Chapter Text
The Lighthouse
I had tucked my legs in, the hot water bottle on my stomach and a soft blanket ensured that the storm sweeping around the tower and howling under the closed door crack did not reach me. It was late afternoon, in late April. This storm would be one of the last spring storms before summer finally pushed winter away for a few months.
My hand held a pen and ran over the blank lines of my journal. I had not written in it for some time. Especially after my stay in Hamburg, I had filled several books. After that, my life had returned to an orderly course and writing down my thoughts no longer seemed so important to me. Nevertheless, what had happened still troubled me. I dreamed of the elf at regular intervals, and since Morag had appeared a few months ago at the playground that my nephew had insisted on visiting that day, the memories of what had happened more than ten years ago had once again fought its way to the surface.
So I was writing again.
With a sigh, I leaned back in the chair and lowered the pen. The storm had darkened the sky, clouds piled up, almost blurring the rough sea and the sky beyond. I no longer lived in the city. After returning from Hamburg, some practical problems had been awaiting me: The apartment had been dismantled by Sattler's task force, which had not exactly pleased my landlord. I had been kicked out and had temporarily moved in with my sister, who, however, lived in another city. I had interrupted my studies for some time and then enrolled at the university closest to my new place of residence. It had taken months before I felt able to live on my own again. And a therapy that my sister had forced me into more than I had really wanted to do of my own free will. Which had led to the fact that I had needed further months, in order to admit that the encounter, which I had had with the elf, had not only disturbed me, but had also brought me forward. It had also been my therapist who had encouraged me to write in my diary. At first I had been skeptical - all my previous attempts at keeping a journal had failed miserably. But as I had begun to write down the thoughts and feelings I had experienced during my short time with Legolas, I had slowly been able to place them in order. I had understood that the situation had overwhelmed me. I had understood that I had been in constant fight-or-flight mode over time. And I had understood that because of this, I hadn't known how to view Legolas for a long time. For he had been both the trigger of the situation and my protector. I had been angry that he had taken my life apart. That and his unwillingness to include me in his decisions had left me reeling like a leaf in the wind. I had lost myself, just stumbling from one disaster to the next. Accepting that I had lost control had taken a long time. Almost as long as accepting that I would only slowly get it back.
I flipped the blanket aside and went down to the kitchen. It was, like everything else in my tower, adapted to the curve. Moving had been another part that had contributed to my healing. I had never been particularly comfortable in cities - I had always preferred nature and especially the sea. But my personal situation had not allowed me to move to the countryside. That was different now.
My job was remote and, after a few years of work experience and accumulated savings, I had bought the old lighthouse on the northern coast. It had three stories and the beacon at the top. It was no longer in use, but I had repaired the beacon and sometimes let it shine across the bay. The project had given me hope and something I could do to not only regain control of my life, but to rebuild it. At the very bottom was the narrow entryway, the kitchen and a teeny tiny bathroom. On the second floor, I had set up my study and living room. On the third floor was my bedroom. At the top, I had placed only two garden chairs and some tubs in which I wanted to grow plants in the summer.
The important thing for me was that the tower was right on the beach. I had almost a 360 degree view of the sea.
When I was sitting up by the beacon in the evening, looking out over the tidal flats, I still couldn't believe that I was actually living here. But it was true. Just as true as the fact that my past seemed to be catching up with me.
It was clear to me that I would not be able to shake Morag off forever. He had only given me time to get used to the idea that he would show up again. The only question was: what did he want? And why the heck was he still alive?
Without realizing it, I had paused in my movement and let my gaze wander off into the distance through one of the porthole windows. I shook my head, turned off the water and turned on the kettle. Then I fished for the tea.
Was it coincidence or destiny that my fingers felt the tea caddy in which I had hidden Legolas' necklace? Involuntarily I had to swallow.
No, I was not yet cured. I had only accepted that there were things that could not be forgotten. And even though I had spent years thinking about our encounter, the thought had never left me that I could only truly come to terms with everything if I once again laid eyes on the elf.
Of course, I had not told my therapist the truth about Legolas. Not even my sister. I probably would have ended up in a psychiatric ward if I had. I had talked about the organization and about Legolas needing my help. As far as I could, I had stuck to the truth. My therapist had not failed to notice that I had established a connection with the elf. She had assured me that this was quite normal. That it just happened in such a situation. She had told me that the connection I felt with him had arisen out of the moment. It had been necessary in order to survive the events. She had seemed so sure that the connection would fade when enough time had passed.
But that had never happened.
Because I hadn't told her that part of me didn't want to give up the connection. At least as long as it had taken me to process everything, I had thought about Middle Earth. And about how Legolas had probably lived there for a long time. Maybe he was even still alive? But if that was the case, surely he would have sought me out again? After all, Middle Earth was our past. And elves were immortal.
No.
Resolutely, I put the tea tin back in the cupboard.
This carousel of thoughts had never led to anything. The longer I thought about it, the clearer it became that the elf was either dead or I was just a blink of an eye in his immortal life that he didn't care about enough to repeat again. And that was the fact that hurt me the most.
I wrapped the end of the tea bag around the cup handle and was about to go back upstairs to the workroom to finish my journal entry when the doorbell rang.
With a furrowed brow, I stopped. The weather outside was so bad that the delivery men were definitely not showing up. I certainly was not going to be able to pick up my Amazon orders at the local newsstand for a few days. So who had rung the bell?
For a moment, I hesitated.
Then I turned around and went for the door.