#Athlidon Fiction

[beaflower77]

This Night’s Moon

Sitting off by himself, he stared at the vast landscape. The ponies and larger horses the elves owned, were galloping round, getting much needed exercise. He smiled slightly at them, slightly. Sitting still, listening to the evening calls of birds nestling down in the distance, he couldn’t but think, Why, why?, while small animals gathered up the last few hungry pickings, scattering off to their own shelters. I should be moving along myself, again coming around from his wayward, scattered thoughts. But still he sat, and lingered and thought not knowing what to do, which way he should turn.  

Elves were not ones to make quick, easy decisions, but they were not ones to linger and tarry over unnecessary quests either. Why then was this one so hard, so difficult, so, so brutal to decide upon? He sat. He watched the land. He could not decide. They had said he would never do it, said he could never, did not have the courage to, he lacked the skills, the love, the need, the ache. What he was supposed to have, was supposed to give, they said he didn’t. He wanted to prove them wrong, wanted to do it, wanted it, yearned for it, but still he sat and watched, and thought and deliberated.

How long he sat there on that rise he did not know. How much time passed and still he thought. How long it took the sun to set, he could not say. High in a cloudless sea of stars, the moon appeared on high. It was beautiful, fathomless that moon. The moon rose, clouds passed. And a slight wind washed over him. It was a minstrel’s wind and he listened to its call. And finally he rose. Rising, stretching, rubbing down achy legs, he finally stood. 

He strode with purpose. Strode toward his waiting destination. And his destiny.

The walk is treacherous, he thought. The walk is long, the walk is slow, but this I must do. I must go on. I will not stop now. It will be alright. Whether it is or is not, I must continue. I have decided. Now I must carry through.  

Reaching his destination, the honorable elf stopped momentarily. With his silent, wordless approach, the elf continued his staring down upon the object of his vast affection while she continued to sit, and wait, and wait longer. And she had hope. A hope born of years of silent longing, endless glances, and boundless internal devotion they gave each other. 

At last he found his voice.

“I am not an extremely positive elf,” Athlidon began. “I am not even inclined to smile all day.” He waited, waited for her to say something, she didn’t. Her face was kept in neutral, her emotions in check. Continuing, “I am often told I am annoying, stubborn, maybe even … arrogant.”  He waited again. And again she said nothing in return. He strode ever on, “I have waited long, I know not why, I. I do not know how to say it.” He silently wished for deliverance, for help. He stood there on achy legs, waiting, staring, voiceless. The bravery he had earlier discovered gave way to inarticulation. 

Slowly, she stood. Reaching her long fingers up his arm, almost touching, almost not touching him. She did not dare yet. Instead, “Say it please. Say that which is on your mind, do not be afraid for me. We are friends.”

 What encouragement for me, he thought.

He breathed in heavily, shoved on, with little pinpricks of a blush starting to form, prickling his checks, his neck, ears. “I love you Gwingnis. I always have. I could never love another who is so very tender and touching as you.”  

There, I have said it he thought, wondering her reaction to his more than candid admission. Will our friendship end, or blossom?

She waited for him to continue, but he went on no more. She smiled, no beamed up at him, his unguarded face, just him and no more. Moving forward slowly, ever so slowly he thought, she touched his face so soft, so light as down, it was almost not even a touch amidst the evening’s dark.

“I have watched you from afar for so long now,” she gazed longingly. “You who walk in beauty under the night’s moon. Never before have I longed for any other as for you. I would offer myself to you, if you would but have me.”  

She said this? She said it? Yes she did. He moved in, washing out that distance betwixt, the distance which separated them for more than any lifetime. Grabbing her swiftly, yet with such tenderness no one thought he could possess, he stormed on, “I would have you. You are my night’s moon.” Tenderly stroking her down, he felt suddenly freed from unnamed chains. This night’s moon, this one ellyth, who could change everything he is, he was, or even wanted to be. She above others could save him, point his life in the right direction. She would be his eternal compass. 

He kissed her. It was not a tender kiss or even a sloppy kiss, just a kiss, and even if there were to be no further kisses that night, it was simply just a kiss. And Athlidon held her tight against him for all he was worth.

Under this night’s moon, and from around the corner, she peeked and smiled to herself.  Knowing, secretly wanting, hoping and watching as she smiled at Athlidon and Gwingnis, his night’s moon, she thought to herself, Athlidon has a girlfriend.  

[beaflower77]

Little Bottles Of Oil

“She is out of touch lately, I wonder why?”  

Looking toward Gwingnis, the other ellyth replied, “Hmmm, does not look as anything is unusual. Maybe she is getting more sleep at night” 

The suggestion was intuitive enough, but, “Oh Come. There is something more to it than that. Really.”, she whispered back. “Look. Do you see it? There! See? She has a little bottle of oil! Where did she retain that from?”  

Yes, indeed she did!  Gwingnis was given this bottle from someone very special, for these little bottles of bathing oil were highly prized, deemed so expensive and rare, it was highly unusual for many to have them, only one in a rather good position possible might acquire this find. And to gift it to another was indeed most fortunate, adoring and special.

