Searching futilely for something to say, Birin found that he was unwilling to speak to her. His unwillingness stemmed from an aversion to responsibility where she was concerned, and he was forced to consider Elgar’s words regarding the Outcast’s Elven sire, for he could not help but see something of such selfishness in himself. But it occurred to him also that he might expiate his culpability, if only he were to explain himself. So at last he spoke.
‘Imalwain . . . it is Elgar’s wish that we should talk. Or, failing that, that you should talk, and I should listen.’
She started, but didn’t turn to look at him. She little resembled the laughing Pixie he remembered. Her light-brown hair, which had shone and danced about her shoulders, was bedraggled and unkempt. Her complexion, once so hale and tanned, was now pale. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and dirt under her fingernails. Her dress, too, was unkempt, and torn in several places. She seemed not to care.
For no reason that he could put into words, her appearance struck him like a physical blow, as though her present condition was the embodiment a crime, the cause of which somehow eluded him. He had faced strong adversaries with less trepidation, and the words he uttered in a dry voice came unbidden to his lips, ‘Imalwain, what has happened to you?’