I've Hungered for Your Touch by oshun

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Getting to Know Him

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The first few days after that last battle passed in a whirlwind of activity. Despite the pressure of decisions—Caranthir asked my opinion of every action he took regarding our immediate needs. He explained what they could do to help and how, while allowing me to choose to accept or reject any of those offers. Despite the distraction of so much activity, my euphoric awareness of the beauty of simply being alive faded slowly—never had the sky seemed so blue or the distant line of the forest so vibrantly green against it. The sight of every familiar face brought on a new surge of relief.

When Caranthir informed us that he wanted to give his troops the assignment to clear the befouled field in front of our stronghold, many orcs had been forced into the River Gelion, but others had fallen in place. His reasoning was that we needed to recuperate from what he chose to call 'battle fatigue.' He tossed off the expression as though it were a well-used phrase.

This was a period which we referred to at the time as "The Long Peace." It did not feel like peace to me. The Noldor had indeed prevented the main forces of the Dark Lord from sweeping down from the north. But this so-called peace was not without its threats. Maintaining the watchful peace had not been passive. The Noldor and their allies had, over the past decades, suffered most of the casualties. So, yes, his kinsmen and the people they led knew something of the weariness of the killing field, of losses of comrades, and of narrow escapes with their lives.

By then, the instances of Bauglir’s foul vermin slipping through the Noldorin leaguer had been notably increasing. Without Caranthir's intervention, their harassment in the instant case could have been enough to have eliminated our small, relatively unorganized people in its entirety.

Some of my shield-sisters, more than willing to leave the brave and handsome Elf-warriors to the filthy task of clearing the battleground and burning the orc corpses, hoped to observe them use some arcane form of legendary Elven magic. The only thing magical about their method was their impressive stamina and stoicism. They had the numbers, the competence, and an admirable determination to have it finished.

They constructed pyres downwind from our settlement to prevent the stench of burning carcasses from reaching our side of the barricade. In less than three days, due to their indefatigable labor, they had cleared the plain of orc cadavers and plowed any remains under the soil.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Last night I wrote of how I met Caranthir and our first interactions with one another. Re-reading my pages it seems to me that one might take away the impression that he was a talkative man. In fact, I have recorded to this point in my story almost every word he said that I am able to remember from those first few days. He was what my mother had called ‘a man of few words,’ remarkably soft-spoken among a forceful, arrogant people.

To call Noldor arrogant is not to say that I did not like the followers of Caranthir I met in those two short months. I admired their skills—those of war and of peace. They had a prodigious willingness to work. One had to appreciate their loyalty to their lord and their generosity with my beleaguered people. But their high self-esteem at times was almost laughable. They fought like devils and all but glowed with a terrible beauty. Underneath their preternatural intelligence and self-assurance, I learned quickly that they were only human, possessing at their core the same flaws and virtues of the rest of us.

I learned later that Caranthir had the reputation of having a bad temper. The rumor was this was why he had been named Dark Finwë, either that or his moodiness. As much as I wanted to know him better, I hesitated to initiate conversation with him at first. There may have been another reason that I did not approach him. I desired him from the moment I first saw his face.

There was so much to deal with during those days—sick children, mourning our fallen, caring for the wounded, and stocking up on clean water and food before any major late-summer thunder storms. The last few weeks had been unseasonably warm; luckily for us, autumn was slow in coming. I had to figure out when and how to move this depleted people of mine. We could not stay there.

Meanwhile, every time I saw him out of the corner of my eye, I found myself compelled to turn and look. Occasionally he caught me and shot me a melancholy smile. I wanted to talk to him. He fascinated me. I wanted him to tell me things about his life. The more time I spent around him and his men, the less strange they felt to me. "Only people," I thought time and again.

Of course, it was not that simple. They were people who never aged, were uniformly good-looking, and incredibly smart and agile of mind. I wanted to talk to him and find out how different we might be from one another or how similar. Truth be told, I wanted to touch him. I knew I found men attractive, but this was another level of that impulse. I hungered for his touch.

The outrageousness of my inner feelings made me fight to exert control over any outward manifestations. I had barely exchanged a direct gaze with him, despite our frequent encounters. We limited our verbal interactions to the practical. While some of his warriors laughed and talked a lot, and liked to sing and dance around the campfires at night, even flirting with the bolder and more comely of my shield-sisters, Caranthir was quiet and withdrawn, content to be left in peace. Well-spoken and gracious when addressed, but not seeking out company, even among his own.

