Revised February 2022

Staging Post

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III III III

When Anne woke up, everything was warm and soft around her.

Then the pain registered, slowly creeping in as she became more conscious. Her shoulder hurt and so did her back, with a dull, throbbing consistency. Pretty much all of her right side felt stiff and achy. She was lying on her stomach, and her face seemed to be surrounded by fluffy fur or hair that was tickling her nose.

Anne blinked her eyes open, then quickly squeezed them shut again at the stinging onslaught of daylight. Breathing in, she smelled wool, musty and slightly gamy. Her head was pounding dully, her lips were dry and chapped. Her throat felt completely parched. With a groan she rolled over on one side, instinctively choosing the one that didn't hurt, and tentatively squinted around herself.

She appeared to be in some sort of cave. The slanted walls were naked, uneven stone. The ground was covered with sand and papery, old leaves, but looked fairly dry. Daylight was coming from somewhere above her and from a broad tunnel that seemed to lead outside. Upon further inspection, Anne's 'bed' consisted of several sheepskins, curly and dark-grey with patches of white. Underneath them was yet another, larger pelt — thick and blackish-brown, and much sleeker.

With a lurch to her stomach, Anne realised that her upper body was naked, except for a few linen bandages that were wrapped around her chest and right shoulder. At least she was still wearing her underwear, and a thin blanket was covering her. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but during that time someone had obviously undressed her and treated her injury. The question was, who, and where were they now?

Anne's heartbeat was throbbing at the base of her throat as she stared around herself. Had she been rescued after all? What happened after that strange man shot her? She appeared to be alone, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. The cave was not very large. Her makeshift bed was at the back wall, and through the slightly curved passage, Anne could just see the entrance from where bright sunlight shone in.

Along the tunnel were several niches, or small alcoves that were cast in shadow, as well as a slightly larger opening that might be another passageway. Near the entrance, someone had built a fire pit, framed by large stones, and there was a neat stack of wood against the wall to its side. Even from here, Anne could see that the embers in the pit were still glowing.

It was very warm. Beneath the thin blanket, her back was drenched in sweat and the wool of the sheepskin felt damp against her skin. Anne could hear birdsong and the occasional hum of insects. Somewhere far away and unreachable, a crow cawed, slow and monotonous.

Anne tried to swallow the lump in her throat and licked her cracked lips. She needed to get up, she decided. Look for something to drink and find out how much damage exactly had been done to her shoulder and the rest of her body. Whoever had taken care of her had to be nearby, surely?

Shakily, she started to sit up, unable to stifle a moan when the dull pain in her shoulder blade increased at once. The movement also caused slight dizziness, and a wave of nausea rolled through her.

"Stay where you are."

Anne flinched and froze in the process of getting to her knees. Heart pounding, she scanned the curving passage, her eyes drawn to a movement by the opening in the cave wall near the entrance. Anne had never heard the deep-toned, clear voice before, but she recognised him as he stepped soundlessly from the shadows. The clear-cut features and the dark, glittering eyes were the same, and so was the cold stare he was now fixing her with. His movements were not right, somehow. They were too graceful, too light to be normal. Inhuman.

The cloak and hood were gone. He wore a thigh-length tunic made of dark cloth and breeches that were laced at the calves. The long hair was loose, shining faintly like dark bronze in the dim light. The bow and quiver were nowhere in sight either, Anne noted. There was probably no use in shooting her twice, she thought with a touch of hysteria. The question of what else he might do to her flitted through her head though, and fear settled in her stomach, heavy and sickening.

"What is your name?"

The stranger's deep voice seemed to glide down Anne's skin, cold and smooth as silk. He spoke with the slightest accent, a bit lilting and barely perceptible. Her waking up must have interrupted him in the middle of dressing or changing. He was tying a fastening on his tunic even as he approached her and then rolled up his sleeves, baring white, long, sinewy forearms.

"Why? What's yours?" Anne blurted.

Her voice hitched with nerves, but there was a sort of desperate defiance to it, which probably startled her more than him. Perhaps it was the pain, or fear, or just the simple fact that she was still alive. As matters stood, Anne felt like she was teetering between truculence and hysteric weeping.

The man's face remained impassive. He simply paused a couple of steps away from her, cocked his head as though considering her demand and crossed his arms over his chest. A sturdy-looking belt was slung twice around his hips, and there was some sort of dirk or long dagger strapped to it, sheathed in a scabbard of silver-tipped leather.

