Halbrand cards his fingers through the coarse brown tangles of the horse's mane; whether to soothe the beast after their harrowing journey from Adar's camp or to quiet the ache within his own chest at Galadriel's rejection, even he cannot say. It rankles—this ignoble waiting, penned in a meager stable at Eregion's threshold, beneath the disdainful gaze of guards clad in copper and veridian. Their eyes weigh him like scales judging an unworthy coin. Above, he senses Celebrimbor's presence, a sentinel in his tower of Ost-in-Edhil, cold and lofty, denying the Southlander entry into his domain.
Perhaps he should have veiled himself in the guise of an elf—graceful, luminous, and unassuming. A man, however, does not belong in the radiant splendor of this elven city, least of all one cloaked in tattered rags, smeared with the grit and gore of torture. The wound carved into his back throbs, a cruel fissure in the false flesh he wears, a reminder that Adar's legions of grotesquery can wound beyond his body—they threaten the tenuous cohesion of the fëa that binds him.
It's a source of vulnerability, but he's grown attached to this form, the long sword-bearing arms, sturdy legs and pleasing face of no-one. He did not choose this shell; it found him amidst the snow-draped desolation of the mountains. And yet, it has served him well. In the way Galadriel touched his arm, preventing him from fleeing the clammy forge, and sparks of heat flew right to his chest, choking him from the inside. In the way her fingers trailed his and he instinctively closed them around her, as if she was tugging the very string around his soul.
But that light has faded, as distant now as a star beyond the farthest horizon. Gone is the fierce warmth in her gaze, even when tempered by biting rebuke. Gone is the faith she once placed in the uncrowned king, that lifted him so high he could pluck the stars themselves from the heavens and lay them at her feet. Now he tastes only her absence amid the golden lands of her kin. He stands apart, watching the elves from the periphery; a stranger, ever a spectator.
In the past such invisibility has proven useful, a vantage from which to witness the follies of men and craft schemes that wove through the fabric of ages. But now he needs to get inside these walls, go where the fire is burning and metal melts into tools of power; more rings must be crafted before Adar reduces splendor to ashes. Time is no longer his ally—it is his adversary. How ironic, for he's eternal as the glowing sun, and elves immortal as the rivers bleeding into the sea, yet time is scarce and it's his doing. He reversed the hourglass the moment he showed himself to Galadriel, and now the sands are pushing down his throat.
"I conveyed your message, my lord—" The voice –deep and feminine– startles him, cutting through the labyrinth of his thoughts, so engulfed he was in them he didn't notice the feather-light steps and the drag of the dress. The blonde she-elf, Mirdania, had approached without piercing the veil of his perception. "I didn't mean to startle you," she murmurs a gentle apology, her wide azure eyes luminous. Her gaze does not lower; she is one of the Eldar, after all.
He has seen her around these days, often mistaking her with other elves of her kind –blonde, subdued– each time engaging him in pleasant conversation before bearing a new variation of the master smith's reluctance. Ever composed, she greets him with a courteous smile on her tulip-rose lips, clad in silks of green hues, a uniform of sorts, cascading over the ample curve of her hips. The flowing fabric whispers as she moves, open sleeves revealing fleeting glimpses of alabaster arms, the loose folds fastened by gilded brooches wrought in the image of leaves, with fine braided chains girdling her waist tightly. Her adornments, headpieces and spiral bracelets, bear no gemstones or ornate embellishments; there's a simplicity to her presentation that speaks of a woman of craft—she is no noble, but neither is she unremarkable.
"Do not fret, my lady," he assures her, his voice a deliberate drawl, heavy with the manish cadence that has fooled her kind before. "I was admiring your city." The words unfurl smoothly, roll right off his parched tongue. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, forcing her to step closer. "I trust you come bearing favorable tidings about my humble request."
"I fear not, my lord." The title is unnecessary—no mortal rank has claim over him—but he savors the way it falls off her lips. The quiet thrill of it kindles in him, the knowledge that he wields power beyond her surface-level comprehension, beyond anyone's, other than his fallen master and those who rejected him. How easily her diminutive frame could be bent to his will, pull her hair and plunge her head-first into the unseen world, into shadows that consume every flicker of light.
