(A/N: Well, you win: this is a little hint of what happened after those events chronicled in The Green Knight and the Heir of Meduseld, regarding good Himbaláth, lieutenant to Legolas Lord of Dol Galenehtar, and the huntsmistress Andunië, to whom the poor sap has given his heart. Just as a matter of elucidation, “lirimaer” means “lovely one,” and when a raptor “stoops” it attacks its prey, yet when it “bates” it balks and lets its prey go.

For those of you unfamiliar with my little Green Knight universe, I apologize; you will find no canon characters here, only Legolas and Éomer who are but mentioned in passing. But the night is cold, and Himbaláth’s love is warm … let it warm you.

Le Rouret)

O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O

Himbaláth stood alone upon the high ramparts of Meduseld, looking out over the fields of Edoras. He leant upon his elbows on the edge of the battlement, his hands, of inclination so kinetic and restless, hanging limp and still, the long fingers flexed, belying the strong cords of tendon and muscle beneath the browned skin. His golden disorderly hair hung in an untamed mass about his shoulders and face, bleached colorless in the fitful moonlight and twining about in the light cold breeze; at times it was caught up in a whirl like a curtain of liquid silver obscuring his view. He did not mark it but his gray eyes stared unseeing, his mind elsewhere, walking in dells and clearings far from Rohan, seeking peace in the memories of his life ere he had quit Eryn Lasgalen to serve another lord.

The gray and blue shadows stirred, and he caught the scent of sweet grass; he did not turn his head but straightened, his eyes fixed still out into the dark night, past the burning torches and allures of the city. There was the soft rustle of heavy brocade behind him. He stiffened as for a blow but none occurred; the woman merely came to stand beside him, likewise looking out over the fields obscured by night. He could see from the corner of his eye her slim still form, hands folded decorously upon the battlement, not half a yard from his own; their proximity mocked him; it prickled upon his skin. The two stood in silence for a time, then the woman spoke. Her voice as always was cool and disinterested and she did not look at him.

“I sought you in the Hall.”

“You, Andunië?” He did not mean for his tone to sound wry but he could scarce help it; when had she ever sought for him? Still fixing his eyes upon the distant horizon he felt her turn to him.

“Yes, I.” Again they fell silent, though Himbaláth could tell she watched him. He waited for her to speak, but after some time when the silence continued he dared turn to her. Her face was composed and expressionless beneath its elaborate coil of hair; she wore on her long slender throat a bejeweled collar, and the glittering ruff of lace about her bosom pulsed with her heart beat. He caught the sheen of the fine plum silk, dark against her skin; she looked strange to him arrayed so splendidly and he quirked a smile.

“What is it?” she demanded, brows lowering.

“Your new gown is very fine,” he said, his voice as neutral and expressionless as her own. She fixed him with a close look.

“You like it not.”

“No.”

“Hirilcúllas will be tormented by your vilification.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Himbaláth dryly. “She has never had a very high opinion of my taste in clothing.”

“Nor mine,” said Andunië, just as dryly, and Himbaláth smiled again, and turned back to his perusal of the fields below. After a few moments during which neither Elf spoke Andunië shifted again as though she were uncomfortable; Himbaláth glanced over at her. “The lace itches,” she said discontentedly.

Himbaláth’s eye skimmed the expanse of frothy lace from which rose her white bosom, then averted his eyes. “Any reply I should make would sound unfitting,” he said, a little stiffly. Andunië did not reply, and as he kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the darkness below he missed her blush. “It is uncomfortable then?”

“Yes,” said Andunië. “Though I have been assured by many how splendid and well-appointed I am, and what an improvement it is over my old gown.” Himbaláth made a small huffing noise, and Andunië asked sharply: “What?”

“I liked the old gown better.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You are alone in that estimation,” she said.

“Am I?” Himbaláth looked at her; she regarded him with a cautious clemency. “Do you not tell me, lirimaer, that you prefer this purple confection to your old green gown!”

