ELANOR'S REVENGE

Chapter Eighteen

Several days later, Elanor strolled along one of the highest walkways of the city while she pondered the problem of Lurien. What sort of bargain could she strike with him that would satisfy him enough to leave her alone? What would he accept in exchange for a cessation of the archery lessons?

Deep in thought, she wandered onto one of the observation flets, a pleasant and relaxing area decorated with intricate urns filled with greenery ranging from flowerless, broad-leafed ferns to pansies, snapdragons and primroses. Between the urns, several graceful stone-carved statues stood around its perimeter. Her attention was drawn to one of the plants, and she went over to it, her hand automatically reaching out to touch the drooping leaves.

“Good day, Elanor.”

At the sound of the greeting, Elanor swung around.

“I did not mean to startle you,” Lord Celeborn said pleasantly. He had been sitting on the far side of the flet, near a statue of a beautiful elf-maiden which Elanor now realized had hidden him from her view. He had risen to speak with her, his blue robes and silver hair luminous amidst the shaded greenery.

“Do not allow me to interrupt you,” he added. “I was just contemplating that plant, wondering what was wrong with it. Do you know?”

Elanor turned back to the plant and pressed her fingers to one of the leaves while aligning herself with its essence. After a few moments, she looked back at Celeborn. “It is distressed, my lord, because another plant which it admired was relocated. The second plant grew from a clipping made from this plant.” She glanced around. “But I do not see another plant like this one.”

Lord Celeborn smiled apologetically, looking slightly less regal than a moment before. “Ah, then I am to blame. I moved it to our private terrace. I will see that it is returned.” He paused, seeming to assess her for a moment before he gestured with his hand. “Will you come and sit with me?”

With a nod, Elanor did as he requested, wondering what she should say. She felt suddenly shy, as though she were claiming too much of Lord Celeborn’s attention. He intimidated her more than Lord Elrond did, although the Lord of Rivendell could also be intimidating. But Lord Celeborn’s eyes were mild as they rested on her.

“Elanor, everyone in Lórien is precious and of equal concern. That includes you.”

“I am not from Lórien, my lord. I should not trouble you—”

“You are a guest, and that makes you even more important. That is why, as a guest, I want you to be welcomed at everything we do and at all our events.” His eyes stayed fixed on her face. “That is why I made sure to mention the archery competition.”

Elanor smiled wanly. Things were not getting easier.

“Have you made a decision about the competition?” the elf lord inquired.

Elanor swallowed. “I did, my lord. I have entered in the novice category.”

“Ah, very good.” He appeared pleased. “Not many will sign up for novice, but we usually have a few. I am sure you will enjoy it.” When she did not answer, he gave her a rather quizzical glance. “What is wrong, Elanor?”

She forced a smile. “Nothing, my lord. I suppose I am just a little nervous about competing.”

“That is natural,” he agreed, “but it will pass. What is Haldir’s advice?”

“I did not actually mention it to him,” she answered awkwardly.

There was a moment of silence, then Lord Celeborn said, “Elanor, I am concerned. Do you feel unable to seek your guardian’s counsel?”

Elanor tensed. What lay behind the question? Would her failure to speak to Haldir damage him in Lord Celeborn’s eyes?

“Oh no!” she said hastily. “I am sure I could talk to him about anything. Haldir is a wonderful guardian . . . patient and kind and knowledgeable and fair . . . and every other excellent quality one could think of. It merely . . . slipped my mind. And now he is gone so I cannot ask him. I spoke with Rúmil and Orophin though . . .”

“And they advised you to enter?”

“Er . . . no, in truth they advised me _not_ to enter,” she admitted.

Lord Celeborn cocked an eyebrow. “So what decided you?”

Elanor moistened her lips. “Well, my lord . . . I decided to try to confront my fear. I am not a very good archer, but it is not Haldir’s fault so you must not think that. He has done his best with me, truly.”

He studied her with eyes that seemed far too shrewd and assessing for comfort. “You need not participate if you would rather not.”

“I would like to,” she said bravely, “unless you think I would dishonor Haldir if I did poorly.”

Lord Celeborn smiled, a warm smile that greatly reassured her. “Child, your feelings do you credit. My advice is this. Compete and do your best, and you will dishonor no one.”

He rose gracefully to his feet and once again became the regal, rather distant presence that was the Lord of Lórien. He nodded a courteous farewell and slowly walked away while Elanor watched him, wondering whether she had successfully thwarted any potential problems before they came to pass.

Now that it was too late, it occurred to her that she might have discussed her quandary over Lurien with the Lord of Lórien. Then again, perhaps not. He would expect her to take up such matters with Haldir; to do otherwise might imply that she questioned Haldir’s ability to advise her wisely or to deal with Lurien. She decided she had done the right thing by keeping silent. Yet she stood no closer to a solution.

As for Celeborn himself, he was wondering just how long Elanor had been in love with Haldir . . . and whether Haldir was aware of it. He also wondered if Galadriel knew, and decided that she probably did. She knew almost everything . . . except the meaning of her most recent vision in the mirror.

#

Rúmil saw them from the distance—Elanor, Tarwë, Nerwen, Doria and Gwirith, all headed for the bathhouse. With lightning quickness, he ducked behind a tree, not wanting them to know he was in the vicinity. They were talking quietly amongst themselves, unaware that he was near, and that was the way he wanted it to stay.

It had been many years since he had attempted to eavesdrop on the ladies in the bathhouse, and the one time he’d done it, he had not been caught. Others did it occasionally, and their tales and juicy tidbits often entertained the wardens on the border. Rúmil always enjoyed hearing that sort of thing. Whatever he might hear today, however, would be for him alone, for he cherished the hope that Elanor might yet decide to bring up the subject of lovemaking with her friends. And Rúmil was very interested to hear what one of those ladies in particular had to say on that subject, especially if his own name happened to come up. Which it probably wouldn’t.

Once they were safely inside the bathhouse, he considered the best approach. He knew that others had simply walked straight up and hovered nearby, but there was no place to conceal oneself, and those who used such tactics were found out more often than not. And Rúmil had no intention of risking discovery, not when _she_ was involved. Her opinion of him was low enough already.

