When Women Had Time For Themselves

Furnace had gone off. Again. She was lightly bundled in a tee, another shirt and sweater on top of that. House was still cold. Squinting at the out of date thermostat in the hall, Dove suspiciously tapped several times hoping to make the little red arrow move in a more positive direction toward 72. Today, maybe 82. No such luck. The thermostat still registered 58, and it wasn’t gonna budge. Sighing against nothing and feeling downcast Dove decided to check her luck with the furnace downstairs. It was the third time this week the power had gone out.

Tossing her slippers aside, pulling on last years christmas combat boots which Franklin had gifted her, Dove tromped loudly down, pulling against the chain attached to a bulb for some illumination. “Oh, that’s right. How quickly I forget. There’s nothing,” she said annoyingly. Forgetting the power outage, she fumbled through the dark, fiddling round to locate the flashlight. Her fingers finally found it. Clicking it on, looking around, she saw nothing out of place. However, sensing a shadow from her peripheral vision, Dove froze. She felt a fluttering of tight sensations inside her chest. Her skin prickled. With chest pounding, throat tightening, Dove’s psyche shrank. It was so much colder down here she noticed. Slowly turning her head, staring long into the dim, was a figure. A slim male figure standing against the bricked basement wall and dirt packed floor. Battered old brown hat on his head, waistcoat buttoned nicely, tan suit, hands by his side never moving. But his eyes, his eyes were sharp. And they stared directly back at Dove. Opening her mouth, Dove could taste the staleness of the basement’s air, she also knew she was breathing it in, and just knowing that made her chest constrict more rise and fall in rapid silence. The man continued to stare, she continued to stare. Too frightened to move, Dove almost forgot to breathe, and parts of her reasoning went out the window. 

Coming to terms there was truly something there, or rather someone, Dove’s gut clenched, and trying very hard not to embrace this realistic idea, Dove tried concentrating only on her breathing and forced her legs to move past his image, the scattered boxes, the washer, and look for the correct heating pipes on the ceiling. Making light of a squeamish situation, Dove insisted, “I don’t think you’re there.” And she exhaled just a bit while trying to calm down. Perhaps this was just a trick of the eye to convince herself it was from lack of sleep. A very large lack of sleep. Her breathing didn’t get any better, but her eyes felt so horribly heavy and tired and sore. She rubbed them. It didn’t help. “I really don’t like this house. I hate this house. I hate it here,” Dove grumbled. “Where is the stupid furnace?” She sense the apparition still there watching, “Don’t look at me!”, she forced out, not too convincingly. A headache began. And a frightening, horrid idea came to her mind. What if it were actually real? 

As Dove walked past, she considered was she just visualizing something that really wasn’t there, or was it actually real? Perhaps it was time for her annual eye exam. No, she had one just last year. Truly it was not easy to tell the difference anymore Dove thought, as her stomach lurched and her throat’s saliva dried. Feeling queasy and nauseous she put her hand to her abdomen. The smell was thick and swollen, it was enormous and it lingered. It smelt putrid, like rotted eggs broken and left sitting too long on a stove overnight, or maybe even a year. “Oh, my god,” Dove whined. “It stinks down here.” And lifting her tee, Dove covered her mouth and nose. “I’m going to tell Franklin there are dead rats down here. It’s his family’s house, he can look for their dead bodies. Not me.” 

Next she looked, which Dove had claimed she wouldn’t, the old man was still there. He watched. This time his mouth turned a slight smile. She turned quickly away, “I’m not talking to you,” Dove mumbled lowly, “I’m not looking at you either. You don’t exist. Just don’t be there, go away,” and she refused to look in the spectre’s direct path again. Just thinking this was all too real made Dove sick. Going about her business, finding the furnace, rattling the large overhead pipes into life or heat, nothing happened. Avoiding looking at the back wall, tromping back upstairs, Dove decided on a different tactic. Sleep. That usually solved all the world’s problems. 

Still his eyes followed. Still his smile remained. And Dove’s feelings of the macabre and fear increased and doubled with each creak the basement steps made against her weight. She turned her flashlight off. She wanted to heave. 

Heading back into the kitchen, Dove tossed aside her boots in lieu of warm slippers and checked the electricity again. Instead of flipping the light switch, she stuck the power cord of the toaster into the socket. All she received back was a phfist and a puff of black smoke. “Eww”, Dove said sourly. “Wonderful. Thanks a bunch. All I wanted was a piece of toast. Dumb toaster.” She pulled on the cord and a little blue zip of lightning came from the socket. “Ouch!” as she yanked her fingers back wrapping them protectively with her other hand. She grabbed a bag of chips and a half eaten donut left on the counter instead. Taking out the last of the juice from the warm fridge, Dove could now confirm the electricity was definitely out. Fridge warm, no light inside either. Complaining as she walked towards the bedroom, “Yeah thanks electric company for turning everything off. Again.” Yet for all her whining, Dove felt enormously better up here, than down there. 

Still things continued to plague her senses. But at least, the smell had lessoned. 

That blue electric zip should not have been there without electricity, Dove thought, but she didn’t let this fact invade her brain, for to do so was admitting defeat, admitting something screwy was happening in the house. Or with her sense of normality. This house, for all its newer additions and older rooms, with the old pully windows and creaky floor boards was unsettling, sad and distressful at best. Each time Dove walked into the foyer the sadness, the gloom hit her like a pile of bricks. Each room entertaining its own depth of sorrow, its own magnitude of heartache and woe, made such a dent in her emotional heartache sometimes causing her to tear and cry for no particular reason anymore. 

She sensed shadows of loss, of tears, tossed away dreams of love. And the regret, despair and gloominess enveloped her more each day. “Such a horrific combination. So dismal, so mournful,” Dove caressed the void and a sorrow unlike any she had known enclosed around her. “I feel so, so dreary and miserable, yet there’s nothing truly wrong or empty in my life, I just..” However during the lonely, desolate days she would roam, roam the halls, the half dusted, half empty rooms, feeling abandoned, nostalgic and soppy. “I wondered who lived here before. Or what they did, what words they used. How they lived, how they .. died. It’s just .. creepy here sometimes. It’s too overwhelming and disappointing.” Such despair and anguish was almost completely unbearable for Dove to fathom each day. 

Looking around, wandering each room, touching a doorframe here, stair banister there, looking over the intricate cornucopia of ceiling designs and motifs above, she tried not letting her emotions pool around her as her sweater did. Returning down to the kitchen sink, sticking her burnt fingers again under a cool stream of faucet water, “At least the water is still on.” When looking out the kitchen window, Dove couldn’t see any other house across the gravel drive. Was it just this house, this area? Did any other house have power outages as well, and as often? She decided it was too cold to walk down the drive and look. But then looking twice, Dove thought she saw a flicker. A flicker of something, or someone moved past the kitchen window. Pulling quickly back, eyes wide, a panic intruded her mind. Dove escaped to her upstairs bedroom and decided to isolate herself. Her mind which often played tricks here went with her, and stayed there till late afternoon.

When Franklin returned with a large order of take out, thoughts of a basement man, flickering images and her sad, despondent lingering thoughts had long left. Having her mouth load up on Chinese lobster with rice had not only filled her stomach but her heart as well with a well stocked amount of peace she hadn’t realized she had missed since morning. A steamy conversation took the place of uncomfortable feelings that night. 

But the next day arrived too soon.

By the morning the heat was back. “Hey, furnace is back,” Franklin sang out from a too hot shower. 

Dove was still under the heated mess of covers. “Hmm,” she sighed. She breathed in deeply, stretched, and rolled right back over. Hopefully they could go out tonight, at least that was her anticipated plan. Today she was not going to let any shadows intrude. Dove had work to do, and she had no plans to plunge into that basement again. But as she rolled over, she wondered, could Franklin sense these feelings, these shadows and imaginings, or was it just her? Probably not. Maybe she imagined. No, not. And fearing to ask, Dove would only hear in return, “It’s just your imagination”, or “You’re just tired, You’re working too hard.” “Perhaps it is just too real,” she might say back. Her eyes closed and sleep drew her back for more dreams. 

