Further Tales Of Elbereth's Bounty

Title: Further Tales Of Elbereth’s Bounty – Cuthalion’s Tale, Part One
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: OMC/OFC, Tathren/Echoriath, references to Legolas/Elrohir, Glorfindel/Elladan
Summary: This is a companion piece to Of Elbereth’s Bounty, which takes place between the action of the final chapter (16) and the epilogue, set centuries in the future. Some of the characters from OEB deserved to have their own stories wrapped up outside of the actual narrative of that tale. This one concerns Echoriath’s brother, Cuthalion, and his quest for the mate of his heart, after years of philandering.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
Author’s Note: While I think parts of this story can be understood on their own, I think it better to read the whole cycle, or at least Of Elbereth’s Bounty, to completely understand this particular alternative universe, as well as the character histories. The series is as follows: Part One is ‘In Earendil’s Light’, Part Two is ‘Under the Elen’, and the vastly larger Part Three is ‘Of Elbereth’s Bounty’. These Further Tales come into play after the last chapter of OEB, but before its epilogue.

WARNING: Yes, believe it or not, this particular tale contains a HET pairing. A return to the slash I love best comes with the next two tales, but this particular character prefers females, so I thought I would take a little holiday from m/m pairings, just to freshen things up a bit and make things challenging for myself (since non-slash pairings are the real challenge for me!). If you do not enjoy these kinds of things, then while I’ve appreciated your interest until now, I think this story is probably not for you. Things will return to their usual slashiness in the future, however, fear not. And for those brave enough to tackle this tale, I hope you enjoy.

Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To Eresse, who came to love Cuthalion as much as I and hoped for some conclusion to his tale.

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Further Tales Of Elbereth’s Bounty

Cuthalion’s Tale, Part One

Coirë, Yen 192, Fourth Age

The steady, sucking clop of hoof over springtime mulch had lulled him into reverie, though the wheezing wind was yet crisped by the last of winter’s frost. He gathered the reins within the folds of his fleece-lined cloak, blanketing the cape over the undulating rump of his constant steed, Belar. Though the tawny stallion had not yet seen a dozen seasons pass, what the spirited horse lacked in patience he made up for in hardiness; few of the road-wary veterans in his stables would have fallen into such a leisurely canter amidst whisks of wind as braising as steel wool, with the promise of a warm stall but a quick gallop through the trees.

Yet Belar was of similar temperament to his master, crafty, relentless, and mercurial to a fault. He had implicitly sensed the fraught, fragile emotions that hibernated within his rider the winter long, his embittered reluctance to quit Otirion and the sour humor in which he returned home. This was patently unlike the sprightly elf who had reared him from his break from his mother’s womb, who, with cajoling hand and with firm hold, had trained him to lead the trade caravan north every autumn, had tempered his wilding ways, had taught him to measure out his boldness sparingly. Belar had accompanied his master north for three winters now. Each spring he grew more weighted, though they had long sold their wares and his rider rarely stopped to eat. When he did, he pecked sparsely at his lembas, like a scavenging crow, though the starved glint in his silver eyes was not dimmed by a sated belly. This last, meandering southward descent had been stretched out to the point of near exasperation on the horse’s part, for his master would regularly halt then not to make camp, nor to indulge him in an hour’s tender petting, but to sit atop some jagged crag lost in contemplation of the ether.

As they trot through the final clearing, into the heart of the forest, Belar nevertheless slowed to a nearly casual advance, intuiting his rider’s inner conflict by his studied listlessness. Best to rouse him some, else he may be in for a shock.

With the brim of his hood drooping perilously into his sightline, his trust in his steed almost too wholehearted for proper safety, Cuthalion was startled, to say the least, by the thwack of a spindly branch against his shoulder. Another, more limber length of bark scored across his chest, then another nearly scraped the skin from his cheek, though did accomplished the peeling back of his hood. He dodged the most treacherous bough with a curse, grumbling as he veered his ride back onto the middle way between the densely packed trees.

Though he would never admit this to his bothersomely protective stallion, he was surprised to note their considerable advancement from the outer plains of the region. They had already progressed past the humble talans of lay-elves into the more elaborate compounds of the noble born; indeed, they would soon be but a league from the Lord’s sprawling estate, with ample risk of being spotted by his kindred. As he had hoped to sneak surreptitiously home to rest himself before the evening meal, he mindlessly steered Belar around a back road, only to realize his navigational error a moment later. He was forced, quite stupidly, to arc around the perimeter of the very compound he sought most intently to avoid, that of the vale’s esteemed Loremaster and his mate, the former marchwarden of Lothlorien. He spat an even more virulent string of curses at his well-intentioned steed, who no doubt plotted the entire ruse, wily as he had long proved himself to be.

Wily by my master’s teaching, Belar seemed to snort back, though was penitent enough bow his proud head for a few paces.