Under the cave's low ceiling, the stranger appeared even taller than back out there in the woods. Despite her unfavourable position on the ground, Anne was certain he must have at least a foot on her, and she wouldn't have been surprised if it was more. While his height and long limbs made him look slender, he had the broad shoulders and powerful upper body of an archer.

Not that Anne needed the reminder. Her heart dropped and she felt ill. Even if she were in a much better condition, she would stand no chance against him.

"You may call me Delior," he now said softly, "provided it agrees with the common tongue of your people."

"My people?" Distracted from her disheartening observations, Anne stared at him, open-mouthed and bewildered.

"Yes..." His eyes trailed down her huddled-up form and back towards her face. "Men."

"So, then you are..." Anne swallowed, feeling a vague suspicion confirmed.

"Yes?"

"One... One of the Elves?" Anne finished haltingly. "Eldar?" she added as an afterthought, as the strange-sounding term suddenly leapt into her head.

His eyes narrowed slightly. He still had his arms folded, and Anne saw the fingers resting on his bicep twitch and relax again. They were very long.

"I am Elda, yes," he said slowly, his gaze skimming across her face in calm scrutiny. "Where did you learn that word?"

"I just... heard someone mention it, I think," Anne muttered.

As she tried to remember who that someone had been, she couldn't help staring at the Elf. He was so close in appearance to a man that it made the things that didn't quite fit all the more disconcerting; the towering stature, the slightly-too-smooth way that he moved. His flesh was so pale that it seemed to glow, as if a soft light had been set right into the skin.

Anne couldn't see the barest shadow of a beard, and yet there was the heaviness of age on him — the prominent cheekbones, the tiny, barely visible lines beside his eyes and nose. There was something in both his glance and his bearing that made him seem far older than he could possibly be.

The long, unbound hair and catlike movements evoked the image of something feral and dangerous. At the same time, his whole demeanour exuded an almost unsettling composure and a carefully contained strength. It was all deeply odd and caused Anne to feel terribly small, weak and defenceless.

Something was odd about the Elf's voice, too. Deep and rich, it would have been pleasant to listen to, but it was almost unnaturally clear. There were no broken sounds to it, nothing jerky. It rolled and rippled like water. Anne couldn't remember ever having heard something like it before. Then again, Anne couldn't remember much to begin with.

"Those people in the woods, who attacked me," she finally mumbled — if only to fill the silence, to think of something tangible. "What... do you know who they were?"

Again, Delior tilted his head to the side as if pondering her question, or perhaps to express displeasure. It caused the shadows on his face to change and for a moment Anne had the eerie impression of his skull shining through the skin in the twilight. He shifted again and the illusion was gone.

"Are you referring to those I shot?"

That was probably supposed to mean that he didn't. Perhaps it was simply elvish custom to shoot at everything they didn't know. Anne was glad that he had done so, she just wished he would have stopped there.

As though he had read her thoughts, Delior went on, "I assumed you belonged to them."

Despite her apprehension, she could not stifle an appalled gasp. "Belong to them! They attacked me!"

"When I arrived, it did not look like an attack. I only realised my mistake when it was too late."

Anne let out a shuddering breath. Mistake he called it. The fact that he could have easily killed her as well didn't seem to bother him much. Of course, now that she thought about it, the pain in her back appeared to redouble. Delior lowered his dark gaze slowly to Anne's collarbone as if, once again, he had read her mind. It briefly occurred to Anne that for all she knew, he might very well possess that ability.

Her headache and faint nausea were growing worse. The dizziness was making it hard to concentrate, and Anne was struck with a sudden sense of unrealness. Perhaps she was still asleep, all of this a fever dream? But no — surely she would feel more comfortable then. The wound in her back hurt and the flesh around it was itching. The material of the blanket felt rough and scratchy against her bare arms and stomach. A warm breeze carried in the vague scent of something blooming, heavy and almost sickeningly sweet.

Anne shivered, despite the balmy air. Everything — including him — was too vivid, too harsh, and too intense to be the figment of a dream. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Elf shift, perhaps to regain her attention but when she warily looked up, his eyes were still trained on her shoulder.

Suddenly Anne felt very exposed, wearing nothing but those bandages around her chest. She pulled the scratchy blanket up a little higher. The Elf averted his gaze back towards her face, but he obviously wasn't finished with her.

"You have yet to answer my question. What is your name?"