Her cheeks colored, though from his tender appellation or his surety of her taste he could not tell. “I do not,” she said, a little hotly. “It is stiff, and heavy, and uncomfortable, and hot, and it itches.”

“I am sure our lord likes it well enough,” said Himbaláth, and though he had striven to speak neutrally he could not help but to sound bitter. It was Andunië’s turn to give a derisive laugh.

“O yes!” she said, her voice heavy and sullen. “He made me to turn before him, and admired the train like a peacock’s tail, and the curls and coils Hirilcúllas did put in my hair, and the collar; and he laughed and told me to go and dance for once I set foot in the Hall would my suitors erupt like dandelions on a neglected lawn.”

“And did they?” asked Himbaláth, smiling a little, for he could almost hear Legolas speaking thus.

There was a brief cool silence. Himbaláth heard her swallow.

“No,” she said.

“No?” He turned to her, surprised. “I should have thought Brytta at least – “

“O he asked,” said Andunië; her voice was husky and low. She stared fiercely out at the dark plains and Himbaláth thought she looked angry. “Many men and Elves alike asked. And I danced – reels and gavottes and waltzes, and heard many assertions of my beauty, and the grace of my carriage, and my sure footing, and the brilliance of my hair, and the fineness of my vestments. And I am hot and tired and discommoded and I do not wish to dance anymore.”

“Well then,” said Himbaláth comfortingly, “you have made a success of it at least; you may be proud of your evening for it sounds to me as though you have had all the dancing any woman could have liked.”

They were silent again. The wind soughed round about them, picking up Himbaláth’s locks and setting them winding about his face, ruffling the stiff lace at Andunië’s bosom and shifting the heavy brocade of her sleeves. Finally Himbaláth asked, “Why did you seek me out?”

“You were not in the Hall.”

Himbaláth glanced at her, she was scowling. “You make it to sound like an accusation,” he said, smiling. “Why should I be in the Hall? I have little for which to celebrate.”

She looked sharply at him. “The birth of the new heir,” she said. Himbaláth shrugged.

“I have seen royal babies presented to mortal courts many times, lirimaer,” he said disinterestedly. “I had naught to do with its eruption; ‘twas our lord brought it forth for his friend King Éomer.”

She began to run her fingers along the pock marks and scrapes in the crenellations. The thick braided cord lining the edges of her long sleeves rustled against the wall and Himbaláth saw to his amazement her hands trembled. “You have naught else to celebrate?” she asked; her voice was subdued.

“No,” he said wonderingly. “You well know I am low, though not as low as before. But it will do me no good to reiterate the desires of my heart for I know they are not echoed in your own.”

She hesitated but a moment, then said, her voice accusing: “I wrote to you.”

“Yes,” said Himbaláth with a crooked smile. “Light and inconsequential words; documents with nothing in them to turn the cheek to blushing or the heart to skip. You wrote of your dogs, and your raptors, and the little homely things of the back kennels; your words would have given unto no one the notion you had aught in you save the compunction to write trivial news.” He glanced at her and added with bitterness: “And I answered in kind.”

“You did that,” she said; her voice was wary. “It did make me to wonder if you had changed your mind.”

He shot her an angry look. “Do you think me so false?” he demanded, his hands tightening into fists. She turned from him then, patting her palms upon the rampart wall, and did not answer. So he looked away from her, his shoulders slumped; his heart ached and he fetched a deep sigh, wishing she would go and leave him to his ruminations. But still she stood by his side, stiff and unyielding, though the fingers moved restlessly as though seeking some channel her voice could not find. The wind picked up, colder, and damp and misty; Himbaláth could see the water-droplets illuminated against the torchlight. They looked yellow and warm, belying the chill, and the rampart was very cheerless.

“Himbaláth,” said Andunië softly.

His heart turned over in his breast; it was not often she spoke his name, and it was difficult for him to quell the longing that she would speak it with warmth and tenderness. Her voice, though cool, was husky and uncertain.