The shroud of winter yet loomed large over the vale, if the woods were so empty in early afternoon. The path between the Lord’s compound and the Loremaster’s halls was lined by literal banks of high grass where lilies blossomed in summertime, after the rain season overfilled the foot-pounded trough as amply any stream. A few paces beyond was a berry patch encircled by a round of cobapple trees. The budding orchard was cultivated by his grandmother and – astonishingly – the former marchwarden, for the sole purpose of replenishing their jam stores. In elflinghood he’d often escaped there to plot his latest mischief, the abundance of ripe fruit always serving his inspiration; in later years, he’d flirted there with many a ruddy-cheeked maid. In recent times, as the riding instructor for the vale’s school, he would often finish his lesson there to treat his pupils, as well as their enduring, famished horses.

Twas during this guardianship that he had unwittingly sown the seeds of the hideaway’s treachery, as freely as his own with those too-willing maids. His two main charges, who took his lessons after many years of succor in their very infancy, now considered the oasis their own, cherished spot; as beloved for its tranquility as their revered tutor was for his care. Orinath and Miriel had the added luxury of living but steps from the orchard. As they had sprouted into adolescence, in addition to restricted autonomy, on his solitary visits he had often found them lurking above, curled into a spoon-shaped bough and devouring some dusty tome double their own size. Though he adored their avid, enrapturing company, he nevertheless required his own moments of solitude, of introspection a pair of lively elflings could not allow for long. The assonant tenor of his attitude towards the graceful maturity of one elfling in particular had caused further disharmony within him, such that he rarely sought other than her company there and certainly found no peace in his former sanctuary.

In her forty-fifth year, Miriel’s exotic looks took on a lushness remarked by every maid-loving elf in the vale, but no heart was so devastated by her allure as his, her longtime tutor and her guardian from birth. That he had lead her through every stage of her growth only amplified the impact of her beauty upon him, concomitant with his shame at such improper thoughts. Adding to his torment was the frank, confidential manner of their friendship, as both she and her brother sought out his advisement in almost every matter, of curiosity, of trivial intrigue, or of grave import. The earnestness with which she bared her thoughts, hopes, mad theories and rosy-colored dreams to him was unparalleled among his acquaintances; though in dark moments it chafed him raw to know that he dwelt in the chastest berth of her bosom. When he was in her company, he would not forsake such a privilege for all the mithril in Moria.

He himself was plagued with black visions of Haldir’s wrath, if he ever dared lay a hand on her.

In the four eternal years since her initial blooming, his desire had become so embarrassingly evident – in his imagination – that he had quit the vale every winter, journeying north to sell his new crop of steeds at the trade fairs of Otirion. The summers kept his lecherous mind suitably occupied with instruction, the breeding of stallions, and other sundry travails, so his heady conversations with Miriel were often in sobering public, unless she chased after him for consolation, in which case her tears forced his affections to be doled out in proper course. Yet whether in ardent discussion, in lively play, or in sobbing confession, he ever adored her, not the blackest shade of her character was other than endearing to him.

He loved her; he knew. That he was abjectly unworthy of one of such intellect, empathy, passion, and gentility was Elbereth’s cruelest trick yet upon him. Her status as his charge was but accidental injury, in comparison.

Even before he peeked up into the pokey branches around the most accommodating bough in the tree ring, he knew she would be there; bundled in furs though blithe as a nightingale, mouthing the long-memorized verses of one of her favorite ballads. Hopelessly romantic despite her sharp-witted intuition, he had borne his swollen heart through her countless speculations, whims, flirtations with other younglings, these gangly suitors only marginally more worthy than himself by virtue of their age – or lack thereof - though disgustingly *unsuitable* to one of her exquisiteness.

This springtime brought with it the added burden of her coming first majority, in but a month’s time, a consultation which he dreaded like a festering slice of a Nazgul’s blade. Which of her awkward peers, or, worse, one gentle gallant among his own, could he possibly champion as a fitting bed-tutor, when he would give his immortality to be the one to verse her in bodily love? He was grateful as never before for his family’s early summer trip to Gondolen, as he would likely miss any deepening of affection between Miriel and this phantom lover, or, most unsavory, her introduction to the thriving singles market here in Telperion. Much as he was revolted by the thought of any other elf touching her, he did fear his leave-taking might aversely affect her, as she needed the open ear of a confidant to relieve and to nourish her. Already he was acutely aware of the effect his winter absences had upon her, even his aspiring eyes could not fail to mark the misery that tinged every word of their autumnal farewells.

This last autumn, she had outright pleaded with him to stay on, stealing into the stables far past her curfew and begging him while staving off thick-bellied tears. The vulnerability she had shown, the emphatic way she bequeathed him her most cutting weakness in that pregnant moment had nearly sickened him to grief. He did not know what might have transpired, if his grandmother had not interrupted them, having caught a glimpse of Miriel’s billowing robes in the distance as she admired the harvest moon. She had known immediately of his dire straights, of the agony of his conflicted position, of his utter desperation to be rid of the burden of the youngling’s heaving heart. After ushering Miriel back to her father’s house, she had sat longly with him, listening, counseling where she thought there was need, but ultimately praising him for his honorable behavior. She had teased that he had only to wait a year and all would be righted, but he could not accept this as an eventuality, not if he was to remain rightly sane.

