Another Monday Offering

From the same source: Chapter Four of 'The Gift'.

As previously stated:
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, a tribute to the Lord of the Rings.  I acknowledge I have no rights of ownership to the characters or the settings and that I only own my original content and interpretations.

Chapter Four: A Knife and a Meeting

I woke to find warm arms around me, a hand stroking my skin and I lifted my head to find Lindir’s wide gaze looking down at me. He laid his fingertips on my lips and cocked his head towards the window, disengaging from the embrace and pushing himself up in bed. About to move myself, I realised that at some point I had parted company with my linen shift, and hastened to retrieve it from the depths of the bed, pulling it on over my head. 

Lindir had been similarly busy and was fastening the cords on the leggings I’d found for him earlier, now looking anxiously towards the door, although I could hear nothing from outside.

The fruit knife was on the table next to the bed; I passed it to him, handle first, and then pointed towards the dressing room; he could hide in there until Briot had left; I would pretend to be still sleeping and not to know where my ‘gift’ had gone.

Lindir nodded, snatching up the tunic from the floor to take with him. He pulled the dressing room door almost shut and I lay back down, trying hard not to relax and appear properly asleep.

The bedroom door cracked open. I swallowed and concentrated on lying still.

There was a cold slice of metal at my throat, a hand holding me down and a voice whispering viciously in my ear.  I had no idea what my attacker was saying until I caught one word: ‘Lindir…’

I opened my eyes to see two shadows creeping over the window ledge. Their movements were liquid, smooth, and they were utterly silent. One went to the outer door and the other headed for my dressing room, and it was with relief I saw the pointed tip to an ear and recognised my attackers for elves.

‘Lindir’s through there,’ I said, hoping one or other of them would understand. The knife pressed harder against my throat; it was not a pleasant experience.

But then Lindir’s voice came from within the dressing room, and the elf outside stood down, speaking in the same soft language. Lindir replied and opened the door, coming out slowly.

I saw joy and relief in the face of the one nearest him; he grasped Lindir by the arms and looked into his face, firing off a string of quiet questions. Lindir began to answer, and then looked over towards me, horror in his eyes as he launched into a tirade of hissing invective, pointing at me and the elf with the knife at my throat. He pushed past his friend and came over to wave the knife away and sit on the bed to gather me into his arms. I noticed, as if from a distance, that I was shaking now the knife had been withdrawn, and I was very grateful for the warmth and comfort of his embrace. Keeping one arm about me, he tilted my chin to make sure my neck wasn’t cut, talking softly to me all the time.

‘I’m fine,’ I told him.  ‘I’m fine.’

The elf at the door waved a hand, and we fell silent.  Lindir’s friend, near the dressing room, nodded towards the window; time to leave.

‘Le fael, Koviala,’ Lindir said, and, in front of his stunned friends, kissed me.  ‘Mellon-nin.’

‘Mesri,’ I said.  ‘It’s Mesri.’

‘Mesri,’ he repeated, picked up the remaining half of the kovalia fruit on the table, and slipped out of the window along with his friends.

It was the sixth hour when I heard a soft knock at my door and it was finally beginning to get light.  I hadn’t slept; instead, I’d collected up the remains of Lindir’s chains and hidden them in the trunk in the dressing room, pulled the bed straight and hidden the knife under my pillow. I’d spent a long time running through possibilities in my mind; how to handle Briot, how to get rid of my maid without it looking suspicious.  How to bring Briot to justice and what to do, should I be called to explain myself to King Elessar.

‘Come in,’ I said.

My maid came in, dropped into a curtsey, and began to speak.

‘I fully expect you to be extremely disappointed with my service, Lady Mesri, but I should first like to make  you aware that your brother appears to have partaken of rather a lot of red wine and he looks likely to be sleeping it off for most of the day…’ she waved at the rug.  ‘I think I should clear that up for you, too.  It does not smell as strongly as it did in the night, but the scent is lingering…’

‘Oh?  Are you telling me…?’

‘That I did not see anything I could do except agree to help Lord Briot, but I swear I did not know he would bring a captive to your bed, and that I most eternally grateful he lost consciousness before I had to make good my promise! And now, my lady, if there’s nothing more, I believe there is a council meeting this morning I need to dress you for?’

*

By mid-morning I realised I was really enjoying my birthday.

The council chamber had been humming all morning; the draft treaty and all the other relevant documents had been signed, I’d arranged for it to be taken at once to Gondor with the intention of signing the treaty as soon as possible, if not sooner. We had discussed what would be involved in the actual ceremony, how many officials would likely be sent, and if we had enough bunting in stock to suitably decorate the township.

