Erestor's Poem

Erestor's Poem

Posted: September 8, 2006
Title: Erestor's Poem
Author: Ennorwen
Type: FCS
Characters: Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Tolkien and alas to his heirs who do not like to share. I am borrowing them anyway and unlike them do not make a cent off of it.
Prompt: #52, alternate, “I was awake early this morning, and now it must be nearly noon.”
Beta: Rozzan

Summary: Erestor writes, but not on paper.

*****

Erestor nestled into the crook of Glorfindel’s arm; ebon hair splayed and intermingled with the gold of his lover’s, sated after a long morning’s awakening. Languidly, he drew circle after concentric circle around one peaked nipple, marveling at the way the skin compressed and sprung back under his finger, enjoying the swirls that he made over the well-oiled flesh.

Over and over his finger stroked, ever so minutely increasing the circumference and then closing it, watching as a cairn was built of the pebbled flesh under his finger. Every time Glorfindel breathed, the landscape would change and Erestor would go back to rebuilding it, one long slow circle after another.

He watched as his finger created hollows in the malleable flesh and then he began to write, etching into the oil and Glorfindel’s skin the lavish swirls of Fëanor’s tengwar.

Glorfindel lay silent, lips slightly parted, eyes closed, relishing the delicate touch of Erestor’s scribbling finger as it moved over his chest.

“Ummmm,” murmured Glorfindel, stretching his arms above him, grasping the headboard, and arching his body.

“I was awake early this morning, and now it must be nearly noon.”

“It is, seron vell,” answered Erestor, raising his head slightly from its niche on the warrior’s chest.

“But we may linger a while longer. It is not a day for work.”

“It seems you have not stopped working, melethron. All morning you have been writing upon my flesh.”

Earlier, Glorfindel had awoke to it, the fragrance of jasmine oil, the feel of Erestor’s delicate fingers plying the flesh of his back, smoothly engraving whorl upon whorl over the warrior’s spine, dipping into the swell and then lower.

He had thought he had recognized the rhythm of it, a linnod perhaps, or an aerlinn.

“Just what are you writing, my beautiful scribe? Is it a poem?”

“Aye, it is a poem,” answered Erestor, eyes darkening to midnight as he looked deep into the liquid blue of his lover’s.

“Will you tell me the words?” asked Glorfindel, tightening his arms around his lover.

Erestor raised his head and with his tongue swirled the same words on Glorfindel’s neck, punctuating each with a small nip as he made his way inexorably up to the warrior’s ear.

“It is a poem of but a single word, melethron,” he whispered, breath coming faster and warm into his lover’s ear.

“Yes?” asked Glorfindel.

“Mine.” answered Erestor.

*****

Seron vell – beloved
Melethron – lover

*****

THE END

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