Disclaimer: The characters are not mine but Tolkien's. I'm borrowing them for love, not money.
A Desolate Land
Too often has it been said that loving a son of Fëanor is not easy yet seldom is it stated that loving a son of Fingolfin is equally difficult, especially when that son is Fingon.
I watch now him as he sleeps. As always, he has kicked the sheets away, even here in Himring, the ever-cold. It does not matter how often I pull them over him; he will always push them aside.
His body is like ice, the breath from his parted lips frosting in the starlight.
There is a beauty about him like this very midnight, calm and serene, but there is oft an inner fire in his eyes that can take ones breath away. Now, his eyes are veiled from view by shifting shadows and dark lashes that flutter slightly in sleep.
I fear for him, I fear what I do to him. My fëa, once almost torn from my hröa, burns with the white light of those close to death. If I did not fight it, it might consume me. Does he feel that heat whene'er he is near me? Is that why he lies thus, sprawled out as though 'tis a hot summer's night in Aman and not a bitter evening in a desolate land?
I lay my cheek against his icy skin and press my lips to his shoulder.
He moans slightly, shaking his head from side to side, and I retreat and watch as he settles once more into a peaceful slumber, his chest rising and falling with deep even breaths.
I know when I finally fall asleep, he will most likely awaken, shivering with the cold and he will press against me, longing for heat and comfort. His fingertips, almost numb, will search my body; gliding clumsily down my chest and stomach until he reaches that very sin we have shared since Aman. Without words, he will implore me to love him, to give him life.
And I will give it to him, as I always have and as I always will.