Most had assembled themselves around the center of the bathing area, some had merely intended to sit, wash their dusty tired feet, while others had finished making to leave. Gwingnis had been in a good mood all day. Her brief meetings, flirtations, small encounters with Athlidon were exhilarating, promising. They were secretly courting.

Remembering her solitary, sweet moments with Athlidon, Gwingnis proceeded to enjoy the cascading stream of warm water pouring down her legs, her toes.  

Others had been watching her, studying her musings, intrigued by her tiny displays of happiness. Elves are kind, gentle, caring but sometimes they can also exhibit jealous,  childish moments. These two obnoxious ellyths wanted to know why Gwingnis was more ethereal lately, more lighthearted. What was causing her undue happiness. 

“Go ask her. Ask where she found it, why she has it. See if you can borrow it”  

Being shocked at such a task, the other ellyth shook her head. “No. You go ask, you want to know. Perhaps she found it laying about, that does happen you know. You go ask.”  

Huffing, the first decided to conquer this little quest and see what exactly was what.  “Fine. You will see. She most likely stole it, or found it laying about and took it without finding its proper owner.”  Sloshing off to ask, she made her way as best she could through the clear but noisy pool toward her prey. 

“Good day Gwingnis,” the younger ellith announced. “You have chosen a nice private spot to bathe,” and she modestly looked over Gwingnis’s belongings, contemplating her next line of questioning.  

“Well met, and how are you?” Gwingnis returned the politest of replies, wondering as to the unwanted attention.

Raising her eyebrows, she asks me how I am? Hummff!  “I am well, I thank you. Ah, I see you have a little bottle of bathing oil,”as the ellyth tried to give the effect of a smile. “Ah, may I use some? It is quite rare and .. expensive. How did you come by this? This certainly was not given to you, was it?” She poured some onto her hand.

Gwingnis was more than happy to share, why wouldn’t she? Most ellyths were like sisters to each other, especially the ones closest in age or rank. “Of course, why not? Here, you must share some.”  

Taking the bottle, tipping it slightly, rubbing a little over her shoulders, arms, she inquired again, “Where did you get this?” The more she became intrigued, the more pushy she became and soon had come to her original conclusion of this little mystery and even bigger blame.  

Giving a shy, blushing but heartfelt answer, Gwingnis smiled, “Athlidon gave it to me.”  

Eyebrows went high, sky high, “I do not think so,” reproached the ellyth. “Athlidon would not just give this to you. Give this to you?,” she reiterated. “Perhaps he would lend it, let you borrow, but give it? Why? Why would you say that?” The ellyth went further still, “Athlidon is snobby. He would not just give this to you To Anyone. And why you?”  

Receiving her answer, this ellyth was disgusted. Quickly finishing her bath, she returned the bottle of oil, heading over toward her friend again. “Athlidon? Gwingnis is delusional! Making things up. She feasted her eyes too long on a long shot and not even one worth the wait. And even if it were true, which it certainly couldn’t be, why Athlidon of all ellon! No. This ellyth is telling stories.” The second ellyth was perplexed. She watched Gwingnis bundle her belongings and leave. She knew her friend had been crass and hurtful.

Gwingnis upon learning this ellyths’ line of thinking and attitude toward her and her Athlidon, was shocked, affronted and not to admit very hurt. Gwingnis opened her mouth, closing it tightly. As much she held such intense internal emotions, she was not one to outwardly complain or despair. She definitely was not one who would compete with this nasty ellyth. Putting out her hands, “Give my bottle back please.” Finishing up quickly, having no more interest in bathing in any proximity of those two, she declared, “You may not speak of Captain Athlidon thus. He is a noble and proud soldier of our city. He fights for our freedom and all who live in Middle Earth. And he did indeed gift this to me.” Finding her towel, taking her personal belongings, Gwingnis walked off, proud of her Athlidon, thinking to herself, you cannot hurt me. Only fools can be made fools of, and I am no fool, unlike you two! Gwingnis finished her toiletry within the confines of her own bedchambers.

They found him reading, sitting by the edge of a thunderous pond, drinking in the warm, midday sun. Wanting to present themselves in the best of lights, they tossed their lovely hair, smoothed down gowns. “Good day Captain Athlidon. You are looking well.”  

Looking from his reading of famous past military strategists he nodded dryly, with an air of ownership. “Good day.”  

Not exactly knowing how to proceed but still wishing to place blame, the ellyths skirted the issue, just a little. “It is a warm day Captain. Most are bathing to cool themselves. You do not bathe today?”  

What were these two playing at? Why do they need to know if I bathe? This is a ridiculous conversation. “I have already bathed,” Athlidon simply stated. “Why should I have to admit this to you?”

The one ellyth looked to the other motioning with her head, “Ah, Captain Athlidon?,” the other began, “There are many ellyths who have bathed also earlier. Some even with bathing oil. Very rare and expensive bathing oil.”  

