Maethelyn

Eirallyn was eating breakfast when Nelnardis returned from her early morning walk around Mirobel. There was nothing out of the ordinary, though she noted the clear skies and forgotten beauty of the view.

“Good morning, Eira,”

“I would like to reconsider,” she found herself saying to Elrohir.

He glanced up at her from the piece of parchment he was writing on, lowering the quill in his hand. Elrohir sat back in the simple wooden chair, waiting for her to speak.

The problem with associating with elves on a regular basis, Eirallyn reflected as she arranged for Yaisaelwen's care with the Celondim stable master, was that no matter how cleanly one was, there were always times when one felt grungy and grubby around them. For instance the stable master, despite his profession, looked to her eyes to be cleaner and more put together than she herself did at the moment, despite regular baths in some damned cold streams and even a hot tub in an inn or two between here and Imladris.

Elrohir regarded the young woman across the fire from him thoughtfully. He'd ridden with the Dunedain for centuries. Some of their women were exquisite, elegant almost as the elven kind. Eirallyn was not such a one. She had the high-carved bone structure of the Lords of Men, but her countenance was more attractive than beautiful, her hands broad and capable, her frame tall and strong. She looked exactly like what she was-a woman who had taken up the sword.

Beloved,