#Lindir And Beatrice Fiction

[beaflower77]

Petals

They were pretty. Simply lovely to look at. Delicate, fragile even. Those silky soft baby rose petals were strewn about the flooring like crumbs leftover from a disastrous dinner party.

What is this?,” Erestor grumbled, shooting Elrond a look of disgruntled suspicion.“ They were heading too close toward one particular hallway.

Elrond himself eyed the curious floral landscape, "Looks very much as if they are .. petals Erestor.” It was not with mirth Elrond replied for he too had his suspicions, and he noticed his counselor was minutely upset over the apparent mess. Moreso upset than he, Elrond merely dealt with issues differently.  

Following the steady stream of wasted petals, they found its flowery end. And the source of its mess. Holding a small wicker basket, Beatrice was twisting elegantly, dropping, flinging more and more petals about the floor, while walking back toward the opening of her bedchamber doors. 

Looking on in terrified interest, “What on Arda are you doing?,” Erestor grilled, directing his annoyed tone of voice toward Beatrice with his demanding question. Upon hearing his voice, and his not so pleasant tone, she spun round and faced not only Erestor but Elrond in tow. She noticed their facial reaction of her messy floral arrangement.

Beatrice tried her usual approach of an explanation. She opened her mouth. 

Instead Erestor countered, “Do not bother.” His hand surrendered his verdict. “Whatever this is, clean this catastrophe immediately.” She looked to Elrond for support.

Again trying to spin her explanation and convince the elves all was well, that she actually had a plan, and there was a reason. Her plan was, “I am leaving them here for ..,” as she summoned the bravado. 

“No. Do not even try it on me,” Erestor interrupted. “Clean.” And he pointed to the wispy, frail petals adorning the hard marble. “Clean it.” And his boots avoided contact with the softness. 

Instead of crumbling before Erestor as was she known to, Beatrice remained undaunted for once. “Lord Erestor,” she began. She didn’t get far.

Enthusiastically trailing down the hall himself, looking at nothing besides the fragility of soft love, Lindir picked up the tossed trail of dainty pinks, whites and reds and one at a time, folding, placing each carefully within his hand, “Ah! At last I have found my way to the beginning of the trail,” Lindir announced while smiling to himself. He felt eagerly satisfied he had finally gotten through the flowery maze, knowing he would possibly be having an afternoon tryst with Beatrice. Upon looking up from the still surmountable droppings of soft, flimsy botanical flooring, while holding a quantity of petals, Lindir was startled and astonished when noticing the much annoyed Erestor and only half amused Elrond standing before him. And Beatrice’s bedchambers. Lindir was also more than a little disappointed, knowing his moment of foreplay and intimacy was possibly stalemated. 

“Oh. I beg your pardon,”  Lindir flatly offered his colleagues. He had been looking forward to this afternoon's delight. 

Noting the foreboding presence of senior elves, and Beatrice’s own obvious growing disappointment and annoyance, Lindir himself couldn’t but be annoyed. “Was this to be a group party?” Elrond stiffened slightly, Erestor declined comment. 

Regaining her voice, “Nope,” Beatrice huffed, jamming and jabbing her basket into Erestor’s middle, making him start at her audacity, and grabbed the basket before it fell. “It is actually .. nothing now,” Knowing she was beyond unpleased her intimate party of two had been utterly destroyed, Beatrice walked away with malcontent, leaving behind her lovely petals and interrupting elves. Her elf very much disappointed, tried to keep this feeling to himself. 

“Erestor?,” Elrond asked, bending, picking the pretty petals off the floor, “Since they are now not being used, would you like to use these for your own intimate party?”  

Shocked and a little hurt Elrond would stoop so low as to give away his floral arrangement, that disappointed elf made the bold chance of gracefully moving forward, He carefully but with determination snatched back what Elrond had thus far collected, stating with a smile, “Not a chance my Lords.”  With all gentility Lindir picked and grabbed one at a time all the pretty petals within his reach, stating, “These were obviously meant for me. And I mean to adorn them around our bedchamber for later.” Lindir went so far as to eagerly, gently pry the basket from Erestor’s hands. 

After gently placing the petals into the basket, Lindir opened the doors to their bed chamber, and clicked the doors firmly closed. Placing himself against the back of the doors, Lindir closed his eyes and breathed. The flowers were rescued. 

As the door clicked shut, both elves eyed each other for confirmation. Elrond gave a soft and knowing smile. 

He knew Beatrice would be pleasantly surprised upon her return, and they would not see Lindir for the remainder of the day. 

[beaflower77]

An Olaphant Lumbers

“Go quickly,” he mentioned. “Make your rounds. Hurry back, and I will have something hot waiting for you.” Master Huven packed a full basket of delicious loot for her to distribute to the elves and shoved her on her way. “And make sure you go to Lord Glorfindel first,” he said. “Lord Elrond last. And don’t forget Erestor. He will not be pleased if you forget him.” Just as Beatrice made her way out the door, “And don’t dawdle,” Maimen mentioned. “I know how you take your time. Be quick.” 

Beatrice quickly smiled, nodded, giving a wave of her hand, and made her way out the door. As the door clicked shut, she let slip a giant sigh, rolled her eyes. Who says I dawdle?, she thought. 

“I saw that,” Raimen, the assistant cook said, bending over, putting a pointed finger before her nose, before opening the door himself to go in. And he gave Beatrice a smirk, whispering. “But I won’t tell.” “Sure you won’t,” replied Beatrice, with her own smug grin. She made her way round the city. 

The morning skies were grayish, with multiple thick clouds looming over her head. She would definitely have to be quick about her walk. And errands. Her first stop was to Glorfindel, but Beatrice just had to go beforehand to the forge. Hammering away, the elves moved gracefully, one after the other. Clang clang. Clang clang. The cast iron anvils bashed down on their newest project. In the forge the smiths were building the fire. Beatrice was told once, “It is the quality of the fire that is most important Beatrice, not the looks or price of the furnace.” She had to cover her nose and mouth if she wanted to visit, so to avoid smoke and ash in her eyes, pouring out into the walkway. 

“Blueberry juice today,” she said brightly, while producing two medium jugs of the dark liquid. And the basket suddenly became much lighter. The elves stopped, putting aside hammers and tongs, wiping dirty, sullied hands and fingers on aprons. Smiling, they gave a jerk with their chins, pouring the beverage they were grateful to receive. 

Next, Beatrice thought. The ‘Radiant One’. She had hoped Glorfindel would appreciate what she had made this morning for him and Ecthelion. 

She had been practicing so very painfully the past few weeks walking stealthily. Trying her best not being heard with her clandestine approachings was a constant disaster for her. Sneaking down tiled floors, trying not to make a sound, the elven soldiers would laugh when they believed they caught her clumping round like an olaphant. “You are too loud Beatrice! We always know when you are near”, Or, “Ah, here she comes now, the tiny olaphant!” Better yet, “A sleeping dragon would never be allowed rest with all your clatter and racket!” So it was a grave wonder when she actually wasn’t heard this morning. She gracefully tip toed up, while still holding tight to the large, overly filled basket on the narrow path. 

He whipped the sword back, forth, lunging down, parrying right, left. His movements graceful, focused, so astute, slicing, renting the air in two, that when Glorfindel turned, cutting with his blade at the very height of her head, his movements, his body, and heart abruptly stopped upon seeing her standing there in terror before him. Six inches before the point of his deadly sharp blade. And a moment of surprised, thunderstruck silence fell over both. 

“What in the name of Namo were you thinking Beatrice?!,” Glorfindel bellowed, coming out from his astounded stupor. When she didn’t speak, or couldnt’ but continued to stare wide eyed ahead, unable to breath, “What were you doing?! I could have chopped your head off! Have you no sense?!,” Glorfindel let loose."Answer me!” 

He glared. She still had yet to speak. “Beatrice!,” Glorfindel more forcefully demanded. “Answer me.” Meekly, regaining her voice, “I was just trying to be quiet,” Beatrice whispered. “Not an olaphant. Like they always call me.” Still he glared her down. An olaphant, Glorfindel thought. I will give you such an olaphant! He humphed instead.

When Vesstan came forward, placing a calming palm on Glorfindel’s chest, “Stop your arguing Glorfindel,” he said. “Let us see what is in Beatrice’s basket this morning.” And he motioned for her to come closer so he could peer inside, all the while keeping himself betwixt the two. Cautiously she stepped up. “A breakfast sandwich! Look Glorfindel, two breakfast sandwiches. One for each of us. Isn’t Beatrice clever? I am sure she spent all morning concocting these for us. We should thank her, instead of yelling at her.” Although Vesstan did see the olaphantish episode, he made no mention of it. Instead, taking the two proffered, delicate egg sandwiches, and leading Glorfindel away, while nodding for Beatrice to scram before anymore sudden mistakes were made. She left gratefully.

Next on her list was Erestor. How could anything go wrong there, she wondered? 

The mixture of lavender and vanilla scent rose from the depths of her basket. This was a special moment. And delicacy for Erestor. Shifting the basket onto her other arm, Beatrice knocked twice, before attempting to open the door any further. “Come,” a neutral, but commanding voice beckoned. Beatrice entered slowly, wondering if any other booby traps would clamp down on her. Nothing. Yet. She noticed Lindir in attendance in morning. She had nothing for him this time. 

“Panais Aux Poires!,” she announced with a flourish. “French parsnips with pears, with herb dressing on the side. Still hot! And fresh lavender milk. Just as you requested.” And Beatrice grandly smiled, hoping Erestor would race over producing just as grandly a hug for her person. Nope.

“Thank you,” he gave her. No smile. “Set it there,” he nodded with his head. And back to his maps and books Erestor returned. 

Deflation. She tried not to look annoyed. 

Lindir smiled down into himself, took a sip of coffee, while smiling at her with his eyes. He understood. 

Erestor noticed. “Lindir.” Another moment passed. “Lindir,” a little more pointed, Erestor vocalized. 

Coming out of his reverie, “Oh,” breathed Lindir deeply, with a small apologetic nod, appalled he had been caught. 

“Your mind needs to focus on these books please,” as Erestor dipped into his feast of parsnips and pears. Lindir walked toward the window to stand in the light, and warmth of the sun. His view then of the blasted books would be more focused.

Her last stop, Elrond. Setting down the basket on a side chair, Beatrice rummaged and pulled out his favorite. Apple cobbler, In another French cooking style. “Sorry, no ice cream,” she shrugged. 

Looking upon the gifted meal, “What is ice cream Beatrice?,” he pleasantly asked. 

She dismissed his question, flipping her hand instead. “Something too cold, too wet, way too sugary,” she replied. 

Producing a fork from within his desk drawer, Elrond took a small, simple bite. “Hmmm. Well done,” said he. But as Beatrice was heading toward the doors, “Beatrice,” Elrond softly mentioned. “Please make a little more noise when walking round Glorfindel. I wouldn’t want anything happening to you. I am sure Lindir shares my feelings as well.” As Beatrice looked back at Elrond in bafflement, he continued, “It is always better to be a slightly, quiet olaphant. Then, no olaphant at all.”  

He allowed this thought to drift into the wonderings of her brain, before taking another bite. She knew. She understood. This was his city, sooner or later all things get round to Elrond’s knowing and hearing. 

Beatrice straightened up and replied, “Being around Glorfindel sometimes makes me feel like such a goof up. I don’t wish to be an lumbering olaphant as well. But I will definitely make more noise before sneaking up next time.”

“Thank you,” he produced. Then, “Hmmm,” as Elrond pondered her metaphor. “Tomorrow morning, you will have to explain this goof up business. Best go get your own breakfast now,” he said, before dismissing her. And as he sat back, crossing his arms, Elrond contemplated. “What is a goof up?”

[beaflower77]

I Hate Lavender, She Said

                                                     NUMERO I

“What is this?,” he asked. “What is all over the balcony?,” as Lindir silently walked toward their outdoor oaken platform, stopping short, staring in amazement. It was not a happy amazement..  He stared at the scattered, ground up mess on the flooring, which was bountifully strewn about. It really wasn’t that much. “Hmmm?,” she replied, “What?” She wasn’t paying attention.

Beatrice was trying to pull, roughly fling, and toss bed covers back into place on their bed that morning, however she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. “Crap,” she muttered continuously. “These covers are too flimsy. I hate silk. Do we not have any different bedding? Something heavier? So it doesn’t roll around so much,” she asked, “And I hate lavender. Don’t we own anything but lavender? What happened to pink, twilight, even jet black? But no, lavender.” There was no ready reply to her musings, only someone else staring ahead with his back toward Beatrice, with annoyance and provoked displeasure stewing inside. He hadn’t heard a word of Beatrice’s mumblings.

At the abundance of silence, Beatrice eventually looked up and over at Lindir as he continued to disgustingly sneer at the pile of feed. So beautifully clothed already, but sporting a spoiled face instead. She saw what he saw, what he was looking upon. Rapidly widening her eyes, Beatrice cast them down, turned her body back toward the naughty bed, deciding it was time to shut her mouth. Instead of offering a truthful answer, Beatrice gave Lindir a noncommittal, nonchalant, “Nnn, mmmh. Don’t know.” She tried this answer first. However, Lindir didn’t need her answer, he knew, he was not amused. Breathing deep, silent, as if an impending dragon was about to pounce, Lindir tried calming his genuine annoyance with the never ending issue on this subject. He did try, however ...

Turning towards her voice, her direction, Lindir was stunned, staggered, and not just a bit flummoxed. What nonsense! What bunk! What balls she had this morning! Beatrice knew perfectly well what he was questioning. She had tossed it out there again. He expressly asked her not to. And she did knww why he had asked her not to. They had had this discussion before, many times before. Always Lindir had always asked nicely, but with the same results each time. And did she listen each time? No. Each time, Beatrice had ignored the request, and defied him. To her, it was only, perhaps, a suggestion?

“Beatrice, what is this? You know perfectly well what I am talking about.” Lindir wouldn’t let it go this time around. “It’s nothing,” shrugging her shoulders, trying to fluff it off, as Beatrice tried innocently to play the game again. “Beatrice,” Lindir pushed, “It is not nothing.” He opened his mouth in surprised crossness. She wouldn’t reply. She felt caught. So, Beatrice silently stared him down instead, unwittingly thinking her method would work this time better than the last few times they had had this conversation. This conversation was getting old, so was Beatrice’s mulishness. Lindir had had enough. Enough of being ignored, disregarded, and frankly, he was extremely embarrassed. He could not contain his upset any longer.

Deciding to not back down at all this morning. “Beatrice, there is at least three, no four handfuls of feed out there. And it is not for the birds. I know it is not,” as he swept his arm, his hand toward the balcony’s ground. “Four!,” he reiterated, “You cannot continue to toss feed out there. You know it is expensive, and the birds are not eating it. And,” he bashed on, “We both know who you are really feeding. It is for those damn squirrels. You must stop.” Beatrice pushed back just as hard. “No, It is not! It’s only two handfuls. For two squirrels. Only two.” Beatrice tried holding the ground she was slowly losing. “Besides, it doesn’t matter,” she stated, “They’ll eat it. They’ll eat it all. There will be nothing left.” Beatrice gave her own hand flourish to the balcony and turned away. “Beatrice,” Lindir warned. 

“They’re hungry!,” she shot back, and Beatrice stared him down with her mouth set. Lindir drew in a deep, exasperated breath. He was beginning to let it go just now, he would let it go, however, he had heard how the other elves talked about him behind his back. Too nervous to counter her actions, too timid, too hesitant. He allows anything. Such a timid elf that Lindir. He stepped nearer, and continued resolutely. “It is the middle of the spring for Vala’s sake!,” Lindir mentioned. “They’re hungry,” Beatrice simply stated. And she purposely strode off, escaping toward the bathing chamber, closed the door behind her, folding her arms, and stood staring at the deep, luxurious tub in the middle of the floor, not quite sure what to do next. This was their fourth such discussion, she knew it would be their last. And she wasn’t going to win this time. She saw how Lindir kept persisting, going so far to give her foul language. If Lindir was this upset, Beatrice knew she had pushed too far.

“They are hungry, she says. Well so am I, so are you. But you do not see us asking the squirrels for food. Why would she just not stop?, wondered Lindir. This was becoming a botheration now. Does nothing I say seem sensible to her?

On the other side of the door Lindir was vexed. Coming over to the door, letting his voice filter through, “You need to cut them off,” he stated firmly. “It is enough Bea. Those squirrels now have plenty to eat outside. On the ground. And in the trees. But not up here.” He arduously continued, “Have I mentioned the columns below? Have you seen the columns below? There are multiple claw marks on them. The scratches start on the bottom level, and guess where they lead? Right. Up. Here,” motioning with his hand. “To our bed chamber. I wonder why?”

 He waited for a rebuttal, no response. Only silence. Beatrice wasn’t responding. Had he argued too far this time? Pushed too far? 

When Beatrice didn’t answer quick enough, “Beatrice?” Lindir asked, wondering what was happening behind the door. The silent treatment? No, she wouldn’t do that, would she? No, She is deliberately ignoring me, Lindir scrutinized. “Beatrice?!” He made a face. A long, snide, impolite face. “Beatrice. I wish you to stop. Do you hear me?” 

The door flung open, startling Lindir in the process, causing him to jump back a bit. “I said I would cut them off,” Beatrice pronounced annoyingly, her arms still defiantly crossed, and walked to find clothing for the day. The elf’s mouth dropped a mile. “No, you did not,” contested Lindir confused, and stalked after her. “Yes, I did,” Beatrice confirmed. “No. You did not Beatrice,” walking almost into the gray dress Beatrice cradled. Lindir had to stop himself from stepping on her toes. “Beatrice,” Lindir decided, trying to calm the intensity, letting out a puff of air, “Beatrice, please. Let us not get into an argument over this again. Just discontinue feeding those squirrels. It is spring now. And I am almost positive you do not wish to discuss this with Elrond.” Oh, she thought, is that where this will go? A tattle telling? I see.

Stopping, looking at Lindir with stubborn indignation there was a moment of grave, thick silence existing between them. “Elrond,” Beatrice stated. Had he said that? Did Lindir remember mentioning that? “I only meant..”  “Is that all?,” she asked, her head cocked. Lindir stared back with his own frustration and distress. “Yes,” his simple, dry statement given. Beatrice raised an eyebrow, un-joyfully smirked her mouth, “I am getting dressed now, if you don’t mind.” Lindir shook his head, dumped a loaded sigh. “Fine.” He removed himself from their room. “Fine,” her own word lingered in the aftermath. But as the door of their chamber closed, Lindir would not let Beatrice have the last word. He unloaded this, “I will not argue about this further with you Beatrice, but do not think, just because I do not, does not mean I am pleased with your self-centered, willful, heedless attitude. And complete disregard for my feelings.” There was a soundless click, then nothing. 

Keeping her back at the bedchamber doors, Beatrice dumped herself on their bed, denting, messing the artful design of bed coverings she so painstakingly worked on that morning. She studied the bedding, nastily grabbed a handful of cloth, messing the sheets intentionally, “I hate lavender,” she muttered. 

[beaflower77]

Lunchtime Silliness

Their laughter was more silly giggling than amused merriment with each other. 

“I’ll come with you today, if, you take me to the market fair next week.,” she commented. “Ooh.,” he said. “Blackmail, is it?” 

“Do you think I have black nails?,” she giggled. “Yes.” And the giggling began again. “And.,” she maintained, since he was in a good frame of mind, “You must let me win at nards.” “I aways let you win.,” he said. “No you don’t. I struggle every time.,” she replied. 

“Well, I try.,” he gave in, smiling back. “Alright, tonight I will let you win. If.,” he answered., “And only if, Elrond does not catch us in another compromising position on the swing.,” was his counter offer. 

“That was your idea.,” she laughed. “But, I have a better place for next time.” The giggling was infectious.

Sitting at the table, Beatrice pushed off her shoes with a quiet thud, thud and climbed her feet up his boot leg and pushed forward. Her feet were caught before reaching thier destination. A smug, but silly grin erupted from Lindir’s mouth. Looking round the large hall, others were having their lunch. Laughter, or deep, thoughtful conversation was happening all round them. He carefully peeled off her socks, which were stuck in his lap and fondled the wayward feet. “Oh, your feet are so naughty.,” he teased. “Why don’t you let me spank them.” A simple suggestion, but if taken the opposite way in which it was intended, resulted in another fit of giggles. “There are ways in which foot spanking is best. Shall I show you?,” pointed out Lindir. And the giggling started over. “We could leave, and then I could show you in your new place.” The silly grin egged her on. A finger tickled a toe.

“May I sit?,” one of Lindir’s friends asked, his hand already on the back of the chair, starting to pull out and lower himself in. Looking up, stilling his hands on the naughty toe, “Of course.,” Lindir replied, suppressing another fit. Beatrice withdrew her feet, retrieved her socks and unobtrusively pulled them over and on. All the while continuing to politely smile, the two joined in the newly arrived’s conversation. 

“What was that?,” Beatrice asked. “Not till the end of May?” They looked at Beatrice in confusion. “You said,” she reiterated. “Not till the end of May.” The laughter again started. “No Beatrice.,” giggled Lindir. “Edwendaer said, The wagons were loaded down well and we would be leaving on time this year.” Edwendaer smiled grandly, “You still have not grasped Tangwar yet Beatrice.” Laughing, she replied, “And, I do not plan to either. One language is enough.” 

Having her shoes back on, Beatrice pushed her chair back, and stood, “I have to go.,” she said addressing Lindir. “I have to water my flowers.” And Lindir put his hand over hers to stop her from leaving too soon. “You don’t have to leave so soon.,” he said longingly, not anxious for her departure just yet. “I could water your flowers for you.,” and he meant it in another way as well. “I’m quite sure you could.,” Beatrice grinned. “But Edwendaer wouldn’t want to watch that.” A slow smile also became a teasing one. 

Whereupon Edwendaer put his hand over his head, and his head down into his chest and snickered quietly, until his laughter could no longer be contained, shook his head and laughed. “No. I do not want to watch Lindir watering your flowers.,” Edwendaer replied to Beatrice and again laughed. Addressing Lindir, he mentioned, “However there are some elves who are more into that, than I.” And again, the grins erupted. Looking at Edwendaer, “Ew.,” sounded Lindir. “That is unacceptable.” “Maybe I should rejoin this conversation.,” Beatrice stated, with a strange look. But still she remained standing, her departure eminent. 

As the snickers died down, “I will see you later?,” Lindir seriously asked of her. “Only if you wish to.,” Beatrice replied. As confirmation to her statement, Lindir stood, gave a grand bow, a show off of a bow, kissing her hand in promise, “As always.” Her face flushed, her smiled sweetened, “See ya.,” she informally gave and waved off to Edwendaer. And Edwendaer watched Lindir, as Lindir watched Beatrice leave the hall. 