Where was this line of questioning going he wondered? He sighed, “Is that so?” He gave a pert half smile. “What do you care?,” he questioned back. 

The first continued, “Well, yes, even some who say … certain bathing oil was given to them by .. you. We of course, naturally declined all manner of talk, being it nonsense. However, there were those who could not but wonder … if this was true?”  

Were they baiting him? What did these two sly ones want? He had heard of them before, never one without the other, always trying to be better than others. He would put them straight. These two little nitwits, isn’t that what his friend Beatrice would call them? Well, he must give a reply, a put you in your place reply. And that is what he did. “Is that correct? Well, I did give a bottle of oil to someone. Someone I am extremely fond of. Someone even I love. Someone who has a heart of gold, a bottomless heart of gold. Who is kind, and tender and thoughtful and full of mercy.” Unlike the two of you, he kept to himself.

They stopped. Intently they listened. Wanting to push further, they were halted into Athlidon’s submission. 

“In fact,” as he lent down to whisper conspiratorially, “Someone whom I am now courting. Someone whose name is Gwingnis. Does that answer not bring your line of questioning to a conclusion?,” tossing his own hair, as he smiled a little devilish smile and walked away, leaving them alone with mouths pouting.  

Bah!, Athlidon said to himself, those two are nothing but trouble. Troublemakers! This is like a school of highs, as Beatrice says. Of course, Athlidon had no idea of what he was talking about, meaning she told him it is sometimes like high school drama queens, where jealous and petty females behaved like silly, little girls with upturned noses, and too high heels to trip and traipse over, not wanting others to outwit them.  School of highs indeed! Yes, sometimes these jealous petty attitudes last for years and years after his friend claimed. “Bah!,” again Athlidon voiced to the air.

Leaning against a lonely pillar amidst the gardens, her face shrouded in sadness, Athlidon found her. Slowly coming from behind, he trailed his lovely long fingers over her shoulders, round and down her arms, ending in caressing and twining his fingers within hers. She did not need to look upon her admirer, for she could sense him. Sadly Gwingnis turned and smiled into his shoulder, taking in his scent. 

“You are sad. Why? Why is my beauty and delight so sad?,” he questioned. 

She did not want to send these burdens his way, he had other cares to think on. The care and keeping of the city and its residents, keeping sharp with weaponry, fighting movements, battle strategies, not to be settled in his thoughts on bathing cares. She needed nevertheless to hear his voice, his encouragements, his kind thoughts, his nothing but love for her. Unbeknownst to them both, the other two jealous and arrogant ellyths had followed and hid themselves behind bushes and tangles, as they had noticed him walking this way. Wanting to know If it really was Gwingnis he heart belonged to.

“I do not wish to burden you,” simply Gwingnis explained.

“Ah, you are not a burden to me, you are my delight. Tell me and we will either by sad together or I shall unburden you of this sadness. Come, tolo, tell me,” he smiled down.  

She took but a moment to consider, “At the pool today, some noticed the bottle of oil I had with me. They did not think it mine, only taken, stolen perhaps.”  

Looking wide and long at her, Athlidon was angered, if only for a moment before her, to reign in his upset. “I gave this to you. This was never borrowed or stolen. It is yours freely.”  He looked upon her with hurt, and understood the earlier approaches. “Do not let them upset you. They are silly, little ellyths, no more than younglings, Jealous. They have no maturity yet.”  Caressing her face, he raised her chin up, kissed her tenderly. Turning her then around to face the drifting clouds, pointing them out, “Look. Look how they move, these clouds. They are here one moment, and there another. It is like life. Life moves along from one moment to another. It is ever fleeting. Life does not stay still, it is forever fleeing. But we, my little delight, we elves stay still, we are constant, until the time of our passing. Do not let these silly ones toy with your thoughts. It may be hurtful right now, but this is of no consequence to me, to you. I gave you this gift, you know it. That is all that needs to be said.”  

Holding her close, they didn’t see the two jealous ones, hiding, overhearing and feeling foolish. How wrong they were, how simple, how foolish. Next time, hopefully, they would think twice before seeking out to blame for what they do not know.

[beaflower77]

Tender Petals

The evening had already grown late, partying in full swing, and the music, it was just too loud at the moment. It was so late, her head was pounding. Knowing she needn’t stay by Lindir’s side every minute, she smiled politely, blended in as well she could, and waited for her chance to escape the throng of long-winded, chatty party goers. And as the large formal doors opened, she stole her chance. “I’ll be right back,” sweetly she said to whomever she was with, and touched delicately the dark sleeve of their clothing. The elf smiled, nodding in return.

Oh, to be out of that hall, Beatrice thought. And enjoyed her moment of solitude. Too many bodies, too much noise, and absolutely no air to breathe. Out the doors she scooted, conspicuously grabbing a couple slices of radish off a plater, and past a laughing couple returning. She sighed with relief, munching the radishes. The night was darkening, and outside she stood at the balcony’s edge, balancing on her toes, peering down and over. A long ways down she thought, and sighed against the air. She could still hear their laughter and cacklings from out here. 