“Yes, Andunië?” he said, fixing his eyes upon the swirling mists before him.

“Why?”

He turned his head to look at her. She regarded him gravely, though her eyebrows were drawn together in thought; she looked unsure. “Why what, lirimaer?” he asked gently.

“Why me?” At Himbaláth’s perplexed expression she bit her lip; her fingers tightened upon the cold stone. “Why not Dúrfinwen or Hirilcúllas or any other maid?” When Himbaláth turned from her and did not reply she said angrily: “I do not understand. I am no lovelier than any other maid in Dol Galenehtar. And I am not lovable; I know this full well. I am cold and short-tempered and unsociable. I like dogs and falcons and riding-skirts, not balls and gowns and feasts and books. I will go for days at a time speaking to no one. I am usually very dirty and often disagreeable. I do not laugh or sing or say pretty things to people, and I have not the predilection to make friends or be pleasant, like Dúrfinwen; she is a ray of sunlight, a coquette and a flirt – all love her – and you, you and our lord and she, you were the only Elves here in Edoras all those long months.” Himbaláth looked even more bewildered and she said angrily: “She is! She is like, like the sun on moving water; she sparkles and dances, her voice is dulcet and sweet, and I – “ She threw up her hands in disgust, her voice unsteady. “I do not understand,” she said, and turned her face from him.

Himbaláth said nothing for a moment, marshaling his thoughts. At last he said, “Do you denigrate then my taste in maids, as Hirilcúllas does my clothing?”

Andunië shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose you think that you have but to capitulate me into your embrace and I shall become, like Dúrfinwen, all sweetness and light,” she growled. To her consternation Himbaláth gave a loud laugh.

“Heaven forbid!” he cried. “Were you a ray of sunlight you would not be Andunië, and I could not stand for that!”

She stared at him, bewildered. “But why?” she demanded, her hands in fists. “Why me? What is there in me that should attract one such as you, who are as Dúrfinwen a ray of sunlight?” Himbaláth blinked in surprise and her cheeks flamed. “Well you are,” she muttered, turning her face away. “All laughter and gaiety and brightness and goodwill; there is no shadow in you.”

“Without shadow there is no clarity of shape,” said Himbaláth with a smile. “Let me tell you this then. Do you know, lirimaer, when it was I first fell in love with you?”

She blushed the deeper and murmured with her eyes closed: “No. I do not have any notion, not when nor why.”

“Well then, Andunië, I shall tell you,” said Himbaláth firmly, turning to her and taking one cold restless hand in his own. She looked down at their fingers intertwined, at his strong hand enveloping her own slim brown one. “’Tis not the love of ages, unspoken or veiled in secrecy; ‘twas not a look across a courtyard and the lightning-strike of sudden enthrallment. I did not wake one morn and decide, ‘Ah, today I shall fall in love with Andunië.’ I did not expect to fall in love at all, much less with my dear friend’s autumn-haired sister; falling in love was far from my thoughts. I fell in steps, lirimaer. First I marked how comfortable and satisfactory were the silences betwixt us, and then I realized our conversation when engaged was full of candor and charm. You give no quarter, Andunië; when you have naught to say then you say naught, but when you have aught to say it is sharp and true like a well-turned dart. ‘Tis only when you speak of dogs and birds and hares and quail your voice softens, as though you spoke to a lover or a child. And have you not seen how much you talk to me, when no one else is around? In truth I had not seen it myself; ‘twas Hwindiö pointed it out to me, and I was confounded when I did realize it. Then as we did speak together did it occur to me to admire the curve of your lip – here,” said Himbaláth thoughtfully, and with the forefinger of his other hand he touched the little dent beneath her nose, damp in the mist; she flinched and her eyes flashed, but she did not pull back. “And from your lips I discovered your little pointed chin, that tightens when you are angry – Ah, see!” He laughed when her jaw clenched beneath his questing fingers, and she blushed. “And soon, O Andunië, did I discover my thoughts bursting with you – how you call to your birds, or whistle for the dogs, or stand with Tyarmayél in the stables and speak tender words to the horses. And when we would sit to table would my senses be filled with you – your calm low voice, like a deep river flowing; the scent of your hair, of hay and hot sun; and ever green and copper, dress and eyes and hair. It took me months to realize it, O Andunië; but when I saw you run heedlessly and into danger to your brother at the crest of the hill above the Mering, when you thought him gravely wounded, did my heart turn within me; ‘twas then I apprehended how dear you had come to me, how my soul longed for you.” He looked down then, at their fingers entwined; upon his lips was a wry smile. “I spent all night thinking of you,” he said softly. “Hardly daring to hope, yet bursting with the joy of it. It is like sinking in warm still water, the rushing in the ears, the filtered flickering light, weightless … “ He trailed off, his eyes distant.