"May I address the master directly?" he presses, his tone a thin veneer over his growing impatience. "Not long ago he considered me a… friend."
She hesitates, pursing her lips, the faintest flicker of vexation smudging her rounded features. He notes it, though she quells it swiftly, smoothing her expression into practiced tranquility.
Galadriel would not dare to hide her irritation. She would have scowled, nose wrinkling into a peak, her sharp tongue ready to lash at the perceived arrogance. She would have pushed him, challenged him, forced him to—
"I am the master's administrator. There is no need for you to seek him out directly. We can, however, provide you with ample provisions for your journey back."
The elegance of her rebuff amuses him. He chuckles, low and sardonic, teeth sinking into his lower lip to restrain bouts of laughter. How deftly the elves cloak rejection in silken words, their denials like ornaments adorning a rusty blade.
A dagger, holding in the light of the two trees.
Galadriel.
"There is no need for provisions," he replies smoothly, gaze lingering on her, an unspoken challenge to avert her gaze. "I shall remain here, granting you time to reconsider my petition."
She glances at the evening sky pointedly, dying rays of the sun washing the city aglow in amber, signaling the coming of night. With a nod, she turns to leave, her hair swaying with each graceful step. He watches it bounce on her back, curls twisted in the shape of perfect rings.
The sun dies completely, as lamps sprinkle the light like fireflies in the dark. Eregion hums—notes of lyre drift from nearby chambers, punctuated by soft, melodic laughter, as the elves wind down for the night.
Such all-encompassing, numbing peace the elves enjoy. As though they can outshine the darkness, as if the heir of Morgoth is not cornering their lair, a wolf licking the cradle. Such arrogant pride they harbor, believing themselves chosen, invincible. It blinds them to their fallibility, to the truth that no soul is immune to the pull of shadow. He feels another bout of kinship with Galadriel in this moment, understanding her rage at their dismissal of her warnings.
He closes his eyes to weave a spell—a blanket of silence to swallow the jovial sounds of the city, make it pliant and permeable to his infiltration. He draws his focus inward, centers his essence and tries to discern the melody inside every speck of dust.
But to shape reality, he must open himself to it; make himself pliable so we can tinker with the world. Spells are bridges—threads spun from his spirit to the fabric of existence, connecting his will to the hearts of others, to Arda's weary bones.
But the threads feel foreign beneath his grasp, slippery and resistant. Shimmering in his mind's eye like–
Gold hair.
Galadriel.
He feels her presence, reaching for him. How merciless of his mind to conjure her likeness– only he is capable of that cruel a torture. Yet he senses her, still, pushing the door open. His fingers tremble, from the strain of summoning a skill left to languish. With effort, the silence begins to take hold, but to his dismay, imperfectly—sounds ebb away unevenly, the spell faltering at the edges. He presses on, forcing his focus to mend the gaps as reality fights him at every turn. His breath comes heavy as he finally binds the spell, and a suffocating quiet falls over Eregion.
Serenity, at last. Galadriel is gone.
The struggle of conjuring power lingers in his body. It is done, but not without cost.
A crack of thunder rips through the air, sharp and sudden, cleaving his thoughts. Lightning sears the sky, illuminating the heavens for a fleeting instant. The clouds above seem to hold their breath, laden with promise, until at last they release; rain begins to fall, a torrent spilling from the heavens as though unburdening the weight of a long-kept secret.
The air feels fresh; if he could dream, it would smell like this.
He wonders if he conjured the storm, or if nature, in its infinite wisdom, has seen fit to mirror his unrest. Either way, he seeks refuge in the stables. After securing his horse, he surveys the place: The air inside is cool, carrying the tang of damp stone and the earthy musk of the beasts. Wooden beams support the ceiling, their surfaces intricately carved with patterns of leaves and flowing rivers. The stable doors are decorated with five-pointed suns and petals. Many stalls stand empty, hay scattered and trampled into patches of mud on the stone floor, but a few house weary horses, their tails flicking lazily as they shift in their sleep. Toward the back, he finds a small, vacant room, likely once used for storage. A thin layer of straw covers the floor, just enough for a makeshift bed. It isn't much, but for tonight, it would do.
