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*****
"This Galadriel… she actually taught Lúthien such things."
As he watched Lúthien dancing closer and closer toward him, George's throat moved slightly.
There was no need to think too hard—this had to be Galadriel's idea. Otherwise, with Lúthien's personality, she would never have gone this far on her own.
Looking carefully, one would notice that although Lúthien was still dancing, her face was completely flushed, and her heartbeat was unusually rapid.
But precisely because of that, she looked even more enticing.
"I am no Liu Xiahui. Things have already reached this point—what more is there to say?"
Just as Lúthien's movements began to falter when she nearly reached him—hesitant, as if she wanted to retreat—George grabbed her wrist and pulled her firmly into his arms.
"I already warned you during the day. Since you've made up your mind, then I won't hold back."
"George… I think maybe I'm not yet—"
Held tightly in George's embrace, Lúthien felt her heart pounding so violently that it seemed about to leap from her chest. Suddenly, all she wanted was to escape as quickly as possible.
The truth was, when Galadriel had suggested this to her earlier that day, she had agreed on impulse.
Only now did she realize that things were nowhere near as simple as Galadriel had made them sound.
Just holding each other made her body feel strange. If it went further, just as Galadriel had implied, she felt like she might explode.
"Too late to back out now."
Lowering his head, George kissed her forcefully, silencing the words on her lips. With a light stomp of his foot, he brought Lúthien directly into his tent.
After that came only—
"Within gauzy curtains, springtime passion stirs.
Upon mandarin-duck pillows, endless tenderness lingers.
Clouds and rain, dreams of Wu Mountain never cease.
In the village of gentleness, one is drunk and reluctant to part."
For George, his warning to Lúthien earlier was only because he didn't want her making a rash decision about love while she was still uncertain of its meaning.
But that didn't mean he was unwilling to share Wu Mountain's pleasures with a peerlessly beautiful woman.
There are many kinds of love: love at first sight, love that grows over time, and love that grows with time in a very different way.
"What a truly exhilarating night of battle!"
As the moon set and the sun rose, George stepped out of the tent, letting out a rare sigh of satisfaction.
Sometimes, life required a measure of physical indulgence, serving as a kind of balance to cultivation.
When the army resumed marching during the day, George—as usual—closed his eyes to study magic. For his body, the stamina spent in last night's "battle" was hardly worth mentioning.
But Lúthien, on the other hand, lay exhausted atop the great elk, her entire body weak.
She absentmindedly read the new book George had given her that morning—The Golden Lotus, Middle-earth Translation Edition—while occasionally chatting with Galadriel in fragments.
"How did things go last night?"
Galadriel, brimming with gossip, leaned eagerly beside Lúthien.
The night before, she had waited outside the grove, but when she heard nothing, curiosity drove her inside. To her surprise, neither George nor Lúthien were there.
Returning to the camp, she checked Lúthien's tent—empty. At George's tent, however, she found the entrance sealed with a magical barrier, preventing her from entering.
So in the end, she still didn't know what exactly had happened.
"My whole body aches, I'm utterly exhausted… I don't want to talk about it."
Blushing furiously, Lúthien avoided the question. She had no intention of telling Galadriel the details of what had happened last night. She simply couldn't bring herself to say it aloud.
Compared to what she had gone through, the things Galadriel had mentioned were child's play.
"Lúthien, why is your voice so hoarse?"
Galadriel blinked knowingly.
Rolling her eyes, Lúthien muttered, "If it had been you, your voice would be hoarse too…"
Slowly, she raised her hand and cast a healing spell George had taught her, pressing it gently against her throat until her voice returned to normal.
"What book are you reading?"
Galadriel's attention was soon caught by the book in Lúthien's hands, but Lúthien hastily closed it and hid it against her chest.
"N-nothing… just the kind of book you hate most."
"Oh, like Dream of the Red Chamber? Boring. I prefer Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Water Margin."
At once, Galadriel lost interest. She disliked books full of romance, intrigue, and scheming. To her, works like Dream of the Red Chamber and The Legend of Zhen Huan were utterly tedious.
She preferred tales of battle and conquest—after all, she was destined to become the supreme queen of the elves.
"Yes, it's similar to Dream of the Red Chamber."
Lúthien's gaze flickered evasively. It was true—it was that type of book. But this one was far more… stimulating.
An hour later, Galadriel began to sense something odd.
Lúthien was lying atop the elk, reading, but her breathing grew rapid, and her face flushed redder as she continued.
"Is it really that good? Let me see."
Taking advantage of Lúthien's distraction, Galadriel snatched the book in a flash and quickly started reading.
"Ximen Qing slept for two hours, then opened his eyes. Seeing the woman still hanging on the grape arbor, her two white legs dangling, he immediately felt his desire rise once again…"
The further Galadriel read, the stranger her expression became. Finally, with a snap, she slammed the book shut, staring at Lúthien in disbelief.
Her look clearly said: Cousin, I never expected you to be this kind of elf.
Snatching the book back in panic, Lúthien stammered:
"It's not what you think! This book has deep meaning. It raises profound questions about human nature, and the details of human life inside are fascinating…"
"Really?"
Galadriel's face was full of suspicion. She was one step away from saying, Don't lie to me just because I don't read much.
What she had just read definitely didn't match Lúthien's explanation.
But, honestly… it was rather intriguing.
"All right then. Tonight, lend it to me. I'll see if it's as you say."
The next night, George once again appeared quietly in Lúthien's tent.
"I don't think my body has recovered yet, could we—"
"It's fine. Hands can do the job!"
On the third morning, the blare of a war horn called the camp to an urgent assembly.
"What's happening?"
Second Prince Angrod and Third Prince Aegnor hurried to ask Fingon, who had given the order.
George, Lúthien, and Galadriel—her eyes shadowed with dark circles—also emerged from their tents.
Fingon's face was grave.
"Bad news. Scouts report that at dawn, Gothmog launched another assault on Himring. Himring is on the verge of being overrun!"
"How is that possible?!"
Everyone except George looked utterly shocked.
It had been less than three days. Even if Gothmog had thrown his forces endlessly into the fray without rest, there was no way Himring could fall so quickly.
"This time Gothmog's army not only included Balrogs and orcs, but also a vast host of dragons.
Their leader calls himself Ancalagon, larger even than Glaurung. He has wings that allow him to fly, and the flames he breathes are unimaginably destructive.
With the dragon host supporting Gothmog's assault from the skies, Himring could not hold!"
(End of Chapter)