Leif sat on the large chair his grandfather once used, settled between the kitchen and the living room. Glass shelves, once at home in a neighbor's General Store showcased decades of accumulated junk, resting on the western wall. The inner door to a short, inner vestibule was shut tight against the blizzard; through its glass panels the outer door could be seen, stronger and heavier, but just as tightly shut. Beyond the second door was the storm door, latched against the main door's deadbolt. Triple blocks against the subzero temperatures, built to last.

Shifting to see the windows passing across the full length of the living room, Leif focused on the protective barriers. It had been fortunate they'd been installed so early – no one had expected winter to arrive so soon. In their time the windows had been pure, but decades of maintenances saw a few streaks of paint along the glass's outer edges.

Wind blasted from the north and west, hammering the walls behind his back. Unlike the southern-facing side, the northern wall had a full entry extending a dozen feet beyond the main wall and boasted a door installed at right angles. The entry was a protective structure that curled out and sideways around the house proper. People entering that way would have shelter from the wind as it broke over sharp corners, providing still more insulation within from the freezing weather.

The sky itself was dark, although the wall clock insisted the sun had to be overhead. Shuddering wind tugged at the eaves, flexing the outer window panes.

Leif smiled, and lifted his cider mug. Its contents tasted sweet and hot, impregnated with cinnamon and cloves he'd found in the spice cabinet.

"This place …" Aredhel held her own mug in both pale hands. While not shouting, the volume of her voice was above normal conversational levels. "This place is a marvel! You have filled it with food, in the off-chance of being stranded?"

With an embarrassed shrug he tried to change the subject. "Worked out."

"'Worked out'? Milord, we could remain here for months and survive, nay thrive!" A suspicious look appeared, along with an expression the rancher couldn't interpret. "Did you foresee this eventuality? The records I reviewed have not referenced such a storm in years. At least, not with frequency."

A pause bowled over the conversation as the wind rose to higher pitch and fell, warping across corners in quavering notes, matching the flickering lights. Buried power lines were a significant asset, but having a generator in the basement was one of the smartest decisions ever made, in Leif's opinion. Its quiet hum whined upward in time to the windy influx, but went back down in moments. Leif cocked an ear, just to be certain, but the small engine purred along without interruption.

"Eh, can't go wrong with stockpiling." The hot drink warmed his insides, fragrance tickling the inside of his nose. He'd have to think of doing something nice for the centaurs, once the storm was over. Their cider products were truly exceptional.

"The weather forecasts suggested thunderstorms, turning to heavy snow," she narrowed her gaze. "Perhaps you heard it on the radio? I know you do not hold with televisions or internet."

He shrugged again, taking refuge behind the wafting steam. "Eh. They're fine. Lotta noise, though. Just gotta watch the sky now and again."

"Right."

A timer dinged in the kitchen. Leif set down his beverage, on his feet before the elf could react. Her hiss of annoyance brought a smile to Leif's face, despite the twingw coming from his thigh as the pain medications wore off. The elf had issues, but was a decent enough individual, he supposed. Letting him work in his own kitchen had been a significant challenge, but a victory well-worth obtaining.

"So tell me about your folks," he donned an oven mitt, reaching into the blessed warmth of the four-burner oven to pull out a casserole. No fresh produce meant frozen and preserved foodstuffs, but such a reality did not require they live in primitive conditions. Heat emanated from the cooking apparatus, waging brutal conflict upon the encroaching cold. Temporary victory brought waves of heat to Leif's face, chilled by returning cold as he rotated away.

"Where should I start?"

He shrugged, checking on a pie still in the oven. "Jobs?"

A cleared throat sounded from the direction of the table. "My parents serve our people, the Sindrel, as minor nobility in the Shwarzerwald Föderation. We trace our line past the Uradel status, before the Romans began their march north and west. Our tasks are to establish relations with external parties, although truth be told it has been less forward in the past than current events demonstrate."

