BY : Ruiniel
Category: +Third Age > Het - Male/Female
Dragon prints: 203
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that is Tolkien's (I only hope he would forgive me). No money is made from this, nor would it bring any.

"You have no poise. Keep your back straight," the dark haired elf goaded mirthfully, only to be regaled with an exasperated groan. "I said straighten your posture! Lady Ilvanya, it has been months." He struck as Ilvana barely parried, shifting on one foot to the side.

"Bite me," she mumbled in English, causing the elf to smile as he lunged at her again, rather easily divesting Ilva of her wooden practice sword. She watched it land some ways from them.

I'm never gonna get it.

"Cursing me in that broken cauldron of a language will aid little I am afraid," the bastard grinned wider.

"Alright, enough," she went out of stance, panting and looking pleadingly to the blue skies. "I knew I'd regret this," she grumbled to herself in English yet again.

This was what felt like the millionth sword fighting session with Elladan son of Elrond, and still she failed to grasp the movements and lacked the speed for a successful defense.

Damnit Fin. It was he who had insisted she practice, and as ever, there was little she could deny him.

Where was he now? Ilva would be the undisputed queen of denial to say she didn't deeply, horribly, desperately miss the golden geezer. My golden geezer.

Despite her jokes and prodding to the contrary, he was often gone. The nature of this world itself required such trips, and he was either leading one mission or another or scouting with the Imladris sentries. It was grueling, but she never complained. He had told her, gently and repeatedly, of what to expect. And she had agreed. "We'll weather it," she had said to him, and now Ilva smiled sadly at the memory.

Yet she was never herself when he was away. Not only for worrying, but something new and stubbornly present inside of her. Needling, endlessly. Following their binding it felt as if something shifted within, but in what way, well, that was still a mystery even to her. But Ilvanya the elf never knew peace when he was gone, be it of mind or otherwise. She would stay late into the night, thinking of him and their moments together, longing for him, needing him more than air. And somehow, to her delight, she felt him going through the same. As if they were one even when parted from one another. "Our recent binding, luv." He then proceeded to tell her sheepishly how it would take a few years until they could peacefully dwell parted from each other without going frantically insane.


And now, that same dull, pulsing ache within persisted.

Where was he?

Elladan must have seen her face, as his silky voice filled her ears. "He will return sooner than you think. This was no perilous endeavor," he approached a leather clad Ilvana, who had retrieved her sword and now stood with it pointing miserably to the ground. "Merely a precautionary inspection," he smiled kindly into her shadowed hazel eyes.

"Merely that," she repeated blankly, feeling his hand on her shoulder.

If Ilva were to consider it, this elf was the closest to a friend she had gained in her new world. After she had arrived months ago together with her new husband, the changes in her more vivid and strange as weeks wore on, along with Fin the sons of Elrond had proven to be of great, unsought for support. Aiding with medicine - Elladan seemed to have a knack for healing and what she would call an endless botanical supply -, words, time and advice. When they were not gone on missions or scouting themselves, that is.

And she was drawn to their wisened faces and joyful manner, the kind she could only tell by looking into their eyes at first. But then Ilvana went to great lengths to learn the Sindarin tongue, broadly spoken in Imladris. The tongue of her new people after all. Her progress was impressive, as usually happens when driven by need. And then she could hear them, and understand them, and so a whole new world had slowly opened its gates to her. Literally.

She still made woeful grammar mistakes which brought her creased eyebrows and barely concealed grins most of the time, but the elves seemed to take her in stride and would helpfully correct her wording.

Elladan now reached, his grey eyes smiling as he placed a stray auburn curl behind her pointed ear. "I see your appendages have completely turned. How do you feel?" he asked, the healer within resurfacing.

"Well enough," she playfully pulled back. "The sleeping draught you gave me worked wonders. Much gratitude, o' elven mage," she drawled facetiously.

"Do not let my father hear you say that," the elf replied, tilting his dark head of hair back in brief laughter. "But it gladdens me to hear it." She never could feel at ease around Elrond. He was the most knowledgeable being she had met aside from Fin, and wise and as impressive as elves were wont to be. That said, Ilvana felt highly inadequate most of the time in his presence. "And yet, you do know you are wife to one of the mightiest elves who ever lived," Elrohir had told her once, waving away her concerns in jest. "That is simply the way of our father."

