She noticed his euphoria several days later (she had a project, it was occupying most of her mind) and by accident.

She hadn’t paid much attention to the younger generation of the Line of Durin. That family was always so replete with earth-shattering drama and gloom, she avoided them as a matter of course.

The current situation in Middle-Earth had drawn her into their web, however, and she had become embroiled in their dour seriousness and urgent plans despite herself. Though she hadn’t any idea what use she would be.

So it was a breath of fresh air when the youngest ones entered a room: smiling and laughing, their bright eyes dancing with good humour. They always had less of that air of injured tragedy about them than the older ones: Thror, with his terrible anger and guilt, Thrain who lost himself, and Thorin – that implacable exterior covering a yawning pit of stormy emotion that threatened to swallow them all.

They were not great minds – any of them. But they were great Dwarves, and that was enough. That could be enough. She would help.

Perhaps her way of looking at the world could be of use to them.

It was upon her return from the waters (the walls of Minas Tirith were ancient and in decay – but sweet blessed Durin there was some good stone there. The Gates needed work, though: her hands itched) that she ran into the youngest of the Line, the one with the impish grin and snarled brown hair. He apologised and yawned full in her face. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Should you be entering the star-pool if you are exhausted?”

He grinned hugely, full of some great news. “I could walk on water right now, no matter how tired I am.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

He flopped down on a bench and kept smiling at the water. “I will see Tauriel again.”

Tauriel – an elvish name, a female Elvish name – ‘daughter of the forest’ – a woodland name, possibly Silvan, therefore Mirkwood because this dwarrow would not have entered the other dwellings of Silvan Elves, would have had no other opportunity to meet…

“Tauriel,” was all she said.

“Mmmhmm,” he managed, and yawned again. “Just spoke to our Maker. He said that the Elves will return after Dagor Dagorath.”

Dagor Dagorath – the end battle, the return of the darkest evil and the final reckoning – the Elves will return – the Elves will return – the Elves…

They will return.

“They will return,” she repeated, wanting to make sure.

“Aye,” he said, and beamed at nothing in particular. “I will see Tauriel again.”

“Tauriel is dead?” she pressed, though her heart was thundering. Her own voice sounded very far away.

“Aye,” he said, blinking, and then his face grew lax as the starlight came to claim him and whirl him into the world of the living.

Narvi did not run to Mahal to demand answers. She did not storm through the Halls. She did not scream aloud in joy and grief.

She walked, stunned and dazed, to her workshop. There she went to a chest that had sat untouched since the moment she awoke in the Halls, and blew dust from the lid.

Unlocking it, she drew out a blanket-wrapped lump, and held it close to her chest. There she sat, still as stone, for a long moment. Then she took a huge shuddering breath – and finally tears began to run down her face.

I will see you again. I will see you again. I will see you again!

Beneath a corner of the blanket came the telltale silvery moonlit glow of ithildin.