“I should be back early tonight,” Franklin whispered, kissing her lightly before walking out the door. “We’ll go out tonight, if you’d like,” came his suggestion. Dove smiled. The car backfired. And nothing was what Dove heard, deep in Rem sleep for once. Fragrant, slow steamy coffee with hot toast and jam filled her dreams. All reminders of the ethereal were long forgotten. For now. 

A solo steamy shower over, Dove vigorously rubbed her body, and proceeded with launching her wet hair down in front of her curled body and frisked it back and forth saying to no one in particular, “I’ve got lots to do today. No time for nonsense or nothing. Today we’re going to crack those eggs and get moving!” And a frisky, happy tone toward work began. She hummed along to her playlist. 

Straightening back up, flipping her damp hair over, something stood out from the corner of her eye. She spun! She started! Dove froze! Someone was standing there! Dove saw someone standing right there, in front of her! Right next to her, and she could see it clearly reflecting back in the mirror. “Ahh!,” backing up too suddenly, clinching, grabbing at her towel. Dove’s heart lurched, she felt it double thump loudly and even stop. Her breathe came rapidly, and a tiny dribble of urine escape down her leg. Dove almost fell into the toilet. The vision was gone rapidly.

The electricity had gone out again. The electric clocks blinked on and off. The sky outside cloudy, revealing hardly any sun made the bathroom gray and dismal. This was the third time in a week. And more than enough times to be caught off guard.

As Dove started freaking out, she went about gathering her clothes, flinging them on and called Franklin on her cell. As he stated answering her call, “Davenport here”,  heavy machinery noise collided with delicate cell coverage. He put a finger in his ear. 

“I can’t!” she claimed. “I can’t do this anymore! Franklin! Franklin, please come home! I want to go home! I don’t want to be here anymore!” Dove was emphatically blunt and direct. 

“Do what?!” he questioned, not hearing her clear enough. “Dove? What’s the matter? Where are you? What’s going on?!” As too much noise drowned Dove’s pleas and pain out, “Wait! Let me move out of here. Hang on!” And he walked away from the noise. “Turn off those cylinders! Make sure you leave those plugs on,” Franklin announced as he backed out of the plants’ all too clamorous building. “Ok Dove, what’s the problem?” He sincerely wanted to understand, for he too had noticed eerie things happening. He needed clarity, a definition of understanding, and of course she was there all day alone. 

As she waited for him to move, Dove rammed herself onto their bed and stuffed her body on top of the covers while trying to keep her head together. Her heart raced as she looked around, promising no more frightening shadows were in sight. Or listening to her conversation. “Franklin,” she tried first appealing to his intellect, “I don’t want to be in this house any longer. It’s uncomfortable.” When that approach didn’t get an immediate response, “Franklin,” Dove continued more forcefully, “It’s looking at me. The house is looking at me. It’s watching me,” she pleaded. “There are shadows, things, noises! I can’t stand it! I see them everywhere, I don’t like it, I don’t like it here.” 

“Dove,” was all he could strangle out. 

“No. No Franklin. If I stay another minute in this house, I will go mad.” She let that tidbit sink in. The phone connection was silent. “Franklin? Frank?”

Franklin went silent. “Dove, it’s just a house,” he tried convincing her. But he knew, he knew she also knew. He had sensed something creepy as well, just didn’t think he’d noticed it, maybe didn’t want to acknowledge it, but yeah, something wrong was going on. Something was wrong with that blasted house. He had promised his Uncle they would fix up. That was the plan. Fix it up as a favor, sell it, split the proceeds 80/20 for a better place. That made Dove happy originally knowing then they could afford the little place they had dreamed of last year. That was the plan. It was a good plan. It was.

“No!” Dove repeated firmly. “It’s not just a house! It’s, it’s everything, it’s everywhere! Franklin! This house, it watches me, everywhere! In the basement, in the kitchen! Franklin, in the god damn shower!” That got his attention. That was as close to creepy as it would get for Franklin. As much as Dove was concentrating on the phone, she also scanned the room. “No more. I can’t do this anymore. It’s creepy here, something’s wrong here. This place is not right.  It’s beginning to get like a shi  .“

“I’ll come home. It’s okay,” he cut her off. “Give me a couple hours to sort things out here. I’ll be home. We’ll talk. It’ll be okay.” Promising and calming Dove, getting her to subside a bit, Franklin ended the call, closed his eyes, breathed in heavily, finally admitting the house, that house was indeed a problem. A huge freaking problem. A problem he had to deal with, just like everything else right now he had to deal with. Making more calls, signing off on orders, rearranging and arguing with production managers, Franklin made it clear he was going home for the day. Early. To deal with that house. Maybe not. He would check Dove’s current mood, talk with her, then make a decision. Filled with fear of making a dreadful mistake, Franklin waffled. Still he had to go home, to that blasted mess of a house.

Dealings of that day dealt with, Franklin and Dove settled into a calmer, steadier albeit slightly downcast mood. Franklin took the rest of the week off, and both arranged themselves into a swift routine of mutual breakfasts, restoring and refinishing older sections of the house, and carry out for dinners. Still with menacing and threatening shadows lurking around corners, a much needed quieter unity now settled over the place, and both Dove and Franklin as well. 

It didn’t last long enough. The electricity went out again. Too often it seemed.

“Franklin, turn the heat up! It’s freezing in here!” Dove yelled from the kitchen.

“Heat’s off again!” he yelled back. “Grab a sweater! Get one for me too, would ‘ya!”

Hammering away on loose boards against a tight stairway, Franklin reached behind him for the remaining nails. Should he use the flooring nails, or the cut nails? Instead, he just reached for whatever was behind him, and as he did, so too did the icy hand which reached out to touch his. Feeling the instant frostiness, instinctively knowing it couldn’t be Dove’s, Franklin yanked his hand away, while alarmingly pivoting his head. As he did so, his balance was so severely lost and Franklin spiraled and tumbled down the cracked stairs to land with a thud! The crash was heard five miles away. His hip, elbow and side leg was going to pain him for an entire week or three. And he tried to right himself  while unclenching his jaw. “Oh, what the hell, for crap’s sake was that about?” he groaned. His movements slowed, and his vision spun and blurred.

“Franklin?!” yelled Dove from the kitchen. She ran, spilling the coffee off the counter. And slipped. Or rather was pushed. Gently of course. “Ugh. Son of a ...,” Dove began. Then remembering, “Franklin?!” Slowly she turned, picking herself up and wiped her wet coffee stained palms down her jeans.

“I’m okay,” he guessed dazed, simply too stunned to think of anything else to say, and looked up the stairs. A shadow drifted off. He thought he saw a shadow drift off. Between witnessing himself move off the ground, cradling his hands, and gazing toward the top of the stairs, “I guess I’m ok,” he reiterated. Looking at her soiled, wet pants, “What happened to you?” he asked

“I fell.” 

Franklin could only look on in befuddlement, with a slight dawning of dread.

Looking him over, “Now do you believe me?” Dove asked for confirmation. She wrapped her wet blue sweater closer. “Franklin?” He continued to look up the stairs. “It’s this house Franklin. It’s something here. Here. I feel so, so..” Dove could not continue her strange thought, only to relay to the cool, dispassionate air, “So much sorrow. So much loss and regret. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.” Franklin stopped his upward gaze and simply stared at her aghast. An atmosphere of sorrow? He tried fathoming what she was talking about. Dove continued to stand and stare into nothingness. Franklin continued to stare at Dove. 

