Sercë
His boot
heels click soft against the floor; he moves like an animal, slow, graceful,
eyes never leaving me, holding me here. And he does not stop until he
is beside me, inches from me, 'til I can feel the heat of him and almost
the beat of his heart. I am intoxicated by him, by the fire in his eyes
and the heat and the smell of him; I long to taste him, feel his pulse
under my tongue, run my fingers through his hair. But I cannot move,
and I cannot think I would do this if I could move. Surely he is not
for me.
A flutter
in my stomach as his fingers close around my wrist—he lifts it, slowly,
close to his chest, but his eyes do not leave mine. His skin is warm
and worn, rough against my own as his fingertips move over my veins.
He lays my forearm against his chest, lays his free hand across it as
I feel him take a breath beneath me. And his tongue darts out from between
his lips, licks away the blood.
His eyes
seem questioning as he looks at me now, and when I do not stand back,
his grip shifts from my wrist to my hand, his thumb pressed to my palm.
He takes my bloody fingertip in past his lips, into his warm, wet mouth;
the tip of his tongue traces soft circles on the injured pad as his
teeth graze lightly above, his breath warm on my skin. I let my thumb
trace his jaw and he does not move to stop me. And all the while I stare
at him, unable to look away; he seems to smile. And as my doubts fade
away, I find I return it, that small smile.
But he
drops my hand, steps away. He turns to the sword, to Narsil by his side,
lifts the hilt from the floor where I had dropped it. I sigh and I turn,
that flutter of excitement all but vanished from me. But before I can
move I feel his hand on my shoulder and I turn back. He smiles a crooked
smile at me, taps a shard of Narsil against the leather of my coat.
I know what he is asking and I know my answer is yes.
I follow
him. I do not know the way yet he does, though how a Ranger may know
the lay of Rivendell is beyond me. For now I do not care. I will follow
him where he leads me; the skipping of my heart tells me I must. He
knows the halls and corridors, every inch of this place and its stone
paving, its painted walls. He moves easily, as though he is at home
here, as I may walk in my home. I feel awkward, my clothes shabby, no
beauty or grace in me to compare with that of the Elves. And here even
this Ranger seems above me, possessed of some spirit I cannot fathom
and do not myself possess.
Yet despite
my inadequacies, it seems he desires me. As I desire him.
One weathered
hand moves to open the heavy wooden door to his chamber, and I follow
him inside. It seems dark here after the candlelight but my eyes adjust
to the moonlight and I watch him move across the room, watch him strip
away his shirt and drop it to the floor, the ends of his dark hair brushing
the lean muscles of his shoulders. And I set about my own clothing,
layers of leather and silks and mail, 'til they're all heaped at my
feet and I'm standing bare-chested before him.
We do not
even linger long enough to remove our boots before he nods to the bed.
So I walk across the room and sit at the edge, lift myself back as he
walks toward me. I lie back and feel the weight of him over my hips,
kneeling astride me. I look up and he is sitting there, watching me,
tapping the shard against the nails of his left hand.
He leans
forward, leans down, bracing himself on one arm and the hand of the
other hovering above my chest. He lowers his hand and I feel cool metal
sharp against my skin. I push myself up on my forearms and watch as
he draws it slowly down, a thin trail of red blossoming up behind.
He bows
his head, leans down and I feel the keen sting as his tongue touches
the wound. He carefully licks away the blood and for a second he lifts
his head, sees me watching him before he presses his lips to my bleeding
chest. They come away reddened though it seems he does not care. And
he must not, as he lowers his lips again, his teeth, tongue... he grazes,
nips, licks, sucks at my skin. And one hand moves to my rake over a
nipple, one moving to rest at my waist, fingers slipping beneath my
belt. I can feel his bare skin on mine and I am torn between sensations—the
wet warmth of his mouth, the rake of teeth and nails, the simple pressure
of his palm. His hair brushing against my skin, beard against my chest.
And that feeling inside as he glances up at me, meets my gaze with my
blood on his mouth.
He goes
lower, cuts again over my ribs and kisses away the blood. I have seen
my blood many times, from careless play in my youth torn on thorns and
bleeding from grazed knees, to the battlefields of today. I have seen
my blood on others, as they tended to my wounds. And yet... yet this
is another thing entirely. I lie here in this place I do not know as
I am cut by a man who before this night I had never met. And it feels
right.
I look
down to see the moonlight in his eyes, to see my blood upon his lips;
he smiles, moves forward, leans down with a hungry kiss. I twist my
fingers in his hair, feel his hands in mine, on my neck, my cheeks as
we kiss, as I lose myself in him... and this is right. He will hurt
me and make me whole. This is right.
by Lizzie
he
wet red of blood against my skin, unexpected and sharp, draws his eyes.
They smoulder, burn as he watches me, fix me where I stand as he lays
aside his book and moves toward me in the warm half-light of the room.
