Drabbles: The Tides of Time

“Drabbles: The Tides of Time” by JunoMagic

~ A Collection of Drabbles ~


Preface: A “drabble” is a short piece of prose of exactly 100 words. A double drabble (exactly 200 words) is a “drouble”. A “tribble” has 300 words. A “quabble” has 400 and a “quibble” 500. More than that and you’ve got yourself a “ficlet”.

Drabbles and any variations thereof that are posted here were counted with MS Word.


Nightswimming – Only A Game

“It is not wise to go swimming all alone in an unknown sea,” the elf remarked. His eyes were hooded, but I felt nevertheless how his gaze glided gradually over my breasts, my belly, down to the dark curls between my legs.

“I am not alone,” I countered cheerfully, although my throat constricted with desire. “If you keep me company.”

Elrohir did not move for a moment. Then he inclined his head, incredibly graceful and solemn. “That is true.”

He looked up, a sudden impish grin on his face.

“Race you!” he called out to me – and caught me easily.



The Ring of Doom

Legolas did not hear the disputes raised in the Ring of Doom. His eyes were on Nihil and Elrond, meeting again, meeting again after whatever had happened between them in Alqualondë…

Elrond stared at the girl. The girl stared at the elf-lord.
Their hands met in polite greeting.
Their hold on each other tightened.
The shock of the touch flared through them like lightning.
Their gaze was on fire, but their expression was equally bewildered.

Legolas closed his eyes. They had no idea what had happened that moonlit night in Alqualondë…

And he was in no position to tell them!




She tried not to look at him. When others were present, she always managed to look away in time. But now… with him standing there… so close that she could feel the warmth of his skin… with his eyes searching for hers…

She gasped and tried to draw away. But too late! He reached for her. The world stopped turning, time stood still. Completely enthralled, she stared at him, lost, hoping that this moment would never pass.

“Come, my lady, it is time for dinner, grave thoughts will have to wait!” Elrond said, smiling.

But Nihil could only nod wordlessly.



Hold Her Close

He held her close as they rode across the plains. He was glad for the thundering noise of the hooves that drowned out the thundering of his heart.

What was it about her, he mused, that drew him like that?

Was it her quiet, self-effacing dignity?
Was it her boundless compassion?
Was it her unquestioning courage in the face of all obstacles?
Was it the fragrance of her hair or the light in her eyes?

He had no answers for his questions. So he did the only thing he could do:

he held her close and was glad of it.




She lay sleeping in his arms, worn out from needs met at last, from hungers stilled, desires shared and shared again. Her skin was graced with a slight sheen of sweat. He inhaled her scent, a salty sweetness, an earthly paradise personified. He was very tired himself, but – not needing sleep the way she did – he preferred to stay awake, watching her.

Seeing her face so soothed, illumined from within, with the sheen of love fulfilled…

He did not want to miss one breath she drew, his solace, blessing, love come true.

Thank you, Eru, he thought. And fell asleep.



Answer to a Prayer

His hard length pressed against her and she welcomed him. A flood of warmth bore him up and towed him in. The currents of her body undulated underneath him. Her heartbeat an inexorable rhythm, a tide that swept away all thought, all limitations of body and soul and heavenly law.

Inside her he drowned in her heat, but was held, held – forever in her body, in her love.

In a great release he spent his fruitfulness inside her womb. As he cried out “Oh Valar” and collapsed over her body, he knew that his seed would take root and flourish.



Water on my Skin

His caresses were like water… pearlescent on her skin… and as he grew fiercer and harder, she felt herself becoming soft… she was virtually liquefying under his hands… she exhaled her passion in a sound that was more than a gasp, more than a moan… it was a scream, a joyful ululation that was born from an almost painful happiness… a happiness she could not contain within her… that had to burst forth from her skin – in kisses, in moans, in many touches…

There was no limit to her love, there never would be.

Neither in life, nor in death.



Winter in Imladris

It was winter in Imladris. Trees and bushes were heavy with snow. It was so cold that the Bruinen had frozen into the most magnificent ice-sculptures.

Nihil grabbed Elrond’s hand to tow him down to where the snow was deepest.

“Oh, come on! This is fun!” She smiled at her husband, her eyes glowing.

The elf did not look convinced.

But he followed her, sure-footed, graceful as ever –
until, in an unobserved moment, with an unobtrusive movement –
Nihil caught his leg with her foot, jerked back –

down they went in a cloud of snow, an embrace and a kiss.



Quendi – or ‘What do they call it?’

