Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J. R. R .Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters that belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at this website, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
Rating: This collection of drabbles contains texts with possible strong but non-explicit adult themes, references to violence, and strong coarse language. This drabble collection is therefore not suitable reading material for children or teens below the age of 16.
On the Verge of Darkness
– a series of slash 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”.
His lips were cracked and dry. He was cold, even though the wind blowing down from the mountains was hot. He shuddered. The wind sucked all the warmth from his body, rushed his life’s breath from his very lips. He felt like a dry blade of grass bending before the blazing winds of bushfire.
He had dreamed again, last night.
Of darkness. And of fire.
He looked at his herald, standing next to the tower. He was so young! But his eyes had already darkened, their silver tarnished with the inevitable stains of battle.
What would make them shine again?
Soft and cool and surprising were the High King’s hands against his cheeks. The king’s deep gaze, grey eyes tinged with green. The wide, sad lips suddenly so close.
Silk and fire in the darkness and the agony of Dagorlad.
He gasped at the kiss and shuddered in his king’s hands. But he did not draw back. He could not. He felt himself react in a desperate surge of desire. He swayed towards his king.
There were whispers, there were kisses, there was skin pressed against skin, tears and sweat mingled.
It was only one night. And then no more.
A brief respite. Five hours to tend the wounded, to bury the dead. Dawn will find them on the blood-drenched soil of Dagorlad again.
The High King sinks down on his cot, his heart heavy, his body weary. He knows his fate. He knows his duty.
His herald kneels in front of him. Gently he divests his lord of his armour, cleaning and caring beyond the bounds of his own fatigue and despair.
A last touch before the long way home.
Hands reach for a pale face.
Lips meet in fleeting moments between destiny and dream.
“Thank you, mellon nîn.”
One Last Touch
No secondhand emotion for me today: for tomorrow I shall die. I have dreamed it, I have seen it, in water and fire and blood.
I grip him harder, my hold like a vice. The rain pours down on us, turning the dust of Dagorlad into a quagmire.
At first he stares at me uncomprehending, my young herald, weary and lonely on the great battlefield of our age.
But then he leans against me. His eyes are dark and full of tears. He kisses me and I wonder if he has seen what I have –
that tomorrow I shall die.
Light and Darkness
Suddenly there were no more clothes.
It was too dark too see their bodies. But if they could have, there would have been scars to see, and fatigue, and dirt and sweat, but also the sheen of Eldar grace.
Hands roamed across hard-muscled backs and stomachs, lips caressed nipples.
Hard with desire, they turned to each other, helpless, desperate.
“Oil,” Gil-galad gasped.
They found a bottle. Intended for swords, it now served different blades.
Between the dust of Dagorlad and the blood-drenched battleplains bodies met and desire flared. A bright light of love, kindled and gone.
In darkness and pain two bodies collide. Gasping breaths mingle.
Elrond’s dark curls flow across gleaming white flesh.
“Just this once, please,” a hoarse whisper. “Just this once!”
He barely hears beyond a realm of touches and tears.
A hand is sliding down his back, between the twin mounds of his bottom, hot fingers lavished with oil. Naked skin pressed against his back, an answer of urgency in his own flesh.
“Yes,” he rasps, bucking against warm oil dripping into his depths.
Words fail as bodies meet, as a hard length of desire forces its way into sobs and sighs.
To Lose and to Win
He felt roused beyond anything he had ever experienced. If it was possible to rise above the highest climax of the body, beyond the blissful release of tension he had yearned for, then this must be it – a feeling far beyond anything he had ever dreamed of.
Gil-galad held his body imprisoned, immovable, with the steely grip only a warrior of the Noldor possessed. Gil-galad was exploring the sensitive skin of his neck, lightly tracing lips and teeth along his veins.
Elrond gasped, losing control over heart, mind and body.
But this time he did not mind losing the fight.
He had never given a thought to love.
He had never dared to contemplate desire.
He had not looked at the lithe bodies of ellith.
He had never considered the attentions of warriors.
Now he shuddered against the silky skin of his king.
His control crumbled. His body reacted with ferocity.
His erection pressed against the hollow of the other’s stomach.
He felt the long and nimble fingers gently massaging their way to his ass.
A helpless movement.
A firm grip.
An all-encompassing explosion.
Relaxing into the embrace of his king, finally his tears began to flow.
Cup of Sorrow, Cup of Courage
When Gil-galad beheld the tears in the other’s eyes, he reached up and cupped his herald’s cheek. Tenderness flooded his heart in a heated wave.
For a moment they remained like that, unmoving: hand to cheek, fingers curled tightly around the length of an elegant jaw. Only when he felt his lover (his only companion in these last and most desperate nights) stir uncomfortably, Gil-galad drew back.
He had to ignore the pain he saw and the fear he felt. “You are the bravest fighter I have ever seen, Elrond Peredhel. Do not be afraid. You will stay the distance.”