We broke proceedings for twenty minutes mid-morning and refreshments were brought in. I had ordered cake and light drinks. Many of the council members took the chance to wish me well for my year ahead and more than a few asked me if I knew where my brother had got to.

‘Maybe he’s sleeping off some heavy wine?’ I suggested innocently. ‘Now, while I have you here, and before we get back into session, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone in the town who could teach me Elvish, do you?’

‘Elvish, my lady?’

‘Yes; I want to learn Westron too, of course, but I know the High King has many elves at his court and I would like us to present ourselves in as good a manner as possible.’ I smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t make anybody else do so, of course. But it might be to our advantage and I would like to begin lessons today, if you can find anyone.’

‘Today, Lady Mesri?’

‘This afternoon, if possible. Oh, look; my brother has finally arrived!’

The door slammed shut after Briot and he stomped down the steps into the chamber’s heart. He looked furious, hung-over, and dangerous, and I was glad I’d thought to give my maid a weeks’ leave to go and visit her grandmother while Briot’s rage died down and he came to his senses a little.

Truth to tell, I was a little nervous myself.  But I’d decided on a course of action and I was going to stick with it.

‘Mesri…’ he began, in tones of thunder as he approached.

‘Briot!’ I gave him my sweetest smile and laid my hand on his arm.  ‘Thank you so much for the gift! Such a thoughtful present, I really enjoyed... unwrapping it.’

I think he growled.  I touched my hand to my head lightly.

‘Oh, but the wine was too much last night! I was almost late up, and found my maid had tidied everything away. Including, sadly, my lovely gift, but thank you!’ I smiled and moved off.  ‘Have some cake, why don’t you? And some fruit juice.’

Mellon-nin – my friend

A Saturday Offering... Chapter Three of 'The Gift'...

As previously stated, this is a work of fiction, I own nothing except my plot and my OCs.

Chapter Three: Blood and Voices

I took a moment to calm my breathing. I rested my hands against my face, feeling the heat of my flushed cheeks against my fingers. It was unfair! I had never hungered so much for a man as I did now for this elf, and I could do nothing about it.

There was a trunk against the far wall which I opened, rummaging around until I found something vaguely masculine for Lindir to cover his nakedness with.  More by chance than by choice, some of my late husband’s clothes were in there; a pair of soft brown trousers he’d worn for hunting, a dark blue tunic. I shook them out and folded them over my arm before going back into my bedroom.

I didn’t look at Lindir; I kept my eyes averted as I held out the garments, but his fingertips beneath my chin tipped my face up so that I had no option but to meet his eyes.

‘Le fael, Kovalia.’

He released me and took the clothes, and I turned away, intending to sit on the bed and compose myself.  But what I saw simply enraged and distressed me further.

The covers had spilled off the bed and in the centre of the mattress where Lindir had lain, amongst the wreckage of chains and leather strips, was a streak of blood. Not a huge amount, but a significant stain, fresh, and I felt sick. No wonder he had flinched away when I had had tried to draw down the covers.

Briot! Oh, my brother would pay for this! My anger burned white-hot and I felt tears of rage stinging my eyes. I tore my gaze away.  I couldn’t breathe.

Crossing to the window, I opened it and took huge gulps of the night air. It was dry and bitter, not sweet like a spring meadow after rain, but it cleansed my heart and helped clear my head and my fury began to subside.

‘Kovalia?’ Lindir touched my shoulder lightly, his voice soft. As I turned towards him, he laid his finger on my lips and tipped his head in the direction of the small room beyond mine where my maid slept.

Lindir’s hearing was obviously far better than my own, for I’d not heard anything, but suddenly he pulled me back from the window, his eyes urgent, and he pushed me onto the bed, hastily joining me and gathering the covers from the floor to throw over us both before reaching to douse the lamp.

Outside, I finally heard a sound, the softest of clicks, my maid’s door and I felt my heart hammering in my chest. Her voice, hushed, enquiring, and the rumble of a man replying; I knew that tone, it was Briot. My anger flared in me again, but I tried to make myself stay calm; the more enraged I was, the easier it would be for Briot to best me. I made myself do what I had been doing ever since I had been widowed three years earlier; I paid attention.

To everything.

I strained my ears and caught fractions, half words.

‘…lord, It’s…’

‘…just do what I…’

Beside me in the bed, Lindir had tensed and I knew he, too, recognised Briot’s voice.  I really didn’t want to think why, especially not now, when I needed to concentrate.

