It was a cool, damp spring morning.

Haldir returned from his nocturnal wanderings to find his fellow travellers—Eomer and Gimli, Legolas and Eowyn—breaking their fast around the still-glowing embers of the fire, eating freshly baked bread with jam and honey, drinking mulled ale, and planning the next stage of their journey.

“Good morning, March Warden,” called Legolas, cheerily. “Are you joining us?”

Haldir glanced around the campsite. His warriors were already working methodically—putting out the perimeter fires, loading the pack horses, dismantling Eowyn’s little shelter—he could afford a few moments.

He took his customary place between Gimli and Eomer, and opposite Eowyn, who, with a welcoming smile, offered him a plate of food. Haldir reached to take it—politely inclining his head in thanks—and, for a split-second, their fingers touched.

Sweet Eru! His spirit, as always, leapt at the contact.

But this morning she seemed to him lovelier than ever—her delicate cheeks flushed, her grey eyes sparkling; and Haldir looked away, because—even had he not chanced to overhear it—there could be no mistaking the cause…

“Have you finished, melmenya?” asked Legolas, suddenly. “Shall I help you saddle Brightstar?” And Haldir’s lowered eyes were unwillingly drawn to the movement of his Lord’s hand slipping around Eowyn’s waist and squeezing her affectionately.

The bread turned to ashes in the big elf’s mouth.