Andunië regarded him gravely, though her eyes were still troubled. “You have said to me how and when,” she said, “but you have yet to tell me why.”

“Even so,” agreed Himbaláth with a smile, looking up at her through his eyelashes. “But if it is not obvious to you yet, lirimaer, then I pose to you this question: Why not?”

Andunië looked out unseeing over the plain, her brow lowered in thought; she seemed to have forgotten Himbaláth held her hand, and he craving the touch of her skin did not remind her. She made to speak several times but arrested herself, looking unsure; at last she lowered her head, and fixing her eyes upon their clasped hands said:

“Because – because I do not know if you can love me enough – “ her voice wobbled like a child’s top, and drooped low and uncertain “ – enough to make up for what I am.”

The breeze soughed around them, damp and chill. A spatter of cold rain pattered on the allure and against their skin, and Andunië shivered. But Himbaláth’s eyes were lit from within and glowed white-hot in the darkness, fueled by her presence, the thick lashes brushing her pale cheeks, the hitched breath quivering beneath her white bosom, her fingers tightening instinctively in his own. He leant forward then, clasping her hand to his breast, and lowered his face into the damp, dew-dappled wisps of hair round her ears, his lips barely brushing the strands.

“Is love put on a scale then, to be weighed in the balance?” he asked; his voice was a mere whisper, his warm breath ghosting past her ear. She closed her eyes and shivered, though not with cold. He leant closer so that his lips touched the fine damp wisping hair round her temple and breathed softly, so softly he raised chills upon her skin, the breath gusting across her ear, mist-dappled and cold: “Do you think to heap the weights with doubt and skepticism? Or shall mine affections be measured against those who loudly proclaim their beloved’s especial perfections, those of eyes like stars, or lips like roses, or voices as the nightingale’s? Would you like words like that, lirimaer? I could say them you know, could tell you your eyes are like the clearest of agates, your cheeks burnished in the sun, your hair rivaling molten copper. Or would you rather hear those things against which there is no comparison, to Hirilcúllas, to Dúrfinwen, to any other woman that walks the earth?” He lightly rested his forehead against her hair; he could feel her trembling, the cold damp vapors clinging to the ruddy silky mass. Her eyes were pressed shut and her mouth set in a firm line, but she did not pull away. “You ask why,” he breathed. “This is my because. You are Andunië, and I Himbaláth. My soul is yours. That is all I require of you.”

“That is no condition,” whispered Andunië, her cheeks flaming. She opened her eyes and pivoted her head to his, their foreheads touching; grey eyes met green, adamancy challenging uncertainty. Seeing the devotion writ large in his aspect she paled; for the first time in many years she felt frightened. “I do naught to spark this flame of yours. I have no answer to give you.”

“I ask none of you,” said Himbaláth, smiling sadly. “My choice, lirimaer. Even as you can do naught to dissuade me, neither may you spur me further. I am yours, entirely, everlastingly, imprudently, musingly, foolishly. Should you depart this world yet against me I shall be damned indeed to gainsay this resolution of mine. You are Andunië. That is all the reason I need.”