As Lindir again sat, “Beatrice is good for you.,” Edwendaer commented. Drawing in a breath, “In more ways than one.,” replied Lindir, his expression becoming pensive, folding his hands, relaxing his elbows on the table top.  And turning all serious jesting aside, Lindir saving enjoyment for later, turned fully to Edwendaer, “Tell me of the supplies this month.”

[beaflower77]

But What Is The Ultimate Joy?

She sat in the library trying to read one of Galearon’s toddler books. The small, baby words were all she could master when reading. Using a piece of paper and ink, she drew her own pictures to match the words. Master Maimen snuck upon her. Placing a tray before her, he sat himself down and dished out a cup and saucer. Poured tea, sat and sighed. Baffled, looking up as he place a light blue cup before her, moving her papers out of the way, “What is this?,” Beatrice asked in whisper. “Tea.,” Maimen replied. “Time for tea.” She gave him the strangest of looks. “Master.,” Beatrice hushed, “We are in the library.” He sat back, sinking deeper into his chair. “I know.,” he said. “I am the library’s caretaker. And, now, it is time for tea.” Even as other elves observed from their seats, they left the two alone.

“This is horrible.,” she said, setting her cup down, making a grimace of a face. “Sorry.,” Beatrice reiterated. “But it is really bad. What is this stuff?,” pointing to her cup. The tea steamed away, smelling like old tires melting. Maimen smiled, a tiny bit offended, however he realized the tea did indeed stink. It was supposed to stink, and the taste wasn’t that great either. “Drink it Beatrice. It will do you good.,” he gave her, and he sipped carefully of his own tea. “But what is it?,” again she plied. He looked at her. “Never you mind. Drink.”

Sitting there, sipping the hot and horrid concoction, Beatrice noticed Maimen watched her. His scrutiny bothered Beatrice. She felt conspicuous, exposed and her feet began tapping the floor. Swallowing a gulp of the horrid liquid, “Have I done something wrong Master Maimen?,” she whispered. Coming out of his stupor, “What? No. Why do you ask?” He continued to sip and seemingly enjoy his drink. Not getting an answer, Beatrice plied again, “Have I said something? Offended you in some way? Said something to someone else? Have I done something wrong? Again.” Beatrice wanted to get to the bottom of whatever it was causing Master Maimen to bring her afternoon tea, in the library, against his own rules. “No. You have done nothing.,” he reiterated. He sat back and continued to observe.

Beatrice, confused, not to mention starting to feel miffed, not understanding what all the fuss was for, wanted, needed to know what was on his mind. “Um. I am just not understanding, what is all this for?,” she asked a little louder than a whisper, leaning in against the table, circling her fingers over and around the tea paraphernalia. Other elves turned toward Beatrice at the sound of her voice. Maimen looked at them, the elves returned to their own attentions. Due to the smell, some stood and left.

Giving a soft snort. “It will help you with your issue Beatrice.,” Maimen said. Listening to him, Beatrice couldn’t but think, what issue? How many issues does he think I have and does he know about the issues I think I am having? I don’t think I have any issues. Do I? Expect for possibly that one or that one. Her mind spun round, circling and circling. Beatrice wanted to know exactly what was happening here. So she asked again, not too politely. “What are we talking about? What, issues?” Maimen seemed to think Beatrice was funny, he smiled as if he were explaining the beginnings of the universe toan a small, brainless child. He opened his mouth in an attempt to explain. However..

“Lady Beatrice.,” Elrohir whispered, stooping down to her level. “Will you please come with me?,” he asked, interrupting her and Maimen’s not so important discussion. Maimen waved Beatrice away, took her cup, replacing it on the tea tray. He offered to bring her papers to her later. Beatrice proceeded to follow Elrohir down the corridors to his and Elladan’s chambers. “Where are we going?,” she whispered still, even as the fresh and open wind blew against their direction. “You will see.,” he  replied. She didn’t. However she was curious.

Upon entering their chambers, Beatrice saw Elladan cradling a small, small bundle in a little green blankie. He was not smiling. Beatrice decided she wouldn’t either. Wondering what was in that small bundle, she stepped over the carpet to take a peek. And tiptoed up. What she saw left her astonished. Something which Beatrice had absolutely never seen before. As Elladan and Elrohir watched Beatrice, as the bundle was fiercely and protectively held, Beatrice whispered. “Oh.,” and Oh was all she could say.

“What do you think?,” Elrohir asked. “What are you thinking?” He continued to prod her, questioning and questioning. “Is it alright? What do you think? What are your thoughts?,” he wanted to know. Elladan continued to watch with purpose.

She wanted to pick it up, hold it, coddle it. Beatrice wanted it. However, Beatrice did not want to upset any apple carts either. So, she asked, “What do you want me to do about this?” Elladan looked at his brother, as Elrohir played with the tips of the blanket. “Would you take it?,” he asked. Surprise struck her face, as she looked from one brother to the other. “Would you take him Beatrice?,” Elladan calmly, quietly asked of her, mirroring his brother’s question. “Oh, Elladan.,” she gave a breathy answer, looking from one to the other in concern. Why did they want to ask her? Lindir would say No. She knew he would most likely say No, probably. Oh yes, No would be his answer.

Yes, she wanted it. Yes, she could take it. Yes, Beatrice would adore and love it. No, Lindir would not. Lindir would take one look at the poor creature, Lindir’s eyes would widen, his heart tighten, he would panic. Lindir would think Beatrice had flipped out, freaked out, gone wild, mad, nuts. They already had two. That was two more than Lindir ever wanted. But this one, this tiny, perfect, sightless creature, happily, contently stretching its’ little furry paws out with a wide yawn. This little baby kitten was so sweet, so precious, a dearest, rare gem in an otherwise painful world. Beatrice thought, she concentrated on a response. Her decision culminated round her brain and came out as, “Lindir would throttle me.” Their hearts sank. Elladan and Elrohir were never around long enough to be able to care for it. Who else could they entrust the poor kitten to?

Still, knowing Lindir would not in the slightest be pleased with her, Beatrice said. “Okay. I’ll take him.” And Elladan breathed deep and smiled, handing the offered bundle over. She accepted it willingly. Beatrice knew, but didn’t worry of what Lindir would say. At all. At the moment. Just yet. Beatrice would just not tell him. Yet. 

The other cats hissed. They walked away and hissed. Or, they sat making themselves comfortable on the floor, and hissed. Two adult cats sat and watched as one tiny kitten wobbled, bobbled, rolled and collided with its’ own feet, narrowly falling over. She kept her hands on either side of the kitty, prodding it to move in minute parameters, while keeping it steady. Hissing, batting, more hissing, larger, older cats jumping on large, high pieces of furniture, keeping themselves out of wobbling, bobbling range. Hissing, low growls, overall cat frowns of disapproval, reproof at the tiny creature, gave way to Beatrice scooping up the kitten, wrapping the blanket round, swaddling it like a small, gray, furry taco and sat in the sun, warming herself and the kitten, talking in soothing tones, rocking, coaxing it into sleep.

As the kitten seemingly fell asleep, it was a little hard to tell, the oldest of the cats came to sniff. Giving small pats to the blanket, “Stop.,” she said, it sniffed, gave an empty threat of a low growl and frowned, gave up, curled himself against Beatrice’s legs claiming them as his own, and fell asleep himself. Beatrice looked at the younger one across the room. “No dice yet, huh?,” she asked. The cat just frowned, turned its’ head, closed one eye. “Fine. Be that way.,” Beatrice said to it. “You’ll see. You’ll come to love and adore it too.” That cat also put its’ head down and gave in. She could hear it sigh.

The problem with keeping a blind cat, especially a blind kitten, was the fact you couldn’t just put it down and walk away, or go to sleep yourself and leave it unattended. Not with two cranky, frowny, older cats. So Beatrice sat and watched the kitten, thinking, wondering what was best for it. How long she could keep it, contain it, without anyone, specifically Lindir learning of its’ presence. How to give this gem a safe, comfortable, loving home. A protected home. Perhaps, Beatrice thought, it should go to an elf. An elf who would love it best. An elf who would not tire of it, or its’ wobblyness and special attention it most likely would need. An elf who would be around for the long haul. Beatrice knew she wouldn’t be able to keep it permanently. She did want to, wanted a whole house load of cats. But this wasn’t her house, it truly was not Beatrice’s decision ultimately to make. When Beatrice had thought enough, did decide the hopefully best option she could in her opinion, she stood, packed a few trinkets, a fresh, unused blanket into a basket and was just about to go.

Turning to make her way from the chamber and down the hall, Beatrice came to a halt. Lindir appeared, stood to the side of the doors, seemingly to be blocking her way out. Why did he almost always seem to know what was happening before it happened, Beatrice thought. Doesn’t he have somewhere he should be? Oh, that look again? What a fine day, she thought. His brow is creased. Who told him what? Shoot, she fussed. He knows something he shouldn’t.

“Oh.,” Beatrice said. “I was just about to go out.” He didn’t budge, instead Lindir gave her a slight smile. “Where were you going Sweatheart?,” he lovingly asked, but still didn’t budge. He called me Sweatheart in the middle of the afternoon? Why? A slight instinctive pull back against her chest with her bundle, and Beatrice tightly protected the object of her affection. And began to wonder if Lindir had somehow found her out or if she would have the sole pleasure of introducing this tiny purr to him now. As Lindir approached, he gave no signs of acknowledgment, agreement, or disapproval. Only curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, Beatrice thought. Go away cat monger. Leave me and my bundle be.

Coming closer, “Let me look at it.,” Lindir suggested, as he lifted the edge of the blanket from its’ little face. “Look at what?,” Beatrice instinctively asked. Now she was stuck. So he did know. Who ratted me out, she demanded. Beatrice waited. Lindir looked. He gave away no emotions as he glided his hands softly, slowly over the tiny kitten’s head, rubbing, tickling an ear here, its’ slight neck there. Softly, serenely Lindir smiled. “It is very small Beatrice.,” he said, picking it up, holding it close. “Very tiny, very little. What will you do with it?,” he asked, wanting to know her thoughts, but not looking Beatrice in the face yet. At least, she thought, he hasn’t come right out and told me No. And he’s holding it too! Still Beatrice hesitated.

“Well.,” she began. “I have just decided who this cat would be best suited for.,” Beatrice replied. “I was just on my way there now.” She saw a slight twitch of his mouth. Who told him, Beatrice wanted to know. She waited for Lindir’s response, he gave none yet, still Beatrice knew Lindir was curious and sometimes too cautious with her decisions. Since he did not push a negative issue concerning the kitten, she just had to smile, just had to perk up a bit, playing with its’ swanky tail, saying almost to herself and well as him. “Isn’’t he beautiful?”

However it was Lindir who would most definitely give Beatrice the most unequivocal, unmistakable, unquestionable, straightforward answer. And Beatrice was always so glad to hear it. “Yes.,” Lindir said. “And No.”

She didn’t look up. She knew what that meant. Yes, the kitten was lovely, perfect in every way. No, Lindir would not allow it. And there was no changing that. No changing his mind. Not because it was blind, but only because he had allowed two already to invade their chambers. Their bed, their bath, their wardrobe and everywhere else the cats hibernated in, and on, or between, under and on top of. So No, Beatrice would have absolutely have to go ahead with her plan.

Wondering, waiting, “And whom will you give this little one to?,” again Lindir inquired. Smiling, beaming up at him. “Easter!,” she said. “I will give him to Lord Easter.,” and taking the kitten back, Beatrice wrapped the tiny burrito tighter in his blanket. “He keeps saying he wants one. He has fussy requirements this time. Every time. And he wants one that doesn’t move much. So I think, this little guy might just work.” Looking over Beatrice, hearing her surmising of Lord Erestor’s requirements, he relaxed a bit. “Shall I go with you?” Before Beatrice could protest, Lindir had gathered the basket with toys, added a few more blankets. “Let’s go to the kitchens first and find a few supplies he may need, before we just dump this kitten off. For fussy as Lord Erestor is, requirements or no, he may just not want this kitten. And I will not ask what you will do then.” And Lindir cautioned Beatrice with a certain look. “Who could not want him?!,” Beatrice complained. No reply, but a smirk. Another look. “Don’t say it.,” she cautioned. 

As Beatrice and Lindir left their chambers to find Erestor and give him a new bundle of joy, she couldn’t help think, Exactly what issues does Master Maimen think I have now?

[beaflower77]

Untitled

The water cascaded round her, slowly bumping against her still body. Sometimes she moved, other times, she merely bobbed with the pressure, motioning her body this way, then that. The water, still scalding, was a tranquil comfort to her otherwise tumultuous thoughts, swirling, motioning, pinning her down, pushing her off, keeping her from a normal, happy, cheerful routine. 

As the doors quietly pushed open, Lindir flopped papers of parchment, and other dainty paraphernalia down on the sideboard.

Coming inside, noticing the sounds of still splashing water coming from the bath chamber, Lindir walked closer and gave an innocent peek. “Still in the bath Beatrice?,” he calmly asked, wondering. “Mmm Hmm.,” she gave back, with a lack of enthusiasm. And she puddled closer to the tubs’ edge. Just in case. As Lindir walked closer, he saw the tips of her elbows raised above and over the edge of the spacious tub, playing with the tiny puddles on the flooring. “It is late in the day Beatrice. How long have you been in here?” Looking up, with a twinge of guilt, “I don’t know.,” she softly replied, and resumed.

He stooped down, careful not to slip on the droplets he saw, brushed the long train of his robe from his footing. “Come out.,” he begged. “And I’ll plait your hair.” He gave Beatrice a sweet smile, as he brushed the wetness from her face. A nasty thought crossed Beatrice’s mind. “Come in and..stay awhile.,” she begged in return, her mouth not lifting up completely.  His lips curved upward. Still playful, he thought. That is good. Such sweetness, he thought, such candor. Why is she still in this bath, he considered. What beleaguers her? So sad today. And he thought, momentarily thought, if I comply, step into this tub with her, it will ultimately turn to sex, which I can tell she doesn’t want at this moment.

Instead, “I am late. I must return to Elrond.,” and seeing her downcast face, eyes, “We will have more time later.,” Lindir suggested. “A proper amount of time. I want my time with you.” And standing, Lindir offered Beatrice a hand up. “Shall I fix your hair, or have someone come assist you?” That question broached no rebuttal. “Have someone come.,” Beatrice replied. “You go. You’re late.” And she stepped out, wrapping herself in a large, gray towel. Giving Beatrice a soft kiss on the check, thinking twice, gave her another, wavered on the small swat on the behind. Dipped his head with a tight smile, turned to go. Looking back, confirming Beatrice drying off, Lindir returned down the corridor.

She had taken the blueberries off the sheet, unwrapped, cut a few slices of cheese, set some onto her plate. Thinking twice, Beatrice decided on a different plate and set the original one on the kitchen counter. Reaching, stretching up, her fingertips just minutely grazing the plate’s edge, Beatrice brought it successfully down. And absentmindedly brushed against the one on the counter, where it flipped, tipped, fell and cracked against the stone floor. The slow motion of the thing, the act, replayed in her brain as the noise of the ceramic sounded, echoed within the kitchen’s four walls. “Oops.,” Beatrice shyly suggested, watching the berries roll and ricochet against counters, baskets and supplies. The cheese did a grave downward slap against the floor. The cookies broke apart, no salvage there. As all eyes riveted to her form, Beatrice bent and shuffled on her knees, picking up loose articles of food. Now, if it was only for herself, Beatrice would have brushed the pieces of cheese, berries and cookies off, refilled her plate and left. With a heavy heart and sigh, she tossed them in the waste basket. And took less this time.

As she left, “I think it is the new kitchen master.,” one elf whispered to another. “She unnerves Beatrice.,” motioning off to the right.  “Do not be daft.,” the other answered. “The kitchen master was on the other side of the hall. She couldn’t possible see Lady Beatrice.”  They watched her walk by. “She forgot the cheese.”  The elves scrambled to find the cheese wheel, sliced some cheese and fixed a small plate up. “I’ll follow her along. You know Lord Lindir appreciates the gorgonzola.,” the first said, smiling, slicing a thick chunk, laying a few bread sticks aside the platter. “Ah, not as much as the camembert.,” the other elf replied, adding his two cents in. 

A small snack later, Beatrice, feeling a small bit better, only in the food department, visited the library. The marble columns, reaching as high as possible, surrounded Beatrice as she slowly shifted along the clean floors. Sounds there were not many echoing down the vast halls. Looking above her, scanning the columns, the ceilings, her surroundings, Beatrice pondered the magnitude of building these huge monuments, the varied natural colors of the rock, the sheer energy of climbing, sculpting, artistically envisioning and banging them into shape. How were these things possible, who had come up with the unique designs and who did the actual manual labor?

As Beatrice was looking above, and pondering these many questions, her footsteps did not watch where they were being placed and one foot stepped back on the hem of her dress. And, “oof!,” Beatrice exclaimed out of her mouth, as her feet slipped, stumbled, her backside hitting the cold floor and her elbows, wrists slammed down, just saving herself. Just as suddenly arms thrust themselves out and grabbed her as her head was about to come into contact with the marble. “Steady.,” he said, helping her right herself, standing again. “You should be more careful Beatrice.,” holding onto her elbows as her breathing slowed. “Floors are not as forgiving as you would believe.” 

And she turned and looked up into Erestor’s face. “I was .. just ..looking around. I was not thinking.,” Beatrice explained, trying in vain to shrug the hurt off. Erestor watched her for a moment. “Where were you going?,” he asked, picking the tossed books up from the floor, closing and keeping them safe. “Nowhere.,” Beatrice replied. When words failed them both, “I am just tired.,” Beatrice surrendered. Then as Erestor studied her face, as Beatrice studied the flooring, “Come with me.,” he simply gave her, folding the books under his arm like a big, black wing, and held out his arm, hand, to motion Beatrice beside him. She walked behind in silence.

She didn’t care where she ended up. Didn’t care where they were going, only trailing behind a favored elf was better than falling on a hardened floor. When they arrived at Erestor’s study, he motioned her to sit before the empty fire in the grate. Sitting, studying the locked window casements, the empty fire, the oaken desk, as she sat and studied, and didn’t study, Erestor closed the door. Kneeling before the fire, Erestor pulled kindling, started a fire and settled himself in the chair opposite Beatrice. No words were necessary, no questions asked, no uncomfortable silence issued the room. She sat, he sat. They studied each other, the room, the floor, the moss green upholstery, the window panes and the slowly building fire, until nothing was left said or unsaid.

When her eyes were growing heavy, her breathing even and calm, Beatrice wanted to sleep. A few times she would close her eyes and let herself drift. More than once Beatrice felt her head nod, catch herself and give an intake of breath.

“Have you found me a cat?,” Erestor suddenly asked, not wanting Beatrice to fall asleep in his study for fear of having to carry her to her own. “A cat?,” Beatrice asked. “You want a cat?!,” as her eyes widened in alarm. Erestor, now pleased Beatrice had come out of her mental stupor, “I would have thought you would have found me one by now.,” he mentioned. “I have names.”  “Oh.,” Beatrice said. “Okay. I’ll be on the lookout for a cat.” She wasn’t sure if he were serious or just trying his attempt at conversation. “The right type of cat for me.,” continued Erestor. “Not one that is lazy, or overly burdened with fur. I am not in need of one that makes noise. Only a small, shed-less one that will sit and be still.,” he continued. “Oh.,” Beatrice said. Like the other one I found you that destroyed my bed covers with her nails?, Beatrice thought. And frightened my precious cats? And reigned death and doom to all who were living in this glorious abode? And... her thoughts were interrupted.

“Are you feeling better?,” he asked, interrupting her thoughts and plans. Giving Erestor a look, “No.,” Beatrice answered truthfully. “Can you go on our way now?,” he inquired. “Yes.,” she dumped. A moment of silence, “About those appetizers you used to make me?,” he began. “They have not been as forthcoming as they used to.” “Oh.,” replied Beatrice. “Do you want them again?,” she asked. “I..can make you something.,” and she left the offer linger in the air between them. As Erestor stood, it was clear that their ‘meeting’ was at an end, as he ushered Beatrice to the doors. “You can find you way back now?, “ he questioned. “Yes.,” Beatrice agreed, wondering what he would enjoy snacking on.

As Erestor nodded to the door, “I would appreciate a small sampling of a ... ‘cocktail.,” he prompted her, hoping to spark an inspiration. As Beatrice nodded, continuing through the door frame, “And a cat, while you’re at it.,” he added to the mix. Again with the nod, raised eyes and brows, and Beatrice had much to think on. “I will see what I can come up with.,” she left in a bit of a dismayed attitude and design. But Erestor’s words again stopped her for the moment, “Remember Beatrice. Whatever you are thinking on, is it that drastic? In the scheme of life, when everything is finished, will it have truly been that drastic an ordeal to deal with?” And Erestor let her go.

Walking down the halls, the secret corridors, trailing her fingers along the semi cold walls, Beatrice this time watched her feet’s footing. And when she came to the end of her corridor, she saw her own precious elf standing, waiting for her. “All’s well with the world now?,” Lindir asked, taking her elbow in hand. “No.,” Beatrice replied, offering a small smile. “But at least I have a project to work on.,” and Lindir turned her inside their room. And watched with interest as she flung her shoes across the room, into a corner. He said nothing of the tossed shoes, or where they flopped.

As Beatrice turned, not bothering to go after her shoes, she mentioned, “When is cat mating season again? Erestor wants a cat.” And the thought stopped Lindir cold. “A cat?!” Lindir muttered, shock slapping him cold in the face. “I see.” Closing the door behind them, “Well, mating season is all year round. One merely has to look under a bush, and there they are.” He sighed with half hearted enthusiasm. “A cat.”

And Lindir twisted and shook his head in mental agony. “Gah.,” he audibly dumped. “He has already picked names, hasn’t he?” And Lindir decided he too would do his own boot tossing, as they thumped, thumped, next to her own in the corner. “Well, then. There is nothing for it but to find Erestor a cat.” And as Lindir let one business go, he opened his arms to another, “Come here.,” he said of Beatrice, with a soft smile. “You are in need of a hug I think.” 

[beaflower77]

il Polnaro

il Polnaro scratched upon the door. Scratching, scratching its’ claws down the wood, indenting only a meager two inches. Looking for a way in, trying to gather it’s being, it’s source of energy, to dwell within the room. Perhaps possess, or only frighten. It scritched, scratched, and bobbed from one unknown, unseen foot to the other.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch it soundlessly went, increasing in movement. And persistence.