How could one of his wanton reputation win her heart, even think to deserve it? His experience was useful to her, but only as an advisor; she coveted his brute explanations, his survivor’s wisdom, not his bed. Miriel was too resolved to her romanticisms, and he had never been known for valor. Her knight would come, in time, to seal his fate.

Sure as the sunrise, he discovered her in the rocking boughs above, her well-worn, self-inscribed reproduction of the Lay of Leithian balanced on her up-tucked knees. The velvet silk of her loose ebony hair snaked down the trunk that supported her, her tiger eyes aflame with the poignancy of the more tragic passages. By her brimming eyes, she had come to Luthien’s devastating choice, moralistic verses she would doubtlessly linger over for a quarter hour, at the briefest estimate. Her cheeks rose-bitten by the cold, she was even more lovely than he remembered, than his dreams could render her. His persnickety horse conspired with his welling heart to freeze a moment in wrongful contemplation.

Anger and frustration fuelled the kick he heeled into Belar’s flanks, he prayed the steed’s taciturn grunt had not roused her from her reading.

***

Little more than a moment returned to the vale and already a tempest of hurt stirred within him.

Cuthalion had raced the path from the stables to the shelter of his apartments, leapt furiously up their winding stairs, as if the black riders themselves were bearing down upon him. As he broke into the quietude of his common room, the agony fumed off him like the coal-dusk cape of a Nazgul’s cloak, though his body felt as nebulous as their bleak, invisible spirits. A chill wind shrieked through his tense limbs, though he’d long shut up the door. He scurried over to the hearth and tossed in an entire bundle of chopped logs, severed branches, and spindly kindling, though his stiff, icicle fingers shook such that he could barely light them.

Only once the first flames licked up the stone walls of the hearth did he dare to drape his cloak across a chair, take measure of the dust moats and mildew the winter had gathered within. Nary a flake nor puff could be found, however. Instead, his cupboard was top-filled with dried goods, his larder with preserves, a lembas loaf had cooled on the high shelf and a plate of his favorite poppyseed biscuits awaited him by a jar of tea leaves, courtesy of his rather saintly grandmother. Echoriath, industrious as ever, had readied the apartment; Cuthalion wondered how the vale would ever do without his brother’s effortless and immaculate caretaking.

/To speak of boundless care,/ the silver elf noted wryly, as an impassioned groan sounded from the terrace beyond.

Curious as to how they could bear to couple in such inclimate conditions, he skulked over to the kitchen window, then peered out over the glass balcony that stretched between the two mallorn trees that berthed their fine apartments. Tucked hotly into a throng of furs upon a fat-cushioned divan, the longly bonded elves that were his twin and his cousin glowed as only the most ardent of lovers could, tippled and languid as they were with afterglow. Twined as two caterpillars in the loftiest of cocoons, Tathren whispered intently to his beloved of some anecdotal matter, his main points underlined by curt gesticulations. Echoriath was thoroughly engrossed, as always, by his husband’s conversation, giving the golden elf a meaningful squeeze, a quirk of his lips, or even a nip of a kiss to signal his continued interest.

Over the nearly four decades of their binding, Cuthalion had had ample opportunity to observe their rapt interactions, often attempting to apply these hints in his own liaisons, but with little success. He was a seducer by nature, while they were lovers. He knew how to ease a skittish elf into the luxuries of bodily melding, while they had mastered the nourishment of a partner’s flesh, spirit, and soul. Tathren and Echo had not spent a night apart since their binding rites, a constancy he could not help but envy. He had often begged his brother to learn him some of these loving ways, but Echoriath would only insist that when he met his match, his forever mate, his heart would intuitively know how to engulf her in its flame.

A further veil of despair shroud him at this prolonged sight of them, so he turned to fill his kettle from the tap.

Cuthalion had just wrenched the steaming pot from the fire, when a tap sounded on his terrace door. He was sunk into his brother’s arms within seconds, the warmth of his affection fiercer and more enveloping than any hearth, blanket, or frothing mug. Tathren soon joined the huddle, so that Cuthalion, caught amidst the gushing outflow of their binding channel, lightened his mood some, despite himself. Few could resist such a hurt-balming thrall, as evidenced by the ample, wilding adolescent populace of Erestor’s school, product of their long ago love-cast. He had himself instructed all forty-eight that remained in horse-rearing, they had had to build two additional stables and breed a decade’s worth of colts just to provide each with a pony. The oat stores alone had kept the shipyard in a frenzy for months.

“How do you fare, nin bellas?” Echoriath inquired, as they settled around his table to tea and biscuits. “Is Belar half-lame from the weight of your coffers? You left with quite a herd, autumn last.”

“That mad horse could ride back to Otirion in a blink,” Cuthalion chuckled softly. “Though my yield was indeed plentiful. Enough for a newly home, if you are yet keen to build it, gwanur.”

“He has been rabid as your stallion with notions,” Tathren grinned, in palpable admiration. “His study is papered with designs, every humble stroll we take through the wood fires him anew. I pray he has not tired himself of the task, as he has build and rebuilt your new residence a thousand times in his mind’s eye!”

Echoriath blushed, but did not contradict his knowing husband. “I would not break ground before the design is perfected. My brother deserves no less than the finest construction in the vale, even more majestic than our own prospective home.”