What was he asking my maid? I’d recently become aware of a change in her, but had thought her loyal… had she known about the drugged wine?  I tried to imagine what I would look like, had I actually drunk it and fallen asleep, and I spread my limbs accordingly, making sure Lindir was covered properly so that, were anyone to glance into the room, the lack of leather collar around his neck would not be noticed.  The clothes I’d found for him lay abandoned on the floor on the far side of the bed where they wouldn’t be seen from the doorway.

The voices were louder now, or my hearing had sharpened.

‘…my lord, she’s barely had time to taste him, never mind the wine…’

So my maid had known. Even though I’d half-expected it, it still felt like a betrayal.

‘Well? Do whatever it is maids do.  Knock, or something! See if she’s asleep yet. I want to get him out of there…’

And then what?

All I could think of doing was to move, to cover Lindir with my body in such a way that moving him would seem impossible to do without waking me.

He flinched, but I had not chance to murmur reassurance because then came the soft tap at my door.

‘My lady?’

The door opened a fraction and a line of light from the hall spilled in.

‘Did you call, my lady?’ she had the cheek to ask.

Of course, if I told her to leave me alone, that would scupper whatever plans Briot might have, but the decanter was standing on the table, almost empty, and she might notice. 

Instead, I stirred slightly, lifting my head and mumbling something indistinct, making sure I became even more entangled with poor Lindir.

The door was pulled to, the line of light narrowing.

‘She’s just about off, my lord. But she’s wrapped all around him worse than the bedding!’

‘Better wait until the drug deepens, then. So.  What can we do to fill in the time, do you think?’ His voice lowered as he made suggestions too quiet for me to hear. ‘Hmm?’

The maid giggled, but made only a token protest, one that did, however, have me longing to fly from the bed and bury the fruit knife in one of Briot’s eyes.

‘Oh, my lord! You want me to do what for you? When you’ve been inside him? There? I’ll have to wash you first! ’

She giggled and the door closed. I heard them move off down the corridor; of course, Briot would want her in his own rooms, not in her little chamber.

As soon as I was sure they were gone, I untangled myself from Lindir and slid away from him in the bed, hoping he understood I’d only been trying to protect him.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked. 

Having put out the lamp, the room was very dim, but I was loath to relight it in in case Briot came back, so I couldn’t see Lindir’s expression. I’d heard elves could see perfectly well in the dark; was that so? I hoped so, I hoped he could see in my face that I was worried about him and that I hadn’t intended anything other than to protect him.

‘I’m sorry; I didn’t know what else to do… I was only...’

Lindir laid his finger briefly on my lips and drew close to me. He shivered in the darkness and it was natural that I open my arms to him. Perhaps it was equally natural for him to respond by leaning in so that I could put my arms about him.  I squeezed gently, my hands on his back trying to comfort and soothe him, and then his body was on top of mine, his lips seeking my mouth. I submitted, surrendered to the kiss, ridiculously grateful for this morsel of affection.

But instead of breaking the kiss, he deepened it, sliding his tongue into my mouth, shocking me with the heat and need from him, and his hands came to tangle in my hair as his body pressed against me and I felt the iron length of him against my thigh.

My hands slid down his back to glide over his hips and he released my mouth, and my hair, to lift his head and look down into my face with radiant eyes and now, even in the darkness of the room, I saw his full smile and it was every bit as wonderful as I had expected.

‘Kovalia?’ Lindir whispered, and there was a tremor in his voice, a plea, and I welcomed him into my arms, and although we couldn’t understand a word each other said, our bodies understood a different language, and they spoke it very well indeed.

That Dark chocolate moment... bittersweet...

I'm fortunate to have many friends.  People I can lunch with, laugh with, grumble with, vent with. People who help me, people I can help.

But just because I'm blessed with lots doesn't mean I value them any the less.

One of my friends recently applied for her Dream Job.  After years of researching what qualification she needed, and going out and working damn hard to get them, and after asking me to help with her application (trusting lady, she is) she got the interview and now has got the job.

And I am utterly delighted for her.  She deserves it. Not just because she's had a tough time and has battled on, but because this is her dream, and she's kept chasing it until she's caught it.

But for me, it's bitter sweet.  The job isn't in the UK, it isn't even in Europe, so when she goes, in spite of her talk of spare rooms and  meeting-me-from-the-airport, the reality is our friendship will no longer be meet-for-lunch every few weeks, but will be exchanges of email and FB posts.  I'm not going to be able to afford £400 each way airfares any time soon.

I have other friends who I value no less, and any of them moving further than a bus-ride away from me will be a blow.

