Hi guys!

Now... let's return to the other love story that is developing. Let's remember that the musician and Elyéta's brother, Linwe, has decided to make the war against the warrior and Elf-lord, Duilin. What will be the end of this?

I want to thank Celridel for she's the one who wrote the entire chapter, and invite all of you to leave your reviews.

Chapter 32: Music Against Sword

"Oh, no." She sighed and put the paintbrush down on the lip of the easel. Ardyl rubbed his head against her cheek comfortingly. He was a bird no larger than a clump of thistle-down, and a soft blue, with black-and-white checkered wings. "I'm sorry, Ardyl," Elyéta said, raising a hand to rub his head. "Your portrait isn't ruined, of course. It's only that…..I don't have the heart right now. But I'll finish it soon."

On the portrait, a blot of white paint marred Ardyl's blue head-feathers. The shadows that had danced on it, cast by the tree above her, disappeared with the sun. Elyéta sighed again, picked up her brush and then laid it back down. Anger was a ball of white heat in her stomach, and she wanted to let it out, to break the brush, rip the canvas in half.

Linwë had no right. That was the simple truth he couldn't understand. It was her life, not his. She had told him that she loved Duilin and that she was certain he loved her.

And Linwë had laughed. The bastard had dared to laugh. Angry tears had begun to trickle from her unwilling eyes, and he had stopped laughing then, but it was too late.

'Elyéta,' he began, taking her hands in his. 'Elyéta, I'm sorry. I did not intend to hurt you-'

She wrenched her hands out of his grasp and fled down the palace corridor. 'You did!' she flung back at him over her shoulder. 'You did hurt me, even after they told you…they told you to keep me safe!'

Those words were the deadliest dart she could have used against her brother, and she knew it, although she never said, or even thought to say it before that moment.

"Elyéta? Elyéta?"

The tree under which she was painting was a colossal weeping willow, with a trunk three times her arm span. Its long branches brushed the grass, forming a natural curtain that she could not be seen through. It was Ardyl's soft, bubbling song that gave her away. Duilin was the master of birds. He loved them, and he knew their tongue. What it was Ardyl gave away Elyéta never knew, but it brought Duilin through the silver curtain to stand before her.

"Little traitor," she said, without real anger. Ardyl flew to a low hanging branch, and perched there, warbling contentedly to himself.

"Elyéta, we need to speak."

She smiled tiredly at him. Her anger was draining away and with it all her normal vivacity. She felt very dull as if all her feelings and her thoughts had suddenly faded, becoming lackluster. "We do, my lord."

He shook his head impatiently. "Elyéta, please. Both of us know we are beyond this lording business. I need to speak with you about your…Elyéta!"

She felt his wave of concern reach out and touch her heart, warming it. She was not crying, but she was very close to it. Duilin reached her with one long stride and put his hands on her shoulders. She had never realized how warm and comforting he smelled. His simple touch sent a wave of butterflies coursing through her veins, their fluttering wings easing the anger and regret that had settled inside her. "Elyéta, tell me!" he demanded, his gaze hot and intense. "If someone hurt you, I swear-"

"Please, no. I talked to Li…my brother," she said thickly. "And we fought." Hysteria was beginning to fragment her voice. She had fought with Linwë. His smell, like pines and firs, and a little of sweat beneath, rooted her again. "I fought with Linwë," she repeated, more calmly this time. "But you cannot hurt him. Please, you have to promise." She tilted her face up towards his. "He's only trying to help, and you cannot be angry someone for that."

"You were."

She winced at this, although it was not said as a rebuke. "I can be wrong too," she replied, trying to sound teasing.

Duilin looked at her, eyebrows knit together and she felt his concern touch her again. "Elyéta…I cannot take up any quarrel with Linwë. It would hurt you. And I cannot hurt you…..I would rather die than hurt you!" he finished in an impetuous rush.

Her eyes widened; she placed her hand against his chest. "Don't say those things unless you mean them."

"I mean them!" he exclaimed earnestly. "Elyéta, I've never said words I meant more!"

The rising wind blew their hair back from their faces. She suddenly looked down, dropping her hand. "Duilin, I am honored that you would lay down your life for me, but it's not-it's not-this is for fairytales. You're a lord and lords wed…they don't wed folks like me."

"Then look at what they lost," Duilin said, recapturing her hands before they could link behind her back. "Elyéta, do you think I care that you were born in one house and I was born in another? Why does it matter?"

"Duilin, you are a noble-"

"Ungoliant take that like she took the Two Trees! Do you think I care about that, Elyéta? I would go anywhere, do anything, to be with you!"

