In case you forgot: this story is a collaborative effort with the awesome Ruiniel. This is how it goes: we both use the same outline of events, main canon characters, and OC. We follow the same plotline, but our stories will each have a different direction and, ultimately, ending. Just thought it would be a fun project to see where we each go with the same story. Be sure to follow that version too, if interested to join our ride!

The twin story to this is: Amarth - Downfall by Ruiniel

03 - Fornost - Bloodhunt

She woke with a start to a featherlight caress on her forehead and a soft voice calling her.

"Wake up, Captain." The voice was gentle and a smile shone through it.

Her stirring released a rustling sound of leaves and she remembered the night before with effort, up till the moment she crashed into a thick layer of leaves underneath a large oak. It was a long time ago since she slept so peacefully at the foot of a tree. The woods of her home were too dangerous for such careless sleeping arrangements.

Specks of sunlight teased her eyes when she opened them. Too close for comfort were Galen's green eyes, for a moment, their usual sharp mirth replaced by gentle fondness.

His words were playful. "Your encounter with the Lord of the Golden Flower has made you lose your way last night! I have been searching for you for a while now."

Merriment danced in his eyes now and his teasing irked her this morning. "I wanted some time alone." she said gruffly. "Is there any news to report? That you made such an effort to track me down?"

He grinned knowingly. "Just that the same Golden Lord has made his appearance in person this morning. You are invited into the Hall of Fire for breakfast, together with the other high-ranking officers. Breakfast. And after that okhor-pharalē." His eyes glinted when he spoke of the Bloodhunt, a treasured tradition for the elves of Eryn Galen.

It made her thoughts come to a halt abruptly. Okhor-pharalē. She saw flashes of golden tresses, his movements had been smooth and graceful, nothing like the stealth of her people, but a bold agility and visible skill, capable of meeting his adversaries head on. Then a spray of blood, the sudden cry of an animal. She wondered if she would see him during the hunt here, like she had witnessed in secret under the cover of the large trees of her home. The metal cold and glinting as he took the soft warm life, the blood nurturing the earth that gave birth to all, completing the cycle. He had known of course. And he had looked up, staring her straight in the eyes. But he did not betray her there, nor called her out. And afterwards in her father's palace he had not judged her nor belittled or lectured her for it.

Would he partake in the hunt today? She felt excitement, but was unsure if it was out of eagerness or apprehension.

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Her brother had not ceased to irritate her. She watched him with dark eyes over the tables cluttered with plates, cups, cutlery and bowls. He leaned easily backwards in his chair, one elbow resting on the armrest, holding up a steaming cup of tea, while he was in conversation with one of Elrond's sons. She was unable to pinpoint which of the brethren it was, for their appearance was uncannily similar. She recognized underneath Legolas' polite interest, an eagerness for information. His eyes were too intent on the conversation for it to be idle breakfast chatter.

On her right side, Galan enjoyed his breakfast while conversing with Lord Glorfindel who was sitting next to him, to her relief. Instead she was drawn into conversation with the tall and proud Captain that was introduced to her as Lord Tessarion the day before. A delicate looking elleth with hair the color of fresh snow, sat opposite of him, following their conversation with interest, adding to it now and then. Zeale, she bore a strange and foreign name, but her way was straightforward and honest, a very un-Ñoldor-like trait Morwen decided. She liked the elleth, and learned that she served under Captain Tessarion in the Imladris Guard. Another prejudice breached; a female Ñoldor warrior. Despite their efforts to tone their fëa's down, she noticed the strong bond they shared and she wondered about it.

"How fares the relationship with Laketown presently, Captain Morwen? I believe your King has been honing a steady trading partnership with them? No doubt to keep up with his taste for Dorwinion wine?"

Tessarion surprised her with his detailed knowledge on the trading networks of her home, and her father's personal weaknesses, turning an easy early morning conversation into a perilous one. She stared at him for a moment bewildered, caught off guard by the combination of jest and earnest, her morning mind frantically trying to remember what she could and could not share.

