Elves were not like Men.
That much was ridiculously obvious, simplistic beyond
thought. He had always known it to be true without question,
knowing of them only through tales woven late in the night
by warriors too exhausted to sleep. As a child he had
listened to such tales with wide eyes, hiding his eagerness
from his father's scorn.
He remembered those tales in the night, lurid words spoken
in low tones that woke such dreams in a young man's head,
and the memory of those dreams made him question the reality
of this moment.
There was something in the inherent androgyny of an Elf,
some mystery that he had never expected to find appealing.
Their voices raised in song had tickled his mind with a
melody of awful beauty, one not easily forgotten and now
sorely missed, and to see them in the full glow of their
skin was to see them clothed in an image of music.
That such a creature would crave the touch of a Man was
unthinkable, absurd, and the tales he had heard would attest
to this. This Elf who traveled with them seemed determined
to prove every fanciful notion he had had of their kind as a
falsehood.
He wondered if the flesh of an immortal received sensation
like that of a Man; did the touch of a finger along a pale
nipple bring pleasure, as it did to him? The faintest shiver
of dark lashes against his cheeks might confirm it, though
the Elf remained soundless, whatever he might do.
Curved to rest on his knees he was no less lovely than one
of his songs, skin as smooth and cool as the mithril so
prized by all. The chill was not all pervasive, he had
quickly learned. Inside the Elf was an unnatural heat that
was stunning in comparison and he thought fires must burn
within the depths of an Elf that would rival that of any
Dwarf forge.
A second finger to rest alongside the first felt almost cool
in comparison, and to withdraw them slightly, to feel the
caress of the cold night air before sliding gently back
within to encompass them once again in flame was a
temptation not to be resisted.
Aragorn was sitting close to them, watching though not
silently as the ranger might have insisted of him. He could
not resent the softly whispered instructions, easing his
worry as he folded the rest of fingers together and pressed
within the Elf again.
Not a sound, not a shiver, and perhaps Elves could not feel
at all, their long years buffering them from the loveliness
that could greet flesh upon flesh and saving them only for
music, for surely this Elf for all his nearness was still as
distant as a star. Yet, it seemed to matter little; it was
this nearness he craved, the wicked pink gleam of flesh
stretched around the bulk of his fingers like an uttered
obscenity.
The breadth of his knuckles proved to be the most difficult
and he thought they might be unbearably rough against the
delicate skin within. No protest came, even as he pushed
harder, forcing his way past resistance and encasing his
hand in fire to the wrist.
Unbearable, searing heat and he shuddered with the response
the Elf refused to give. Aragorn suddenly behind him,
whispering urgently and he obeyed, slowly curling his hand
within the Elf.
The Elf shifted slightly, his hair spilling in a pool of
golden light around his head, resting so quietly on his
arms. Not so much as a blush tainted his skin, loveliness in
and of itself. He rippled softly almost like an illusion to
the Man's eyes, a movement like water, when the fist within
him shifted, edging slowly deeper then withdrawing, an
insidious rocking motion in creation.
And as Boromir realized, dazedly, that he now held an Elf
within his very mortal grasp, the Elf cried out and
quivered, and at last he heard again the cruel beauty of his
song.
-Finis-
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