He felt somewhat, perhaps all was already lost. His thoughts now had turned into a confirmation of sorts. This was not the Dove he knew and loved. His Dove was strong, bold and independent. This Dove was becoming frail, skittish and scared. Her thoughts were turning inward lately, while trying to retain some control over her life, her mind. But her sorrow, yes her sorrow was akin to breathing in an atmosphere of sorrow. Franklin tried rescuing her. 

Making light of the situation, “Yeah, yeah,” Franklin admitted explaining. “Something touched me.” His speaking aloud made Dove to suddenly turn toward him snapping out of her own dismal thoughts. He continued, “It was something icy cold but I knew it wasn’t you. I guess I just freaked and moved too fast, and fell. I, I don’t know.” He rubbed his neck and back of his head for soreness. His leg hurt the most, a lump was forming. But he knew otherwise. It was definitely the house or whatever remained of its’ previously previous owners. Or something to that effect. He couldn’t sort it out. Didn’t want to. A feeling of direness overcame him, and again Franklin changed the subject, grabbing Dove’s hand. “Let’s eat. Indian? Italian? What do you feel like? You like sushi right? Let’s get that. I’ll order your favs, you get changed. It’ll be here in no time.” 

He was too afraid to ask how she fell.

Another day, another night. More shadows, More noises, more of the same upsetting, unsettling feelings passed between them and the house. They both had thought this night or that night would be their last night here. Neither made any attempt to move. Until one particular night late in the evening.

“Franklin?” whispered Dove. They had just settled in bed for an hour or so. “Franklin?” and she gave his arm a little nudge. Nothing. She waited. Dove cuddled down further in bed, squeezing herself closer to the heat of Franklin’s sleeping body. Try at she may, sleep wouldn’t come. Hearing noises, ticks, rattlings and other sounds she couldn’t place, Dove tried in vain to reconcile her restlessness with something other than the obvious. The house was unhappy. Rather quite unhappy. The emotional feeling was solid and freely roaming throughout.

As Dove nervously lay there listening to the unpleasant noise of unhappiness, of sorrow and dread, she twisted her body in such a way to look behind herself. A foreboding darkness surrounded her. And again she pleaded whispering, “Franklin?” while bumping him squarely on the arm. “Franklin.” Slowly his eyes opened. “I feel like there’s a big ball of badness coming.”

Upon seeing Dove awake and in a half crouching position, “What?” Franklin was half asleep and confused, however sensing her direness, her grief, pain and doom. “Dove?” again her asked. Turning, twisting and sitting up to touch her face, her arm, Franklin noticed what she was looking at. “What the..” He had to twist around in bed to look up and behind. 

Franklin always had the witless idea to place the head of any bed nearest the door. It was a dumb idea, a dumb thing to do. They always say never place your back toward the entrance of a door, you can’t see what’s coming. Well, again he had placed the foot of the bed facing the opposite wall and the head toward the door. Brainless. Dorky she would call it. He would admit for a long time the idea was dumb. 

Looking behind and up, Franklin could swear a pitch solid black silhouette of a man stood by the head of the bed. Only about three feet away. And stared down. There were no eyes this time, but they knew a stare even when it couldn’t be seen. Dove stared back parting her mouth just a little, letting her frosty breath come and go of its own volition. In, out, in, out. She dragged the covers closer forward, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the silhouette. 

“Close your eyes,” Franklin ordered. “Dove, close your eyes.” She couldn’t. Franklin felt her emotional dread, heartache and sorrow accost him all at once. He suddenly what it was to breathe an atmosphere of sorrow.

Grabbing Dove by both arms, “Look at me,” Franklin sternly directed. “Only look at me. Dove!” She did. “Don’t look at it,” commanded Franklin. “Keep your eyes on me. Only on me.” And Dove did. She never looked again in front of her. Continuing to stare only at Franklin however, Dove would never let go of the panic, the fright, the pain of the apparition. She also would never see the shadow blink, the unseen eyes glow, fading in and out of the dark, and never would see the shadow emit such loss, such wretchedness and torment of remorse. She never saw when it dissipated and left. But she did see Franklin, she saw his eyes, the bright gray light reflecting back everything which was good, kind and connected to her own. And she stayed that way for a very long time. 

After what seemed like a perpetual eternity, Dove’s eyes closed. And when they opened again, she was cradled against Franklin’s body, wrapped up warm in a multitude of blankets. And Franklin, still awake and alert. 

Smiling up at him, the phantom boogieman of last night long from her mind, Dove had the mindset to get up and make them both fresh coffees. “How about some coffee? I”ll make so .. “

“Pack your things,” Franklin earnestly stated. Dove’s look of surprise began a panic anew which was long forgotten again. Again he reiterated, “We’re leaving. Now. No coffee, no nothing. Pack your things, and whatever you want. We’re going.” Dove’s slow apprehension turned quickly to a fluster.

“But,” she stammered. “Raphael? What about Raphael?”

Flinging back heated covers, “I’ll tell my Uncle we don’t have the funds anymore to fix this place up. It’s no big deal. It’ll be fine.” Franklin leaned forward pressing his palms into the mattress, “Look Dove, I’ve been thinking. I thought all night. There’s something up with this place. Shadows, cold spots, unexplained noises. Actual spectres now? It’s getting to both of us. It’s weird. This place is too weird. I don’t want to say haunted, but. We need to leave.”

So he could tell, he could feel it too, he could. It was a welcome confirmation to Dove. A little elation, a little excitement, both permitting her mood to swing in a more positive direction, her cheeks heated, face and neck seeming to flush. With renewed spark of energy, Dove almost fell off the bed while detangling her feet from the mess of covers. “Ok,” she settled on. Just, “Ok!” And her mood rejoiced. Dove sprang into action.

No noise from downstairs that morning, no shadows popping round corners, no visions of strange basement men in beige suits smiling after her, Dove set about dumping clothing into duffle bags, folding towels and bagging up toiletries. Sifting through unknown drawers. Franklin boxed up books, kitchenware and car paraphernalia. The day jubilantly went by. Dove was even more blithe and enchanted while setting aside little trinkets and jewelry from the house she had found which agreed with her clothing choices and suited her mood. But the day also dragged on ‘till almost dusk.

The car packed full, bottles of water settled in cup holders, Franklin shut the trunk of the Pinto with a slam. Dove being almost elated, had just one last look behind her as Franklin encased himself within his seat belt, shutting the car door and turned over the engine. “Franklin,” she stated. He didn’t want to hear it. He knew what she would say. He himself had felt the pull from the house behind him. The pull and weight of anguish and distress the house sent off. He felt it come hurtling towards him, towards them. He wanted to get away now.

“Franklin,” Dove mentioned merely as a fact, “The house, there’s a something in the window. Franklin? Do you see it? Should we stay?” And as Franklin refused to look back, “Maybe we should stay,” Dove mildly suggested. It wasn’t a question. 

“No.” was the firm statement Dove was handed. “Buckle up. Let’s go. Don’t look back.” She didn’t. But still she was frightened not too. The car’s motor sputtered and sparked then finally thundered to life. It sped off. The road underneath tires crunched and battered noisily.

The driveway wasn’t long, just filled with dust and gravel. Their hearts weren’t breaking, just tired filled with regret, but also the need to escape and break free. The dusk encased them, twilight loomed, the house beckoned. The dusk, twilight and all encompassing night turned into ...

“Franklin look out!” screeched Dove, “Ahh!” as the vision swiftly bolted in front. “Franklin! It’s!, Its! No, Franklin!” as she shrieked over and over and over. She desperately tried to free herself from the strangling belt buckle. By now Dove was lost in her own screams and howls as night, cloud, dust and mist enveloped her. Those beautiful screams mingled and mixed with the beautiful vintage jewelry she carelessly stole and packed away.

