Cutch sat beneath the boughs of a multi-trunk tree lifting up over the front yard and a short stroll from the Lair's front door. In his hands he held a book written in Her hand, "Mortals: A Case Study", and which She had gifted him the morning after they wed.
"Read it, my husband - read, and know...", was all Seregrian had said, and perhaps it was a touch of apprehension he'd noted in Her demeanor. He had set the tome atop a sideboard, intent on getting the House back in order after the magical event from the previous day, but as his mundane attention to chores throughout the morning would occasionally wend his path by Her written work , he would glance at it, wondering why She would give it to him, and what the study would reveal about Mortals, or about Her.
Taking some time to himself while She was occupied in the Sanctum, he began to read as dappled sunlight danced across the pages to the sighs of gentle breezes.
The Introduction set a scholarly tone for the work and clearly stated from the outset, "I despise Mortals and all they represent". After a brief but compelling explanation, she went on to recount how her overarching hatred of Dwarves was laid to rest with unspecified experiences with Durin's folk. Anxiously, he scanned forward for mention of Men, and what he found was shocking. Although excusing Numenoreans and the Dunedain, She virtually cursed all other manner of Men in language so blunt as to make Cutch blink. With pride She named one of her previous works on the subject. She subsequently and elegantly closed with the reason for this re-examination of them.
"A Mortal loves me."
Glancing back to the top of the introduction, he saw the date of it's writing, just over a year ago, and he remembered......
...................
'"If I were an Elf Lord"?', Claywick asked. 'You actually SAID that to her?'
Cutch's ears reddened, but he did not look up from the tub of dirty dishes he was working through, toiling in the Bree Mess Hall. "What in Seven Stars would you know about being THAT!", Clay continued, with a snort. Cutch spun about, exasperation on his face.
"I only meant...well...that if I were her equal...or...something like that.." His voice trailed off and he returned to the soap, water, and scrub brush.
"That you would seek her hand in marriage", Clay finished the thought. Cutch looked up, surveying the Hall to make sure he and his friend were alone.
"Yes", he announced defensively, jaw defiantly thrust out.
"Well, I can't say I disagree with your taste in women", Clay said. "An Elf-maid. What mortal man wouldn't wish for that, in his dreams. But to even 'what-if' such and idea to her seems...well...rather daring. And what did she say?"
Cutch began rinsing the stack of clean, soapy dishes in another tub of hot, clear water. "She at first didn't know what to say, and I said she didn't have to say anything. Since I'm not an ELF LORD", he continued, emphasizing the last two words loudly, "I would not dare declare those intentions towards her."
Clay responded with a low whistle. "I imagine she said something about it being too late to clarify that since you'd just pushed your heart out through your apron." Cutch nodded, beginning to dry the dishes with a clean apron, his mind not completely on the task. A plate slipped from his grasp and began a fatal fall to the stone floor, but he deftly caught it just before its demise. Clay shook his head, then asked with a sudden curiosity, "What do you mean, 'at first'?'"
"She sought me out, a few days later, right here in the mess hall. She sat in that very chair holding your big sarcastic carcass." He paused for a moment to let the jibe sink in before continuing, "She'd gone to do some...reading I suppose...about Elves and Men being wed. She said it generally didn't go well. She told a story of a Gondorian prince and an Elf-maid marrying and having children. Then, she simply vanished with no trace. It sent chills down my spine to hear that." He paused for a moment to gather himself and then began stacking the dishes away.
"What happened with the children?", Clay asked.
Cutch paused and turn to look at him, as that question had not yet occurred to him. He turned back to his task, saying "She didn't say. Can't imagine what it must've been like for them to lose their mother that way, even if they were grown." After a few moments of silence, save for the clink and click of stacking dishes, Cutch continued. "She said she is in love with me." He turned towards his friend and leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching for Clay's reaction.
Clay sat, unmoving, with wide eyes and slack jaw as Caladna walked in, announcing to him "Aye I thought you'd be in here. The orphans are getting on the roof again, so you still need to fix those windows...". She stopped, seeing Clay agape, staring at Cutch who returned a determined gaze over crossed arms. She looked between the two, frozen, waiting for one of them to speak.
Without taking his eyes off Cutch, Clay said. "The Little Man says he and an Elf-maid are in love."
...................
Closing the book softly, Cutch felt humbled. From his perspective, She had been, and continued to be, a magical Elf-maid and now Elf-wife, a wondrous being, inexorably if unknowingly drawing him to Her in every way a fellow can be drawn to the One he would marry. On the other hand, to Her, he was, at the time of their meeting, of the vilest Clan She could imagine. Was it possible that She somehow sensed that which neither of them knew at that time? That he was of Dunedain descent, one of the Mannish that She had excused? That he had a touch of Elf blood in him?
With an uncertain disbelief, he shook his head at the thought. He recalled Her asking if he had any such heritage and he'd told Her what he'd thought was true; that he was descended of Dunlanders, not Dunedain. Ever the scholar in pursuit of facts or truths, and then Her own heart, She nevertheless pressed on with the rest of this Study, instead of heeding Her own previous research and turning him away.
She'd fallen in love with one She thought a base 'Firimar', as She named them.
But then, he was not just a Firimar, or just a Dunedain, or just a quarter-blood Elf, or just any other mere classification that purely scholarly ways might shelve him. She'd fallen in love with him, someone she had to wait six thousands years to meet and to feel compelled to know.
He lifted his gaze to the Lair, the home he now shared with his Wife, wistfully musing, "How is it that I am so blessed?". He stood and, carrying the precious tome close to his chest, thoughtfully strolled back to the house, and to Her. He would need to continue reading this mindfully, he knew, to fully appreciate Her work and her love for him. Perhaps She would allow him a place in the Sanctum to keep it.