She shuddered deeply, and closed her eyes, biting her lip; Himbaláth could see the pain of indecision on her face, the skin moist and pale. He took pity on her then and added: “There is no need to so immolate yourself on my behalf, beloved Andunië. I will wait for you, whether you capitulate or no, for I would not have you think I pressed you.”

“Indeed you press me too little, Himbaláth!” she muttered, and rolling her forehead against his rested her face against his throat; he shivered in turn to feel her skin on his own, and when she spoke her lips moved against the moist flesh of his neck. It was all he could do to keep himself from winding his arm round her waist and pulling her close; he buried his face in the thick fragrant hair and closed his eyes. “I am a falcon let loose, stripped of my hood and jesses; the morsel lies in the finger-tips of the handler but I am unsure … “ She trailed off, then murmured softly, her breath warm against his clammy collar bone: “Unsure.”

“Flutter weightless above me a season then,” he whispered into her dank hair, his heart hammering against his chest. “Stoop or bate, I am ever here, Andunië.”

She drew back a little, laying one hand upon his chest; she could feel the frantic beat of his heart beneath her palm, the mists clinging to the heavy flannel. She spoke to his tunic-laces for she feared to meet his gaze. “Time, Himbaláth; I need time,” she sighed. To her surprise he gave a light laugh, and pressed his lips into her hair.

“Of time we have a-plenty, lirimaer; we are immortal after all,” he said, and stepped away from her, releasing her hand from his and watching her other hand fall from his chest to her side. He added teasing, “But you ought not speak so soft to me, else I shall be yet more foolish, and praise you in your pretty new gown.”

She quirked a smile at him and her eyes flashed. “I should rather you praised me in my old green dress,” she said. He shrugged.

“I prefer you out of it,” he said thoughtlessly; then when she raised her eyebrows at him he caught the unintended meaning behind his words and his cheeks flamed. “That was not what I meant,” he stammered; “I meant – I meant in your riding-skirt – “ He stumbled to a halt, fearful of her anger, but to his surprise she gave a delighted laugh, loud and rich and happy; he had never heard her laugh so before.

“Was it not!” she said; her cheeks were likewise mantled in blood but she seemed pleased. “Well, Himbaláth, if you are of estimation to prefer me in my leather jerkin and riding-skirt I may be constrained to re-think your endeavor.” She turned back to the dark fields then, but her green eyes twinkled and she looked amused. Still abashed Himbaláth was silent; he could yet feel the touch of her fingers in his palm and was reluctant to let the moment pass. But after a time Andunië turned her head, listening to the noise of the Hall below them; she fetched a sigh and looked up at him resignedly.

“Did you not hear?” she said. “They have called a new reel and lack couples to complete the set.”

“Then you had best return within,” smiled Himbaláth. “I am certain there remain yet some men desirous of a turn with Andunië of Dol Galenehtar.”

“Are there?” she asked, raising one brow to him. “My brother’s lieutenant perhaps?”

He flushed with pleasure and his eyes shone. “Your brother’s lieutenant would be pleased to turn you about upon the rushes,” he said, and offered her his hand; she took it without hesitation, and gave him a smile, unsteady and unsure, that reassured him more than her habitual cool stare. “And afterwards, if you are hot and the lace yet itches, you might change into your comfortable riding-skirt, and meet me in the stables. It is damp for a turn about the battlements but one is accustomed to mud when one is riding.”

“Our lord will not like that overmuch,” she said soberly, though her eyes danced. Himbaláth laughed.

“Think you not?” he said, smiling secretly to himself, and tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow lead her back to the stairs. “Well I think I might bear his displeasure with some equanimity.”

She fixed him with a thoughtful stare. “I believe I might too,” she said, and went with him to the Hall.

Beneath the battlement in a cleft of the wall, barely big enough for a man full-grown to stand, one might stand and listen to the soft voices of those upon the ramparts and so enrich one’s wisdom unbeknownst to the speakers above. Two eavesdroppers stood silent, faces upturned, pressed in the little crack together; they heard the footsteps retreating, and fetched each a sigh of relief they had not been discovered. The woman shifted a little and tried to rearrange her skirt.