He had slept in fine linens last time, healed from a wound of his own making. Galadriel had put him in the room next to her –he heard her murmurs ordering the healers– and for a few weeks the Eregion he saw was borne out of her eyes. Sun filtering through the gossamer curtains to bathe her profile as she sat reading next to his bed, brushing his weary mind with hers. Everything she touched was light, and her absence clouds his thoughts.
Time stretches languidly, dreamily, marked only by the relentless drumming of the rain on the tile roofs. Until it changes; a new rhythm emerges, droplets splattering on an intruding surface. Irritation flares as he steps out into the deluge, curiosity drawing him to confront whoever dares disturb this fleeting solitude.
A figure approaches beneath an arch, the makeshift canopy held aloft by two soldiers bearing the downpour. As they near, the arch lifts, and a pair of luminous eyes meet his.
"Lord Halbrand, you are still here," she remarks with disbelief as she takes in his worse condition. He hasn't bathed in days, only cleaned himself with the horse's washcloth, and a strategic stretch of his arm gives her a view of his wound.
"As you see, my lady."
Her garment has shifted—a velvet cape perched on a flowing gown of forest-green silk, its richness tempered by silk panels cinched at her slender waist. The rain-streaked lamplight dances on the fabric, rendering her both ethereal and in its state, earth-bound.
She appears one with the rain, a trick of the eye.
"I brought you something to eat," she offers, unveiling a bundle of scented bread from a satchel over her shoulder. She extends it toward him, holding it just beneath the arch's protection. She must assume he'd run to her to get it, like a dog leaping to his master.
He scoffs, a bitter sound cutting through the damp air. He will not lick crumbs at the table of their rejection. Without a word, he turns and strides back inside, slamming the stables door shut.
Moments later, he hears the hurried murmur of her voice swiftly dismissing the guards, footsteps and then the quiet creak of the door opening and closing behind her.
She slips off her damp cape and drapes it over the partition. She follows after his angry footsteps, until they reach his commandeered room.
He turns to look at her suddenly. The rain is soaking her silken gown in places until it clings to her like a second skin. A single lock of hair is plastered to the curve of her neck, drawing his eye despite himself.
In the flickering light of the candle, her fair face turns to a canvas for his longing. He overlays her delicate features with another's—refining the curve of her cheek, the arch of her brow—until he can almost believe he stands before the one he truly desires. It is a cruel deceit, yet one he indulges, if only for a moment, to soothe the ache within.
"What is it that you truly seek in this city?"
Revenge, respite–
"Redemption," he says, not without honesty.
He expects a rebuttal, yet no spark lights her eyes, blind as she is –as everyone is– to what drives him. Unable to offer any true solace or fulfillment. He is unknowable to almost all.
"It is not widely known, but shadows loom over the elven dominion. We have neither the space nor the patience for mortals who seek to assuage their egos with futile quests."
"I know about the shadow!" he yells, leaping close to her. "What do you think my purpose is?" he scrapes a hand on his hair, keeping himself from shaking her into reason. "I offer my assistance at the forge, to craft a weapon powerful enough to halt the darkness. Keep me outside at your peril, elf."
He sees her calculate. "What would a mere man know about crafting shields?"
"Get me into the forge and you will see I am no mere man."
"Will you help our people?"
"Not just your people," he snaps, the words cutting like unsanded steel. Elves, always centering themselves in the tale, the gravity of conflict bending at their ravenous pride. As if the fates of men, dwarves, and all other races were mere echoes of their deeds, ripples in the wake of their empty glory. " All Middle Earth needs healing."
She offers no retort, her silence a brittle defense against his fury. Yet her clenched fists betray some inner tumult, knuckles pale against the strain. She crosses her arms, seeking warmth against the cold seeping through her drenched and weighty sleeves.
It's then that he notices it—the faintest smudge of coal streaked across her palm, just below her little finger. It must have slipped her notice as she bathed. A subtle mark, almost imperceptible, but not to his eye.