It peered its’ unopened, unavailable dark eyes through the tiny, tiny crack between the door and jam. Lifting its’ head, it smelled the night air. Its host, cold and chilling persona trying to seep through the room. Trying the latch, the knob, it continued its obsessive need upon the door.

il Polnaro had come creeping through the frosty, biting night. Traveling down from the mountains, swirling round solid, strong oak, and snow fringed forest ferns, making even the earthy breeze hide in frozen fear. It terrified the forests. Creatures feeling its’ presence escaped, making their narrow way to ground, hole or hollow. It mocked, and marked those who longed to see it, sought it out. Why would they seek it out? Why try to catch a glimpse of it? But they did. They had. That was their mistake.

But now, it wafted round pillars, columns, which sturdily kept walls together, the ceiling in place, rooms from collapsing. It sought out, lingered, searching for a way in, a way to control, manipulate his feelings. Too soon it had found the doors’ weakness, and pried not too carefully at the door, sliding down, sliding, easing its’ way toward the bed. And lingered at the bed foot, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

He woke in a frenzied, hot mess, quickly sitting up in bed, his chest chilled and heaving, shifting, tearing covers off their mattress. Off their deep sleeping forms. Looking round the dark, his eyes desperately sought discovery in the  room’s corners, not seeing it, not knowing if it was real, or imagined. He knew it was there nevertheless, or he thought he did. Feeling for her sleeping, silent form with a frightened hand, “Beatrice?,” Lindir softly spoke. “Bee Ah,” again, shaking her soft, but quickly from her slumbering dreams. Silently searching, Lindir could not tear his eyes from the dark. His breathe came and went in soundless, shortened pants.

Rolling, shifting her body, softly her hands fell over his alert form, felt for his body, chest, shoulders, found his face, “Lindir?,” she asked, she pried. “It is not there.” He said nothing, just looked on. “Sleep Lindir,” she wished for him. “There is nothing. Nothing.” Giving in, giving up, Lindir climbed back, clamored down under covers, pulling, wrapping, solidly coiling his body round hers, legs holding tight, clinging, his arms found their way cross, held firm of her body, fighting back unnerved emotions, and reluctantly, slowly closed his eyes. She shifted to make them both more comfortable, feeling him soon relax and breath against her neck, nodding off once more.

The morning’s light showed nothing amiss. In the morning’s light, she climbed, rolled atop him, kissing with stale night breath. In the morning’s light, LIndir smiled against her mouth. In the morning’s light, he shifted her weight, rolling Beatrice off and under him. In the morning’s light, he found his way between, and smiled still.

Was it a dream? Or no?

[beaflower77]

Help Me : Conclusion

She saw the two ellyths who had insulted her earlier, running, scattering, back and forth, up and down the hallway. In that dreadful moment, Beatrice made a decision. “Stay here. Be quiet.,” Beatrice told, instructed the two elflings, scrunched up hiding behind a multitude of clothing in the wardrobe, now fast beginning to become wrinkled. Handing the infant elf off to Galearon for safety, “Do not go, Mama.,” pleaded Galearon. Faelor was determined for honesty with her, “They are not nice to you Beatrice. They say mean things about you.,” he mentioned brutally to her. “To leave them out there, exposed, would be meaner Faelor.,” Beatrice reminded him. “Mama.,” again pleaded Galearon, and Beatrice had to swallow, not to reply. “Stay here. Stay still. Quiet now.,” she insisted. And Beatrice so carefully, silently, clicked shut the wardrobe door.

Looking up, down the hallways, the two ellyth finally scattered by. Shocked to see Beatrice standing unharmed yet, they scrambled over. “Come here you two twats.,” Beatrice commanded in a hushed, but harsh tone, waving them closer. They didn’t register her own insult, nor understood. Shoving, hurrying them into the bedchamber, the ellyths fell over each other in a panic. Closing the doors with a minute click, but one which seemed to echo with deefening silence, “Help me!,” Beatrice demanded, starting to push a small desk in front of the doors, in a vain attempt for security. “That will not stop them.,” the one said, while the other looked round for a secure hiding place. “Get in there.,” Beatrice told them, nodding off her head toward the wardrobe.

Opening the wardrobe, a tiny, tinkling sound of a surprised shriek came forth from one pretty mouth of an ellith. “Oh. What are they doing in here?,” she piped up, turning her head in panic, looking back at Beatrice. Whether she was alarmed for her own safety or their's, one couldn’t tell. The other ellith merely looked on in confusion. “Should they be here?,” she asked, while also wondering if all could fit. When a sound moved them all, “They are not far behind.,” the first informed a now panicked Beatrice, reminding her of the invading orcs, lumbering down the halls. Beatrice scrunched up her face in desperation. 

Looking at the ellyth in disgusted, abject horror, not bothering to hide it, “Shut up. Get in or stay out. I don’t care.,” as she pointed toward the wardrobe, making sure the two wouldn’t pull her little ones out to save their own necks. “But they are my elflings. My loyalty is to them first.” Beatrice pushed, prodded, the two frightened ellyths forward. And somewhere in the back of her mind, in her hearing, even though it wasn’t very good, Beatrice heard something not quite right. “Hurry! Get in now!,” she insisted harshly, pushing, pushing, and trying not to waste any more precious time, her mind racing. 

Having no time to hide herself, and no more room in the vast wardrobe, knowing Beatrice was horribly exposed, knowing she was not a trained fighter, knowing she didn’t want to face what could be coming down the halls, Beatrice looked round the room, scanning perfectly clean, lovely, but very empty corners, and grabbed at the one piece of battlement her eyes laid on. A candlestick. “This is stupid.,” Beatrice stated to herself. “I hate candlesticks. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!” Looking again round her, trying to find a hiding place, Beatrice came up empty handed. “Well, this isn’t going to work. Crap.”

Much like the game hide and seek, when the seeker’s anger, fury very much outweighed its’ opponent, knowing the fury was going to overpower, damage her, Beatrice squatted behind an unexposed side of a large bed, the only other large object in the chamber and started rocking, weeping, wishing to disguise, melt herself in the bedcovers, wishing for Lindir. Anyone. She wanted to be in that wardrobe. She wanted to be with that infant. Beatrice wanted the security of Faelor and Galearon, their small, bothersome troubles. Beginning to hear a light rumble from inside the wardrobe, “Shut up!,” Beatrice hissed, daring herself not to throw the exquisitely crafted, stupid, gold candlestick at them and leave them all to fend for themselves.

Ducking down further, Beatrice glimpsed something shiny under the bed, and narrowed her eyes against the darkness surrounding her. And reached, stretched, wrapped her small fingers round its’ handle, prying it foward. Knowing exactly what it was, what it was meant for and what she would have to do with it, at the same time, not wanting to. Beatrice’s stomach pitched. If she could actually lift it, let alone hold onto it, if it came down to a fight, maybe, she could just delay, just enough for an escape.

A beautifully forged sword of elven steel, with an immaculate deep, dark ruby centered inside the hilt, with deeply etched symbols likened in the shapes of a capital B and S, lay there alone under the bed, hidden, unwrapped, unsheathed. Lovingly forged no doubt by some Eldar, Beatrice assumed. Pulling it out, she gripped it hard, tight. BS. That’s what this is, Beatrice imagined, a bunch of BS. Stupid. I’m no warrior, she thought to herself. Then needing to envision all the soldiers, warriors that ever existed, whom she respected, admired, Westley, The Dohomey, Nzinga of Ndongo, Jennie Hodgers, MacLeod, Glorfindel, Athlidon, Wonder Woman, Beatrice shakily stood, breathed, gave herself some ground, took a battle stance, knowing enough not to paint herself into a corner, should something come through those doors, and centered herself like the root of an oak. You will not touch my elflings, was her mantra. You will not touch my elflings, Beatrice cringed, brutally sinking inside herself, all the while wondering, where the hell is Lindir? 

Outside, against the darkening skyline, night decended like a heavily clawed, treacherous beast. Beatrice could still hear the horrible sounds, the crunching or armor, bone and bodies. The calls, the cries, the commands given, obeyed. “Kill them! Rush them! Show no mercy! Close that path off! Charge them! Run! Get out of here now!” Stampeding down the paths, orders sounding from both enemy, friends, victims. Hoping her friends, mentors and beloved, were safe, not forever maimed, scarred or dead.

The elves held ground, battling the invading vileness. “Glorfindel! Cut that path off!,” ordered Elrond, slicing off an orc’s head, while swinging round burying his sword into anothers’ middle. “Come enjoy the taste of my blade, you lager heads!,” Glorfindel employed with ravaged mirth, descending down on furious, snarling orcs. Erestor and others rushed to the south, exposing a small squadron, trying to race toward the stables and beyond. Racing against time, Athlidon charged two, cleanly dicing arms, limbs, heads, while protecting Gwingnis, his wife, and dodging misguided arrows. “Make your way to the staircase inside! I’ll hold them back here! Go to our daughter!,” issuing her an order. Rushing off, Gwingnis decided to shove over a stone bench, toppling one charging after her, and chopped his head off, ringing her sword against the stone path.

Having but a fair moment, looking up toward the front of the city’s windows, Lindir saw candles flicker in a few particular rooms. And thought. “Haldir!,” he yelled. “The windows! There’s candles still lit!,” motioning his head up and above. “Take point! I’ll go check!,” knowing if someone was still up there, hiding, those candles should have been long extinguished by now. Whoever was in those rooms, was an easy target for any nighttime creature. “No Lindir!,” Haldir ushered back. “I’ll go! My path is clearer than yours! Watch yourself!,” pointing his sword in front of Lindir, as he himself rushed an unaware orc, cleaving its’ neck half off, leaving it writhing on the stone path.

Can’t someone else do this?, Beatrice screamed inside. Looking up, fear taking hold, chamber doors bursting forth, ushering far away, darkened monsters of human dreams. An ugly, colossal orc, stumbled in, strangling a stream of garbled, messed up words and sounds within his throat, coming toward her, as others rushed past down the halls. It slammed, hurled its’ filthy, vocal mess at Beatrice. And Beatrice could not take her riveting eyes off it. Nor move. Oh, crap. Doesn’t anyone know we’re here?, was her first thought. Her second, Man, you’re an ugly Betty, you smell horribly.

Fight or flight? Which one to choose? Flight? No. Beatrice was not about to abandon anyone. But fight? God no. She had never trained for something like this. Madness, that’s what this was. What kind of world was this? Horrible, hideous. Yes, just like the one she had left. Only here, the monsters were of a different size, color, and smell. Still, still they were monsters. And Beatrice was no warrior. But still, still she had hidden elflings. She could at least protect them. And again, where the hell was Lindir?! And was he safe?

Beatrice froze, waiting the ugly, overly large, vile depravity out. When the orc charged, Beatrice had no idea what she was supposed to do, or actually did. Ducking down, depending upon her survival instinct, bending wide with her knees bent, planted, Beatrice leaned, forced her body forward, as she made her too heavy sword to arch round, and slammed it down into the orc’s back heal, slicing a tendon. “AAhhhggg!,” it screamed, wargled. That sound, that was the only sound Beatrice let into her ears and she couldn’t stand it. Over and over, that scream. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!,” Beatrice wailed, in any attempt to put the miserable screech from her ears, as she bashed, slashed, furiously over and over, jabbing the heavy sword like a humongous steak knife, into the orc’s foot, toes, legs, not giving it a chance to swing at her. Yet. 

That Beautiful, sweet sword was just too heavy to keep lifting.

And Beatrice knew, it was only a matter of time.

The orc blood splattered out. On her gown, her torn, dirty, beautiful gown, which exposed her legs, destroying the silkiness of them. On her arms, face, making her disgusted. On the bed, the immaculate, golden laced covers. slime, ooze, poured out, covering the floor. The softly made elven gown, lovingly placed over a sturdy, dark green settee. Beatrice went nuts. she couldn’t stop. With each jab, with each slice, she believed she was battling, killing an overgrown house spider. Only this spider had two thick, powerful legs, two stronger arms than hers, and one large, massively, ugly mouth with pointed, angry teeth. A mouth which wouldn’t stop screeching at her. Until, her last exhuasted jab, when Beatrice couldn’t convince her arms to lift that sword further.

A moment without Beatrice’s deranged attacks, the orc moving its’ leg, its’ body out of range, and took one large hand, backhanding her across the room and menancingly advanced. “You die!,” it gargled, sputtered, as Beatrice landed bruised, crumpled against the wall. Her head, ears, ringing, seeing stars. Raising its’ weapon high, the orc swung downward. And stopped, stilled. The orc stiffened mid-flight. Beatrice looked up at the frozen in time horror on its’ face. Pitching forward, it dropped its’ weapon with a thud. An arrow in its’ throat. Grimacing, Beatrice watched as it buckled at its’ bloodied knees, dropped, hit the floor flat. Beatrice, drawing her face into a disgusted snarl, inched, crawled away, as if it were still a deadly house spider, twitching. “Gross.,” she openly admitted.

Looking up, Haldir removed his arrow, wiped it across someone’s crisp, newly washed robe, now crumpled on the bed, and held his hand out to her. Taking hold, Beatrice shot up, slamming her body into his, holding fast, curling her fingers round the back of his tunic, shaken, grateful with little growing confidence. “Where is Lindir?!,” Beatrice demanded, looking up at her protector. “He is fine. Downstairs. Who else is with you?,” calmly, determined, Haldir questioned, while visually scanning the chamber for anything hidden in the darkness. 

Galearon, by this time, had had enough. No more could he emotionally, physically handle being stuffed into that wardrobe. Bursting out, still holding gently, but firmly to the infant, “Mama, Mama!,” he cried, holding the elfling for Beatrice to take, rushing her body, her safety. Taking the elfling, noticing with some surprise the little ellith made not a peep, somehow knowing danger was round her, Beatrice now bent, collapsed against the floor, bending, scooping Galearon close to her and the infant. Touching his face, making eye contact, “You okay?,” Beatrice asked, realizing the emotional, psychological effect this outburst was likely to have on both Faelor and Galeraon. And where was Faelor exactly?

“Faelor was scared.,” Galearon simply said, pointing behind himself. “I kept the elfling busy and quiet.” Knowing when to let fibs be fibs, “Okay.,” Beatrice gave in with. “I was not!,” Faelor determinedly stomped his foot, his boot, at the floor, outrage, upset dawning on his face, folding his arms. Pointing to Beatrice, “I was mentally telling Mama to get the candlestick and throw it at the orc, but did she use it? No!” Turning to Beatrice in all seriousness, “Why did you not use the candlestick Mama? You could have popped it into its’ eyes. Or mouth.,” Faelor asked, defending his mental clarity and Beatrice’s obvious lack thereof. 

Stunned. Mama? I’m not exactly your Mama, Beatrice began to think. “Um. Because. It was too pretty?,” was all she could think of. Haldir himself was having enough. “Elflings.,” Haldir muttered. “Not now.,” Crossing to the window, signaling to the others down below, extinguishing the candles within, “We need to leave.,” beckoning the little group. Hearing more noise, abruptly swinging into action, his body, eyes toward the opening again of the wardrobe doors, Haldir raised, readied his bow. “No!,” Beatrice’s arm, hand, shot out, startling, stopping his, as the two young ellyth clamored out with questioning, scared glances. Looking back down at Beatrice, “We need to leave now.,” Haldir again insisted. Following Haldir down the halls, “See.,” as Faelor glanced over at Galearon, clinging, cuddled against Beatrice’s skirts, “I told you. I told you Beatrice did not use Lord Erestor’s candlestick because it was too pretty.” Widening her eyes down at Faelor, “Easter’s?! Lord Easter’s?!” Crap, she decided, I’m so dead. Haldir was not concerned, nor bothered by that blatant fact.

Rounding the corner, the group came to a standstill before a tight faced, battle worn Tonare and Lindir. Looks exchanged, acknowledgments made, Lindir then advanced on Beatrice, as she locked eyes on Tonare. “Where is Gwingnis? And their Ada?,” nodding down, meaning the elflings, needing to know. “Gwingnis is below, she is alright. It is over now.,” Tonare tersely replied. Lindir, looking down at the tiny elfling, nestled in Beatrice’s arms, “She is very quiet Beatrice.,” he stated, placing a light hand on her head, stroking gently, lovingly, and another lighter hand on Beatrice’s abdomen, in full view of all present. “And you?,” Lindir asked. “You are alright, BeAh?” Nodding her head, feeling the full effects of the night’s ordeal, but worrying more for Faelor, Galearon, the elfling, returning them to their parents.

Finding, handling the elfling to Gwingnis, her Nana, smiling through sad, joyful tears, Beatrice heard, “Ada! Ada!,” as Galearon now wanted down, suddenly scrambling, squirming from Beatrice’s hold. Elflings ran to a kneeling, out stretched armed Ada. Turning, facing their Ada, wiping her face with the partially torn, dirty sleeve of her gown, Beatrice and Lindir shockingly heard the elflings pronounce, “Mama stabbed an orc! She stabbed it in its’ toes!” “Mama?,” asked their Ada, in confusion. Yeah. That, thought Beatrice, wanting an explanation herself. Faelor decided to up the anti, “Beatrice stuck us in Lord Erestor’s wardrobe! She was going to throw a candlestick at the orc!,” then just as suddenly proclaimed, “I told Mama not to.” Their Ada looked up at Beatrice, “Mama?,” he inquired. Again Faelor had to say it, “Mama said Crap! I told her that was a bad word Ada, but she did not listen to me. She said other bad words too. Mama does not listen very much.” Galearon insisted of his brother, “Faelor, don’t you remember? Mama said a ton load of bad words. I remember them all.” Ugh!

As their Ada kindly, but with much confusion, stood, glanced down at Beatrice, “Mama?,” gently, again he asked, as if to say, I don’t know what to think. As Lindir, Beatrice and their Ada stood there, contemplating this rare word and its’ meaning, “You adults are useless.,” Galearon grandly announced. “Mama Here. Nana There.,” he concluded, pointing off to the vast unknown of the Valor’s universe where his actual Nana was. It seemed Faelor agreed, “I want to sleep with Mama Here tonight. Galearon wants to too.,” he decided, pulling at his Ada’s tunic.

“I never meant…to…,” Beatrice apologized. Shaking his head, waving her off, “No. No. It is alright. It is good.” Looking down at his elflings, “You cannot sleep with…Mama..Here, for she sleeps with Lord Lindir. Come now.,” scooping up the two at once, walking off, “Let me clean you. You are a filthy, stinking mess.” But not without Faelor and Galearon proudly, loudly announcing to all of Imladris, “Ada! Beatrice made a grand mess of Lord Erestor’s bedchamber tonight!,” widening their arms and smiles for all to see. “Can Lord Erestor sleep with us tonight Ada?!” “No!,” issued their Ada’s answer.

Having heard the ugly proclamation, “My bedchamber? What has happened within my bedchamber?!,” demanded an exhausted Erestor. “A dead orc!,” sang the elflings, from up the path. “A dead orc Lord Erestor! With blood all over! Everywhere! And on your robes! And bed too!,” leaving Erestor to look at Beatrice with disgruntled abasement. 

As Lindir looked at the leaving elflings, back to Erestor, down at Beatrice, he grimaced, “Could you not have fled to another bedchamber?,” he asked.

Oh, I’m so dead, decided Beatrice. 

[beaflower77]

Help Me !

The attack came early, swift and brutal. No one truly noticed where they had weaseled in from. Or who was not patrolling them. So sudden it had happened, taking all off guard during a particular warm, balmy night. It took all but three seconds for anyone to actually register what had happened, and by then, the dwelling of the Lord and his people were under severe, maniacal attack. 

One moment, the evening was warm, serene, with a light breeze blowing, wafting about. Light chirping, tweetering lingered through the sulfurous evening air, laying tranquil lanquidity on lords, ladies, the few elflings inhabiting their dwelling. The next, all hell broke loose. Allowing birds easy access to the sky, fleeing in rapid flight, screeching, taking to the air. Elves frozen in terror, stunned, running hither, nither for flight, some little niche to hide, shelter, to stay alive, to sequester away in, scared of being found out, or standing ground with no other alternative but to fight, to kill and survive with whatever methods they had at hand.

“Can you believe it? Look at her.,” the newly visiting ellith asked her companion, rebuking the only woman in attendance. “She is definitely not fit to be here.,” the ellith continued. Sneering, sticking her nose in the air, agreeing with her companion, “I hear, she tried to have Lord Lindir’s elfling.,” quietly the second young ellith whispered. “No!,” the first fathomed, shocked for a moment, then snickered, snorted a little too loud. “Look at her. She thinks she is so clever to be able to wear a gown of that color! Why, it does not even lay well on her. Just look at those hips. So wide, so undignified. Does not anyone assist her? How she thinks Lord Lindir would even dare look her way, is beyond me. Let alone, to choose her to produce an elfling!” The other ellith glanced at the lone woman kneeling beside a little wooden cradle, playing with the occupant within, and lingered her superior gaze down the path where the woman sat, “Well, her hips are not that wide, but, I still could wager the woman could fit a whole cow inside her womb.”

They had a ball with that remark. Secretly laughing away in merriment, the two young, uncouth ellyth giggled, jested over Beatrice, her obvious unelfish figure. Little did they know, certain other elves overheard their tete-e-tete.  And as Haldir watched on unawares, he kept these thoughts to himself. Some ellyth could be quite nasty, he thought, watching the two whisper back and forth. Rude, he even ventured to himself. Little do they know whom they jest at, or whom that woman is married to.

Haldir surveyed the grounds surrounding the beloved city of Imladris, the elves standing, walking about, quietly talking, murmuring, laughing with one another, enjoying their company. Haldir was not immune to conversation, but rather than feel the absolute need to take part in every waking moment of raptuous talk, he enjoyed his solitude, much like Imladris’ own Captain Athlidon did. 

Sitting back, taking in the surrounding parties, watching, eyeing male and female alike, his gaze, his eyes, and thoughts turned toward Beatrice. I am still quite positive she was one of the females who had spied on myself and fellow companion bathing not so long ago, Haldir agreed with himself. As Beatrice played silly human, childlike games with Gwingnis’s infant elfling, Haldir secretly glanced back and forth between her and Lindir, and enjoyed the evening’s strong refreshment. Taking in Lindir’s amused, animated countenance with friends, acquaintances he hadn’t seen or heard from in many years, Haldir could not but wonder, did Lord Lindir desire one of those? Those elflings? With Beatrice? Had that topic of discussion even been broached yet, or had it been stifled once and for all?  

Haldir continued to wonder these thoughts and continued to scrutinize Beatrice. She obviously brings joy here. And to him. She has made it this far, Haldir thought to himself. How far will Lindir take her? How far can she take herself? And Haldir watched. And as he watched, the young, immature ellyths continued making, poking fun at one they did not even know, nor seem to care about. If Lord Lindir could hear them, Haldir mused, he would not be pleased at all. Lucky for them they are too far from his ears to hear, or react from. I just might have to box their ears myself, he imagined. Leaning against the wall, Haldir noticed another elf slowly, purposefully striding toward his same, lone wall. “Haldir.,” Athlidon nodded, gesturing to the ellith beside himself. “My wife, Gwingnis.,” he introduced proudly. As Haldir gracefully bowed to Gwingnis, all he had to say was, “Athlidon.” And Haldir proceeded to lean once again against the wall, joined by Athlidon, as Gwingnis smiled down at her elfling and caretaker, Beatrice. 

