Fëanor could see the uncertainty in Marisa's eyes. She wasn't used to anyone being able to resist her, and this had unsettled her. She didn't quite know what to do next.

"So," she said eventually, "what do you get up to when you're not exploring?"

"Planning my next explorations, mostly," replied Fëanor. "When I have the chance. People want to talk to me so much, now I'm a sort of celebrity. It's an awful waste of time."

"You don't mind talking to me, though," said Marisa. He was surprised by the certainty in her voice: it was a statement, not a question.

"No," he admitted. "I don't. You're less tedious than most – ordinary people." He had nearly said mortals. That would have been a horrific slip. He needed to be more careful. Even that one awkward pause would catch her attention.

Stelmaria, as aware as he was of this, swished her long tail angrily from side to side.

"I suppose that is intended as a compliment to me?" asked Marisa. "Because it could just be interpreted as a criticism of everyone else."

"Why couldn't it be both?" Fëanor asked.

"I suppose it could," admitted Marisa. "I just don't think you're the sort to give compliments lightly."

"Not normally, no. But my usual rules don't seem to apply in your case." This was true on so many levels, most of which Marisa would have no idea about. No matter how hard he tried to apply his rules with the same ruthless determination he usually did: don't get involved with mortals. Don't speak to them more than you must, don't flirt with them, and absolutely do not invite them to your apartment, he couldn't shut her out.

"Or maybe," said Stelmaria, "you haven't been trying to apply them."

Though this remark was loud enough to be heard by Marisa, it was intended for Fëanor's ears. She was right: he could cast her out, he could forget her, if he wanted to. But he didn't want to. It was too much to ask, after all these years of loneliness and dullness, that he should refuse this woman who made him happy.

Marisa was smiling sweetly again. "Why bother about rules when you could just be having fun?" she asked. "Rules are so restrictive."

"That's heresy," said Fëanor, "coming from a loyal supporter of the Church like you." He couldn't resist the opportunity; it was so fitting.

"You said it yourself," replied Marisa with a grin. "Rules don't apply to me. And you don't appear to care about them."

Fëanor couldn't stop himself breaking into an identical smile. "So, let's just do whatever we want," he concluded. "There's nothing to stop us. We could do anything we wanted together."

Marisa nodded eagerly. "We just need to decide what to do. We have a whole world at our disposal."

"Where do you want to start?" asked Fëanor.

Marisa got to her feet. "With you, of course!" She walked over to his seat and stood next to him, almost begging him to come closer.

They were no longer pretending not to care: they were filled with a passionate desire for each other and for everything. Nothing mattered, not Marisa's husband, not immortality, not anything but each other and what they could do.

Fëanor got to his feet. She was so close their bodies were almost touching. Stelmaria crept, body low to the ground, out from under the table with a purr. The golden monkey leapt into Marisa's arms and climbed up onto her shoulder.

Slowly, tentatively, Fëanor reached out one arm and encircled it around her body. Then he did the same with the other, until each hand gripped the opposite wrist, with Marisa trapped in the centre. They were still not touching.

"Asriel," she whispered.

"Marisa," he responded in kind.

As if this exchange of names had broken some invisible barrier between them, she suddenly flung her arms around his neck. Her hands felt warm and smooth, and to his surprise he found himself able to relax in her embrace.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, touching her now, there were no boundaries. He gripped her slim form tightly, but not so tightly she couldn't breathe, and lifted her effortlessly off the ground.

Out of pure, impulsive joy which he hadn't felt for millennia, he spun around, letting her fly through the air, never taking his eyes off her.

She laughed: a high, clear ringing sound which felt more real and human than anything he'd heard from her before. Her eyes flickered, closed and then open, then closed again.

Fëanor set her gently down on her feet and pulled her closer. She looked up at him with adoring eyes (he wondered briefly whether the expression was faked, then decided he didn't care).

Slowly, almost without thinking about it, they drew closer, eyes closed, until their lips finally met.

Marisa's lips tasted just as sweet as he'd thought they would, if he'd thought about it at all, but thoughts seemed to slip from his grasp as he felt the brush of her hand against his neck and the softness of her hair against his hand.

He felt Stelmaria, giving up the attempt to talk him out of this, spring into the air and pounce on the golden monkey. The dæmon didn't struggle under her claws but relaxed, allowing her to press gently but firmly into his fur.

The moment seemed to last forever, just feeling the presence of each other and the intimate contact between them. Fëanor wished it could have lasted forever, but he knew better than most that everything in these mortal worlds would fade and die.

And end it did, when Marisa pulled away from him. He let her go, although it made his heart ache to do so.

"I should go," she said. "Edward will be wondering where I am. I'll send you a message."

And with that, she was making her way to the door, wine still only half-drunk.