West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Author: Daffodil Bolger
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Webmaster's Note: A birthday mathom from Daffodil, that, like its author, is very dear to my heart.
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Tul rato, meleth nin.
Heated whispers, slow and silken against his skin. Sam stretches into the glide of cool fingertips over fire and need, writhes beneath the damp trail of soft breath and slick tongue. Thunder rolls through his veins.
The mouth is impossibly cool and he casts himself into it, swipes his tongue over teeth and lips. Over his head but then, he always has been. Deep and long and searing-sweet and Sam doesn't mind that he's drowning.
"Oh, I've missed your touch."
Years of tanned skin and pleasant softness, warm, willing and welcome at his side have not dulled the ache, could not banish the need for smooth strength and wiry, pliable sinew in his hands. Thirteen times she had gifted him a state of grace in the form of bewildered, blinking eyes peering out from the folds of a tiny, wrinkled face. And he is grateful and oh, how he loved her so. But always, always the feel of ivory ghosted at his fingertips, the smoky haze of bone-deep need danced just the other side of dreaming.
Smoke and ivory, Sam thinks and sinks his hands into silken darkness. Light and shadow and he draws darkling beauty and wild grace to meet a need that has rocked his core for too many long years.
This mouth on his, this crush of heat and slick silk that stretches taut over fiery-soft demand... too much and never enough. Everything he's wanted, everything he's spent long, impatient years biding for and Sam takes a gasping breath against smooth ivory and whispers, "When?"
So many years of rounded curves and soft moans and Sam reveled in them, loved every plump rise and dip, loved every low whisper, every soft touch. But still he ached for hard muscle rippling against him, heard the ghosts of breathless cries and his name gasped on a jagged breath.
This room, this bed - home to him long before any deed had told him so. Home was in the depths of depthless eyes glittering with moonlight and playful wantonness, in the strength of lithe limbs pulling him against and within, in the scrape of teeth on slick need.
And then home had left him with a chaste kiss to his brow and the scent of brine on his skin. Years passed and miles tread but always the taste of salt on his tongue and the gull's forlorn cry in his ears. Waiting and hoping and Sam turns his face into rain-scented sable and begs, "When?"
Rato, meleth, is the only answer but Sam doesn't understand and there is a ghost of a laugh at his ear and he shivers. Ta naa lu. Si. He can't possibly be expected to concentrate, to translate the whispers - not with that mouth working marvels on his skin, waking desire so deep and strong that he's almost frightened by its intensity.
"I want... Please, give me..." and Sam doesn't know exactly what it is he asks for but the sleek body against him and the knowing touch to his skin are enough to drive coherent thought from his head. Hot, he's unbearably hot and he's sinking, swirling in sweat-slick heat and driving thrusts. Cries, rich and throaty pound through him and oh, how he's missed that voice, this touch, this body. Limber ease and lithe grace and how can it be that the years have not dulled the craving, the absolute necessity of these hands on him? Light and shadow rock with him, hold him, watch him through a smoky gaze that moves through his bones, melts them and fire plays beneath his skin.
Kwet lle auva tul.
"Yes!" Sam answers, though he doesn't know the question, doesn't even know that it is a question but it seems imperative that his answer be yes and so he grinds it out again, "Yes!" through gritted teeth and he grips slender hips in his calloused hands, pulls them into a rhythm that his own body demands. He is caught in the storm of heat-washed cries that pound through him and he can't stop and oh, he doesn't want to.
A! Sam, a'maelamin, lle vesta?
"Yes!" he shouts again and, "Please... Frodo!" and the fever washes his skin in a white-hot wave, scrapes at his bones, pulls his heart from his chest and lays it out before him. White light behind his eyes and he hears his name echoing through the darkness, ringing in his ears and oh! to hear that voice crying out in sweet-hot bliss again. Too much, too soon and he doesn't want it to end, doesn't want to lose this touch but he can't stop it and he cries out and plummets into light.
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He is weeping when he wakes, sobs wrenching hard and painful from his chest. Dark and cold but he can still feel cool fingertips on his skin, can still taste rain and salt on his tongue.
He rises and peels the sweat-drenched cotton from his back, dries himself and dresses in the darkness. His hands shake as he fumbles with buttons so he decides the empty smial will keep its silence on the matter of his appearance. He lights a candle from the dying hearth and makes his way to the study.
Shelves lined with leather-bound texts but he knows which one he wants and makes toward it with surprising agility for one of his age. Black with gilt edges and he pulls it down, cradles it to his chest and places it on the desk. With shaking hands he splays it open.
Tul, meleth nin, had been the whisper. Meleth nin his skin remembers, for those words had been spoken soft against it times uncounted. But, tul...
A blunt finger strokes down the page, runs over runes. His lips move silently as he scans the page and then he stops, eyes going wide.
A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth and fresh tears burn behind his eyes. He's waited so long, so long...
When, he had asked and what had been the answer? Si, meleth.
He flips pages frantically, trembling hands scrabbling at thick vellum. He forces himself to calm, balls his hands into fists and takes a deep breath. He reaches again for the pages, turns them carefully. He finds the runes he wants and he almost can't see them for the tears that fill his eyes, wash his cheeks.
He sits down heavily in the chair. He closes the book, lays it to his chest, grins hugely and weeps. So much joy flowing through him and he wonders that he doesn't simply explode with the force of it.
Tears spent, heart full to bursting, he has one more task. He again lays the book to the desk and turns the pages. His finger nearly caresses the parchment on its path and he finds what he wants, stops and smiles.
"Tulien, Mr. Frodo."
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If the Elvish is incorrect, it was the best I could do and I REALLY tried. These are the translations for the Sindarin used in the fic.
I Gyel = The Call
Tul rato, meleth nin = Come soon, my love
Ta naa lu = It is time
Si = Now
Kwet lle auva tul = Say you will come
A! Sam, a'maelamin, lle vesta? = Ah! Sam, my beloved, do you promise?
Tulien = Coming
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