Sitting, kneeling before the tiny elfling, Beatrice cooed, played patty cake and other similar nonsense with Gwingnis’s infant, while the little elfling’s parents, enjoyed a little time to themselves, a needed respite. The night was fresh, warm, inviting, most straying out and about late into the evening. Elves moved, sauntered, talked and enjoyed the happy, pleasant, contented calm before the approaching storm. 

As soon as it started, several things happened at once.

With a loud, forceful rumbling, orcs invaded, advanced throughout in a steady, thundorous downpour over the concrete bridge that separated the wasteland from the civilized world built in secrecy. Many shrieks were heard throughout, many slippers, boots suddenly paraded the paths and walkways, running, scattering, hiding, seeking weapons, or shorter blades for closer combat.

When it began, the first thing crossing minds of both mother and caretaker, was a look of utter shock, turmoil, despair. Their eyes locked onto each other, Beatrice’s and Gwingnis’. Take her, hide her, run, run, find shelter, hide, I will find you both. Go Beatrice. Run, run, please, get away from here, this madness. Do not let yourselves be caught. Go!, urged Gwingnis, recognizing the futile attempt to cross the path herself, gather her elfling or help her friend. “Get away from here! Go!,” Athlidon urged his spouse, commanded her. “No!,” was Gwingni’s reply. “I will stand with you!,” as she found, grabbed hold, picked up, an already abandoned sword laying close by. “Beatrice will take her to safety. Our daughter will be safe with Beatrice!”

I will take her, I will hide her, I will keep her, keep her safe for you. I will do this!, thought Beatrice, trying with her face, her eyes, to convey these words of love, of loyalty to the elflings’ mother, for Beatrice could do no les than that. Gathering the bundle tightly to her bodice, Beatrice sought Lindir’s eyes for help. Knowing there was no chance of a rescue from him. Lindir caught her eyes for that instant, knowing what she carried on her person, and within. Mouthing the words, Io te amo. With such calm, one would think nothing was amiss that night. “Go.,” Lindir softly commanded from not more than six feet away, and suddenly, pointedly turned to clang his sword off an orc blade, cleanly, neatly slicing into the flesh of his opponent.

But for a moment Beatrice panicked. Pure chaos clamored round her. Not knowing where to turn, where to flee, looking round her, the fighting, the running, the screams, horrific screeching. Three seconds. Three seconds Beatrice knew, that was all it ever took, to take in an entire situation. Then Beatrice ran. She ran pall mall, dodging brutal, screaming, crying jammed up traffic. Spotting, spying two of her other little charges, “Faelor!,” Beatrice yelled, not knowing if her voice could carry over the clamorous fighting, the panic. “Faelor! Galearon! Galearon!,” she screamed, hoping they could hear and respond. They didn’t. Their Ada heard her. “Remove yourself from me, Faelor! Go to Beatrice! Take your brother! Go! Run!,” “No Ada! No!,” cried Faelor. Galearon looked on, cowering behind a pillar in panicked turmoil, and proceeded to weep.

Shoving little Faelor off his person, pushing him towards Beatrice, she grabbed at his tunic, “Faelor!,” Beatrice cried. “Come on! Where’s Galearon?!,” as she tugged, and tugged against his will to leave his Ada to fight alone. Spying Gaeleron hiding, she swiftly motioned for him to come to her side. Grabbing him, Beatrice ran with both the little elflings, while holding the littlest against her chest, inside the marbled halls of protection, only to find inside it was not much better. Dodging, forever dodging it seemed, till they found their way to some empty bedchamber high above the outside mess.

“Get in here!,” Beatrice hissed at them, shoving them forward, looking over her shoulder for any other nightly intrusion. The bedchambers’ great wardrobe was unusually filled with much of some unknown ellon’s robes, tunics, boots and other paraphelia. “What is all this crap?,” Beatrice demanded of no one. “That is a bad word Beatrice.,” Faelor insisted on informing her, as she assisted him up and in. “Shush.,” she replied. “Squeeze in there.,” shoving aside large, heavy garments. “What a mess.”  Galearon kept his mouth still, instead finding, reaching over, winding his fingers round her thigh, as she too climbed in. “Mama.,” he said only, in such a tiny voice, inching himself closer against her skirts. She forgot to close the chamber doors. Outside, emitting from the hallways, were sinister, foul sounds and smells. She forgot. She forgot to close the chamber doors. Crap, Beatrice thought, I cannot, I shouldn’t go out now. The four stayed that way for some moments. When at last some quiet came, the sound of small foot patterings could be heard. Beatrice spied through the crack in the doors of the wardrobe.

She saw the two ellyths that had insulted her earlier, running back and forth, up and down the hallway. In that dreadful moment, Beatrice made a decision. “Stay here. Be quiet.,” Beatrice told, instructed the two elflings, scrunched up behind clothing, handing the infant elf off to Galearon “Don’t go.,” said Galearon. “They are not nice to you. They are mean to you.,” Faelor mentioned, as Beatrice climbed out, was about to close them in. "To leave them out there, exposed, would be meaner.,” Beatrice reminded Faelor. “Mama.,” pleaded Galearon, and she had to swallow, not to reply. “Stay here. Stay still. Quiet now.,” Beatrice insisted.

Looking up and down the hallway, finding no one yet, the ellyth scattered by again. They looked shocked to see Beatrice standing in the hall. “Come here you two twats.,” Beatrice commanded in a hushed tone. They didn’t register her insult, nor understood. Shoving them roughly, the ellyths fell over each other into the room, as Beatrice tried quietly to close the door. “Help me.,” Beatrice demanded, starting to push a small desk in front of the doors. “That will not stop them.,” the one said, while the other looked around for some safety. “Get in there.,” Beatrice told them, nodding off her head to the wardrobe. 

[beaflower77]

Is That The End Of  The Story?                                 The First

It was supposed to be a weekend of fun. A few days of solitude, rest, enjoyment, and possibly….love?  Well it was a weekend, anyway. They traveled far from home, passing rolling, grassy knolls, lush green valleys, teeming with many colored wildflowers, falls spilling with heavy, noisy waters, setting off a bundle of steam here and there. Settling at last in a secluded, peaceful clearing, the two elves, one male, the other female, disembarked and began to unload the small cart the horses trailed after them.

“It is not much farther now.,” he announced. “I think you will like it. Over there,” smiling, pointing, hoping she would find his choice of ground appreciative and to her likings. “Just beyond and around a few more bends. You will see, it will take your breath away.” Oh, how she was in her glory. Never had he asked her to go anywhere with him alone. Always being included in company, but no, never alone. Until just now. “Come away this weekend with me?,” he asked politely enough, sincerely, taking her aside one evening. “Me?,” astonished, she piped up.

The seclusion, the solitude, the anxiety of it all. Her mind reeled with joy, thoughts running astray. I’m alone with him. He asked me, only me. Leading her  horse alongside his, her heart pounding the entire way as she intently listened to his voice, his many subjects of choice, she spoke quietly, purposefully, hoping each answer to be correct and to his liking. Her smile, most broad that day, almost flushing whenever he asked her a small, tiny slip of a question, smiling, laughing at her answers. She beamed inside, I’m alone with him! We’re alone together! He does like me! Me!

Tonare advised, cautioned her. “He likes you, be careful, guard yourself wisely. Pack lightly, stay warm. Do not let your feet get wet. Behave, but enjoy yourself as well.,” as he shoved her off to pack. Beatrice also gave advise. Advise of a different kind. “You might want to take this.,” pressing a small vial into her palm. “Oil?,” she asked. “Hush!,” Beatrice whispered. “Hide it inside your pack. Maybe you won’t need it, but who knows?,” she smirked slyly, hoping her friend would enjoy it, if need be. “Males are quirky, but, it’s always best to be prepared. I will see you in four days.,” as Beatrice hugged, kissed her farewell, smiling in glee and anxiousness, on her friend’s behalf.

After stopping for a too short midday snack, leading the horses on toward their final destination, they came at last into a clearing. Beyond her longing imagination, the landscape surrounding them was most magnificent.  She pulled, tugged downwards at her tunic just a twinge, to reveal a small portion of her flesh. Just a little. He helped her down from her horse, standing a little too close, a little too long, before nodding, making sure she was righted. “Here you go. Here is your pack. We will set up camp over here.,” pointing southernly. “It will be lovely near morning., he suggested. “Do you mind?,” he asked. “I brought only one tent. We can share, can we not?” 

it was an innocent question. “Of course.,” replying too quickly, eagerly, she answered.  Of course we can share one tent, she thought. We can share some other things as well, as dramatic, misbehaving thoughts ran round her head. And watched him pull, gliding the one small tent off the cart he had attached to her horse. She watched his backside, his confident strides, his body, and imagined what it would look like unclothed. And Inside she smiled. We’re going to share a tent. Alone together. Just us. All night. Hopefully, he will like… “Want to assist me?,” calling from across a few tree branches. She repurposed her thoughts.

Showing her many belongings from nature, they roamed as they went, picking up small rocks, twigs, kindling for later. His body walked close to hers. Close enough, if she so wanted, could reach a smidge and brush her fingers against his. She didn’t dare. Yet. Too soon. “Look there!,” he whispered, placing a light hand onto the small of her back, the other on her shoulder, pressing her down into a crouching position. “Do you see it. A doe. And her fawn.,” he guided her eyes toward the grazing, lazy animals. The heat rose from his touch, she relished in it, her heart sounding loudly in her ears, pounding against her chest. She stilled her breath, as much from his touch, his so close body, to the vision of fawnliness before her. “They’re beautiful.,” she gave, whispering back, knowing his mouth was close enough for her own to touch, to lick, to press upon. Wanting to taste him. Afraid he was like that doe, she stopped herself in time and drifted her eyes back to the center of their attention.

A small dinner was shared between the two, as after she most ardently needed her teeth cleaned, tender parts of her body, hands wiped from the days’ dirt and a most necesary break to the privy. “Over there. Behind those bushes would do best.,” he suggested, pointing off into the distance. Looking over, not exactly too sure where, he mentioned to her, “Do you want me to come with you?,” smiling, jesting with her. “Umm. Maybe just show me where?”  He walked her over, not before adding, “You have what you need?,” asking with all sincerity, before leaving, giving her concealment, to do graceful things alone, in private.

A light fire flickered, the night air still warm, dusk became twilight and rapidly descended into night. “Would you like to retire for the night?,” he asked. “We can leave the fire going, so we have light. If we need it. It will be safe enough.” She nodded affirmative. She nodded too quickly, too eagerly. And why wouldn’t she. He brought her here. To be alone with him. Why wouldn’t she want to retire now? Weren’t there other things to do tonight? To keep her mind occupied with?  Why would he ask, if not he had other designs on his mind? With her.

A few small, blunt candles lit, she pried the day’s tunic from her torso, exposing her plump breasts to the air. Leggings removed, a slip of a nightdress pulled over, she covered herself with the blankets provided. And waited. And…”Are you..ready?,” he politely asked, before drawing the flap back, letting in a stream of moonlight and a cool night breeze. “Yes.,” breathlessly she responded, smiling into the dark, anticipation filling her. Entering, blowing out all but one candle, he removed his own tunic, boots, leggings. Setting his boots and hers aside, near the entrance, he huddled under covers himself. A Silence ensued.

Neither spoke. She waited. Facing the tent wall, leaving her shoulders, waist uncovered, bare for him, she shivered slightly. She could hear sounds of the night pressing in on them, interrupting her numerous, concealed thoughts. She waited. Crickets, hooting in a distance, a ripple of water somewhere nearby, played over and over and over noisily, silently, consistently. She waited. And as she waited, she pondered the tent wall, the small, soft pillows, the warm blankets surrounding her waist, her hips, and began to wonder. What’s taking him so long? We’re laying so close, the heat is almost unbearable. When? How long should I wait? Should I roll over and begin? Is he waiting for me? And she waited more. She clasped the small oil bottle in her right hand underneath her pillow, wondering, when?, as her left strayed to the padding beneath her. And still she waited. 

“Why are you still awake? Can you not sleep?,” he whispered. She stilled. What? Sleep?   “I. I uh, I. No. I thought.,” was she wrong? Did he not..want to? She thought, did she think wrongly? He shifted. “You thought what?,” he asked back. She froze. Oh, she was wrong, but she said it anyways, giving off a detection of disappointment, hurt. “I thought you were going to make love to me.,” she whispered to the dark. She couldn’t turn to face him. Shamed. Humiliated. Wrong.  He shifted again, this time on his elbow, stating a little louder than a whisper, “You thought what?” He waited. Waited for an answer. “I thought.. you wanted to..I thought you liked me that way. That you wanted to..have me.” Oh, what a stupid choice of words she dumped. She wouldn’t turn to face him.

He said nothing. The air between them stilled, froze, became stale. “I do like you. But. I was not planning on that. Making love with you. But you are my friend.,” he didn’t want this conversation. Not now. Not like this. He could hear her disappointment, her hurt. He instinctively knew he was the sole cause of it. He should have anticipated this. He should have not changed his plan, when asking her here. What was his issue, he asked himself. He wanted her. Why was he backing out now? He was a dolt, he berated himself for it. In the silence, he slowly could feel her anger. “I see.,” she whispered, rejection, shame filling her heart, her pride stiffening next to him. The silence grew heavy with hurt, anger, bitterness. She didn’t understand what went wrong. Why was he being this way? He asked her here, exactly why then?

He thought her asleep then, the silence was that long and still. “Then why did you bring just one tent? Why did you stand so close to me all day?  Why did you bring me here? Alone?” a torrent of painfulness issued from her mouth, with more than a whisper this time. “I assumed, I thought, I thought you liked me, you wanted…me.”  His only answer, “Why did you think that?” Stupid. Stupid answer, he gave himself. 

Bewildered, “I brought you here because we’re friends.,” was the only issued answer. “And, because you have been having much turmoil these last few weeks. You haven’t been sleeping well. I wanted you to get away from all the hassles of our city. To spend a bit of peacefulness. A change for a bit.” She said nothing. She was wrong. So wrong. How could she have seen otherwise? Still she said nothing. The air became thick, denser with nothing but her silence.

“I wanted us to get to know one another better. So we can be better friends.,” was his lame excuse. No reply. She closed her eyes to him. “Go to bed.,” she hallowed out. 

He let his body, his head fall back against the pillows, feeling awful. He should have just told her. Isn’t this what he brought her here for? To be alone with? To tell her how he felt? Why was he afraid? Was there too much expectation to return to their city betrothed? Enamored with? Why was he purposely stifling her? Stifling them?

Friends. Friends, she thought. Sure. Sure we’re friends. Not anymore. She didn’t think they could be friends after tonight’s revelation. Not after knowing she wasn’t what he desired. Not after being rejected. Feeling led on, feeling special, feeling the day’s enjoyment together, the specialness of being completely, utterly alone with him, only him. Friends? No. Not now. She would make a decision in the morning, then would have to move on. Staying facing the tent wall, invisible tears formed, she refused to show him she was wiping at them. Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift, relax, and fell into an exhausted, oblivious sleep. All the while, knowing the morning would come too soon, as she would have to face him in tomorrow’s bright light. Rejected.

Lindir sat up, more alert now she had finished her reading. “Is that the end of the story?,“ he asked, worried there wasn’t more. Looking at him, aware of his concern, “No. I have more in my head. I just haven’t written it down yet. Do you like it?,” asked Beatrice. He shifted, moved closer to Beatrice on their bed. “I. I am. I am concerned for her. Why did the male bring his friend this far, and, and, and not tell her? I assumed he liked her? He cares for her, does he not?,” Lindir inquired, most intently.

Beatrice smiled, huffed, “I assume so. But then, you know males, sometimes they are a bit, quirky.”  Looking at Beatrice with questions written on his face, “No. I do not know that. Elves are not quirky, as you suggest. Elves either like you or they do not. And to hold back from that love, elves would not do this.” Lindir was bothered by this conclusion of hers. “Why is it taking him so long to impart his love for her? To simply suggest his love of her, would be simple enough. Why is he taking so long?,” Lindir wanted to know, not thrilled with her character’s apparent purposely stalling and lack of decorum with the opposite sex.

Looking at Lindir with slight diffidence, “Why did it take you so long?,” she gave back to him. “Want to hear more tomorrow?,” Beatrice asked. Sighing, slumping back into the pillows adorning their bed, “Of course you would have me wait.,” replied Lindir. “Of course. Why not.” 

[beaflower77]

Is That The End Of The Story?                      The Second

“What’s this?,” asked Beatrice, looking up at the proffered gift laid before her unsuspecting eyes. “A glass of wine, of course.,” proudly stated Lindir, setting down two glasses filled completely to the rim, as he crossed the room, only to gracefully dump himself onto the bed, setting off a bounce under her. “You don’t expect me to drink all that do you?!,” Beatrice looked at her glass with awe, struggling to keep her wine contained, rather than spilling it on herself.  

Lindir looked gravely, solemnly at Beatrice, intending to use the wine as a bribe, “Have you written more?,” he inquired, scooting closer to her on the bed, trying to look over her shoulder. Laughing slightly, knowing Lindir was spellbound now, “What answer would you like me to give you? And what are you willing to give me in return? For a Yes?.” looking back at him, unsettling the bed in the process, as she smiled, wanting to pull him down on herself instead of reading. His smile broadened, “Ask away.,” he tossed between them with a flourish of his hand.  “A kiss.,” stated Beatrice. 

A simple, quick peck given, “A better one.,” Beatrice wanted, asked for. “A longer one.,” again Beatrice asked. As her game of kissing became longer, deeper, her breath panted, causing Lindir to crawl closer, allowing her hands to move up toward the collar she so ardently wanted to grasp hold of. “More.,” she begged, pulling him down, his body covering hers, his legs nudging hers apart. Forgetting himself for the moment, why he had expressly interrupted her in the first place, he clawed at the hem of her gown, whipping it high over her hips, his apparent interest getting the best of him. 

Coming to his senses at last, reluctantly pulling back, still aware of her wanting, “I wish to hear your story.,” he reminded her.  “No. Later. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss me.,” begged Beatrice, hands digging, twisting into his tunic, pulling him roughly down, closer, squirming against his body, pushing up. Lindir, smiling broadly, knowing exactly where he had her, “Read!,” he begged. “And, if I like it, I will kiss you more. And better. I will kiss you there.,” nodding his head downward, making her agree with fervor, “and I will not stop.” 

Promises, promises, Beatrice thought. “Fine.,” agreed Beatrice, not before saying, giving him a  “Rat.”

The mornings’ sun streamed into their tent, bringing minuscule droplets of sunny dust, glistening throughout the vastness of their tented confines. As her eyes flittered opened, so very early in the morning, her legs, toes, fingers, her back, preyed themselves opened, stretched, releasing her body into a starfish, then collapsing back into a ball. She yawned, rolled over, dumping her fingers, hands onto the place where his head, his body had rested the night before. 

Her love, her fantasy, was nowhere in their tent.

Feeling round for him, his spot was still warm, but empty. Realizing he was not in bed anymore, propping herself on her elbows, she suddenly shifted her eyes round the inside of the tent. Listening intently for any outside noise, she heard voices. Familiar voices. Ah, Tonare, she figured. When did he arrive here? And how? On foot? Horse? And why? The sound of crisp fresh river water bubbled along, chirps, tweets of the day’s birds, flying overhead filled her sensitive ears, and she could smell something warm, delicious cooking. Her bodily needs overtook her. Crawling over to the makeshift chamber pot, she took advantage of it, hoping the sound would not carry. And obviously not caring for having to get up, go about chores, she crawled back, rolled over again, snuggling deeper under the covers, pulling his along with hers, and fell back to sleep.

“Did you tell her?,” asked Tonare. Looking at the morning fire flaming away in the pit, warming their boots, heals and toes. Shaking his head, “No.,” he flatly gave. Looking quizzically at him. “Why? Why not?,” Tonare asked, concern showing on his face. Poking a stick at the flames, waiting for coffee to brew, “I do not know.,” he replied, a shrug given as way of an answer. “I wanted to. I wished to. I just…” He felt shamed, dumb.  He knew she wanted him last night. It wasn’t that he didn’t want that either, knowing it would mean a more than formal betrothal between them. Flicking the stick into the fire to burn amidst the others, longingly he sighed, “This is not how I wanted it to be.,” he grasped at, groaned. “I should have had a nicer meal laid for her. A room full of flowers, a bed large enough to… I should have taken her someplace better. It should have been nicer. I should have prepared things nicer, more pleasant, she deserves better than…than this.,” throwing his hands round the delicate, bewitching scenery. “Is that what she wants?,” Tonare asked, “Or, what you think?” He studied Tonare, confiding, “She wanted to last night. I made a lame excuse.,” he shook his head in humility. “I am a dolt.,” he confessed.  “No. Only scared.,” Tonare concluded. “Tell her. Before this weekend flees you both.” The elves studied one another. No more talk came forward. 

When next she woke, the soft voices drifted slowly, lacksidaisically through her world, pulling her from her own private dreams. Finding last night’s tunic, leggings and boots, fixing herself as best she could, a small amount of foundation, mascara, pulling her messed hair back, coiling, braiding swiftly, hastily rinsing, wiping her hands, she ungracefully stumbled into the sun’s world. Both sets of ellyn’s eyes met hers. Tonare had his mouth stuffed with egg.

“I made coffee.,” he smiled, holding up an empty mug for her. Nodding at his friend, “Tonare rode by. He’s just leaving.,” as he eyed his friend conspiratorially. Nodding, standing, Tonare gave a “Good morning.” Sheepishly nodding herself, as she gave a small hint of a smile at Tonare, “Stay for coffee?,” she asked brightly. “Breakfast maybe?,” she asked, today not wanting to be alone with him. “We brought plenty.” She didn’t know how much he brought, she fibbed. Tonare, making ready to leave, gave her a shake No, a nod, rode off. She sighed internally, she was alone with him. An entire day, alone. After what had transpired last night, or rather, what didn’t, she was uneasy for this day’s events. Waving Tonare off, she decided best to come straight to the point, pack and leave. It was disappointing really, she had been overly thrilled, elated, having utter solitude with him. But then, realizing he hadn’t asked her here for any particular reason, what was to come from it she thought? He was splendid to gaze upon, and she unknowingly rested her eyes between his thighs for a moment. She looked up to meet his own gaze, bringing herself back to her time and placing, hoping he hadn’t noticed where her thoughts were again. He noticed.