The casserole landed on the table, centered in the kitchen itself. No sense letting the warmth go to waste – steam from the oven already made frost on the kitchen window. Temperatures were bottoming out below zero, perhaps thirty degrees lower. Unusual this early in the year.

"Old, huh."

"Indeed," Aredhel alighted on the chair opposite, making a graceful gesture. "The Shwarzewalden entity has protected our people for over two millennia, until the World Wars broke out."

"Changed things a bit," Leif bowed his head over the meal, muttering the table grace. Then he looked up. "Gramps?"

Aredhel slumped. "Ah. Of course. My mother had a … dalliance."

Leif raised an unimpressed eyebrow, dishing out a serving. Freed from the container's confining structures, steam exploded into the air as he dropped a generous helping on her plate. A second heaping amount landed beside the first. "More?"

"Later, perhaps." Her eyes followed the large serving spoon. "I am an only child. If you speak with other elves you will realize this is unusual."

"Ah."

A silent nod was her only response, eyes lowered. Was it shame? Fear?

He grunted a non-indicative sound. Dysfunctional families weren't a topic discussed around the Larsen family table, along with politics. Discouraging the subject with noncommittal sounds worked with the family. Leaving a subject alone tended to bring alternative thoughts to mind; but here, it seemed to have the opposite effect judging by her pensive expression.

Neither spoke as they ate. Leif kept an ear on the wind, listening for its cessation and she thinking about whatever it was elves thought about. All storms drew to a close, even the legendary blizzard-filled winters found in history books. What had the last one been? An El Nino? Possibly La Nina – hang if he knew. There'd been a major wind every week or two, forcing the majority of livestock into shelter and a fortune in feed. Well-fed cattle generated more heat than an equivalent mass of coal, he believed. That year had been expensive in feed, but at least most of the cattle had survived.

A tinkle of metal on glass brought his attention away from the howling wind. The casserole was good; a little bland, but filling and hot. Right now calories and heat were two essential components for survival. Given the weather, Leif was glad of the supplies stashed across his ranch. It was a pain to gather, but invaluable in such times.

"I believe my mother truly loved my father." Aredhel spoke, almost inaudible below the storm. "My parents' marriage was approved if not … consummated."

He felt a little ill. This conversation was veering straight into the depths of uncomfortable.

"Mother never talked about my birth father. My face has always been different, you have no doubt noticed how my ears are much longer than other elves."

He'd noticed no such thing; there'd been more important issues to solve. Paying attention to ear shapes belonged to anthropologists and political hacks.

"As half-Spriggan, my lifespan will be double of other elves," she stared at the spoon in her hand, rolling its reflective surface in circles. "But the same cause reduces my fertility by half. An issue with hybrids, you see. I hope that does not diminish my value?"

Leif choked. "No? Uh … why?"

A relieved expression flashed across her face. "For procrea –" a massive gust slammed into the north wall, sending shockwaves through the floor. The elf's ears twitched, alarmed. "We have had many harsh winters in my homeland. But none that strike with such fury."

Leif rose again and headed for the kitchen, nodding sagaciously. "Open plains. Nothing to stop the wind. If it weren't for the windbreaks, it'd be a lot worse."

"Worse?" her spoon froze midair. "I must raise my voice to be heard, the windchill is over sixty below zero, and the forecasters predict the storm shall not cease until the evening of the morrow. Truly it brings new meaning to the phrase howling wasteland."

That made him laugh. Here in the warm kitchen, it didn't feel so bad, this place was his home. "Try livin' through it with just what you can scrounge up in a summer. Mandan tribe made big huts outta dirt and logs. Settlers dug down sometimes, or made sod huts. Winter's ain't always this bad."

Her sensitive ears caught the slight evasion he'd made. "What happens if they are?"

A sigh puffed the pie's curling vapor into chaotic threads. "It's hard out here, for some. Most leave. Takes … planning. Surviving out here."

Her manicured eyebrow rose in a delicate arch. "A proof very visible from our current position. Was that part of your plan? To ensure I was in a suitable mindset, perhaps amenable to demonstrating gratitude? Your actions today have evinced a deeper level of cunning than I have come to expect."