However, Beatrice soaked in the evening air, the smells of the night, noticing the delicate, soft petals of moon flowers which had already folded in on themselves, and took her time gazing at the stars blanketing the sky above her. While basking in her only private moment that day, Beatrice perceived a tiny speck of movement toward her left. And turning her head, she peered into the night trying to make out just what it was she thought she had seen.

Athlidon. Ah, Athlidon, Beatrice thought. He never comes out here, especially alone, unless it’s something to be considered, or obsessed over. Deciding to sneak behind him, Beatrice very, very slowly tiptoed closer. He heard. “What do you want?,” he annoyingly gave her, without turning round. “I,” she muttered softly. “I knew it was you,” he gave her. “I could hear you clumping round about the stairs.” She made him a face against his back. Looking round the area for a spot to sit, Athlidon heavily sighed, shifting over on his bench, making room for her. “Sit.” She heard the sigh, and countered with one of her own, but hitched, and folded her dress round her legs, and sat beside him. The air was chilled. 

“What do you want?,” again he asked. “Nothing. You are just out here by yourself,” Beatrice said, slightly giving a shrug of her shoulders. “I thought I could join your aloneness.” Athlidon humphed. “I wish to be alone,” he complain. “Meaning solitary aloneness.” She waited a bit in her own silence. “The last time you told me that, you were happy for my company,” Beatrice remarked. Another weighty sigh. “That was last time.” But he did smile, and even though it was dark, she could see it, a tiny hint of a smirk gracing his handsome face. And longer contemplative time passed.

“What shall we talk about tonight?,” Beatrice asked, hoping to pull some teeth out of him. “Nothing,” was his comment. In truth, Athlidon was not the easiest elf to deal with. Complicated, testy, moody, and like a big, purple onion. So many layers. Just to peel back one layer was revealing, and, not always for the betterment of their friendship. But that’s what she believed it was. A friendship, of sorts. Beatrice liked Athlidon, really she did. He was direct, tactful, extremely straightforward. And absolute. But also tender, openhearted. When she did something not so befitting her station, Athlidon was very unreserved in his opinions of her. Very. But still, she knew exactly where she stood with him, and that’s what she liked. And Athlidon was much too aware of that fact. 

Beatrice let the matter rest, again breathing in the night scents, and closed her eyes, almost wishing she was in her bed at the moment. She sighed, and with her last big breath, “How have you been?,” he inquired. She looked at him in surprise, and considered. That’s how we’re going to start?  “Okay,” Beatrice gave him. “Alright. Bored.” She shrugged. “Bored?!,” Athlidon snorted. “How can you be bored round here?” Another heavy sigh. “I am never bored,” he gave her. “Always there is something to do. Cleaning weapons, training horses, teaching lessons of combat. And..,” again he sighed. That’s my opening, she thought. How to get there? “And?,” Beatrice inquired.  “And. Nothing.”  She looked away in annoyance. Fine. I’m really trying here you big, tall stink.

“How is your family?” Ah, he thought. Finally. She finally figured it out. “My family,” Athlidon replied. “Yes. My family.” Athlidon considered. He thought, and considered for the longest time. And during this time of his consideration, Beatrice waited, and became just a little tense there was going to be something not just right with his answer. “My family is, my family is, they are well Beatrice. They are well. My daughter,” he deliberated, “My daughter, my only child, is now having a child of her own.” And with that opened thought, Athlidon smiled. Turning to Beatrice, he smiled with a few tears of joy, “A little elfling Beatrice. An elfling.” And here, Athlidon gave her the broadest smile, one she hadn’t realized he could give before, and he choked on his own tears, and swallowed. Beatrice smiled in return, happily basking in Athlidon’s immediate joy. Placing a tender, tentative hand on his arm, “Then that is good, is it not Athlidon?,” she asked. “Now she will need you more than ever. And Faelor?,” Beatrice asked, knowing Faelor was not Athlidon’s first choice of son-in-laws for his most beloved, prized daughter. 

Sobering up, Athlidon sniffed. “Ah Faelor,” he admitted. “Faelor, is well, he turned out better than I have given him credit for. He is good to her.” “Then he will be a good ada. And you, and even better grand ada,” stated Beatrice, making Athlidon sit up prouder. His smile never wavered. 

The two sat there among the night, the stars, and the sleeping petals of flowers. Nothing more needed saying, or convincing of the other. Beatrice was going to leave, he could feel her night fatigue. Athlidon had now seen his future, and was pleased. “You know Beatrice,” he began, startling her out of her own thoughts, and dreams, keeping her just a moment longer. “When you first arrived here all those years ago, many thought you were too young, childish, silly for your age, and maturity level.” Oh?, she thought. And where is this going? “But I believe you have proven us wrong.” With not having too much to say to those facts, Beatrice just sat, watching him. Where is this now going, Beatrice thought. “You are indeed silly at times, but, you are also thoughtful, insightful, and tender. And I do appreciate you. And our talks, if you call them that.” And Athlidon looked at Beatrice full on.