Still, that cool and somewhat indifferent tone, which despite her fear, slowly began to vex Anne. She hesitated but then decided this was hardly too presumptuous a demand.

"Anne," she muttered reluctantly.

The Elf repeated the name softly as if to taste the sound of it on his tongue. Somehow he managed to attach the strange lilt of his accent to the short word.

"Why were you alone in the woods? Surely you were not travelling by yourself?"

Anne felt her stomach knot at the reminder of her companions and their unknown fate.

"I was travelling with a group, but when we were attacked, I was separated from the others—"

"Who attacked you?" Delior cut in, his voice sharpened by a fraction.

"I don't know," Anne replied, eying him nervously. "We never saw them, but I expect they were the same who found me in the woods before you—"

"Where were you travelling from?"

"From– from Carrockton."

"And where to?"

"Rohan," Anne said, feeling decidedly harried now. "There was an attack on the village, and a group of them decided to leave for Rohan. They said it would be safer there—"

"Them?"

"What?"

"You said, a group of them decided to leave. Them, they... You are not from Carrockton, I assume?"

Anne blinked, trying to keep up with him. Her headache was not helping much, truth be told, but he was certainly observant.

"No, I am not. I'm from Esgaroth," Anne added, just having remembered it. She hoped he would not press the matter. She did not feel keen on sharing all of her considerably short history with him. Fortunately, Delior did not seem overly interested in her origins.

"Those people who attacked Ecthel — you were in the village when that occurred?"

"Ecthel?" Anne asked, thoroughly confused now.

"Yes..." Again, the hint of a frown appeared on Delior's face. "It is what my people call Carrockton."

Anne worried suddenly, wondering whether this was something she was supposed to know.

"I was there, yes," she said hurriedly. "But it happened at night, I did not see anything. I only heard that... that the attackers had been both Men and Elves."

She had just now remembered this detail and covertly glanced at Delior for a reaction, but his face remained blank. He finally seemed to be satisfied, however, because he turned away and stepped towards one of the shadowed alcoves, where Anne now spotted a number of small shelves and bags. The Elf crouched down, somehow managing to make the movement look elegant, and started sifting through whatever was stored there.

Anne watched him, feeling sick and apprehensive. What if he had only kept her alive so she could answer his questions and now that it was apparent she was of no more use, he would just finish what he had started? She was under no illusion that he couldn't crush her like a bug, quite probably without the aid of a weapon.

Suddenly, Delior rose and turned back towards Anne in one of those too fluid motions; she flinched — then winced and grimaced when an unpleasant twinge reminded of her injury. A moment later she forgot all about it when he moved closer and tossed something to her. With a hoarse squeak, she backed against the stonewall behind her.

"I assume you wish to cover yourself up a little more," the Elf said dryly, his tone suggesting that he wished for this as much as she might do. He indicated the small heap of clothes that was now lying next to Anne's bed of furs.

"Oh... thank you," Anne mumbled, feeling awkward and foolish.

"Are you hungry?" Delior had procured a tin cup and was now pouring some water from one of the large stone jars which stood against the cave wall.

"I'm... No— no, not really."

"You should yet try to eat a little."

The Elf set down the water cup and a basket filled with sweet-smelling, slightly shrivelled apples next to the clothes. Anne immediately reached for the cup, more grateful than she could remember feeling ever since she had woken up in Carrockton. The cool water felt heavenly as it ran down her scratchy throat. While trying not to drink too greedily, Anne glanced at the food basket. Aside from the fruit, there were also a few thin, crisp-looking strips of dried meat.

"What... what happened to my own clothes?" Anne dared to ask once she had drained the cup.

"I am afraid I cut them to pieces," came the off-handed reply, causing Anne to drop the apple she had just picked up. Delior glanced at her. "In order to treat your wound, I should add. You need not wear those things for long, I shall take you back to Ecthel, as soon as your health allows it."

Anne nodded mutely. Back to Carrockton, she thought. What might await her there? Perhaps she had gulped down the water too fast after all because her stomach was puckering again; the too-sweet aroma of the apple seemed more intense than before. Anne put the fruit back into the basket and gingerly picked out a piece of the dried meat, but then something else occurred to her.

"Why was I unconscious for such a long time?"

Delior had already turned away and towards the firepit, but at her soft query he stopped in his stride and glanced back at Anne, his head tilted as though in question.

