Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

1.10.

He knocked — not by way of asking permission to enter, but as a warning that he had arrived — came into the room, and stopped so abruptly, that Brother Markhee bumped into him from behind, but Alva did not notice. He was looking at the elf, and the breath caught in his throat.

He had thought the Ancient attractive before, but only a connoisseur of beauty, like Alva, could discern it in a downtrodden creature the elf had been. Now, free of afflictions, all marks of suffering wiped away by the skill of the Fanneshtou healers, the elf was maddeningly, inhumanly dazzling. So dazzling, that Alva had to turn away, unable to stand the heartache.

The monk slipped past Alva and addressed the elf. Alva made out his own name, and knew he was introduced. Moreyli had warned him already that the elf never spoke to the healers, and did not answer any of their questions (though he had complied with everything they had prescribed), so Alva was not expecting a response. But still, unaccountably, the elf's silence had hurt him again.

The elf stepped back until he was backed up against the wall. His face was cold and immobile, all life concentrated in his shining eyes. They never left Alva's face, and Alva thought suddenly that the Ancient must be terrified of him. This thought made him feel even worse.

Alva stepped into the chamber and shut the door behind him. Thoughts scattered, he addressed Brother Markhee, "Tell him, I am glad he is well. He is not a prisoner here, but a guest. Shortly, I will take him where he needs to go. He will be reunited with his people."

The monk spoke the lilting tongue of the Ancient Race. When the monk was done, the elf lost his composure. He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook. Alva barely suppressed a desire to rush to him and take him into his arms.

The elf lifted his face, and spoke, looking straight at Alva. His voice rang with the silver bells of tears. Chevalier Ahayrre was certain that the soft and lovely voice would now fill his dreams and even his waking, that is, until he went mad with all this unrequited love. "Human kindness is worse than their hatred; it catches us unawares and leaves wounds that would not heal," translated the monk and added, "this is the elvish expression of gratitude, I think. He is saying now that he would do anything to thank you."

"There is nothing I need from him," Alva shook his head, "except I would like to hear his name, if his customs allow it."

"Ithildin," the elf answered promptly as soon as Alva's request was translated for him.

"It means "starmoon" in the Ancient Tongue, my lord," said the monk, "all their names, both male and female, end in a consonant, and they use a pitch accent, so that ..."

"Ask him if he had been treated well in the Temple, and if he has any other wishes."

"None, except to repay the debt of gratitude, at the pleasure of the noble Lord."

"My pleasure would be to see him well and happy, tell him that. And tell him that I never wished to harm him, and that I am sorry I have had to ... treat him ... the way I did; he'll know what I am talking about. Tell him I was made to do it."

"He says he knows."

"How? Does he understand the Common Tongue?"

"No, but he says that your conversation with the nomad chief was clear enough. And that the Lord's actions were beyond reproach."

Alva fell silent, not knowing what else to say. Mindlessly, he admired the movement of the lilac lips when Ithildin spoke, the sweep of his thick eyelashes, the thin stroke of his eyebrows, the silver hair tumbling on both sides of his face, the straight shoulders and the narrow waist under a belted tunic, sleeveless and simple, the slim hips and the long legs ... He knew that the elf might mind his devouring gaze, but he could not stop.

"Ask him if he is ready to leave. I'll come for him tomorrow, once the horses are saddled. Tell him we'll reach the GreatForest within the week."

The elf nodded.

"He is ready. Now he is saying he no longer needs a translator, and would like me to leave the two of you alone. What is your wish, my lord?" After waiting for an answer in vain, Brother Markhee bowed, and left the room, shutting the door.

"Dear God, what is he going to do?" Alva thought. "No, I shouldn't ... Don't ... I vowed ..."

Ithildin took a step forward uncertainly. Then another. And the third. Now he was up against Alva, looking, cautious, into his eyes. His face grew both helpless and determined, and he undid his belt and started unbuttoning his tunic.

Alva should have stopped him immediately, but he was unable to move, unable to make a sound, he just stared, with a single thought pulsing in his head, "It's a dream ... I am dreaming."

The elf opened his tunic, it dropped to the floor, and Chevalier Ahayrre still stood mesmerized, afraid that, with a single gesture, the dream would vanish. But now Ithildin put his hands on Alva's shoulders and pressed his lips to Alva's in an awkward kiss. Then, coming to, Alva moaned, and clasped the elf to him, and covered his face, shoulders and neck with kisses.

Noble protagonists honourably refuse when those they rescue from death offer themselves up in a fit of gratitude. Novels say so, but Alva cannot. Not now, not when the elf is half-nude, when the scent of his skin is so intoxicating, when his cool marble body shivers under the man's touch.

He pulled off the elf's pants and took him right by the wall; the elf's legs were thrown around Alva's waist, there was no lubricant other than Alva's spit again, and, again, the elf moaned quietly, with his arms around Alva's neck, and his head on Alva's shoulder, but he made no attempt to resist, giving himself over to the mortal.

When Alva came to his senses after the orgasm, they were lying on the floor. Ithildin pressed against him, his face hidden on Alva's chest. Alva felt his eyes well up with tears of shame and heart-breaking tenderness. He carefully lifted the elf, trying to avoid looking him in the face, brought him to bed, and rushed out, after barely straightening his clothes.

He could hardly see through the tears; he staggered along the Temple halls, bumping into walls and the passer-bys, until he found a secluded corner of the garden. There, he fell face-down on the grass and wept. He got what he wanted, but the Fates have laughed at him. He thought himself vermin; he had bought Ithildin's favors; the elf had just paid him with his body because he did not want to be in a human's debt and had nothing else.

"How could I accept it, why?" Alva tormented himself endlessly with the question, and found no answer.

Ithildin, fanart by Anna Valerius