t was her. The swirls of gold and pink light in her eyes, the dawn-colored hair (now decorated with local flora), and the warm aura…all of it was the same. Fëor could hardly believe it. To think his search would be so short.

She returned his surprised expression with a soft, sorrowful look.

“I-I was looking for you,” he blurted, breaking the silence. “A lot has happened since you left and, uh, I was…I was kind of worried, actually. I d-don’t know why, but…it’s been bothering me. You running off, Valýría chasing after you…I thought you’d be slain. Everyone told me not to concern myself with you, but…I couldn’t help it. I really don’t know why. Is it really that strange? I mean…you’ve been so kind and…and you’ve been through so much…it just seems wrong. I tried to tell everyone, too…but they didn’t listen. They think you’re a spy or a fugitive…and maybe they’re right, but…I think they’re wrong. Their assumptions seem logical, I guess, but they just feel…wrong. I don’t know…I can’t explain it, but—”

“It’s okay, Fëor,” she interjected. “Thank you.”

“F-for what?”

“For defending me,” she explained. “At the assembly and from Valýría’s blade. So…thank you. If you hadn’t done that…I…I’m not sure what I would’ve done.”

“Oh, th-that’s right,” he stammered. “My hand moved without thinking. It was…the right thing to do.”

Ërna smiled, her sorrow more evident.

“Do you really mean that?” she pressed. “You don’t have doubts about helping a stranger from a foreign land instead of your own foster-sister?”

That caught Fëor off guard. Her words broke through his (admittedly meager) defenses, piercing him right where he was already wounded. It was obvious from his blabbering speech just a moment ago that he had doubts. He knew he had them, too, but her words forced him to acknowledge them. Hearing her of all people question him for believing her…

“I just…find it hard to believe,” she continued. “I want to trust you. I really do. But…how can I?”

His throat dried up. How could he not consider her side of things? Here he was trying to help her, but…was that what she even wanted? He was just a stranger she happened to run into. What made him so special? Somewhere inside his timid shell was a seed of self-righteousness, an ego that convinced him he was necessary, that she needed him. The thought made him sick. He hated and distrusted that part of himself.

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“It’s okay,” Ërna concluded, sensing his struggle. “I just wanted to thank you before it was too late. So…thank you. Your kindness meant a lot. I’ll never forget it.”

She turned to leave.

“O-of course I’ve had doubts,” Fëor muttered, fists clenched in frustration. “Of course I’ve doubted helping you and constantly worrying about you since we parted. I’ve felt foolish, frustrated, anxious…all while my friends and family scold me for being too sympathetic. I mean, how can I trust you? The whole world tells me to reject you, to avoid you at all costs, and yet…”

She stopped and turned, seeing streams running down his cheeks.

“Maybe…maybe I’ve just been indulging my ego this whole time, because I don’t understand why I’d want to help a stranger so much otherwise. It doesn’t make sense any other way, right? It really doesn’t. This agony I’ve been feeling…”

He held a hand to his chest and took a deep breath.

“I…want to help you. I don’t know why, and perhaps you don’t even want it…but ever since you came along my soul has been a storm. I’m afraid it’s just a self-serving part of myself seeking…something. But, at the same time…I hope it isn’t. I want to believe that I’m guided by something else, something genuine…something beyond myself.”

Fëor then looked straight into Ërna’s eyes—not just a glance, as he had done before, but a deep, meaningful look straight into her soul.

And that’s when he felt something was awry.

Her eyes were the right color, but…something was missing. The part of her that seemed strangely familiar to him, as if he’d known her longer than his lifetime…was gone.

“Y-you’re…you’re not…,” he struggled to speak, brows furrowed as he stepped back.

A grin distorted Ërna’s face, curling with glee before her entire form melted into the shadows.

“Interesting,” came a voice. “Veeery interesting.”

And then he was alone in the darkness once more.

Emotionally exhausted, Fëor collapsed, seeking refuge in the earth. Eventually, small fëol-colored beads seeped out of the soil to comfort him—ëolfëár swirling around him like rain that refuses to fall. He knew who was behind that illusion of Ërna, but that didn’t make it any easier to recover. He sat for a while, watching the land-spirits dance while he reflected on his words and feelings.

“I’m glad I didn’t actually say that stuff to her,” he chuckled. “She’d probably think I’m crazy, if not a creep.”

He looked up, through the gnarled roots and distant foliage. A few stars twinkled through the branches that swayed in the wind.

“I really don’t get it,” he wondered, “but I can’t help it. Even if she doesn’t need me…I have to go.”

It was then that an ethereal squirrel appeared, green of hue. Fëor had heard stories of such spirits before, but had never seen one himself. It was a gylfëa, a spirit said to weave the winds of fate for Gylthra. It hopped down the den-like path before stopping, as if waiting for him to follow.