But this is her dream, and I am delighted for her. Even if I have just had to hide inside a packet of chocolate digestives to prove it.

A Tuesday offering - Chapter Two of 'The Gift'

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, a tribute to the Lord of the Rings.  I acknowledge I have no rights of ownership to the characters or the settings and that I only own my original content and interpretations.

Chapter Two: Kovalia

I staggered back in shock, trying to make sense of this, to understand the implications; the High King of Gondor and the West was an Elf-Friend; he was married to a great elven lady and if it were to get out that I had a captive elf in my bed the night before the documents were to be signed…

Really, though, that didn’t matter at the moment; what mattered was this poor, collared creature hiding and cowering away from me. What had they done to him, before they brought him here? How much had he already suffered?

‘I do not want to hurt you,’ I said, trying to keep my voice gentle and reassuring. ‘I only wish to see you. Are you injured?’

Perhaps my tone was kind enough to lessen his fear, for he turned his head back and opened his eyes. Oh, such eyes as they were! A clear, silver blue, so old and so wise, but there was something else there, too.

There were tears.

He tried to speak, but I didn’t understand him. I didn’t think he’d understood me, either; we have our own tongue here, and I had never needed any other. I knew no Westron or Elvish and only a few words of the Rohirrim language from a chance encounter in happier days.

I reached for the covers again to slide them a little further, seeking only for any injuries, but he grabbed at the edge of the sheets across his chest and spoke again, rapidly and softly, his tone pleading.

‘How may I help you when you will not let me near you?’ I asked, but, of course, he didn’t understand. I huffed out my breath. This ‘gift’ was, indeed, a distraction, but it was not at all the sort of distraction I had expected tonight. ‘Are you hungry, are you thirsty?’

I took a few steps away from the bed to find those glorious eyes on me.  I tried a mime, putting my fingers to my mouth and pretending to eat something. He hesitated before nodding, so I crossed to the fruit bowl and selected a bunch of grapes for him, taking them over and placing them near where his long fingers gripped tight the sheets.

Giving him privacy to eat, I gave my attention back to the fruit bowl.  Amongst the apples and pears there was a kovalia, too. They were delicious, but hard work, for they were protected from the harsh local conditions with a rigid outer casing, and I picked up the serrated knife accompanying it to slice through the tough skin and expose the soft, aromatic flesh of the fruit within.

A knife…

The Desert Sprits knew I wanted no unwilling bed-friend, so I carried the knife across with the sliced fruit.  The grapes were gone, and I saw the elf lick his fingers, his lips.  The pit of my stomach fell away as desire growled in my belly in a most unladylike manner. He inclined his head towards me, still cautious, and said a few words, ‘thank you,’ perhaps.  I hoped it was ‘thank you,’ anyway.

‘This is kovalia,’ I said, and broke a piece of the soft flesh in half, handing him some while preparing to eat the other section myself. I hoped sharing food with him would show him I would not hurt him, not after we’d eaten together.

‘Kovalia,’ he repeated, lowering his eyes and inclining his head. Pointing his fingers at his chest, he said: ‘Lindir. Kovalia… Lindir…’

‘Oh. No, it’s not my name!’  I protested, but he was nodding now, and the slight curve of his lips suggested how breath-taking he would be if he really smiled. ‘You’re Lindir? Your name is Lindir?’

‘Lindir.’

‘I’m Mesri, Pleased to meet you, Lindir. I wish it were under different circumstances.’ I gestured towards myself. ‘Mesri,’ I repeated.  ‘Are we friends now?’

‘Kovalia?’ he asked, following this with a string of words I couldn’t make any sense of.

But the language sounded as lovely as the gentle eyes and beautiful face of the elf and just listening to it filled my heart with joy.

‘Let’s get you out of that collar,’ I said, and, unthinking, reached towards him with the knife.

‘Avo!’ he cried out. ‘Avo, Kovalia!’

He had pushed himself back automatically as he shouted, his arms trying to come up to protect his throat, and I cursed myself for a fool and then cried out myself as I saw that his wrists were cuffed with leather and a bright steel chain ran from them to somewhere beneath the bedding.

‘Lindir, it’s all right! Oh, forgive me, I am so sorry…’ I made placating gestures and backed away.  ‘I did not think, my only intention was to free you…’

I turned the knife in my hand so that the blade was on my palm and the handle towards him, and I offered it to him with a bow of my head. He could do what he wanted with the damn knife, he could kill me if he wanted, at that moment I really didn’t care. My death would, after all, ensure the future security of my people.

