A warm wind fell over Fëor’s shoulders, caressing him in a way that felt…strangely familiar.

It hadn’t come from the áren that was just resting on his shoulder. It was a new presence, unforeseen and yet…familiar?

Why was it so familiar?

He knew the aura of his friends and kin. This one didn’t quite fit any of them. That should have been cause for concern, and yet…he somehow knew it. In fact, deep within his own seed, his soul yearned for it.

Feeling its warmth again after so long—wait, again?—his throat constricted—how long had it been?—and a single tear fell down his cheek.

Frustrated by his own confusion (and at the fact that his morning meditation had been so rudely disrupted), he snapped back to his senses. Turning to greet whatever had come to his glade, he expected to see another songbird or squirrel, but—

—an ethereal face returned his gaze.

He fell back, nearly crushing an elëamýr that still danced in delight with the new wind that had come.

Fëor, on the other hand, trembled.

“A-are you a…a fëánor?”

Before him, at least to his eyes, stood a spirit from Ethýría, the realm of wind. Strange, silken clothes covered her luminous skin. Her ears resembled the rays of a star, long and flared. But her hair was the color of dawn, with strands of orange and pink that rivaled even the radiance of an elëamýr—and that was unusual for a celestial spirit.

He was too flustered to give that much thought, though.

To his question, the spirit pointed at herself in surprise before waving her hand dismissively. Turning her face aside, her eyes wandered down towards the earth.

“I’m nothing so noble.”

It was only then, when the warm wind she carried began to cool with her pained expression, that Fëor noticed more about his unexpected guest.

Her once-exquisite garments were blemished with stains and nicks. Her hair, though tended to with care, was frizzing free from its trappings. She had been traveling, but the only thing she carried was a small woven basket upon her back.

Fëor, being a naive fellow, took this alone as proof that she was…normal—from Ánor, the material realm, like anyone else.

“I-I see. I’m sorry.” Fëor squeaked, fidgeting awkwardly. “It’s just that, well…it felt like you were…that your presence was just so bright and warm…I just assumed you came from Ethýría.”

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

As his eyes shifted downward and his face turned pink, the ‘spirit’ before him blushed. Fëor was hardly a smooth talker, but his words were nonetheless filled with sincerity; and complimenting another person’s wind—their soul and aura—was the highest praise one could give in Älthren.

But for that reason, her gaze grew more wary.

“Do you really not know what I am?”

Contrary to his clumsy performance, Fëor returned her suspicious stare with one of his own. It was surprisingly complex, deep with meaning that would take time to unravel—but it only lasted for a moment.

“Well,” he dragged, putting a hand to his chin, “I don’t think you’re from Gälenor, at least. I may be a bit recluse, but I still know what lives around here well enough. Ëolrí, Luálrí…you don’t seem to fit either of those groups, and they’re pretty diverse.”

He paused, considering a third option on his fingers.

“As for the other group,” he continued slowly with eyes more keen, “I don’t think any dwell this far east. If so, I’ve never seen them or heard about them; but you're not really like them, from what I've been told. Your wind is too warm and welcoming. It’s not stifling enough to be like them.“

He noticed her shrink from those words, a pained expression returning to her face as she clenched a fist over her chest. She looked away, seeking solace in the roots of the tree she hid behind. She was clearly hurt by his words, and that answered his suspicion. But…

Fëor’s tough act crumbled.

Caving immediately, he tried to rectify the damage his careless response caused. He was simply too soft—or, perhaps, something else outweighed his fear.

“S-so...if you're none of those things,” he spluttered, deciding to play dumb, “what are you?”

The sorrowful 'spirit' turned her eyes to Fëor, considering her next actions carefully.

“If you really don't know, then I'd rather not say.”

Surprised by her stubbornness, Fëor's face froze in a silly expression before finally letting out a sigh.

“Okay…could you at least tell me your name? You're still labelled as 'strange spirit' in my head, so...”

She continued to stare.

“I-I can start, if that helps. My name is Fëor. And yours?”

He was (awkwardly) trying to break the tension and start this conversation over, but that ‘strange spirit’ continued to eye him with suspicion, nearly glaring at him as she tried to discern his motives.

“I understand your hesitation…but you’re the one that came to me, wandering around my home, while I was sitting here alone, bothering no one, enjoying the grove’s morning air.”

He glared back at her.

She defiantly puffed her checks at him before finally sighing in defeat.

“Ërna.”

“Ërn…a? That’s an unusual name for an—”

Fëor stopped himself before taking that thought too far; and fortunately, she didn’t hear him.

“I mean, th-that’s a lovely name. To be named after herbs, the humblest stars of the earth, is an honor…right?”

The look on Ërna’s face, which now seemed more distant and showed signs of discomfort, indicated that his flattery had failed yet again. Struggling to hold a conversation with this stranger, he desperately grasped for something, anything, to save him from this exhausting endeavor. But…

…he wasn’t very good at this sort of thing.

“So, uh…what brings you here?”

With his wits whittled to their end, that was the best he could do. Socializing wasn’t his strength, even if her wind felt strangely welcoming.

Sensing his struggle, Ërna responded with exhaustion of her own, sighing and slouching.

Why did I come here, I wonder? I’ve been so careful, so afraid of being found. I haven’t seen a single soul, avoiding every sound as if my life depended on it. Revealing myself was dangerous…and yet, when I saw him sitting in this glade, I just…felt drawn in?

Found again after so long—wait, found?—tears threatening to fall down her face—why do I felt like I’ve been saved?—she grabbed the strap of her satchel and faced Fëor.

Why does his wind feel so…familiar?

Ignoring her inner turmoil for the moment, she finally answered his question.

“I’m on a journey to study herbs.”