"I believe trade will never cease to exist between our realms. Survival is a precious enterprise in the forest and some products we cannot manufacture ourselves like the people of Laketown do".

At his frown she added, "Our smiths need ore and our healers specific substances from the far eastern and southern regions."

Tessarion nodded in understanding. Then he said carefully, "When you speak of survival, are you referring to the ever denser growing eaves of your home, or the accompanied growing spider infestation?"

She fell silent for a moment. It was clear he knew of their predicament. How did Elrond obtain this intelligence about her home? It was no use denying it. She glanced quickly at Legolas who was enraptured in conversation with the dark haired sons of Elrond. The silence of one of them, betraying their identity.

Zeale seemed to sense her unease at her Captain's questioning and intervened politely, "Forgive my Captain. His curiosity casts his prying eyes in places where they are not wanted." She looked at him pointedly.

Morwen waved her concern away. "It is all right, Lady Zeale. I do have an answer for him."

"Please, call me Zeale. I am just a soldier." She inclined her head and Morwen wondered if the elleth knew of her own status.

"Very well then, Zeale."

She faced Tessarion again, "It is true the shadows under the trees grow darker evermore, Captain Tessarion. Death is never far from life. We cherish all things that aid us in maintaining the balance between dark and light. But at great costs. Many of my people have died. And the numbers of our enemies increase each year." Her eyes darkened.

Tessarion said softly. "Forgive me, Princess, I do not wish to sadden your heart. Let us talk of lighter subjects?" He took a sip from his tea. "It has come to my attention, that our Enderi traditions are showing similarities and we can expect a joined Bloodhunt today?"

She lifted her chin at that, ignoring his question. "I do not care to hide our difficulties. It is the reason we are engaging in this war. We need the evil to be pushed back."

He gave her a curt nod. "That we all agree upon."

"But none has more incentive than my people." She stated it passionately, her hand gripping her cup forcefully.

"Perhaps." Tessarion spoke thoughtfully, sharing a short look with his female companion, and Morwen felt the familiar sinking feeling in her stomach that occurred when she spoke too rashly.

She drank her cup of tea in one gulp to distract herself, relieved when Zeale's soft voice resounded without a hint of mockery. "Do you wish to wake up at the training grounds, Morwen?"

Her discomfort fell away like magic and Morwen grinned. "I would be honored."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The training grounds were vast and busy, but Zeale found a small area where they could train. The elleth was grace and delicacy personified, but as soon as she picked up her sword, Morwen recognized the warrior within her. And soon enough, she attacked with an agile flurry of movement, her aim sure and strong, her skills smart and brutal and Morwen found herself gasping in excitement.

At first it was a test of skill. Morwen tried tactics that were favorites of Galan, straightforward with a twist. When Zeale parried her with ease, she used some that Legolas and her father taught her. But Zeale again parried all her moves with clinical detachment, her gaze serious, her movements sure and without hesitation, despite the foreign tactics of her opponent.

Morwen was one of the top sword fighters in Eryn Galen, different in style from her brother, but she matched Legolas's skills. And she had not been bested against her will by another sword in a long time. But she grudgingly had to admit to herself, that this would happen now, if she were not careful.

She had to take Zeale seriously. It was a misconception, even amongst her kin, that a master swordsman had easy battles. She knew better. She might be a master herself, but the margins to be winner or loser were small and one could not be too vigilant in a match. Victory was hidden within details, never in the larger gestures, lest it bordered on stupidity.

Then a flash of gold in the corner of her eye and she felt him there, Glorfindel. He witnessed her sparring, her brother next to him and in the background two dark heads, probably the twins. A strange sense of pride filled her, the kind that was all consuming and paralyzing. She was a stranger here and had her honour and that of her people to uphold. She could not lose in front of such an audience! Not in front of her people. Her line did not have the luxury of failure.

