You stand apart, my golden lord, having no share in the banter and wit of those around you. Your clear, blue eyes are far-seeing, you move with deliberation, your words are quietly spoken, considered. Your thoughts follow deep pathways before you give them utterance. Even at this remove, some shadow rests upon you from your sojourn in the Halls of Mandos.
Noble son of a vanished line, you were born too high, too far above me. You stand equal to the greatest amongst us here upon this fading shore. No concourse passes between us during daylight hours, save for that required by our station and responsibility. There is no sharing of casual conversation, no cup of wine, or ready laugh.
We traverse our days, you on your path, I on my own, speaking with quiet courtesy when chance or the requirements of our Lord dictates those paths should cross . The look you turn upon me then is cool, polite, saying nothing, hinting less. Your glance does not admit to a link: a tie, a bond of darkness and heat. In daylight ever so do we walk and talk, thinking our own separate dark thoughts of the night.
Night brings my footsteps ever and anon to your door, walking soft, seeking shadow and hiding from my very self. A longing, a hunger, a despair larger than self draws me here time and again, to gift myself to your need – to your requirement. Soundlessly in the silent room do I shed my clothing, darkness against blackness. Naked I stand in the cool night air with my only cloak and shield – my weighted fall of ebony hair.
I enter your bed, because I can do no other, spread my hair upon your pillow, my limbs upon your sheets, and give myself over to your hands, your mouth, the weight of your warm breath. No words pass between us, for what words would my golden lord have for such as I, a no one, with ancestry unremarkable, achievements respectable without scaling heights or plumbing depths. I am here to service your need, to spread myself open for your ease, to be a receptacle for your desire. I ask no more; it is enough that I should be allowed to make an offering of myself at this shrine that is your body.
Your hands explore me, finding secret places of pleasure, exceptional centers of lust. I submit myself to your touch, giving to you all that I dare, twisting and moving under clever fingers as they stroke and press. Your fingertips roughly brush my sensitive nipples and I toss my head, a reflex beyond my control to prevent. At once I sense my error, feel it in the pause of your hands’ journey, the stillness in the air between us. I have infringed upon the mystery, the silence that holds us every night and releases you from the obligation to acknowledge my gift to your hands, mouth and shaft.
Silent as the night around us I make to you my offering of apology, the phial of oil, to ease your way to release, and it is silently accepted. There is motion of hands and stopper, then your touch upon me, fingers gliding within my cleft, seeking the secret hidden place open to you alone. Fingers slide within, filling me, stretching me, preparing me for your use. I push back against your steady hand, feeling you sink deeper, feeling my pleasure build, my neglected engorgement swelling, throbbing in need with anticipation.
Easily you breach me, no tenderness tonight as you enter me, filling me. I wrap my legs around your waist, my body taking its cues from your breathing, the movement of your hips. I lie on my back in the dark, my midnight hair pooled around me, invisible in the night. My arms are flung wide, my hands grip sheets, grasping and twisting. You increase the pace almost at once, thrusting deep and hard, striking the center of all my desire, sending white heat through me at every stroke.
Your breathing is harsh, your need is very great. Even in darkness your hair glints gold, it falls around me, always in motion, washing over me like waves of cool water in counterpoint to the heat within me – the heat that finally takes me beyond all awareness of self.
At last your hand surrounds me, clasping, pumping, bringing my release. I give a gasp beyond breath, as the world stops and all I know is your hardness within me, your cool hair without. Then I clench and spill, my seed soiling your hand as my contractions of bliss bring you to your final completion. Deep, ever deeper within me you thrust in those last moments, as I lie, still impaled, gasping for breath and my legs about your waist.
Then it is over, and we lie, touching and entangled, black hair mingled for a little time, a very little time, with gold. And then I withdraw from you – soundlessly and wordlessly – careful not to burden you with my voice. Never, ever have I heard a word of thanks or pleasure or satisfaction from your softly curved lips, but love is a bitter edged sword. It is enough that I should be able to ease your aloneness in such manner, offer my body as a salve. Since the night of desire and despair when first I gave myself to you, silent to your silence, straddling you unasked as you lay between sleep and waking, riding you silently to release and relief, I have known to expect nothing more.
Silently, as in all else, I rise from your bed, the one place where I am truly alive, and dress and leave quickly before you see my tears, swiftly before I weaken and fall to my knees and beg you just once – just this once – to hold me, to pretend to love me, to give me an illusion of what it would be to have your regard, your fondness, your heart
But you, reborn and glorious, are of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin and I was born, a child of this hither shore, the son of a scribe in the household of a fallen King. I will never be worthy of you. I wrap my love for you around me, like a shadow, and let myself out into the night.