Gritting his teeth, Franklin forcefully cranked the wheel to the left, while slamming on the brakes careening the front end into a pile of thickly placed trees. The sound and squash of the hood was solid and deafening. A flash blinded him. Hands grabbed for him. The smell of densely packed dirt and night and sulfur and decay splayed around them.

“Dove!” Franklin shouted, “Dove! Where are you?! Dove!” He was blinded for eons. “No!, No!, Dove!” he screamed over and over till there were no more of his own screams left to hear. 

When calls were left unanswered, when the ringing of the doorbell issued no response, when their car was later found, there were no answers to a multitude of questions. The sturdy little Pinto smashed against trees, woods extensively searched, unfinished house remodeling left abandoned, Franklin’s Uncle had no choice but to give up, and let the two young starlights go. 

His ears perked up. He heard a sound. The sound of a small, sharp object. A stone being struck against another. The sound of an evil heat becoming exposed the air. That crisp, dangerous sound. He had heard it before. It was a terrible sound, and it smelled of smoke; hot heated dangerous smoke. And death. Perking up, the wolf stood alert. Fire! Sickening evil drenched fire. Acknowledging all this the wolf hesitated no longer. Picking his way carefully round the bushy undergrowth, the young one darted out. First his head; careful, careful. Next a paw, another paw, and the wolf darted! Fire, and dark foul smoke came pummeling down, entering his nostrils, poisoning his lungs. He knew instinctively what was being torched. Orcs. The burning of orcs. Enemies of many. Friends of none, especially not a little wolf such as he. 

And the wolf scattered and ran.

The scene he had run from was left far behind. Crossing a stream, the cold, fresh water slapping, splashing his legs, darting up, whipping his curled, ruffled tail, the wolf came upon another scene. A scene of a small fire, this one not so dangerous, but still he hesitated. Stilling himself once more, pausing behind almost half hidden half exposed landscape, the young wolf looked on in hopes of snatching perhaps a tiny, little morsel that was still revolving on a makeshift spit. Again lifting his nose high in the air he sniffed. The smell this time was ravishing.

“I see you little wolf,” the man said. 

The young pup started, then stopped. Stared. No thought the wolf, not a man, a something else, something similar but different. It had a more settled, more peaceful, sombre attitude about itself. It had ears like his, with points. A tall wolf? No that did not make sense. The wolf pawed the ground, stepped a step out. 

“Here,” the taller one said, as he beckoned with a wave and something in his grip. “Here,” and the tall one tossed a scrap of meat off the crisp almost burnt bird toward the hungry wolf. The wolf didn’t have to think twice, he gobbled it down. 

Every so often the wolf would combatively crawl, inching his way toward the smoking bird and still. The tall one, the wolf had seen this kind before. An elf; that is what they were called. He shouldn’t have to fear then. Every so often the elf would pick at, cool the meat by blowing on it, tossing it over. Closer, closer the meat fell. Soon there was only one elf chewing, one wolf gobbling. And enjoyment became their company.

“You are very hungry little wolf,” the elf melodically said, beckoning with its mesmerizing voice. “Do not worry. I am not about to capture you. T’would do me nor you any good. Be off now you. I am to put this all away and make for home.” And smiling the elf rose, gathered belongings, strapped his horse together and mounted. The wolf sitting where it was watched in wonder as the elf packed, mounted, turned his horse in a northernly direction. The wolf stood, leaned on his front paws. Should I? The wolf licked its chops, waited, stamped its paw. The rider rode.

Looking back the elf was hesitant to leave such a beautiful, magnificent and well dispositioned creature alone in such a desolate place. With a sigh, a small pleasant smile and a toss of his head, “Join me then,” the elf beckoned with his hand outstretched. And just then it seemed to the elf the wolf smiled. Did Glorfindel perceive that correctly, or was it just wishful imaginings. The wolf again smiled, lolling out its tongue, happily trotting behind. 

“I am crazy,” Glorfindel spoke aloud. And to the wolf Glorfindel mentioned, “We go where they may not welcome you little wolf. My Lord Elrond may not wish to indulge me with a wandering lone wolf. Even one as sunny faced and docile as you, but, we shall find out won’t we?” As he thought about the wolf’s almost sunny smile, he said, “You need a name little wolf. Beatrice would want me to name you something. I will call you Noruinif. Sunny Face.” Glorfindel smiled as he thought this was best. 

And elf and wolf both sauntered off to the hidden valley of ageless elves. 

Following the steady stream of wasted petals, they found its flowery end. And the source of its mess. Holding a small wicker basket, Beatrice was twisting elegantly, dropping, flinging more and more petals about the floor, while walking back toward the opening of her bedchamber doors. 

Looking on in terrified interest, “What on Arda are you doing?,” Erestor grilled, directing his annoyed tone of voice toward Beatrice with his demanding question. Upon hearing his voice, and his not so pleasant tone, she spun round and faced not only Erestor but Elrond in tow. She noticed their facial reaction of her messy floral arrangement.

Beatrice tried her usual approach of an explanation. She opened her mouth. 

Instead Erestor countered, “Do not bother.” His hand surrendered his verdict. “Whatever this is, clean this catastrophe immediately.” She looked to Elrond for support.

Again trying to spin her explanation and convince the elves all was well, that she actually had a plan, and there was a reason. Her plan was, “I am leaving them here for ..,” as she summoned the bravado. 

“No. Do not even try it on me,” Erestor interrupted. “Clean.” And he pointed to the wispy, frail petals adorning the hard marble. “Clean it.” And his boots avoided contact with the softness. 

Instead of crumbling before Erestor as was she known to, Beatrice remained undaunted for once. “Lord Erestor,” she began. She didn’t get far.

Enthusiastically trailing down the hall himself, looking at nothing besides the fragility of soft love, Lindir picked up the tossed trail of dainty pinks, whites and reds and one at a time, folding, placing each carefully within his hand, “Ah! At last I have found my way to the beginning of the trail,” Lindir announced while smiling to himself. He felt eagerly satisfied he had finally gotten through the flowery maze, knowing he would possibly be having an afternoon tryst with Beatrice. Upon looking up from the still surmountable droppings of soft, flimsy botanical flooring, while holding a quantity of petals, Lindir was startled and astonished when noticing the much annoyed Erestor and only half amused Elrond standing before him. And Beatrice’s bedchambers. Lindir was also more than a little disappointed, knowing his moment of foreplay and intimacy was possibly stalemated. 

“Oh. I beg your pardon,”  Lindir flatly offered his colleagues. He had been looking forward to this afternoon's delight. 

Noting the foreboding presence of senior elves, and Beatrice’s own obvious growing disappointment and annoyance, Lindir himself couldn’t but be annoyed. “Was this to be a group party?” Elrond stiffened slightly, Erestor declined comment. 

Regaining her voice, “Nope,” Beatrice huffed, jamming and jabbing her basket into Erestor’s middle, making him start at her audacity, and grabbed the basket before it fell. “It is actually .. nothing now,” Knowing she was beyond unpleased her intimate party of two had been utterly destroyed, Beatrice walked away with malcontent, leaving behind her lovely petals and interrupting elves. Her elf very much disappointed, tried to keep this feeling to himself. 

“Erestor?,” Elrond asked, bending, picking the pretty petals off the floor, “Since they are now not being used, would you like to use these for your own intimate party?”  

Shocked and a little hurt Elrond would stoop so low as to give away his floral arrangement, that disappointed elf made the bold chance of gracefully moving forward, He carefully but with determination snatched back what Elrond had thus far collected, stating with a smile, “Not a chance my Lords.”  With all gentility Lindir picked and grabbed one at a time all the pretty petals within his reach, stating, “These were obviously meant for me. And I mean to adorn them around our bedchamber for later.” Lindir went so far as to eagerly, gently pry the basket from Erestor’s hands. 

After gently placing the petals into the basket, Lindir opened the doors to their bed chamber, and clicked the doors firmly closed. Placing himself against the back of the doors, Lindir closed his eyes and breathed. The flowers were rescued. 

