We get up off the ground helping each other. Svartalf holds my hand like a little girl, although, it was she who has been courageously dragging me up the mountain path.

 The place seems deserted and very windy. Gnarled trunks of old trees and lush vegetation have disappeared; in their place one can see low-growing shrubs and plants that can hardly make their way between lava stones. I can barely see the mountain scapes. Of course, an ordinary person would not see half of what I can see now. Witches have very good eyesight (not as good as of a cat, but still better than the eyesight of any other mortals).

 I feel very uncomfortable being here. Svartalf lets go of my hand, and I hug myself.  The wind either starts howling like a wild animal or wailing like a wounded child, blowing through my unpleasantly short black hair. I notice a few crows watching us at a respectful distance. I bet they are not some ordinary birds. Perhaps, they are the mountain spirits or aliens from other hidden kingdoms and worlds who, due to their small size, were able to get through the elven secret portals.

 “That can't be,” Svartalf mutters. She walks back and forth, desperately looking around. "I don’t understand..." 

 I don't feel like interfering into her impending crisis, but after a few moments, I finally ask her, "What’s the matter? Don't tell me you left something in the tavern: I‘m not ready to go back, babe," I chuckle, trying to clear the air.

 She looks at me, “Imor’s residence must be here... 

 “You know, this uninhabited lodge doesn't look like a royal residence. Where are all pompous elven columns, fountains, pavilions, mosaics, and ornate bas-reliefs? I really hope that my dear ruler has not been kept in a dog kennel...” I don’t finish the sentence, noticing her miserable face. “The residence might not be far from this place.  Try to relax. Maybe it's on the opposite side of the lake...”

 “I don't know...” she's about to cry. “I've never been here before.”

 “You must be joking?! Why on earth they never let you here?” I say, rubbing my head, but I already know the answer: she's not 'pure' enough to be with other awesome elves.

 “It's a secret place. Not everyone is allowed. Mother told me to stay not far from the mountain. The moment I received the message that bad people were after Imor, I hurried to the mountain. Mother said that I should contact her first, but I would be wasting my time, that’s why I decided to act quickly. I... It must be the residence here. It must be here,” she utters a quite sob.

 “It happens. Come here.” I take her by the arm. “There is no point in racking your cute brains now. We are already here. The shadows don't seem to touch us, at least not now. Come on, babe, wipe your snot and let's spend the night in this lodge. You need to sleep. Tomorrow, we'll sort it out on the spot. I don’t want to stay out in the open: just look at these creepy crows! I don’t know about you, but I’d rather hurry inside: the birds give me goosebumps.”

 While I am delicately walking her to our shelter, Svartalf is looking around, as if hoping to find Imor or her elven kinsmen.

 The lodge feels like an empty shell. The dark windows are gaping forgotten and forlorn. It has only one room, and there are no people in there. The log fire is cold. I can't find any candles or candelabras. A square table, a small wooden chair, and a mattress filled with finely chopped straw. Not a lot of things in here.

 Elfia sits down on a wooden chair. The chair is so inconveniently tiny as if it was made specifically for a gnome. She's brooding sadly, clutching her head. Instead of sealing the door with a spell, I simply move the table towards it: my weariness makes me indifferent to the dangers of the mountain.

 “Let me help you with the table.” She wants to jump up from the children furniture.

 “Keep your bun on this ridiculous chair and relax, Svartalf.” I think I'm about to faint again, but I don't want to show her my weaknesses anymore. Luckily, the windows have internal shutters: I slam them shut and latch them properly, feeling tiny drops of cold sweat running down my forehead. To my displeasure, the pointy-eared woman notices this.

 She does not listen to me and gets up, taking jerky meat and some bread out of her mysterious bag; with feminine care the food is neatly wrapped in a white linen kerchief. I have treacherous rumblings in my stomach.

 “Please take it, you must be very hungry,” she gently puts food into my hands.

 “You need it more,” I mutter as if irritated, but in fact I’m very confused again.

 “Please,” she begs me to take food, pampering me with her tender smile.

 I nod bashfully. I have no idea why such a simple act is making my cheeks glow.

We sit on the mattress together munching camp rations. Svartalf cuts the bread and meat into small pieces to make it look like we have a lot of food; she places them neatly on a chair that has been given new life as a minimalist table. Several times our fingers touch each other when we want to take another piece. Elfia invariably apologizes, and I silently bite my lips.

 As our awkward meal comes to an end, I realize it's time for an even more awkward situation: there's only one mattress in the lodge.

 Elfia nervously wraps herself in her sheepskin as if she's cold. I think she's embarrassed by me for some reason. Fine, I don’t want her to feel bad: I’ll make her life easy. I take off my jacket, lie down facing the wall, roll up the jacket, and put it under my head instead of a pillow.

 “Goodnight,” I say in a whisper. My head is a mess; all I want is to fall asleep and see no dreams.

 She doesn't answer. Less than a quarter of a thin church candle lifetime, I feel her laying down next to me on the mattress. I gulp, feeling stiff for no reason. Svartalf's body is so close that I can feel her with my back. She naively cuddles to me like an innocent child who's afraid of monsters in her closet.

 “Goodnight,” her nicely feminine voice drops to a whisper. I feel her light breath on my skin making the little hairs on my neck stand on end.