“I’ve rigged up a bathing system, there, over by that tree. I was thinking you might wish to use it.,” tentatively he sought her smile, her agreement, perhaps her forgiveness for last night’s bungled attempt of romance. “Oh. Alright. Yes, I would. Thank you, I would like that.,” she gladly agreed, eager to wash last nights’ dust and dissappointment off. Showing her the makings and workings of this ingenious contraction of his, he lingered, looked down to her, thinking, That tunic, it is too tight, very tight. And too revealing. I could assist her in taking it off. He lingered just long enough for the heat to begin to rise within him. He could tell her now, he thought. Breaking the silence, she said, “I’ll wash first. Then I’ll pack.,” she turned aside, readied herself to remove her clothing. Transfixed, refocusing on her sentance, he started, “Pack? What? Why?,” a moment of confusion, panic overcoming his being. “Why would you want to pack? We only just arrived?,” as he looked round the clearing, wondering what he was missing. Then remembering his words from last night. ‘Make love to you? I hadn’t planned on it. Why would you think that?’ He thought she didn’t like him anymore. After last night, I would probably consider the same thing. He cursed himself internally.

Exasperation filling her, annoyed at his lack of comprehension, but settling on her feelings of disappointment instead, “Look.,” she started with. “I just do not think…I think we should just return.” As her eyes betrayed her longings, and as he came forward, she further explained, “If you wanted to seduce me,” her face twisting in sadness, gesturing at the gleaming surroundings, “last night, this, all of this, would have been the perfect opportunity in my estimation. There were stars, a full, fat moon. Nature. Wildflowers. Night noises we so rarely hear within the city. We were alone, completely in solitude, it would have been the perfect opportunity…If that had been what you wanted. I just think we should return.”  

She waited, she looked in his eyes, she saw confusion. And a trace of anger as well. He obviously felt put on the spot, and felt put out, annoyed because of it. “If I had wanted to seduce you, or anyone, for that a matter, it would have been with a fine dinner, a handful of selected flowers and a secluded bed! In a private room! Not out here! In the middle of nowhere!,” he gave her directly. “You will not pack. We are staying till Monday.,” standing firm on his delivery. “I have made a simple breakfast. It is over there. For you. I will wait for you. There.” He tore himself from her sight and dumped down onto a heavy rock, awaiting her queenly presence after she showered. She watched him go. Shook her head in confusion and regret. Naithadol, she thought.

Having no other choice but to wash, dry, redress, she closed her eyes in silent petition, meditating her situation. Maybe tonight would be better. It was only Saturday after all. One more night. We’ll leave Sunday, at least by dusk, she contempated. She pulled on her leggings, boots, ate her breakfast gingerly. Surely she could survive two days, one night.  As it was, she still wanted to be with him. However, why exactly did he ask her here?  Yes, Beatrice was correct, she agreed, when Beatrice told her, ‘Males are quirky, they are hardwired for the hunt, the chase.’ 

The breakfast was good. Very good. She mmmmedd into it, as she chewed. “Do you like it?,” he asked smiling, his tone of anger gone, replaced now with relishing in her obvious, delighted murmurs of chewing.  Letting herself accept his question, “It’s very good. Very tasty. You’re quite skilled at cooking.” He smiled, poured her a mug, passing it to her, not before touching her fingers in the process, while settling himself beside her, keeping in contact. Their knees touched. She had difficulties swallowing without sound, gulping coffee instead of sipping properly. He watched her fingers play, making a game of her breakfast, lingering his eyes on her chest, keeping his fingers balanced upon his knees. “I will take you into the forest today, show you how to catch a rabbit, if you like.” Tenderly, she looked at him. Nodding, smiling, glancing at his mouth, begging internally, I want a kiss. I want....I want a kiss, your kiss. I want your mouth. He noticed. He shifted. Somehow I will tell her. I want her mouth on mine. I want he mouth...elsewhere.

Spending their day pleasantly, amusingly throughout the woods, they took note of the surrounding beauty of nature. She mused as he held branches aside for her, away from her face, helping her over fallen logs, holding her hands, hips, lifting up, over larger rocks and boulders. He’s so considerate, helpful, noting what comes easily, what I have difficulty with, taking my unease of crawly things, slimy, mossy things into consideration, without reproach. Yes, males are indeed quirky, she considered and smiled to herself. Why did he ask me here? This is ridiculous she thought, what does he want of me, with me? Still she enjoyed his company. And longed for his touch. And kiss.

She spotted it before he did. Stilling, crouching down, she placed her hand on his thigh, pulling, tugging him close. “There, just ahead,” she pointed, keeping her hand close to herself, “It has stilled, so quiet, so lovely.” He studied the rabbit, took his bow, aimed… “No.’” she pleaded in a hush. “It has kits. See. They would suffer, please do not..?,” looking, urging him not to shoot the fat rabbit. Looking down at her, wanting to please her, “That was our supper.,” he gave her. “What will we have now?,” he calmly, softly inquired. “We can have breakfast for supper. Please.,” she intoned again.

Offering his hand, helping her up, “I’ll teach you to fish then. There’s a brook nearby.,” nodding with a flick of his head. Holding onto her, guiding her steps in time with his, his hand this time, never left hers. She didn’t ask for it back. Pulling her fifth and final fish from the chilly, wet, whipping waters, “You are excellent!,” he cheered, looking on in respect, admiration of her fishing skills. “We’ll need to skin them. Come along then.” as he lead her back to camp, “You don’t have to do this, it’s messy business.,” he informed her, trying to keep her from the brutalities of fish skinning. Truly not wanting to touch the fish, but wanting to learn all the same, “I’ll watch.,” she agreed. He secretly smiled, she saw him smiling. “What?!,” she gave him. “Not a thing.,” was his reply, continuing to smirk, shake his head. ”Not a thing. The fish are waiting.”           He asked for her hand. Again.

As they cleaned, readied the dishes, thier cooking gear for tomorrow’s morning meal, both elves were quiet. Knowing what was to come next, both kept their eyes, glances and primal thoughts nervously to themselves. “I’ll bank most of the fire, I’ll keep some embers warm for tomorrow.,” he stated. “Wish to retire first?,” he asked, hesitant of her reply.  Ah, another night, she thought. What will this night’s sleep bring me? Another revelation of ‘I just want friendship’ or, ‘I like you, but…’,”  Since you held my hand for the better part of the day, what am I to even think anymore? Thoughts reeled and roamed throughout her mind, trying not to let her imagination, her fantasy, collide with her reality. What did he want with her? What was she to him? I should probably go first, she thought. Get myself prepared, if not for sleeping, then to calm my emotional, sexual desires. I’ll probably get a very restful sleep indeed, she surmised, if there is to be no intimate moment. Again. “Of course.,” she acquiesced and stood.

His boots, her boots, placed neatly before the threshold in their tent, he blew out all but one candle again. Placing himself neatly, gently under his portion of the covers, he glided his body close against hers, too close this time. The heat, she thought. How much heat can one person emit from their body? It will become stifling in here soon. We will have to cut a hole in the tent, if this heat continues. Should I tell him to back up? Or, enjoy the physical closeness of his presence? Feeling his body so close to mine?  She said nothing, but rather relaxed just enough to begin to drift off.

Sensing she was half asleep, he made up his mind, and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, just touching with enough pressure to awaken her from drifting fully. “I have been thinking..,” he began. “Mmmfffph.,” she shook, shuddered, at the sound of his voice, her body coming back into his reality. “I have been thinking. You said, earlier today, if someone were to seduce you…that this, here, would be how you would have it.”  He waited for a reply. She had heard him. She also was half asleep. “Mmmm.,” again she muffled. “What was that?,” she asked, turning over, coming too close, almost banging her mouth into his nose, his face. “Oh. Sorry.,” she muttered. “I was starting to sleep.” She didn’t realize how close she actually was to him, how her hands brushed against his chin, how her legs sought out his, pushing them apart, and laying hers inside for more warmth. He noticed. He neither pushed her away, nor moved. Instead enjoyed her touch.

Instead, he reached out. He was not unaware of what he was doing, reaching, placing his hand, his heated hand, fingers over her face, down her check, stroking lightly. “You mentioned, wanting to be seduced.,” so softly, delicately he explained. “May I seduce you?” Her fantasy. Her reality. Both colliding. Isn’t this what she had hoped for?  “Why?,” she whispered. Wanting, wanting to hear his answer, yet wanting the silence to remain, to remain in ignorance. “I desire you. You are sweet.,” he stole those words from the air. “I always have. Even when it was just within a circle of friends, with others, it has always only been you.” He waited. She didn’t reply. Continuing to explain, “I wanted to tell you. Truly I did. I wasn’t brave enough last night.,” giving her time to absorb his confession. “I have ruined the moment last night for you. I robbed it from you. Forgive me. I hesitated. I do not wish to hesitate tonight.,” explaining his awfulness to her of last night’s mess. His withdrawal from her embracing and confession of love of him.

He gave her time. Her emotions fought within her. “I fear you will hurt me.,” she whispered. “I had so desired you. I had so hoped. You asked me here. You asked me. I felt a fool last night. Why you had asked me, I couldn’t understand. I do want you. I want only you. I’m…afraid,” she caved. “I am afraid you will hurt my heart.,” desire mingling with hopeful anticipation, yet awareness of her surroundings and another day’s events to yet unfold between them. To deal with, if this was not love.

“No.,” he whispered, pleaded in ernest. “Do not fear me. Long have I watched you. Wanting you from afar. You are whom I want, for I do desire you. I have messed this weekend for you, I have ruined it. But I cannot let you return to the city without finally exposing my heart to you.” Glad he finally voiced his love, his care, and emboldened by his exposure, his words, most sincere, utterly broken, confirmimg his genuine desires, to them both, he waited her approval. 

“We cannot do this. Not without proper betrothing.,” she dropped the weighted words in the air, causing him to become acutely aware of their intense predicament. Thinking quickly, “Then let me give you what I can. Let me please you, for I so desire to.,” leaning down, prostrating himself over her bundled body, while letting her readjust herself straighter, letting him widen her legs. Her insides, her heart, overjoyed. He does love me. Me. Just me. Reaching out to touch him, she suddenly, ravenously pulled his head, neck, toward her mouth, crashing her anxious mouth against his, delighting him in return with her fervor and lust. And brought her legs up round his now exposed torso.

Positioning himself within her opened thighs, he ghosted his hands over her face, neck, running them down, round her shoulders, the length of her arms, listening to her breathe, watching her smile, relish in his touch, amidst the glow and ember of their single candle. She let him, she gave him full access to her body, exposing her heart, her emotions. As he graced his hands down and over her tiny gown, his fingers reaching for the hem, lifting, gathering, bunching it over her head, he tossed it aside. Marveling at her beauty, her body, not thin and lean as other ellyths. Her breasts larger, more rounded, fuller. Her hair even messier.  He cupped, squeezed, bent down, placing his mouth, tongue tentatively on one nipple, sucked intensely. Closing her eyes, feeling his mouth on her, feeling the intense pull, she knew exactly where to place her hands to urge him more, and pushed her chest up into him. He understood her meaning. More, it meant, more, don’t hold back. I want it all, fiercely.

Feeling, kneading, nibbling, he moved lower, shifting his body down, placing his one leg in between hers. Little did he know, she knew where she wanted herself placed. Lifting her legs, bending her knees, gliding her lower torso, urgently shifting her lower half closer, under his one leg, she scooted her body directly in line with it.  And started to push up with her hips, grinding that delicate, delicious spot up and down on his leg. What? What is she doing? he thought. He smiled when it finally dawned on him. She’s humping my leg!   

“Do you need something?,” he delicately, albeit humorously asked, his face smiling broadly. “You are making love to my leg.,” a minute laugh issued forth. Smiling, keeping her eyes closed, feeling blissful, “Yes. Your leg is in the right place. Stay still.,” whining a bit. He couldn’t but smile at her antics, her neediness. Still smiling broadly, he came to the conclusion, I’ll give her what she desires, and removed his hand from her breast. And stood, crouching over again the tent ceiling. “No! Where are you going?,” eyes popping open, looking for him, as he stood, riffling through his pack. Returning to her, “I brought grape oil.,” his pride showing, holding up a small vial in the dark. Smiling herself, “So did I.,” she laughed, smiling in relief, mesmerized by him, his sudden change in attitude, openness, and honesty, as he proceeded to trickle the liquid between her thighs. Aimed it lower, pouring generously.

His hands, fingers, mouth devoured her before the night’s end. And in that moment of her completed, satisfied glory, he asked her this, “Do you want me? Would you accept me? And make this our wedding?,” crawling up, settling himself on top of her body, holding, placing himself between her legs. As her breath husked on, and neared its’ end, her gave her time to recover from her finish, “Yes. Make love to me again. Completely this time.” He settled and pushed in, listening to her pleasured cry. And gave a moan of relief himself, as he thought, why did I take this long to tell her?

The night was long, steamy, heated and smelly, and over much too soon. It began again that morning, as they stayed and enjoyed the confines of their lusty smelled soaked tent, while listening to the patter of rain outside. The candle had burnt down long ago.

Smiling, Lindir asked, “Will you write a third?” Looking intently at him, his face, “Don’t count your luck.,” Beatrice gave him. “You promised me something. Aren’t elves supposed to made good on their promises?,” Beatrice asked. 

Knowing exactly what she was referring to, “Do you have grape oil?,” he fussed. 

“Look under the pillow.”

[beaflower77]

Imparati Suparati : Part 1

 “They stole my winnings,” indignantly she complained the them.

Looking at her as she stood next to the tethered horses, they could see Beatrice was visually upset, which led the elves to complete and utter confusion. “What? What does she say?,” they asked, questioning with their eyes. “What is she talking about? What winnings?”

“Beatrice,” Lindir interjected, “What are you talking about? We were inside but a moment. What winnings are you talking of?” Looking up at Lindir with defeat and disappointment, “A few moments? You were gone three hours. and my winnings. That I won fair and square, inside that tavern. That Ghostly Abbey Tavern over there,” as she flippantly, angrily gestured off toward the dark brown and gray stone tavern across what was loosely deemed a muddy, murky looking street.

“You realize,” she mentioned, “That is more than just a tavern we’re staying at, don’t you?”

No, actually, they hadn’t. They changed locales.

This town, a rather small but neatly arranged town was in close enough proximity for a few days travel, and had many trading advantages for the elves. They had traveled here to get a sense of the present community. Elrond would be dealing with this small, unique town ever so often and it behooved the elves to know exactly whom and what they would be dealing with, an honest, transparent magistrate, or a shady and shred blowhard like the present one Mayor Turnbull. Either way, this town was in the correct pivotal position for Elf and Mortal alike.

They had sent Erestor for diplomacy, and Lindir for note taking and such. Athlidon and another soldier went as well. Why then did Beatrice need to go? “It will get you out in the sunshine a bit,” Lindir promised on a Tuesday’s ride with a simple smile. “Sunshine?,” she questioned by their third morning out. “If I wanted sunshine, I would have gone to Hawaii Lidir. I am dusty, sweat, hot, and I wuold like to clean my hair. With all this humidity I’m already a mess. I can feel as if I am in the deepest jungles of .. oh, who knows?”

Lindir curiously looked at Beatrice balanced on her mare. Her hair was held together in a short clip, he could see was beginning to droop and come undone. Beatrice was correct, the ride was long, and the humidity at this time of year was thick, dense, and horrid. His mind also reeled in confusion. Hawaii? He just decided it was best to stay quiet, as she spoke like this sometimes. Instead Lindir turned back in his saddle and continued their journey onward. As they rode, Lindir concentrated on his own grooming habits. I would like to clean up as well. A bath would have been lovely this morning, however there will be none until we arrive. I hope there is a comfortable chamber in which to bathe later. For separate baths of course.

They had traveled this particular way because it was supposedly more scenic a route. It wasn’t This route proved poorly traveled, extremely narrow, and dense with foliage. The trees, bushes, provided little comfort for privacy of bodily functions or semi intimate contact. The ground itself was not a proper place to set nightly camps, as it afforded no barrier of shelter or defense. Whoever suggested this way, the elves were dismayed with the route, and lack of reasonable propriety, however it was Beatrice who suffered the most, being female and needing, wishing more privacy. Her usual mood went from content, to joyless, to pained each day. After three days the elves noticed, or more so heard Beatrice’s level of discomfort, discontent, and displeasure. She thought there would be, or should be, a welcomed bath at the least at the end of the night, at most the beginning before each day’s ride. The assumption came from the belief she was promised that before hand. She irritably rode her mare, picked at her nails every so often, frowned, and tried hard at not being snippy.  Her horse gave a snort from the dust.

“I could have gotten sunshine at home,” Beatrice complained within earshot of some elves. “Your hair still looks nice,” she grumbled to herself. “Mine is a mess. And I don’t care for riding horses either, except you’re okay,” she confided to her own mare, patting its’ neck and head. Continuing on, “There are bruises up and down the insides of my legs, not to mention ..”  On and on it went.

Lindir took note of her increasing disfavor with his early urging she come along. There was little in way he could do to change it now. He should have left her at home, instead of insisting her accompanying them. And during her monthly business Lindir thought was not the best of his ideas this time round he thought.

Lindir had so wished her mutterings to cease, “What were you thinking in insisting I tag along? A little midnight dirty dancing on the dirt? My fat ass.” Athlidon had the unfortuante ability to hear that comment, he wondered what sort of dancing on dirt Beatrice meant, what it felt like, how dirty your feet must become. but with the dawning of his senses coming to him, of Beatrice in the nude, the image made him shudder and gag. Athlidon shook his head to be rid of the imagery, muffling his voice low, “Dancing in the dirt, my arse,” and he clicked his horse up farther. Erester pretended not to notice, and lagged behind Athlidon, leaving Lindir to deal with her instead.

Ah, yes. Lindir was aware of the dirty dancing issues. That was one of the nuances while traveling, and Beatrice was forwarned ahead of time, knowing all elves could easily deal with self control, physically and emotionally. This lovely subject became a nightly game of teasing among them, all at her expense. Perhaps Lindir as well, ramping up his mortification. They weren’t sure. “Have you found a comfortable spot to dance in yet Beatrice?,” Athlidon questioned. She ignored him for the third time. “Does Lindir also partake in such dances?,” he kept on. To which Lindir made an unweighty comment, “I have no idea to what you are referring to Athlidon,” unrolling his bedroll, looking for a flat enough surface.

“I believe it is termed a sexual union Lindir,” Erestor calmly suggested, and continued with, “I am sure you have heard of it. Perhaps the tow of you should go farther up the road. A ways up the road. How long do you think it will take? Or else, if you must, just do it quietly among us.” A look of horror and mortification crossed both Lindir’s and Beatrice’s face. After more snickers and horselaughs ensued, “This is hardly worthy conversation. Especially coming from particular mouths. Good night. I will take second watch.” Another comment, laughter drifted through the air, however Beatrice had plugged her ears by then, rolling her back toward the elves, tossing stones from under her mat aside.

As the days rolled by, the elves could see, no, hear Beatrice’s tolerance thinning out, her emotions beginning to droop. Even Athlidon taking pity tried consoling her. “Cheer up Beatrice. Do you see those thick crop of trees ahead?,” he pleasantly asked, pointing off into the gray distance. “Right beyond is ...” He never got that far, she finished for him, “No. No. Let me guess. Another crop of trees.” Athlidon, slightly offended, looked off in the distance after that, ignoring her mumbling until later that night when she apologized. Athlidon had warned Lindir against bring Beatrice along. Erestor disagree. Beatrice should be there. She would see this particular town from a different viewpoint than they. What better way to get a fair opinion of everything. “This town does hold humans, does it not?” he had asked. “Would not Beatrice have a certain connection with them? Being able to distinguish true from false speech from her own kind? The elves could benefit from her knowledge, therefore she should come along.” Elrond had agreed, Lindir was thrilled, now not so much.

But now, out on the town’s main street, Beatrice had waited, and waited, and waited for her traveling companions to return from speaking with the town’s mayor. However, it was no wonder after waiting so long, standing alone by their five horses, Beatrice’s stomach gurgled and clenched, causing her to decide to seek out her meal sooner in the accommodations they had chosen for the night, The Ghostly Abbey.

However, “They stole my winnings!,” is what her companions now heard.

She explained how she had waited outside for them while people passing by gave her odd looks. How the meal in the tavern was bad, the bread stale, moldy, the fruit soft, the drink had a blob of something horrible tasting in it. She spit it back in the cup, ordered tea instead, something else floated in that as well.She ate an apple, at least it was still red looking. And she explained while sitting by herself, she had watched a threesome of men laughing at a nearby table playing a familiar game. How she had ventured over to look, peering round their shoulders. This game the men played was a similar one played in Rivendell. She could easily play this game. Beatrice could see the correct pieces to move in order to win. It wasn’t hard. She could easily see that which was not visible to them. Beatrice explained she was confused as being part of the tavern nightly help. All she wanted was to be included in the game as well.

She asked to play. They were surprised. They laughed at her. She felt offended, humiliated and embarrassed. Two of the men folded their arms in amused diffadance, however, they were willing to play along, entertain her. she won three of five turns. They were scrambling in their seats. they were annoyed, embarrassed. They would lose their week’s winnings. They changed the rules midstream, she shifted her mindset, began again, and outwit them yet again. Beatrice easily saw what they couldn’t. So they cheated. She lost her winnings. They wiped their hands, threw their hands, shoulder up. That was the chance she took when playing at a man’s game they claimed surprised. Why she ever wanted to play in the first place, to think she could play this game fathomed them. They lied. They said she should return home, fix supper for her husband. Be a good girl now.

“I am not a girl,” Beatrice scoffed. “I am a woman.” Then finding her outspokenness bewildering, annoying and distasteful, “Then you should be home pleasing your husband.” Bristled by that comment, fuck you she imagined saying, for she was the one to be pleasured and toyed with, not the other way round offering submission to anyone else. “My husband,” she primly replied. “Alright.”

Angered, Beatrice stood, looking at two of the three offending men, “I know you have cheated me. I will return to my husband. And you will not like it when I do come back with him. You are jealous, petty and insignificant worms to me. I won that money fair. Those winnings belong to me. Yes, my husband will know.” Stunned and shaken, they watched Beatrice leave out the door. They breathed hard. “Who is she?,” they questioned the other. They were just travelers themselves, not having seen her before today. “If her husband does come, we will simply say, she cheated, or, she misunderstood the rules,” coaxed the one. “We could say she should not have even been here. Not in this tavern. We thought she was a doxy playing us for our coin,” invented the second. The two agreed between themselves, fashioning more excuses.

“Why not just say, you cheated her? Clearly she know how to play better than you,” the third one strongly suggested. “Close you mouth,” came from the other two, “Or we’ll close it for you.” The third moved off repulsed, going so far as to inquire of the mayor.