Leif snorted from the kitchen. Thick oven mitts protected his calloused hands, carrying the bubbling pie into view. "You're makin' it sound like I waited for a storm, and tried to kidnap you."

Aredhel blushed. "Forgive me … I did not quite mean that."

If he'd been looking, the rancher might've noticed the elf's eyes watching, as if waiting to be caught in a lie. But the moment passed in a heartbeat.

Leif's hands carried the pastry to a safe resting place on a cushioned potholder resting on Formica, a false wood layering over a pasteboard construct. The pie sat on the table, sending warm fragrance into the air. A gout of steam erupted at Leif's first cut, roiling higher than his shoulder before disappearing. Once more he could smell apples and cinnamon, with enough butter and sugar to give an elephant second thoughts.

On a day such as this, it was perfect. Sunset would come early, which meant an early bedtime. Such a thought delivered an uncomfortable twinge down his spine; if necessary he'd flee to the barn. Less the preparations it would be uncomfortable, but livable. Perhaps if he'd dig out the space heater they'd used during a brief experiment in raising sheep – yes. That could work. Or perhaps there was another plan that he could use ….

A slow smile grew. This could be fun.

"Milord?" a soft voice interrupted Leif's musings.

He set the old book down, bookmark sliding into place. Outside the sky had deepened to a pitch-black appearance, a blur of white reflecting the little patch of light his window presented to the elements. "'Red."

Aredhel sauntered around the side of the couch, trailing one hand across its back. Her lips quirked in a tiny smile. She stopped, stretching in a pose a few steps away. "Are you ready for bed?"

Leif looked straight into her face, not giving himself any chance to be distracted. His peripheral caught a vague impression of sheer fabric, and an overwhelming presence of tactically situated lace, but his focus was too honed for that. "Yah."

The little gesture turned into a large smile, showing an impressive array of perfect teeth. "I have been anticipating this moment—"

"Sorry, but no." Leif kept his hands where the elf could see them. If she'd been observant, she'd also notice the knife laid on a table across the room, well out of reach. Trust was spoken in actions, not just words. "Don't know what Ro' told you, but I ain't … ah … been with anyone. Ever. Not changin' it now."

"I … see …." Aredhel's shoulders started to slump, but remained steady. He wouldn't have caught it if it weren't for years keeping a weather eye out for potentially dangerous behavior. Their small upswing suggested the importance of her next question. "Then you are not romantically engaged with Lady Roanette?"

Leif slapped his forehead, letting out an explosive sigh. This was turning out to be un-entertaining after all. "'Red. Full honesty. I'm not interested in a relationship. Friends, sure. But I'm old school. Hanky-panky is for after marriage in my book."

A thoughtful look crossed her face. "Hmm, I can see the advantages of that. Sex tends to blur reason. Although I cannot see any advantages to waiting if you are already engaged."

"Just …" he settled back in the sofa, rubbing at a pending headache. "Look. It's how things are for me. If you want to get a boyfriend and fool around, any problems are all on you two. People are different. Liminals got a really high sex drive; I get it. But what I believe is still my belief. I ain't gonna push myself on them, and they can't push themselves on me. To me, respect means waitin', an' I respect you and Ro' too much to … do it."

Not for the first time did Leif wish he were less awkward.

The elf looked down, thinking. He let her, watching as thoughts almost visibly raced through her mind. Finally her shoulders slumped. "Fiiine." She almost flounced to the door – no, it turned into an actual flounce. Some kind of cloak came into her hand, swirling around to close in front. "Do not believe I have given up, Milord Larsen. There are many other … competitors against whom you will need to hold such resolve. They will be less respectful of your intent, if not of your desires."

Leif snorted.

