"Why did I leave?" Reyn repeated. "To be honest, I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"I was afraid that you would reject me. I thought this leg of mine," here he gestured to his wooden leg, "would make you pity me. I never wanted pity. I used to be proud, you know." A self-deprecating smile. "I didn't want to go live with my father--we don't, well, didn't, get along so well, and I--" he stopped abruptly, not wanting to hurt her.
"And what, beloved?" she asked, apparently confused as to why he had ceased like that. "And what?"
I saw you dancing with Orodhin, he thought, but did not say aloud. "It doesn't matter anymore. It never mattered, I only thought it did." He stopped again, then laughed slightly. "Do you know, I don't believe I've said this much at once in my entire life? Much less this much about things close to my heart."
He sighed, and pulled Taurewen close to him again, breathing deeply of her herbal scent. She fit exactly in his arms, like they had been made especially for each other. Actually, he was sure that they had.
He would have liked to stay that way forever, just the two of them, sitting alone on the plain, but comfortable bed. Unfortunately, even elves in love must care for their body, and they were no exception. "Beloved," he murmured. "It feels odd to say this," I've been living on wine for the past hundred years or so. "But I am suddenly struck that I haven't eaten for several days and I'm famished. Shall we to the common room?"
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