As the door clicked shut, both elves eyed each other for confirmation. Elrond gave a soft and knowing smile. 

He knew Beatrice would be pleasantly surprised upon her return, and they would not see Lindir for the remainder of the day. 

Lamberta couldn’t, just couldn’t stomach this decision. Could not believe after giving all, willingly caring for, filling in as nursemaid, housekeeper, cook to her mother’s latest husband, Bassett would be so cruel as to casually arrange a marriage between herself and a stranger. Just to be rid of her presence no longer loving or caring what befell her. Not just any stranger either, a stranger some twenty five years difference. And someone she only heard sour attributes of character. Lamberta would be saddled with an old husband, whatever baggage his past carried, and a makeshift kitchen to cook and clean. No love, no actual friendship, no chance to choose, she would play the part of a bought wife, a maiden bride, and servant. A servant to sleep in the longhouse, unless she was needed by him, if he even asked.

Too upset, too angry to argue longer, Lamberta bolted! Tearing away from that grimy, dark building she had once thought of as a safe home, she bolted from the kitchen, as she clumsily collided with the doorjamb, and tripped into her small hovel of a room. Remaining quiet, Lamberta wildly threw something, anything into a small packet, waiting till way past supper when a bright half moon had risen high enough in the sky. With the golden sliver of the moon, quietly she traipsed through the darkened house, unhinging the front door, closing it as softly as possible. And ran. Lamberta ran through the streets, wanting to grab and rip her smooth hair, gouge her eyes out, anything for some pity, some empathy of her plight. 

Running, fleeing, she became a fugitive of her own town. And now she had become a burden, she realized this too late. The streets empty, devoid of life at this hour, dark, pitch night beset her, but still she ran. She cared not where she went, where she ended, just so long as it wasn’t back there. At least not this night. Perhaps, when her step-father had forgotten about her, but no, she couldn’t, wouldn’t consider the option at this juncture, so onward she ran. 

The dark, saddened night chasing her tail, Lamberta experienced all sorts of woodsy noises, and found herself bewildered, frightened, and searched the vast forest of trees, and vines, as the luminescent moon shone down exposing her tear streaked face. They saw her before hearing her footfalls. Wondering what a small, young woman would be doing seemingly strolling alone, here in their forest. They watched and waited. 

“Speak with her,” wisped the low gentle voice through the breeze. “Keep her for the night, for she is lost and much troubled,” it urged.

Coming upon her, startling her into submission, two elves quickly but with much grace quarantined Lamberta off. “Where are you going? You should not be here,” the one inquired. 

Looking Lamberta over a little timidly, the other spoke, “Why are you alone? Why are you here in the middle of the night? Do you not realize it is nighttime? You should be in bed.” Then perceiving the situation differently, he asked, “Are you lost? Were you out, and lost your way?” Such concern for her safety was etched upon his humble, and sweet face.

“I. I. No, I do not think I am lost, just … I cannot go back there,” she pleaded. “Please. Do not send me back! Please!.” And Lamberta ungracefully toppled upon the ground, among the dirt and golden leaves. And baffled the elves into concern.

Bewildered, baffled, two elves looked her over, wanting to understand what had happened to turn from her own home, or did she leave willingly? Turning to each other, “What do we do with her? Why is she even here? Should we keep her? Or send her back? This woman is despondent.” On that point, they agreed.

“You heard our Lady as well as I. We are to keep her for the night. Let us take this woman to Haldir. He will know what to do.”  

Bending down, one elf cautiously extended his arm, holding out his hand. Surrounding Lamberta’s waist, the elf pulled her up, holding her a little too close to his ever warming body. “It is alright,” Rumil calmly whispered. “You are alright. We will take you to our brother Haldir. He is Marchwarden here in the Golden Wood. He will know what to do with you.”

Looking down on her in curiosity, Orophin couldn’t but touch her face, centering his eyes on her mouth, wanting it, and lent in … 

“Stop,” countered Rumil, “She may have fleas,” he whispered to his brother. 

Shock ran through her. As distraught as Lamberta was, she was not devoid of hearing or hurt feelings. “Fleas?,” she shot back. “I do not have fleas! Take me to this Haldir of yours, but I will not go back there!” And she demanded admittance into their wood, while pointing in the opposite direction she had come, and wanted only to weep once more.

“The Lady told you to keep her here?,” Haldir asked, carefully looking the woman over in grave concern. 

“Yes. I told you already Haldir. Our Lady said, ‘Keep her for the night for she is lost and much troubled’,” Rumil reiterated. Haldir soberly, earnestly eyed the woman for the remainder of the evening, and then some into mid morn.

They gave her warmed toast, an egg, and a cup of hot coffee. 

“Thank you kindly. What is this?,” she asked, trying not to sound ungrateful, for it tasted pleasant on her tongue. 

“That is an egg,” stated Rumil, looking at Lamberta strangely. “Have you never had an egg?”  

“Yes, an egg. Of course an egg, I meant this ..,” holding up the crockery, sipping generously, “It is sweet, creamy, yet most potent,” and she hungrily, greedily looked over Rumil as she sipped. He felt her blue iridescent eyes on his person and felt a twinge of excitement, and imagined perhaps .. and he edged an inch closer.

Orophin, not wanting to be left out, or outdone by his brother, “Coffee,” he interjected. “We brew it here, over there a ways,” pointing off in the distance to the left. “I could show you tomorrow, if you would like.” He hoped longingly Lamberta would still be here in the morning and would agree. 

“She must go back,” commanded Haldir. All eyes instantly dragged themselves up toward Haldir’s standing presence. Alarm and dread coursed through each  person. 

“No! No, I cannot go back there! There is only pain and sorrow back there! I will suffer! Please,” as the woman nearly spilled her hot, milk soaked coffee on Rumil, and jumped at Haldir’s chest firmly clutching at his tunic. And she threw herself fully upon his mercy. Such suddenness caused him shock and he breathed deep afraid for her once more. Haldir took a step back, unclutched Lamberta’s fingers, and looked toward his brothers, as they pleaded with their own misgivings. 

And this is how each morning presented itself. Hot, creamy, sweet coffee, an egg and warm toast, surrounded by two pairs of possessive, protective young elves. Their morning kisses dripping upon Lamberta’s hands, and cheek, lingering longer than Haldir cared to watch his brothers dote on her, and wondering if the elves weren’t interfering with something they shouldn’t. But still, the young woman seemed happy, content with both his brothers’ attentions, as she sweetly placed her lips back on theirs, each in his own turn. Haldir then wondered, which one would Lamberta choose if she stayed, for she was equally affectionate and praiseworthy toward both. Shaking his head of such nonsense, Haldir turned toward the sunset. “I should not concern myself with such thoughts,” he reminded himself. “The elves at some point will find her family, and then,” … but for now all were content, so he let things be. 

The morning light gave Rumil time to sketch her likeness. Her smile was genuine, filled with warmth. She didn’t fathom anyone would take the drawing to the closest settlements and inquire as to her dilemma. Until one place ..

“Over there. In that house. She lives with her foster father,” announced a shopkeeper. “She is to be married I hear,” and the shopkeeper laughed not too gaily after their retreating backs, “The old sot is no good. Little help you will bring her now.” 

“She is to be married?,” Haldir inquired, already starting to be annoyed, infuriated, as he and his companions politely sipped the bitter, crudely made coffee Bassett brewed and set before them. 

“Of course. She is old enough. And too old for me to continue feeding,” Bassett dismissed. “I’ve found a most appropriate suitor for her.” He was on a roll, not being able to stop himself. “A girl that old should be grateful, lucky for her I am around to marry her off, otherwise she’d be an old maid.” Bassett was not good with diplomacy, whether he cared for Lamberta’s feelings, future, or not. It clearly showed Haldir he did not. 