"You're a smith."
"Apprentice," she corrects. A strategic omission, not unlike his own. It kindles the fire of wrath in him, being on that end of deceit. She must be closer to Celebrimbor than she'd let on, she has influence; clever of her to downplay it, for now she's his target. It's convenient more than anything, how the pieces fall at his feet.
She moves to rub the smudge on her dress, a futile gesture.
"You labor in the forge day and night," he says, his voice sharp, "and yet you refuse my aid. You, of all people, understand the stakes, if there's no weapon strong enough to fend off the orc armies."
Before she can respond, he seizes her wrist with a firm grip. Her skin is cold against his hand, damp from the rain. He presses her palm against the tattered remnants of his shirt, the rough fabric smearing the coal stain off her glowing skin.
A small, unbidden sound escapes her—a half-caught breath. Her brows knit into a frown, but her pink lips part in unmistakable longing.
She drapes the wet strands of her hair over her shoulders. With every careful inhale, drops of rain glint like crystal as they slide along her collarbone to the valley of her covered breasts. The air inside the stables hangs thick with dampness. Only the faint rustle of animals shifting in the hay is heard– precarious stillness engulfs them; the prey's last chance to run.
He pounces on her, grabbing her neck and diving down to capture her plump lips in a bruising kiss. She tastes impossibly sweet, like overripe red berries bursting with richness, teetering on the edge of too much, yet drawing him deeper still.
It's the wrong flavor, it cannot satiate the hollow hunger within him. It will not quench the fire, nor banish the shadows that coil around him. But it is here, tangible and within reach. Desire—raw, unrefined—can be wielded, bent to his purpose. As is the elf.
He bows his head and licks into her mouth, harsh strokes of his tongue mapping her, searching for the source of sweetness, knowing it resides inside another person. Yet still, he swirls his tongue to dance with hers –it's not a dance if she's chasing his frantic rhythm, but it's sufficiently pleasurable nonetheless; for both, as a sharp inhale shakes her body.
Mairon is a smith before anything, he knows beauty; to recognise it and to shape it. Mirdania is beautiful, like someone drew her with the thinnest pen, gold fanning her face and features painstakingly shaped in the light of the Valar. It's the wrong kind of beauty, too perfect, unmarred by fight, and the realization hits like spikes under his skin.
But he's drowning, he'll cling to whatever raft comes his way.
He bites her lower lip sharply, the flick of pain bringing them both back from the reverie. She whines, but her cheeks are flushed and perfect. Along with her mouth, open and inviting–
"My lord, I didn't mean to—" she begins, her voice a tremor of confusion and something else.
"Neither did I." He cups her face roughly, his thumb digging into the soft curve of her cheeks. There are words, surely, words he could say to temper her, but the heaving of her breasts betrays an eagerness he wouldn't extinguish. "Do you find my attention displeasing?"
He kisses her again for good measure, swaying the scale to his benefit. He squeezes her face until her lips pucker and pout, and shoves his tongue inelegantly inside. A small gasp escapes her, and he drowns it with a kiss; another, and another, then he waits. She could disappear into the rain, and he'd allow it. Welcome it even, like the burning sword welcomes the water bath with a hiss.
Her voice comes huskier, words pulled from some secret depths of her being. "I find you exceedingly pleasing, my lord, hence my reluctance."
Such an admission must discompose her –chafe at her elven pride.
Good.
"I am no lord, and you know that. Let us not delude ourselves with monikers and titles. I am merely a smith, seeking nothing more than to offer an elf what she desires."
Her small palms climb up his chest shyly. "And what would I desire?"
He doesn't know. For all his keen insight into the fears and desires of others, hers remain hidden, shrouded, as if her soul is freshly forged, her story yet unwritten.
"What everyone does. Someone to take the shadows away, even for one night."
If he's guessed correctly, she gives no sign.
"And what of your shadows?"
They are extensions of my wretched being. They consume me. They will consume everyone I ever touched and lov–
"None of your concern," he mutters, silencing her with his thumb pressed firmly across her lips. Her mouth parts in a breath, warm and trembling, her warm exhale brushing against his finger. Time seems to stretch, suspended in the heavy silence, as if waiting for her to make her decision.