Things sped up. Snowwhite hair blurred her vision, and she found herself barely able to react, for each blow was strong and steady, like the hammering of a smith on metal. And each blow forced Morwen back, if only a little. She recognized her weakness, her mind was not here in the fight, she was fighting other enemies in her head, but mainly herself. Barely keeping to her feet, she was forced backwards, Glorfindel's gaze burning against her spine.

Then, her emotions gained the upper hand and anger stirred, steeling her resolve. No! She refused to lose here. Not on Ñoldor territory. Her father's fury would be everlasting, her reputation would take centuries to rebuild. Forced by circumstance, she gritted her teeth and caught Zeale's sword with her left hand without thinking. She gripped the metal with force, a dangerous tactic, if it slipped out of her hold, she would lose the use of her hand without a doubt. It was imperative to be stronger than the moving metal. Just the right amount of strength combined with flow. And with a sickening soaring pain, the blade cut in her palm, forcing blood.

For a slow moment, Morwen noticed Zeale staring at her blade in confusion. And Morwen used this moment of distraction to slip her weapon past Zeale's now paused defences. She rested her sword lightly on her opponent's neck artery. Demanding victory.

Zeale stared at her shocked. "Why did you do that? You injured yourself!"

Morwen shrugged, bending down to wipe her hand clean on the grass. "It is nothing."

But when she stood, she noticed from the corner of her eye, Glorfindel shaking his head, turning and walking away. And her victory felt tainted instantly. She had lowered her guard and shown the entire training ground her petty issues and she could not help feeling depressed. Curse this place. And curse her own complicated character. All was simpler in the woods of her home.

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Lord Glorfindel stood beneath a large oak tree, the oldest within the vale of Imladris. The sun reached the zenith within the hour, an important moment during the Enderi, for it marked the start of the ritual hunt. Sunlight fell through the leaves bathing the surroundings in a soft and gentle green light. He stood waiting, listening to the sounds of the forest around him, alone for a moment. Soon others would gather and the hunt would start.

Like each year, he felt boyish anticipation. He found the hunt for first blood exhilarating, the rituals surrounding it meaningful. Its origins were lost within the age of awakening when his kindred were charged with consciousness near Cuiviénen.

After the extinguishing of the light on the first day of the Enderi, this offering of death on the second day held great meaning. The spilling of blood marked the return of the light and the start of new life. Life followed upon death and it was during the Enderi that he felt, deep down in his fëa, that he was the epitome of that truth. Rebirth, there existed no life without death.

The hunt was performed by volunteers, and this time the host of Eryn Galen would participate. Being a student of war, he felt eager to see their skills and wondered if Thranduil's offspring would participate themselves or choose champions. His mind flitted towards Morwen's friendly spar with Zeale, early this morning.

It had disappointed him for a moment, that she was ruled by pride still, all his teachings forgotten. She resembled Thranduil too much, their tempers alike, as their skills with the sword. Zeale was exceptional with a sword, they had been evenly matched, but Morwen's impatience and realisation that high ranking nobles were witnessing the fight, made her decision rash, a decision that could cost her everything, had she chosen to do so in a real battle.

His mind wandered, lost in time, after a while stopping at the day he first met her when he brought her mother's body home.

He had noticed a small girl, fleeing the palace grounds on a giant deer stag, a magnificent animal. When he tracked her down, he found her forlorn in the Greenwood, turned within herself. He had tried to comfort her with words, "Well met, little love. I am called Glorfindel. And what is your name?"

"Finglor?" She had jumbled the syllables of his name. It was obvious she felt silly, but he had laughed her concern away.

"Won't you tell me your name, little love?"

"Morwen. My name is Morwen."

He knew then and felt infinite sadness at learning of her birthright, for all the sorrow that he felt, would not quench her mourning.

The memory was swept away by the reality of his surroundings and the rustling of dry leaves stirred by a steady gait. Elrond himself stepped forward, clad in a dark grey mantle. He cast his grey eyes on Glorfindel speaking with a soft voice: "It is time. Are you volunteering?"

