West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive

 

 

Interstices
Pre-Quest fic about small beginnings.
Author: Angharad
Rating: PG-13

 

I know every corner where the spiders spin and I know every morning where the birds waken and call back and forth in defiance and need that we hear as song; and I know the first green pushing through the garden beds. I know the touch of earth under my hands and the rough bark and the soft stems.

I know each rosebud, closed and secret with dew kissing dark red, dawn pink, bruised white and deep green about them, and the touch of possibility under my fingers;

and I know you.

And I felt as though you knew me too with those small looks this past winter but there was every busy distraction and the Gaffer muttering and blowing the froth from his ale in a warm corner by the hearth at the Ivy Bush where Daddy Twofoot was nodding and waving his pipe as though to say something that his words could not or would not. But it didn't do any good nor any ill - all that bluster and pipe-waving and muttering - because another few days away we looked at one another across the Yule-tide party and everything changed so that we seemed to speak and look again across every short day when the changing light was lengthening into spring.

I know the shape of your mouth when you're thinking about wandering away with Mister Bilbo, and I'm thinking you might do that; and the way you close your eyes and breathe a little harder and faster when you're wanting and when you're waiting. I know where the crocus is opening under the old oak and where the little stream trickles by us and the moss sits fat and green along its rocky edge.

I know

every look of you as you sit with the parchment spread under your hands until the evening's gathering around you and until Mister Bilbo calls you inside and I go home at last and wonder what I'm doing.

May tumbles through the door just behind me and her lips are bright-kissed and Daisy scolds her fondly and I sit at the table and wonder at myself again and laugh at their whispering. And there's a mouse scratching in the corner under the small dresser there: and I think I might have to lay out the traps early this year.

Then, later, then I walk into the field under new moonlight and milky reflected cloud-spill; wings in the copse and furtive rustling there and sudden shriek and silence; and you walk there with me and we touch - hesitant, half-held - and your fingers on my wrist and a warmth running through me . . . and you're on your knees and looking up at me again and that half-glad smile is on your lips again until I see all the small shadows reflected in your eyes and there's a murmur on the evening and the music of the little stream; and the quiet pause and breath held on a moan that trembles through me; and you walking away from me before you look back and I hope that you're smiling. And I hope that I know you and the clouds are charcoal smudges across the sky now. And the new moon falling away behind them.

And the long summer; and the drowsy afternoons when I'm waiting for you to walk past and look back over your shoulder and charcoal lashes dropping in that glance.

I know the moths dancing towards the light and the warm dusk and you waiting and looking at the sharp star-filled sky until you turn away and there's a patient expectation in you. Breath shuddering in me and under me: until I'm breathing everything that I am into you and pushing into your body under the stars and yours hands leave small marks on my skin where you try to pull me closer so that I can feel everything that you are; until you look at me where the white roses are nodding and their scent is heavy between us.

Mister Bilbo's leafing through the maps again and he's listening to the gathering thunder that's already passed Buckland and he looks up all impatient; and you walk past and look back at me over your shoulder so that I follow you.

At the haying I look for you where you stand and run your hands through tangled curls and the sweat darkening your white shirt and running into the small dip at your throat where the buttons have come undone.

I know the song and the ale and the dancing and the taste of sweat in the hollow of your throat; I feel the night turning colder now and your hand on my face and your voice caught in a moment that spins and wavers and my voice promising everything against your lips. And in the morning we're walking past each other again; and I know the morning and its fragile offering.

I know the morning and the sad reminders there and the doubt that sits heavy in it like grey skies over the Hill. And if you think about wandering after him into tales that I still remember, I hope you know I'll be following.

 

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