Slowly, she traces a path along his thumb with her tongue, and it's enough to unravel him completely.
He grabs her waist and pulls her into him, all the misplaced longing cascading over his flesh like warm honey. The curves of her breasts, hidden behind flimsy fabric, hit his chest, the shape of her hardening nipples imprinting on his borrowed body. He groans into her mouth again, as her arms snake around his waist, pushing them together. The friction alone is enough to drive him mad.
He brushes his lips against her ear and sucks roughly on the delicate tip. She writhes and whimpers, aghast at her body's reaction. Elf ears are sensitive, he catalogues this information for a future that may never be.
As he does that, her lips find his throat, above the ruined hem of his blue tunic, and dot the cords of his neck with open-mouthed kisses. Heat pools in his belly, pushing lower. A growing need to lose himself in another claws at him; his hands move to the globes of her ass, rounded and ripe, and squeeze them hard, as if juice would coat his fingers.
Their hips join, her clothed cunt connecting with the bulging front of his trousers. He sees the exact moment she's hit with his desire, eyes so big they're translucent –empty. She keens, releasing a moan that perhaps is not meant for his ears, as she pushes against him, trapping his aching member between their bodies. She lifts her head, craning her neck up to reach him.
He goes to ask her what she wants, instinctively. He's bedded his share of mates back when it hardly affected his connection to his flesh, but it's been millennia since he's been with an elf. He supposes they require ministrations of some sort, elegance and care . He can't provide that.
But he can dispense pleasure. He pushes a hand beneath her dress, parting the panels and revealing her leg inch by delicious inch, from the curve of her knee to her supple hip. He grazes the skin as if his whole essence is concentrated in the tip of his fingers.
The sounds of the stable fade around him as if he's shrouded by a veil and only feels her skin.
He gazes at her, unfocused and thus he only catches the faintest glimpse of her hair, a glimmer of gold in the candlelight. It's enough—enough to ignite the tantalizing memory of the one he truly desires. Her locks sway and gleam, shapely and relatively composed unlike the wild salty tresses he yearns for. He forces himself to ignore the differences, clinging to the illusion with all his might, overlaying the mask of his longing upon the flesh beneath his hands.
Said flesh responds eagerly to his touch, it sings , as if it knows the tune before it's 's the only thing that he can hear, this melody, new but not entirely unfamiliar, as though the strings are plucked for the first time but had always been tuned for him.
Her hands find his shoulders, gripping tightly, as if she too is caught in something unclear to either of them.
He moves up her leg, eyebrows tilting as he thumbs the juncture of her thigh. It's bare; he hisses on her neck. It's all easy –too easy– how she's warm and pliant under his rough fingers, no need for deception or persuasion.
"Do you wish for me to touch you?"
She undulates her hips in response, searching for his hand. Yet he holds it just out of reach—a breath of torment, the promise of pleasure dangled before her like a prize to a hound. And who, now, is the dog? She pouts, but he tightens his grip around the back of her hips, near where she wants him.
"And yet you kept me outside in the rain." He squeezes roughly.
"Forgive me, my lord," she whines. Whether it's true or it's said to facilitate what they both seek, he decides it's irrelevant. "I will personally–"
The words die in her throat as he finds the tender flesh of her seam, and presses down on her clit hard. Her moan is sudden, unbidden and he drinks it all in as he stares at her face. His other finger dances around her opening, finding thick moisture dripping from her. He rubs her nub in a circle and her doe-like eyes snap back to his.
"Have you laid with anyone before?"
He stills his hand, demanding an answer.
"Never with a Man."
He nods, he expected that, and circles around her clit again, this time pushing harder, then finding her lips and mirroring the plunging motion with his tongue. Her head falls against his shoulder, throat bobbing, and her eyelids flutter shut.
It's at that moment he decides he will have her; if he can't touch the real thing, he'll defile its reflection.
He retracts his hand, to her visible dismay, but only to lick two fingers as she watches him in rapt attention. Then he spins her around, her hands flying out to the wall for support.