"I am."

"One day, I might understand, mellon. But until then…"

Glorfindel laughed at his quip. Elrond did not participate in these rituals, nor his children. A silent rule, unwritten, on social status among his people, but Glorfindel held no regard to such decorum.

He was older and existed outside the social order within Elrond's sphere of power. He served Elrond, but on his own terms. It was a silent agreement.

Partaking in these rituals gave him a sense of revitalisation. As if his body and mind were reset to be able to bear another year. He cherished this feeling, to leave his ego behind, to refrain from being Lord Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, Balrog Slayer and just be himself in his purest simplest form. To forget, if only for a fleeting moment, the weight of his years and the weight of the task set on his shoulders by the Valar.

A sharp voice resonated in the silence behind them. A lazy sneer it seemed, but it was all good fun. "Well.. I'm game. Teach me how to value these primitive rituals then, Lord Glorfindel?"

Tessarion walked up to them, clad in his usual brown colors, surrounded by a dark blue mantle, set with fur. His hair in warrior braids as was his custom when heading towards any fight. It made him seem feral, like a falcon or hawk, but his eyes were too soft and smiling to hold that illusion down. He was gifted with a loose and easy manner, jokes and quips came easy, but underneath was a harsh unforgiving captain, who would lead his men with hard training, hard words, hard challenges without remorse. It was a trait that Glorfindel was weary of and envied all the same, and it had changed Tessarion's Guard into a force to be reckoned with.

Movement at their backs alerted them to the arrival of a large group of Eryn Galen elves. They were softly speaking, some singing, many laughing. They ignored the presence of their host, seemingly giddy with anticipation.

Then finally two dark shapes and Elladan and Elrohir joined them in silence, until Elladan broke it, "My Lords, I wonder if you are capable of maintaining the status and honour of Imladris while confronted with the youthful stamina of our woodland cousins? You are after all...forgive my candor… older."

Elrohir cut in with a gruff voice, dead serious; "Aye, brother. Well spoken. They are indeed in danger of being outshone by the light footed Silvans or even their Sindar superiors."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. Elrond snickered. Tessarion watched them with piercing eyes and quipped: "Beware of your wording, Elrondions. I might ask your father permission to take you along with the Guard after our battle, for one of our longer patrols."

Elrohir did not reply, reverting back into his usual silence. He stood next to his brother, their mantles wrapped around them, their features noble, grey eyes calm, all jesting disappeared while staring at the preparations of the Mirkwood elves.

Elladan noted softly: "Such wildness, such recklessness."

Glorfindel frowned at him. But Elladan continued: "Ai! See how they treat the phuinē, gulping it down! I will be surprised if they can run in a straight line!"

Elrond looked grave. "They drink phuinē like it were miruvor…they risk the health of body and mind, do they not know of the danger the herbs entail?"

Glorfindel, recalling old memories, spoke quietly, contesting the harsh judgement of his kin, "It is a tested recipe, but differs in potency from your phuinē, Elrond. While your concoction gives the drinker a slight rouse, this one enhances the experience of the hunt and makes the drinker less sensitive to pain or trauma. It tends to pull them into the now, future and past are nullified, aiming their focus on the hunt only. I witnessed it when I visited Eryn Galen. There is no danger here, for they are careful with the dosage, even if it does not seem so." He concluded with a shrug; "This is merely a difference in custom."

Elrond sighed, closing his grey eyes, so much alike those of his sons for a moment. "You are enjoying this, are you not?"

Elladan said dryly, without removing his eyes from the wood elves. "Do not fret father, it is clear that Lord Glorfindel's sole aim is to get rid of his garments in front of that lovely wildwood princess and show off his hunting skills."

Elrond scolded his son with a low hissing voice and Glorfindel felt irritation about the remark and the insinuation. He reacted in like, biting towards him. "She has been my ward, while staying in Eryn Galen, Elladan. She was a child then, and a child still."