And with that confession, Beatrice felt touched. There weren’t many moments like this among elves, especially from Athlidon. Beatrice soaked in every moment she could absorb. Smiling back at him, Beatrice painstakingly weighed what she was about to say. Giving her full attention to Athlidon, she replied, “No one can just open up the story of my life, and go to page 725, and think they know me completely. But they can certainly try.” 

And as Athlidon stood, helping Beatrice up as well, he laughed. “Undeniably true Beatrice. Undeniably true.” And being so inspired, Beatrice at once swiftly flung her arms round his shoulders, his body, clinging tightly, squeezing him. “I love you,” she softly whispered, admitted through tears of her own. And backed away just as swiftly, lest Athlidon feel her own burdens and concerns. “I know,” he whispered back through the darkness. And smiled into the twilight.

They made their way back to the great hall. 

[beaflower77]

Athlidon’s Choice

For Roo’s Classic Lit Challenge, I wrote my story with original characters, set in Rivendell, in the time before the Hobbit. They are all elves, with the exception of one special human; Beatrice. 

This fiction is a based off two quotes. “Some people could look at a mud puddle and see an ocean” Zora Neal Hurston. And “I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me.” Homer.  I certainly enjoyed writing this, and appreciate Roo’s wonderful, notable quotes. Thank you Roo. I know I could possibly do better, I may change things in this story later, but hope you enjoy it tonight.

And here we go …

 Athlidon’s Choice

She picked up her light basket of dirty linen, walked down the many twists and turns to get to her favorite washing spot, stopped, then decided instead, to go the long way round. And sat for awhile in her own personal garden, the small, private garden which Erestor had helped her with so long ago. How strange it was she thought, how had fate landed her here? How and why did she readily accept the change? How did they? How was she able to fall into place with it all and not miss…home?

Beatrice sat looking at the flowers. The many dots of colorful flowers looming her little garden, bobbing and nodding their heads in the warm breeze. Not so large, so vast a garden. For what would Beatrice do with such a big, voluminous plot? Nothing, she supposed. It would be a nuisance to keep up and she would not be comfortable asking for continual assistance with the maintenance. No, not really. She sat and stared, letting her mind drift off.

How strange, she thought, in a hidden valley, so deep, so secluded, there was such an array of sounds. Sometimes the cacophony was deafening, the tiny tinkling of horse bells, the wave of grasses, the thuds of hoof beats, the swish of skirts, plodding of particular boots. And the foliage. One would think nothing could grow in this craggy, rocky landscape, but for the miles and miles of land, the trees and green, dense foliage. The trees, the flowers, the miles of rushing and still waters, mesmerizing between sound and motion. Beatrice sat, admired and lost herself in her dreams. Until a small burble of sound, a giggle, a laugh or two invaded her silence. And she abruptly woke. Turned her head, and listened.

Shoving aside her hamper of clothes, Beatrice stood, crept, tiptoed to the dark, dense hedge. She could barely, but distinctly make out the silhouettes of Faelor and Angolien. Crap! she thought. They shouldn’t be here. Why? What would posses them to find, use and invade this place, my place, to sequester themselves for a personal, semi romantic, rendezvous. Angolien’s Ada, Athlidon, was going to squeeze the living breath out of both of them and blame me. Guilty by association no doubt. Poor Angolien, Beatrice thought, with Athlidon for her Ada, life was anything but boring.

“That is silly.,” Faelor insisted. “No. It is not.,” she insisted with all seriousness. “When someone loses an eyelash, you are supposed to make a wish and blow it off, into the wind.” And Angolien softly smiled, purposefully brushed the cheek of Faelor, causing him to still his breath in admiration for her beliefs, silly as they were. When the moment had passed, “Who told you this childish story?,” he politely inquired, picking at a blade of grass, for they had seated themselves on a thick blanket on the ground, protecting their pretty clothes. Smiling shyly, “Lady Beatrice.,” Angolien replied, with a little admiration of her own. Faelor huffed, smiled down into the collar of his tunic, “You believe everything Beatrice tells you?,” then he slyly looked up, upon the choice of his affection. “Of course. Do you not?, she asked. Angolien did remind him, “She acted as your ‘Mama’, for awhile…I’m sure Lady Beatrice was not about to tell you anything untrue…” 

And there, Faelor remembered and waited the silence out. “Yes. I remember.,” he agreed, giving his one ear a little scratch, a tug. “My brother and I…Galearan…our Nana was gone, and..Beatrice stood up for us. Acted as adoptive mother. She was kind, stern, but loving, sweet. It made the loneliness, the loss of our elven mother, that much easier to bear.” Sadly smiling, with sweet turmoil, Faelor sighed deeply, wet his mouth with his tongue, gave his love a grand smile. “Yes. I remember.,” Faelor insisted again. “She put up with us a great deal. Mostly with our behavior and such,” flicking a flying bug away from themselves. Smiling herself, “Faelor, if Lady Beatrice put up with you and Galearon so much, it must be because she wanted to.,” and here Angolien softly, with tenderness touched the knee of his leggings. And left her fingers there, and lingered. As they stared at each other in wonder, in lust and longing, Faelor had to break the silence, “Then if Lady Beatrice tells you a thing, it must be true.,” and he placed his hand deftly over hers. “Did you make a wish?,” he asked.

