The crumpled paper flies through the air and slams into the fire, raising sparks with the force of my hand. A moment, then it flares with a swift, short brightness. Before me the message-bearer stands rigid, his eyes locked forward facing the exquisite tapestry high above my head. He presumes an air of ease. But his fear scents the room like a rank fox. One tiny betraying muscle flickers in his throat. I am what I am, he can hide little from me.
Anger boils within. As deep as desire can run, so may anger rise in the same cut channels; as swift, as murderous. And I have made a study of Mens' desire, made an art of my own. So then, he is wise to be silent as my desire's red sibling rushes through me.
My anger throws me back into my chair. Looking up I stare at him, enjoy for a brief moment the clench of his pale jaw as he feels my malevolent black eyes rest upon him. But he is nothing, I jerk my head to the door in dismissal. And he is gone, the relief in his face too obvious to hide.
And so. My little bird is to be set free. She is to be bait for the northern eagle and the southern falcon. I do not doubt the wisdom of the orders. I would give them myself, were she another Man's prize. But she was to be mine. Is mine, and will be again. I will watch her as she believes herself freed by her own cunning, watch as she innocently draws this young gondorian and the half-shadowed northerner back to her side.
Celebhir, liitle bird, fly swift and true back to your heart's desires. And I will ride behind you, step closer as each night comes, to find the truth of these Men and your part in this. Unravel the northern stars you painstakingly have woven. Whatever you touch or love or befriend I will take, Man or elf. And when all are given in tribute to the east, I will take you up from your ashen despair with the hands of my desire. Your sorrow then will repay my present loss a thousand fold.