Instead, he studied the surrounding branches, and chose one for its size and its sturdiness. Though its location was not ideal, it offered possibilities, for it was wide enough and had sufficient leaves to hide him from above and below. Whether or not he would be able to hear anything from that distance was uncertain, but his hearing was extremely good and he would take the chance.

Rúmil was well aware that such an action was rather pathetic, but he was desperate. He needed to formulate a plan, and he needed ideas. Despite their long friendship and despite all the times that he had flirted with her, sex was not a topic she and he had ever discussed, and he was very curious what she might say about it. Like Elanor, he needed information, and if Ellie was brave enough to do what she had done, why, he ought to be able to do this one small thing.

Somehow he made it out to the branch without being seen, although a Sentinel had walked by the nearby set of steps just as he’d reached a place of concealment. That had been too close for comfort, and it was a very good thing that he was so extremely proficient at stealth or he would have been seen.

He stretched out on the branch, careful not to disturb the leaves, and closed his eyes, focusing on his sense of hearing.

To his disgust, ‘Orophin’ was the first word he heard. He could just make out Doria’s voice, for she was speaking very softly. Something about how wonderful Orophin was, how caring and considerate and devoted. Some female laughter followed. Then Orophin’s name was mentioned again. And again. And again. And then the conversation turned to gowns and domestic matters. There was no mention of either lovemaking or himself. Rúmil sighed in frustration. This had been a complete waste of time.

Giving up, he quietly eased his way back the way he had come and prepared to leap down to a nearby set of steps. Instead, he froze, for a tall, still figure stood there, watching him with a quiet smile on her serene and lovely face.

“Good day, Rúmil,” said the Lady of Light.

“Good day, my lady,” he responded automatically. He knew he was turning red and felt like a complete fool. He ought to have known he would get caught.

“Would you care to walk with me for a while? I am going to my garden.” Her expression gave him no hint of her thoughts, yet he somehow knew she made no judgment of his actions.

“I would be honored,” he said earnestly, and leaped over to the steps, landing with his customary surefootedness. The Lady often invited her people to walk with her so this was not unusual, but he wished she had not seen him on the branch. Should he try to explain himself? Perhaps not.

Neither of them spoke until they reached the garden, whereupon Galadriel began commenting on the various plants and how much she appreciated the work that Elanor was doing. Rúmil responded appropriately to each of her remarks and left it to her to turn the conversation where she willed.

To his surprise, she led him to the place where he had sat that day, mourning for Ainon. “Rúmil,” she said gently, “Ainon is not lost. He is in Mandos and at peace. You know he can re-embody someday if he wishes it. I believe you will see him again, and that your reunion will be more joyful than you can imagine.”

Unable to speak, Rúmil only gazed at her, awed by the intensity and depth of compassion he saw in the Lady’s ancient sapphire eyes.

“He gave his life for a purpose,” she continued. “He saved four others, knowing he would die. His valor and selflessness will be taken into account.”

Rúmil bowed his head, wondering why she had not tried to comfort him at the time the event had occurred. He felt her dip into his mind and take this thought, which meant that she intended him to feel it, for she could easily have read him without his knowledge.

“It was not my task to comfort you,” she informed him in a serious tone. “There was another who chose that task for herself.”

“I know,” he said guiltily. “And I have not yet thanked her.” He gazed downward, deeply ashamed, but Galadriel lifted his chin with the tips of her fingers, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“She knew you valued her comfort,” she said in a gentle tone.

Rúmil gazed at her hopefully. “Do you think I have a chance with her, my lady?”

Galadriel smiled. “You should know by now what I will say to that. There is always hope, Rúmil.”

“Alas, I was _hoping_ for something more specific, my lady,” he said a bit cheekily, and was rewarded with one of the Lady’s beautiful, silvery laughs.

“And my hope is that you will resolve this yourself. But I will tell you this. Each of us is precious, and we can never be anyone other than ourselves. Embrace who you are, Rúmil of Lórien, and all else will fall into place.”

Rúmil continued to ponder this later as he headed to the archery range to work off some of his excess energy. Elanor was not there, which was rather a relief since he felt he had to keep an eye on her whenever she and Lurien had a ‘lesson’. He had never liked Lurien, but had long ago decided that the elf posed no serious threat to Haldir. His brother and Lurien ignored each other, and so it had been for centuries. But today was not a day that Rúmil had the patience to deal with Lurien. Instead, he wanted to create a sensible, foolproof plan to woo the elleth of his choice. With a sigh, he thought of Galadriel’s advice about embracing who he was. It wasn’t himself he wanted to embrace at the moment!

An hour of archery practice took the edge off his frustration and helped to calm him, although insights into the merry ways of successful courtship continued to elude him. Still having no plan, he shouldered his bow and left the field, passing by the archery hut as he had so many times before. The sight of it reminded him of Elanor and the archery contest, and on impulse he turned around, intending to look at the list he knew would be posted inside, just to assure himself that she had not done anything foolish . . . like sign it.

Of course she had heeded his advice, he reflected as he walked toward the door. He and Orophin had each told her the same thing, and she had listened.

Of course she had not.

He stared incredulously at Elanor’s name, the last on the list. What was she thinking? Did public humiliation appeal to her? Did she not respect his opinion? Did she not respect Orophin’s opinion? And what in the name of Eru was he supposed to do about this?

He had better go and talk to Orophin about it. He only hoped he did not arrive at an inopportune time, then grinned at the thought and changed his mind. It would serve Orophin right if he _did_ interrupt him at that crucial moment! His brother had been having entirely too much excitement lately, in his opinion.

Later that afternoon, Rúmil congratulated himself on his luck, for he was certain he had managed to knock on Orophin’s door at the most inconvenient moment anyone could choose. He had seen Doria go inside, and had waited what seemed like an appropriate length of time before proceeding to hammer on the door. Not that Orophin had said anything specific, but from the highly peculiar expression on his face and the length of time it took for him to come to the door, not to mention the amusing fact that his leggings were on with the wrong side facing out, well, it was obvious.

Rúmil pretended not to notice, hoping if it appeared unintentional, he might get away with doing it again before Orophin caught on.

Upon being informed that Elanor had entered the archery competition, Orophin grimaced. “Sweet Elbereth, has she lost her mind?”

Rúmil shook his head. “I blame it on Lurien. Somehow he has convinced her that she is more skillful than she is.”

“He is doing his best to cause trouble. But why? Is it to hurt Elanor or our brother?”

