[littlemanpoet]

As Ædegard listened to the sweet voice of Argeleafa, the words of her song bit deep. He knew the tune, for it was one he had heard before among the Rohirrim. But these words were new, and he knew in his heart that these were the best words he had ever heard matched to that tune.

He rose and crossed to where Argeleafa was sitting. He stretched his hand to her.

"Walk with me for a little while." His voice rose on the final word, giving the suggestion of a request. She looked up to his face and hers blushed visibly in the firelight. She laid her hand in his and he drew her up. He offered her his arm, and she laid her hand in the crook of his elbow, and they walked a little way beyond the camp. They were quiet as they walked. His heart lifted as he felt her warmth next to him. He stopped and turned.

"Your voice is sweet as honey. And those words! I loved them! May it not come true, though, for I would rather you were alive than dead."

She looked away with a smile, and he was abashed at his words, for in them he had spoken far more than he had a right to say.

"I am sorry. I have no right to say such things."

"I do not mind," she said, her voice still as sweet and lilting as it had been in the song, as if she were still echoing it in her mind. She looked up at him, her face pale and serene beneath a slivered moon. "There is time aplenty to see how we will fare."

They continued their circuit around the camp. Ædegard asked her to teach him the words to the song, which she did.

As they lay down to sleep, each in their own cloak, the song flitted, verse by verse, through Ædegard's mind until he dozed and dreamed of a fair maiden who walked on a hill, and through whose form he could see the moon.