He shrugs off his tunic hastily and immediately cage her against the wall, all of his body pressing tightly against hers. The length of him molds tightly to her back, his hips instinctively rutting against her, his arousal searching hungrily for her bare flesh but thwarted by the layers still between them. Adjusting his stance—she's so much smaller than him—he angles lower, his hardened length sliding against the curve of her ass. He closes his eyes, reality fading, and smells only her arousal. He grinds until she shivers, her glistening core aching, clenching on empty air.
He finds her clit with his thumb, and plunges a finger inside her. Her back arches, pushing against his palm as his teeth find the dimple of her shoulder. Too much hair impedes his mouth. He has half a mind to stop and collect it in a single long braid, fit for a warrior or a queen, but he just pushes the offending strands away. When his teeth latch back on to her neck, he tastes raindrops on her bare skin. It's still pouring outside, but the world sounds far away, nothing but an echo of the pumping of his blood. He pushes another finger inside her, setting a frantic pace. Her slick warmth molds exquisitely around his fingers as he pushes through the tightness to reach deeper.
"Please…" she whimpers, shaking like a leaf. The Great Tree of Lindon would shake with her desire, when the inky darkness spread along its veins to the ancient roots.
When he adds a third finger, her entire frame tenses, her breath stuttering as the pressure crests. Her body quivers on the edge and she cups his forearm in silent protest, the heat threatening to overwhelm her, incinerate her.
He doesn't know if it's mercy or his ingrained need to please, but he curls his fingers inside her, hitting the spot again as rubs his thumb on her clit roughly. Reality trembles with her, as he pursues her pleasure with singular focus. She stills with a cry, as waves of acute pleasure crash through her. Her cries meld into breathless gasps as his fingers and grinding palm coax her thoroughly through the aftershocks, on and on until she softens with a drawn-out whimper.
Halbrand licks her essence from his fingers, the once-sweet taste now tangier, heavy on his tongue.
He allows her a moment to breathe and gather herself, and he should savor the sight of her disheveled, knowing that he coaxed her release with nothing but his fingers. Yet it isn't enough, and the absence of something deeper gnaws at him. Foolishly, he shoves the thought aside, determined to drown it with deeper indulgence.
Mirdania turns around shyly, the blush having spread all over her face, to her neck and her bosom where he's pushed down the collar of her dress. He scans for the laces –as he had done when he saw Galadriel in that resplendent gown that now hunts him, wishing he had peeled it off her when he basked in her favour. Wishing he had torn it apart with his teeth and nails, and fucked her so thoroughly she'd stayed by his side. As if his will echoes, Mirdania unclasps the garment on her own, unlaces the gilded chain around her waist until the material slides off and pools on the dirty floor.
His perception is lost inward again before snapping back to the naked figure before him, illuminated in all its splendor. Her head barely reaches his clavicle, her stature more petite and her form curvier than any elf he has encountered in recent memory. A tapered waist flows into full, rounded hips, a contrast that holds his gaze captive. Her breasts are full and heavy on her small frame, moving incrementally with every breath, crowned by nipples of darker pink. Dimples peek from the gentle curve of her shoulders. The similarities have ended, and that frightens him.
And excites him.
He cups both breasts, pinching the beaded peaks and rolling them between his calloused fingertips. His palm is rough from the reins but it only adds friction, and her flesh responds eagerly to his touch. Mirdania's tongue is toiling behind her teeth. His thumb presses down the buds, and she shudders when a hint of nail scrapes her, nipples as sensitive as the place between her thighs.
"Touch me again, my lord," She pushes herself into his hands, urging him to mold and press her tighter, harder. Her urgency sets his pulse racing, and with a low, guttural groan, his free hand drifts downward, palming where he's painfully hard.
"Come here," he grunts.
He guides her, until her legs meet the edge of the small chest of drawers. She sits with a soft gasp. He doesn't waste a second; latches his mouth on her breast, twirling his tongue around the peak, feeling it harden with each fervent sweep. Heat stretches inside him, coiling lower. But it's not enough. He pulls back despite her whine of protest, enough to unlace his breaches and push down his pants, his cock springing free, painfully hard and throbbing with need. Wrapping his hand around the shaft, he strokes it roughly, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he works himself toward some semblance of relief.