He whispered something softly, stretching his hand out over the knife.  His fingers trembled and then his hand closed over mine for an instant, the touch of his skin hot and waking all the nerves in my body with the fire of the contact. 

All this was rapidly becoming too much for me; Lindir’s intense beauty and the great sorrow I felt for him, my own yearning desires and the upsurge of my loneliness threatened to overwhelm me, and I went to sit at the foot of the bed with my back to him.  Let him kill me. Let him stick that silly little knife in the side of my neck and let me bleed my life out in penance for his capture. He wouldn’t know I had nothing to do with him being here.

I heard clinking, rattling sounds and felt the bed move as Lindir changed position.  I steeled myself.

But all that happened was a gentle hand found my shoulder and Lindir’s voice came from beside my ear.

‘Kovalia, le fael,’ he said, clearly and slowly, gently pulling me round to look at him.  He gave me that look again, the closed eyes, the bow of the head, a hand to his chest. ‘Le fael.’

I could see a red weal on Lindir’s wrist where the leather of the cuff had chafed his perfect skin, and I guessed his other wrist had suffered similarly. When he lifted his head, too, I saw his throat was marked and I reached out automatically towards him. He took my hand between his own and he smiled sadly, beautifully. He didn’t want me touching his throat. 

‘Let me see if I have anything for that,’ I said, reluctantly retrieving my hand and going over to my cosmetics table. I rarely used cosmetics, but there was a salve I used to soothe my skin from too much sun, and I found it and offered it to Lindir.  He took off the lid and sniffed the contents, while I mimed rubbing something into my wrists.

He nodded and tipped his head to one side to apply some of the salve to his neck. The movement exposed his throat and I watched, fascinated, wishing I were the one smoothing salve on his skin. The bedding slid down, exposing his torso.  Not a warrior’s body, but still, there was nothing slack about his wonderfully-sculpted chest and flat stomach.

I tried, but failed, to keep my eyes on his face.

Finished with his throat and wrists, he extended a foot out from the bedding and I realised there had been ankle cuffs as well; I could only be grateful they had been leather, and easy to cut away – presumably, Briot had realised I would object to sleeping with someone in metal shackles.  The other ankle followed and then, after a minute’s hesitation, he handed me the pot with a few words and then turned his back, lowering the bedding so that I could see another red weal, just above his hips; it moved me greatly that he was prepared to let me to help.

I dipped my fingers into the salve and spread it softly across the raised, red skin. It was a crime to spoil his beautiful body like this, and if I found out who had so confined and harmed him…

No. I already knew who had done this: Briot. I would not let this pass.

I finished soothing the salve to his lower back and his sides, realised that the injury would have continued all around his body and that moving the bedding to attend to the front of his body would leave him very exposed.  And while I had previously wondered and hungered for the sight of him, now it seemed wrong, disrespectful.

Handing him back the little pot, I got up from the bed and walked deliberately to the table where a decanter of wine and a glass waited for me. Hmm.  Previously, when Briot had arranged for a man in my bed, there had been two glasses.  It was another sign that Lindir was a captive, and I hated it.

Suddenly I really needed a drink.

I unstoppered the decanter and poured the deep red wine into the glass, lifting it to twirl the stem between my fingers and watch as the liquid slurred around the inside.

‘Avo! Kovalia, avo!’ Lindir was at my side and knocked the glass out of my hands even as I went to lift it to my lips. Red liquid sprayed everywhere, the glass bouncing and rolling on the thick brown rug on the floor.  I stared at Lindir, stunned. He let out a stream of words, none of which made any sense to me, pointing at the decanter and the glass and the spray of red across the floor from the spillage.

‘What?’ What’s up?’

He took my hands in his and looked into my eyes. ‘Avo!’ he repeated, and released me to cautiously pick up the glass. He pointed into it, turned it to the light and I saw a film of something clouding the interior surface.

‘The wine was drugged?’ I sniffed at the decanter gingerly.  I wasn’t sure, but I thought it smelled odd, off somehow. It wouldn’t have been poison, of course, but a sleeping draught would have kept my nicely away from the morning council session. Nor did it escape my attention that there had been just enough wine for one full glass – a carefully measured dose, then.

Lindir took the almost-empty decanter from me and put it down. ‘Avo’, he repeated, and led me away from the wine.

And it was then that I realised that, in his haste to stop me from drinking drugged wine, Lindir had lost his covering of bedding and was completely, temptingly naked.

I turned and fled into my adjacent dressing room.

Avo! – Don’t!

Le fael – thank you (literally: you are generous)

A Monday offering...

