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The sound of the door slamming shut silenced the room. As Cirdan's last advisors fled, with them went some of the tension held in Lalwen's coiled frame. Some, but not all. The fools had rushed off in such a hurry, they left half a carafe of wine. More would have been nice, but half would have to do. Even after a tense meeting in Mithrim, advisors and nobles would have lingered, finishing the drink and steering conversations to more friendly topics. They had learned well that though one may disagree over the council table, it was important to soothe those relationships after talks were done to remain strong and united.
Not that it mattered. They were all gone now anyway.
After pouring herself an inexcusably large glass, Lalwen set about untangling the tight laces of her doublet in a desperate attempt to breathe freely again. She wasn’t sure it would work, but it was worth a shot.
"Fuck," she sighed exhaustedly as red wine splashed down her fine undershirt. The Eldar, when they swore, were more likely to invoke angry images of the Valar or nature itself -- not that a princess should ever swear -- but she found she preferred the crude, mannish curses. Sometimes, one sharp syllable was all you needed.
"Here, let me help you," came a smooth voice from the corner. Lalwen whirled as Orodreth's young wife sauntered across the room, fading twilight flickering off of each intricate twist in her long silver hair as she stepped out of the shadows. Long, capable fingers made quick work of the laces as Lalwen focused on slurping down her drink. Perhaps filling it to the brim was a tad overambitious.
"Rúthel," she greeted cautiously, taking deep breath of sweet, sweet, sea air. Every encounter she had shared with the other elleth was burned behind her eyelids. She couldn't help it -- it was impossible for two nobles to avoid one another entirely on the small island and, well, the way the ever-present sea breeze pulled that diaphanous fabric so popular on Balar around the soft curves of her hips…
"It seems many of these arguments could come to a swift end if only there were one voice to speak for the Noldor," Rúthel voice broke in.
"Yes, unfortunately our new High King is a bit hard to reach. I don't know if you heard, but he has closed his gates to the wide world. Not that we knew where his gates were to begin with."
Rúthel cocked her head. "Maybe I‘m misremembering my history--" though the glint in her dark eyes suggested she had never misremembered anything in her life, "--but I thought when Maedhros abdicated the crown, he decreed it should go to Finwë's next oldest descendant in Beleriand?"
Lalwen flipped her mane of dark curls over her shoulder in an agitated motion. "It is not that simple."
"I think it is very simple, actually," retorted Rúthel.
"One day, though I pray it is far in the future, you will be the Queen-Mother, and you will better understand what it means to be defined by your relationship to the men in your life."
"Oh, that is a lesson I have already learned far too well," she replied, reaching for Lalwen's own wine glass and drinking deeply.
Lalwen watched as a few ruby drops lingered on dark lips, only to be swept away with a quick flick of the tongue. Sharp, dangerous tongue. "Give me that," she snapped, reaching for the wine glass. Rúthel didn't let go, instead letting herself be drawn into Lalwen's space.
"What?" she all but purred, tilting her head up so that their lips were near-brushing, words buzzing enticingly against Lalwen's all-too-willing skin. "Did the would-be queen desire something?"
The goblet of wine fell with a violent clatter between them as Lalwen pushed her away. "Do not forget whose wedding band rests on your finger," she all but growled. "Oro is a good boy, and does not deserve to have his union disrespected the way you do."
Anger flashed in earnest in her dark eyes now, but she did not retreat. "You know nothing of my marriage," she laughed mirthlessly. "Yes, Orodreth is a good man and a better friend. Neither of us deserved to be forced into a marriage we were not looking for, but I suppose that is the price one must pay when born to powerful, ambitious fathers. I do not know what exactly, if anything, he desires from his partners, though he is well aware of my preferences. We did our duty; we gave your greedy family two more children for the family tree, one for him to love and one for myself. When he sent me from the ruins of Tol Sirion, he wasn't just granting me safety, he was granting me freedom."
Anger simmered deep in Lalwen's gut, but there was something else, as well. Hope, perhaps, though she hoped it didn’t show. "It does not change the fact that by law, you are bound to him," she smiled bitterly. "What the family would say, if they were to learn--"
"What?" asked Rúthel more gently now. "What would they say?"
Lalwen opened her mouth to respond, but paused. What would they say? Most were dead, or failing that, dead to her.
Rúthel placed a firm hand to her sternum, directing her backward into the room. Lalwen stopped when her knees hit the back of the great chair in the center--likely the throne she would sit in should she need to address the concerns of her people were she Queen. Rúthel hardly had to push before Lalwen had dropped backward into the seat.
"You Noldor, you talk too much, and always about the wrong things," she whispered, voice rough. "Now, you are going to sit and listen for a change. It does not matter what they say, for it is none of their business. You can't stem the flood of their words, but none can force you to heed them. You must make that decision for yourself."
Lalwen nodded, somewhat dazed. Her eyes followed Rúthel's hands as they fingered the gold chains perched on sharp shoulders from which the flowing gown was supported. If one of those chains were to slip…. Her stomach clenched as, with the casual flick of a finger, one of the straps slid down Rúthel shoulder, pulling the fabric of her dress with it.
Much like a cat intent on the kill, Rúthel advanced, hips rolling seductively, until she was directly in front of Lalwen. Another flick of the hand, the other strap falling, her chest now bare to the chill evening air. Not even the failing light and Lalwen's dusty complexion could hide the heat rising on her cheeks, a detail that she doubted escaped the notice of the sharp elleth in front of her.