The friction is sharp, dry—he spits into his palm to ease it, but a soft voice halts him.
"Let me," Mirdania says.
It's unclear what it is she's offering –not knowing only sharpens his anticipation. Before he can respond, she licks her own palm, the sight more enticing than he could have imagined, and wraps her small, delicate hand around him. The pressure is softer than his own grip, her fingers barely able to close around his length, but it's enough to make him shudder. She strokes once, twice, pushing some more until moisture leaks from his tip. Suddenly she gazes up at him through lowered lashes before pressing her chest closer, guiding the slick head of his cock flush against her breast. The warmth of her skin, the softness of the pliant flesh, nearly undoes him.
A hiss escapes his teeth as the growing pleasure encroaches on his mind, white and numbing. She rubs him against the peak of her breast, spreading precum over her nipple, the false innocence on her face turning the action obscene.
His shaft glides along the slickness of her saliva-coated chest, the sensation heightened by the softness of her skin. Mirdania cups her breasts, pressing them together to engulf him, creating a warm, narrow canal that hugs his length so tightly he groans at the sensation. Soft curves cradle the contours of his length, her body languidly molding to him. He begins to move, bucking his hips in a steady rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of the makeshift embrace.
Shuddering, she adjusts her grip, squeezing the supple globes tighter around him, her attention fixed on the motion of his cock as it slides upward, disappearing momentarily between her cleavage before reappearing. Her fascination only fuels his need, the sight of her enraptured gaze driving him to thrust harder and harder. His knees threaten to buckle, and he clings to her, gripping her shoulder to steady himself.
On a particularly forceful stroke, the tip of his cock brushes her dimpled chin. Her tongue flicks and swirls over the sensitive head, gathering him into her mouth, the wet heat drawing a guttural groan from his chest. His balls tighten, his climax approaching dangerously; he's so close to painting her swollen lips with his seed.
Just as he teeters on the edge, she releases him with a soft plump, her lips parting from his shaft as a faint smile curls at the corners of her mouth.
It seems he's not the only one capable of veiled cruelty.
He has the faint notion of this being a trial –of his will, his endurance, his patience. A subtle torture, dressed as a game.
The price of admission must be paid.
She gets up, ready to collect it.
"Is that your measure of me?" he bites out, "To test my worth with your cunt before allowing me in your precious city?"
She lifts herself onto her tiptoes, yet still falls shy of his height. She noses along his clenched jaw, pleased at his stubble, until her lips poise near his ear. "Do you truly measure up, Southlander?"
He leans in, hovering just over her pretty nose, before his hand comes down to her ass with a resounding smack, the sharp slap breaking the quiet.
He lifts her up, her legs curling around his waist, locking him in place decidedly. His blood hums as he hoists her onto the wall and presses himself into the cradle of her thighs. Now she's above him, and he risks a last look upon her face, fearing another pair of eyes, but it's a stare blank from arousal. He wants to ask; for what he doesn't know. He cups the globes of her ass to bring her closer, squeezing possessively, until his cock tastes a drop of her liquid heat. Her thighs clamp around his waist encouragingly, and it feels like someone is tightening his reins; he's ever seeking a master. He nudges the tip inside her swollen entrance and pushes within the tight wet heat, filling her to the brim at once. The sensation grips him, like her cunt grips along his length as she lets out a wail, straining at the intrusion. For how he had stretched her with his fingers, he knows this burns through her in pain and pleasure alike, and he catches her lower lip trembling.
He gives her -or himself- a few measly seconds to acclimate, before pulling out and slamming back into her, sheathing himself completely. She winds her arms around his shoulders, holding on to him for dear life as he drives into her.
Foreign words spill from her lips, elvish prayers or curses, he cannot tell. Her cries rise and break like a song carrying in the night, and the sound only fuels him.
The pleasure building numbs him, caresses his skull, massaging his brain into an empty oblivion. He maintains a slower rhythm, the sounds of their bodies squelching together, all while she looks at him with hooded eyes. Her hips undulate as much as his constraint of her body allows, changing the angle of penetration as she tries to match him.
