Not Magic Enough and Setting Boundaries - By Valerie Douglas Page 0,15

found himself content for the first time in years.

Those of Talaena would think he’d stayed in the North, while those in the North thought he was safe in Talaena. No one would worry. With the weather what it was, it was likely he wouldn’t be needed. Even the Borderland creatures would be hampered by the thick slushy mud and little inclined to chance such weather.

He couldn’t stay here forever, however much he wished it though - his Enclave called to him and he had his responsibilities there.

With a sigh, in an eerie echo of his own thoughts, Delae said, “I should spend some little time with my other guests.”

Shifting, Dorovan moved within her, making her smile.

“You are most persuasive, my Lord Dorovan,” she said, amused, “but I have my duty.”

He understood duty and smiled. “So you do, friend-of-my-heart. There is always later.”

Until the storm abated… Such time was precious.

Neither spoke of it.

Delae wouldn’t think about it - instead she dropped a kiss to his beautiful mouth.

He was such a wonder to her.

If these days were all she could claim she would be grateful for them.

“Put some shoes on,” he exclaimed as she rolled from the bed to pull on a simple dress, plain but serviceable, appropriate to visiting her guests.

Laughing, she shook her head at him and darted out into the hall, shoeless as always despite the chill of the floors.

“I’ll have Petra will fetch you breakfast,” she called.

Shaking his head, he followed her instead, pulling on trews to stand in the shadows of the arch to the east hall to watch her as she made her way down the passage, peering into the open doorways.

It was hardly the first time she’d visited with them and it was as if she were a magnet for the children, they poured out of the doorways at the sight of her, or clung to them to look out at her shyly.

Bold or shy, she had a gift with them. She coaxed the timid ones out gently, laughing with the others - her flaming hair a bright beacon in the dim light.

Leaning a shoulder against the doorway, keeping to the shadows, Dorovan watched.

Few of his folk knew much of the ways of men, they kept apart from them. An Agreement had been finally been forged between Elves, Dwarves and Men, but agreements like it had been signed before and it was always men who’d broken faith with them. This one, though - brokered by Elon of Aerilann - seemed to be holding as those in the past had not, but it had been only twenty years or so as men measured such things. Longer than those other treaties, but only a fraction of time for his long-lived folk.

Delae gave space to those who needed it but they watched her as she dandled the babies on her knee, inquiring after Forman, exclaiming over the splint on the arm of the girl who’d had it broken.

When she settled on a bench the children swarmed over her and her delight in them was obvious. She answered each question as they crawled over her or hung on her, one little girl with her hands on Delae’s knee, her bright eyes staring up at her as another played with her bright hair.

Dorovan watched from the shadows, his throat tight. His own folk had few children and so prized them for the precious lives they were. It was clear Delae longed for a child and that she would be a good mother to them. He would never understand this thing of men. How could a man choose dice and wine over such joy?

A soft voice beside him said, “She’s good with them, ain’t she, my lord? She should have a dozen little ones around her knees.”

Startled, a little alarmed, Dorovan looked down to see ancient Petra standing beside him. Few approached him - he and Delae had taken pains not to make it obvious he shared her bed.

The old woman was more than tiny; bent, her aging joints were twisted, her hands gnarled. No Elf ever showed such age, though they lived generations longer than men. For her sake he would’ve been happy to have the gift of Healing, if only to ease the pain he sensed in her.

“Have no fear, my Lord Dorovan,” the old woman said, “and the title is because you deserve it for making my mistress laugh as is her nature to do.”

Dorovan’s protest died on his lips. His folk cared little for titles and used