The elven warrior jumped off his horse as soon as he was under the cover of the mellyrn of Lothlorien. He replied to a bird's whistle with a short burst of his own voice, somewhat less sweet. He wore the garb of hunters and a wolf pelt across his shoulders.
Another elf came to meet him from the trees above where the watchers were lurking.
"I greet thee, March Warden of Lothlorien. I bring news of the East." The second elf remained silent for moments.
"And I greet thee, Firohir Peredhil. What brings you to the fair woods?" the March Warden asked, leading the way deeper between the golden trees. Despite his Elven calm, he was shaken. Not often did the Peredhil come to Lothlorien. Each of his visits was omen of battles with fell creatures from the will of the Enemy. The Lothlorien warrior could not help wonder what they would face this time.
After conversing with the Lady of the Woodland Realm, Firohir Half-elven headed
for the talan that had been his since he had first entered Caras Galadhon, almost
30 years before. It was located deep in the woods, a place where few Elves dwelt.
He felt refreshed, having been able to wash after his long ride.
Despite his absence, it was still in perfect condition and waiting for him.
He pushed the soft material that hung in the frame of the door and walked in.
Everything was in its former place, as he remembered it, down to the heavy volumes
of lore he had been perusing before his departure.
A leaf attracted his attention, shining silver in the moonlight. He bent to
pick it and as his fingers brushed against it, he felt the cold kiss of a blade
against his neck. Time slowly trickled by as he pondered his options. The blade
was held firmly but with a steady hand that did not slip. Firohir knew he did
not have a chance to disarm the opponent before he made away with his life.
"You are late." said a soft voice somewhere near his ear. "So
late."
The blade lifted and he turned, straightening up as the sword returned to its
sheath. Before him stood an Elven woman, clad in the clothes of the Mirkwood
archers. Her cloak, he knew, was dark green and blended in the night. Her dark
hair was pulled back and braided, held together with a pin shaped in mithril
as a mallorn leaf. It did little to conceal the point of her ears and the whiteness
of her skin, shining in the starlight.
Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword. He risked a glance at her face and
found her eyes and mouth set in a look of anger.
She had not changed, untouched like her kin by the cruel ages of Middle Earth.
Her dress was the same that she wore long ago when he had first stepped under
the shade of Eryn Lasgalen. The same as when he had pledged himself to her as
Knight.
"Arwenamin." he said, dropping on one knee. "I did
not know of your return."
"Nor would I have of yours if Haldir o Lorien had not sought me out. I
did not believe Eryn Lasgalen would be so painful to you that you would forfeit
its halls for all ages."
She extended a hand towards him. "Rise, Peredhil, and honour your oath."
He took it with wonderment and kissed the palm gently. She made no movement
to retrieve it.
He placed kisses on her forearm, following a path remembered only in unconscious
dreams towards her shoulder, removing armour as he went. He reached her throat
and still she had not moved.
Firohir's hand moved to unclasp the mithril mallorn leaf that held her
cloak. The brooch was similar in fashion to that of Lorien's guards. He
faltered. Had she given her heart to another? Then the answer was clear. The
March Warden of the Golden Woods. Oft had he seen the brooch closing his cloaks
in battle and when he guarded the woods.
"You were long gone, Peredhil. Too long." She looked at him with
her clear eyes, searching his face. Resolution set on his features and he unclasped
the brooch, letting the cloak fall at their feet. Underneath, she had not been
wearing the archer's traditional attire but a long white dress, woven
of silken thread. He took the scabbard from her hand and set it on the table.
"Amin hiraetha, melamin." He whispered, kissing the soft
skin of her neck. His elvish is halting, as though he had not used it for a
long time. She was warm against him and her skin responded to his touch as it
had done almost a lifetime ago.
Firohir picked her up in his arms and laid her on his bed, sitting down beside
her. She smiled and placed her hand on his cheek. He lay down, his head on her
middle, listening to the faint beating of her heart.
The shadows of the night grew short. It was nearing the middle of the night
when he felt her stir beneath him. He growled inquiringly. She whispered something
he could not hear, despite his Elven hearing. Firohir looked up at her and was
silent with what he saw.
She was faintly shining in the moonlight and her hair had come undone, framing
her face with dark tresses. He felt a strange stirring inside him and placed
his hands against her sides, kissing his way upwards, past her breasts to her
neck and finally her mouth.
Wandering his hands towards her back, he unlaces the dress and takes it from
her body. She does not resist or make a sound, other than her regular breathing.
Her eyes are filled with starlight as she watches her warrior undressing her.
His soft kisses on exposed parts of her skin, rivalling the soft touch of night
air. Tomorrow, she leaves for Eryn Lasgalen, not to return. Tonight, she will
give him what he desires. What they both desire.
She pushes him back, willing him down. He yields and she is soon straddling
him, pressing her intimate parts against him. His hands find their way to her
waist, holding her in place. She can feel him against her, hard like the wood
of a mallorn. She bites her lips as he guides himself into her.
They move together, taking their time in this, banishing the morning to a distant
thought. He takes her gently at first then forgets this as she starts moving
on him. A sudden movement on her part and they tumble to the floor, with her
underneath. Firohir makes to stop, make sure she is unharmed but her ankles
lock against his back securing him in place.
Conscious thought eludes him as he starts thrusting into her, hard. She shudders
in release and his howl reverberates in the woods as he finds his.
When stillness settled on their entwined forms on the floor of the talan, they
realised what had just passed. Firohir makes to speak but her hand on his lips
stills his tongue.
"Do not say anything, do not break the spell yet." She whispers
in her native language.
"Amin mela lle. Always will." He whispers back wishing
the morning never to come. She smiles at him, drawing him close. His eyes closed,
sleep finally beating down his weary senses. Long does she remained unsleeping,
until at last her mind wandered the paths of the Elves.
Dawn
came and the golden light reflected on a thousand leaves shone on the face of
Firohir Peredhil, alone in his talan. He opened his eyes and looked around at
the room. It was as yesterday, familiar and devoid of any other presence. That
knowledge clung at the corner of his awareness until it roused him from his
rest, alarmed. He rushed outside.
"Melamin!" he shouted out. It was in vain.
Only the quiet life of the woods greeted him. He looked at his feet. It had
been nothing but a dream. He stepped back under the curtain, only to pause,
staring at the floor.
There in the golden sunlight, a hairpin lay on the floor, mithril shining gaily.
He picked it up and placed in on the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers
against it and he pressed his hand to his heart.
He did not see the Lady of Eryn Lasgalen again but his eyes often turned in
the direction where Mirkwood lay, wondering about her fate. Once or twice, he
heard news of Mirkwood, from passing Elves, on their way to the Grey Havens
where Cirdan the Shipwright dwells, but none had news of her. Firohir never
travelled to Mirkwood but he never relinquished the mallorn leaf he had found
that morning and wore it on a chain around his neck forever more.