“I cannot believe he wishes to hurt Elanor, but I fear that will be the outcome. If Elanor embarrasses herself too greatly, she may decide to leave Lórien at the end of the year. And I suspect that would not fall in with Haldir’s wishes.”

Orophin considered this with a frown. “Haldir must be told. There is time yet to get a message to him. If he writes to Elanor and tells her to remove her name from the list, she will heed him.”

“I suppose it is possible.” Rúmil tried not to sound doubtful.

“Can you attend to this? I have, uh, something rather important to do at the moment.” Orophin was trying to look both nonchalant and very, very busy.

“Certainly,” Rúmil agreed genially, and had the door shut in his face. Somehow he had managed to conceal his mirth until he was far away from Orophin’s talan, and then he had completely lost control and laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Once recovered, he had written out the missive and sent it off with a pair of elves who were shortly to be on their way to join Haldir’s patrol at the fences. He then sat down and considered his own situation. Again. And he finally came to a decision. He would take her a gift. But what?

He rummaged through his various possessions, searching for some token or keepsake that might be meaningful enough to impress her, yet not so strong a statement that it might put her off. He finally came upon an item that he thought might do the trick.

It was a carving he had made some years back of a female deer bending down to nuzzle her young offspring. Mother and child, frozen together in a tender tableau, a moment borne from the mingling of many fond memories. He had always enjoyed observing woodland creatures, and had a deep affinity for them. He held the carving in his hand, regarding it with a slight smile while wondering if she would find it as pleasing as he did. He also wondered what he would say to her, and for the first time understood some of what Orophin had gone through with Doria. One thing he knew he would not do and that was to deliver it anonymously!

Rúmil tucked the carving into a pouch and headed out the door. Night had already fallen; somewhere in the distance he heard singing, as one often did here in the city. However, when he neared her talan he heard voices coming from her terrace. He paused, listening, and realized she had several guests, both male and female. It was a gathering of friends and he had not been invited.

Feeling rather sad, he turned back to his talan. He had no intention of giving up, but this was not the time to pursue his chosen course of action. He would wait for a more favorable moment to present itself. He hoped it would be soon.

#

Tarwë lay on her side, savoring the stillness and sheer perfection of the dawn. The first birdsong had not yet begun, so that the only sound that came to her ears was the soft, even rhythm of Lurien’s breathing as he slept. Her gaze drifted over his golden hair where it spilled across the pillow within easy reach of her fingers. In repose, he had a curiously vulnerable look that made him even more beautiful in her eyes.

In truth, she had always seen that vulnerability in him. It was what she loved about him, and it was why she continued to wait, year after year, for him to come to his senses. Galadriel had spoken to her once about this during a particularly difficult time, and Tarwë remembered the Lady’s words. “One day his perspective will shift, and when it does he will see with clarity,” she had said. “As for you, Tarwë, daughter of Tarlon, you are both the candle and the mirror that reflects it. Do not withhold from yourself what you would give to him.” Tarwë had had many years to reflect on the wisdom of this advice. Too many years, it seemed.

Lurien chose that moment to open his eyes and look at her. “Good morning, love,” he said. He always called her ‘love’ when they were together like this, but she always wondered if he did the same with others. Most likely he did.

He lifted a hand and touched the side of her face with the backs of his fingers in a gesture that seemed gentle. He also looked as though he meant to speak, but he did not. Instead he rolled over and pulled her close, hooking one long, muscular leg around both of hers. Late last night he had arrived, entered her talan without knocking and her bed without asking. And of course she had not protested. She never did.

He had made urgent, voracious love to her, followed by a longer more tender session, and then they had rested for the remaining hours of the night. And now, as he turned to her once more, she could see his intent in his eye. His hand reached out to caress the curve of her hip, roving over her flesh with renewed interest. She answered him with a touch of her own, her hand gliding over the contours of his naked shoulder and down his arm, then over to his broad chest, where she flicked one flat male nipple until it puckered.

With a tiny growl, he captured her wrists, playfully pinning them above her head while he rolled on top of her and grinned. “Now I have you where you belong,” he murmured seductively. His hair flowed like a golden waterfall around her face, creating an intimate world with his beautiful face at its center. His eyes held the playful sparkle she loved to see.

“I think you are far too spent from last night’s activities to do what you are thinking,” she told him, knowing how this game worked.

“Too spent, eh?” He shifted, pressing the fullness of his erection against her thigh. “Are you so sure of that?”

“Quite sure,” she said, trying to free her wrists, which he did not allow, as she knew he would not. She gazed up into his laughing blue eyes, knowing she was foolish to enjoy this so much, knowing he enjoyed it too, this little power struggle between them. “Free me, Lurien, or I will not allow you to—” He cut her off with a kiss so deep and searing it put an end to all lucid thought.

“I think you will allow me to do anything I like,” he whispered, and rubbed his tongue along the sensitive rim of her ear until she moaned. His knees aggressively parted hers, again not asking, just proceeding with this game of sexual dominance in which he liked to indulge. He raised himself up on his elbows and positioned himself so that his hardened sex pressed against her most sensitive place. And then he undulated his hips, slightly and gently, just enough to make her tremble and forget all the times she had been angry with him. Time floated away on a heated tide of sensation . . . until at last the moment of joining became not only inevitable but imperative.

Tarwë heard him murmur her name beneath his breath as he drove into her again and again. She buried her face in his shoulder and held him tightly, her legs curled around him while she sought to memorize every detail of the moment with every sense she possessed. She rocked beneath him, her throat choked with emotion even while her body sought to attain the heights of physical rapture. I love you, I love you, I love you . . . the words swirled in her head with the pounding rhythm of his thrusts, so persistently that she feared she’d say them aloud.

And then, when it was over, she did say them, though why or how she found the courage she did not know. “I love you,” she said softly, her lips near his ear.

For few moments he neither moved nor answered, and then he turned his head and kissed her on the mouth. “I know,” he said, and kissed her again.

She pulled back enough to part their lips. “What of you? Do I mean any more to you than the others?” She held her breath, concealing her fear of rejection, her fear that the question would spoil things between them. Her fear that his answer would be no. Why she was asking this now, after all this time, she did not know. Perhaps witnessing Doria’s happiness had affected her more than she realized.