Breaking his silence, Elrohir's rugged voice resounded, irritation clear in his voice at his superior's childish defensive arguing; "I dare say she is a child no more. And neither are you. Forgive me for stating the obvious."

Glorfindel could not help but cast his eyes towards the group of Eryn Galen warriors at Elrohir's snide words. He noticed more and more stripped of their garments. And in their midst, both brother and sister stood nude and vulnerable, weaponless, hair without braids, bare footed. His eyes slid involuntarily to Morwen, following the curves of her body. She stood with her back halfway turned towards him, long dark tresses forming a silk curtain encapsulating her. To his amazement he noticed a subtle set of vertical markings on her back that ran half way. Vertical short lines in an even pattern in blue ink, like the notes of a bookkeeper. The simplicity of the markings held a certain beauty, but he doubted if they held esthetic value.

She held herself with pride, her body at ease. She had a warrior's muscle tone, attractive curves in all the right places, long slender legs and delicate feet. He wetted his dry lips.

Elladan's teasing murmurs registered slowly, until he felt hands tugging on his tunic; "Well, my Lord, let us dress you how the Valar intended, it is impolite to let the lady wait. We will safeguard your garments within your quarters."

The cold was pleasant he noted when he stood, sobering his spirits, alerting his mind. He accepted an ancient bow and quiver with arrows, accompanied by a single knife from Elrond, his ritual weapons. Cursing softly next to him, Tessarion was still struggling with the bindings of one of his knife sheaths around his calf.

One of the Eryn Galen elves, the red haired one he recognized as Morwen's second-in-command, approached with a flask of potion. He gave a curt bow, "Please my Lords, share phuinē with us?"

Tessarion, finally stripped from his garments, fell forwards with a sudden movement, steadying himself with his right foot. He forced Galan a step backwards without meaning to. Tessarion stood tall, staring down at the smaller wood elf harshly. He eyed the potion with suspicion. Glorfindel nodded at him. "Drink, Captain. It will not harm you."

Tessarion drank a large gulp then and Gorfindel took the flask next, letting the burning liquid fill his mouth and throat. A drop slid down his chin when he was done and he stared yet again at Morwen over the clearing while he wiped it away. His anticipation had made way for apprehension at the prospect of sharing this intimate experience with her and her kin.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Phuinē infiltrated her mind. Chasing after a large herd of deer, Morwen felt the potion working. Running into the soft breeze, its force enhanced by her movement, she hoped to keep undetected, but the animals were skittish, dancing just out of reach. A flurry of determined force and she recognized her brother's fëa, hidden in the greens. She felt other warriors at a near distance, hot on their heels. The Ñoldor seemed out of sight for now, but she knew they were quick to follow.

The ground beneath her feet was warm with life, she became increasingly aware of the energy harnessed within the fabric of the forest. The trees were becoming a subtle presence in her mind. The deer, far ahead in the distance, seemed closer to her mind and she could feel their vibrating energy following in the wake of their swift hooves. Her heartbeat in search of their rhythm longing to align with theirs, with all life around her.

Phuinē was distorting her sense of self now. The heartbeat of her prey was all encompassing, demanding her focus, forcing her to run. She felt more and more like a force, nameless, eternal, a tool within the fabric of nature, of life and death. A hunter in search of prey. There was only the movement through space, the energy around her and the heartbeat of her prey, a beacon that beckoned her through the trees.

There was no feast tonight. No impending war. No throne. No responsibilities. No honour. No self pity. There was only the hunter and the prey and the competition of other hunters chasing.

Then the potent smell of a rutting stag in the air and she diverted from the chase abruptly. Legolas' eyes followed her wearily and held a warning. But he did not stop. He was high on phuinē, his pupils dilated to such an extent that it rendered his eyes almost black.

Silence descended upon her then and Morwen felt like she could hear a leaf fall if she wanted to. The air thickened in anticipation. Where was that stag? Then she noticed a flash of gold behind her and felt his fëa flaring. But she did not heed him, her focus lay on following her nose. She knew that smell, she had Twig as a companion in her early years of life and she knew the behaviour of deer, maybe better than her kin. The stag would be straying from the herd in search of a female.