After her departure Leif set up a few candles against the window. It was just enough light for working inside, and provided a potential beacon for the lost. Setting up a slow beef roast in the kitchen took even less time, arranging a steel dish under a cloth to thaw beside a sourdough jar. The latter drew his attention for a moment; had Roanette left it there in their previous visit? It was in good condition, newer than expected. It had been sitting in the deep freeze as well, nestled beside the apple pie earlier.

Shrugging curiosity away, he pushed the Mason jar a little closer to the oven's warmth. A pleasant odor wafted to his nostrils with the action. He'd have to make fresh bread in the evening. Or morning, depending.

It was a good feeling, to be honest. The sensation of being proof against the cold leant arrogance to his soul, and put time on his hands. What should he do before bed? Perhaps another chapter of On War, with an accompanying chess game? It was always interesting comparing realistic strategies to the constrained environment on the small board. There was a whole stack of books left at The Place from previous inhabitants; entertainment was not hard to come by, if one enjoyed reading.

Waking under the weight of three heavy blankets and still feeling the nip of cool air felt like home. Unbidden, Leifs memory called up images of old days, when the window was open a crack at all times, leaving a constant airflow. Rarely had it been closed; blizzards were one of the few times, but even then he'd loved the refreshing breeze in stale room. Long storms led to a lack of moving air, used and reused by nine family members. A little chill was worth it.

Cautious, he extended his head from beneath the blankets. Only the hair on the top of his head had been exposed, chilling to the touch. 'Have to break out more towels. Freeze dry 'em in the front porch.'

The air, while cool, was not as cold as he'd feared. Spending a week on insulation work during the hottest time of the year had been well-invested after all. Those memories of blistering sunshine were hard to recall, with the wind howling outside.

He cocked an ear. The wind still howled, but it wasn't as bad as the previous evening.

Quiet groaning brought his attention downward. Dunyazade was rising from the rug beside his couch. Her thick fur had seemed impervious to the cold, but he could also see that the blanket he'd draped over her was firmly in place.

"Mornin'." He pushed up with a groan of his own, flipping the blankets over his legs. Cold air rushed against his T-shirt clad torso in an invigorating blast, driving out any desire to resume slumber. "Bit cool, eh?"

Dunyazade gave him longing eyes, a pleading expression on her face.

"Ach, ya. I'll feed you." Leif almost got the first few syllables out of his mouth, but the Border collie lunged towards the kitchen, and the bag of kibble, therein. "Easy girl, easy."

On days such as today, the dogs stayed indoors, a rare treat. Dry bits of processed grain and meat clattered into the metal dish, followed by fresh water. Then Leif opted to use the shower before his guest awakened.

Once again Leif blessed the foresight of his ancestors, and himself to be perfectly accurate, in their insulating efforts. The bathroom soon filled with steam, billowing in slow undulations away from the cold window. He watched it for a minute, inhaling the humid air; what little moisture was escaping the inner seal was turning into a sheer rime on the storm window. The frigid blast met the window, and turned back.

Leaning over, he tapped the frosted glass, a mocking smile on his face. "Can't get in, no you can't."

A hot shower stimulated his senses, bringing the days activities into full view. 'Ain't anything to do out here but relax, maybe. Horses are fed, cattle are good. Can't work on the thresher … what to do?'

Near-boiling water made the experience difficult to leave, but he extracted himself from the heady sensation. Leif couldn't resist letting the water run a few more minutes as he found his pants, and shaved by feel. Steam covering the mirror prevented the more standard methods of tonsorial practice, but by now he didn't need light, let alone a mirror. A straight-edge worked more by feel than sight anyway.

He'd just started the delicate area behind the jaw, scraping the lather away from its curvature when the door swung open.

Aredhel slumped through the steam, eyes half-closed, a bundle of fabric clutched to her chest. She paid no attention to Leif, dropping the clothes on a cinderblock behind it, of which no one remembered the origin, but had long served many purposes. His own pajamas sat on the block under her clothes, perhaps resembling a covering for a very small table in her sleepiness.

"Thank you Courtney," Aredhel mumbled. The folds of her housecoat separated before Leif's shocked eyes. "Mmm. Warm."

