Shake the Leaves by IdleLeaves  

Shake the Leaves

Afternoon slides into warm, hazy evening before Haleth rises from the grass, rested again after hours of dancing in the early summer sun. Most of her people—those who haven't yet paired off as well as those who do not wish to—remain gathered in the field beyond their settlement's low stone walls, their drums silent for the moment while they collect branches for the bonfires that will burn late into the night.

Haleth takes a sip from her cup of apple brandy, and looks for Caranthir. She finds him with ease, sitting on a flat rock just outside the walls. He stands out even when he does not intend to, the silver embroidery on his smoke-grey tunic and the clear gems braided into his hair both reflecting the fading light of day. She goes to him with a smile and takes his empty cup, setting it aside then reaching for his now-free hand to pull him to his feet.

"Come," she says. Caranthir follows her into the woods after a brief pause; he looks once over his shoulder before they reach the trees, then again after he ducks under a low-hanging branch. "Is something wrong?" Haleth asks.

"No," Caranthir says.

"Liar," says Haleth, her tone as light and inconsequential as she can make it; then, more seriously, "You do still want this, don't you?"

"Would I be here if I didn't?" he says, voice soft yet sharp. He follows it up with a sigh, and doesn't look at her when he admits, "I could do without everyone knowing, is all."

Haleth can't speak for his people, but she knows there'll be no judgement from hers. She tightens her grip on his hand as they move between closely-growing oaks, the leaves over their heads trembling in a mild breeze as night falls in the forest. She carries no lantern, trusting Caranthir to walk them home with only the stars to guide him.

In the field behind them, drum-beats begin again, thumping out a lively rhythm for the lighting of the fires. Haleth has never been superstitious; she does not believe, in her heart, that bonfires, brandy, and the apple blossoms in her hair will affect summer growth or the subsequent harvest. She does, however, believe in the importance of tradition and ritual, seasonal or otherwise—in the importance of bringing people together to form bonds beyond those necessary for survival. And, if she's being honest, she's not yet quite sure why she's still a bit surprised that Caranthir has agreed to be here with her, just this once—that his love for her extends to respect for beliefs that may not mirror his own.

Haleth sits them down in the grass and ferns beside a young oak, its branches not yet heavy enough with thick clusters of leaves to entirely hide the stars and a waxing crescent moon. She holds out her half-full cup of brandy, the fingers of her other hand still threaded through his. Caranthir takes a long sip, then returns it to Haleth so she can do the same before setting it on the ground.

"You're quiet tonight," Haleth observes.

"What would you have me say?" says Caranthir.

Haleth smiles. "I'm going to kiss you," she says, and leans in.

It's not the first time they've kissed, but the first that's meant to be more than a chaste greeting or farewell. Caranthir needs very little coaxing; Haleth can taste brandy on his tongue as he kisses her with an intensity that's almost startling. He's panting already—eyes closed, lips parted, arms around her waist—when she pulls back to catch her breath; he tips his head forward to rest his forehead against hers.

"How long?" Haleth asks.

"Long enough," is Caranthir's eventual answer. "Years," he elaborates, and Haleth has to stifle a grin when a flush rises on his cheeks.

"Let me, then," she says. Pressing her lips to his jaw, she opens the clasps of his tunic, the pulse at his throat quickening under her hands. She pushes the tunic off his freckled shoulders, then tugs his sleeveless under-shirt over his head; the flush on his face spreads to his chest as he helps her out of her dress, leaving her in only a thin linen shift. She can't bring herself to complain when he slides the leather tie out of her hair, nor when her braid unravels and apple blossoms fall to the ground one by one—she sighs against his mouth, instead, hair now loose and curling down her back.

Haleth needn't have wondered at all if they'd be overheard: the only sounds Caranthir makes are unexpectedly hushed and wordless, even when she unlaces his trousers and wraps her fingers around him with firm, unhurried strokes—even when she pauses to remove his trousers and her shift, then straddles his lap and sinks down, taking him inside her. She doesn't intend to rush, and sets a slow, deliberate pace that has his breath hitching every time she rocks against him.

"Kiss me," she says, and Caranthir does—first her lips, then her cheek, her ear, the hollow of her throat. She shifts, then, onto her back, and guides him with her hands and mouth until he's above her, pressed against her from chest to hip. His breath is warm against her neck; she kisses his collarbone, pants into his shoulder with every thrust. Heat builds between them until she comes, shuddering beneath him, and he withdraws a heartbeat later to spill on her belly with a sharp gasp.

She keeps him close, afterward; holds him and rubs his back until his breathing evens out. When he lifts his head, his eyes are calm and content, smile faint but genuine. "All right?" she asks, and he answers with a nod.

Haleth and Caranthir take their time dressing again, then sit beneath a canopy of leaves with their backs to rough brown bark, his arm over her shoulders and both of hers around his waist. The moon is still high overhead, and there are hours, yet, until dawn—for now, at least, they can allow themselves this much. Soon enough, he'll need to return to Thargelion, and they'll kiss each other goodbye, as always, with neither promises nor regrets.

"Should we..." Caranthir starts, after a long silence.

"Not yet," Haleth says, muted drum-beats still thudding in the distance. "Not yet."