"Silence," I commanded, the word a desperate plea of my will against the unfamiliar muscles of this throat. Yet, the voice, reedy as it was, carried a strange, ancient authority that even I was surprised to hear. The rough voice, belonging to a man I now sensed standing over me, instantly ceased its anxious babble. Good. Obedience was a language even these wretched humans understood, though I felt no pride in gaining it through such a pitiful instrument.
My new senses, dull and restricted, began to filter in information, slow and agonizingly limited. The distinct metallic tang of stale blood permeated the air—my blood, I realized with a fresh wave of disgust. I could feel the cold, hard ground beneath me, rough and uneven, pressing into fragile bones that felt as if they might shatter. There was a faint, cloying scent of poverty and neglect, a smell utterly alien to the perfumed halls of my palace in the Underworld, where the air was always crisp with the scent of ozone and shadowed magic. A chill wind, carrying the distant scent of woodsmoke and damp earth, whispered around me.
"Who… where am I?" The words were still a battle, but a modicum of control began to assert itself. My mind, a tempest of ancient power, struggled to reconcile with the weak, undeveloped brain of this girl. It was like trying to pilot a colossal warship with a child's toy. The indignity of it threatened to suffocate me more than the shadows had.
"By the Fates, you're awake!" a voice exclaimed, his voice laced with a mix of relief and profound confusion. "Why in the stars are you out here, girl? You should be inside, safe! After such an eclipse… it's not right for you to be alone." He knelt beside me, his movements rustling coarse fabric. I felt a faint pressure on my arm, a fleeting, hesitant touch.
"What is your name, human?" I demanded, pushing against the rising bile of my utter powerlessness. My very being recoiled from his touch, from the implication of care, of weakness.
"It's Kaelen, Just Kaelen" he replied, his voice a little steadier now, though still holding a tremor. "And you… you're Lyra, aren't you? From the weaver's cottage? Why did you wander out?"
Lyra. A name. A human name. So utterly devoid of the power and dread that Zalara invoked. It tasted like ash on my tongue. Weaver's cottage? What nonsense was this?
"Wander out?" I echoed, my voice still thin but now infused with a barely perceptible thread of menace that caused Kaelen to instinctively pull his hand back. "I came from… from elsewhere. Tell me where I am. And what village is this?"
Kaelen hesitated, clearly perplexed by my questions. "Elsewhere? Lyra, are you truly alright? You fell hard, right after the eclipse, out here near the old mill. This is Noldor, young lady We're a small village on the fringes of the Emerald Forest. And our sovereign is Emperor Fëanor the Third, may his reign be eternal."
Noldor. Emperor Fëanor the Third. Names that meant nothing to me. Human names. Small, insignificant. My realm was one of eternal night, of vast, suffering armies and silent, ancient powers. This was… a shack. A cage.
As Kaelen spoke, my new, frail hands, so unlike my own strong, elegant claws, rose instinctively to my face. My fingertips brushed against something rough, tied tightly across my eyes. Fabric. A blindfold. A wave of cold, dawning horror washed over me, deeper than any physical pain. My breath hitched.
"What is this?" I hissed, my voice suddenly sharp, cracking slightly. "Why is there cloth… over my eyes? Am I… am I blind?"
Kaelen sighed, a sound heavy with pity. "Oh, Lyra. You… you've always been blind, lass. Since you were a baby. That's why you wear the wrap, to protect your eyes, though some say it helps you 'see' in your own way. We all know Lyra, the blind girl of the weavers."
Always been blind. The words hammered into my skull, a thousand tiny hammers of agonizing truth. I, Zalara, whose gaze had pierced the deepest shadows, who had witnessed the birth and death of stars, was now confined to perpetual darkness. This vessel, this wretched Lyra, was not merely weak, but fundamentally flawed. It was the ultimate humiliation. My power, my very essence, trapped within a body that couldn't even perceive the light. It was a cruel, cosmic jest, perhaps even a punishment.
"Here," Kaelen said, interrupting my spiraling fury. "You must be hungry. You've been out a while."
A warmth was pressed into my hands—something soft, yielding, with a faint, savory scent. Food. The primal pang of hunger, a sensation unknown to my ethereal underworldly form, gnawed at my stomach. My queenly pride, still reeling from the shock of blindness, warred briefly with this overwhelming, alien need. But the hunger was too potent, too undeniable. It was an instinct that bypassed logic, a raw, demanding ache that my ancient soul had never encountered.
Helpless and utterly at the mercy of this pathetic body's needs, I brought the food to my face. My teeth, small and unfamiliar, tore into the soft texture. I ate it, greedily, quickly, barely tasting it, a grotesque parody of the refined feasts I had once commanded. The act itself was a surrender, an undeniable affirmation of my new, degrading reality.
After I finished, Kaelen's hand, surprisingly gentle, found my elbow. "Come on, Lyra. Let's get you back to the cottage." He pressed a thin, smooth piece of wood into my other hand. It felt familiar to this body, despite being utterly alien to my soul. A walking stick. My fingers instinctively tightened around it, a new kind of shame burning within me. I, Zalara, leaning on a stick like an ancient, withered crone. The thought was unbearable.
He guided me, patiently, steadily. My feet, small and clumsy, stumbled over the uneven ground, my bare soles protesting against sharp pebbles and cold dirt. Each step was a fresh indignity. The air grew warmer, the scent of woodsmoke stronger, mingled with the faint, comforting smell of wool and old parchment. The murmur of human voices, soft and indistinct, grew louder. Then, a familiar sound that made Kaelen sigh in relief: the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a loom.
"Here we are, Lyra," Kaelen whispered, and I felt the presence of a doorway. "Your grandmother will be worried sick."