eldalieva
Harem Frishna, Keeper of
the Blue
Registered: Apr
2002
Location: Losin' it. Oh wait, LOST it.
Posts:
43 |
Hey...Ele's
got her avatar back! I think I'm too "junior" to have one  this
blows!
Lemme go hunting for the kitchen
table.......hold it.......I only did one of these, right?
March 17, 3 am
Even on Tol Eressea, you
do battle with the 3 am insomnia devil. Why is it
always 3 am? you wonder crankily as you make your
way down the hall to the kitchen. Maybe some warm milk…oh that
never works. Maybe some warm Old Vinyard will get you back to
sleep. You see firelight in the kitchen and realize someone
else is up. Rounding the corner, you come across your fellow,
and favorite, insomniac sitting up at the kitchen table, over
a pile of books and notes.
“Frodo!---can’t sleep
either?”
He looks up and smiles at you. “No, I guess
not. I usually don’t sleep well in…in March, you know.” He
looks back down at his work.
“I know,” you say
sympathetically. You take a deep breath through the silence.
“Care for some company, here in the dead of night?”
“Of
course, always!”
You cross the room and go behind him
to get a mug out of the cupboard. Then turning, you lean over
his shoulder to see what he’s working on…and suddenly you
don’t feel the least bit cranky.
Leaning over him, you
are unable to resist brushing your cheek against his hair,
lightly enough so that he won’t feel it, but enough to allow
you a breath of his honeyed scent. You feel a bit weak in the
knees as you go around to the other side of the table and sit
across from him, but you dismiss it. I am a grown-up,
you tell yourself. I am perfectly capable of sitting here
and having a civilized conversation. By candlelight. At three
in the morning. When everyone else is asleep.
Frodo
is saying…something, you don’t know what. “What…I’m sorry,
what?” You’re mortified at your own impoliteness. I am a
wicked, wicked wench…I should be ashamed of
myself.
He must notice that you look a bit
wild-eyed because a smile dances across his lips as he repeats
himself, slowly, the way you address a child (or an imbecile):
“I asked…are you coming with me to Bilbo’s dinner tomorrow
night, and are the other ladies coming too? I guess it’s
tonight, really, it is already Sunday.”
You
shake your head to clear it. “I’ll definitely come. I don’t
know who else…I’m terrible at organizing these things. Don’t
have the head for it, I suppose.” You laugh lightly, faking
composure.
“Oh,” he says, bending over his work, with
that half-smile still playing over his features, “I wouldn’t
say that. I think you have a great many talents,
m’dear.”
You don’t respond to that. You can’t
respond to that, as the gift of speech seems to have deserted
you. The heat of the fire against your back is baking you
right through your clothing, like July sun. The crackle of the
flames and the hum of the chimney-draft are the only sounds in
the room. He does not look up as your eyes wander across the
familiar features of his face…the dusky eyelashes against his
skin, the wide sweep of his cheekbones, the full double-bow of
his mouth, the pointed, dimpled chin. Aaaaah, you let your
eyes find their way past the open neckline of his shirt and
down his arms, adoring everything about him…even the way he
holds his mug. The handle turned away from him. Both
well-formed hands wrapped around its shape. His index finger
resting lightly on the lip. You imagine how warm his hands
must be…you imagine them on your face, in the small of your
back…
Resistance is futile. And just downright
silly.
You brush your own mug aside and lean across the
heavy, ancient wood of the table. You cover his hands with
your own. He looks up at you, right into your eyes. The blue
fire of his look eliminates whatever rational thought you may
have had left. You slide your hands to his wrists, just under
the upturned cuffs of his shirt. Leaning over, you kiss his
wounded right hand, then his left, moved beyond words. You
straighten up and lean all the way across the table to kiss
him…he rises up halfway from his seat to meet you…you place
your hands on his shoulders to support yourself…you’re
on the table now, almost about to topple over onto the
tea, the bread, the mugs, everything…he makes a sudden motion,
like he plans to sweep everything onto the floor.
A
last shred of coherent thought rises up! “No, no! You’ll wake
everyone up!” you whisper in hilarious alarm.
“What…?”
he stares at you, mystified. “Oh! Well…quietly
then!”
And together you quickly…but quietly!…remove the
table items onto the floor, laughing under your breath the
whole time…
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04-14-2002
11:45 AM
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