“Verily, Echo, you need not expend such efforts on my behalf,” Cuthalion murmured, overcome by his twin’s dedication to the task, though hardly surprised. “Any design wrought from your genial hand would be vastly worthy.”

“The teapot will heed you, perhaps, Talion,” Tathren mused, with fondness. “Eons before my lush-featured mate.” Their stray hands wove tightly together beneath the table, their gazes locked, ever complicit.

Cuthalion bristled openly at their distractedness, then pushed on: “And how have my two sweet lilies fared through the winter months? Gilded and giggly as ever?”

“Aye, they are most delightfully taxing,” Echoriath told him, golden eyes sparkling at the thought of their giddy sisters, the flaxen-haired, identical twins Crissae and Hislome. “Ada-Dan is quite perturbed by their near relentless mindspeak, though Ada-Fin routinely assures him that maids do cherish their secrets. I, myself, understand their innocuous discussions well enough, though I would never dare reveal this to them.” With a slightly calculating smile, he ventured further. “They have missed you keenly, as has our youngling aunt. Indeed, there seems no maid of our kin nor pupil under your exceptional tutelage who has not wanted for you over the winter. One in particular has been most… fervent, in her appeals for news.”

His manner instantly terse, Cuthalion retorted: “Majority is upon her. She has need of her confessor’s ear.”

“Methinks tis not but an open ear that will tend her most grating needs,” Tathren gently suggested. “She is entirely and quite voluptuously bloomed, Talion; her desires at their ripest. She would soon shed her maidenhood.”

“I will, no doubt, hear much of her suitors,” Cuthalion almost snapped back, his lonely gaze trenched in his lap. “I must visit the training fields, so as to properly advise her.”

Tathren and Echoriath shared a pointed look, steeling themselves for the brewing quarrel.

“I see you have taken considerable leave from our dulcet vale,” Tathren remarked. “But you have yet to quit your torment. Did you find no ease in the northlands?”

“I sought neither ease nor remedy,” Cuthalion sharply replied. “Only the briefest respite. Denied, as all else, though rightly so. I am no conjurer. How could I convince my very flesh to fire for a stranger, when my heart is roused by intimate thought of her alone.” When their blunt stares would not cease to accost him, he elaborated. “Twas wrongheaded of me to seek out the arms of another, even for… a flash of relief. The Valar protect her well, I was not even allowed my betrayal.”

“Tis no betrayal, Talion, when you have yet to declare your love,” Echo soothed him, with a clasp to his arm. “When you covet one of tender years, who has yet to reconcile the stirrings within with the love she bears her friend and teacher. Though I believe you may discover that her maturity in this nears its completion. The winter changed her. Your absence…”

“With maturity comes revelation, *aye*,” Cuthalion retorted, misery clanking down upon him. “She will soon learn of the many coarse and grayed feathers that have long cosseted her tutor’s prideful plumage. The gobbles of gossips will reach her pearldrop ears and she will know me for a wanton cock, renowned for crowing his conquests about the ale halls, strutting his latest hen before the clucking maids he’d once tossed over, and routing about the nethers of nearly half the available maids in the vale. So piffle-headed and insatiable that he could not wait out the five years till her majority, flying up to Otirion every winter to sate himself with plucky courtesans, who hissed at his despondency and mocked his restless heart as unconquerable, like magpies over crumbs; though even that is ended, in these last, impotent years abroad. Not in my wildest imaginings could I ever prove worthy of her, nor, once appraised of my repute, will she herself counter this bleak description of my wares.”

“How dare you speak such injury against the worth of my goodly cousin?” Tathren impressed upon him. “Who has been a sterling brother to my own dearly love, a cousin of peerless worth, ever-ready with some merriment to cheer you. Whose skilled touch never left a maid unpleased, scornful, or self-berating, but encouraged them to seek out their treasured ones and their own pleasure in other lovers. Who nobly sought out those courtesans so his heart could keep her chastity in elflinghood, who rears horses as one might babes, who has played professor emeritus and was indeed amply meritorious to generations of eager minds. Who was guardian of esteemed vigilance, caregiver of implacable regard, and mischief-maker extraordinaire to the two bedazzled children of our beloved Loremaster; who would now rather grieve himself into oblivion, than chance his heart on the adoration of his own tutor’s fairest daughter. A maid who, by many accounts, does indeed adore him.”

Cuthalion tore away from them, retreated to the hearth. Its by now roaring flames seared his cheeks red; they had grown terribly sallow, from heartsickness. His companions were soon behind him, waiting to unleash their succoring embrace until he wrung out his last wail. He would not, if he could spare himself, indulge them with despondency.

“She seeks but my approval,” he hushly repeated. “Not my regard.”

“Will you not even chance a declaration?” Echoriath asked delicately, sensing the fragility of his hold on self-possession.

“And renege on my pledge to keep her?” he scoffed. “I would be no elf at all.”

“You *will* be no elf at all,” Tathren underlined, when Echo could not. “The honor of this act of self-repression belies your own notions of unworthiness, Talion. But we have long known you worthy of a love’s bountiful care, so your continued belligerence concerns us only some. We are, however, concerned for your welfare. You will not keep Mandos at bay. How can you forgo this chance at love? How can you not dare? How can you keep veiled and severe what rages within you, when the alternative is so… bleak?”

