Disclaimer: The drow are not mine, but belong to Wizards of the Coast/TSR, as does the Forgotten Realms setting in which they dwell. No profit is being made from this story, and I make no claim to own the dark elves.
A/N: This turned out nastier than I thought it would. I'd love you to read it, but please don't if (oblique) mentions of sex and violence make you uncomfortable.
Love In The Dark
I.
Seeing in heat is not like seeing in light.
The colors are thinner, sharper, fine
As is the edge between gloom and night,
Or the threat of poison in green wine.
Hands that glow with kindled flame
Of life slide up and down a spine,
And lips that part on a hissed name
Open upon dragonbreath heat.
Arching dance and flow of limb
Blurs distinction of hand and feet,
Turns lust to a blade fine and slim,
And makes sweet bitter, and bittersweet.
II.
Glossy rounded ebon shoulder,
Beneath a fall of pearly hair
Gives a hint of what was older:
The kinship between dark and fair,
For lost long ago was surface light,
And the majority does not care,
Going about (unclad) in black and white,
While some remember, and still mourn.
The twinned passions of fury and fear
Glow in darkness that was never born,
But has always lain buried here—
And save for faerie fire, there is no morn.
III.
Pointed ear bleeding from a lover's bite,
Thin lips pressed in a grim game smile—
Seeing in heat is not like seeing in light,
And reveals both more, and less, the while.
Not wise, not wise, to think such things,
To dream of murder and choke on bile,
While the priestess wields the whip that stings
In what it pleases her to call her play.
Wise only to bow the head and bare the back,
And know that no revenge will come this day,
But only sharp blood across the black,
Muscles twisted and jerked from the natural way.
IV.
Slender fingers wielded to please a priestess,
A body made but to answer to her whim—
The cries that she gives are not cries of distress,
And she is almost beautiful, like a strand slim
Of a larger web, like a single spider's eye.
She speaks not of her "lover," but of "him,"
And she tolerates no dissent, no asking why.
There are no "what ifs," with her, but only "ares."
This is the darkness, and this is the bed.
This is the power that forges the soul's prison bars.
The skin is black, and the blood is red.
She never knows about the dreams of stars.
V.
Pain striking like a lightning bolt all through,
Fury following like blindness close behind—
And she would never flinch, but laugh and coo,
And remark that "he" need not have a mind.
And eventually there began to be a sword
Left by the bed, her whisper mocking like wind:
"He would not strike me. He cannot cut the cord.
He is bound to me, and he is but my slave.
I give him more pleasure than our Lady's touch,
And nothing can him from that pleasure save.
So, no, sister, I do not truly worry overmuch."
There was a sword, and dreams of a grave.
VI.
Seeing in heat is not like seeing in light.
When she had left marks with whip and tooth,
And rolled over to find fury had burned out fright—
Ah, priestess of Lloth, she learned that truth.
The slender sword was gone from bedside shelf,
And the agility and strength of early youth
Still remained to one who was still a dark elf,
And reared with a taste for revenge and cruelty.
Did the red glow of an anger beyond fury and rage
Blind her as she died, so that she could not see?
Perhaps so. The snapping of both cord and cage
Hurt so much you did not know you were free.
VII.
Cool wind blowing upon a dark-skinned face,
Stirring hair thick and white as if impearled,
Marks your coming to this strange new place,
About which many a lying tongue has curled
Since you first began to dream beyond the "ares."
But one is truth: above the dark surface world
Is the blaze of a hundred thousand stars.
You shake your head, and quench fear's spark,
And step forward into the strange new night.
So many new sounds and smells at which to hark.
Seeing in heat is not like seeing in light,
And neither will this world be the Underdark.
A/N: This turned out nastier than I thought it would. I'd love you to read it, but please don't if (oblique) mentions of sex and violence make you uncomfortable.
Love In The Dark
I.
Seeing in heat is not like seeing in light.
The colors are thinner, sharper, fine
As is the edge between gloom and night,
Or the threat of poison in green wine.
Hands that glow with kindled flame
Of life slide up and down a spine,
And lips that part on a hissed name
Open upon dragonbreath heat.
Arching dance and flow of limb
Blurs distinction of hand and feet,
Turns lust to a blade fine and slim,
And makes sweet bitter, and bittersweet.
II.
Glossy rounded ebon shoulder,
Beneath a fall of pearly hair
Gives a hint of what was older:
The kinship between dark and fair,
For lost long ago was surface light,
And the majority does not care,
Going about (unclad) in black and white,
While some remember, and still mourn.
The twinned passions of fury and fear
Glow in darkness that was never born,
But has always lain buried here—
And save for faerie fire, there is no morn.
III.
Pointed ear bleeding from a lover's bite,
Thin lips pressed in a grim game smile—
Seeing in heat is not like seeing in light,
And reveals both more, and less, the while.
Not wise, not wise, to think such things,
To dream of murder and choke on bile,
While the priestess wields the whip that stings
In what it pleases her to call her play.
Wise only to bow the head and bare the back,
And know that no revenge will come this day,
But only sharp blood across the black,
Muscles twisted and jerked from the natural way.
IV.
Slender fingers wielded to please a priestess,
A body made but to answer to her whim—
The cries that she gives are not cries of distress,
And she is almost beautiful, like a strand slim
Of a larger web, like a single spider's eye.
She speaks not of her "lover," but of "him,"
And she tolerates no dissent, no asking why.
There are no "what ifs," with her, but only "ares."
This is the darkness, and this is the bed.
This is the power that forges the soul's prison bars.
The skin is black, and the blood is red.
She never knows about the dreams of stars.
V.
Pain striking like a lightning bolt all through,
Fury following like blindness close behind—
And she would never flinch, but laugh and coo,
And remark that "he" need not have a mind.
And eventually there began to be a sword
Left by the bed, her whisper mocking like wind:
"He would not strike me. He cannot cut the cord.
He is bound to me, and he is but my slave.
I give him more pleasure than our Lady's touch,
And nothing can him from that pleasure save.
So, no, sister, I do not truly worry overmuch."
There was a sword, and dreams of a grave.
VI.
Seeing in heat is not like seeing in light.
When she had left marks with whip and tooth,
And rolled over to find fury had burned out fright—
Ah, priestess of Lloth, she learned that truth.
The slender sword was gone from bedside shelf,
And the agility and strength of early youth
Still remained to one who was still a dark elf,
And reared with a taste for revenge and cruelty.
Did the red glow of an anger beyond fury and rage
Blind her as she died, so that she could not see?
Perhaps so. The snapping of both cord and cage
Hurt so much you did not know you were free.
VII.
Cool wind blowing upon a dark-skinned face,
Stirring hair thick and white as if impearled,
Marks your coming to this strange new place,
About which many a lying tongue has curled
Since you first began to dream beyond the "ares."
But one is truth: above the dark surface world
Is the blaze of a hundred thousand stars.
You shake your head, and quench fear's spark,
And step forward into the strange new night.
So many new sounds and smells at which to hark.
Seeing in heat is not like seeing in light,
And neither will this world be the Underdark.