Nonetheless, Ilvana was grateful for all their family had done. One side effect, if one could call it such, of her turning into elf kind had been the endless sleepless nights. Try as Ilvana did, starting with more pleasurable methods and ending with counting sheep, sleep had eluded her. And ever he would be by her side, holding her with gentle rocking motions to lull her to sleep. Belatedly, they only had the opposite effect in the end but she never complained. It was all better now. And Ilvana found that she felt not much different than before, when she had been human. Some things she noticed had changed and would share such with Fin, either in joy, or curiosity or concern, and there was none more helpful or supportive than he.

Where was he?

OK, the second time you ask that in minutes. Pipe down Ilvana, you desperate wretch.

"Oh shoot," she suddenly remembered. "I forgot your sister wanted to show me the Second Age illuminations in the library right about now!" Arwen. The most beautiful woman, no, elf, she had ever seen. When her eyes fell on the elf maid and the shimmering light engulfing her for the first time, even Glorfindel had been amused. "Tuck your tongue back in, luv. You'll make a jealous husband," he had whispered to her fiendishly amidst the official welcome gathering in the Hall of Fire. Ilva smiled at the memory before her eyes caught those of the elf facing her. "Thus, my lord Elladan, I shall now take my leave of you-" she swept into a grand bow, causing the twin to snort gleefully.

Her words were interrupted by the winding sound of trumpets.

Her eyes widened into his. "Return party-" Ilvana whispered, and with a last look and a nod to one amused Elladan she dropped her sword and turned on her heel, fleeing into a known direction as if her life depended on it.

"Greet him on my behalf!" the son of Elrond cried in her wake, shaking his head lightly at the strange behavior of newlyweds.

She ran, and ran, her chest bursting with happiness and relief. Ilvana stopped sharply to see many elves dismount as others came to greet them, and her eyes locked with crystal clear ones.

His hair was unbound, shimmering in its golden glory over his shoulders as he dismounted, his grey cloak light about him when he purposefully strode towards her, never breaking their gaze.

Regaining control of her limbs following the striking blow of his stare, Ilvana bolted towards him.

"Where have you been, it's been so long, oh you perfect nut I hate you-!" Ilva babbled all and nothing as she jumped straight into his welcoming arms with a sigh. When they collided she was lifted and spun around once, before being brought into the tightest embrace Ilva had ever felt. Everyone around them seemed to disperse, and she saw nothing but the endless light in his eyes.

"You knew," he purred into her ear, his voice strangled and relieved as he held her.

Unable to form coherent words now she was drowning in him, Ilva only nodded against his neck. She would always know. And so would he. "I failed sword practice again," she mumbled, reveling in the scent that drove her mad.

"I know. I felt your frustration as I rode over the bridge," he said smiling. He took her face in his hands. She brought hers to his wrists. "We must go and report to the others. I will," his eyes went to her lips, "join you after."

She knew how this went by now. "Don't keep me wait long," she hushed swiftly to him in Sindarin.

"Nay, my dearest wife, I promise I will not keep you waiting," he gently corrected her. His heart grew seeing her, so sweet and fair and needfully waiting for him, only him, speaking the elven tongue of their people. And the last he was capable of doing was to have her waiting.

Their chambers were on the far end of the large and elegant House, and Ilva had bathed and changed, now pacing up and down the length of the room. She donned her dark forest green dress and looked to the westering sun, shrouding the wide windowed chamber in gold and red.

Manuscript in hand, Ilva tried and failed to hone her Tengwar reading skills as she waited. It felt like an eternity had passed before the doors opened soundlessly, and the vision of him entered their common dwelling space.

The manuscript thrown onto a rounded table, Ilva stood gaping at him for mere moments. And then the elf neared her slowly, mirroring the look in her own eyes.

"Finally," Ilvana said looking up at him, so close she was already melting.

A strong hand was around her nape and then his lips burned, nipping at hers slowly before he deepened the kiss. Ilva felt him tense at the smothered moan escaping her, standing as willing prey to his ministrations.

"Any trouble on the way?" she asked dazedly in English as the elf pursued her neck, the hand around her waist sliding to her lower back. Somehow, in their lost moments together English always came easier for both.

"No...," he managed between kisses bringing Ilvana more into him, smiling at her shiver.

They felt and embraced each other wildly, a battle of pent up need and glee to be one again. "Join me in the bath chamber," he spoke panting, a demanding edge to his tone.