Lurien lifted his head to look at her, his face so expressionless that she feared the worst. “I think,” he said slowly, “you already know the answer to that.” She waited, looking him straight in the eye, forcing him to give her a better response. “Of course I love you,” he said at last. “I have loved you for years, since our first time together.”

Unconvinced, she wove her fingers into his shining hair. “Do you mean it? Or is this no more than a tale to appease poor Tarwë’s fragile feelings?”

He smiled, but she noticed that his jaw had clenched. “There is nothing poor about you, my love. I have rarely spoken aught but the truth to you, and about this I will not lie.” He paused, his blue gaze roving her face, and then one corner of his mouth curved upward. “I have always intended you to be mine and one day I will claim you. We are destined for each other . . . as I am sure you know.”

“No,” she whispered, “I did not know, not for certain. I only had hope.”

His smile faded to unaccustomed seriousness. “Of course we are meant for each other. That’s why you care for me, Tarwë. It is why you let me into your bed like this. It is why we fit together so well.” He kissed her again, a deep and hungry kiss. “Have I not told you to have patience? Our time has not yet come, love. It draws near, but I am not yet ready.”

“When will you be ready?” she asked.

“As to that, I cannot say.” He smiled again, his roguish mood returning. “But I am ready to play again, if you like.”

Tarwë regarded him with a mixture of exasperation and tenderness. “You are so greedy, Lurien. What will you do if I deny you?”

“I will do my poor best to change your mind. And I have no doubt at all I will succeed.” He planted a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her throat, then began to work his way downward . . .

#

High on a flet at the edge of Lothlórien, Haldir held Rúmil’s letter in his hand. He perused it quickly, then gestured a dismissal to the elf who had delivered it. The elf bowed his head, touched his heart and withdrew, leaving Haldir alone to reread the note. He was unsurprised by Rúmil’s information about Elanor’s ‘bullheaded stubbornness’, as Rúmil phrased it. Unsurprised and exasperated and even just a little amused.

He was mildly surprised by this last emotion. Elanor, Elanor, what are you thinking? He wanted to shake her and kiss her and . . . quickly he cut off this line of thought before it went off into familiar and frustrating channels.

He had not planned to attend the contest. In fact, he had not attended in years, having wearied of watching Healea trounce every other elleth who tried to topple her from her pedestal. Healea was skillful, and if skill alone were the measure of a good warden, he would have mourned her lack of interest in that office. But she had neither the temperament nor the interest in being a warden of Lórien. She was, however, an excellent archer and he admired that. Not that any of this signified because Elanor had entered in the novice category.

However, Haldir knew what would happen if Elanor was the only competitor in the novice class. And even if others _did_ enter as novices, they would still be elleths who had spent many years at their archery. Elleths much more competent than Elanor.

He folded the letter and tucked it away, his gaze returning to the distant horizon as he considered what action to take.

#

The morning of the archery contest dawned clear and pleasantly cool. Elanor had rested fitfully during the night, with dreams that bore no relevancy or comfort. She dressed nervously, wavering between her wish that Haldir would be there to offer guidance and utter thankfulness that he would not be there to see her fail. She kept imagining his disapproval, then reminded herself of his calmness, wisdom and patience whenever he instructed her in anything. Whatever he might think, he would not scold her or deride her for her choice. She must remember that.

With quiver and bow on her shoulder, Elanor approached the practice arena, her gaze touching on whatever plants and flowers she passed along the way. The sight of each tiny blossom peeking out from some unexpected crevice soothed her jangling nerves, however the moment she heard the low-pitched murmurs of the elves who gathered to watch the competition, nausea settled in the pit of her stomach. There were so many!

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the gate, ignoring curious gazes as she headed over to the area where the contestants had gathered. Nearby, she could see Lord Celeborn garbed in the attire of an archer, but when she would have stepped past him, he held out a hand to stay her.

She bowed her head, her nerves jumping. “Lord Celeborn, good morning.”

“Good morning, Elanor,” he replied, his deep voice holding a gentle note. “A fine day for a contest, is it not?”

Elanor forced a nervous smile. “It is always a fine day in Lórien, my lord.”

“Indeed.” He blocked her view of the other elleths with his broad body and fixed his blue eyes on her. “There has been a change in plans, Elanor. You have a choice to make.”

Tendrils of unease curled in Elanor’s stomach. “A choice, my lord? Is there a problem?”

“Not exactly. It is only that we have no other novices this year other than yourself. This has seldom happened in the past, but a precedent has been established when it does. Your choice is to compete with the others or to withdraw. No one will think less of you if you decide to withdraw, but it is my hope that you will not.”

Elanor had listened to these words with growing uneasiness. “But I cannot compete with experts archers, my lord.”

“On the contrary, Elanor, you can indeed compete. No one would expect you to use the same targets as the others, but otherwise the rules would be the same. As you earn your shots, you will advance just as the others who have more experience. Their target distance will be much farther than yours.”

Elanor didn’t know what to think, but she wished someone had told her this sooner. Celeborn smiled reassuringly. “I realize this is a shock and I apologize. Several elleths signed up in the expert category this year for the first time and I did not realize it until this morning. But I have confidence in you. I have not seen your skill, but I have seen your will.” Was there a note of amusement in his voice? “I will give you a few moments to decide.”

Elanor nodded, and Lord Celeborn moved away while she looked at the targets being put into place. They seemed hopelessly far away. And hitting the target itself was not good enough; the arrow must strike within a white circle whose diameter could not be wider than the length of her hand!

What a fool she had been to think that she could do this. She dared not look around to see if Rúmil or Orophin had arrived. Their faces would certainly reflect their disapproval and they would without doubt advise her to withdraw. And of course that was what she should do. She did not even know why she hesitated.

“Your bow may be a training bow,” drawled a low, feminine voice, “but it is still a bow of the Galadhrim. It can easily send an arrow flying much farther than that. And it can hit the target . . . if it is properly aimed.”

Elanor turned to find Healea standing behind her, her huge bow clasped in one well-shaped hand. Her dark-green tunic beautifully set off her fair hair and flawless, radiant skin. She lifted one delicate brow at Elanor, her face slightly mocking.

“I cannot compete against you,” Elanor said with quiet resignation. “To imagine I could would be absurd.”