"I mean, how did I not wake up when— when you..." She trailed off and awkwardly gestured towards her bandaged side.

The Elf slowly turned back around, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. "You did wake up. Do you not recall that?"

Anne started to shake her head but quickly stopped when the motion made the walls spin.

"I did?"

"Yes. You strove to fight me off as well."

The deep, melodic voice seemed to have taken on a sinister tone, though perhaps Anne was imagining things now. A shiver crawled down her spine like a trickle of water.

"Fight you off?" she echoed, her own voice thin.

"When I extracted the arrow," he had the grace to clarify.

Mostly reassured, Anne slowly nodded while doing her best not to picture that process. If he had done something to her while she was passed out, surely she would... know? Feel something? Or would the other aches and the light but persistent dizziness distract from anything else?

"Your unconsciousness was however very deep for the most part," Delior interrupted her unsettling thoughts. "That strike to your head is likely to blame for it."

For a moment Anne didn't know what he was talking about and stared at him in mounting confusion. The Elf patiently returned her gaze while raising his hands to the back of his neck. As Anne absently watched him winding long, shimmering strands of ebony around his palm, a hazy memory came to her.

"One of them kicked me in the head," she muttered.

Delior made a soft humming sound of confirmation, regarding her more attentively now. He paused in the midst of tying his hair and instead pulled it forward over one shoulder. It spilled down his front in a dark, gleaming, heavy sheet, reaching past his chest, and Anne suddenly — and perhaps nonsensically — became awfully conscious of her own sweat-damp, frizzy hair that clung in strands to her neck and hung lank around her face and shoulders. The Elf now stepped closer and into the patch of sunlight next to Anne's bed, where he lowered himself onto his heels.

Anne watched him nervously. Even crouched down, he was still towering over her, which reinforced the feeling of being utterly at his mercy. Then he reached for her with one hand, and Anne violently flinched back. His hands were beautiful, she distantly noted — white and slender, but also very long, and she was struck again with how their motions were slightly too graceful to be human.

She didn't want him to touch her.

As she shrank further away from him, almost immediately her back met the wall. The cool, craggy surface scraped against her bare back, followed by a dull explosion of pain when her shoulder blade collided with the rock.

Delior had paused in his movement and raised both hands, arms slightly spread as though to embrace her, in what was presumably meant to be a reassuring gesture.

Anne didn't find it reassuring. She knelt on the sheepskins as though frozen, tense with pain and fear. The strip of dried meat slipped from her fingers and onto the blanket. The Elf lowered one arm and reached out again with the other, slower this time.

"Calm yourself." He made it sound like a gentle reprimand. "Nothing will happen."

Somehow Anne managed not to flinch again when he brought his hand to the side of her head, behind her left ear. She shivered when his warm fingers thread into her hair and touched her scalp with surprising gentleness. Then he applied the barest pressure and immediately the dull, throbbing ache in her skull sharpened into a short but piercing surge of blinding agony that nearly left her gagging. With a poorly suppressed whimper, Anne curled even further in on herself.

Delior made a vaguely apologetic sound in his throat, and his touch softened. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he slowly ran his fingers along the side of her head. Anne reluctantly endured his searching hand, although she had no idea what he was looking for. Still wary of doing anything that might anger him, she sat as still as possible in her awkward and uncomfortable position, listening to her own quickened breathing and the silence that came from him. Did he have to breathe at all?

To distract herself, Anne risked a closer look at her host. Under the bright daylight, his bleached skin shone like sunlit snow, but she could now see a few small, very pale freckles dotting the high lines of his cheekbones. There were very faint grooves leading from the Elf's nose towards the corners of his mouth; the effect was oddly attractive, like an echo of distant laughter, though Anne found it difficult to picture him smiling.

The complete lack of facial hair was at once disquieting and fascinating because there was nothing feminine or boyish about his features. Brow, jawline and nose — he was all sharp, straight, firm lines. His cheek however looked so unnaturally smooth that, despite her fear, it was all Anne could do not to reach up and touch it. Her impulse control was not at its best, but even in her dazed state, Anne suspected that such an act might not go over well.

One of the Elf's ears was visible now, beneath a few wisps of dark hair, and there was something very peculiar about it. The helix wasn't completely round but sort of pointed along the upper rim, giving his ear the shape of a leaf. Unnerved, Anne looked away, taking a deep breath. She noted a faint, camphorous scent coming from him; peppermint perhaps, or sage. Since he was focused on her head, she chanced to look at his eyes. They were large and a bit slanted, and the storm grey of the iris was broken by tiny flecks of silver.