There was a silence as he lost himself in her smile, soft and sweet and surprised. He suddenly understood that he wanted to see that smile forever. So he made his decision in the blink of an eye, and a cosmos opened up to him. "I must tell you something."

Her gaze was warm, expectant, trusting. "Then tell me."

Duilin drew in a deep breath, and let in out with a shuddering sigh. "Elyéta, what I am about to say…it might…..seem-"

"Lord Duilin?"

The Swallow-Lord turned almost savagely on the page: a young Noldo ellon who jumped nimbly backward. "What is it?"

"The King called a meeting, my Lord."

"Did Balrogs invade the Great Market and steal all the goods?" Duilin growled. Elyéta was trying to pull her hands away, seeing the page's fear transform into amazement as his gaze widened to take in her. Duilin held them captive in a gentle grip, keeping his eyes locked on the page's. "Well, what is it, Maethor?"

"I'm not privy to the details, my lord," Maethor said serenely. "All I know is that it is a pressing matter. I apologize for the interruption. May your day continue to be blessed." He bowed and pushed through the willow branches.

Duilin looked at Elyéta, brought her hands up and kissed them, ignoring the thwarted rage that began to burn in his belly. "I will tell you later then."

She smiled at him, and her smile lit up her face. "Keep rehearsing them."

He nodded at her and grinned back. "I have them all by heart." Then he ducked under the branches and was gone, leaving Elyéta alone with her ruined painting.

The only sound in the Council chamber was the soft sound of Duilin's pacing. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see the grey horizon. The sky was pregnant with thunder and laden with lightning, and the air was inundated with the mystic frisson that always precedes a huge thunderstorm. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up from it.

He didn't notice: the storm approaching from outside could hardly dream of matching the maelstrom in his head. His thoughts were murky, confused, ricocheting from polar extremes. Anger at Linwë, at the page, at the King who called a council and then did not come. Love, because Elyéta existed and he could touch her. And fear. Yes, fear. Duilin had not been afraid often in his short life. He had been given the lion's share of courage, and of rashness. But he was afraid now, because he thought he had held their moment in his hands, and then let it go. He had wanted to give her his soul, and in exchange, he had gotten this silent chamber.

Outside, thunder grumbled far away. He watched clouds scud across the sky, black-bottomed keelboats running high and heavy. His hands were clenched into fists, the tendons on his tightly muscled arms standing out in stark relief against his brown skin.

"Duilin! I did not expect to see you here."

Duilin spun quickly, jerked suddenly out of inner chaos. "Egalmoth! At last!"

"At last?" the other lord asked curiously.

Duilin frowned at him. "At last, yes. The King summoned an urgent council."

"Duilin," Egalmoth said gently, "I think you should know that the King is playing chess with his daughter. There is no need for a council. All is quiet-I should know, I just returned from my watch. I think you were the victim of a prank, my frie-"

"Not a prank!" Duilin roared. His voice flew around the silent arches like a fiery whip-crack. "Oh, gods! The lying cockalorum-"

"Duilin."

"The bastard!" Duilin raked his hands through his hair, eyes blazing. "I am such a fool-"

"Duilin!" Egalmoth's voice rang out authoritatively. "Calm yourself!"

Duilin's laugh was taut and dangerous. "Calm myself? Calm myself?!"

"Duilin, talk to me." Egalmoth was one of the finest horse-trainers in the city because he had the perfect balance of calm authority and thoughtful kindness. Duilin, although he would have never admitted it in ten thousand years, relied on Egalmoth to rein in his anger like he reined in a wild horse.

Duilin drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Linwë. It was a ploy to get me away from his sister."

Egalmoth looked at him in surprise. "Sister?" He watched a strange, sweet expression cross Duilin's narrow features. "Aye, sister. She is the most beautiful thing in the world, Egalmoth. And honey looks bitter besides her!" Duilin's eloquent face changed again, back to wrath. "But her brother is a strutting bastard. And after what he did-"

"Duilin," Egalmoth broke in. "Do not promise anything too rash. This Linwë you speak of, is he is Linwë the Silver-Tongued?"

Duilin snorted. "Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn't. Linwë the Liar is what I call him."

Egalmoth carried on. "If this elleth is Linwë's sister, my friend, I think you should be careful what you do or say to him."

"Elyéta would understand!"

"If you killed him, or even put him in the Healing Houses? I think not."

Duilin paused for a moment, his eyes considering. Then he shook his head. "Egalmoth, if you knew what he has done, you would not be advocating for him."

"I'm not advocating for him, I'm advocating for you, and for your Elyéta." Egalmoth returned. "Talk to this Linwë, threaten if you want-words are wind, but remember that family has a bond that isn't broken easily. And remember one other thing: I think he is only trying to care for Elyéta. You need to convince him that you have always loved his little sister."