I'm not sure you'll like it. I'm not even sure if I'll get into trouble for it... so I will state:

'The Gift'

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, a tribute to the Lord of the Rings.  I acknowledge I have no rights of ownership to the characters or the settings and that I only own my original content and interpretations.

And this is just the first chapter... I may or may not post more depending, Dear Reader, on you.

Chapter One: An Early Present

A gift, it is said, is always a sacrifice. The one parting with the gift no longer has it in their possession once it has been given. Or it has cost them money or time or trouble.

I reminded myself of this as I looked at the offerings spread for my forty-second birthday. 

There was a tapestry for the wall of my bedchamber, portraying the historic moment when I formally signed the treaty to bring my lands under the aegis of King Elessar.  The craftswomen had made me slenderer than I had been then, my hair longer and brighter.  But they had got the king’s nose wrong.

It made me smile.

I had seen him, once, before he came to fame, sitting outside a tavern with his cloak folded around his shoulders and his long legs crossed at the ankles.  A passing pot boy had stumbled and would have fallen, but that the king had reached out to stay him.

So when I saw the king, and realised he was the same as the man outside the tavern, my mind was made up; a king who cared about a pot boy’s welfare was the sort of man I wanted on my side.  We have many pot boys in my poor lands.

As well as the tapestry, there were sweets and dainties – it didn’t matter now, what I ate, so I could forget the need to be sensible.  A bowl of fruit held apples, grapes, and even a kovalia fruit, a local delicacy, precious and rare, with a tough hide to protect its tender centre.

It was years since I’d eaten kovalia.

My son and his wife had given me a selection of needlework supplies – needles and fabrics and bright coloured thread and all one could need to occupy oneself without getting up.

Because soon I would no longer be able to get up.

I am only forty-two, but I am not expected to live until I am forty-three. It is sad, but it is how it is.  The hot, dry air that sweeps over the passes burns holes in our lungs, so they say, and we fail. That I lived this long, to raise a son to follow me and see him married and with an heir, is a huge achievement, especially as I was widowed at nineteen, just months after my marriage.

I found I was smiling in spite of the nagging pain in my back and chest as I struggled to breathe.  Not because I was widowed, but because I survived my widowhood for so long.  My people had liked me, and try as he might, my brother could not oust me. The best he could do was insist that if I were not present during council meetings, then the council would decide policy without my presence.  I made sure never to miss a council meeting, and I had made sure I paid attention. I noticed everything; who was absent from the council meeting, who slept with whom, who the spies were. I listened, and I heard, and I pondered, and I gathered all the information I could to keep my people safe.

I had not had a realm, or a kingdom. I had the fiefdom of a few scattered villages and small towns, but we held the mountain passes on the main road to the Southron lands and as such, we had a strategic importance to both Gondor and the South. My brother favoured the south, but I did not believe their promises, nor their threats.

It had come to be a pattern from Briot, my brother, that the night before a council meeting there would be a distraction for me.  He would insist on a large state dinner in the hopes I would overindulge and sleep late to miss the meeting.  Or he would bring the time of the meeting forward by an hour and forget to mention it.

One particular year, on the eve of my birthday, he left me a gift in my bed; a pretty young man to keep me warm and content and perhaps very busy. I enjoyed the night so much that I told Briot he could give me one of these every year.

The night before my twenty-second birthday, I excused myself from the celebrations early.  The next day heralded the most important council meeting in our little fiefdom’s history; the ratification of our decision to join with Gondor. Once we had done this, our neighbours would follow suit, and we would be in a far better situation politically and economically.  I had already made it plain that Gondor was the future for our country and most of the council was behind me, only Briot and his few supporters holding out for a Southron alliance.

I did not fear murder.  I had made it perfectly clear that on my death, or if I were not seen for more than two days, my lands would be ceded to Gondor, and the relevant documents had already been lodged in Gondor, Ithilien, and Rohan.

No, I did not fear assassination; I feared distraction.

Oh, and such a distraction waited for me!

I could see from the doorway that there was somebody in my bed.  Having determined it would be wiser not to indulge, still, I would allow the poor man to stay there and rest, since to throw him out of my room might have earned him a beating.

My maid set down the lamp on the side table, a smile tugging at her mouth, but she managed not to giggle until we were in my dressing room.

‘It would seem Lord Briot had gifted you early for your birthday,’ she said as she helped me off with my robes of state, leaving me wearing the long linen shift I would sleep in.  ‘Should I still call you at seventh hour, my lady?’

‘Make it sixth hour,’ I said.  ‘And good night.’

