Falling by annarobots  

After Glorfindel returned to Idril, their mountainside cottage pulsed with renewed love like a beating heart.  It was lit up with warmth long yearned for, sorely missed, ever since the night when Tuor had kissed his wife, gone to bed, and peacefully closed his eyes for the very last time.

And now, awake and alive once more: the cottage, and Glorfindel herself.

Each morning, Glorfindel wakes before the rooster, tiptoes out the front door, and from the front stoop of their cottage looks East.  Before Arien’s arrival, the sky unrolls a warm carpet in welcome, blushing deep pink and rich purple, its great expanse reflecting upon the distant mirror of the Sea.  A sight of such loveliness, the Sun itself can hardly compare to the field across which it is drawn. 

When the breaking dawn becomes too bright and terrible to gaze upon, Glorfindel collects fresh warm eggs from their four white hens with red combs.

She brings the eggs inside.  Idril, at the stove-top with cast-iron skillet in hand, cracks them, fries the eggs in pats of yellow butter.  They eat, shoulder to shoulder at the birch kitchen table, dipping crusts of warm bread into orange yolks. 

Sometimes, there are warm muffins.

Sometimes, Idril’s mother brings a fresh bottle of goat milk, or a log of cheese wrapped in muslin, or a basket of wild strawberries from the bushes that grow along the paths by her house.  (Idril has reminded her a thousand times that the wild strawberries also grow in the meadow behind their cottage, next to the clover and the daisies and the butterfly weed; Elenwë nods, and she brings them strawberries again a few weeks later.)

Sometimes, they wash the dishes right away, Glorfindel’s hands warm in soapy water, Idril ready with a cream muslin towel to dry them.

Sometimes, the morning is so golden, their hearts so full of love, they abandon their dirty plates on the birch table, and fall back into bed.

Other times—as on this particular morning—Glorfindel’s blood runs so hot she has no patience to make it back to bed.  On mornings like these, she takes Idril on top of the birch table, or bent over the kitchen counter, or pressed into the gold-and-blue braided rug. 

Today, they stumble entwined to the little two-person parlor sofa.  Idril, eyes wide with adoration, softens and melts, the yellow buttons of her green flowered dress coming easily undone beneath Glorfindel’s hands.  Idril, too, comes easily and quickly, as she has always, at least since they had practiced enough to learn the simple twist of two fingers, the press of a palm, and the flick of a tongue that always brings her shuddering over the edge. 

Glorfindel takes longer. 

Today, she has stripped herself bare, the long golden expanse of her skin smooth and perfect.  It is the skin of a woman who never huddled around a fire, praying to gods she had abandoned that the numb fingers inside her mittens did not signify that they were frozen dead.

This skin Glorfindel wears now runs hot; in fact, she has been hot since halfway through breakfast.  The eggs did not satisfy her craving.  She has feasted upon Idril, devoured her with little daintiness, her lips and nipple and clit, until Idril was consumed, altogether spent in passion, flushed red, everywhere exposed, sweating,  yet—

Glorfindel still hungers. 

While Idril gasps for breath, boneless with pleasure, Glorfindel climbs upon her, encircles her with perfect long arms, soft breast to breast, hot mouth against mouth.  She spreads her legs and slides her cunt against Idril’s warm thigh and rolls her hips, dizzy, wet, and desperate.

She can feel the sweet languor of Idril’s love for her, her mind molten and open, Idril’s thoughts unhurried, unworried. 

Idril puts her hands into Glorfindel’s hair, draws it around them like a curtain, a golden weeping willow.  I love you, Idril thinks, diffuse, boundless.  She strokes the thick waves from crown to ends, long soft caresses awash in gentleness.  Idril’s hands return to Glorfindel’s scalp, her fingertips tickle. 

Glorfindel moans—they are not kissing anymore, not really, Glorfindel’s breath hot and fast against Idril’s cheek, sliding over her as she rides Idril’s flexed thigh.  She knows she can reach climax, has done so countless times, controlling the speed of her thrusts and the power with which she grinds down; all she needs from Idril is to stay still and love her. 

As she thrusts against Idril’s thigh, Glorfindel’s heart beats so hard she can hardly breathe, the pleasure rising, holding stubborn and fast.  She works herself harder and faster, climbs ever higher, closer yet to the precipice, choking on need.  She rolls her hips, she clutches Idril’s body, she arches her back and clenches her muscles and squeezes her eyes shut, chasing a climax so close she can nearly taste it.

“I love you,” murmurs Idril, weaving her fingers through Glorfindel’s hair about her shoulders, a mantle of celandine as a field in spring.  Slow and loving, her fingers feel like torment.

“Harder,” Glorfindel chokes out, vision blurring.

“I love you,” says Idril once more, twisting her hands in the golden hair, firm and slow.  Glorfindel sways, moaning, rises higher, nearly there, almost at the uttermost peak of pleasure, and she knows she will summit, if she can only—

“Harder,” says Glorfindel again, panting into Idril’s jaw.

Idril hesitates, then she draws Glorfindel’s hair into a high tail, a thick, long rope at the back of her head, and—she holds fast, unmoving.

Glorfindel nearly screams—suspended on the edge—as though the very force of gravity has lost its power and cannot tip her over.

“Oh, for crying out—love, can you, please, pull my hair like you mean it?” 

The desperation in Glorfindel’s voice rings clear.

Though she tries to stifle it, so, too, does Idril’s sudden, half-strangled sob. 

In a flash, Glorfindel stops.  The orgasm that she had nearly reached retreats.  All the writhing tension in her body dissolves into worry.  She opens her eyes, she leans back, she catches her breath. 

“Love,” Glorfindel whispers, “what’s wrong?”

Idril has removed her hands from Glorfindel’s hair.  She hides her face.  “A moment,” she says, thick and uneven.

Glorfindel’s body still thrums with echoes of near-ecstasy, she is wet against Idril’s thigh, and she feels both cold and hot, everywhere.  Her satisfaction recedes ever further.  And in a calamitous flash, she knows in her heart—even if she reaches a little doom here on Idril’s lap, in the safe embrace of the Valar, a far greater doom awaits her still, too shrouded in shadow to see clearly in the morning light.

Through the east-facing window, she can feel the Sun beating on her naked back, against the rope of her hair which Idril let fall like a handful of yellow flowers upon a stone-cairn in the high pass. 

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