by Empy
archer@friction.net
The forest was dark all around, the dark pools of shadow not lifted even by the shimmer of the nearby Elven halls. Stray moonbeams speckled the mat of fallen leaves spreading across the forest flooring.
The icy kiss of a blade to his throat, and Elrohir stilled mid-step, closing his eyes. Ice to fire as the blade cut deeper, and then the weight was gone, replaced by a whisper of fabric that seemed to sing along his nerves. The wound turned into a mouth, the lips of it hungering for the expected touch as for water. The voice of the woods wove into the beat of his heart at the touch of soft lips on his own.
Blood for kisses. Trades in the dark, for light would not hold this his shadowed secret.
"Elladan," he finally said, lacing his fingers with those of his brother. Palm against palm, the reassuring drum of twinned pulse-beats.
"Elrohir," his living mirror image answered, voice grave and silken.
What other words were needed passed through their bond, a lustful murmur of blood in Elrohir's ears as the leaves gave way under their bodies, rustling their encouragement. Star-shimmer in Elladan's long hair, left unadorned save a long braid, and now the silken strands slithered like lake-water over Elrohir's skin. Another nick of the blade, and he saw the leaf-patterns on the silver curve take on a red stain. Not hurt, this, but pain he lusted for, proving to him it was not a foolish dream.
Leaves. Always leaves, of mellyrn and niphredil, traced in hair-thin lines of blood on his skin. A master with knives was Elladan, never cutting deep enough to scar. The wounds faded in time for another kiss of the blade.
Kiss of blade and tongue, Elladan lapping up the blood he spilled as Elrohir twisted under him. The blade to his throat as Elladan took him, skin-warmed metal resting against his collarbones, thrumming with his pulse-beat. Starbursts like melted silver behind his closed eyelids at the peak of his passion, a rush of sensation so wild he feared each time he would not be able to stay silent. A sigh as Elladan embraced him, withdrawing the threat of blade in favour of rest in his brother's arms.
Simmering burn in the wounds that robes would hide, the wounds that would remind him as he stood in front of the mirror-glass. In the time when his hands were those of his brother, when the golden-hued light of candles would afford him the illusion of another figure in the room. An illusion which fell to shards each time he climaxed, knees buckling. Alone.
Lifting Elladan's hand, he seized the blade and turned against its wielder, seeing and nearly feeling the flesh part and blossom with blood under the sharp edge. Drawing the pale fingers to his mouth, he drank in the scarce drops of crimson, tasting the tang of iron. Warrior-taste.
A soft, deep sigh from Elladan as he tilted his head back, allowing Elrohir to touch him as he wished. Star-patterns, yet not with blade but hands. He could never mar the skin of the one he loved the most. He would take the wounds on himself, delight in the intricate lines the knife drew on him, guided by Elladan's hand.
Time passed out of meaning for a short moment as he tasted Elladan's skin and mouth, letting the mild salt of the sweat dappling Elladan's brow mingle with the taste of the blood-iron still lingering on his tongue.
A moment longer, he prayed, asking for time he knew he could not have. Elladan looked at him, solemnly shaking his head, the dark hair rippling like a shadow.
They rose as one, then broke apart without kisses. One last, lingering caress of fingertips across Elrohir's cheekbone, and then Elladan strode away, soundless on light feet. Elrohir waited, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes, counting out the time he knew it would take Elladan to reach the main hall. The night air whispered around Elrohir as he walked, his tread slow and measured, and the cool breeze laced a murmur of pain in the wounds bared by the unfastened tunic. His fingertips traced a leaf above his heart before drawing the garment closed.
Marks to trace when dreams would not come.
Blood for kisses. Pain for love.
To him, the trade was fair.
END