Tenemire was surprised, perhaps even a bit disappointed if he was to be honest, when he first saw Sheynathren. He had sent Tenemire a brief and informal invitation. Invitation would be generous. It was rather a statement of general availability were he to pass by Saltheril's sometime in the undefined future. While Silvermoon had been rebuilt for those that remained, many had grown comfortable where they had sought refuge. Sheynathren was one of many who partook in the common exchange at Saltheril's and was quite at home in the rustic comfort outside the city gates.
There was a terrible, unplaceable sense of urgency which preoccupied Tenemire as he neared his home. What had been a rush of grand planning became like a thousand paths fanning out in front of him; he was petrified by indecision. His life had been simple. He had one purpose to pursue in incremental steps. He studied and read, experimented and observed, walked in the forest and prayed. The low-resolution future which he planned for himself was pleasant, though distant. He enjoyed his youth. Now he no longer had peers, his studies were no longer simply to accumulate knowledge. Nobody would read what he had to write except himself. Regrow the forest, a very specific goal, entirely unrealizable. Where would he begin? Where had his youth gone? All these thoughts flickered on the border of consciousness as he fought to keep them in place. He couldn't address them now. They'd spill forth and be gone. Then he'd forget what it was that was so important. He wasn't an automaton creation of the titans. The feeling of fingertips on his waist krept upward and usurped the place of this struggle for meaning and direction in his mind. They'd always be there. But the release of his body he'd crave too, forever. Sheynathren's unromantic proposal was his singular goal now, and his pace hastened.
He would be the only elf in Sheynathren's eyes after tonight, he would make sure of it. He ate nothing. He found an old bottle of some spirit he kept for rare company and took a mouthful down savouring the trail of fire it left in him. He applied aromatic oils he had crafted himself. He wore sombre colours, as he always did, and boots of black velvet. As he left his home, the sky cast a blue twilight on the forest and a strong breeze blew.
He saw the curling wisps of smoke coming from Sheynathren's waterpipe. Sheynathren's physical appeal was undeniable. The robe was luxuriant yet casual, revealing a chest of hair beyond the years of youth. His neck was wide, soft and smooth, with stubble extending from his jaw. The robe was not in excess of fabric; he filled it well with a larger than average frame. He was not an elf who hunted and foraged to survive. He was muscular but soft enough to suggest ample leisure. This bit made Tenemire laugh to himself. He was wearing a robe only, with heavy boots apparently put on only so he could leave the comfort of his blanket to go out onto the grass and greet Tenemire. Sheynathren had been reclining on a large, plush rug sprawled under a large tree on Saltheril's grounds, although many trees separated him from the main terrace. Lamps had been lit in advance of the coming darkness. Sheynathren had seen Tenemire coming from a distance. He reached the large crimson rug under the tree on which were scattered pillows of various sizes, all richly embroidered in dark tones. Sheynathren removed the boots revealing in contrast soft, clean feet, white in colour and proportionally sized for the large elf. He sat comfortably on the pillows with many behind him, one leg stretched before him revealing the soft underside of his foot to Tenemire, the other bent at the knee. He took the pipe's white mist into his mouth and exhaled in two streams from his nose like an animal in the cold. They conversed naturally enough, about the party where they met, their fondness for the beach, drinks which they mutually enjoyed. All the while Tenemire stood stiffly, the hard heels of his boots sinking into the plush rug, arms behind him. He realized this, however a stubbornness which surprised him, insisted that he be asked, or told, to sit, to lay, to come closer; he would not ask to be wanted.