I stripped quickly, until I stood naked in front of Elrond.

He caught me in a firm embrace, holding me close enough to show me just how ready he was.

“What did you say they call this in Harl?”

I kept a straight face. “A… hustle?”

One of the Quendi, he was forever fascinated with words and their uses. “To give you a bustle…” he whispered, nudging his length against me.

“And in the Shire?”

I glared at him. “Sex,” I said. “Simply ‘sex’.”

Then I gave in, pressing my body to his. “What would you call it?”

“Making love.”




A reception and a party, to celebrate the rebuilding of the Grey Havens.

They had made it through the reception.
They barely made it out on the secluded terrace.

There was a bench of white marble, concealed by an arbour of roses. They tumbled on the bench. His hands were inside her gown, cupping her breasts; hers trailed his pointed ears. His lips fastened on hers with desperate need. Her gaze locked with his, silver meeting silver.

The moon, undying, unearthly.
A drop of rain on a rose petal.

Now, melethron nîn, she gasped – and her world turned silver.



Passion in the Moonlight

“Some respite, my lord, please,” she gasped, exhausted from the night’s moonlit passion.

He stroked back her sweaty hair, curling in dark knots down to her shoulders and around the high mounds of her breasts.

His smile held just a hint of danger; his eyes glinted with a fiery light that was not quite devious, but almost.

He did not answer, but kept his silence. Instead he leaned forward, bringing his body so close to hers that she felt his heat against the most sensitive spot of her body.

And she knew that the night’s passion was not yet spent.



Aim Well

He stroked her skin. Desire raced through his body in a wave of heat that made his thela stir. He traced the blue veins shimmering beneath her pale skin. His fingertips trailed scars that would forever remind him of the night when her blood had gushed across his hands in hot floods.

Her skin was an intricate picture of love and life.

A map of the roads they had travelled together.
A territory they had forged in many nights of shared passion.

She shuddered against him and gasped, “Nock your arrow now, melethron nîn! And let it fly!”

– He obeyed.



Dancing Quills

The sound of laughter penetrated his musings. His quill hesitated in its scratching journey on the parchment. Slowed. Stopped. Continued its even flow of tengwar, indigo ink on cream-coloured parchment.

But again: giggles, bubbles of sound, floating into his study.

He frowned, then smiled and put down the quill. He who relied too much on duty might miss so much. He had learned his lesson.

He stepped outside. There she was: his wife, with his children on her hips, twirling round and round in a merry dance.

He held out his hands. “May I ask for a dance, my ladies?”




In righteous indignation she squirmed in his arms.

“Your fault,” he told her. “You started it. Now you have to suffer the consequences!”

It was true; she had assaulted him right after the council.

There were simply too many councils in this world, and not enough quiet hours in between, for what she wanted to do with him most of all.

Once again she had forgotten the lesson learned in the first amicable mock-fight with her beloved.

His hands were like silky steel on her arms, pinning her down, drawing her against his body.

Soon she squirmed for another reason.



Elanor and Ulyssäi (for Aranel)

There she was, his lovely wife and queen. There he was, his beloved son and heir. Dark hairs, grey eyes – a tribute to his Númenorean blood.

He sailed to Aman the Blessed and returned to Arda Marred. With a blessing and a burden. Arda was saved, his kingdom restored.

He was blessed.

Yes, blessed he was, with his wife, his son, his kingdom.

Yet cursed.

For she who held his son out to him, his sunny boy squealing in delight at the sight of his father, she was the love of his life. The woman he did not marry.




Another Night of Music and Dancing

She curtsied. He extended his hand to her. She put her hand in his. He drew her against him.

The music started: viols and cymbals, harps and flutes.

Hand in hand and round and round they went. Every time she was pressed against him, he had to bite his tongue not kiss her, when he held her so close. He would never let her go.

He grew aware that the music had stopped. He realized that he was still holding her. She smiled at him, warm understanding in her eyes.

“How about some food?”

“And then?”

She nodded, still smiling.



A Strange Flower

The touch of your skin, the scent of your hair, the brightness of your eyes never fail to enchant me. Even now, after so many years, so many tender nights, so many stolen moments in lonely places in broad daylight…

I walk through my days and every now and again I grow aware of the thought that I can’t wait to feel you again, to taste you again, to be with you, with the one I love.

Many long years are but a blink of an eye to you. Yet I know you cherish them as much as I do; maybe more.

Time is the most precious thing we have; our time. See how it flies!

