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Finduilas is made of air. Houseless, breathless, she drifts like dust amidst the walls and chambers of her old worn life. Fire cannot touch her, nor water carry her. Finduilas is almost gone.

Hovering, she watches the world unfurl, lifelike as the tapestries that used to shape her days, stitch by careful stitch. The young man’s strength is not enough; the old man’s foresight falters.

Then a fresh scent comes from the Sea. And by the fever-bed, for a son she hardly knew, Finduilas finds her vanished voice. “Breathe,” she whispers. “Breathe the free air.”

Now Finduilas too is free.


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