"I need to convince him of nothing!" Duilin flamed.

"I think you do," Egalmoth retorted. "I said convince him that you love Elyéta and make this easier for all of you."

"At times I think you are a milksop, Egalmoth," Duilin answered mildly, but he looked eager to be off.

Egalmoth shook his head, concerned. "Duilin-"

The other held up his hand. "I am not deaf: you do not need to repeat yourself. Thank you for your council."

Egalmoth sighed. "Duilin, just remember this. I am your friend."

Duilin turned from the doorway, and his face softened. "Egalmoth, that is one thing I would lay my life on. I know at times it must seem that I only come to you for counsel, but it is because I find your council the wisest in the city. I will come back in the evening."

The other smiled, "I wish you all the luck of the stars, my friend!"

Duilin, already darting down the hallway, called back, "And the same to you!" Then in a lower voice, he muttered, "And the same to Linwë, for he'll need it more than I."

He went to the House of the Swallow first. Unlike most Lords, the Swallow roosted with his soldiers, and not in the palace.

His second in command, a small and wiry runner with black hair braided harshly back from her face, called Rámalë, nodded to him. "It is good to see you again, my lord. It has been a while."

Duilin arched an eyebrow at her. "Do not say you have missed me,"

Rámalë snorted. "Feeding your vanity is the last thing I need to do. There is a message for you in your quarters, my lord."

Duilin, already on the winding stairs that led to his rooms, turned back to her hopefully. "Who delivered it?"

She shrugged. "I did not see."

Duilin turned on his heel and darted up the flight, taking the steps in gigantic bounds. Outside, the fading stormy light was disappearing. He opened his door to find a flattened roll of creamy parchment pushed under the gap. He snatched it up, already thinking it was from Elyéta, and read.

Swallow, my sister's heart is not glass, so do not break it.

Swallow, my sister's love is not dear to you, so forsake it.

She is naught to you but a savory before the main course

Naught to you but a flower to be crushed without remorse

You seek to take a hold upon her heart, and then deceive it

You seek to betray her, to win her loyalty and then leave it

To shatter her glass heart, and twist the shards into her chest

Use lies and veiled mockery to induce agony into her breast

You seek to lead her down a path with heartbreak at the end

Beguile her with roses, then betray her to thorns as you pretend

You are no swift-flying bird, Swallow. You are naught but a cur

How many times have you broken glass hearts before?

Below it was signed a name, but Duilin did not read it. His rage was bitter but immensely satisfying. He was angrier then he had ever been his life before, but instead of fire, his monstrous fury had crystallized into ice. He folded the parchment, placed it in his belt, and left the House quietly.

He already knew where Linwë lived. He had asked Lord Ecthelion in private, in an attempt to find out more about Elyéta, and had learned that the two lived in a stone house on the northern shoulder of the citadel.

Duilin knew the city better than most and found the house without trouble. It was a small and many-windowed house, fronted along its whole width by a pillared porch and a flight of steps down to the street. There was no rain yet, but the wind was still rising, laughing like a loon among the pillars. Things stood out in a kind of dreamlike steely relief: shadowless, clear, chiseled.

Linwë looked up from where he sat on the steps, his lyre between his knees. "Hail, Lord Duilin," he said quietly. "What brings you down to mingle with the common-bloods?"

Duilin smiled, a hard and bright desert smile, like dry sun winking off mica, and came to the bottom of the steps. "I received your message," he answered, and held up the parchment. The wind tried to pull it from his hands. Still smiling, Duilin tore it in half and threw it to the gale. Linwë watched it go, and then looked back. "So I see."

"How strange you happened to be there in the gardens," Duilin continued.

"Coincidence," Linwë remarked, with apparent unconcern. He strummed a few notes on his lyre, and the wind hurled them away.

"I do not believe in coincidences. The Weaver does not weave carelessly," Duilin continued.

"No?"

"No."

There was a cold silence. Thunder roared, closer now, and they both see the chilly white light as lightning struck over Tumladen.

"Are you waiting for an apology?" Linwë asked. He was still playing. The tune was hard to pick out over the gusting of the wind, but Duilin thought it was the same melody that he had played during Turuhalmë.

"No," he replied. "That would be too little, and far too late."

"Is that a threat, Lord Duilin?" Linwë shook his head rebukingly, his hands gliding over the lyre strings. His tone was calmly instructional. "Remember, you are a noble."

Duilin leaped on the stairs to stand directly in front of the minstrel. "I'm not here."

Linwë shook his head again and looked down at his lyre. "Yes, you are. You are anywhere. And that's why you think you can play with my sister's heart."

"Look at me when you say that," Duilin growled.