Erestor listened, they all did. All were most adamant they bust in there to reclaim Beatrice’s winnings, and honor. Such men they chimed. Is this the town Elrond will have to deal with?! Are these the types of people we will have to barter with? Sell to? No! We demand retribution! How dare they treat Beatrice like this!

“Stop,” Lindir insisted. “We cannot just barge in and demand Beatrice’s coin. As angry as this makes me, there must be a different way, some other way more eloquent, more persuasive.” “My Lord Lindir,” Athlidon protested, “Would you have Beatrice forfeit her winnings if she played fair as she explains? Or would you rather she dance before them to earn her coin back?” “No. No. That is not want I meant. I meant ...”

“Lindir is correct,” Erestor interjected, his hand on Lindir’s arm. “Athlidon, let’s you and I go peruse the environment in the tavern. If it is as Beatrice says, there are other ways to combat offensive forces. Tula. There is always a better way.” As annoyed and upset as Erestor was, he dragged Athlidon, one of Rivendell’s most loyal of soldiers off the The Ghostly Abbey, which is how Erestor and Athlidon ended up playing a very eye opening human version of an old Elven game.

“Ah. I see,” pronounced Erestor, sitting, matching skills with the men. “Moving my game piece to the left causes the other moves to become obsolete. However, when I move this piece forward, I not only cause one piece to fall, but a multitude of other pieces to move in its’ place, thereby winning the second hand. And gaining more pieces to work with, more points, and to win more coin.” Erestor took a moment to observe his move and noted the changing of the men’s sly and devious rules. And their faces, as he rapidly learned to       re-adapt his skills, despite their best efforts to trick him. “However,” he continued, “I I should move to the right, like such, the rules slightly change, for me, but not for you, and when I move here, you have decided, I do not win. when in fact, I should have.” The men looked at each other. Elves, they concluded. Too smart with the out smarting. “Well, yes, that is one way you play the game, you see.” Looking slyly, “Ah, but that is only one version of the rules,” Erestor concluded. “The rules vary depending upon the players, or their skill level, does it not?” and the men could not avoid his trap. “Well, yes ..”

Hmmm, Erestor learned, they played deceptively well, or badly, whichever way you wished to see it. No wonder Beatrice lost. They cheated. Many times over. What to do now?

He then had an idea. “There is another in our company,” Erestor coolly mentioned while relaxing into his chair. “I would be pleased to introduce you to this player. It may be an interesting game. Why not?,” he asked. The two men looked themselves over. “Alright,” one decided for them both, “Tomorrow night. Here. We will challenge your player.”  Countering their decision, “No. Not tomorrow night,” Erestor shot back. “My companion is not here at the moment. In two days time.”  Erestor quickly stood before the men could protest or think of another answer. All was agreed. “Good night,” he concluded, nodded and left.

In the meantime ...

Athlidon leaned against the bar. The third man in the company took a sip of lager. “Your friend is good. He’s a quick learner.” Athlidon ruffled, huffed. “And your friends are...,” Athlidon began. But, “Oh, they are not my friends,” the man stated. “I merely traveled here with them during the same time. They were on the same road as I. We shared a few stories, a few drinks, but friend, No. I am merely here on a business venture, I suppose. These men,” the man continued, “are braggarts, cheats.” He continued his drink, picked at the bew berries left on the counter, bat at something flying. “If this were my town, I’d run it differently. There wouldn’t be men like them here.” Athlidon pressed more, “They cheat?,” he casually mentioned. “Hmmm Mmmm.” The man was not drunk, merely more liberated than most.

“There was a player in here the other day, “ he continued. “Was very good. Knew her stuff.I had hoped she would win. They fooled with her. Disgusting business.” “She?,” pried Athlidon once again. “Yes. A woman. Pretty. Petite. Self assured. Very sweet I thought. Don’t see many like her around. I confronted them, but they didn’t seem to care. I have half a mind to wish she would come back, she was fair.” And he smiled shyly. “But I don’t want her to be fooled like that again, besides, she’s married. So, best to leave alone.” He rubbed his nose. “I did speak with the current magistrate about it. He’s leaving, you know.” “Is he?” The two resumed their drink and small talk along different avenues. Athlidon was curious now even more.

Athlidon mused on this information, continuing with his own drink. He would later share this news with Erestor when they were alone. “Yes,” the man warmly mentioned, giving a quick smile. “I was thinking of applying for his position myself.” Athlidon studied the man, took in his full measure. “You? What would you do with a town this size? You realize you would have to deal with the Elven Lord, Lord Elrond. He trades here ever so often I here.” “Oh? Elrond you say? Yes. I know him. Tall, dark hair? Nice fellow. I’ve met him. Good man.” He suddenly knew his mistake, checked himself when Athlidon gave him a curious look. “Well, Elf really.” He then gave Athlidon a silly smile, asking, changing the subject, “You know him?” What was Athlidon to say to that? “I know his name,” and he drank more.

Deciding to stay at the Leof Doe, a different Inn, for the duration they were in town, as it would afford more privacy for all, Erestor let them in on his and athlidon’s observations. “Yes. They cheated. And I believe they forcefully cheated Beatrice. How much did you say you lost again?,” Erestor asked. Beatrice was embarrassed. Not only did she lose her entire coin for the trip, but she was gambling, for three hours, which was probably worse. “Some pfennig. Twenty maybe.” “Twenty?!,” reiterated Lindir, a little shocked she had that much, and lost it all. “Well, that is a bit to lose, but still, it is morally wrong. You have a plan then?,” he asked, turning to Erestor. Beatrice slunk her head down. Athlidon watched. “I hope you do,” Lindir maintained. “I will not stand for this business. Not only will Elrond have to barter and deal with them, but I will not have Beatrice treated so callously by men so opportunistic and skamelar.” Rarely did Beatrice of anyone else here Lindir swear so poetically in public.

Athlidon directed his attention at that moment toward LIndir, taking a step back, raising his eyes, while repeating to them what the man in The Ghostly Abbey told him in confidence. “The third man is not with them. He wishes to be magistrate of this drab town.” Erestor grumbled at that fact. “Then he has much to clean up here for that to happen. This town is a sewage pit.” “By the way, my Lord,” Athlidon brought up, “You mentioned your player was not here, when we were in the tavern. You lied” Erestor unflappably replied to such a silly question. “Of course not. My mentioning my ‘player’ not being here in that tavern, merely meant, my ‘player’, was there, meaning this Inn, which we are not occupying. It was never a lie.” Athlidon let it go again, he was used to this sort of language games.

However, Erestor did have a plan of sorts. “let us keep this to ourselves for now. Athlidon, you and I will go backto the The Ghostly Abbey tonight. Tonare, you will find a better, faster way to get out of this town, if we so need.” Turning to Beatrice he continued, “Beatrice. How would you like to get your winnings back? Perhaps make more as well? Do what I say, and it is almost a guarantee.” She thought about it. “I would rather whip them instead,” she confessed truthfully, bitterly. A graceful smile came over Erestor. “Hmm.Yes. However, mind games are better. And we will teach you the best ones. Agreed?” After she reluctantly agree, Erestor set his eyes on Lindir. “Lindir, a moment in private.”

Following his friend from the Inn, out of earshot from passer-bys, Erestor bluntly threw this down. “Lindir, this is crass of me, however, Beatrice needs something only you can give her. She is angry, annoyed, cranky, starved for intimacy, and I can see, unfocused. Her mind is elsewhere on who knows what again. If this is to work in our favor, Beatrice will need to play and match wits with them. I need her focused on this game. Which means, you need to take care of your wife and her needs.  A little shocked, and embarrassed at first, Lindir thought how best to reply to the implications Erestor described. “There is no privacy on the road Erestor. Even if there were, Beatrice is mid month. It would be a mess. The bedding,” Lindir complained. Erestor perhaps thought better, “Is she? Mid-month? You think?” No to be offended or deterred, “It is your responsibility Lindir,” Erestor suggested, “I want her focused. Do whatever she wishes. And outfit her in a presentable dress. When she confronts them, I do not want Beatrice wearing leggings, no matter how much more comfortable she is. They will not see her as a worthy opponent otherwise.” Lindir’s mouth opened, closed, and resigned himself. “Of course. Agreed.”

But then Lindir truly wanted to know, “Can she do this? Can Beatrice truly accomplish this? I would not want to see her further humiliated by being outsmarted twice.” Erestor listened, looking at his friend. He did understand Lindir’s misgivings, however he understood something more concerning Beatrice, and he had thought Lindir knew as well. So, Erestor thought a reminder would be good at this juncture. “Does your memory fail you so Lindir? Do I need to remind you Beatrice sees more that most are aware? Does she not see into the hearts of certain entities? Of certain individuals? Mortals? Elves? Do you discount her abilities? Do you not think her worthy of such an ability? Her perception is her primary source of joyousness. And sorrow both. Tell me you are not unaware of such of gift as this?”

Lindir knew this, still he looked away, uncertain of his allowing Beatrice time with those men, and what it would cost her emotionally if she failed. “I am,” he simply replied. A slight, sad sigh escaped from is lips. “Lindir,” Erestor coaxed, “She can do this. She can sometimes see that which others cannot. You know it is true. You must let her go sometimes Lindir. I am certain, of this, she can accomplish. And she should. It would do her good, she will feel better about herself. Sometimes we all give Beatrice too little credit, and treat her as too little, or fragile a thing.” Erestor put his hand softly on Lindir’s arm, squeezing warmly. “Go, tend your wife,” he said, before going back inside to consider the remainder of his plan. “All will be well. You must trust her.”

Lingering a bit outside, Lindir sighed, closing his eyes. He had to consider Beatrice as independent of him. And in tending his wife, he had also to consider his options, as he was not too fond of mid-month fondling, however. Finally settling on how best to approach his task, lovely but messy, he walked in and laid two coins across the bar counter. “A tub. How water please. Bring it to my room as soon as it is ready.” The Inn maid protested, “But Master Elf, dis the middle of the afternoon. Who takes a bath in the middle of the afternoon Sir?” Lindir unflinchingly again pushed the coins toward her. “A tub and hot water please.” His friends overheard him, they did not quail when he asked, “Where has Beatrice got to?” “The privy. Again,” and they motioned with their heads. He went to collect her. She questioned why. Lindir said not in return. They silently walked upstairs together.

When the night fell, and the dusk took over the sky, Erestor quietly knocked on their door. He was delighted to find Beatrice already dressed in a soft pink and wine, richly velvety gown, loosely cinched with a full burgundy square neckline, showing off her smooth neck. The long bell sleeves bothered her and were continuously being rolled up. “Lovely,” Erestor commented, looking Beatrice over several times, front to back. “Loose but lovely. Very feminine as well.” He had no idea where Lindir had acquired the gown, nor did he wish to know, but nodded his assent to Lindir’s fashion sense. “Ready Beatrice? I have brought two adequate game boards. You will have to compare the same game twice and learn multiple rules which will change depending on these men’s whims.” He smiled charmingly at her growing form. She cringed, wondering what he knew. Erestor set the room and boards accordingly. And waited. “Athlidon and Tonare should be here momentarily,” he stated. “You have been adequately fed and are more focused?”  Beatrice needed a moment to understand his meaning. Lindir felt his face flush, drawing in a horrified breath of everyone knowing what they were possibly doing upstairs alone all day.

“Wait a minute,” Beatrice yelped. “I have to play them? Me?” She was dumbfounded. “I thought, I thought this dress, this was just for show,” as she addressed her person. “I thought you could just go in there and demand my money back. That I was just supposed to dress nicely, instead of leggings.” “No,” Erestor gave her. “You will have to play them. If you want your money back, and your honor, you will have to compete for it. And I warn you, they are indeed shady. They are not honest. However I will teach you how to play them to their own disadvantage.” Beatrice sighed, looked at Lindir. “Did you know this?” Stepping closer, “Yes,” Lindir admitted. This business was difficult for Lindir. He did not want Beatrice to be involved in this charade, but he did agree this could be the only way to play a player. “Yes Beatrice. I did not tell you. I am sorry.” What else could he say?

“They intimidate me,” Beatrice whispered her confession to the elves. Athlidon spoke up, “Of course they do. And we will teach you the art of counter intimidation.” She didn’t think it really mattered much at this point, but Beatrice was crestfallen, and it showed. “Cheer up Beatrice,” Athlidon tried. “Do you see those crops of trees over there? Beyond that ...,” “Shut up Elf,” she gave him back. Athlidon smirked in return. “She’ll be fine,” he firmly suggested. Lindir breathed deeply, still not pleased with the whole affair.

[beaflower77]

An Uncommon Love Story

I turned my head. And you were gone. Vanished. Like soft streams of dark gray smoke, wifting, wafting, gliding cross my room. Leaving me wondering where you had gone. Where you had been. Why you left. 

Why did you leave? Was I that .. No. It was not because of me. But why then? 

I had first met you when you were strong, agile. Your mind clean, fresh and unperturbed by memories of your life before. When speaking to me of yourself, you remembered your past and wedged it between us. Why? Why drudge up what was gone? Why bring back what you cannot have? Or change? 

When I turned my head, I missed you. I missed so much of you. Of us. Of me. I missed you. I searched for you. Long I searched. In corners, down long alleys, past oceans, in tunnels, under the kitchen table even. I came up to the surface alone, desolate. With nothing to show for it. Where had you gone when my head had turned? ....

She sat at her writing desk, pausing with quill in hand, thinking, trying not to remember, staring out the window past the noisy, continuous streams of falling waters. The waters which cascaded down over rock and stone, filling her ears with a rush of voluminous noise, a blasting sound of sharp detonations, which she wanted to shout from her window to ‘shut up.’ However she didn’t.

Lindir, managing to silently wisp in, stepped behind Beatrice planting a kiss and nibble on her earlobe. She flinched, made a face. “Yuck. Stop that,” annoyingly Beatrice said, but not truly annoyed, only distracted. “You know I don’t like that,” she announced. 

Lindir, sporting a teasing smile, “Then I shall lick your neck instead.” And proceeded to do just that. And bit down hard on her shoulder. 

“Eww,” Beatrice cringed, tipped her head while pulling away from his assault. “That is gross,” and made a showing of wiping her neck with her sleeve. Beatrice wanted something more appropriate than a lick, or a nibble. Something a bit longer, steamier, but still maybe not at that moment. 

Stopping his goading, his jesting, Lindir patted her on the shoulder while craning himself round to look over her shoulders glancing at her writing. “What is this?,” he asked, picking the parchment up, perusing it. Giving it his full attention now, “So sad. Why so sad Beatrice?,” he sincerely mused. Then becoming concerned, “What is wrong?,” looking her over in earnest.

Standing up, Beatrice cast herself into his arms, curled herself up, and dipped her head against his chest. “They are gone,” slowly, sadly she gave him. “I feel, in my heart, they are gone.” 

Continuing to hold Beatrice, Lindir sadly acknowledged her claim. “They may have never been yours to begin with guren vell,” he explained. 

“I know.” agreed Beatrice. “I just ..,” she faltered. “I just wanted to be friends.” Untangling herself from Lindir’s robes and arms, she went to lay herself on their bed. “I miss them. I just miss them,” was all the explanation needed. He sighed, arms softly flopping against his side. 

As Lindir approached and knelt by the bedside, he ran his hand through her dark hair, caressing and pulling, tugging the dark hair through his fingers. His fingers become lost in her tangles. “They will come back. You’ll see. In the Spring,” he maintained, kissing her forehead, nuzzling his nose against hers. “They will be back,” Lindir solemnly promised, as she closed her eyes in heartache. 

And as he kissed Beatrice tenderly, “The squirrels will return once more in the Spring for you. And when they do, you will be able to feed them again. I will even help you build a permanent squirrel feeder. Just for them.” As he watched for Beatrice’s reaction, he inquired, “What do you think?“ 

Okay,” she agreed, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. And he smiled giving a huff, without any criticism to her sensitivities.  

[beaflower77]

I’ll Have Just One Glassful

“Another dish. Another dish is coming out.,” she mournfully lamented. “Hush. Dina.,” Lindir corrected her. “They will hear you.,” he whispered. “Be grateful. We could still be out on the road eating lamas. The elves are being very generous making all this food for us. Galadriel did not have to go to all this detail.” 

She tried to smile. She was grateful, but each and every dish was loaded, heavily fortified with beautiful, golden elven butter. And all that butter was only assisting her stomach to churn and her insides to cramp and fuss. Beatrice fidgeted in her seat, hoping her face did not give her away. Hopefully, this festive banquet amid Lothlorien’s beautiful, swollen trees and soft, pale, glowing lights would not last more tonight than another hour. It was wishful thinking on her part. Each dish that turned out of the kitchens was exquisitely prepared, tastefully cooked and spiced, but so richly entrenched in gobs and gobs of butter. “All that butter.,” Beatrice whined in a hushed whisper. Lindir bumped her leg under that table. “Smile.,” he said. “And nod your head in gratitude. Dinner will be over soon enough.” I don’t think he realized her turmoil.

The banqueting hall was heavily laden down with garland after garland of flowers. The smells, aromas were lovely, intoxicating, if not overwhelming at times that night. The tinkling sounds of small, clear bells chimed in the distant background. Small birds flittered in, out and about from twig to branch. Sights, sounds, smells. And the food. Chef after chef filled and lined the room with an over abundance of dishes, serving trays and platters. Small, tangy, cucumber and cream filled petit fours, heavy, rounded platters loaded with potatoes, assorted vegetables, spice enriched fowl and fish. The garlic, the rosemary. But each creamed, spiced, baked or fried tender morsel was lovingly prepared and engulfed in butter. A multitude of rich, creamy, thick butter. Such a delight and fancy tonight for the elves to partake of.

“Lindir,” Beatrice protested quietly, sitting round one of the small, closer tables up front. “I cannot handle all this. It is too much. It’s too rich. I’ll get sick.” His constitution was somewhat more adaptable than hers. “It is almost over.,” he replied smiling, nodding while placating Beatrice, unaware of her inner, mounting anxiety. “After we are through, there will be a long party outside. You’ll enjoy that. Some fresh air.,” explained Lindir pleasantly, adding. “Desert will be served then. And a little wine also. You’ll enjoy it.” And he returned to his plate, while scanning the hall for long lost friends to visit with. Beatrice leaned back into her chair, resumed her eating. And picking at. She fiddled with the food on her plate, moving it casually round while taking a small bite every now and then. “More food. Outside. Desert. Good. I’m glad.,” Beatrice softly moaned to herself, while also looking round for Avorndis. And a possible escape. Her stomach lurched, she placed her hand over it as if that would keep it calm.

“Lindir!,” cried Usunaar. “Here you are! I was told you would be arriving with the party! I haven’t seen you in ages!”  Lothlorien was a wonder pot filled with friends left unseen for years, or unspoken with, for many years from the looks of things. “Come with me and explain what your life has been! I have two little ones already! Well, not so little.” And as Lindir was pulled and prodded upward and away, he looked behind himself at Beatrice in ernest for, what, an approval, acknowledgement, some type of recommendation? Neither needed to speak their acceptance of the immediate situation. “Go.,” Beatrice gave him, with a unseen shrug. He noticed. And Usunaar the elf pulled Lindir, the minstrel, off into the night crowd, bubbling away with news of this one, that one and another elf or two. The conversation was thick, enthusiastic and long. Beatrice sat, watched, kept her fork moving, shoved her food and tried to keep from consuming too much more within what was visually polite.

As the night wore on, someone’s stomach began rolling in protest of too much buttery richness. And that someone became increasingly alarmed that a situation was not capable of being contained for much longer. Feeling more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by, Beatrice spotted Lindir in a corner. Laughter, rollicking laughter, giggles and not too little of wine splashing from goblets were in her view and Lindir’s and Usunaar’s hands. He had found his friend of many years past and was freely enjoying himself. Wonderful Beatrice thought, good for you. If it wasn’t for all this butter, I could be out partying also, she considered. Or at most, just enjoying the sights and sounds. Never knowing what it was to be drunk, if not even tipsy, Beatrice had no intention of finding out tonight. She sidled up to them.

The elf, having to look down upon Beatrice, smiled to himself, wondering, considering, sensed Beatrice huddling close by. Huddling much too close to Lindir, Usunaar thought, but he let it go. “Lindir.,” she said, grabbing a handful of his robing. Enjoying his never-ending laughter, Lindir gazed down at Beatrice for a heartbeat. And smiled with too much forbidden knowledge of her. All too soon, Lindir placed his hands on her shoulders, twirled, pushed, shoved and stood her in front of Usunaar and himself.

“Usunaar, this is Beatrice.,” the proud presentation began. “My Beatrice.” Usunaar cocked a eye, an eyebrow, at last understood. Grandly bowed low and gestured his all too happy acceptance of Lindir’s woman. Lindir wobbled a bit, his words slurred a bit. Yes, Lindir was enthusiastically close to being drunk, drunker. And he wrapped his arms round Beatrice’s shoulders and torso, pulling her in a little too close, too tight against himself and squeezed her with all the happiness he could accommodate for the night. “Ah.”, said his friend. “That is why you are standing so close. Forgive me, my apologies.,” Usunaar went for, offering a broad smile. Turning his gaze toward Lindir, “I thought she was a kitchen maid on loan, or something.,” he replied with much joviality and a silly grin, and wink. “Kitchen maid?!,” claimed Lindir, an exaggerated shock on his features. 

“Lindir.”, Beatrice tried to interject.  “Now listen here, Usunaar.,” Lindir began, wagging his fingers in the air, standing closer to the elf, pushing Beatrice up into his friend. “Lindir.,” Beatrice pleaded, a little tighter, trying to turn, look up at him. “I’ll have you know, if Beatrice was a kitchen maid, not a finer kitchen filly you would be able to find among the staff at home.” And he made some sort of grand gesture in his slight inebriated stupor, which wiggled and wobbled her about. “Lindir.,” Beatrice pleaded, not caring a fig of being called a wench at this moment, as she was repeatedly interjected betwixt the two boozed up elves. They continued throwing soft verbiage back and forth. Her panting began, her abdomen clenched. His friend laughed at Lindir’s jesting. Lindir smiled, flashing a beautiful set of teeth. Beatrice turned in Lindir’s embrace, placed her hands on his chest, which just as quickly Lindir gladly accepted her hands and encircled with his own, pulling her in all too close. Usunaar enjoyed their display of affection, which was highly unusual for Lindir, especially in public. It was the wine. He was getting dangerously drunk. Someone else in the room besides Usunaar could see it as well. Elrond could see it from across the hall. And he was non too pleased with what he was witnessing, especially since Beatrice did not seem too keen on the attention.

