I watch her pull up the hood of the cloak that I have given her. Enveloped in its sable folds, clad in the black dress, her face shines softly, the moon in clouds. She has been enclosed in this tent for long enough, it is time to move her to more fitting accomodation.
I pull back the flap of the tent sharply. The first true light for her in many a day. I see her eyes open to receive the starlight, turning her face in yearning before, senses opened, the shock of the scene before her slaps her back to reality.
I look out over the boiling rolling sea of faces. The filth staring at her in naked hatred; all that she is, ever denied them. More closely I watch my own men as they see her now. Watch the set of the head, the flicker of eyes, line of jaw and twitch of mouth. Most mirror the filth, hatred and anger burning their faces. Others taste the corners of their mouths, their eyes lighting with a swift hard animal desire. A few flinch in fear, and one ... yes ... ducks his head away. I scent the shame rising in him. I remove rot where it is found - he will be gone by daybreak.
I wait until she is on the horse before I mount my own. Together we rise above the pressing crowd. Every face, every single face, is turned to her. In every face there is a wanting, a simple burning wanting. To rend, to take, to possess, to have and have again ... a thirst so encompassing that it could never be slaked, even if she lived a lifetime under any one of their hands. I see the realisation dawn in her - I am both her gaoler, and her protector. Only I stand between her and every imagined horror the crowd offer to her, their twisted tribute.
I gather the reins of her horse into my hand. We sit for a brief moment before they realise what they see ... an elf riding at the bidding of a Man, an elf bound. The roar begins as a low rumble, rolling from the centre like a ripple from a cast stone. It rises, running back over the vast assembly, breaks against the hills before washing back in echoes as the cry from a multitude resolves into one triumphant word.
Azrudaur.
She unthinkingly twitches her horse a sidestep closer to mine. Somewhere inside she knows. The exultation explodes deep within me. Yes, little bird. The shadow of my wings is your only refuge.