Crap! Beatrice stood back, rolled her eyes, young love. Sickening. They’ll be sickening up of this whole episode as soon as Athlidon hears of this. And it was at that moment, “Beatrice!,” Athlidon commanded, coming into view, Into view in her garden. “What?!,” Beatrice yelped, twirling round, staring back, caught in a panic. Oh, the bright lights of obnoxious red panic. “Have you seen Angolien?,” striding boldly cross the pebbles. Crossing the grounds, picking up her basket, standing in front of the little hedges’ hole. “Not at this moment.,” fibbed Beatrice. A moment ago, yes, this moment, maybe not, no. And Beatrice moved, sat down on her stone bench, causing Athlidon to train his eyes on her being and stop his own movement in the wrong direction.

For a moment, only a moment’s hesitation, Athlidon was about to turn away. Sighing instead, he stilled himself, looked down upon Beatrice on the bench and made a choice. He sat. Athlidon sat down next to Beatrice and Beatrice stilled herself, wondering why. Waiting him out, Beatrice glanced at her dirty laundry and wondered how long this encounter would last. Not wanting to be rude, but wondering what was causing Athlidon to linger, “Have you been having a nice day, Athlidon?” Coming out of his thoughts, ignored her question, “Angolien is interested in Faelor.,” he heavily dropped. “Oh.,” came her reply. “And…that is a bad thing?…,” Beatrice cautiously asked. “Yes.,” Athlidon most adamantly replied.

Beatrice sat and thought. “Why?,” she ventured to know. As if he were talking to a cow, “Do you not understand?,” he gasped. “Faelor is…,” he shrugged, “Faelor is..Faelor.,” he wisped his hand away in the air. “My daughter cannot interest herself in him. He is Faelor.”  And at that admission, Beatrice replied. “Oh.” And again the silence issued forth like steam rolling off a cliff, a very steep cliff with no possible end in sight. And the silence cut through the dense air, making the moment awkward.

“Athlidon, let me ask you something.,” as Beatrice turned and looked seriously at this bewildered yet overly proud elven soldier. “How old would you say an elf should be to..court? When would it be permissible? or when would you allow it?”  Athlidon huffed, “That is easy. For Angolien, never.” Beatrice made a face, “Athlidon!” Turning to Beatrice, pushing aside her laundry basket with his boot, “No. Listen to me Beatrice. My daughter does not need to court anyone. There is no need. I can protect her whenever there is danger, I can provide for her,  her wants, whatever she desires. She does not need any other elf. Especially Faelor.” Yeesh! Beatrice thought, over doting parental unit. Helicopter. “Rather controlling of you, isn’t it?,” she asked. Shrugging, Athlidon agreed, “Perhaps. However necessary.”

As Beatrice and Athlidon slung ideas and unreasonable reasons back and forth, “Faelor cannot see a thing Beatrice. His long term vision is short sighted. He only sees what is now, what he wants, his own desires, what is just in front of his nose. He has no long range plans. My daughter will suffer. His name shouldn’t have been Faelor, but Bathor instead. Faelor only sees…mud!”

“Bathor? Athlidon, that really isn’t very nice! He doesn’t trample all over everything! Not anymore at least.” Now this was Faelor they were talking about and as much as Faelor was sometimes a nuisance, he was still someone Beatrice spent an immeasurable amount of time with as a youngster. And he had matured considerable over the years. And well, Athlidon, even though a strong, capable, independent, thorough warrior, he was a bit of a…snob, when it came to overprotecting his only child, a daughter no less. At last, when all else was said, “Athlidon,” Beatrice asked, “How long would you give them, if they were to court, before allowing them to actually, officially court?”

“Two thousand years. No. Four.,” Athlidon countered. “Athlidon.,” Beatrice chided. “Seriously, how many?” Screwing his face, Athlidon heavily sighed, “Alright. Typically, as long as it takes, I suppose.“ And here is where Beatrice laid it down, “Suppose they take a few years, say a hundred. If, after a hundred, would you allow them, then to officially, court? Without interference?” “Yes.,” he gave without hesitation. Hmmm, thought Beatrice. He wasn’t so uncompromising an elf after all. “However,” he insisted, “There is no need.” Rising, Athlidon, bowed, “Our conversation has ended.” Turning and with purpose, Athlidon walked away. Beatrice slumped further down on the bench, kicked a pebble.

As the years wore on, the fifty or so many, Athlidon became more restless as each dark, fallen evening approached into a blackened, silent night. And each quiet nightfall rounded toward the morning’s remarkable sunrise and again, fell back into a crescent or full moon’s sleep.