Healea gave her a superior smile. “Of course not. I have won the last seventy-five competitions and you are a beginner. But that is hardly the point. You would not be competing against me, only against yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?” Elanor asked, feeling suspicious. Was Healea trying to be helpful or to cause trouble?

Healea looked at her own bow, her hand lovingly sliding over the smooth, highly polished wood. “Our struggle to succeed begins within ourselves,” she said reflectively. “Our hardest battles are with our own fears . . . our own misgivings. Each of us must find strength in our hearts before we can find strength in our arms. You must believe in yourself, Elanor, before you can believe in others.”

“That sounds like something Lurien would say,” Elanor said after a pause.

Healea laughed. “Nay, it is Haldir I quote. Will you withdraw?”

Elanor’s gaze slid over the assembled elves. She had signed up; they all knew this. Would they think less of her if she withdrew? Would Lord Celeborn? Most importantly, would Haldir?

A hand on her shoulder brought her attention back to Healea. “Compete for yourself, Elanor,” she advised with a saucy smile. “I will win . . . but you can win as well.” Healea then turned away, sauntering gracefully across the grass to join her friends, Arnis and Túre, who had been regarding the two of them with frank curiosity while they spoke.

Elanor gripped her bow with a sudden determination. Despite her manner, Healea had offered sound and wise advice. In fact, she had quoted Haldir’s words, acting almost as his emissary. And now she knew what she must do.

#

The first round began with Healea. Elanor stood back, thinking idly that they might as well give the prize to the beautiful elf right now. Healea’s first arrow shuddered into the target dead center, resulting in a ripple of admiring murmurs from the audience. Two others elleths followed her, then Arnis, then another, and then Túre. Each of these contestants earned the right to advance to the next round. And now another elleth took her place at the mark and lifted her bow.

“Contestant: Minuial. Ranking: second year expert,” an elf called out.

In fact, the announcer was Cothion, the elf whom Healea had chosen as her mate. He had a voice as deep and resonant as Erestor’s, which made him a fit candidate for this role. Until now, Elanor had only seen Cothion from a distance and had never heard him speak. He was handsome in his way, although in her opinion nowhere near as striking as either Lurien or Haldir.

Elanor watched Minuial adjust her stance and draw back the long bowstring to her cheek. Like the other contestants in the expert category, she was using a full-sized bow of the Galadhrim. Was it Elanor’s imagination or did Minuial’s hand tremble? A moment later the arrow streaked through the air to land, quivering, in the target. Minuial grimaced, for the arrow had struck the target’s edge, missing the circle completely.

According to the rules, Minuial received a second chance. Elanor’s own nervousness heightened as she watched Minuial draw back on her bowstring, her eye fixed on the distant target. Her stance was wrong, even Elanor could see that, and the arrow flew from the bow, landing yet again outside the circle.

“Minuial is disqualified,” Cothion stated in stentorian accents. Looking disappointed, Minuial turned away, stalking back to stand with the other participants.

Elanor shuddered, willing the flutters of her anxiety to subside. Glancing around, she caught Doria’s eye where she stood along the sidelines. Doria sent her an encouraging smile and a wave. Next to Doria stood Orophin, along with Rúmil, Tarwë, Nerwen, Gwirith and several others she considered friends. While several more elleths took their turns, the presence of Elanor’s friends steadied her nerves. At the same time she prayed she would not make a fool of herself in front of them. Her turn would be coming soon and the crowd seemed so large. It almost seemed that everyone in the city had gathered here today. She had not realized that so many would come to watch.

Elanor grew tense again as another contestant walked up to the mark, knowing it would be her turn next. The elf shot, her arrow just barely edging inside the circle. Good enough to advance to the next round.

Then Elanor heard her name called and felt her stomach clutch. She was the last to go. Attention was now focused on her; she could feel it. Somehow it seemed as though the crowd had gotten quieter. All along the sidelines they stood, both familiar and unfamiliar faces, all looking at her. She was suddenly acutely conscious that her bow was only a training bow and so much smaller than the others.

Squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, she moved toward the appointed mark where each of the others had stood. First round, first shot was the hardest, she had been told. A different target was being carried into position just for her at what seemed to be the halfway point. When it was in place, Celeborn nodded to Cothion, who opened his mouth and intoned, “Contestant: Elanor. Ranking: first year novice.”

Elanor stepped forward, her heart hammering in her chest. An image of Haldir fluttered through her mind, and she found herself wishing with all her soul that he was here with her. Shoving the thought aside, she drew a deep breath and adjusted her stance. Even at the halfway point, the target was farther away than she was used to. She gripped the bow’s shaft, fingering the string for a moment, and oddly this was the instant that she caught sight of Lurien. He gave a slight, enigmatic smile, but she looked away quickly, not wanting to be distracted.

Concentrating hard, she pulled back the string and sighted in the target with her dominant eye. Her position felt right, so she gathered her courage and released the arrow, the taut string twanging with its release as the slim shaft hurtled through the air.

The arrow landed just outside the circle. The crowd groaned.

Elanor felt her arms begin to tremble. At least the arrow had landed on the target, which was more than she’d expected. She could do this! She adjusted her feet a minute amount, and withdrew the second arrow from her quiver. Second arrow, last chance to stay in the contest.

Nocking it, she drew back again, gripping the string exactly as Haldir has taught her. She closed her eyes and took deep breath, then reopened them and locked her gaze on the target, letting the string roll off her fingers.

The crowd’s reaction told her she had made it and she sighed in relief. It was not dead centered, but at least the arrow had landed within the circle. Incredible! She moved aside, wishing she could relax, but she was actually shaking more now than when she had stood at the mark.

The second round began, again with Healea. A loud cheer rose as Healea easily made her perfect shot, and the order that followed progressed the same as before. Both of Healea’s rather obnoxious friends made their shots, albeit not as centered as Healea’s was. Both progressed to the next round as did the others.

Elanor waited as the line moved forward, fifteen total archers, minus one from previous round. Three to go before Elanor’s turn.

“Contestant: Larieth. Ranking: ten year expert,” Cothion called out.

A slim, fair elf stepped up to the mark. Looking confident, she nodded to the Lord and Lady, drew back on her bowstring, and rapidly fired her shot. The crowd gasped as the arrow went wide, completely missing the target, much to the obvious shock of the archer. Celeborn’s eyebrows rose. It appeared to be an unusual occurrence, and Elanor saw the elleth run a hand through her hair, visibly struggling to recover her composure.

