Stewardship
The morning sparkled, like crystal under a bright and warm sun. The fantastical flora’s lush beauty merrily mirrored in the stream fed by a musical cascade, and then paraded by the small guest bungalow in Her Enclave. They had wanted their privacy, Claywick and Caladna in the cottage, presumably to resolve differences keeping them silent to each other during the days-long journey from Bree to the Falathlorn. Cutch could think of no better place for such things to happen than right here, surrounded by a natural peaceful loveliness that seemed magically nurtured by all good things Elven.
Smiling, he stepped away toward Her manor house on the bank of the river whose majestic music and dance were joined by those of the stream. Birdsong floated around and through him as he strolled. He felt blessed to be here. His love for her felt inevitable. Her love for him seemed unbelievable, yet undeniable. Without really thinking, he drew out the letter her winged friend, the eagle Windwalker, had delivered to him just last evening, when the three had arrived. He opened it again, this time to read it more thoughtfully, not just with the giddiness of his swelling romantic anticipation.
“Our time apart is nearing its end, melethel nin. It was with great reluctance that I allowed Caladna and Claywick to spirit you away to Pemberth for your rest and recovery.”
“Reluctance, indeed”, he thought, remembering the fleeting moments of being aware Her presence before awakening in the Greenlake family cottage in Pemberth, and although he was grateful to be safe under the watchful love of his friends, he was quite anxious to be with Her again. Her absence, along with Caladna’s sisterly advice, sped his recovery, and within two days, he was insistent on going to Her.
“But I must relate something that has happened in the interim...
As I was making my way back to Falathlorn to prepare for your homecoming, I tarried for an evening in Bree - and encountered a most intriguing Mortal, a young woman who was fleeing from foreign troubles. As we got acquainted, I discovered she is a refugee - from the Black Land! Her father is of the Moredain, what you might know as the Black Numenoreans - and through her, I found access to lore that is pertinent to my research!”
His pride for Her stood happily alongside his love. Her powerful curiosity, and Her fierce pursuit of fact and, more importantly, truth, had blended with his romantic affection to build a respect for Her that he could not, and would not, shy from. He found that this regard for who She wholly was only drew him closer. He knew She would not have delayed her return unless it was absolutely necessary to solving some of Her own mysteries, questions that had remained unanswered for millennia. He nodded, re-reading this, certain he would always support her in all things, including this.
“Needless to say, dear one, I tarried overlong in Bree-land learning all that I could from her and her small circle of friends. As I write this, she has departed with them for places elsewhere; and I am now setting out for Torech Besruth with all speed. Should nothing detain me, I shall arrive in three days' time from this writing. I am sending this letter with Sûlpadron, who has faithfully carried out my will with such speed and alacrity. Do me the delight of a reply, I beg.”
“Such a mad world of Mortals she has chosen”, he thought, humbled by her love for him encouraging such a choice. To Cutch, Valinor was a vague notion of the perfect home for Elves, bereft of Mortal desperation and subsequent folly, cruelty and deceit, blood-spilling and the mourning of wrongs and loss, and, most condemning, revenge instead of justice. He knew what he must do for her and their family together. For all his remaining days, he would be the steward of Her Enclave, preserving this island of Elven grace, beauty, and love for her and their progeny. This would be the best legacy his mortality could leave Her.
“Our time apart cannot end soon enough, dear one. I ache for your company, your humor and wit. The thought of you defeats my will, and overcomes my resolve to distraction. Such a reunion there shall be at Torech Besruth when the Black Fox and the Blood-queen return to each other's arms by the fire.
At the risk of restating the obvious: I love you, Mortal fool.
Manwë keep you, and Estë grant you swift healing until we are united once more.”
He ran a loving finger over the wax seal, her signature. He was honored by her confession of the effects of his love on her, a merrily mirrored image of his own feelings toward Her. However, it also revealed the vulnerability all hearts dare when they open to invite the light and warmth of another’s love. “Never again”, he vowed as he looked upon the front door of the Lair, “will I leave You unattended without Your leave.” With a smile, he recalled the answer he tucked into Windwalker’s pouch before he lifted away. He hoped it would lift her heart as well:
“Melon Nin,
Be quick, but be safe. We both remember how distressed you've been at riding injuries, although I confess a selfish glee at tending any such as it affords me the opportunity to lovingly touch you.
The Lair is in good stead, and it is my self-assigned duty to be its steward, for you, for us, and for our hoped-for progeny. A feast awaits you, for your table, your hearth, and your heart. The Fox has found his den.
I. Love. You.”
“A feast”, he thought, swinging open the manor’s front door and stepping in, proceeding with a dance-like gait to the kitchen.
“Venison, I think.”