“Gwingnis!,” Athlidon hissed one evening, approaching their bed. “Gwingnis! Do you hear them?!,” starting to raise his voice, flinging himself across the room. “Athlidon.,” quietly his wife insisted. “Come to bed, my love. The evening is almost over.” Striding across the room, tossing his long mane of straight, silken blond hair over his shoulders, placing one knee onto the mattress, indenting it, leaning, shooting his body forward, “He is out there Gwingnis.,” pointing behind him. “Do you hear them?! He is standing right outside her chamber doors!”

How long was his wife to bear this nonsense. “Come to bed Athlidon. Let us sleep. The night grows weary and full with such turmoil.” But Athlidon would not be undone. “Gwingnis! Listen to them! They are chattering like small animals that climb through trees. Can you not hear them?!” His body was thrusting itself as forward as possible, causing the bed to shake, bounce and indent. “How long will he persist in his attentions of our daughter?! Can he not find someone else? Someone less worthy?”  “Athlidon.,” Gwingnis tried. He lifted his intense bodily frame from the bed, ambled closer to the doors. “Athlidon!,” Gwingnis hissed. “What are you doing?! Leave them be!” Halting before the doors, keeping his hands off the handles, “I am only getting a handle on their conversations.,” he offered, trying to listen in on the whispers, sighs and happiness the two young elves gave each other, and how unaware his antics were becoming that much more alarming. “Come to bed Athlidon.”  “I..I can almost make out…he is saying…she said….” Gwingnis shot up, threw the covers back, and stood firm, “Athlidon! Stop it! For the sake of the Vala, stop it!” And Gwingnis, so unusually kind, calm, unburdened with triviality and gracious to all, became unmistakably angered. “I command you to stop this instant!.,” she harshly whispered in outrage.

Only once before had Athlidon heard, let alone seen his wife, his night’s moon, so enraptured with rankor, that the moment stilled his heart and life. She breathed deeply, abundantly. Steeled herself for a possible showdown with Athlidon. And as Gwingnis stood before her husband, she could feel the cool breath of the wind breeze and lift her sea green evening gown, causing the long, deep train of cloth to mist and flay against her legs. “You have given your promise to leave Angolien be! She is old enough. She is mature enough. She is capable enough. Faelor may not be your first choice of a love for our daughter, but Faelor is the choice Angolien has made. And you will leave her be.” Athlidon stood still, was caught off guard, and when a moment passed, still did he not make any attempt to move, nor expel the emotions swirling, encasing his being. So Gwingnis continued unhindered.

“Long ago,” she reminded him, “You likened Faelor to mud. That sticky, murky, dirty glob of nothingness. All these years Faelor has remained beside our daughter. He had followed her, he has followed when beckoned by her. Never has Faelor once stolen her from you. Or me. He is our daughter’s choice. And she will decide when the time is right.” Athlidon still did not move, he watched his wife, he breathed, he listened. He understood. It was hard, so incredible hard, his child, his daughter, his only one. He knew Gwingnis was correct. He knew, understood Angolien was well put together, mature, independent, capable, was made for Faelor. But…she was his only child, his daughter, his…If Gwingnis, his wife, was his night’s moon, then his daughter, Angolien, was his night’s moon’s enchanted glow, an incredible, enchanting glow against, beside his one night’s moon. How could he let her go?

He lowered his eyes. This mighty elven warrior, soldier. A trusted confident to Glorfindel. A mighty elf of his Lord’s city. He would follow wherever they choose, designed him to go. But still…this one weakness, well, two really. His wife was right. He breathed, turned, made for the door. “Where are you going?! Athlidon?!,” Gwingnis insisted. With his hand hovering on the knob, he gave his head a slight turn in acknowledgment, “I am removing myself from the equation.,” he said. “I will be back. Get some sleep.” He opened the door, not turning his head in the direction of the cause of his disturbance, and walked down the corridor. “Ada?,” Angolien whispered, half in excitement, half bewilderment. Again Athlidon gave half a head turn, “Go to sleep Angolien.,” he replied gently and continued on. Faelor felt him, said goodnight. 

He walked. He walked not knowing where he was taking himself. Not knowing till he finally had walked enough to let the confusion, the pain register and the cause of his misery to surface. Where he had ended up, was the exact same spot as he had placed himself so very long ago when he had deliberated, contemplated his amorous attentions of choosing his wife and actually pursuing Gwingins. Now, back in this same position, he must decide to let his daughter go. Not go really, just, step down. Hand her over to another male to love, to cherish and adore. Another being to take his place. And that was the rub, to take his place. Faelor.

She had seen him walk up the hillside. She felt sorry for him. Athlidon was really a good elf. A little proud, somewhat prudish, yes persnickety, complicated, complex, but also dependable, capable, intelligent, empathetic and he held himself with a good sense of humor. Beatrice wrapped a warm shawl about her person. “I’ll be right back.,” she gave Lindir, as he looked up in surprise, then over, outside at her target. “Be careful.,” Lindir advised, nodding off in the distance. “He has been quite fussy and finicky these last few years.” She smiled. 