“You have sought this phantom beloved since our tender years, Talion,” Echoriath seconded, on a richer and more poignant note. “Now that she has taken form, how can you turn from her care? How can one of your steady heart deny yourself any right to bliss?” He gripped his shoulders, suddenly, and spun him around, forcing as Cuthalion himself once might have a face to face confrontation. “I can think of no worthier elf, gwanur, none who has so longly quested for this privilege nor one more richly deserving. If you are not the elf to match her, then I am not your brother.”

With a strained sigh, Cuthalion bowed his head anew, as if his prayers might shepherd these words to the Valar above.

“You are kind, and true, my dear ones,” Cuthalion rasped, forlorn. “But I am not deceived. My fortune has never been made in action, but ever in awaiting. Perhaps I am made for Mandos alone.” He halted their objections with a firm hand, made his meaning plain. “I would be a fool to deny her, as you say. But I will not seek her out. I will remain, as ever, her trusted confidante and her constant tutor. Tis the one grace I can gift her, of so few.”

With that, he turned back to the fire, eager to feel its vivid burn on his somber, saddened face.

***********************************

The day was sprightly as a newborn lamb gambling about the meadows, the coarse winds fled north as the crow flies and the wild roar of early spring weather was chastened to a pawing breeze. Kitted in a shapely, becoming frock the colors of a cat’s eye, Miriel sauntered through the westward glade, glad to be free of her cloying cloak and eager to reach the stables.

Her errand was a most pressing one, though she was as anxious about its completion as she was its looming advent; she had lingered about the treeline for almost an hour, stirring up her courage and steeling herself for the precarious result. She was, as a maid of considerable pluck, poise, and yet unsung power, ready to seize destiny by the coils and squeeze out her share of fortune. This fearless will of hers gave little pause and garnered much praise in most things, but she was as yet untested in the gentle gilding of the delicate situation at hand. Indeed, she knew few maids who would so brazenly forgo tradition, but she was never one to give herself up entirely to unruly and taciturn fate.

Though she did seek to give of herself, in the most intimate manner possible.

She stuck a vigilant eye on the stable doors, as she approached, mindful of the coming or going of others. Most had abandoned their chores for a leisurely luncheon at this high hour, though the one she sought would barely pause to scarf down a lembas crust, let alone take leave of his charges, animal or otherwise. She adored how mindful he was of others, above and beyond his own needs, never one to forget a preference, fail to provide some vital requirement, or forgo a chance to warm you with his flattering regard. His attentions were peerless, meticulous, and emphatically genuine, she doubted a black thought ever even flit through his consciousness in regards to even a casual acquaintance. She had come to covet those earnest, heartful looks; in her early years she had relentlessly sought his approval, in recent ones any sign of change in the tenor of his care.

She had found none, yet this did not deter her from pursuing him. If he ever felt even a patter of softness for her, she knew he would keep this yearning so close to his heart that she would never feel a lick of its flame. This encouraging thought quickened her step, she was resolved to catch him before his afternoon class was in session.

Miriel wondered, not for the first time, if he would even agree to a private word. He had grown distant of late and no little pained, his sterling countenance dulled to a murky argent, grimed by palpable shame. He suffered his loneliness, his past, refusing himself even the simplest pleasure, save the teaching of younglings and the rearing of his prize horses. She knew not what catalyst had precipitated this scathing self-account, but she judged its force far too injurious to bear long. She so wanted to rouse him from these maudlin airs, to resurrect the mercurial elf who so charmed her with his wiles. She prayed this consultation would provoke some liveliness from him, if he did not take her to task for the mere suggestion of their coupling.

She was, in his mind, an innocent, though she was by no means unaware of his past exploits about the saucy maids of the oft frivolous singletons that inhabited the vale. She was well acquainted with the intrigues and calamities of his rapscallion reputation among the elder ellyth, though those years seem passed by him now. Yet there was still no guarantee he would not agree to take majority rites with her purely for pleasure, or out of some misguided concept of honor, or merely because he wished the transition to be a gentle one for her. Indeed, she had longly debated with herself over whether all his potential reasons for agreement would be adequate to her purposes, if she could tolerate them, as she found herself, though so green and unknowing of such things, having fallen rather completely in love with him.

After many readings, examinations, consultations with others and inner probing, she was sure it was love. She displayed all the signs of pining while he was away, and all the signs of blushing adoration, to her own consternation, when she was in his excellent company. Despite a few misguided flirtations at the dawn of her knowledge of physical desire, for the last three years she had wanted none but him, with the overzealous, flustering, and oftentimes broiling need of an elfling on the cusp of majority. In the early stages of her crush, tales told by other maids who had known him only provoked hot jealousy from her, as well as embarrassing flushes at their explicitness (the memory of his sensuous technique seemed to urge even the most conservative tongue towards lascivious revelation).