Delior gave another pensive hum. A crease appeared between his brows and he leaned forward a little, reaching around her and carefully shifting his touch to the back of Anne's head.

As he did so, Anne noticed another smell: That hint of wild woods was still there, but also something else... Clean and earthy and warm — dew and moss, and hot sunshine on evergreen trees. The effect was both soothing and strangely arousing. Troubled, and suddenly panicked that he might catch her staring, Anne dropped her glance to his throat. The slate-blue tunic was still only haphazardly and partially fastened, exposing a smooth, long neck and several inches of white chest, stark in contrast to the dark fabric. Anne averted her gaze at the same moment his hand left her head, his strange examination apparently concluded.

The Elf confirmed this a moment later when he straightened up and wiped his hand, perhaps involuntarily, against the tail of his tunic. Anne tried not to feel offended.

"The bone is bruised but not broken," said Delior. "It will heal. The wound might prove more troublesome."

The fact that said wound had been his work, was apparently to be ignored. Anne eyed the clothes he had given her, while awkwardly holding the blanket around her with one hand. In addition to a thin tunic, there was some sort of short-sleeved jerkin that was made of soft leather and had ties at the front, as well as breeches or leggings of the same material. Anne suspected the clothes to be his, so they would probably drown her, but everything was an improvement over her current state.

She also found a couple of clean strips of linen, which were probably meant for the wound. Anne glanced down at the bandages she was still wearing. They did look like they needed changing, having rust-brown stains on them and smelling rather foul. She had better do the changing first, so she would not need to undress again later.

Anne began to unwrap the cloth from her upper body, but then paused abruptly and looked over at Delior. He had finished tying his hair and was now perched on a rock near the entrance of the cave, and — as far as she could tell — completely ignoring her. For the last few minutes, he had been knapping away at a blueish-grey stone that looked like flint.

Right now, he was examining one of the chipped-off pieces, which looked suspiciously like it might become an arrowhead at some point. Anne suspected that he would need a lot of those, trigger-happy as he appeared to be. The thought of one of those things stuck in her flesh, possibly her bone, made her feel queasy again.

And yet right now, what bothered her a lot more was the fact that he was sitting merely a couple of feet away, albeit with his back to her. Elf or not, he was also a man, no matter how strange. He had patched her up, so there was probably not much left that he had not seen already, loath as she was to think about that. Nevertheless…

Anne knew that more than likely this was a case of closing the barn door after the horse was out but she could not help it; she felt uncomfortable undressing in broad daylight, with him right there and absolutely nothing to shield her from view.

She hesitated, biting her lip and staring at the back of Delior's dark head when he suddenly spoke, a distinct note of haughtiness and impatience to his voice.

"If I had even the slightest desire to defile you, I could have indulged myself more than a dozen times already. Stop making such a fuss."

Anne glared at his straight back, her cheeks burning. With a quiet, mutinous huff, she dropped the blanket and began to unwrap the bandages.

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To Anne's great relief, the headache and dizziness subsided over the next couple of days. Her shoulder and back were healing but still hurt enough to discourage her from moving unless it was necessary. Therefore, she spent most of her time alternating between sleeping and lying down, staring at the walls and wondering what could have happened to Liecia, Nardil, Goda and the others. She could not bear thinking about the various possibilities for too long though. In the end, she finally settled on deciding that her travelling companions must have gotten away and be alright. Perhaps Nardil had even decided that the journey was too dangerous after all, and they had already returned to Carrockton.

Delior turned out to be a man of even fewer words than Anne had first suspected. He barely spoke to her after that first interrogation, but Anne didn't mind all that much. The Elf seemed haughty and indifferent towards her, if he didn't ignore Anne completely. Often, he would just sit by the fire or stand near the entrance, his body utterly motionless, and stare straight ahead, his large eyes hooded and his expression strangely vacant. The sight made Anne's hair stand on end.

Still, she caught herself wishing he would talk to her; she didn't need hours-long, in-depth conversations, but simply a light exchange now and then to loosen the atmosphere would have been nice. However, Delior did not seem inclined to provide either, so Anne followed his example, remained silent and kept her thoughts to herself.