Larieth aimed again, taking a long moment to gaze at the target before she shot. The arrow whistled toward the target and landed outside the center circle. The crowd groaned. The elleth threw her bow on the ground and stomped off.

Elanor rested her forehead on her bow, taking deep, calming breaths. It would be her turn soon, and for some reason Larieth’s poor performance had added to her own nervousness. The light touch of a hand on her shoulder brought her chin up, and she found Healea passing by. Their eyes met briefly, and Elanor gave her a nod and returned her attention to the current competitor, whom she would follow.

Elanor’s turn came. In an almost dreamlike haze, she moved forward, listening to Cothion announce her name while someone moved her target into place. It stood further away than the last time, but much closer than the target used by the other contestants.

Facing the target, she removed her arrow from her quiver and nocked it. For some reason her gaze strayed to Rúmil, who caught her look and nodded, but she could see the concern in his eyes. He understood how hard this target would be for her to hit. She returned her gaze to the target and began to draw back on the bowstring.

And then something horrible happened.

As she pulled back the string, her fingers were not properly set, and before she could correct the situation the string rolled off the tips of her fingers almost in slow motion, flinging the arrow off prematurely and at an improper angle. Even more horribly, she saw Cothion rock back on his heels, narrowly evading the wayward arrow that sped past his nose and into the crowd of elves behind him. Reactions were fast as elves ducked left and right, narrowly avoiding the deadly shaft that flew past them and bounced off a decorative stone wall at the edge of the field.

Elanor stood paralyzed and mortified, and wished she were dead.

Fearing Lord Celeborn’s reaction, she risked a peek at him and to her chagrin saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Even Galadriel wore a gentle, subdued smile, although her compassion for Elanor shown clearly in her brilliant gaze.

A dry feminine voice inserted itself into Elanor’s ear. “I _would_ like to keep my husband,” Healea murmured. “I have not seen him move so quickly in years. Calm down, Elanor. Try again.”

Healea moved away, and Elanor swallowed guiltily as she observed Cothion brushing off his long robes. His wary gaze settled on her once more as he signaled for her to continue. How could they expect her to continue after what had just happened? Thoroughly flustered, Elanor glanced at Haldir’s brothers, but they were no help. Orophin merely looked stern while Rúmil stood with folded arms, his face revealing nothing.

Why, oh why had she ever signed up for this competition? She was a dreadful archer and most of Lórien must be laughing at her even though they were too polite to show it. She saw Cothion signal again, but still she hesitated, feeling miserable, wanting desperately to run away and lacking the courage to do even that.

“Elanor, you have lost your concentration.”

It was the voice she had least expected to hear. She spun around to find Haldir standing behind her, his muscled shoulders filling the expanse of her view. He still wore his cloak and quiver, and his sword was buckled at his hip. He had clearly just arrived from the fences, for he looked disheveled and in need of clean clothing. His expression was both stern and gentle.

Startled and shamed that he had witnessed her horrid shot, Elanor stammered, “W-why are you here? I did not expect you so soon.”

Haldir glanced at Celeborn, then took hold of her elbow and drew her aside. “Rúmil sent me a letter. I am here because I thought you might need me. I regret I could not get here sooner.”

Elanor looked into his grey eyes, so thankful to see him she wanted to throw herself into his arms. “I know I was wrong to enter the contest,” she said in a pained undertone. “I know everyone thinks me a fool. Haldir, what should I do? Can I withdraw, do you think?”

Haldir lifted her chin with his hand, gazing down his nose at her with an authoritative air. “No one thinks you a fool, Elanor. They admire you for having the courage to compete at all. And you will use that courage to finish what you have begun.”

“But I almost shot Cothion,” she pointed out in a wretched voice. “I could have killed him.”

“Cothion had sufficient time to move. Would you give up so easily, ward? I thought you stronger than that. I have taught you how to stand, how to aim, and how to release the string. You will remember my teachings and you will do it correctly. Go now, take your time, and concentrate.”

Elanor could feel the eyes of the crowd on both her and Haldir. She could feel them waiting, wondering what she would do. “I do not think I can,” she whispered frantically. “I have embarrassed both myself and you . . .“

“I am not embarrassed,” Haldir interrupted. “Nor should you be.” Elanor opened her mouth to disagree, and saw his frown. “Go now,” he commanded her, “and finish what you started. Lord Celeborn is waiting.” His voice was calm and inexorable, leaving her no choice. And she knew he was right. She _did_ have to finish what she started or she would never be able to hold her head up again.

With a nod, Elanor turned away from him and returned to her place at the mark. Oddly enough, her frenzied mood had left and she was calm now, calmer than she had been all day. She saw Cothion step back a step as she raised the bow, but she ignored him and pulled back on the string with every particle of her attention focused on the distant target.

The arrow flew with a loud twang but missed the target, this time landing in the protected area far behind it. Elanor’s heart sank. For a moment she’d actually believed she could do it. She’d done everything right. Her stance had been right, her grip, her release. And yet she had failed.

“Elanor of Rivendell is disqualified,” Cothion informed the crowd, rather more loudly than Elanor thought necessary. And why did he say ‘of Rivendell’? Perhaps he hoped she would soon go back.

Trying to look dignified, she turned in the opposite direction from where Haldir stood and slipped to the back of the crowd. A lump settled in her throat. How disappointed he must be in her! What would he say now? He had come all this way to help her and she had botched her shot, her one chance to make him proud of her.

She got only a short distance from the field before Haldir caught hold of her arm, whirling her around to face him. “Why are you running away?” He stared down at her, his eyes dark as grey smoke, concealing whatever he might be thinking.

“You know why,” she said tightly. “I tried to compete and I failed. I made a laughing-stock of myself, Haldir. Now I need time alone.”

Flooded with anguish and self-pity, she tried to pull away from him, but his grip only tightened. With iron strength, he pulled her along the path until they reached a great tree with a bench beneath it, hidden by a large overhanging root. In a curt tone, he directed her to sit, then he stood over her, his arms folded over his chest, his piercing gaze fixed on her face.

“How did you fail?” he asked sternly. “Did you not do your best?”

She glared at him through a mist of tears. “Yes, I did, but my best is terrible. I embarrassed myself in front of everyone in your city. I had no idea so many would come to watch.”

