Once by Innin

Chapter 1

They meet underneath the trees of Thargelion in the half-dark. Caranthir stops when a knife, flashing in the dusk, presses blunt side against his throat.

A raven caws somewhere in the trees, and then his eyes widen. The hand holding the knife handle is darker than his own, smaller and finer, but he knows that is deceptive, for he has seen it at work, has seen it wield a sword with skill and fight off orcs while he had still been wondering how such a young boy had learned wielding it so well.

It had been no matter that the fighter had not been a boy, that when the helmet had fallen from 'him', Caranthir realized his mistake and his own skin flushed puce with anger while he found her eyes – laughing eyes at that, relishing the battle even though several of her family lay dead; it had been a matter of ridicule for her rather than him, his men assembled behind him laughing.

There had never been great friendship between them, they had clashed over issues of petty pride – and something else that neither intended to admit to, him a married man and her a woman leader of her people who could not jeopardize her standing with her people over a dalliance with one of the bright-eyed, suspect, otherworldly strangers.

Being as alike as they were, he had been surprised to find her depart her without notice – and is more surprised to find her this night, and with a knife no less, because he had suspected, no, known that she, too, suffered from a certain itch that scratching would not assuage, nor any pleasure sought alone. Goodness knew if that was what led him to take this walk.

He laughs against the cold metal on his throat, a low rumble.

"Haleth."

"Just this once."

They waste no time getting to the point, but once more Caranthir is surprised by her slender fingers, this time reaching down, and he grows flushed in the same time his cock begins straining against the fabric of his breeches, when she removes the knife, tosses it to the side and unlaces his breeches, fisting around him and laughing through her teeth – for once not mocking, but he can't help the anger rising, in a wave of heavy hot fog, to his brain, obscuring his clear thoughts, and when he thinks he may simply flip her over, hoist her against the tree-trunk and thrust into her, even while he imagines that, he finds himself yielding to her shove, slips on the loose leaves underfoot, and finds her tumbling on top of him, seizing his arms, fingernails digging in crescents into the skin of his wrists held above his head, and she shifts down, taking the initiative, taking him into her, riding him in a swift pace and taking her own pleasure. There is nothing mutual about it, except that it is, but if breaking faith with his wife is to be worth it, this is not it.

He can feel himself growing angrier still, bucking against her, grunting what should be words, but aren't, but he thrusts into her all the same, taking what he can get of her heat, flexing his fingers trying to prise his arms free – this is ridiculous, the slip of a girl on top of him in power, their clothes chafing between them, for she has not taken the time to undress either, merely to drop her own breeches far enough, this is ridiculous, she is not even dressing as a woman should – all those thoughts in his head when she begins to groan, muffling the sound between clamped lips and a frown, for who knows what is out there in the dark, and that's a comfort at least, because what would his men, his brothers say finding him dead from whatever things her noises could attract, with his own breeches around his ankles, cock out, and this girl on top of him?

He's finally had it, bucks harder, intending to throw her over, at least have her the right way around if they are rutting like animals out in the dark already, and she's fierce, he's got to admit that, and his hands are growing numb --- and he doesn't flip her over after all, instead he just imagines, for a second, and that's enough, her clothes off, her skin, her tits bouncing, that thrice-damned laughter, and that's all it takes to make him come and spurt into her.

She squeals, grinds down upon him, and apparently that's all it takes for her, too, to clench and buck and shudder, and her hold on his wrists goes slack, long enough to tear loose, and, with earth under his fingernails where he's scrabbled at the ground, clamp down over her mouth.

"Quiet!" he hisses out of breath, sitting up with her still in his lap, meeting her laughing eyes and can feel the heat pooling in his cheeks again, thinking to slap her, but his hands sink, curl into fists.

She leans forward, kisses his forehead, and then she's back on her feet, tugging her breeches closed, gathers up the knife, and pauses.

"Namárië," she says, her voice husky and rough from the heavy breathing, the only Quenya he's ever heard her speak, and then she's gone.

The anger roils in his stomach for the rest of the night and far into the next day; at dusk he considers going out into the forest, but there are two-day-old patrol papers waiting on his desk, noting the beginning migration of the Haladin, away he knows not where.

Out in the forest another raven caws. Caranthir tosses the papers into the fire.