In recent months, they had only served as fuel to her fantasies of him; her respect, admiration, and fondness soon coupled with a rather cheek-scorching desire within her. Ever the rabid student, she had ravenously sought out and raptly devoured these tales of swoon, seduction, and sexual ecstasy apparently unparalleled among the brash, lusty youths of Telperion. That the kind, giving, and patient tutor she knew was also secretly – or perhaps, upon reflection, not so secretly – a skilled and generous lover to every maid he had so tenderly claimed only made him more alluring to her. She wanted desperately to know his touch, to engage with these sensual talents, and to have him guide her, as he had in a plethora of other domains, into the ripeness of full maturity.

She had only to convince him, by some unknowable and yet unlearned means, of her worthiness as a bed-partner.

A maid of considerable force and purpose, Miriel had resolved not to shy from her desires. If she was to have him, in but a month’s time, then she must presently make this desire known to him, though perhaps she would save rash declarations of love for a later day. Such a bold act, she conceded, did not come without consequences; these she was perhaps less prepared to digest. However, she was firmly decided and must act now, else he would not have enough time to properly consider her proposal.

If, indeed, he could bring himself to progress past utter, choking shock towards careful consideration.

With a glance up at the towering mountain above and a deep, fortifying breath, she snuck through the stable doors without announcing herself.

***

Another had inadvertently waylaid his attentions, though her starshine graces would prove feeble competition; let alone her lineage.

As she crept down the aisle between the stall rows, careful to yet conceal her presence, she noted Lalaith’s renown, familiar laugh and was cheered by its vivacity. Though she was nominally his aunt, the pair of silver elves looked as close as siblings, as they petted the hugely pregnant mare before them. Yet a decade from her majority, Lalaith was still blessed with the impish airs of childhood, argent eyes wondering at the kick of the babe within and hesitant fingers brushing over the soft hide. The newborn pony, once it emerged, would be hers to rear. Though Cuthalion murmured encouragements, the elfling was quite evidently daunted by this imminent responsibility; as such, he had no doubt kept her back from the noontime meal for some private assurances.

Miriel felt her chest swell with remembrances of similarly stolen moments between them, with golden admiration at his patience, his thoughtfulness, and his knowing care. If she were to loose her boldest champion to a foolish gesture…

She could not think on such things. She must trust in his nobility and act in accordance with her encroaching desires.

Yet what a sterling specimen he made. Some of his earlier gloom polished up by the eagerness of his youngling charges and the import of their proper learning, he was radiant as a mithril bow; his limber frame sinuous as a Rohirric dagger and his silver hair like sheathes of steel. His leather breeches were cut to his muscled form, scuffed in patches from riding. His boots were heavy, to weight his step to keep the animals attuned to his presence among them, though his sleek chest was clothed in a worn, threadbare shirt, which frayed so at the collar that it nearly exposed all of his taut pectorals. As it was, a slice of rippled abdomen was exposed every time he reached to pet the beleaguered mare, which were ample and delightfully abundant.

She was reminded of those lonely winter nights, when she would steal away to the stables to lay in the upper loft of hay, basking in the musky scent that so lingered on his skin. How many times had she dreamt of him coming home early, finding her asleep there, then waking her softly with the most luring of kisses… working his way between her thighs. Easing himself into her, as he would later ease the babe from its mother, filling her with heat and tenderness and loving...

She shook herself from this rosy-cheeked reverie, centered on the stomach-fluttering task at hand.

Lalaith inadvertently aided in her plight, by insisting her Lord Adar would miss her soon. Cuthalion was visibly reluctant to part with her, not satisfied that the soothing had been entirely effective. As they quit the stall, he urged her towards a late-week appointment, insisting that the colt would only benefit from this early connection between them. Halfheartedly agreeing, Lalaith nevertheless leapt into his arms to have her hug, before skipping leisurely away.

Only then did Cuthalion mark her presence, but drew a deep, rousing breath before he turned to greet her. She indeed startled him, when first he looked upon her; for a flash his unguarded, quicksilver eyes raked the sultry length of her, the palpably feral stare retreating behind gloom’s rapidly descending curtain.

“Well met, Miriel,” he smiled, but his visage was dull. When she but grinned impishly in reply, he tensely essayed an unusual compliment, as if to justify his earlier transgression. “Your dress is quite… flattering. The color of your eyes, hm? The fabrics are well chosen. Is it the work of one of your Naneth?”

“Nay, Alincil fashioned it, on commission,” she explained, the naming of a former lover of his only further tensing him. “She thought the cut more becoming of a maid upon her majority. I am gladdened by your approval.”

Cuthalion swallowed hard at this, cast his lingering eyes into the mare’s stall. “She’s in need of some refreshment, I fear. Will you watch her a moment?”

He did not wait for her reply, but assumed her assent and strode hurriedly away, towards the back well. His step was stiff, almost military, void of its usual swagger, his arms clamped to his sides as if even their most gentle sway might unmoor him. Moving into the stall, she wondered again if she had chosen her revelation day well, as he seemed painfully overburdened by some personal trouble. Indeed, she had never known him to be so reserved, so bashful in his niceties; he had not even embraced her in welcome, the first time he had ever been so cold. As she mulled his strange behavior these last days – the few times they had seen each other – she became increasingly convinced that some incident had cuttingly affected him, some wrong overshadowed him to a degree she had never witnessed before, in all their years of friendship.