She didn’t want to say aloud her stomach was overly upset and about to lurch. She didn’t want to mention she was having severe cramps and kinks in her lower bowels. Beatrice definitely did not want to tell them she had to use the bathroom now, this minute, so she did the only thing polite. “Gabinetto.,” she insisted imploringly, looking up at Lindir with dread shining in her eyes, her mouth turned down. And when that word was uttered, Lindir stopped all discourse, looked seriously down at Beatrice. At that look, that word, he did not hesitate further. At the speed of light Lindir sobered up quite quickly, “We’ll be right back.,” he told his friend with all level-headedness, and steered Beatrice down the right halls, corridors and back ways to reach their borrowed rooms of their duration. Usunaar gave a confused, restrained look, but made no attempt at stopping the duo. Nodding, Usunaar shakily waddled off to find more wine.

As her stomach crunched and cramped, and as Beatrice vacillated from toilet, to slinking to the floor, Lindir remained outside the water closet doors. “You alright in there?,” he gingerly asked. “Go away.,” she moaned, holding her stomach, as she curled herself up. He took two steps forward toward the door, started to knock, decided to take two paces backward. He hesitated, “Can I get you anything?” “Nnnmm.,” came the answer. After a moment’s time more, when no more noise was forthcoming, Lindir, placing his hand on the knob, “Bea?,” he asked, and partially opened the door. She lay curled protectively on the floor. “Go to the party.,” Beatrice insisted. “You can't do anything for me. Just go. I’m fine. I’m dying. Just go.,” and she slowly pulled, tugged at little pins in her hair, letting her hair drop and drag to the floor. And as the pins pinged against the flooring. Lindir picked each one up. “I am sorry.,” he admitted. “I should have warned you.”

Standing there, unsure of how to assist Beatrice, Lindir had come out of his drunken stupor awhile ago and wasn’t sure he wanted to reenter it. But, “Go.,” Beatrice insisted, kicking her toes against his boots, making her abdomen rattle. He caved. Sighed. “I will only be an hour more.,” and smiled with pity and concern. “No more butter for you.,” Lindir reproached her. “Mmmnnn.,” came the lament and retort. He sweetly placed a kiss on his hand, leaving it on her foot and proceeded down the corridors, a little guilt lingering in his mind.

After Beatrice had successfully divested herself of unwanted, wasteful bodily attention, dragging herself up enough to wash her face, undress, pull the remainder of pins from her hair, she slowly crawled her way into their bed and collapsed. It had been more than an hour Beatrice had figured, and Lindir still hadn’t arrived, however her drowsiness enveloped her. The evening absorbed her into a multitude of fanciful dreams and mindless adventures. 

When the next few hours arrived and passed and no Lindir, Beatrice again awoke and wondered. She rolled over, her eyes resumed their hibernation. When the moon reached high above the world, and Beatrice once more woke to find a cold and empty place next to her, she again wondered, still she heard heavy noises of a rowdy party below. Beatrice discounted his absence. She heard his laughter far below and payed no mind to the time. The mattress was too kind to her worn out body. Beatrice starfished out on her stomach, her eyes and mind resummed their snoozing and dozing. 

Dreams of lush appetizers, heavy syrups, and rich dishes filtered past her mind’s sleepiness. Creams, sauces, jellies, roasts filled her dreaming senses till Beatrice could dream no longer. Having her fill of tasty, buttery rich dreams and loud, brassy noises from below, Beatrice woke to a tumble of noise and calamity as her door was rudely, callously bashed upon and opened, allowing Lindir and Usunaar, both drunk as skunks to fall in. Neither could stand, neither could get an intelligible word out and both tripped and traipsed about the chamber looking to find a place to lay down. “I will sleep on the bed.,” Usunaar said, beginning to lumber toward it. “Oh, no you will not.,” Lindir tossed back at him. “Go on that red thing over there. It looks comfy.,” Lindir shoved Usunaar off in another direction, as Usunaar tripped over his own feet, bumped into the settee, and crawled upon it. “It’s fuzzy.,” Usunaar complained. Lindir squinted his eyes. “I do not care. Whatever it is, you can lay it.,” and Lindir turned, bumped into the night stand, “Crap.,” he muttered, “Who put this thing here?,” and caused an irritating sound from across the room. 

Sitting up, wrapping the bed covers over her, curling down her mouth, squinting into the dark, Beatrice held up her hands, pointed objectionably to the other side of the room. “Noo.,” she said. “Nooo. Not in here you don’t. Go away, you nincompoop. You’re drunk and you’ll hog all the bed. Go away.,” And she sat there in that bed looking on at them falling over each other in hilarity. Usunaar still trying to search for a nesting spot, and Lindir untangling himself from furniture. Usunaar finally settled upon the burgundy lined settee, laying on his back, tossing his legs to either side of the furniture. Lindir still insisted on trying to crawl on the bed, however, slipped, pulled himself up again, little burst of giggles and laughter erupting from his mouth. “Oopsy.,” he let slip, as a leg was draped over the bed and fell. “Na Uh.,” Beatrice said, and she pushed both leg and his arms off, causing him to slide further down. “Oh. Oops again.,” Lindir concluded. “My mistake.,” and he smiled, laughed. “You are a naughty kitchen filly.,” and he tried wagging a finger at her. Beatrice just looked at him as if he was an inane nut.

A half snore, half snort came from the settee. Lindir pulled a pillow off the bed, threw it in Usunaar’s general direction, hitting the wardrobe instead. “You are snoring! You will wake the Mrs.,” Lindir declared, enforced. “Missed me.,” Usunaar claimed, waking with a start, closing his eyes once more. “Missed me, missed me, now you have to kiss me.,” sang Lindir, as he grabbed for another pillow. Beatrice grabbed, pulled at it quicker. “Give me that, you lame brain.,” and Lindir slid down to the floor with a bump, “Oh No. Oops. The floor bumped me.,” and pulled and tugged at his boots, falling on his back as he placed them under his head, closed his eyes and promplty fell asleep. Beatrice looked at the two elves as if they were, well, she just continued to look at them. Shaking her head, shrugging, Beatrice rolled over, covered herself and resumed her own nightly crash. What did he call me?, Beatrice wondered, as her eyes closed.

When next Beatrice woke, the lazy, morning sun was sneaking through the curtains, which were being tossed in and sucked out by the breeze. She stretched, yawned, curled and rolled herself back into a cozy ball, nestling down into the covers again. Hearing sounds of a light snore, a deep rumble of sighs from the floor below, Beatrice remembered last night’s giggling escapades. She smiled to herself. Ninnies. Feeling so much better that morning, Beatrice spent the next half hour washing, dressing, combing and pinning her hair up. Stepping over Lindir, Beatrice grabbed a tossed blanket from the bed, covered him up and heard a mumbled, “Mmm Hmm. You can spank me if you wish to.,” in a very polite whisper. And Beatrice, half smiling, wondered. After quietly dressing, she reblanketed the two comatose elves. And that’s when Beatrice stopped. Panic encrusted itself. It just then struck her. Her eyes widened. Lindir was supposed to be assisting Elrond and Celeborn this morning! Crap! Holy Crap!. Beatrice thought. That was, how much time ago this morning?

Beatrice, knowing she would never be able to wake Lindir, let alone get him to their morning study in any respectable amount of time. Or dress. Lindir was already a half hour late. As Beatrice stood there in the middle of the room, watching Lindir and Usunaar breathing and rattling away, she had to do something. She decided, to go herself, in Lindir’s place. Quietly, quickly Beatrice left the room in a slight disarray, her hair half dried, but pinned. She gathered her skirts, running down the corridors as fast as possible, avoiding glances from early risers, and came to a breathless, panting halt in front of the grand doors of Celeborn’s chamber. The guards looked at her, having been informed Lindir would be arriving, should have arrived quite some time ago. “I am Lindir today.,” she explained. “At this moment. I’ll be myself later.,” Thinking Beatrice a loon, they let her proceed in. The door was knocked upon and opened to Celeborn’s and Elrond’s surprise. 

“Good morning.,” Beatrice introduced herself. “Lindir is..,” she took a breath, “Lindir is..indisposed for the moment.” And Beatrice smiled a sweet, morning smile. “I’m here to help instead.” And remembering, she gave a quick, small, tight curtsy. Sighing loudly, Elrond tried to keep his annoyance at bay, having had an inkling of what Lindir had been partaking in too much of last night. Beatrice could see it may be a long, difficult task that morning. She kept her eyes focused on Elrond as he fidgeted, tightened his mouth into a displeased and miffed, tight line. Celeborn only tiled his head, looked upon Elrond, folded his hands, closed his eyes for a moment. And considered.

Settling on the premise that Lindir would not be joining them for the moment or anytime soon, Celeborn considering Beatrice, finally stood. Beatrice riveted her eyes on him. A tall, elegant, well informed, handsome and aristocratic elf loomed over her. At last he made a decision. Softening his features, Celeborn ignored Elrond’s upset. “Since we have the pleasure of your company this morning Beatrice,” he said, “Let us begin .. with the coffee.,” and his arm swept the length of the room, motioning Beatrice’s eyes toward the already waiting pot, steaming away in need of being poured. Beatrice smiled, “I’ll pour.,” she replied, and made her way to the coffee tray, relieved and satisfied for the acceptance and approval. 

As she offered Elrond a late cup of morning coffee, placing the china cup carefully down in front of him, it was then he finally decided to submit to Lindir’s truancy and somewhat diminished his irritation and annoyance with the situation and his delinquent elf. “Thank you, Beatrice.,” Elrond relented, nodding, offering and gracing her a small, half smile. She smiled in return. “Your welcome.,” adding, with a tiny jest, “Perhaps we should do this more often?”

[beaflower77]

A Damsel Among A Brier In Winter

She backed away. Away from the turmoil, the unannounced, unprovoked altercation. Where had he come from? He was supposed to have gone, fled, expulsed. She was only there to touch the frozen roses, to feel their glass like fragility, their magical hidden brightness, witnessing both the wan, decay and renewal on the vines. She backed away, slowly, carefully, trying unsuccessfully to keep her facial emotions under lock and key. And as she past the middle of the garden, where the center of the fury erupted, was still broiling, the corner wall came into view. Turning, taking careful steps, treading lightly, keeping all wits about, Beatrice gave up and tore off. When hearing nothing bearing after her, she ran. Beatrice ran till she could run no more. The further away she became from the heat, the quicker her steps pounded, until she was finally rushing, escaping his emotional fuels and flames and dislike. Leaving the frozen roses to their demise and decay. And alone

Glorfindel had heard it all. Knowing he was accidentally eves dropping, keeping himself hidden, unawares from the other elf’s presence. It took all of his strength to keep himself composed and harnessed to the solid ground below. Arm, hand at his sword, ready to unsheathe and release, Glorfindel stood and listened as a barrage of rapid, hot words fired between the two. And anger and disgust built, squirreled its’ way round his heart, squeezing tight and tighter still.

“I did no such thing.,” she pleaded. “I didn’t. It was so long ago. Why are you even back? Why are you here? Why are you tormenting me?”  Ignoring Beatrice, “Did you not drop several provocative innuendos?,” the handsome elf suggested tightly, giving Beatrice a triumphant glare. “I seem to remember you telling me stories, and dropping teasing glances my way. And words. And such other evidences of your lust.” 

“No.,” Beatrice replied. “I mean. You seemed to like it.,” she felt cornered, trapped, sinking fast in wet, pulling quicksand. “I mean, I was only flirting, teasing. You responded positively!” Beatrice was not prepared for this onslaught, never concieving it was ever a possiblity to meet him again. He had been banished from Imladris for many years now. She had no mental, emotional preparation whatsoever for this assault. She had known in the far corners of her mind, this elf was never truly enamored of her. But he said otherwise many times over. What he had done to her emotionally, Beatrice only dared half a recollection, and even that much toppled her mind. Trying to think, mentally shielding herself, “You have been gone for a long time. You don’t really know me!,” she explained. “I am a nice person!! You are confusing me!” And Beatrice’s head spun like a top, berating herself, beating her spinning brains against every single corner there ever was in a sharp, sealed room. She looked for some sort of intellectual way out, but nothing was apparent enough. And she could not see the garden’s exit.

Every step of the way, every word, every thought, design, came out incorrectly. Beatrice inanely babbled, trying to verbally avenge herself, her behavior, her thinking from that time so long ago. Every moment then was a mistake. A disaster, collapse and calamity. She had tried. She had tried, but with no proficiency either then or now to clear and uncloud her thoughts and judgments. Her mindset guilty of wide blunders, misstatements and disastrous misjudgments. The elf had tortured Beatrice’s will and heart even then. But now, she was, in this moment, ensnared and entombed by his lurking, manipulative tricks. How had he returned? And without notice given to her? She wanted to run. Wanted to pick up, threw rocks, sticks at him. Yell, blame him. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to do much. For her eyes were pinned by his gaze, her feet as if lead and her heart, her heart fractured and divided itself, folding inward and became afraid of love once again. She did not want to hurt him, yet, she did.

The elf stiffly walked closer, emanating dramatic, intense, angry heat off his person. The garden’s snow crunched, squeaked beneath his boots. Beatrice stifled herself. Then, she hurled at him, “You left me on that cliff! You left me there! I liked you! I really, really liked you! You said you liked me! You said you loved me!,” pointing to the frosted, ruby roses, laying thickly within still green hedges. “That I was..like a rose..beautiful and sweet! And you hurt me! You left me there! Alone! Not even caring if I slipped, fell off or not! I could have fallen. And died. You just left! You knew I loved you!”  Looking up at him, hurt, anger, sorrow, hollow and hopeless, useless emotions rolled off her, emotions that couldn’t seep away, or hide into the frosted, frozen hard ground. “I really liked you. I thought, I thought you were different, special. I thought you were kind, but you are not! You never were! You are emotionally manipulative!,” Beatrice spat. Standing her ground, “And mean! And vengeful! And wrong!”

Huffing, the elf smiled, snared. “You are a slut. A filthy, human, slut. Waiting for anyone to notice you. To play. To ensnare in your wild, deceptive games.” Tossing his head up toward the pristine city walls, covered in layers of thick, white frosting, and snow crystal landscaping, “Why that Lord of an elf keeps you, I cannot fathom.” Roosleen’s mouth slithered, looking directly down at her, “It is because, perhaps, you make a good pet for him. It is not because he loves you. You do realize, don’t you? That elf lord could never love you.,” staring her down condescendingly. “It is but a falsity, a farce. You are, but a play toy, a tease, a human. A weak, pitiful, ungraceful human.” Beatrice’s face flinched. “Go away.,” she fiercely whispered. 

The crystals in Beatrice’s heart became like the frozen, piercing thorns from the roses, trapped within their own buds and folds. However, unlike the roses, her heart might not thaw and bloom in the spring as they would. And her disrespect and resentment grew.

Beatrice wanted to beat, hit him, hurt and maim him. She tried not to show this long lost elf her inside, hidden emotions, making her a mess, a destroyed wreck of a mess, but had she any verbal retort to defend herself against Roosleen? No. Not much. Back then, Beatrice had teased, flirted. But she thought, that was what one did, when one liked another. But that was so long ago. Why was he back? After so long? And he was wrong. Yet, his glare held her, glued her still, rooting her feet to the snow dusted ground. Letting him come closer, focusing his contempt of her being, hurling insults. Beatrice refused to back away, back down, cower before him or anyone else. So instead, she just stared, defenseless, wordless, and let her heart remain open, letting him rip her apart, and absorbed his torment, disrespect and disregard for her life. Beatrice absorbed his hate, but she did not permit him the will to break her in front of him. Yet again.

And Glorfindel seethed with smouldered wrath. And waited it out.

Nothing more had Beatrice to say, nothing more could she say. So she said the only thing that came to her mouth, “I really liked you.” Again, the disdainful elf sneered, “But why on Arda would I ever like…you?” Then, to send the bullet home, “I only pretended to enjoy you. I only bluffed. You were a curiosity. An intellectual, physical curiousity. However, you quickly bored me.” Beatrice could take no more. Losing the ability to search his eyes, his heart, finally seeing inside his fae, her guts wrenched. Beatrice needed to leave or a vomiting, distasteful mess she would become. She had let herself be laid bare and ripped apart enough, and now she was disgusted of both herself and him.

The high sweeping, smooth white steps came into sudden view. Beatrice ran up them, slipping, tripping, plunging over her silly dark skirts, bracing her body from a head long fall, hurting, skinning her wrists against stone and snow alike in the process. One of the guards quickly stepped down, assisting her, realigning her body with the earth. Waiting long enough to stand, readjust her bearings, grabbing, bunching her skirts, Beatrice ran the rest of the way up and up and up. With the guards looking after her, she left them perplexed and confused. And with that confusion, they became wary and watchful for further intrusions. One went to inform Lord Elrond.

Bolting through the chamber doors, Beatrice threw herself inside, startling Lindir from a friendly discussion with a friend. Looking up, startled, dismayed, Lindir rushed, scrambled before her. She tried to move past him. He was swifter, stronger. “Please.,” Beatrice pleaded, trying to keep some semblance of her emotional disarray and hurt contained. “Beatrice?!,” Lindir gave her with concern, puzzlement, holding her arms, body still.  Pleading, “Let me go.,” Beatrice squirmed within his grasp. “No.,” as his arms gathered her closer to his taller frame. “What has happened? What is it? What is happening?,” And the more Beatrice struggled for release, the more she desperately wanted his stability and security. Tonare, Lindir’s friend, stood, studied her, walked to their balcony, looked down in scrutiny. And found the source of her distress,  “Roosleen.,” he mouthed silently to Lindir’s questioning face. The shock, bewilderment, fury rose in the pit of Lindir’s stomach and his world ceased. No. Rooseleen was here. Here? Now? Why? Lindir would not release Beatrice this time.

Inside her heart, Beatrice felt Lindir’s wrath, but remained within his captivity and eventually gave up fighting for release. Instead, Beatrice decided to crumble. Lindir allowed it. To crumble, fall apart and become sick with disquiet and upheaval, as he held Beatrice tight, fighting against a heavy emotional tailspin of a downward spiral. Not again, if he could help it, Lindir vowed. This time, Lindir would have his revenge.

“What have you done?,” questioned, hissed Glorfindel, coming into view. Glaring this elf down, he tread across the path, making light prints to outlay the snowy ground, so quietly from his hidden place amongst frosted hedge and rose. Startled, coming out of his disgusted, revolted argument with Beatrice, the elf stared at Glorfindel with wary fright, keeping from admitting alarm. Gaining control, “What is it to you?,” Roosleen said slowly. “What were you doing there? Spying?” A standoff ensued.

Becoming informed of the malicious altercation between Beatrice and the expunged elf, Lindir and Tonare calmed Beatrice enough to drag the story out. This elf had reappeared twice in her lifetime and his being, his presence upset, unbalanced, and pulled from Beatrice the darkest, worst emotions, and perplexities hidden within. Each time laying claim to her heart and soul, destroying her, sabotaging, shattering Beatrice, and her mind to shards and pieces. Lindir, the others, had found her that dark, dirtied night, sheltered among the many crevices on a lone cliff, stealing herself from a long, depthless fall into the abyss and dark, foaming, wheeling waters below. Lindir had selflessly pulled her back, and back into life. A sheltered, contented, loving life with him. 

Now, as Beatrice dozed, Lindir with renewed strength, purpose and force strode the dim corridors to Elrond, with doom on his mind and judgment, verdict and death in his heart. “I will slay him.,” Lindir calmly seethed in judgment. “He will not leave here on foot.” And he readied, adjusting his sword and belt.

“How you could come back, enter this city without confession or atonement.,” Glorfindel placed with passion. “Twas easy.,” Roosleen replied. “I am known here. I am easily accepted.” And while the elf’s manner, disposition inwardly remained calm, he was extremely aware of Glorfindel’s anger and judgment. And, where Glorfindel’s hands lay. And his hands were not dangling before his sides. As his sword began to come unsheathed, the immediate garden was flanked with other elves, including Elrond. And Lindir.

“Roosleen.,” Elrond challenged. “I do not recall having invited your return.” Turning, swinging round swiftly, Roosleen started, stared before the city’s Lord. “I invited myself.,” Roosleen calmly, audaciously bantered back. Elrond took stock of the elf’s placement of hand on his sword, and knew sooner or later, an encounter would take place. “I am unaware of my elves escorting your presence here. You may not remain here.,” Elrond directed toward the ungovernable, unwanted elf, giving Roosleen one last opportunity to exit, unscathed. “I intend no lasting harm.,” Roosleen retorted, narcissictly. 

As the two elves exchanged glaring, dissing words, Lindir continued to frown, and glare against the repugnant elfs’ behavior. Moving, advancing between, betwix surrounding elves with ire and indignation, Lindir’s rage and resentment grew. With mounting words, arguing midst themselves, Lindir stepped in, issuing a proclamation of his own, “How dare you! How dare you return here! You, who have caused irreparable damage! You have not only caused such damage to this city, but to Beatrice, herself! What you did, there are no excuses for!,” and livid was Lindir’s mind. “If no one cuts you down, I will do so myself!,” Lindir hawked and threw throughout the pristine, frozen red rose garden. 

Elrond’s elves stood readied for word, swords drawn. The stance of Roosleen grew disturbed, pointing off in a distance, “What issues that woman had, she had long before I came along! She was a broken mess before I knew her! And know her, I did.” That tiny bite of a smile was enough. That smile, those words were just enough for Lindir and the others to hear and put up with. The bandying elves flared, bickered, hurled insults and excuses. And before the mess was over, Lindir’s sword was drawn.

As Lindir’s sword thrust and parried, Roosleen gained the upper hand. This was not fighting ground. This slippery, dirtied, snow dropped ground. Even though Lindir was suitable and befitting of sword play or a challenge, his anger and wrath was overtaking his ability to think correctly, or defensively circumvent Roosleen’s offensive movements, as dark boot fought against lighter boot. A mixing of snow encased each heel and toe. As one long thrust of sword and arm pushed Lindir’s sword, his body toward the ground, digging into dirt, another blow belittled him from above, stinging his arm. Righting himself, reigning emotions for one moment, only to lose control another moment, Lindir still managed to kick Roosleen just enough with the heel of his boot, scraping the inside of Roosleen’s shin, enough to sideswipe, but not fully overcoming him. Lindir was not used to or prepared to endure such spiteful fight.

Having an opening to kick dirtied snow into Lindir’s face, keeping him defenseless, Roosleen dodged, kicked Lindir in the ribs, the tender, vulnerable guts, again knocking him down, bruising, the muscles of his shoulder tearing, causing Lindir to grimace in frustration and pain. Roosleen, knowing he was opened for wounding, even a behind assault or multiple attack, but bent on purging this moment of an unendurable elf, drew his sword back, and overhead, aiming for Lindir’s neck. But stopped short.

