Indis is standing immobile, leaning against the pillar with a cloth artistically draped across her nude body. Her hair is casually disturbed, and her lips are slightly open, showing a hint of pearly teeth. Her eyes seem languid and smoldering, half-lidded with hidden desire. I grasp another handful of clay, throwing it onto the figure that has been emerging from under my hands.
I have known and viewed Finwë's queen for many yeni. She stands beside my father-by-marriage at every event and ceremony and accepts the accolades of her people as her due. She is imperious, haughty, demanding and … she is … perfect, breathtaking in her beauty. But today my eyes are drawn to her again and again like a moth to a flame. Soon my hands are not sculpting; they are just caressing the clay statue. No matter my skills, it is a poor substitute for the elf in front of me and does not possess life or breath.
“Nerdanel, come here,” she whispers and I can do nothing but obey my queen. I release the clay statue and walk toward her, never breaking my gaze from her perfect face, breasts and legs.
I stand before her, my breath coming faster and shallower. My hands are filthy, muddy with the clay I had been handling and I fear to mar the body approaching me. Indis reaches out as she descends from the small posing platform. Grasping my wrist, she brings my left hand to her breast while entwining the fingers of her other hand with mine.
“My Lady,” I gasp in protest. “I'm filthy. I'm covered with clay. You should not.”
She removes her hand from my wrist, and cupping my head, pulls me to her. Our lips meet, at first tentatively, then with more passion and open mouths sharing, probing, exploring. My hand releases her fingers and moves to embrace her. A soft moan sounds, but I know not whose voice is making the sound. I pull her closer, trying to meld into the same space. She pulls back slightly and begins to disrobe me.
I am frightened, yet I cannot help myself. Never have I lain with a female before. But Indis is no female, she is queen. Murmuring words that I barely hear, she takes command and I am lost. I know that I will never be the same again. Yet, even as I give in to her ministrations and collapse to the floor in her embrace, I know I would dare all of the horrors of Mandos' halls just to have love once more in my life. I find I can no longer turn my back to hope. I surrender and my life is changed forever.
Tolkien provided the sandbox in which I gratefully play. No profit of any kind will be made from this story.
Chapter end notes:
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