Quitting the stall after a consoling pat to the mare, she was determined to seek him out in even more private quarters – away from his horse charges – to beg a quiet word, a confidence from one she herself had confided much to. This day, she would act his guardian, be his confessor and his comfort.

She found him seated at the well, hollow bucket yet in hand, staring absently into the deep. Even his somnambulant senses did not miss her footfall, however, and he sprung up to complete his task, though too late to dissuade her from emphasizing the rightness of earlier conclusions. Refusing to allow this play of stability to continue, she lay a calming hand upon his, her fingers curled around as his clenched over the bucket rim. He flinched at her touch, and could be seen to inwardly upbraid himself for this, though Miriel quickly rested a warm, steady hand on his broad back.

“The mare is well settled,” she cooed. “Come sit with me awhile.”

Miriel sensed his protest in the violent arch of his shoulder blades, but he nevertheless complied. She laid the bucket aside and eased him down onto the sturdy stone ledge, then perched upon his lap so that they met eye to eye, as when she was small. When she was keeping tight some corrosive emotion, he would employ this blunt method to force the revelation of this weakness, to confront this insecurity and thereafter tackle it head-on. If he recognized this early tactic of his, he gave no sign of it, as he himself proved rather shy in face of her light, inquisitive gaze.

“*Miriel*,” he sighed, with crushing weight. “Tis improper for a maid of your years-“

“Tut!” she silenced him, raising his face by his chin in a bold mimic of the sounds and the gestures he himself once used to urge her compliance.

Once their eyes were locked in amiable understanding, she unclasped the gnarled-toothed clip that held back his hair and worked her soothing fingers through the silky silver locks, kneading the strained skin of his scalp. It was familiar to their quiet time, born of childhood merriment; though its intent, in these borderline adult years, was far from childish or playful. He melted some beneath these tender ministrations, surrendered to her implacable will; after a time he was so docile she pressed a soft kiss to his brow. A tremor shot through him, which she took for the imminent loosening of his tongue. His hair completely unwound, she stroked from heavy head down the lissome lengths of his arms, which had woven, she was proud to see, around her waist, supporting the small of her back.

Perhaps the mining of his sorrows could indeed wait awhile. This appeared to be the opportune time for her scarlet proposal.

“Better, for all the horrible impropriety?” she queried, to which he essayed a wry smirk.

“Infinitely,” he admitted, exhaling a long, cleansing breath. “If I would have thought my methods would be so cunningly used against me, I would have been more deliberate in my instruction… foot massages and the like.”

“One could be attempted, if you wish,” she teased, her eyes suddenly wicked.

“Nay, this fares well enough,” he dismissed, lowering his lids as she brushed a finger over his cheek. “You will make a fine mate to some fortunate elf, as ever I suspected.”

Miriel bristled some at this insinuation, but keenly sought to turn the comment to her advantage.

“And would you yourself not be so blessed by fortune?” she boldly inquired, which flew his eyes wide open.

“How now?” he coughed, his shoulders becoming newly rigid. “Miriel, I –“

“I have called on an errand of considerable import, Talion,” she told him, tiger eyes suddenly pleading for his unbroken regard. “Will you attend me?”

“As you wish,” he whispered, though the tremors vengefully returned.

Rallying her courage, she began: “In but a month’s time, as you know, my fiftieth begetting day will occur and with it comes my majority.”

“I feared this might be the matter of our conversation,” he interrupted, before she could take a second breath. “I thought you might wish to consult with me, Miriel, but… I do not think this is wise. Your Naneth are much better suited to such things, or if you would have judgment of some worthy ellon, perhaps you should ask your brother…”

“My brother!” she exclaimed, but was not angered. “To speak of one in need of your counsel… but you seek only to deter me from my path.” With a blush, she risked an early interpretation of his reaction, analysis being her bread and butter. “Perhaps you have guessed ahead the purpose of my call?”

Cuthalion was struck rather dumb by her insinuation, confusion writ across his perplexed features.

“Is something amiss?” he asked intently, worried that he had overlooked some sign of distress, ever the vigilant guardian. He instinctively drew her closer in, cinched his arms around her slender waist. “Has some idiot suitor denied you?”

“I have yet to offer myself,” she conceded, a flint of mercury lining her tone. “Though I seem to have piqued his interest, at least momentarily.” She schooled herself, then played her gambit. “Talion, I know I am yet innocent of the world, but it is for that reason that I would… I would have the finest of tutors teach me of this wondrous and overwhelming act of bodily love. Though you have mightily struggled to keep the knowledge from me, other maids have loose tongues, and I… I know how esteemed your talents are among them.” He visibly bit back at curse at this news, but could not stop her words to provide some halting explanation. He was so incensed by the thought of those traitorous gossips he had so well treated, that he almost missed her proposition entirely. “Might you not, as your greatest of all gifts to me… upon that most honored of begetting days… introduce me to the ways of loving?”

Cuthalion was so floored by her question, he nearly fell back into the well.