"There he is, the mighty elf lord giving orders," Ilva grinned even as she followed, his hand firm on her arm. She liked him this way, very much indeed.

The bath chamber boasted a wide round white marble bath, having been filled in advance with boiling water. Her husband led her towards the edge of the tub undressing her at the same time, all the while Ilva pulling at his own clothes.

"Drat!" she exclaimed in frustration when her fingers failed in their trepidation to undress him.

"Shh," her elf cooed, revealing her with swift and deft movements. He slid her gown down completely following to his knees, his mouth searing as it glided down her abdomen, to her navel, and between her thighs.

"I-... missed... you- ..." she gasped at the feel of his fingers against her rounded flesh, " much," Ilva managed, biting her lip, her head tilted backward in waves of delight.

"I know," the golden-haired blaze whispered righting himself against her, his grip unrelenting as he took one peaked globe into his mouth. He did not say it, but Ilvana felt it in his touch. A deep, otherworldly and fathomless need akin to her own.

With darkened eyes he then ravished her mouth again, holding her so close Ilva barely drew breath, exploring the fine skin he had dreamed of all those lonely nights. Ilva sighed against his lips, felt herself on his tongue and then the world melted into molten embers.

Her husband then hastily undressed, allowing her access to every part of him, which Ilvana obligingly pursued as he stepped into the bath and brought her to him.

"Valar..." the elf hissed when he felt her skin on his, shivering and burning all at once, renouncing reason to the gentle hands along his back, his shoulders, running eagerly through his hair. He lowered himself into the bath and Ilva followed in a heartbeat with a grin, taking a bottle of fragrant oil with.

She was drawn into his lap and they sat so embraced for a time, allowing themselves to still. And her golden elf whispered things to her which Ilva did not understand, spoken in the ancient elvish tongue she had not attempted to master yet. But she needed not understand him with words. No, indeed they knew each other quite well in other ways.

Ilva took of the fragrant scented oil into her palms and with a grin ran her hands over his shoulders, fingers gliding sensuously and possessively over him, her gaze caught in his shadowed eyes.

She leaned in, lips ghosting his as her hands reached back and then over his chest, to that steel abdomen, lower. Ilvana smiled fiendishly at what she found, and her grin only widened when his eyes closed with abandon. She leaned against him, her movements measured and firm until an elf lord of the First Age was lost and dispersing as the early golden rays of dawn in her hands.

The elf let himself fall submerged briefly and Ilvana reached to soak his rich mane. He rose and propped his back against the edge of the tub, his eyes on her.

Painfully hot even with his hair plastered to his face. I need him so much ... gods, I may just implode.

"Talking to yourself again, luv?" he asked with a sly, darkened smile.

"Wh-," ... Ilva gaped, wanting to throw the oil bottle at him. "Stay out of my thoughts, old man," she replied in kind, gliding and swirling in the water before him.

"I merely wanted to know what you were saying this time." Strong arms rested on either side of the marble edge, his head titled to the left as he watched her. The glint in his eyes caused a shudder. "Come here," whispered her elf then, and Ilva found herself obeying a plea like an order, the now lukewarm water rippling silk against her bared skin.

She straddled him and took his head in her hands, leading it back so he leaned against the edge, still watching her. Ilva kissed his forehead, his nose, feeling everything she could as he stood still and prey to her wanderings.

"Touch me, elf," she entreated after some time, catching his lip and biting down gently, nearly trembling atop him. "I feel all you feel. All that you think. Touch me..." she repeated, and it was never his way to disappoint.

Sure lean hands soon steadied her frantic motion, and Ilva locked her arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as she ever did while he brought her into the best position as to be pleased. He knew what she wanted. He knew where she wanted it, and for how long.

Ilva rested her forehead against his as expected wails and mewls began to wrack her. A dance they both knew well by now, despite each time being as the first. And none could ever tire of it.

"Nothing is the same when you're away. Nothing, Fin," she gushed her hitched words in his ear, her tongue grazing the shape so known and dear to her by now.

"I am truly, deeply, sorry, ... luv," he replied in kind, killing her with insistence. "If it were up to me-"

"I know," was her turn to say and kissed him deeply, just as deep as he was inside and around her. Then her grin turned evil. "Let's ... get you to bed."

Night slowly descended over the vale, and their sighs soared as tokens for the whispering winds late into the following dawn.

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