She was still running but could hear the soft tread of Glorfindel behind her. A vague thought flashed through her: he was stealthy for a Ñoldor. Another whiff of rutting and she stopped. So much stronger. The stag was close.

She took her bow, notching an arrow with swift hands, while leaping lightly over tree roots and rocks. Without looking at her pursuer, she motioned towards a large area with tightly interwoven undergrowth. From the corner of her eye she noticed him notching an arrow as well, his movements certain. She had never seen him with a bow and arrow and for a moment the strangeness of it lifted the fog in her mind and she thought it seemed out of place in his hands.

On silent feet they moved like spirits. She could feel the animal hidden behind a large tree. The oak had seen more years than she had and she looked up at its eaves in awe, revelling in its magnificence. The stag did not hide himself when they rounded the tree but stood with pride, staring down at them, in calm acceptance of his demise it seemed.

She held her breath, aiming for its neck. She knew there was just enough distance for the arrow to gain enough momentum to sever its spinal cord, rendering it paralyzed and make it bleed out. She concentrated, squinting her eyes, muscles almost ready to release.

Suddenly, the magnificent stag reared its head, the heavy antlers following the movement, straining the powerful neck, gazing to the side. The hairs on her neck stood all of a sudden, a premonition evading her system. Fear spiked inside her and the stag leaped away with one strong movement and she knew it was the stags' fear she felt surging through her body.

Glorfindel, tall and strong beside her hissed then, and before she knew it, he had pushed her hard, making her stumble to the ground. A whizz and a heavy thud then a spear drove itself with force into the oak tree behind her.

Glorfindel's hand grabbed her arm with force, pulling her upwards, dragging her with him around the tree trunk and a second spear hit the bark with a sickening thud. She stood panting with her back towards the tree, her brain acting on its own, fighting the rouse of the potion.

"How many?"

"Uncertain." His voice was clipped but unhurried. "Watch it now. Here they come."

A battlecry resounded, and four orcs came into view and Glorfindel cursed. She was in concord. It was a bad situation. Two against one and they had no physical protection, hunting nude, armed with only a bow and arrow and one knife, high on phuinē.

But phuinē was not a disadvantage, for she felt the bloodlust rise in her and shutting all nagging questions and insecurities out, she leaped towards their enemies, arrow at the ready, aiming for an orc neck just the same. Bloodhunt they called it, and blood would be spilled. Only death could bring forth life.

Time blurred with action and movement then. There were flashes of a knife against an iron sword, arrows being shot, cries of agony within the forest, flashes of gold hair. She moved without thinking, acting on instinct falling into sync with her body, with the forest, with the life pulsing around her. And then finally falling into sync with death, watching thick blood seep into the earth giving life back to it.

But then a strong arm pulled her hair, forcing her backwards, choking her. Her windpipe was being crushed and a blade was pulled over her chest in slow agony. She closed her eyes, preparing to jump from the creature's hold with a backward flip, when golden strands swirled into her blurred vision. It distracted her, while she made sense of it, making her see black spots, trying to breathe. A cry then and the pressure fell back and black eyes with a small rim of cornflower blue, heavy with phuinē, tried to find her. Tears came then while she coughed back the strength in her windpipe and his smell penetrated her nose.

He held her painfully, staring at her as if starved. Blood spatters marred the whiteness of his skin, an intense contrast to the blue of his eyes. And she felt an all consuming want. She pressed her lips to his, forcing his mouth open, losing herself in the wet softness of him. He complied.

A moan escaped her, breaking the magic and he pushed her back making her stumble. She stared down at him. He sat back on his haunches suddenly, his intoxicating presence pulled away from her leaving her bare. He looked dazed, golden strands a mess, one stubborn lock stuck to his wet lips, pupils dilated, his breathing laboured. She watched his taut pulled muscles, the energy standing on edge in his body, ready to strike. Then her gaze lowered and her nostrils flared while her heartbeat increased; he was aroused, his member strong and thick between his legs.