“Stupid hill.,” she muttered. “Why does he always choose this one?” Beatrice huffed, puffed, tripped over herself now and then, finally reaching the top. But what a magnificent view she found!  “Oh, wow!,” Beatrice exclaimed reaching the top, starting Athlidon in the process. “What are you doing here?!,” he reacted. Looking round the landscaping, seeing tiny twinkles of lights dotting here and there below, “Coming to talk to you.,” she replied truthfully. “Hmmpff.,” Athlidon snorted, turning his back against Beatrice, “Go talk to someone else.” He waved her off, crossed his legs. “I am busy.,” and cleared his throat. Well, that remark stung, but Beatrice sat beside him anyway. “Go awayyy.,” he insisted. “No.,” she said softly. “Their time is almost up.,” Beatrice whispered knowingly. He breathed deep. “Don’t.” And Athlidon curled his emotions inside himself in pain.

Sitting beside Athlidon on that hill, knowing she might not be wanted there, Beatrice couldn’t leave him alone. She knew his pain, she felt his anguish, as it sliced through his heart, curling hurt and silent tears within. However, Beatrice would not be deterred. “You must let her make her own choice Athlidon.” Shaking his head, opening his mouth, “Do you not think I know that?,” he mocked in quiet anguish, keeping his internal wounds at bay. So, in silent contemplation, Athlidon and Beatrice sat with nothing but the quiet wisp of air to keep them company. In time, when Athlidon seemed to get himself under control, Beatrice dropped the most excruciating certainty Athlidon knew, but would not bear to acknowledge. “I love her Athlidon. But not as much as you do. It will not cause me as much pain and hurt as it will you, to hold her still and imprisoned.” And she let that settle in. No reply came forth from him, he was bitter, pendant and careful. Imprisoned, Athlidon thought to himself. How dare she, so impudent, disrespectful of me, so reckless of her. Beatrice, Athlidon thought. And her words, her truth stung.

“She is young still.,” Athlidon tried replying calmly, falsely, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in his clothing, brushing it away. Beatrice gave him a half smile, tried not to let tears fall. She knew he was angry at her, knew she was hurtful, but…letting a child go, even if they are still with you, is biting, heart crushing, wrenching. You want them forever. And again, Beatrice couldn’t stop herself, “Remember when you told me once, Faelor was mud? Nothing but mud? That he couldn’t see beyond his own wants or desires?” Athlidon raised his brows, shrugged his shoulders. Beatrice continued, “Some people could look at a mud puddle and see an ocean with ships.,” and Beatrice smiled into a small laugh. “Faelor is just that Athlidon. He does see, he sees differently than us, than you, Athlidon,” Beatrice explained, “Everything in life in how we perceive it. We can either see it with a bright side or let it rip us apart inside forever. Everything Athlidon in this life depends on everything else. We are not islands unto ourselves. We can either choose to let go and be happy, or…suffer in solitary silence forever, choosing bitterness, defeat and hurt, over goodness and love. Letting someone else always have power over us, our being.” She let that settle in his heart. And another silence ensured betwixt them.

When the night became cold, when the sun let its’ grip lose it’s hold on the ground, when things crept and buzzed, causing Beatrice to shudder and cringe, “Go to bed.,” Athlidon reprimanded her. “I’m not tired.,” Beatrice fibbed. In all honesty, she was. Exhausted, cold, becoming stiff and cramped and wondered what Lindir must be thinking, what Gwingnis must be wondering. 

At long last, Athlidon stood. Stretched, looked across the darkened non existent horizon blending sky and land, and granted Beatrice a hand. “I’ll walk you back.,” he said. Looking up, wondering if anything had made sense, had helped him, Beatrice gave in, stood, stretched, rubbed her legs and arched her back. “Athlidon.,” she tried broaching. He waved her off. 

“Angolien is more than capable of picking the right mate. We must let her be. Walk back with me.,” he insisted. “Lindir must be a wreck.” And he gave her a serious study. “You are cold. I will tell Lindir you deceived me.” He gave a small smile. “I..,” Beatrice began. “Okay.” And let it be.

Helping her down the hill, avoiding unseen holes and rocks, Athlidon brought Beatrice down her corridor and walked to her chamber door. “I will talk to Angolien in the morning. I’ll let her choose whom she wishes. She will not have wait four thousand years if she does not wish to.” And Athlidon turned to leave. Stunned, Beatrice was entranced with him. What had changed? Why did he give in? Did he give in? She was enthralled by this stoic elf whom she trusted her life with, whom she showed respect for. Something changed. What?

“Athlidon.,” Beatrice called. He turned, came back to her. She gave him a sad, pitying, but lovely smile. “I look at you, and a sense of wonder takes me.” Athlidon smiled a grand, if not pained smile in return. Giving Beatrice a small peck on the check, “Goodnight.” 

“Where’d that kiss come from?,” Beatrice wondered. And turned to her room.