He made an involuntary cough, having inhaled a fragment of lather, and discovered he could not stop. It was a very impolite gasp, spluttering and choking as the acetic flavor caught his taste buds. Hacking and spitting wasn't the appropriate way to alert someone of his presence, he was certain, but the alternative left a bad taste in his mouth – literally.

The elf's eyes popped open, hands freezing. Her bright orbs took in the entire room, roving around the muggy interior, stopping for a moment on the iced window before latching onto Leif's bare torso for several heartbeats. She stood there, unmoving in a deep blush that went down past her collarbone.

Leif recovered, wheezing a moment. Nothing changed, except now he could see that the flush did indeed pass by the elf's collarbone, and the very untenable choice of clothing she'd made for a cold winter's morning. He chose to attribute the visible response to the cold – and the blushing factor to the unexpected steam. A double standard, but safer for his sanity.

He cleared his throat.

Aredhel's eyes snapped to his face. Somehow, her blush intensified, turning her light tan into a dusky pink. "Sorry … um. Would you need assistance, perchance?"

He didn't miss her eyes drifting down across his bare chest again, or the slight overbite she hadn't exhibited before, front teeth nipping at her lower lip.

This was becoming irritating. For all the bipedal humanity this elf displayed, her behavior was all too similar to that of the quadruped centauride.

Taking a step took him a few inches from her front; it wasn't a long step, just a foot or two that covered the linoleum in a single stride, almost to the door. She looked up, thin eyebrows lifting over dark green eyes, long lashes fluttering over their limpid depths. Swallowing, she retreated a half step, pupils widening. One hand reached out, finding support in the door frame.

Leif kept his eyes on hers, moving forward again and forcing her to drift backwards another full pace beyond the lintel, her hand releasing the door frame. He could feel her warm breath coming at faster intervals, a faint twitching in her ears becoming pronounced. A firm look entered her expression, and she stopped moving, a dusky hunger roiling in their depths. "My … Milord?"

He leaned forward, just past the untidy blonde strands, quite unlike their usual pristine state. Her quiet gasp sent another puff of warm air against his uncovered pectorals, the same quick movement sending her pointed ears brushing against his jaw. Lowering and tilting his head made the angle just enough so a quiet whisper could reach. He licked his lips.

"Knock. First."

Stepping back and closing the door in a single smooth motion slammed a solid six feet of Live oak in the elf's face. It left her clothes on the cinderblock, but she was a big girl; she could wait a few minutes until he finished.

"Blizzards." He touched the lather on his face, dismayed at its growing rigidity. He'd have to move fast. "Drives folks loco."

It took a few minutes to finish, reworking the stubble on his upper lip. Clean shaven wasn't a warm look in winter, but having company all the time meant the usual winter standards could not be kept. Annoying, but life did not obey desires.

Fully clothed, Leif opened the door, to meet the elf's semi-glazed stare. He grunted a polite greeting, wondering a little at her behavior, but put it out of his mind. "Bathroom's yours."

Aredhel nodded feeble agreement, unmoving. Her position seemed to have not moved from where she'd backed out of the bathroom earlier – there was just enough room for him to edge past without making contact, not that it seemed to have made much difference. Given her attitude he likely could've marched a ten-man brass band past her and not triggered a reaction. Long minutes passed before he heard the door close, a muffled exclamation, and the hiss of water.

Reaching the kitchen – after a short stop to put his dirty laundry in a carrying tote for the machine back at the ranch house – and started up bacon and buckwheat flapjacks. There were no fresh eggs or fruit, nor would there be until a shopping trip or the following spring, depending. Butter froze well, as did meat of any sort; dried meat kept just as long as many other preserved goods, and The Place had been fully stocked. Running electricity there when no one had been living there seemed wasteful at the time, but he did not regret the decision now.

