He watched from the doorway...she was bent over the cradle, singing softly, her low, lovely voice tugging at him even when the words were merely a simple lullaby. Her long, dark hair, black as a raven's wing, fell loose over one shoulder as she bent to press her lips against the babe's head. His eyes followed the arch of her silhouette as she stood, placing her hands on her lower back, stretching; he could visibly see the tension easing out of her shoulders as she turned away, her child safely tucked into the bedding and asleep.

She walked forward a few steps before she saw him, and paused; he held out a hand, and she took it, letting him draw her out of the makeshift nursery, shutting the door behind her.

“Duncan,” she whispered; he looked down at her, then, at those large, storm gray eyes that haunted him so, at the delicate features and fine, elven ears. She frowned at him, concern etched in her voice. “What's the matter? Are you ill?” She raised a hand, ready to press it to his forehead, but he stopped her; his fingers gently wrapped around her wrist, and he shook his head.

“Not ill,” he whispered.

She became very still at his touch; the sadness was there, then, where it always resided in her eyes; even when she laughed, it was was there, waiting at the corners, ready to pounce, to make those beautiful eyes rage like the wildest of storms. It had softened somewhat, with the birth of her child, but even now Duncan felt an irrational anger build up at the thought of the man who had hurt her so, who had abandoned her.

Gently, he turned her hand towards him, lifting it to his face. His lips brushed against the palm, a sensual kiss that trailed up and across each finger, down to where he tenderly held fast to her wrist. He anticipated the moment when he thought she would pull away.

She didn't.

“Play us something slow!” one of the drunken patrons called out, and Duncan watched as his red-haired niece seemed to think to herself for a moment, tapping the violin bow against her chin...then she positioned the instrument and began to play, and his heart lurched as he recognized the melody...

His mouth trailed down her arm, and still she stayed. His other arm encircled her waist, and she didn't run. Her face tilted back underneath his, and her lips parted as he kissed her, and a wracking spasm of exhultation and mild terror seared through him as her hands cupped his face, those delicate fingers brushing against the slightly sharpened tips of his ears...

He sagged against the back wall as his niece's voice floated through the tavern; no one else made a sound. The words were elven, and probably none of the drinkers could understand any of it, but Duncan knew what they meant; it was a lullaby, simple and sweet...

“Esmerelle,” he whispered, “There's no reason to cry anymore.” He kissed her again, tasting salt on her lips. “You're safe, here.”

“I know,” she murmered; her mouth opened once again under his, in a fervent urgency that made his blood pound in his ears like thunder. She was tall for an elven woman, and she barely lifted onto her toes to reach around his neck. The sweet, clean scent of her filled his nostrils, and it was like everything he had imagined it might be, these long months after he had returned to find the child and young mother living with his brother and his brother's wife; she was graceful and lovely and haunted by ghosts that clung to the corners of her eyes...

“Ravan hin, ravan hin,

Sut an, lisse' hin, uum llie mern nae na liy?

Iire i' chas salque, iire i' ravan,

sut an, amin hin? naa ten'oio faarea?

Forest child, forest child

How long, sweet child, do you wish to be loved?

When the green grass fades, when the forest dies away,

how long, my child? Is forever enough?”

He lifted her up, her legs going around his waist as easily as if she'd done this with him a hundred times before; slowly, carefully, he carried her down the hall, shutting the door behind him.

When she finished, they were crying, most of them. Duncan let out a shuddering sigh, covering his eyes with one gnarled, careworn hand. He heard Sal ask her in a hushed whisper, his own voice quavering, “Where'd you learn that song?”

“My foster-father,” said his niece; when Duncan looked through the open door, he could see her face, and her large, storm-gray eyes were glistening in the dying firelight as she wrapped her violin up for the night. “First song he ever taught me; he said my mother used to sing it to me, before she died.”

Duncan sank down to the floor, his back against the wall, and buried his face into his hands.