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He was hers the moment he met her, bloody, in the middle of the battlefield, screaming orders at her men while veering off an orc with a broken sword and an axe. And he was hers twice over when she discussed the aftermath of the battle with him, evenly recalling what had happened with a surprisingly soft voice. She never spoke louder than what was necessary and when they were alone, her voice sometimes dimmed down to a murmur, confident that was enough for him to listen and listen, he did.
That was how they built their relationship, over whispers and long silences and the fleeting touches he seldom allowed himself to have. It was something quiet, something slow, perhaps too slow to have with a mortal involved. It was doomed to never last. It was but a fragment of years in his long life and it was the most precious moment of it.
He once asked her how she was still without a spouse when most of her kind would have already been married for several years at a similar age. She had replied she hadn’t had the time for that, she had other priorities, other things to do than love. And she had told him men usually didn’t like her. That baffled him. She was intelligent, strong, practical, efficient. They found her cold, she said. But when in a daring act, he took her hand in his, she was burning.
He worried after that, that if she didn’t have time for a human lover, she had no reason to have more time for him. Then, he found out that what she meant was she didn’t have the time to build the trust and love required for such relationships in a limited time frame. She couldn’t spare someone a thousand hours in a year for such frivolities. At best, she could spare a few stolen minutes after a meeting, in the castle’s staircase. No man would have contented himself with that but he was no man, so he did. And she rewarded him with more time she didn’t have.
She would look for him whenever they were in the same place and they would lose themselves in murmurs and long silences, always long silences. It was a momentary pause in the tumult of their respective world. They would be late at meetings because they had crossed paths and forgot that time was still flowing as they looked into each other’s eyes.
It was a silly thing to be in love.
And it was essential to them.
Once, in a fit of uncontrolled passion, he had pressed her hand against his lips. He had closed his eyes, focused on the feeling of her soft skin in his hands, against his face. When he had opened them again, he had found her in a similar state, closed eyes and trembling hands. It had left him unable to sleep for weeks.
He dreamt of kissing her.
He loved their moment as much as he loved her. He loved feeling her breath against his ear as she whispered tales of medicinal plants from the east and textile trade stories, hidden in a corner at a grand feast. He loved how, at the end of it all, she would bump her head against his, and sometimes stayed in that position, forehead against forehead and eyes closed. He loved how he could feel with his hand the tip of her braids, the jewelry adorning it and the softness of her hair. With time, he had grown bold and would kiss her braids or the crown of her head. She had once done the same as a goodnight, kissing a much longer lock of hair before letting it slide between her fingers as she was leaving. He had to stop himself from following her.
They only slept together once. It was unwise. She had told him a month before that she was planning to leave with her tribe toward safer lands. She would be gone in a few weeks and they would probably never meet again. He didn’t dare to hold her back.
He longed to marry her.
She took him to her guest room in his own fortress. She kissed him against the door. And while removing his clothes. And her clothes. And while moving toward the bed. And laying on it. And he kissed back every time. And he kissed her jaw. And her neck. And her breasts. Again and again.
He touched her everywhere, drunk on her soft skin. He felt her hands caressing his jaws and his back, pressing him ever closer to her and he was eager to comply.
They didn’t talk but he was surrounded by the sound of the wrinkling bed sheets and their breaths, hers against his ear, catching at some of his touches.
She guided him inside her and all he could do was murmuring her name, again and again, as he moved slowly, overwhelmed by his pleasure.
Haleth.
He would be her husband, beyond his death, beyond hers and until the end of time. He would give himself to her, without any limit.
He would not ask her to be his wife.
They slept with their bodies entangled and he woke up to her sleeping face and her tousled hair like a halo around it. She was still naked and warm and soft against him and relinquishing her body was akin to torture. In that moment, he loathed his sense of duty. But the same way upholding her responsibilities toward her people was taking her away from him and upholding his own responsibilities was keeping him away from her, it was what had initially brought them together.
The evening before her departure, he gave her a lock of his hair, the very one she had kissed all those nights ago. She took her knife and cut a strand of her own for him. He had it braided and encased behind glass mounted on a ring that he wore where a wedding band should have been had he officially married her.
She left with a part of his soul and he kept a part of hers with him. He wasn’t planning to but she willingly gave it away.
Years later after her departure, he would sometimes stop in the middle of the castle’s staircase, listening to the wind like long lost murmurs and caressing the glass case of his ring, imagining her fingers against his.