“You are crushing my petticoat.”

“I will not tell you what you are crushing,” growled the man discontentedly; he made to pull away from her but for some reason they were pressed the more firmly together. “What is this frippery? All the lace is getting in my way.”

“It is hardly my fault, Meivel; do not be petulant with me,” said the woman coolly. She backed as far from him as she could. “It was not my idea to eavesdrop in the mists on your sister and her imminent beloved. Now I am wet and my dress near ruined because of you. My bodice is damp and it shall spot the silk. See?”

“What; there?” Meivel bent down to examine the spot in question but received a nose-full of lace instead; his dark hair tickled her bosom. “I see nothing,” he said, a little incoherently.

“Indeed? From your vantage-point I would conjecture you could see quite a bit,” said Hirilcúllas dryly. She shifted on her feet again, trying to find a more comfortable spot. “Now the back of the waist will be smeared,” she said, turning her head round as though to look past her own shoulder; when Meivel rose up his nose bumped her chin. He gave a vexed exclamation, and she turned round toward him contritely, touching his face with one hand.

“I have not bruised you again, have I?” she asked, looking closely at his cheek; he cleared his throat uneasily, his face in her midnight hair. Her throat looked very long and white in the darkness, and it occurred to him she smelled quite nicely of rose petals.

“I think not,” he said, and moved closer toward her. “My back is damp.”

She let her inquisitive hand fall to his shoulder and looked up at him with pursed lips. “Well, your arms aren’t; at least your left arm isn’t, from where it is back there.”

“I was checking the back of your bodice to see if I had smeared it.”

“That is my bustle, not my bodice. Do I need to slap you again?”

“Possibly,” said Meivel thoughtfully. “I do not think it had any effect the first time.” His other arm sought sanctuary behind her and he added, “Besides which, you did not slap me, you struck me with your fist.”

“Himbaláth got an apology out of you because of it at least,” said Hirilcúllas; she sounded amused. “You are right; your back is very damp. Try to move further into the alcove with me.”

“Like this?” There was the rustle of fine cloth and the sound of two people breathing very heavily together; two pairs of dark eyes stared each other down, stubborn and resolved. Meivel took another step forward, and Hirilcúllas’ breath hitched.

“I thought he would kiss her,” she said. “Did you mean to put your hands there?”

“I thought he would too,” said Meivel. “Yes. Are you cold?”

“Not like this,” she said impishly, moving her hands down his chest. He flinched.

“Your fingers are like ice,” he complained. She smiled sweetly.

“But it is so warm in there.” She looked down at her hands buried in his doublet; he looked down too, so that their faces brushed together. He could see her heartbeat hammering in the little dent of her collarbone and her cheeks were flushed. A stray wisp of hair made its errant way from the circlet round her head and waved temptingly over her temple; he managed to dislodge one arm, and reaching up with his hand toyed with it. She smirked.

“You are quite bold tonight,” she said, her voice low. “I think I might have to slap you after all.”

“Do you?” he asked thoughtlessly, tucking the wisp of hair behind her ear and trailing his fingers down the side of her throat. The mists collected beneath his fingertip, and a lone drop of moisture wound its way down into the cleft of her bosom. She shivered. “Still cold?”

“Perhaps,” she said. He slipped his arms tight round her waist.

“Better?” His voice was a whisper against her cheek, and she smiled coyly.

“You had best do something worth a slap after that,” she breathed. Meivel’s lips twitched.

“I hardly think my actions deserving of such a mighty blow as before,” he said.

“I will be the judge of that,” she said primly. “After all you have done naught for me to ascertain of your skills as yet. Are you truly so conscientious as Galás claims?”

“I am,” said Meivel, and lowered his mouth to hers. To her gratification Hirilcúllas found his skills eclipsing his martial services to include the exploration of her lips and throat, and so conscientious was he she found no reason to slap him after all.