At one point, she briefly entertained a vague, half-formed idea of trying to escape. However, aside from the fact that the Elf wasn't exactly holding her by force, the sober reality was that she had nowhere to go. Even if she knew the way back to Carrockton, the memory of those altered people was still spine-chilling and raw, and Anne had a feeling that Delior would probably not feel obligated to rescue her a second time if she were to run away. This suspicion was confirmed on her second afternoon at the cave.

Anne felt considerably better than the night before and had already spent a couple of very boring hours lying on her furs, staring at the ceiling, the wall and the opening in the ceiling in turns. The latter of these seemed to serve as both a light well and some sort of flue for the campfire. The view was partially obscured by some blooming shrubbery that was growing over the hole, but Anne gazed longingly at the speck of blue sky she was able to see, where butterflies and lazily humming bees would float by every once in a while.

Finally, deciding that some fresh air would do her good, she tenderly got to her feet and headed for the entrance of the cave. On her way she passed Delior, who was sitting next to the fire pit, his long legs outstretched, and poking around in the feebly glowing remnants of the fire that had been burning during the night. The smell of the smouldering wood blended with the sweet scent of elderflowers, wafting in from outside.

As usual, her host did not seem to pay a lot of attention to whatever Anne was doing; she was just beginning to look forward to stretching her legs outside in the sun, away from the constant and somewhat gloomy presence of the Elf, when he suddenly spoke without looking up.

"Where do you think you are going?"

Caught by surprise, she paused and looked back at him. "Oh, nowhere really. I just thought I could go outside for a bit, have a look around."

"Do you deem it wise to search for new trouble that soon?"

Slightly perplexed by his sudden interest, Anne turned to face the Elf, resisting the urge to ask him why he cared. The fact that Delior was, for the most part, completely ignoring her made him somewhat dreary company, but also greatly aided in diminishing her fear of him.

"I am not planning on wandering into the forest. I simply would like to see something other than these stonewalls for a change. Besides, you didn't seem to think it a problem when I went out last night and this morning."

"That appeared to be inevitable. Besides, you went no further than a stone's throw. I could hear every step you took and every leaf you picked. For such a small person to create a racket like that is quite astounding."

Anne felt her face grow hot. So, that was why he had not followed her on those occasions. Who could have known he had hearing like a dog? Having to relieve herself while crouching behind a bush had been awkward and uncomfortable enough without knowing he could hear everything she did. Even though she had been scared of the darkness in the nightly forest, Anne now wished that she had gone a little further.

Delior finally looked up. As he did so, the sunlight fell on his face, turning the grey of his eyes to silver and causing the faint, dark circles underneath them to stand in stark contrast to the otherwise pale and even skin. For the first time, and only briefly, Anne wondered if something was wrong with him.

"Have your previous encounters in these woods taught you nothing?" he asked coldly.

"That Elves tend to shoot first and ask questions later?" she retorted before she could stop herself.

His eyes narrowed. "And are you not fortunate that I tend to do that. Otherwise, you would be dead or at the very least—"

"Well, you nearly killed me as well!"

Anne checked her outburst at hearing the shrill tremor in her voice. She didn't want to think about that; about what had almost happened, and about those empty-eyed creatures who must have been normal people at some point. The memory alone was enough to make her insides grow cold. Anne wanted to forget and she felt a fierce wave of resentment towards this strange, callous, and haughty creature for not letting her.

Sod him, she thought. Sod his stony silences and cold voice, and his stupid, marble-like face.

Delior watched her calmly for a moment while Anne, clasping one shaking hand with the other, fought to get her breathing under control. She dimly wondered if he would tell her to get lost. Finally, he lowered his gaze back to the pit and resumed stoking up the fire.

"It is not my duty to chase after you, should anything happen due to your foolishness," he said, though his voice had lost its edge. "Rest as best as you can and stay where you are, as long as I have you on my hands."

Anne stared down at him, feeling a confusing mix of anger, humiliation and helplessness. In the end, she turned around and walked back towards her corner. Before she had taken more than a few steps, he surprised her by speaking again.

"One more thing."

Anne halted in her step and bit down on her lip before turning around, fairly certain she knew what was coming. Play by his rules or take your chances out there — alone. The Elf still had his eyes fixed on the branch in his hand. As he continued speaking, his softly lilting words seemed to weave seamlessly around the gentle murmur and crackle of the fire.

"Had it been my intention to kill you, I would have."

Anne watched mutely as long, slender fingers snapped the branch effortlessly in half and threw the pieces into the fire.

III III III

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