She curtseyed her way out and I was left alone with my present.  I had slept alone for the last year, and I was rather looking forward to peeling off the wrappers of bedding and seeing what was inside, my resolve not to partake already faltering.

The figure in the bed twitched.  Had my gift been asleep? It made me smile, to think that Briot had found me a less-than-alert plaything. Unless the poor wretch was exhausted from someone else trying him out first, which would not have been good manners.

But I was lonely and three years widowed and the simple comfort of warm arms would be welcome.

I brought the lamp to the bedside table so that the light fell on the bed. The bundle under the bedding twitched again, and I carefully drew down the covers to better examine my gift.

He was utterly beautiful. His hair was that shining golden brown so rare this far south and his skin was creamy and flawless. Strong, dark eyebrows framed the eyes, currently held closed; no – clamped tight shut as if in fear, or as a child does when feigning sleep. The nose was straight and in perfect proportion, the cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, the line of the jaw so defined and pure that I ached to trace it with my fingers, with my tongue. The lips were luscious and tempting and I caught my breath at the sight. He smelled of fresh air, springtime meadows full of flowers, grass after rain, and I filled my senses with him on every level that I could, delighting in the looks of him, savouring the sweet, soft fragrance.

I had uncovered him only to the neck, seeking to gently wake him, but knowing he was awake, his eyes screwed up, I felt a brief impatience, pulling the covers down to his shoulders.

And then I noticed several things in such close succession that I was forever afterwards unable to tell which I had seen first.

On my moving the covers, he had flinched, and his throat convulsed as he turned his head away from me. I saw, then, from the way his hair fell away, that he had delicate, pointed tips to his ears. Gazing in astonished wonder, I gently brushed the hair back from his face to tuck it behind that elegant ear and he gave a soft whimper, but more distressing even than the sound of his fear was the leather collar around his neck and I thought my heart would break.

This was no hireling, here to serve his lady’s pleasure; this was an unwilling guest.

And, what was more, this was an elf.

Beloved Pirate

For Writers in the Rafters this week, we've been asked to write about  bicycles (with the Grand Depart looming for Leeds).  And this, while not strictly what was requested, is what I came up with...

Oh, how I loved you.

Ten years, now, and I remember the day. You are my Kennedy assassination, my Twin Towers; I remember the day the news came of your death.

I was so alone in my grief. Alone, that is, until Georgia got to work to do her half-day.

Georgia is hard-core. Every year, she and her husband Mark ride a stage of Le Tour. I have photos of her on Ventoux, stoker on their tandem.  She brings her folding bike to work with her, cycling to and from the railway station.

I can barely manage two wheels; I have an amazing canary-bird yellow 1970s Pashley tricycle which I can just about cope with, and a pre-WWI Hercules: rod brakes, Sturmey Archer shift, dynamo lantern and original Brookes saddle. My husband built his own racer, and has destroyed his knees riding too hard.

So. Ten years ago, I looked at Georgia and she looked at me.

‘Pantani,’ I said, and she nodded and came to sit on the edge of my desk.

‘Isn’t it awful?’

‘Terrible.  He was an idiot, but he was a clean idiot.  Mostly. Sort of.’

‘It broke him, that. Everyone knew he was clean…ish…’

‘It wasn’t illegal, then, haematocrit.’

‘Shocking.’

‘So sad.’

Our line manager looked at us.  ‘Are you two okay?’

‘Just someone we liked is dead. A cyclist.  He was only 34.’

‘Oh, that’s young. What was it, drugs?’

‘Yes. Depression and cocaine overdose. Such a waste.’

She wandered off to line manage someone else, at least giving us a few minutes more to look at each other and shrug and sigh.

‘I haven’t had anyone to talk to about it,’ Georgia said. ‘Mark’s away.’

‘I know. It’s just so sad.’

‘He was great.  He was crazy.’

‘Remember 1998? He got the double…’

‘Yes. Le Tour and the Giro.’

‘He deserved the yellow jumper.’

‘True. But he looked so hot in the pink. Remember him and Armstrong, eyeball to eyeball?’

‘And Pantani took him and Armstrong claimed after to have gifted him it?’ She grinned.

‘Never believed that one.’  I grinned back. ‘It’s such a loss.’

It still is such a loss, beloved pirate. The shaven head, the bandana, the earrings, the swagger… you earned the nickname and lived up to it. Il Pirata.  You were far too young and much too precious to lose, but, still, we lost you, and, even now, I watch the great races and I miss you.