I had begun to think of him as Dark Caranthir myself, comparing him to his gregarious and opinionated comrades—so quick to laugh and quick to argue. The Noldor, as I observed them, were not a somber people.

Everything changed one morning when I went the to training gound behind the fortress. Among the sparring pairs, I noted that my shield-sisters had each found themselves an Elven partner. Caranthir alone stood to one side, voicing an occasional shout of instruction or encouragement to one of his soldiers. I had never heard him raise his voice before.

“I see your men are schooling my sisters.”

“Not entirely. They have learned a thing or two from them.” His dark eyes glittered with humor.

“I’d be interested to know what that might be.”

“Mainly, not to underestimate them.”

I laughed. He turned to me and bowed solemnly. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, my lady?”

“I would be honored,” I said with equal solemnity bowing back. “I’m very afraid I’ll make a fool of myself, but I am willing to take the chance.”

He tossed me one of the Elven practice-blades—it was marvelously well-made, weighted and balanced to closely resemble the feel of a real blade, nothing like the clumsy wooden swords we used for training. He bowed again and took a stance. “Have at me,” he said with a challenging smile, showing his perfect white teeth.

I attacked and he parried effortlessly. A few more thrusts and parries—me aggressive and him relaxed—until I started to lose my temper. This was not any kind of a fair fight. And, anyway, what did he think I could learn by being totally outclassed? Then something in me broke and I went full-out at him until I found I had managed to point my blade at his throat.

“Now that is more like it.”

“You cheated!”

“And you are good enough to know that I did.” His smile was like that of a delighted child. “I wanted a break. You’re a fiery little demon.”

“You’re a great tall immortal Elf from the land of the gods!”

“Not all of the foes one may face here are going to be ham-fisted degenerate orcs!”

“Fine. Let’s go again. This time use your words, big man, give me a little instruction. Otherwise, this is a complete waste of time.”

“Not true. You made me sweat. Ready?” The next time he went at me without warning and I managed to counter him. We went on for a long while. I’ve never worked harder in my life.

“Help! Stop!” I yelled, laughing and gasping for breath. He kept going.

“Ask nicely,” he said.

“I surrender!” I let out an ear-splitting shriek, like a little girl, angry and harried as if I were being teased by a bully. I had to laugh at myself. He laughed also, his eyes turning gentle and pleased.

“That was terrific! You are really very good. Let’s do this every day until I leave. I promise I will make some notes for you later. Can you read?” I nodded in the affirmative, not even thinking to be insulted that he thought he had to ask. “And I’ll give you more advice next time as we work.”

“Too tired for more now?” I mocked.

“I wanna sit down for a while.” His happy laugh broke through any remaining walls of defense I had against his all too obvious physical charms. I determined I would seduce him. Whyever not?

“Try that short Sindarin guy with the blond hair.” He pointed across the field. “He’s lazy and needs a real workout.”

By the time I had made the young Sindarin fellow sweat, I was totally worn-out myself. To my surprise, Caranthir was still sitting on the grass where I had left him. He rose gracefully to his feet, his face somber again. I tried not wobble as I approached him; my legs felt like water and my arms heavy as lead. He wanted something of me and I dearly hoped it would not involve work or negotiations.

“Thank you,” he said. “You did make the lad work and taught him a lesson in humility. I know you are tired now but, if you feel better later, after some rest, I had hoped that you might join me at our campfire tonight.”

Ugh, I thought, maybe not physical work, but certainly practical discussions would be involved. One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile and he looked into my eyes, in that way he had which felt almost as though he could see what I was thinking.

“No negotiations or decision-making involved. I offer simply an evening of relaxation—a chance to ease one’s cares. One of my men has agreed to sing for us tonight. He is very good—not anything like my brother, but he is considered to be a master bard. I thought you might enjoy hearing our music. The singer is one of those who can sing away memories of toil and darkness, if only temporarily, and remind one that there is always a reason in life for rejoicing.”

My relief must have been palpable to him because a compassionate smile lit his dark eyes. My curiosity, of course, was overwhelming.

“I’d be a fool not accept your invitation,” I said.