"They are gone Lalwen, but we are still here. How long will you deny yourself for the sake of the rigid ideals you tried to flee in the first place?"
Not long, apparently.
Needing no more invitation, Lalwen's hands snaked around to untie the upper belt on Rúthel's dress that kept the fabric held beneath her chest. Arms were slipped out of the golden chains dangling around her forearms, allowing the fabric to pool messily around the belt slung across her hips. Perfect hips, beautiful hips, Lalwen's mind provided brokenly. Hands and wrists were kissed frantically as Lalwen proceeded. She pulled Rúthel forward, coaxing forth a surprised laugh as lips trailing across her soft stomach, tongue playfully circling that adorable belly button. After a moment of consideration, she left the lower belt in its place. There was something uniquely enticing about the messy way the once-graceful dress bunched around her waist and rode up to allow Rúthel to easily straddle Lalwen on the throne.
It was a good position, decided Lalwen, not only because it brought their bodies close enough for Lalwen to feel the heat rolling off of her warm skin, but also because it put her in the perfect position to draw one of those pebbled nipples into her mouth like she had been fanaticizing about since, well, likely since she first stepped foot on this island. Lalwen wished she could say the airy gasp her ministrations inspired was worth the wait, but really it just added to the anger at herself for not initiating this conversation sooner.
Desperate to discover what other noises the ethereal being above her could make, she allowed one hand to cup her other breast, the pad of her thumb drawing gentle circles over the sensitive flesh in an attempt to warm the cool skin beneath her. Rúthel moaned, fingers scratching along Lalwen's scalp as they buried in her thick hair. Her other hand trailed slowly over one hip and thigh, searching for a slit in the fabric. After this night, she would light a thousand candles in thanks to Uinen for inspiring many of the women on Balar to wear such loose, flowing garments.
Finally, her hand parted fabric to come in contact with the warm flesh beneath. She pulled back, gazing up at the beautiful elleth above her.
"Do you want…?"
Rúthel grinned, sharp and full of promise. "I want."
With that she sunk deeper onto Lalwen's lap, bringing their eyes level so that Lalwen could watch dark lashes fall shut as two fingers slowly sunk deep to her core. Lalwen paused her exploration, savoring the way delicate muscles fluttered around the invading digits and breath danced across bitten lips in sharp, stilted gasps. She wanted to taste those gasps, and so she did. Her other hand buried itself in the thick coil of hair at the base of Rúthel's neck, trapping their lips together.
Valar, Rúthel actually purred when Lalwen curled her fingers within her. Lalwen responded by practically fucking into her mouth with her tongue. The kiss was sloppy and vulgar and desperate and Lalwen didn't care a whit. They both needed this. By the time they finally broke apart, chests heaving with the need for air, Rúthel's lips were dark and swollen and her thighs were quivering in desperate anticipation for release where they stretched wide over Lalwen's lap.
"I have wanted you from the moment I saw you," confessed Lalwen, voice rough with desire.
Lalwen shivered at the keening noise ripped from Rúthel's lips as she began caressing her clit with her thumb, the other falling forward into the embrace as Lalwen carefully teased her inside and out. Rúthel brought one hand between her legs to cover Lalwen's, forcing her deeper into that warm body with an urgency that left Lalwen dizzy with desire.
"You are so beautiful, and moreover, so strong, so sharp. I couldn't imagine a more perfect being if I tried," she continued, letting her words tickle the shell of Rúthel's ear, "You didn't deserve to be forced into this disaster of a family, but we are lucky that Gil-Galad will have you to turn to as Queen Mother when his time comes."
Lalwen gasped as Rúthel bit down on the delicate skin of her neck, only to then sooth the mark with gentle, insistent kisses. Lalwen didn't own any high-collared coats, but even if she did, there was no neckline high enough to cover that.
"You're going to leave a mark," she chided.
"Good," gasped Rúthel, drawing back just enough to allow her lips to ghost over Lalwen's skin as she spoke. Lalwen chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated around the empty room. So it would be like that, then.
That was the last coherent word Rúthel uttered before Lalwen took her apart, piece by piece, reveling at the way her soft gasps and moans gradually grew deeper and more desperate as her peak approached. The slickness between her legs had no doubt made a mess of the beautiful dress and even Lalwen's leather trousers beneath, but she could care less. By the time Rúthel finally dissolved into a heap of pleasure above her both were gasping for breath, their foreheads pressed together and hearts beating wildly.
Lalwn still trembled, skin crackling with unmet desire even as she peppered soft kisses across Rúthel's cheeks, forehead, tip of an ear, anywhere she could reach. Eventually Rúthel pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, which Lalwen had no doubt were still embarrassingly black with lust.
"I must apologize," she purred, though her voice had taken on a tired, sated timbre that made Lalwen flare with pride and lust, "It seems I became so caught up in my own pleasure, I have neglected my queen."
With that, Rúthel slithered off Lalwen's lap and sank to her knees in front of the throne. Without breaking eye contact, she spread Lalwen's knees wide then turned to tackle the laces holding her leggings in place. A sharp grin was the only warning she received before Rúthel dipped her head to run a tongue over the warm leather covering the juncture between Lalwen's thighs before pealing off the garment holding them back from more pleasurable explorations.
Lalwen let her head fall back against the throne as a broken gasp was torn from her throat. "Fuck," she moaned, drawing the word out as she poured all her pleasure into that one syllable. Yes, the Edain truly had the best curses.