how fascinating they are

Darkness again. Beside me this northern Man stirs in his sleep, troubled. In the un-naturally quiet night even this small sound might draw unfriendly eyes to us. I rest my hands on Esteluinil lying ready in my lap, one hand on her hilt, the other finger-tip to knife-tip. So sharp, how I dislike her, how I love her. He stirs again and so, to quieten him I lean close to his ear. His skin smells of his horse, a good smell, leather... his hair of acrid sweat. I pause, smell the scent of my own skin, smile in the darkness. Ever, as Araenion says ... Lillies. My lips are almost against his skin as I whisper. I wonder if he feels it ... like a breeze? How fascinating they are. I fight myself, wanting to feel the texture of his odd scarred face, and begin to speak low. Into his dreams I weave the delight of the waves in Mithlond, the glitter of the tiny lamps in the boats in the bay, my sister and I as lithe as seals swimming in the surf, the wheel of the bright white gulls, songs drifting over the strand... he quietens then, this grim troubled Man, and to my eyes the years fall from him for one short night.