But now your breath touches my breast.
My nipples rise to your kiss.
My back arches, as I strain towards you.

Thela… a weapon I crave, this weapon of my choice, to pierce me and make me yield, soft flesh to silky steel… and I laugh softly at the thought, here is a spear point that will never rust!

Then my laugh turns into a gasp of pleasure and now it is you who laugh, a deep melodic sound that shivers down my spine. I am shivering against you and your answer is a soft rocking motion that bears me away on mounting waves of pleasure.

Shivering, trembling, writhing – you hold me, you keep me, on the verge, on the cusp, you see the blossom of pleasure unfolding in my eyes. Lightning in your eyes, thunder rolling through your body into my body, are you the rain that makes me bloom and moan and cry, cry in almost painful pleasure, sounds barely stifled against your ivory skin?

I am a strange flower.
I could live without light.
But I could not live without you.



Elentar, son of Elrohir – (A “Return of the Shadow”- drabble)

He was at a complete loss. He had no idea how to proceed from here. He remembered the light of love in the eyes of his parents. But for himself, all alone in this strange and foreign world… he had given up on light. He had forced himself to forget about friendship or love.

But now… she was here. Kind, for no reason at all. Willing to help him, for no reason at all. Reaching out to him, for no reason at all.

And especially, speaking to him in his native tongue, Sindarin.

Mina Elbenstern.

Who the hell are you?



The Time Has Come

The time has come.

An icy touch of darkness, he reaches out –
and with a soft sigh the Doors of the Night open.

Where his breath touches the golden ground of Aman, all life withers.

Unseen, unsubstantial, sustained by the endless power of the Void, he creeps up on them in their silken palaces and silver domes.

Valar… your time has come.

This time, no one will aid your children. They will die with your names upon their lips. But there will be no summons to lead them to the Halls of Rebirth.

This time, forever means eternity.

This time.



A Choice

He sat very still, in this large room filled with some of the world’s best paintings. His dark hair was cut down to a stubble, revealing shapely, and very pointy ears that adorned a face any of the old masters would have been delighted to paint.

She knew that at least four of the other female visitors in the room were actually not looking at the paintings at all, but surreptitiously staring at this man. This, even more than his attractiveness, made her finally approach him.

She sat down on the bench next to him. “Hi, I’m Corinne,” she said, holding out her hand. “Are you enjoying Franz Marc as much as I am?”

She waited for a moment, taking in the slight smile tugging at the corners of his wide mouth. “Are you aware that you look like an elf straight out of ‘Lord of the Rings’?”

He raised a delicately slanted eyebrow at her. Now he was definitely grinning at her. “Really? I thought all of them had long hair. And my ears don’t come off.”

“Are you sure?” she asked and clapped her hand to her mouth in embarrassment.

“Quite sure,” he countered. “And no, I am not offering you to try and pull them off. Instead, might I invite you to join me for a drink?”

His eyes were a peculiar grey shade, almost silver – really a bright colour, but there were shadows lost within them that were… strange. As if… Almost as if… She shook off her musings and smiled at him. “I would love to, Mr…?”

Anderson?” he suggested, but then he smiled, an unexpectedly warm, young, smile. “My name is Sternendom. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He rose from the bench in the fluid motion of a dancer or an artist. Or of someone who has had tens of thousands of years to practice such a simple movement… she thought absentmindedly. He offered her his arm, and she accepted.

As they left the exhibtion, she felt the envious glances of several women burning on her back. She caught a glance from the corners of his eyes and realized that he was not only well aware of the reaction of the other women, but that he had been waiting for someone to approach him, for someone to treat him as if he was real. To prove to himself that he was real? She frowned. She was not used to having such strange thoughts upon meeting an attractive man.

She cast another furtive glance at his handsome features. He looked so sad! Yes, that was it. He looked as if he had lost his happiness more than a thousand years ago.

He looked as if he was for real, was her next thought.

Her heart beat grew almost painfully heavy.

“You… you look so… sad,” she heard herself say, and what was that for a thing to say to an attractive man she had only just met! “As if you… as if you haven’t been happy for a thousand years.”

He halted his stride, in the middle of the busy hall and turned to her. His silver eyes were veiled, the skin seemed drawn tight over bones that were nobler and more delicate than those of ordinary human beings

“Maybe, because this is true,” he replied simply. He hesitated, then continued. “Do you still want to have a drink with me?”

For a long moment she simply stared at him. Then she slowly replied, all at once acutely aware that this one, short answer might change her whole life.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”


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