“She does not wish to be married to this … person,” Haldir snapped, “And he is much too old for her. Too…ferine. Abominable!,” spat Haldir. Getting up, no longer having concern of diplomacy or the offensive rank coffee, he spilled it into the shallow sink. Motioning for his companions to ready their leave, “No. I shall not return her here, to you, or that raw, swinish human. The last of your charge you have seen! She will stay with the elves now!” And Haldir made the decision, and it was final. There was no contesting from his fellow elves.

Enraged, Bassett stood, knocking back his chair, heaving his own steaming coffee against the wall, breaking the crockery in the process, which narrowly missed Haldir’s pretty face. “Fine! Keep her! What little do I care? That marriage would have brought me a decent recompense. I’ve kept her for longer than I needed. But you keep her. So long as I do not have to house and feed her more! Let her stay with the elves then!”

Slamming the door, Haldir left, not before kicking over a pile of neatly stacked logs for hearth kindling. It was impolite, but he had hoped it would relieve some of his frustration. It did not. 

Angrily the elves galloped back, retreating to the wood they called home. What he found there perplexed him. Finding Rumil and Orophin both entangled in a rather promiscuous situation with Lamberta, he hotly huffed, not bothering to cover his annoyance with their amorous dallying. Haldir interrupted all three. “You are to stay here,” he announced. And he desired to kick more logs. 

Jumping to attention, seeing his older brother was more annoyed than usual, “Of course she will,” matter of factly replied Rumil. He then announced, “Lamberta is married now.”

What?!,” startling Haldir out of his grim stupor. He looked from one brother to the other, “To whom?” 

Orophin stood proudly with his brother, wrapping his arms protectively about Lamberta’s waist, “To us,” he smiled, kissing her check softly. 

Smiling, Rumil agreed and pulled his now shared spouse into a kiss himself, “Yes. To us. She will enjoy much between us,” he declared. And he felt this was the best, safest answer. 

Lamberta sheepishly smiled, a small blush crept across her cheeks. She had agreed to this? Haldir shook his head, resigned himself to sighing and walked away. “Brothers,” he mumbled. And then it occurred to him, “Elflings.” Haldir cautioned over his shoulder toward his younger brothers. “Elflings. You better have not given her elflings. Just yet.” 

“Well, if he does, this is something you must keep to yourself Beatrice. It would be most embarrassing if he finds out you know. Or tell anyone.” Avorndis placed the bed linen up high on top of another, smoothing it out, before turning round for another sheet. “Remember just because you know something, does not mean everyone else should know.” And it was then both females came to an immediate stop with their task, looking at the one person whom they were gossiping about.

“Good morning Lord Erestor,” Avorndis addressed with politeness, while Beatrice stopped, stared and merely gave a half hearted smile. Had he overheard Beatrice, or merely happened to walk by? Neither could tell.

Nodding to both, “Arinya Are,” he announced bidding them an early morning of sunshine. Then glancing Beatrice’s way, “What do you know?,” Erestor asked her directly. 

Keeping her face neutral, “Not much. Nothing in particular today,” Beatrice stated, wishing she knew what Erestor had perhaps overheard. She turned within polite reasoning, fumbling, fiddling with yet another clean bed linen.

“Gardening today Beatrice?,” asked Erestor. Of course he had heard, however he wished to downplay this bit of information as much as possible. No need to let everyone in all at once he thought. And Beatrice needed some assistance with her garden anyway. Better now when the weather was crisp and light.

Her face came into a full smile just then, “Of course.” Then a second thought attacked her, “Just as soon as I brush my teeth, I’ll be ready.” Being overly burdened with child, Beatrice had consented to letting Erestor help with her weeding. Funny, her teeth brushing didn’t ruin Avorndis’s day. 

A slight hhmmph from Erestor, then, “Good. Then go brush, I’m ready now,” and he turned. Beginning to walk away, Erestor turned back, “Meet me by the South courtyard. You have ten minutes. Or I leave without you. And it looks like you need assistance today,” as he looked over Beatrice’s high protruding abdomen, as she began waddling off.

Watching Beatrice amble off, bidding her abdomen lead the way, Erestor then turned his full attention to Avorndis. 

“My birthmark is in the shape of a diamond. Not a heart, as Beatrice thought she saw.”

Leaving Avorndis to nod, return half a smile, Erestor left her to contemplate and mull over that little bit of personal information. He strode his way down the corridor toward the South courtyard, smiling in satisfaction to no one in particular but himself. 

Most had assembled themselves around the center of the bathing area, some had merely intended to sit, wash their dusty tired feet, while others had finished making to leave. Gwingnis had been in a good mood all day. Her brief meetings, flirtations, small encounters with Athlidon were exhilarating, promising. They were secretly courting.

Remembering her solitary, sweet moments with Athlidon, Gwingnis proceeded to enjoy the cascading stream of warm water pouring down her legs, her toes.  

Others had been watching her, studying her musings, intrigued by her tiny displays of happiness. Elves are kind, gentle, caring but sometimes they can also exhibit jealous,  childish moments. These two obnoxious ellyths wanted to know why Gwingnis was more ethereal lately, more lighthearted. What was causing her undue happiness. 

“Go ask her. Ask where she found it, why she has it. See if you can borrow it”  

Being shocked at such a task, the other ellyth shook her head. “No. You go ask, you want to know. Perhaps she found it laying about, that does happen you know. You go ask.”  

Huffing, the first decided to conquer this little quest and see what exactly was what.  “Fine. You will see. She most likely stole it, or found it laying about and took it without finding its proper owner.”  Sloshing off to ask, she made her way as best she could through the clear but noisy pool toward her prey. 

“Good day Gwingnis,” the younger ellith announced. “You have chosen a nice private spot to bathe,” and she modestly looked over Gwingnis’s belongings, contemplating her next line of questioning.  

“Well met, and how are you?” Gwingnis returned the politest of replies, wondering as to the unwanted attention.

Raising her eyebrows, she asks me how I am? Hummff!  “I am well, I thank you. Ah, I see you have a little bottle of bathing oil,”as the ellyth tried to give the effect of a smile. “Ah, may I use some? It is quite rare and .. expensive. How did you come by this? This certainly was not given to you, was it?” She poured some onto her hand.

Gwingnis was more than happy to share, why wouldn’t she? Most ellyths were like sisters to each other, especially the ones closest in age or rank. “Of course, why not? Here, you must share some.”  

Taking the bottle, tipping it slightly, rubbing a little over her shoulders, arms, she inquired again, “Where did you get this?” The more she became intrigued, the more pushy she became and soon had come to her original conclusion of this little mystery and even bigger blame.  

Giving a shy, blushing but heartfelt answer, Gwingnis smiled, “Athlidon gave it to me.”  

Eyebrows went high, sky high, “I do not think so,” reproached the ellyth. “Athlidon would not just give this to you. Give this to you?,” she reiterated. “Perhaps he would lend it, let you borrow, but give it? Why? Why would you say that?” The ellyth went further still, “Athlidon is snobby. He would not just give this to you To Anyone. And why you?”  

Receiving her answer, this ellyth was disgusted. Quickly finishing her bath, she returned the bottle of oil, heading over toward her friend again. “Athlidon? Gwingnis is delusional! Making things up. She feasted her eyes too long on a long shot and not even one worth the wait. And even if it were true, which it certainly couldn’t be, why Athlidon of all ellon! No. This ellyth is telling stories.” The second ellyth was perplexed. She watched Gwingnis bundle her belongings and leave. She knew her friend had been crass and hurtful.