Her instincts flared sharply, and he stood, holding out his hand, demanding hers. She stood eye to eye with his wet lips. She already mourned the vague knowledge that tomorrow, when phuinē would have left their system, this memory would be dreamlike and unreal.

The moment was short lived, instinct was ruling him and dark want floated on the surface. With one smooth motion he grabbed her, forcing her to straddle his hips while he pressed her back into the tree behind them. She felt his member against her pelvis and heat took her, making her moan.

He forced his lips against hers but did not kiss her… his breath heavy through his nose. One of his hands pressed into her thigh forcefully, the other slid behind her neck into her hair. Then his voice whispered, two words of old, in their wake a world of memories: "Pîn meleth."

She froze, when the past collided with the present. The contrast was stark. Memories of childhood, of safety and comfort were at odds with the heat that consumed them now. They were equal, she met him here in adulthood and felt the force of life run through them like quicksilver. They could not resist their instincts, she felt like a prey to them.

When he moved against her with force, a soft moan escaped her "Fin….". The start of another memory, but her words were left unfinished when the scent of the stag penetrated her nose once more, potent, filled with life, moving over the stench of orc blood.

She saw him act without thinking, releasing her, grasping his bow, his lean body effortlessly sprinting after his quarry. She mourned the loss of his warmth for a moment, but the heartbeat of the stag smothered all want and all thought and she ran after the flash of gold in the distance.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Upon return they did not share, neither emotions nor experiences. The haze was dissipating, their memories already vague and confusing. The hunters washed at the warm springs at the far west end of the Imladris settlements and then all left to find their bearings once again.

That same night, a feast was prepared to share the spoils of the hunt and Glorfindel found himself dressed up, carefully finding his way underneath the eaves of the trees towards the wood elves' encampment. He felt out of place, the return of mind into the body had been slow and still he felt not entirely like himself yet, albeit the fear of never returning to 'normality' had slowly faded and he could see and feel the future once again, its weight pressing on him.

But another matter was pressing harder still and he had trouble touching the memories in the wood with Morwen. Every time he recalled the kiss, shame and guilt too intense to bare flooded his mind. He felt her lips on his still, his fingers remembering her soft skin, the hard muscles beneath it. The memories were a blur, lost in the haze of instinct, want and urge. He was certain that it would have all been lost in the delirium of the bloodhunt, were it not for the shame that he felt lusting after his former charge.

His whole being screamed at him to turn away and lock himself up in his room. He stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath. There was no escape from this. He knew their laws held no power during the bloodhunt. But he wronged her. He wronged the Princess of Eryn Galen, he wronged a guest of his Lord Elrond. And he had no idea how to make amends.

Even so. He hoped she had forgotten. But when he entered the open area underneath the trees, watching the Eryn Galen elves dance in the moonlight he met the burning eyes of Morwen head on. And one glance into their depths told him that she remembered all. And he could see in her eyes that she had no intention to either forget nor evade the topic.

She strode towards him as soon as she took note of him. He watched her approach with apprehension, wondering in amazement at the smallness of her in comparison with her powerful presence during the bloodhunt. She held a cup filled with wine in her right hand, and when she stood before him she offered him the drink with a bow of her head.

Silently he took the offering and thanked her politely.

When she looked up at him her eyes held burning, sparkling heat and she hissed, only for him to hear. "If you speak of it, I will make you suffer."

He blinked at her and watched her retreat back to the fire towards the company of her red haired second-in-command. The latter watched him curiously over her shoulder, eyes curled in amusement. And Lord Glorfindel stood alone, awkward and confused, and felt young all of a sudden.

"phuinē" (primitive Elvish) - deep shadow, night shade (elfdict)

"Okhor-pharalē" (primitive Elvish, fanmade) ~ blood hunting