctuated each of his tales or draped over tented knees as he relaxed. Pale skin turned stark white at his knuckles when she spoke about her childhood. They burrowed into his trousers, clenching tightly when she told him about her life after the war. Lightly callused fingertips held captive a lock of her hair as she talked about her mother. They were warm on the back of her neck as she relayed to him the small, inconsequential details of her being and didn't move even as he started to speak.

Long lashes fell, eyes closed when he said he loves the smell of lavender and sage. A slim wrinkle formed in the middle of dark blonde brows as he spoke of his time beyond the Veil, what hazy memories he does have. Full lips twisted sideways when he recounts details of him and a childhood friend and all the trouble they had caused – not unlike the twins, he mentions. Broad shoulders tense as he recounted his part in the war, voice cracking as a litany of names escape through the spaces of his teeth. He steadies himself when her fingers find his own on her neck, breathes deeply as they interlace, offering what words cannot. He reads, more than she thought he would and he chuckles at this, soothed even further as he spends long moments whispering poetry, battle tactics, and flowy things in other languages that sound beautiful because they come from him.

She felt her own eyes falling shut as his voice lulled her into a state of drowsy peace she hadn't known since a child. His voice, heated silk – if such thing existed, seemed to drape over her and in her comfort, she let loose a purr of contentment.

"Nárhína!" Shocked suddenly, wide crimson met narrowed blue.

Her companion had said her name with such quiet power and forcefulness; she was confused on what had changed so quickly. Her body made to pull away, to gain distance but the hand still interlocked with her own tightened on the back of her neck as he brought his free hand to cup her chin.

"Glorfin–"

"Your lips are blue."

Her thoughts stuttered not expecting such a response.

"What?" But his focus was elsewhere. The elf's sharp gaze travelled over her person quickly and efficiently before freezing near her lap. Unhanding her chin he grabbed her braid, holding the end near their faces and she could almost physically feel the blood leaving her face.

Her bright red hair was coated in a thin layer of frost that dissipated almost halfway up her plait.

"Something is wrong." The voice sounded distant and she could vaguely feel Glorfindel's hands burning on her shoulders, shaking her.

"Wake up, Nárhína! You must wake up!" She tried to brush away his hands, to assure him she was fine, but she could not find the words; and so his strained yells and scorching grip lingered as the world tilted and faded to black.