“Elanor, this was your first competition. Most elves do not enter such things until they’ve been training for years. You had only weeks to prepare.”

Elanor bit her lip.

Haldir studied her. “Why did you enter the competition when both my brothers advised against it?”

“To protect you.” She saw a dark eyebrow fly up. “You see, Lord Celeborn invited me,” she went on in a rush. “And I did not know what to do. Lurien helped me to understand that my actions and character reflect on you.” Stumblingly, she explained how torn she had been, wanting to make the right decision, not wanting to dishonor him or cause the Lord and Lady of Lórien to question his ability to be a proper guardian. “To add to that, I did not want you to think I was a coward. I . . . I wanted you to be proud of me,” she finished in a low voice.

“Elanor,” he said quietly, “I am very proud of you. Never doubt that again. You have dishonored neither me nor yourself. As for Lurien’s advice,” she saw his jaw harden, “he has muddled truth and lies and twisted them together to confuse you. I prefer that you have no more dealings with him. I will speak to him myself.”

“I will not,” she agreed, feeling chastened.

He exhaled a sigh and sat down beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, his warm, solid body pressed against hers. “Let me tell you a tale that seldom slips past my lips. It takes place at the time I first desired to be a warden. I was so convinced I would be chosen that I never doubted myself for an instant. I was young at the time. Too young and inexperienced.”

Elanor gave him a skeptical look. “Are you going to tell me you were not selected? I thought you were chosen and Lurien was not.” Without thinking, she reached for his hand, regarding him earnestly. How could anyone as strong and powerful and skilled as Lórien’s March Warden ever have failed at anything?

“Ah, but that was my second attempt. You have not heard about my first, which neither Lurien nor my brothers witnessed. Lord Celeborn remembers it well, and he occasionally reminds me about it when he thinks I grow too arrogant.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gazed at their linked fingers. “For my first trial, I had practiced what I thought were exemplary and complex sword maneuvers that would defeat even the most skilled among our warriors. For my test, I knew I would face one of the strongest in our land.” He glanced at her. “I stood in the center of that same field where you just stood, with many faces staring at me, and I was suddenly so nervous I could hardly hold my sword.”

Elanor tried to imagine Haldir being nervous and found it difficult. “Oh dear,” she said. “And what happened?”

“I tried to gather my confidence, and when my opponent came at me, I leaped forward with one of my complicated moves.”

His pause told her it had not gone well. “What happened?” she asked again.

Haldir’s lips twisted ruefully. “I fell flat on my face. I tripped over my own feet and gave myself a bloody nose.”

Elanor gasped. “No! You did not!”

Haldir actually laughed. “I did.”

“Haldir, you must have been mortified!”

“Indeed,” he agreed dryly. “Even worse, it was none other than Celeborn I faced. He laughed so hard he almost joined me on the ground.” Haldir’s glinting eyes locked with hers. “But as embarrassed as I was, I did not give up. I rose to my feet and abandoned my complicated moves. I remembered my original training and I fought the best that I could. I lost, Elanor. Confidence and skill go hand in hand, and both are necessary to achieve results. I was not selected to be a warden that day, but I finished what I started. And in the face of humiliation, I earned respect. Just as you did today.”

Elanor looked down at her fingers, still unsure of this statement.

“Elanor, that last shot you took . . . it was well aimed. The arrow missed the target by no more than a hairsbreadth, and believe me, I was not the only one to notice. You did well. Very well.”

Her head came up. “Truly?”

“Truly. I was impressed.” Before she could respond, he rose to his feet and took her with him. “And now,” he added, “you are going to return to the field and watch the rest of the competition. You are going to congratulate the winner, whoever she is—”

“Healea,” she said in a resigned tone.

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “Never assume anything. Healea will be defeated one day and perhaps you will be the one to do it. In any case, you will congratulate the winner, and if Cothion speaks to you, you will hold your head high. Is that understood?”

“Yes, milord,” she said, a bit cheekily.

“After that, we will go to our talan. I will bathe while you prepare food for us.”

“Is that all?” she inquired. “Does my guardian have any other commands?”

He looked down at her, a gleam in his eye. “I might like a shoulder rub, but I would not call it a command.”

“Perhaps you might like a kiss too,” she murmured.

“Perhaps I might,” he agreed with a smile.

Elanor concealed a smile of her own, for she had a secret she had told to no one . . . a secret she had just realized might prove useful.

#

As expected, Healea won the competition, but Elanor later realized she did not care. To have Haldir back on this special day, _her_ day, and to know that she retained his good opinion, that was all that mattered. While Haldir bathed, Elanor stayed in the kitchen, although she was very tempted to walk in on him as he had done to her all those weeks ago. She toyed with the idea, but decided she was not that bold. And besides, she had a better plan.

After their meal was over, she stood behind him, kneading his muscled shoulders and neck just as she had done on several other occasions. It had been weeks since he had openly removed his clothes in front of her, but today she had managed to convince him to remove his tunics so that she might better access his tired muscles. And it was quite true, it did make it easier to discern exactly what he needed and how to please him. It made it more pleasurable for her as well; beneath the warm, smooth skin, she could feel controlled power and seductive masculine strength, and from a purely feminine standpoint, it delighted her.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “That is enough.”

“You are quite welcome,” she said softly. She picked up his black under-tunic, but instead of handing it back to him, she deliberately tossed it across the room. And then she walked around and sat down on his lap.

“Elanor, what are you doing?” he inquired, looking faintly amused.

She smiled and brushed back a lock of his hair. “I am sitting on you.”

“So I see.” His mouth quirked and his hands settled at her waist. “And what did you have in mind?”

“Oh, really, Haldir, do I have to explain?”

“Let me guess. You are wanting some favor. A new gown perhaps.”

“Guess again.” She traced a finger along the curve of his jaw.

“Ah, then you are wanting something more interesting.” She saw his gaze shift from her eyes to her lips. “Elanor,” he said, with a note of constraint, “I have tried my best so far, but you should understand that when it comes to this sort of thing, I have never been very good at half measures.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Then how about a full measure?” She looked into his eyes and saw his pupils dilate, making them look darker, more brooding and dangerous. She slid her hand up his arm and curled it around his neck. “I have kissed you many times now, Haldir. I know how that affects you. I know what I am doing.”

