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The Thrill of the Hunt



Mortals:  A Case Study (The Thrill of the Hunt)

Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon

50 Quellë in the Reckoning of Imladris

       Yet another delayed entry in this journal, simply for the purpose of adding new information, both archival and anecdotal, to the ongoing narrative.

 

           I have developed a certain schedule and rhythm to my scholarly documentation here at the Lair, as I now accommodate Cutch more into my routine.  The Mortal need for sleep affords an opportunity to work uninterrupted or distracted by my betrothed’s presence (especially since I am enjoying my betrothed’s interruptions and distractions). 

           One thing I noticed early on is that Cutch is possessed of a prodigious snore, rivaling Hartagil in gusto.  To allay the situation, I simply walk back into the bedchamber, and place a kiss upon Cutch’s forehead and whisper im sí, melethel, “I am here, sweetheart” – and his snores abruptly cease with a sigh.  Once silence has resumed, I return to the Sanctum and my work.

            An additional thing of note is the attentiveness that Cutch provides when he sees me engaged in research.  He has on several occasions now reminded me that even I must eat – as he plies me with coffee at daybreak, or red tea throughout the day – and platters of hearty snacks will mysteriously appear on my study should I descend from the tower for any reason; how he manages it, I do not ask, for as Mortals might say, “question the magic and you’ll break the spell…”

 

          There have been occasions where Cutch’s wonder and curiosity are revealed towards things I am, even now, unwilling to share with him.  These will occur during quiet moments at any time of day, and involve Cutch carefully preparing the moment to start the conversation.  I see now after thought on the matter that Cutch is applying his skill as a hunter in asking me of topics that I choose to keep locked in the Sanctum.  His prey is me:  rather, getting me into a mindset where I might talk of things as yet unknowable.  He carefully stalks his prey (asking me of my moods, and seeing if I am calm or distractable); he sets out bait (tea or dainties, as required); he approaches his quarry in a careful manner (making talk in a circular pattern, coming closer and closer into his subject); and then, when the moment arrives, lets loose his arrow (he asks at last).

          But there are occasions when he tries a more direct approach.  As we sit by the hearthside, he will take up his brush and begin to brush my hair, in deliberate motions intended to relax me (which is never unsuccessful, curse him); and as I ease back into his embrace, he will kiss the point of my ear – and the prey is down.  If he should EVER learn of how effective that is on me, I would have the finest-brushed and softest hair in all of Lindon.

 

          As I review the passages I have just written I gaze once and again, and often, upon my betrothal ring.  Such a simple artifact, but with such powerful meaning, from the two people dearest to me in all the world:  my sister who crafted it, and my betrothed who dares to love me, I who have been unloved for an age and an age.  I allow his pursuit, I allow his stalking, I have taken him into my home, my thoughts, even my bedchamber (and only for rest, not marriage) – but there remains unconquered a small corner of my heart that remembers what Mortals truly are.  Down from the Elder Days comes the anger and hate that spawned the Blood-queen, and is proven true by myriad acts even to these days; but all that hate shrinks when Cutch holds me in the night. 

          Am I being hunted?

          Or tamed? 

Next Entry:  On Breakthroughs