Roosleen, his body, frozen in time, stopping all movement, letting his chest cave with a sudden loss of air, his torso tensed, braced itself for a collapse. His arms, in midair, did not release his sword yet. Another immediate, bone cracking slice and sound from behind, and Roosleen’s body buckled at the knees, heaving soundlessly into the shuffled snow, leaving his entire self exposed to the elves. And his arms dropped, as his knees buckled, silently skidding against the dirt. His face registered shock and ruin and pain.

Lindir, heaving, lifted his head in time to see Glorfindel raise his own sword. And heavily sent it careening against Roosleen’s neck, severing it completely. His head dumped silently to the ground, where it stilled. Lindir set his eyes on the dirtied, tarnished, red and white ground but a moment, knowing his life had been spared and saved. Closing his eyes, opening them, keeping his eyes fashioned on Glorfindel’s boots, Lindir tucked his head in and swallowed, closed his eyes, but a moment longer.

“Clean this up.,” Elrond fiercely commanded the elves, turning to leave, his face a mess of chaos. “No!,” Lindir pleaded. Turning, looking down upon Lindir, still kneeling, “My Lord.,” Lindir began, trying to breathe, “I will take care of it.,” he licked his lips, tightened, knitted his mouth shut. “Beatrice…will need to see this.” Elrond, glancing towards Roosleen’s body, took stock of Lindir, understood what he meant to do, nodded his assent and left.

Taking Beatrice, leading her by the hand, Lindir returned with her to the garden. Before leading Beatrice inside the center, “I mean to show you.,” Lindir suggested with wariness but determined. “Come with me.” Beatrice went, not with hesitation, trepidation but with dignified resignation. Wanting Beatrice to see the end, the finality of this issue of Roosleen, they both entered the garden. Standing within the circular pit of vipers she knew as rose bushes and hedges, Beatrice knowing all too well, understood exactly what she was about to bear witness to, however, not knowing if she wanted to see or not, she continued to blindly walk beside Lindir. Was it because, she just did not want to see this elfs’ body and demise and face the end, or just not see the honesty of the thing, and face the truth, uncertainty and pain it would bring to her heart?

Walking into the center of the clearing, rows of snow covered hedges surrounded the still wet, white and crimson ground, as well as Tonare and the few other elves standing by, waiting for Lindir’s command. Lindir stood before Beatrice and gestured down, “Do you see?,” Lindir asked her, looking down on the body. “Do you see now, Beatrice. It is over. Finished. No more shall this elf torment and degrade your honor.”

Beatrice looked at what was left of Roosleen. She felt sorry for him, for her, the situation, the whole catastrophe. It was truly a sad thing. Why did he return? What useless, senseless thing would cause him to return? And why now? She nodded thickly, dumb and mute, while Lindir talked on. No tears, no remorse, not much emotion did Beatrice let enter her heart or mind, just yet. In time, Lindir knew she would cry and sniffle the nights away. Turning, keeping numb, Beatrice followed her gaze, looked up at Lindir.  “Beatrice.,” Lindir started. “Do you remember telling me your stories of fairies?,” he asked. “Fairy tales.,” Beatrice corrected. Nodding, “Yes. Fairie tales. Some were of fair maidens, damsels in distress, you called them.,” and Lindir pointed out to Beatrice. “You were a damsel in distress Beatrice. Once, you were. Now no more. No longer are you that damsel. Now, Beatrice. Now, you have been rescued, recovered. Now.,” he continued, “You must live your life in independence, not dependency. Not sorrow, nor pain. Do you understand? No one can harm you here.” Beatrice pulled so much air into her lungs, she thought she would expand, explode and burst as like a piñata, But unlike a joyous, festive, colorful piñata, Beatrice released only dirtied, lung filled monoxide with a heavy sigh. And understood, agreed and nodded.

Lindir nodded off to Tonare and the others to carry away the body of Roosleen, the recalcitrant elf and looked longingly at Beatrice, with more dignity than pity and placed his hand on her face and held her gaze. “No one will harm you.,” he promised. 

Roosleen was someone Beatrice did indeed love, had true, genuine feelings for, feelings of kindness, respect and joy towards. But that was then, before he willingly informed her of his game, his farce and disgraceful sham. Knowing it was better for the sake of all, that this issue was finished, done with, destroyed, her heart broke and Beatrice began to feel the desperate loss of something which once was and could have been, had Roosleen been different. Roosleen was gone, but Lindir was not. Lindir had fought for her, her value, her honor, her being and life. She harbored no anger, resentment nor hatred toward Roosleen, only…..loss. Loss. And release. 

The garden, with its’ soft yet bright winter roses, petals closed, not one red rose in bloom. All roses curled, frosted and tight lipped against the wind and snowdrops, all cozied up for the winter. Every so often, a petal here or there would drop, break off. And Beatrice would walk there from time to time, amidst them, touching here, there, and she remembered.

[beaflower77]

What Is Fate ?

“I do not believe I am making myself clear! You just do not understand Lindir!” She had been trying the entire night and much of the early morning to reconstruct for him her mindset, trying in vain attempt at convincing him how hated and dejected she felt. He sighed with her explanation.

“I have tried and tried being nice, but no one cares. They don’t care! I cannot! I just cannot do this anymore!” Beatrice cried, throwing valued books, dumping them cross the chamber, while her eyes shined like grey-blue speckled stones against horrid, steaming mists of spray. “I must somehow annoy them. I must irritate them somehow. I just..I just don’t…,” she fathomed her eternity set before her. “What’s the use.,” as she sunk wearily, pitifully toward the pristine, tiled floor.

Her heart sank deeper and deeper with each breath. And with each breath Beatrice drew, Lindir sighed with her, trying in ernest to placate, plead with her. “They do like you. They do like you very much Beatrice. You are a joy to them. You have been kind, sweet, to all.” Looking up at him from her perch on the floor, Beatrice screwed her face, “You’re just saying that to be nice.,” with snide boldness she dumped out. “It is not true. And you know it. People have all the time in the world for what they want, when they want it. And I am not what they want.” Trying to prove otherwise, knowing his attempts were futile, he sighed. Lindir just could not convince her otherwise. And in her pool of dejection and misery, Beatrice’s self loathing sank lower and lower, till she could sink no further.

“No. It is not true. People have the time for what they want.,” reiterating herself. “I am not a joy to them. They talk to me, only out of obligation to you, Lindir. Not because they want to. Truly.,” Beatrice said, hurt, disillusionment slapping against her, and realization dawning on him. “They say I am cute or I am silly, funny. I am neither of those. I am not cute! I am not silly. I am intelligent. I am kind and thoughtful. And I sincerely mean well. I have never, never said anything hurtful, or unkind to anyone here. I have always been kind, sincerely kind. And honest. I’ve only said anything which was to uphold, defend another. But somehow, something happened. I annoy them! I know I do!” Sitting amid her grey and burgundy gown, pooling against the floor, starting to wrinkle, picking at a loose threading, Beatrice dejected, “I am annoying.,” hanging her head in sorrow, and terrible grief.

Crumpled on the floor in a heap, not being able to hold herself up to more scrutiny, emotional abuse, Beatrice’s will to survive destroyed, ripped from her heart. With each tear that seamlessly slid down, stole, crept from her swollen, reddened eyes, Beatrice’s heart and worth grew in loss and abandonment. And the deeper she fell, the more her anxiety, anguish expanded, filling her being with tremendous loss. “Beatrice.,” Lindir tried, standing over her, his arms, hands outstretched, feeling a loss of words or actions. A little out of his element this time. “Beatrice.” Once more Lindir sighed, his own sorrow and loss too apparent to bear. “Beatrice.,” determined to solidify this argument, “You were sent here for a purpose. Just because one person does not like you, does not mean others do not as well. Pleeaase.,” he begged, supplicated.

Her eyes pooled over, slips of tears, like torrential rain, slid, spilled forth, curved round her checks, not bothered at being wiped away. Down her cheeks, streaming cross her chin, the wetness issued forth as Beatrice sniffed, snuffed and felt useless, alone in her immediate, destitute woe. She didn’t care, she let it rain and happen. She couldn’t stop the pain, the hurt, the disregard, neglect. “I do not know why. I don’t know. I don’t know.,” she continued on about. “I just. I just. I just want them to see I am not insignificant. I am not. I am so lonely right now. I miss them. I miss them. I miss...I miss the camaraderie. I miss the easiness. I only wanted to be friends. What happened? What happened Lindir? I do not know what I did or said. I don’t know. I don’t know.,” and she continued to wail, much to Lindir’s turmoil and anguish for her loss of emotional self control.

Then, saying the words he did not wish to hear, “I want to go. I want to go … home.”  Standing there, not knowing what to say, what to do anymore than he already could, Lindir widened his mouth, his eyes, and looked down at Beatrice in empathy. “You are home Beatrice. This is your home now.”  Closing her eyes, hanging her head in deep beckoning sorrow, Beatrice moved her head side to side, as inside, inside her heart, her being, she emotionally collapsed, and withdrew. Valor, Lindir wished. Is there no mercy for such a one as she? She has a heart of gold, she is a joy. Pure joy. Can she not see this? Can she not feel it? His heart swelled and he wept inside for her. Wanting to shake her, desiring her to see this goodness, this magnitude of love, joy, charm, her solace which she held, bestowed, gave willingly to others, but also knowing some would not partake of. Knowing that was what was destroying her. And not knowing exactly how to pull her out.

The door to their chamber was tightly shut. Lindir had been listening to Beatrice for better half of the night, trying in desperation to placate her, to reason. He understood her upset, her trial, but still he was getting no where with convincing Beatrice that which she needed to hear. To believe she was loved, wanted, worth a fight, and cherished by the elves. The specific ones she wanted to impress, to be loving friends with, would perhaps never happen, and so, Lindir himself, hung his heart in kind. Repeated his mantra to Beatrice, as well as himself, “It will pass, it will pass. All will be well again. It will pass.” And in dejection and neglect, she disintegrated further inside.

He heard the commotion before even coming nearer. Turning down the corridor, he could feel the heat, the passion, the turmoil rising from their chambers, from their words, their nuances. Standing a moment longer than necessary, Elrond closed his eyes in peace and supplication. Why so much agony? So much pain? What is happening to her? Usually he would not have intruded, but the closer Elrond placed his feet, the closer his being came to their door, the stronger wave upon wave upon wave of her desperation, her sadness, dejection, pierced his heart. He would never have intruded, never dare open their chambers’ door, never invade the privacy of their union, but this, this moment…was causing his own grief, his own private purgatory to stir, causing restlessness to fill him solidly. And it drew him near. Quietly, so quietly, opening the door, standing inside their entrance, Elrond looked upon this discordant sight. As Lindir looked at him with need, as Beatrice’s back was turned, as Elrond gazed upon her, sitting in a lump, likened to spoiled sugar, Elrond stepped up.

“I want to go back.,” Beatrice placed before Lindir, as he once again sighed, twisted his mouth in turmoil.  “At least there, I knew why I was unwanted. Here, pausing, filling her arms with the chamber’s sights, “I don’t understand.,” she reiterated over and over. Kneeling, placing a small, tentative hand under her chin, “Beatrice. No.,“ he calmly said. “This is your home. There is no where you can go..back..to. You must make your peace here, now. It will pass, Sweetheart.,” trying once again to convince her.

Wordlessly, quietly walking, placing himself closer to Beatrice’s crumpled body, letting her absorb his presence, spy his darker than pitch, solid boots next to her soiling, wrinkling gown, Elrond spoke down at her. “Come with me.,” was all he said, awakening Beatrice to her own cacophony of melancholy. Slightly turning, twisting her body round, landing her eyes only on the tips of splendid, well cared for boots, Beatrice started, and let her burdened heart sink, sink deeper than a lost ship heading toward the brink of disaster, and righted herself.

Assisting Beatrice up, helping her to a standing position, straightening, rearranging her skirts, slightly embarrassed, Lindir started after them, pursuing them to the room’s end. Keeping a hand on Beatrice’s elbow, lifting a hand before Lindir’s eyes, Elrond quietly, calmly produced, “No.,”, stopping Lindir from further movement. Watching Elrond lead Beatrice away from their chambers, Lindir stood silent, hoped and dumped his exhausted frame into a chair, exasperated. ‘Valor.,” as his own tears pooled.

Following Elrond further down the corridor, toward his study, they entered, Elrond gesturing for Beatrice to sit before his fire. Sitting himself across from her, Elrond let his darkened eyes drift to the fire, and momentarily closed them in private contemplation and supplication. Folding his fingers, hands, “Do you really wish to leave?,” he calmly asked. Beatrice hung her head in shame, her eyes downcast. And wept. And sniveled. And wept some more and wiped and blew. And when she thought she had gotten it out, her wordless, soundless weeping, began again, causing Elrond to gaze more at the licking, thrashing flames instead. And lamented. What has gripped this woman so? Elrond mused, beckoning visions of pain, sadness and loss. How tightly wired is she?

Standing, lifting himself, Elrond unobtrusively stretched, arched his back. Reaching a small, rounded table, he poured, gently placed before her a small goblet of freshly chilled fruited water, sat, settling himself once more into his chair across from hers. The fire crackled, spreading warmth throughout the room. The rain pelted and all remained quiet. Except for the tiny, normal ticks and tocks of the room, not a sound was uttered. Only her sniffling, making Elrond wish for a box of handkerchiefs.

Beatrice was emotionally exhausted, spent. Her mind numb, blank, however her breathing labored, her heart wildly beat. Her sorrow enveloped her fully, snuffing all else out. Forlornly placing her head, her heart in her hands, while her endless tears made lines, streaks, trails down her face, making a mess of her face, her minutely applied mascara, Beatrice could not speak, feel, or listen to reason. And so curling her feet under her, pulling her knees up onto his richly upholstered chair, Beatrice continued to weep and Elrond sat and watched and waited. And as Elrond watched her, he slowly caressed his finger across his upper lip, determining what he should, if anything, do or say to her. What assistance at this point would make any difference? If her current course of action was so determined, what responsible, meager action could stop fate from concluding it’s final end? What should he do, as a protector, for her? Let her cry it out, he thought. To let her cry and wail and grieve until all forms of loss are extinguished from her being, he felt useful. Let her stay and grieve away from the privacy of their chambers. Here on neutral ground, neutral territory, she can somewhat come to terms, calm herself, plead her case before him. Ask his wisdom, assistance. But what should he, could he say to bring necessary calmness, purposeful resolution to her anguish?

What Beatrice did not see, was not aware of anymore, was how Elrond let her cry, let her weep, sniff, blow, and place her dirty slippered feet onto the seat of that chair, let her rock back and forth as wetness touched her face, let her cry herself into oblivion, as she wiped at her lashes, making smudges of what little mascara she had carelessly applied. What seemed like an infinitude rested between them. Semi elf and semi human, sitting like lumps of wet, dissolving sugar. Finally trying to pull herself out just a bit, “How do you do it?,” she laid before him. “How do you get by? For so many years?” 

Looking toward the fire, how indeed Elrond thought, his breath deepening. It had been so, so many years. How did he survive through it all? Asking again, “You have children, you have a family, you must have had a wife. Or a lover.,” she sought out. “How do you survive this long without.., cracking? Breaking entirely? How? Without giving up?”  Beginning to open up, come out of her self doubts, she continued to question Elrond. “Knowing some truly like you, truly wish to follow your lead, your counsel, advice. But others do not. Others may not agree with you, or want to obey you. How do you accept it? It hurts so much. This pain inside, this loss of hope. I am not strong enough.” 

Looking down at his hands resting comfortably on either side of the chair, Elrond thought, questioned his own self. It had been many years since someone, anyone addressed him in this way, candidly. A breath taken, expelled, as he sat staring at the fire. It hurt, burdened him to hear these thoughts, these questions raised. He was not opposed to this scrutiny, this anguish, it was more, he did not want to have to deal with it. More silence while yet hearing, listening to the beating of the flames, the roar and hiss of the fire competing with the howling of the wind outside, as his study filled with stifling heat. Tears still silently fell, dripped, sadness filled Beatrice, not being able to decide if she was truly broken, if there was any recovery for herself.

Elrond, not looking at Beatrice, deciding instead to gaze upon, contemplate the hot, licking flames. And in that stifling heated chamber, listening to silence yet somewhere past the silence, he listened, heard the hissing, the roaring, the crackling, and decided. And finally gave in. “It is hard. Difficult.,” Elrond agreed, shaking his head affirmative. “Sometimes I wish to give up. Many times even. The years have been long. Some good, beneficial, beautiful even. Some, some have been most horrific, so much sorrow, pain. I will not deny this to you.,” as he evenly, steadily looked over Beatrice, verbally leveling, exposing ultimate feelings with her, bearing himself open to her visions. “Then, I think of all the people here in this city. This city which I created. Which was my doing. Mine alone. All whom I am responsible for. All whom I care for, deeply care for. And I cannot. I cannot give them up. I will not. Therefore,” he concluded, staring her down for emphasis, “Even though, the many years have taken their toll, cost me dearly, causing me even bitterness and sorrow, I will not give them up. I will not give up Beatrice. And I will not give you up. Beatrice.” Standing, placing himself before the fire, keeping his back turned, warming his hands, Elrond thought past his own hurts, anguish, his own solitude and lamentations. And let Beatrice think a bit longer on her own. Coming out of herself, she thought on his words, but remained herself in silent contemplation, while hugging her knees in her own consumption and fatigue.

Regaining his seat, placing his arms, hands upon his knees, Elrond truly leveled with Beatrice, placing all cards upon the table. “Sometimes,” confided Elrond, “sometimes I wish I could leave for an extended…what do you call it? An extended leave of absence?,“ a small, tiny corner of his mouth rising. With that statement, that answer, Beatrice could accept.  Delivering home yet another message, “You must find a way Beatrice.,” Elrond placed before her. “I cannot tell you to do this thing or that thing. It is not up to me. You must decide your own counsel, you own course of action Beatrice.” Calmly, stoically Elrond spoke, laying this gravely upon her. He thought that would bring Beatrice back from her sorrow, bring her to her senses. He thought. Well, he thought.

“I cannot. I cannot.,” as Beatrice silently shook her head, rocked her body back, forth. “I feel..I feel..as if..I have nothing left.”  Quickly, so quickly, Elrond pounced upon that one word. “Feel. Beatrice.,” he gave her. “You feel as if you have nothing left. But is that really, what is? Is that truly your reality? I do not believe so. We all play a role here. We all play a part in this world. For my part, I choose to remain. I choose to remain an Elf. So, in that sense, my part, my role, was ordained because of what I chose. My choices, some for good, some mistaken, I have made. And will continue to make on behalf of myself and others. Your role is a bit different, but not. You were sent here. You were given a second chance. Did you choose this life? Probably not. But, here you are. You were sent for a specific purpose Beatrice, therefore your role has somewhat been designed for you. However, you must also choose which path you take. Will you wallow in pity, sadness and despair? Even if you are deserving of it? Or will you accept that which is tearing you apart and continue despite your setback?” 

In that moment of awful truth, hurtful explanation, Elrond delivered Beatrice just one more tiny bit of a statement. “Love gives and receives naught but itself.” 

Putting it like that, Beatrice stilled, her heart coming to a full beated stop. I am not wallowing, she thought. How dare you say I am wallowing. I only wish to be loved, and adored, and admired, and respected. From all. From everyone. I wish to be a joy to everyone. I wish to bring joy to all. Why does not everyone accept me? she thought. And that is when Beatrice thought a little more, a little harder. Taking herself, her hurts, her deserved self pity out of the equation for once. 

Not everyone did like her, admire her. No. No, not everyone will, she concluded to herself, and I guess, Beatrice thought, she would have to accept that and decide to move on, move forward, continue having hope, or just give in to hopelessness. What was the alternative? Did she really, truly want to give up? Or did Beatrice want to be what the elves thought she was, what she truly was, could and would aspire to become. A kind, caring, intelligent, deserving being. One who was capable and deserving of self worth, of love, and was lovable to them. At least most of them. And was capable of giving love without it being given back to her, even if it could be, should be. Was she weak? Or was she strong? Capable of handling emotional setbacks? Of experiencing pain, hurt, without giving in to humiliation, desperation and self destruction? 

Beatrice did not wish to look at Elrond more, but sat and stared at her pretty, dark twilight, seamless slippered shoes peeking out from beneath her crumpled, now more dirtied gown. A gown she should have taken more consideration of and let her mind cease its’ rampant turmoil. Giving Beatrice time to toss dramatic thoughts back, forth throughout her being, Elrond, standing, offering his hand, “Come with me.,” he lent her a second time.

Guiding her back to her chambers, a desperate and concerned, lean elf, waited her arrival with an anxious, debilitated look. Beatrice, looking up at Elrond, while still he held her elbow, “Go lay down. Sleep. You will find peace Beatrice. Do not think more on this subject tonight, for your mind needs to settle its’ turmoil.” He let Beatrice loose. As she lay, curling up, trying to calm her breaths, her anxiousness, Elrond took Lindir aside. “You must not let her go to those particular elves Lindir. They will not accept her. It grieves her to no end. Have her keep her distance. Soothe her, keep her close.” 

Wishing to speak freely with his Lord, Lindir advanced, “She is...she feels, deeply. Beatrice sees magic, light, emotions, colors everywhere, in everything. At the same time, this tires her so, because she feels everything so deepy.,” explaining her trials away.  

Contemplation grew on Elrond as he marveled, yet felt concern for her. “Beatrice is strong Lindir. However, I feel she senses she must be strong at all times. It is not until someone comes along, that makes her acutely aware of her feelings, desires, that have been concealed, are just below the surface. This makes her too aware of her calling, crushing her spirit. But only momentary, and only if it is allowable.” A comforting, reasuring hand, placed on Lindir’s shoulder, “She will mend Lindir. You must give her time. You care deeply for her, as I do. Give her time. And much love.”

Dismissing himself, Elrond walked alone, back toward his own chambers, contemplating his own life’s sorrows, setbacks, joys and future goals. If only she knew, believed how much a joy she was, he thought. How much a joy she is. How much she is capable of giving, receiving unconditionally. And he thought of Beatrice as a puzzle. A puzzle one puts together, interlocking one piece, one tiny, bitty angled piece at a time, and knew eventually Beatrice would fit her life together once more. And become much more capable, astute for it. 

As Lindir softly, deftly crawled, laid himself next to Beatrice, he reached out, enfolded her into himself, soothing, petting her down, murmuring sweet nothings against her face, her neck, her hair. Accepting Beatrice eventually would be alright, would survive, if not resurface bruised, Lindir knew her needs would never be that of an elf. She would always need, she would always doubt, would always turn to him, to others for reassurance, acceptance. Accepting Lindir’s touch, his murmurs, his show of love, respect, appreciation, of kindness, of want, Beatrice relaxed, closed her eyes against the day, and slept. 

It would only take time. And what did she have there but time, but an eternity. 

And in letting herself be loved, be soothed to sleep, Beatrice contemplated Elrond’s words. “Love gives and requires naught but itself.”