She rode like the wind.

The edge of the forest lay close now, where the canopy of ancient branches thinned, no longer able to shield the ground fully from the sun. Patches of light dappled brambles, ferns, and grass, while golden beams hung suspended in the air, like softly falling rain drifting from the heavens.

Closer, ever closer... Á norë arnórië! She leaned low over her white steed, her lips almost brushing its ear as she whispered. The horse’s hooves flew over brambles, ferns, and grass, carrying her toward the light—toward the shimmering curtain of golden rain at the end of the forest. Soon she would break free from this world of shadow and plunge into brilliance—

But then, she felt it: an unmistakable presence. Without hesitation, her hand flew to her quiver. An arrow was drawn, nocked to her bow, and aimed into the darkness behind her. A dark horse burst from the dense, seemingly impenetrable woods, its movements swift and purposeful. She loosed the arrow, but it vanished soundlessly into the shadows, for the beast bore no rider.

Before she could ready another shot, a voice spoke to her left, low and smooth, tinged with dangerous ease.

“Where are you going, my lady?”

She halted her horse with a seamless motion, lowering her bow and drawing her sword in one fluid sweep. Her movements were as natural as flowing water, deliberate yet effortless. Turning, she fixed her gaze on the figure leaning casually against a tree. A faint smile played on her lips.

“To wherever I choose,” she replied.

“Even if that place does not include me?” The figure straightened, stepping away from the tree with unhurried ease. “Truly heartless, would you not say?”

Though his words carried reproach, his tone betrayed only amusement—no trace of anger.

“Careful,” she said, her posture impeccable as she sat astride her steed, her smile sharpening into something wry. “I might take that as a compliment.”

“And why should you not?” he replied, halting beside her horse. “Traps, snares, ambushes, arrows, blades—you are nothing if not resourceful. Tell me, are all the ladies of the Golodhrim so eager to flee their husbands?”

“I almost made it,” she said, tilting her chin upward in defiance.

“But almost is still not enough,” he countered, his pointed smile edged with quiet amusement. “And so, you have lost again. And the consequence of losing—”

“—is mine to bear only if you can claim the prize,” she interrupted, her eyes sparkling as she winked. “And you know I never break my wagers.”

Her left hand still held her bow, but her right deftly sheathed her sword before moving to her chest. With measured grace, she unfastened the silver clasp of her cloak, her movements slow and tantalizing. The heavy fabric slid from her shoulders, revealing a loose linen tunic beneath, its neckline loosened just enough to bare her slender neck and the delicate lines of her collarbones. Her chest rose and fell with each steady breath, the lingering strain of her ride only deepening the quiet allure of her poised frame.

He watched her every movement, his gaze growing darker and more intense. She, in turn, held his eyes, savoring the sight of a faint crimson slowly kindling in their inky depths.

Without warning, he moved, quick and precise, like a serpent striking its prey, closing the distance in an instant. But she had expected it. Leaning back, she evaded his grasp and pressed her knees into her horse’s flanks, urging it forward. Yet he had foreseen this as well. Before the horse could bound away, he seized its flowing mane and caught her by the waist, seeking to pull her down.

She chuckled, her voice low and lilting, but surrender was far from her mind. Twisting and pushing against him, she tested his strength with all the skill and agility honed by years of training. For a fleeting moment, the two remained locked in a struggle, a clash of wills and pursuit, while the white horse circled uneasily beneath them, its hooves stamping the earth. Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, he caught the edge of her loosened cloak and wrapped it around her, trapping her like a net drawn tight.

His arms, hardened by the forge and tempered like the steel he once wrought, proved unrelenting. With ease, he lifted her from the horse’s back and carried her to a patch of soft grass.

“Now,” he murmured, leaning close to her ear, his breath warm and steady against her skin, “may I claim my reward?”

His words sent a shiver through her, and before she could reply, his lips silenced hers in a kiss that was far from gentle. Neither was her response restrained, and so began a new game of pursuit and retreat. Their movements mirrored the clash of blades, fierce yet deliberate, their lips and hands entangled in a dance of defiance and desire. He tossed aside her bow, unbuckled the belt holding her dagger, and cast it into the shadows. She, in turn, tore at his tunic, one hand sliding up to rest lightly at his throat, her thumb and forefinger brushing against it.

Feeling her cool fingers, he paused, then laughed softly, the sound low and resonant, like the rumble of distant thunder.

Why stop now? his gaze seemed to ask. Kill me, as your kin killed mine. Then you can walk away with your head high, believing you have won your freedom.

She met his gaze, her smile faint but knowing, and pulled him closer. Her lips found his again, then guided him to her neck, her collarbones, her bare skin. Shed of her rumpled linen tunic, an ethereal glow shimmered faintly beneath her flesh, as though she were a star fallen to earth, burning softly against the dark.

Why should I kill you? she silently asked. I am curious to see whether you can make me love you.

He caught her hand, guiding it lower as his breath quickened. We shall see, hiril-en-golodhrim. For now, you show no reluctance.

As night descended upon the ancient forest of Nan Elmoth, he brought her to the edge of ecstasy time and again, only to retreat at the last moment, leaving her poised in agonizing anticipation.

“Say you are willing,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the crimson flush spreading across her pale skin. “Say you are willing,” he repeated, unyielding, as a bead of sweat traced its path down her forehead, darkening the strands of hair clinging to her face. “Say you are willing,” he demanded, silencing the moan forming on her lips, holding her arched back and tensed legs still as he felt the shudder she could no longer suppress.

But no matter the torment, she would not give him the words he sought. In the end, as always, it was he who yielded, granting her what she desired, abandoning his struggle to bend her will.

When they parted at last, a cool wind swept down from Himlad, rustling through the ancient trees.

“Shall we go home?” she asked, slipping into her tunic with a smile, her gaze lingering on him where he lay.

“Tomorrow,” she added, “we will begin again.”

Every morning, I leave you; every evening, you bring me back.

He sat up, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile.

“Of course. My lady, for me, it is always an urgent matter.”

(End)

Á norë arnórië: Quenya, “Run faster!”

Yet another depiction of Aredhel’s “not wholly unwilling”. The title is taken from the published Silm: “Then Curufin said to Eol: ‘What errand have you, Dark Elf, in my lands? An urgent matter, perhaps, that keeps one so sun-shy abroad by day.’”