“Ah, so now you think you are experienced because of a few kisses.”

“No,” she admitted, her fingers playing with a few silky strands of his hair. “I am not saying that. But you have touched me, Haldir, and I would like to touch you.” She rubbed her thumb along the curve of his ear, and then over and around its delicate tip. She felt a tremor ripple through him like a warning wind before a storm.

“Be very careful,” he warned. “I am no elfling to be toyed with.”

“I am well aware of that,” she murmured. “And I am not toying with you.” She moved her free hand downward, settling it over his very prominent erection, and saw the quick flare of his nostrils, his only visible response. “You cannot deny that you want me,” she added softly.

“I have never denied it.” Still, he appeared to be at war with himself, a battle of emotions taking place on his normally impassive countenance. He covered her hand with his, and gently lifted it away, clasping it lightly with his strong fingers.

She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. He did not respond, but she could feel the tension in the corded muscles of his neck. “We can stay right here on this chair, if you like,” she whispered. “Nothing much can happen here.”

“Untrue, Elanor. But, by the Valar, you are tempting me. Stand up for a moment.”

Puzzled, she obeyed, and a moment later felt herself pulled down again upon his lap, only this time astride his legs so that she faced him. Suddenly breathless, she brought her knees up and settled them on the chair at either side of his rock-hard thighs.

“Now then,” he said, his eyes meeting hers, “do you still believe nothing much can happen in a chair?”

Elanor nearly swooned as his hands clamped on her hips and dragged her forward, hard against him.

“Oh, I . . . I see,” she gasped.

“Do you still want that kiss?” he said huskily.

“I want more than a kiss. I want to touch you.”

“No, Elanor. I find this very pleasant. It is enough for me.”

It was the type of reply she expected, but she had her answer ready. “Haldir, today is my begetting day.” She gave him a tremulous smile.

He lifted a dark brow. “Is this true? You did not tell me this before.”

“I never thought to mention it. It is no great thing, and I am not asking for new gowns or parties. All I ask is the chance to give you the same pleasure you gave to me.” She wriggled against him, adjusting herself backward just enough for what she wished to do. Tentatively, she reached for the tie to his leggings and began to unlace it.

“Elanor.” His gaze seemed oddly unfocused as he reached for her hands and stopped her, though she noticed that he held them tightly pressed against that part of him that longed for her touch. Clearly he was in a quandary. It was almost palpable, hanging between them like a lush, sensual fog of desire.

In fact, Haldir had never before been so conflicted in his life. Having Elanor on his lap, with her hand where it was, had ignited his senses and sent a river of fire coursing through his veins. His control hung by thread.

“Please,” she added softly, her blue eyes fixed on his face. “You have said you go to no one else. You cannot continue to deny me . . . or yourself. I know you need this. I sense it.” She increased the pressure, trying to wrap her fingers around that part of him that desperately ached for her touch.

He swallowed hard, scarcely able to think. “You humble me,” he said unevenly. “I pride myself on my self-control and where is it now? Almost gone.”

She leaned close to his ear. “I will not tell anyone,” she whispered. “You may lose it completely if you like.”

“I cannot, not yet. I wish I could.” Yet his hand held hers firmly in place over his throbbing hardness, for he could not quite bear to put an end to the delicious, provocative pressure. “Touch me a little,” he murmured finally. “Just for a moment. Perhaps . . .” He drew in a shaky breath and did not finish the sentence. Then, very slowly, he removed his hand from hers, allowing her free access.

He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and watched while, with gentle fingers, she loosened the tie that held him in. When his arousal sprang free of its restraint, he saw her glance at his face, then look down again and touch him with her fingers, exploring him with a rather wondering expression. Although she said nothing, he thought she was surprised to find there was already moisture there. He observed her from under half-lowered lids, fighting a powerful, primal urge to take her straight to the floor and ravish her. The mere idea made him lightheaded, relentlessly seizing his imagination and hammering at the tattered remnants of his willpower.

Swallowing hard, he shut his eyes and leaned his head against the back of his chair. She was growing braver, sliding the pads of her fingers over his sensitive flesh, stroking him gently, invoking pure fire into his seething veins, an exquisite agony that might very well burn him to ashes. He should not let her do this. He was strong. He should resist.

“A little harder,” he rasped. “Just . . . for a moment.”

To his joy, he felt her hand wrap around him and begin an up and down, bobbing movement. The rhythm wasn’t perfect, but it was wonderful, enough to send a shudder of bliss throughout his entire body. Dimly, he heard himself moan, but it seemed like someone else’s voice, as though he no longer existed. Thick pleasure rose within him, drumming at his senses . . . he could not resist this . . . he needed it . . .

“This pleases you? Shall I go faster?”

“Faster, yes,” he gasped. “And harder. Just for a moment, and then . . .” He would stop her . . . he must stop her . . .

Elanor watched his quivering face, occasionally glancing down to take in that male part of him that caused heat to pool between her thighs just by looking at it. It was large and thick and hard and hot, and it surprised her how much she liked that.

And then it happened. With a guttural cry, he climaxed, his body arching slightly as he let out a long shuddering moan that seemed both harsh and oddly vulnerable. An instant later his arms closed around her, and he dragged her against his chest, locking her against him as though he meant to keep her there forever. She could feel the rapid pounding of his heart, the ragged unevenness of his breathing.

“I am so weak,” he murmured. “I meant to stop you before that happened.”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Haldir, why should I have stopped? I do not understand why you would have wished that. You felt pleasure, I know you did.”

“I did. Oh, yes.” He shook his head, the downward brush of his lashes hiding the expression in his eyes. “You amaze me yet again, Elanor. You and your magic hands.”

She watched him relax, her heart filled with tenderness. “Would you like more wine?” She started to climb off his lap, but his hand clamped on her wrist, his eyes seeking hers.

Holding a question.

“Don’t leave. I have a favor to return. Do you wish it?”

As difficult as it was, Elanor forced herself to shake her head. “Not today,” she lied. “I enjoyed touching you very, very much, Haldir. But now it is your turn to learn the frustration of receiving without being allowed to give. Galadriel says it is not the action but the intention that defines honor. I think I am beginning to understand what she means.”

And, with those words, she walked right out of the talan, leaving Haldir sitting alone in rather stunned silence.


[To be continued . . .] Feedback appreciated!