And now Le Tour is coming to Leeds.  You wouldn’t still have been racing, not now; you’d have been 44 by now, just a little long in the tooth.  But I bet you’d have been watching, as I will be watching and as Georgia will be watching and, just maybe, I would have thought of us all watching the same thing together, all focussed on the same great event.

Maybe, when I go to watch the Grand Depart, I’ll wear pink.  And maybe I’ll take a bandana, beloved pirate.  And I will certainly think of you, dancing the mountains away.

Notes: The winner of the Giro wears a pink jersey.

Friday, the new Monday...?

For those who have to go out to earn a crust, the concept will bring on shudders, no doubt.  But I', talking about my lack of story-posting lately.

The thing is that I have been writing - and researching, and plotting and drafting. With my head still in fan-fiction land, I'm posting a chapter a day on a long serialisation and co-authoring a crossover story as well.

This is not an excuse. The excuse is; well, I've just been a bit lurky lately.  It happens a couple of times a year, and can pass quite swiftly.

Now, I *could* file of the serial numbers, so to speak, and post a 7K fanfic for you... or I could post another autobiographical with the theme of bicycles in mind (this is a project for Leeds Libraries, too) or give you the opening of one of my other works-in-progress...

Or I could wait until Monday and post something then.

Besides, I want to talk about yesterday, new perspectives, and long bus-rides.

The sun shone, and I went out without a coat, first time this year (except to the local shop, which doesn't really count).  I had a trip planned with a very lovely friend to Huddersfield.

Now, I've been once before, but through the place hundreds of times by train on my way to and from Merseyside.  But the only day we - my, husband, son - had ever spent there hadn't been a success.  I think we turned the wrong way when we left the train station.

Anyway, yesterday. Nearly an hour and a half on the bus from Leeds, via Bradford.  In the midst of writing an interesting chapter, so the time flew by as I imagined barely-clad, honed males sword-fighting, not *quite* sure who would win but knowing the outcome would have far greater repercussions than the sparring circle.

Yes.  A lovely way to spend an hour.

My friend S lives not far from the bus route, and joined me on the bus for the last leg.  Much fun had exploring Huddersfield (it's actually lovely, I feel I've been missing out for all these years...), shopping, dispensing dodgy fashion advice... I even bought a pattern and intend to try my hand at dress (in this case, top) making again.

Today I will prepare the pattern.  I will decide which size is most appropriate and cut it accordingly.  I will refold into its original creases and I will check whether or not I have enough interfacing.  I will look at my small stock of fabric and (probably) decide that I would look less than fetching in the black fabric with printed vegetables - the same I made kitchen curtains from - and that I really need to buy more.  I will then plan exactly what I need.

And time will pass and the world will turn.  Eventually I will get to Leeds, and possibly even to the market or to Samuel Taylor's where I will dither and feel shy and embarrassed and worry that I might be turning into my mother.  But I WILL buy fabric.

But for now, I want to find two elastic bands so I can crochet a pair of matching elf earwarmers to show to my eFriend from Kent who writes so beautifully on Archive of Our Own  under the name of Telemachus.

I write there, too, as Wynja2007, so if you're really desperate for a fiction-fix, and you like the world of Lord of the Rings, you could have a look there.  And even if you're not, 'The Gift' is so written that you don't need to know the world to understand it.

So that's it.

Oh, one last thing... my dear S... I have sunburn on the back of my neck.  Maybe we sat too long over lunch?  Worth it, though.

1000 Hits!

Again, apologies for no short story yesterday.

Today I celebrate 1000 hits on my fan fiction story on Archives Of Our Own... I'm far too pleased about this!

The story is going from strength to strength, and I'm writing about topics (and species) I never would with my proper writing head on. But on AO3, it's okay to play.

And I am really loving it. I must get back to my  real work soon, I know. But, as we're not having a holiday this year, this is my holiday, playing under the stars with other people's creations and adding my own ideas to the mix.

Simple Pleasures...

I've mentioned before that lately I've been writing fan fiction instead of  'doing proper writing'.  But I'm really enjoying it.  I post on two rather different sites, and on one I can view my viewing stats by month, by day, by country, by chapter.

Today being 1st June, the stats are fresh, and I took a quick look. today, my story has been read by two people, one in Hungary and the other in the US. The Hungarian reader seems to be new; I've potted the course of each chapter being read, right up to 18... a new reader following the story through.  The US reader has looked at Chapter 10, so a returner, I think.

To put into context, last month this long serialisation had 3168 views from 777 readers. It's a little surprising, to say the least.

10 people have signed up for alerts so they're notified as soon as I add another chapter.

People are reading? Coming back? Wanting to know when there's more?  Is this a fan base I see starting...?