Finally Sheynathren looked up at him and gave a mischievous half-smile. He patted the empty space near him on the rug. There was a crystal table of libations at hand and he poured two generous glasses of a dark liquor. Tenemire returned the crack of a smile on half his lips, looked up, and removed his robe and tossed it on the ground, feeling lighter, and colder, in only his black tunic and trousers. He sat with his legs bent and was aware of his heart and a radiating tremor, he could almost taste what he felt in his chest and in his limbs, a metallic tingling on his tongue. The warmth of the large, soft arm which embraced his shoulders made his own frigid fingers feel even more distant from him. Their perfumes comingled in the air above them, carried lazily upward by life and lust's warmth. Tenemire exhaled and settled into the embrace. They sat like this against the pillows and cushions, the larger elf in a crimson robe, flesh of chest, arms, and legs exposed, and the smaller, in black, white face and hands. Fiery red hair mixed with icy black. They both noticed their feet. Tenemire's pointed black boots and Sheynathren's broad, pink feet and toes, they tangled their legs and feet together, and the contrast made them laugh.
The breeze had departed and left a still forest night. Silence fell among the two elves and more time passed. He thought it was mistake, a silly mistake they'd both laugh at in some future after having amicably parted that night. There was something sincere about Sheynathren, a sincerity Tenemire couldn't return. The glistening eyes and pouting lips deserved more than him. Tenemire thought Sheynathren understood the situation, given the ambivalence of his note which precipitated this encounter. They were there to not make eye contact, to feel as little as possible, to be silent, to do a job. The poor elf must be inexperienced, Tenemire thought. It had been some time for Tenemire, but he knew the rules.
Their drinks sat long since emptied. It was upon the moment Tenemire had decided he enjoyed their brief time together but wished to leave before manifesting irrevocably in history what he'd rather have kept unrealized in the aether, a hope of what could have been. From this thought returning to see Sheynathren looking at him, Tenemire reluctantly acquiesced to the kiss. It happened quickly, from the touch of lips and exchange of breath, hesitance turned to desire. It was like when he was a child, and he and the other elven children would play, swimming and jumping into the pond. The release of muscle, gravity would relent, and the sky entered the eyes as they fell backward into the calm water. This felt like a falling which wouldn't end, as he wished it wouldn't have, those years ago. He looked up and saw the same sky.
Sheynathren gave more with Tenemire's urging. At the party, Sheynathren carried himself easily, unbothered; Tenemire expected this to translate into a practiced, spiritless performance, standardised for any lover that came along. He was perhaps less experienced than Tenemire expected, or was it something else? Their kisses were soft and generous, not greedy and hard. Sheynathren found Tenemire's neck and kissed it. The spirit in Sheynathren's breath caressed Tenemire's neck and overtook him, and he became a spectator to his own ministrations to Sheynathren's body. He spread the robe to reveal the chest and nipples which he kissed with restraint, fighting a hunger for more. He kissed the trail of the male elf's hair. He closed his eyes and saw Sheynathren's dark blue eyes in the darkness as he heard the soft murmurs from above. He might have spent hours in that warmth when he was pulled away from below, from above those strange breathless waters which choked him but which never quenched his thirst. Sheynathren with a hint of impatience, with a roughness unsuited to the delicacy of the fabric, threw the tunic over Tenemire's head and brushed his hair out of his eyes. Sheynathren traced a finger along the torso, white, and too thin from a diet of weeds and flowers. The fragility of the body enchanted Sheynathren, whether from a desire to protect or to destroy, Tenemire would give willingly to either. Sheynathren told Tenemire to open his mouth, and took a long breath from the vapours in the pipe. He blew them into Tenemire's mouth who inhaled them, the streaks of white fog like a spirit leaving one body and entering the next coursed from one mouth to the other. Tenemire looked upward at the soft moonlight touching his face through the canopy of leaves seemingly miles above, in the disorienting high of passion. Miles away from his own body, and from their unity on the forest floor. In this timeless fog he thought he heard a voice gasp his name. A voice which cracked in the night air, betraying a vulnerability of the large body which had produced it. Upon this they finished together and Tenemire fell, seeing only black. His soft, languid body was caught by the one who had ruled it, and placed carefully beside him. Like primordial ancestors from long ago, they slept beneath the ancient tree; their bodies glowed in moonlight.