A faint whine caught his attention from the floor. Pitiful eyes begged from the floor, obeying the order to not beg, but making the Herculean effort visible in such a way as suggested deserving just compensation for obeying such challenging orders. Self-control was difficult when one's nose held such sensitivity, and rested in close proximity to the wonders of Bacon.

Leif glanced at the snow outdoors, blank whiteness filling the view. It looked cold, it felt cold, and held enough raw elemental fury to turn half a continent into ice. A shiver ran down his spine; getting caught in the blizzard would've been bad. Maybe not dead, but there was a strong chance.

"Good thing we're inside, eh girl?" he flicked a piece of bacon out of the pan. A silent, black-furred interceptor missile tracked the falling morsel of deliciousness, ensuring no grease endangered the floor. "Thanks. Bit of a health hazard, that could've been."

His silent guardian chuffed a modest acknowledgement, resuming her watchful guard.

A faint change met his nostrils, matched by the changing sound as the pancake reached completion. A quick flexing of the wrist sent a small wheat-based disk into the air, landing on its soft side. Fresh sizzling grew louder, joining the kitchen chorus, wafting the odor of breakfast to new heights and a smile to his face. Who could frown in the presence of fresh pancakes?

The pile grew steadily larger, golden brown circles piling upon each other. In observance of tradition, the topmost flapjack was the largest, providing insulation for those below. Where the tradition came from, Leif had no idea. But it didn't hurt anything to follow, and lent a sense of history.

In time, his guest made her appearance, announcing her presence with a mild clearing of her throat.

"Mornin'," he kept his eyes on the pan after a quick glance at her flushed face. An easy wrist flip sent the next flapjack under the blanket pancake. "Nice day to stay indoors, eh?"

The perfectly coiffed elf glanced at the scene outside. Her ears quivered. "As you say, Milord."

Bacon slid from the second pan to a plate, a healthy serving. "Just Leif. Or Larsen. Please."

She hesitated. "I will … try. Larsen."

"'Bout time someone did," he muttered. "Here. Breakfast."

Aredhel took the plate, looking at the small mountain of meat with askance. "Ah. Shall I get a serving fork, sir?"

"Wha- ?" he looked at the plate again. "Oh. No. Yours. Grab a stack of flapjacks, butter's on the table. Syrup in the fridge. Fill your boots, as Gramps says."

Another pause, and the elf added two pancakes to her plate.

Leif rolled his eyes, and filled his own plate. His own assembled assortment of flapjacks rose over three inches beside the pile of bacon. Dropping the frying pan into the water-filled sink to soak, he brought his plate to the table. After a brief bowing of the head, he added butter to the stack, glistening as it melted. Maple syrup darkened the already browned material into a mouthwatering display. It felt almost like a holiday, if it weren't for the liminal's constant presence.

Aredhel watched him before taking her first bite. "What are your plans for today Milo – Larsen?"

He gave her an approving nod. "Wait, mostly. When the blizzard eases up, we can make a push for home."

"Ah." Her eyes followed the progress of his fork. "How long will that take?"

A casual shrug lost elegance under the effects of his full mouth. It took a moment before he could swallow. "Depends. Hours, days. Don't know."

"Days?" her hand rose to cover her mouth. "Ah, not that I do not appreciate your company milo – Larsen. But storms like that could only be found in tales."

Another eloquent shrug covered for his next mouthful. "Happens now and again."

"But … but … what will we do?" a panicked look was entering her eyes. The blush had vanished, only to reappear, eyes darting around the room, looking at anything but him. "I – this morning I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking and-"

"S'fine." Bacon by itself was good. Bacon and pancakes, mixed with butter and maple syrup was divine. It shouldn't have been abused as it was so currently doing, almost inhaled. He took a moment to savor the food. "First night. Confusing."

The dusting of pink spread across her cheekbones remained firmly in place. "Yes, it was our first night together, wasn't it? Not quite what I imagined, but wonderful nonetheless."

He decided against commenting.

It was of no surprise that the elf went back for seconds. Leif did as well, somehow dropping another piece of bacon to the silent watcher below. As before, the potential grease hazard failed to threaten their footing.