Gwingnis upon learning this ellyths’ line of thinking and attitude toward her and her Athlidon, was shocked, affronted and not to admit very hurt. Gwingnis opened her mouth, closing it tightly. As much she held such intense internal emotions, she was not one to outwardly complain or despair. She definitely was not one who would compete with this nasty ellyth. Putting out her hands, “Give my bottle back please.” Finishing up quickly, having no more interest in bathing in any proximity of those two, she declared, “You may not speak of Captain Athlidon thus. He is a noble and proud soldier of our city. He fights for our freedom and all who live in Middle Earth. And he did indeed gift this to me.” Finding her towel, taking her personal belongings, Gwingnis walked off, proud of her Athlidon, thinking to herself, you cannot hurt me. Only fools can be made fools of, and I am no fool, unlike you two! Gwingnis finished her toiletry within the confines of her own bedchambers.

They found him reading, sitting by the edge of a thunderous pond, drinking in the warm, midday sun. Wanting to present themselves in the best of lights, they tossed their lovely hair, smoothed down gowns. “Good day Captain Athlidon. You are looking well.”  

Looking from his reading of famous past military strategists he nodded dryly, with an air of ownership. “Good day.”  

Not exactly knowing how to proceed but still wishing to place blame, the ellyths skirted the issue, just a little. “It is a warm day Captain. Most are bathing to cool themselves. You do not bathe today?”  

What were these two playing at? Why do they need to know if I bathe? This is a ridiculous conversation. “I have already bathed,” Athlidon simply stated. “Why should I have to admit this to you?”

The one ellyth looked to the other motioning with her head, “Ah, Captain Athlidon?,” the other began, “There are many ellyths who have bathed also earlier. Some even with bathing oil. Very rare and expensive bathing oil.”  

Where was this line of questioning going he wondered? He sighed, “Is that so?” He gave a pert half smile. “What do you care?,” he questioned back. 

The first continued, “Well, yes, even some who say … certain bathing oil was given to them by .. you. We of course, naturally declined all manner of talk, being it nonsense. However, there were those who could not but wonder … if this was true?”  

Were they baiting him? What did these two sly ones want? He had heard of them before, never one without the other, always trying to be better than others. He would put them straight. These two little nitwits, isn’t that what his friend Beatrice would call them? Well, he must give a reply, a put you in your place reply. And that is what he did. “Is that correct? Well, I did give a bottle of oil to someone. Someone I am extremely fond of. Someone even I love. Someone who has a heart of gold, a bottomless heart of gold. Who is kind, and tender and thoughtful and full of mercy.” Unlike the two of you, he kept to himself.

They stopped. Intently they listened. Wanting to push further, they were halted into Athlidon’s submission. 

“In fact,” as he lent down to whisper conspiratorially, “Someone whom I am now courting. Someone whose name is Gwingnis. Does that answer not bring your line of questioning to a conclusion?,” tossing his own hair, as he smiled a little devilish smile and walked away, leaving them alone with mouths pouting.  

Bah!, Athlidon said to himself, those two are nothing but trouble. Troublemakers! This is like a school of highs, as Beatrice says. Of course, Athlidon had no idea of what he was talking about, meaning she told him it is sometimes like high school drama queens, where jealous and petty females behaved like silly, little girls with upturned noses, and too high heels to trip and traipse over, not wanting others to outwit them.  School of highs indeed! Yes, sometimes these jealous petty attitudes last for years and years after his friend claimed. “Bah!,” again Athlidon voiced to the air.

Leaning against a lonely pillar amidst the gardens, her face shrouded in sadness, Athlidon found her. Slowly coming from behind, he trailed his lovely long fingers over her shoulders, round and down her arms, ending in caressing and twining his fingers within hers. She did not need to look upon her admirer, for she could sense him. Sadly Gwingnis turned and smiled into his shoulder, taking in his scent. 

“You are sad. Why? Why is my beauty and delight so sad?,” he questioned. 

She did not want to send these burdens his way, he had other cares to think on. The care and keeping of the city and its residents, keeping sharp with weaponry, fighting movements, battle strategies, not to be settled in his thoughts on bathing cares. She needed nevertheless to hear his voice, his encouragements, his kind thoughts, his nothing but love for her. Unbeknownst to them both, the other two jealous and arrogant ellyths had followed and hid themselves behind bushes and tangles, as they had noticed him walking this way. Wanting to know If it really was Gwingnis he heart belonged to.

“I do not wish to burden you,” simply Gwingnis explained.

“Ah, you are not a burden to me, you are my delight. Tell me and we will either by sad together or I shall unburden you of this sadness. Come, tolo, tell me,” he smiled down.  

She took but a moment to consider, “At the pool today, some noticed the bottle of oil I had with me. They did not think it mine, only taken, stolen perhaps.”  

Looking wide and long at her, Athlidon was angered, if only for a moment before her, to reign in his upset. “I gave this to you. This was never borrowed or stolen. It is yours freely.”  He looked upon her with hurt, and understood the earlier approaches. “Do not let them upset you. They are silly, little ellyths, no more than younglings, Jealous. They have no maturity yet.”  Caressing her face, he raised her chin up, kissed her tenderly. Turning her then around to face the drifting clouds, pointing them out, “Look. Look how they move, these clouds. They are here one moment, and there another. It is like life. Life moves along from one moment to another. It is ever fleeting. Life does not stay still, it is forever fleeing. But we, my little delight, we elves stay still, we are constant, until the time of our passing. Do not let these silly ones toy with your thoughts. It may be hurtful right now, but this is of no consequence to me, to you. I gave you this gift, you know it. That is all that needs to be said.”  

Holding her close, they didn’t see the two jealous ones, hiding, overhearing and feeling foolish. How wrong they were, how simple, how foolish. Next time, hopefully, they would think twice before seeking out to blame for what they do not know.

Elves were not ones to make quick, easy decisions, but they were not ones to linger and tarry over unnecessary quests either. Why then was this one so hard, so difficult, so, so brutal to decide upon? He sat. He watched the land. He could not decide. They had said he would never do it, said he could never, did not have the courage to, he lacked the skills, the love, the need, the ache. What he was supposed to have, was supposed to give, they said he didn’t. He wanted to prove them wrong, wanted to do it, wanted it, yearned for it, but still he sat and watched, and thought and deliberated.

How long he sat there on that rise he did not know. How much time passed and still he thought. How long it took the sun to set, he could not say. High in a cloudless sea of stars, the moon appeared on high. It was beautiful, fathomless that moon. The moon rose, clouds passed. And a slight wind washed over him. It was a minstrel’s wind and he listened to its call. And finally he rose. Rising, stretching, rubbing down achy legs, he finally stood. 

He strode with purpose. Strode toward his waiting destination. And his destiny.

The walk is treacherous, he thought. The walk is long, the walk is slow, but this I must do. I must go on. I will not stop now. It will be alright. Whether it is or is not, I must continue. I have decided. Now I must carry through.  

Reaching his destination, the honorable elf stopped momentarily. With his silent, wordless approach, the elf continued his staring down upon the object of his vast affection while she continued to sit, and wait, and wait longer. And she had hope. A hope born of years of silent longing, endless glances, and boundless internal devotion they gave each other. 

At last he found his voice.

“I am not an extremely positive elf,” Athlidon began. “I am not even inclined to smile all day.” He waited, waited for her to say something, she didn’t. Her face was kept in neutral, her emotions in check. Continuing, “I am often told I am annoying, stubborn, maybe even … arrogant.”  He waited again. And again she said nothing in return. He strode ever on, “I have waited long, I know not why, I. I do not know how to say it.” He silently wished for deliverance, for help. He stood there on achy legs, waiting, staring, voiceless. The bravery he had earlier discovered gave way to inarticulation. 

Slowly, she stood. Reaching her long fingers up his arm, almost touching, almost not touching him. She did not dare yet. Instead, “Say it please. Say that which is on your mind, do not be afraid for me. We are friends.”

 What encouragement for me, he thought.

He breathed in heavily, shoved on, with little pinpricks of a blush starting to form, prickling his checks, his neck, ears. “I love you Gwingnis. I always have. I could never love another who is so very tender and touching as you.”  