“Y-you wish to… for *me* to…?” he sputtered, suddenly only too acutely aware of her velvet proximity, of her prime position on his lap.

“Take my minority from me, aye,” she pushed valiantly on, though her cheeks burned like a forge iron. Desperate to convince him of her worthiness, she hoped some rather overt confessions might make his mind. “Even before your long absence, a… a desire for you awakened. I knew it was not proper, as you say, but I could not help myself. I long for your… your attentions. To be held not as a charge, but as one cherished… to be touched, by one of your beauty… your heart… in truth, it is no less than my dearest wish.”

To her surprise, his quicksilver eyes instantly sparked with feeling. He cupped her face with such delicate tenderness, she knew she would have her answer in his kiss. Cuthalion, *her* Talion, softed the most gentle of kisses over her pillowy lips, his own barely repressing a palpable fever. To her dismay, he did not linger long, but pulled carefully away to voice her a formal answer.

“Nothing would give me greater joy,” he whispered, shaken by the momentous occasion. Her almond-shaped eyes were so intently fixed on him, it was all he could do not to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her senseless. “But forgive me, my sweet one… my tiger-hearted one for being so forthright! I must, for sake of my own peace, ask after your intentions.”

“M-my intentions?” she retorted, unsure of his meaning. A chill pricked up her spine. Was she already so out of her depth that such a simple request was so cryptic to her?

“Aye,” Talion responded encouragingly. “Would you wish merely for an introduction into the loving arts or is this… might I… have you asked me so in advance that we might… court some?”

Miriel’s eyes suddenly went impossibly wide; she could not keep a radiant smile from her lips, far from the usual demure, enigmatic lip-nibble he had come to expect. Not a matter of experience, then, but a matter of involvement. She almost threw herself against him, but knew this immature gesture would only dissuade him from what by all signs, sights, and veiled admissions was the emphatic implication of his utter besotting. His anxious mithril eyes sought to pierce her very soul with their desperation at the endless wait for her reply; all at once she understood the last few years entirely, his distance, his absences, his formal behavior, and his wretched fear when she pleaded with him to remain last fall. His coyness belied the fact that he offered himself in his entirety, not just fount of knowledge or tutelage in the love-arts, but love itself.

Pure, enrapturing love.

She knew then that he adored her, had adored her all this time… and by the quiet desolation that slowly encroached upon his seized features, felt terribly vulnerable for it. Her honor-bound guardian had suffered for wanting her; her teeming mind saw everything in that breathless instant, all his agony, his self-berating, how viciously he must have scolded himself and how arduously he must have sought punishment. Needlessly, for there was no shame in claiming what was ever his. She must underline this, she must force him to understand how she loved him…

The kiss was tremulous, at best, unsure and unknowing, but such relief engulfed him that he met her, matched her, suckling longly on her plump, pink lips as permission for such indulgence had been emphatically granted. A flick of tongue before they broke hinted at her taste, but he was so blindsided by this unexpected request, by love’s revelation, that he dared not tempt fate by drinking too amply of her sweetness. Instead, he settled her dizzy head on his shoulder and held her as he had always dreamed, thinking, for the first time in years, of his laurelled future.

Miriel was both pleased and provoked by this tenderness, restless even as she nestled further into his embrace. The month, she feared, would be endless.

“My sweet one,” he beckoned, after an extended, rapturous silence. “I fear you will not understand… but I must declare my intentions to your fathers. They were *my* tutors, once upon a time, and I could not disrespect them, nor act directly against my oath to them-“

“Shush,” she mischievously commanded, before plucking another kiss from him. “I fear it will be my charge to teach you that I am not some unreasonable elfling of cyclonic moods, my dear gallant. I know well of your guardian ways. I have prepared my fathers to expect such an audience… though in truth they know not from whom they should expect it.”

“They will be thunderstruck,” Cuthalion chuckled, though he might have wept. It was no little thing to seek the favors of the elfling so long under your charge, and from her fathers, no less. “Miriel, what if they refuse me?”

“They cannot refuse you courtship rights,” she reasoned, curling tighter against him. “I am in no hurry to sacrifice my maidenhood, but do not – in that overprotective mind of yours – take this to mean I am unwilling. I say merely that if they wish for us to delay awhile, to properly digest the fact of our togetherness… then I am amenable to such a resolution.” She giggled, then added a jibe. “If you can keep yourself from corrupting me.”

“Barely, but I might manage it,” he laughed heartily, still stunned by the day’s tumultuous turn of events.

Just as he had grown somewhat accustomed to the feel of her in his arms, she wrestled reluctantly out and yanked him up to his feet.

“Off with you, then!” she chided mirthfully, tiger eyes glinting with unabashed affection. “You have little time to dally about, dear heart, as the afternoon grows long and I would take a stroll with my newly beau come evening.”

Impassioned by her flirty gaze, by the lazy twine of their fingers, by the very sight of his hard-won lady, Cuthalion seized her up and stole a sizzling kiss from her saucy, taunting mouth.

“You are the loveliest creature around,” he swore, catching her on a swoon.

With doe-eyes she watched him stride away, and praised the heavens for blessing her with boldness.


End of Part One