He glances down, entranced by the sight of his length vanishing into her slick heat, the way her body yields and clings to him with every roll of his hips. Her flushed skin gleams in the dim light, and the sway of her body as she bounces on his cock makes her taut nipples brush against his chest hair in tantalizing patterns.
His mouth latches onto her breast, teeth scraping against soft flesh before he bites down, harder than he means to. It pulls a sharp cry from her throat, mixing with the breathless moans that come with every plunge. He doesn't stop, can't stop, the sting of his bite bleeding into the overwhelming pressure of him filling her, pounding into her like he's trying to lose himself completely. Her nails rake down his shoulders, to ground herself against the chaotic push and pull of him, her head tilting back as her body arches into the sharp edge of pain and the messy flood of pleasure.
Each bite is met with a thrust, and each thrust is harder than the last, as though he means to crack her open, to find the secrets hidden deep within her body, perhaps even find someone else.
He senses her release approaching, her body coiling tight like a drawn bowstring, every muscle trembling with anticipation. Adjusting his angle, he grinds his cock against her clit with each deep thrust, eliciting a string of gasps that climb higher and higher, until she lets out a sharp, keening cry. Her walls clench and flutter around him, her wetness flooding over him in waves, pulling him into the molten heat of her climax. She shakes uncontrollably, her head thrown back, and the sound of her final unrestrained wail rings in his ears.
He moves within her, trying to coax every last tremor of her release, his hips pumping desperately as he chases his own. Everything is there—the scalding heat of her voluptuous body, the intoxicating sounds of their coupling, the scent of sex mingling with sweat—but his mind falters. His body cries for release, cock aching for relief, but something in him refuses to surrender.
Frustration claws at him as he buries his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the tangy musk of her skin, over rainwater and elven soap. He bites the skin there, sinking his teeth around her collarbone, and pushes harder. He shuts his eyes tight, conjuring the familiar roar of the forge in his mind. The phantom heat flickers in his thoughts, the glow of molten iron surrounding him, and he imagines her form backlit by fire—approaching him like a beast stalking its prey. The image of her grips him, twisting with unfulfilled desire and he stiffens painfully, caught between reality and his illusion.
Liquid fire suffuses him. With a sharp exhale, he withdraws, the slick glide of his length tracing over her glistening seam. A hoarse groan tears from his throat, his seed smears along her upper thighs, as his body quakes with the final throes of release.
He remains suspended in his dream, pleasure leaking out of him. The fire of the forge burns out, like the setting sun melting into the sea. For a moment, he is back on the raft, the sun's heat searing his salt-crusted skin as Galadriel lies beside him, her steady breaths blending with the waves.
The raft cracks, sinks into the depths of the sea, and with that, his soul.
The next thing he recalls is shoveling stew into his mouth, beneath the piercing gaze of Celebrimbor. He's groggy, as if time sped by without his consent. The smell of burning metal and clattering of tools as elves move around the forge is disorienting. He tries to recall how he got there–
"Mirdania brought me," he says. It ought to suffice—grant him access to the forge. He needs to make more rings.
Celebrimbor's brow furrows, and he glances around, confusion flickering across his features. "There is no one here by that name. Finish your meal, and be gone."
No.
Halbrand's eyes sweep the room. Blonde hair. Everywhere, yet not the same. The threads of reality coil about him—long golden strands.
"I am an emissary of the Valar." He attempts to shift, to transform into the higher form of a golden envoy, bathe himself in elven grace and white robes. But his fea resists, clutching to his fana. Chained to its mortal vessel. Locked.
A sinking feeling descends on him –the spell. It altered more than he sought. For he was not its sole creator. Galadriel was. With the power of the ring he designed for her, she reached into his very mind, planted her imperfect likeness and he mated with her.
He can't assume another form, for mating bound him to this one. He can't enter Eregion as Halbrand. Without Celebrimbor there are no rings, no healing–
The flickering image of Galadriel fades, smiling in victory.
He turns his back to the city, clutches a pilfered sword, and follows her treacherous voice.