There, I have said it he thought, wondering her reaction to his more than candid admission. Will our friendship end, or blossom?

She waited for him to continue, but he went on no more. She smiled, no beamed up at him, his unguarded face, just him and no more. Moving forward slowly, ever so slowly he thought, she touched his face so soft, so light as down, it was almost not even a touch amidst the evening’s dark.

“I have watched you from afar for so long now,” she gazed longingly. “You who walk in beauty under the night’s moon. Never before have I longed for any other as for you. I would offer myself to you, if you would but have me.”  

She said this? She said it? Yes she did. He moved in, washing out that distance betwixt, the distance which separated them for more than any lifetime. Grabbing her swiftly, yet with such tenderness no one thought he could possess, he stormed on, “I would have you. You are my night’s moon.” Tenderly stroking her down, he felt suddenly freed from unnamed chains. This night’s moon, this one ellyth, who could change everything he is, he was, or even wanted to be. She above others could save him, point his life in the right direction. She would be his eternal compass. 

He kissed her. It was not a tender kiss or even a sloppy kiss, just a kiss, and even if there were to be no further kisses that night, it was simply just a kiss. And Athlidon held her tight against him for all he was worth.

Beatrice could have spent all day in this Elven library and still not be able to read a thing. Picking any book, putting it back just to choose another interesting looking one, she shook her head in bewilderment. Acknowledging the fact she just could not read any of these words, these books, without growing up with this language, how was it she would be able to read and enjoy all these amazing, fantastic books and manuscripts? The library was huge, the architecture alone was enough to astound anyone, but these volumes after volumes of Elven literature were breathtakingly overwhelming. 

“Alright enough gawking,” She commanded, “I’ll just pick any book and sit here and show them I can read. Sorta.” Hemming and hawing, Beatrice picked a small dusty midnight blue volume, found a tiny nook way in back where she was sure not to be disturbed, or embarrassed, curled up in an oversized wingback, and just hoped she was holding the chosen book the correct way. 

Looking and studying the various symbols, left and right, upside, downside, she wondered, “Is this even truly a language? It looks like utter nonsense.”

So cozy and secluded, the hot, brilliant sun filtered down the lone window as she solitarily sat, and the peace about this place had a simple, benign laziness which settled about her person. Just enough to make her peacefully drowsy.

She must have unwittingly dozed off, because … “Beatrice? Beatrice?,” the Elf faintly asked, as he touched her warmly, softly on her arm. “Wake up. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Instantly waking, blinking, wanting to reply, I’ve been right here, reading, she instead just dropped the unused book in the Elf’s nearby waiting hand. Raising his eyebrows, amused no doubt, he calmly took the solicited book, glancing at its title. With a smile gracing his kind features, he inquired, “What have you been reading?,” and gave her a tickled look. Turning the book the correct way the Elf read, “The Geometrical Designs Of Water Systems.” 

Addressing his charge with an entertaining, however genuine smile, he discreetly asked, “You are interested in learning the management of water piping supplies in our city?”  

Picking up on his quizzical, bemused expression Beatrice thought, I must not be reading what I think I’m reading. Or, maybe it is something too trivial, or too lewd? Whatever I’m reading is definitely out of my ballpark. Giving back a self-conscious grin, Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. 

The Elf could not but smile, “I must take you to our Master scholar. Perhaps he can find someone suitable to begin lessons with you. You might need to learn grammar. You might actually enjoy learning the language here."  

Uncurling herself from the seat, she swiftly planted a small, yet surprising kiss upon the Elf’s check, dazing, startling both into a blush, and causing the Elf to be quite pleased with the sudden affection, if it had been sudden at all.

Beatrice reflected to herself, I think I need to learn this language soon, for this Elf is quite lovely. Shrugging her shoulders, Beatrice gave him a lopsided grin and stood, letting her dress to unwind and spill itself about the floor. 

A little taken aback himself, but charmed nonetheless, the Elf presented her with an amiable attractive smile, accepted the kiss, and looped his hands behind his back in stately control while walking them both out the library. Pausing briefly to return the not so interesting book back to its shelf where it belonged, Beatrice was sure not to visit that section again, unless she could first discern front covers from back covers. And titles.

Elladin tried not looking at his father. Tried very much not to glance at the taller warrior, but hiding his mouth from mirth was not working. A gulp and a snicker issued. Elladan sniffed, a small huff of laughter came out. Rigidly standing, Glorfindel waited the berating out. Elrond, sending a disapproving look in Elladin’s direction, turned his attention again to Glorfindel, “Where did you find this .. beast? It could not have been living near the valley; there are not enough places for concealment.” 

Glorfindel sighed, tilting his head, trying to think, perhaps reply. He thought better of it all and looked down at the flooring instead. Pursing his mouth.

Elrohir on the other hand folded his arms, made his face cross. The seriousness of the situation disturbed him to no end. Having less patience than his brother, “And why not Father? What is wrong with the animal?,” he asked with petulance. “It is only a canine. It is young. And Glorfindel is old.” Correcting himself, “I meant older. He can handle this wolf pup. The rest of the elves are not afraid.” 

Still covering the imminent laughter behind his wicked smile, Elladan imitated his brother in all seriousness, and folded his arms. Looking at Elrond his father, “I agree Father,” sidling next to Elrohir. “Lord Glorfindel should be allowed this small allowance of affection.” 

“Affection?,” Elrond reiterated turning to his sons. “This animal is a wolf,” and he studied his two sons.

Glorfindel to his credit did not budge. The two younger elves, the twins of Elrond, one semi groveling, annoyance showing, the other brother jesting with a serious tone, clearly sided with Glorfindel, and was having too much amusement. Elrond, annoyed and irritated did his best to maintain decorum. At one point in the conversation, Glorfindel did shift his footing. Only once. 

When all was said and done, “I will not tolerate that beast in my study. Nor anywhere else close to my proximity,” Elrond drove in the argument. “Is my meaning clear?” 

When the evenings are long, and the wind howls threatening to cause a disturbance to his fire, a white, floppy eared wolf comes loping down the hall, to sit between his best warrior and his best warrior’s Lord.

The wolf stayed.

If you don’t know what dredging is, take a look on allrecipes.com under Chef John’s Parmesan Chicken recipe, it’ll show you.  Next we fill a bowl with two eggs, whisking together and another bowl of Italian bread crumbs laced with parmesan cheese. Using the tongs, dip into the egg mixture, turn over and dip into the beading mixture. Coat them well and set aside to adhere. He uses Panko bread crumbs. I don’t have that. 

Now that the chicken is well coated, we will saute iit over medium heat in a large skillet with a mixture of olive oil and butter. I used vegan butter. 

And, although I’m supposed to be eating completely Vegan or Vegetarian, I do eat small amounts of chicken, due to weight loss. I’m up to 100 lbs now!

Alright, here’s our chicken saute’ing. You only need to saute for 2-3 minutes altogether. 

If you have more chicken than one pan will allow, separate them into two batches, setting aside each batch. There should still be enough olive oil remaining for the second batch to cook.

Now back to Command Central with our 2 minute chicken. We’re going to start layering. The sauce will go first. Not a lot, you don’t want to drown the chicken. Remember, like Chef John says, it’s chicken as the main dish, not sauce. You could serve this over a bed of spaghetti, but Clementine won’t eat that, and, I can’t eat it. So have your neighbor Totoro over and bring fresh carrots instead.

Here’s our chicken when it ready for the oven. Chicken, topped with just enough sauce, fresh basil next and some provolone cheese to cover. Cook for 20 minutes in a preheated over of 450. Remember to drizzle just a little olive oil over it before closing the oven door. 

And that’s it! Chicken Parmesan, fast, easy, tender and everyone will enjoy!

Don’t forget the flowers.  Happy Mother’s Day!  

Enjoy!