Linwë looked up, and their hot gazes welded together, grey and blue. "I said, Lord Duilin, that you think your title gives you the right to play with my sister's heart. I will tell you this too. You are a coldhearted and coldblooded whoreson who intends to use my little sister and then throw her away."

Duilin pounced on him then, like an enraged panther. He snatched the lyre away and smashed it against the pillar. It fell to the ground, demolished into splinters. Then Duilin seized the player, jerking Linwë upright by the collar of his jerkin. "I would kill you," he snarled into Linwë's face, "It is only because-"

"Only because what?" a high clear voice demanded behind them. Duilin turned, letting Linwë go. Elyéta was coming up the stairs, her grey eyes wide and feverishly bright. "Pray tell me, Duilin."

Duilin said nothing. He felt his mouth dry up under the ferocity of her stare, and he dropped his eyes.

Elyéta was standing in front of him now, her black hair blown out of their braids by the wind. The bushes around them danced in syncopated tidal waves, showing their pale undersides on the wild onslaught of the storm. An then it began to rain. It pounded down madly, and they were instantly drenched where they stood on the stairs.

"It is my time to speak!" she screamed at them over the tempest. "I am not a prize to be fought over! I am not chattel! And I am not some rope you can play tug-of-war on! I am a woman and you will let me speak my mind!"

"Elyéta, no one said you were chattel!" Linwë cried, and would have said more, but Elyéta moved on him with wild quickness and slapped him on the face. It sent him reeling backward, holding his cheek, a stunned hurt in his eyes.

"I said it was my time to speak!" she flared back. "You will never let me choose my own paths! You tried to play a mother and a father but you become a tyrant! Linwë, I love you, but it's time for you to let go!"

He opened his mouth, but she held up her hand warningly, her eyes dangerous. Rain poured over her face; it sheeted down on the streets. "Hold your peace!"

Linwë closed his mouth. Duilin, in some remote and completely calm island of his mind, thought she was crying, but could not tell. What Elyéta had done was so far from what he knew of her, he could only stare, his gaze riveted.

Not more than half of one minute had gone by. Never before had Duilin noticed how time is so much like water; that it can pass slowly, a drop at a time, even freeze, or rush by in a blink. The clock says it is measured and constant, tick-tock, part of an orderly world; the clock lies. The past thirty seconds had passed like an hour, and still, his dazed mind, shocked out of its complacent rut could only reel around. He was reaching out his hand for her when she made a strange noise, half sob, half shout, and fled into the storm.

When the last flash of her blue dress was gone, his sense of time returned. Thunder shouting overhead, he snapped his head around to see Linwë with his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking and Duilin thought he was crying. He almost reached out to comfort, then snapped his hand back. This one had brought it on his own head.

He turned and ran after Elyéta.

He found her running pell-mell along a narrow stone bridge. Below, the pond was slate-gray, pocked with raindrops. The pale flowers on its surface danced a wild waltz, and Elyéta reeled against the polished stone side. The unsympathetic cacophony of rain drowned out his footsteps, so she spun around in surprise when he touched her shoulder. The look on her face shriveled his heart.

"Elyéta-" he began and got no further.

"Close your mouth, Lord Duilin," she said, in an icy voice that carried below the storm instead of over it. "Close your mouth because whenever you open it you lie."

Her words forced him a step back, and his own anger began to boil up. "Elyéta, it wasn't like that!"

She slapped him with stinging force. "Close your mouth!" she shouted at him. "If my brother was only right about one thing, it was you! All your nobility comes from your title and not your heart!"

He put a hand to his cheek, feeling the mark of her fingers. Her hair was plastered to her face, her blue dress black.

"You lied to me about Linwë!" The shriek of the storm carried her voice up an octave. "I think you lied to me about everything else, Duilin!" Now he knows she is crying, and his eyes sting with their own tears, but he won't cry, not yet, not yet, and maybe he won't need to.

"You lied to me!" she cries, again. "And I wish by the West I never have to see you again!"

He drifts away, to that calm island in his mind, and weeps there inside, watching her lips move, deaf to her words, feeling his heart breaking and breaking and breaking.

Glass hearts? Were not all hearts, in the end, glass? So perfect and so fragile and so hard to fix?

He was drowning in a sea of uncried tears. So he walked away, feeling blank and cold inside, and wanting to cry but not able too.

Elyéta watched him go, and then crumpled onto the bridge, hugging her knees to her chest and began to cry, raw sobs that choked her throat and did not allow her to breathe.

Thunder whacked above her, and the rain pounded down, cold and cruel.

Seems that the love story between the Elf-lord and the elf-maid had a very sad end and all thanks to jealousy... as usually all this kind of relationships.

Waiting for your reviews, guys!