"You play chess?" Leif broke the silence of silent minutes of mastication.

The elf tilted her head. "Yes? My tutor made certain I could play."

"What say you we play a round or two after breakfast?"

A bright smile, one she'd rarely exhibited before lit up her face. He liked it; it felt less artificial than some of the other expressions she'd demonstrated. "I would love too!"

Eating took up less time after that. Clearing with the elf's quick, almost inhuman speed returned the dishes to the cupboards in half the usual time. Before an hour had passed they were arranging pieces on the board in the living room, sitting parallel to the room-length windows.

'This is new,' the thought ran across his mind, surprising and yet not. 'European trained. Isn't Chess one of the most traditional games they'd have?'

Brief static on the radio proved the wind's strength, obscuring Dvorak's New World Symphony, played by the Minneapolis Philharmonic, from time to time. Leif felt almost like nothing had changed from years past, spending time with a brother out in the storms watching over cattle. Of course, his current companion was very definitely not male, and did not react the same way, jarring him out of the comfort zone at every instance.

'Make the best of it,' he moved a pawn, and watched it fall. 'Ain't her fault.'

Her playing style was intriguing, he had to admit after the first two matches. The elf was strong when it came to using bishops, but weak to multi-pronged threats. What it said about her personality was beyond him, but it was interesting. Her mannerisms were equally telling; experienced of a certainty, but given to tapping her left ring finger when conflicted, and flaring her nostrils during prolonged exchanges. On the surface, it was nothing. Combined, it started to hint at strategies.

"So Gramps is your dad?" he wasn't above a touch of psychological manipulation. Testing Roanette had been a little dangerous. This was better. No snakes.

Her eyes didn't so much as flicker. "Yes. In a manner of speaking."

Waiting a few moments failed to elicit a reaction. "So you're what. Seventy?"

She gave him a harsh look. "It is not polite to ask a lady her age."

An easy shrug gave no indication of his motives. "Can't exactly pick up a book on elves at the library. Not a real book."

Her irritated growl almost put a smile on Leif's face. He resisted.

"Elves are … long lived," she finally admitted. "We develop at slower rates – a rough comparison would place me in my mid-twenties, were I human."

Math made an end run through Leif's brain. The answer hijacked his mouth before common sense could stop it. "Something like a three to one ratio then."

Aredhel gave him a keen look. "Yes, that's one way of looking at it. We live perhaps three centuries on average. Lord Cylriborn died three years ago, after reaching his three hundred and seventy-fifth birthday."

He whistled softly. "Almost five to one there."

This time her glance had an almost hungry look to it. "You have a quick mind."

"Eh," he adjusted a knight's position. "Just business."

"Oh really?" she countered with a pawn, which he answered in turn. "Fascinating. Many humans have trouble working out simple division, let alone percentages. Are you faster with your mind, or your hands?"

Leif held up a hand, angling it so the calluses were visible. It wasn't hard, seeing her eyes snap to their durable appearance, and lick her lips. "Mind second. No contest."

Aredhel made her next move without watching the board. "Hmm. You do seem to have strong hands."

He took advantage of her distraction, but brought his arm down. A moment's distraction was one thing, but outright abusing that was quite another. Plus it was a bit disturbing, eliciting such a reaction over just a hand, the way she eyeballed it.

The elf made a disgusted noise, looking at her most recent move, the piece now sitting on Leif's side of the table, behind the board. "You did that on purpose."

Pretending innocence had never worked well for him. "Yep."

"Oh now, aren't you interesting." Her expression shifted to something he didn't recognize, but was starting to associate with Roanette and her perennial attempts to get him to 'ride' her.

Perhaps this had been a mistake.

A/N: November Writing frenzy is going strong, trying to put down 5k words per week, minimum. Working on other stories, but if all goes well, I'll increase publication next month.

A moment of silence for my Beta, whom has not responded in three months. (takes off hat, holds over chest). Be well, my friend.