The Heat of Trees
By Claudio
Her dance, it seemed, was practice; she stepped in a pattern of lyric movement,
arms and feet consciously yet naturally placed within turns and lines, and
then she stopped. She stood still a moment to run her white hands over her
orange gown and smooth the fabric into a more graceful shape over her body.
Then she stepped again, replaying the same dance on the grass for a few ghostly
minutes until this practice too came to an end. She smoothed her hair, and
passed delicate fingers over her flushed cheek, and so began again.
Some of the trees around her were far from each other, and some were close
set, but they never barred her way as she whirled and coursed. He thought,
as he watched, that the trees would surely move from her path if ever she
chanced to come too close; her dance would command them, or she would command
them. Or they would perhaps command her, and so guide her through their maze.
They must have such an understanding, he thought, she and the trees, to dance
together so flawlessly. She and the sun, too, for light fell over her in
waves like water and drenched her hair, her skin, her clothing, so that she
shone, star-like, as she danced with the light.
She stopped, and started anew. The heat of her reflecting light, or else
the heat of trees, came to his face even though he stood far above amid stone
and statue. He was on this terrace when he had first seen her dancing in
the lower great garden, and there he yet stood, and would stand, he was sure,
until her dance ceased and she passed from the garden. He would stand for
hours, or days, or years, or until the end of Arda, if she danced there with
the trees.
She stopped, and did not start anew. A singe of dread passed over him. His
hand curled around the slim stone pillar at his side. With his fierce eyes
and clenched jaw he soundlessly begged her to dance again. But still she
stood motionless, filling his mind with the fear of her leaving, driving
him to curse time for being so torturous and quick. He hissed aloud and leaned
as far as he dared over the terrace railing, as if to conjure new movement
in her through this movement of his.
If he had been willing her to dance again, his wishes were lost. But if he
had wanted only movement, then her next actions pleased him better than any.
Carefully, she lifted the silver circlet from her forehead and placed it
on the grass at her bare feet. Her hands then set to her shining hair, which
was bound in one thick plait with bands of silver. She removed all decoration
and every tie and pin until the strands fell free over her shoulders down
the length of her back to her waist, and still longer. She understood the
wind too, he saw; it had no desire to strike up and whip and tangle that
star-bright hair. She lived with the trees, and the light, and the wind,
and all loved her for it.
The ornaments of her hair were set alongside her circlet on the grass in
a careful arrangement, so that they would not be lost. When this was done
she stood, turning her face up to the midday sun, smiling as it cast her
in approving, adoring light. Her hands rested first on her cheeks and then
on her neck, then they slowly slipped to her chest where the gown was fastened
with a stern row of small pearl buttons. These she undid, one by one, and
his breath stuck thick in his throat as he watched. She must believe that
nobody is watching, he thought; she must believe that nobody would dare.
The heat of shame, or else the growing heat of trees, swept over his skin.
Her gown fell in a circle around her feet, and she stood clothed only in
a thin white shift, the hem of which hung no lower than her knees. Then the
sun shone more gladly upon her, drowning her with soft light and making her
a silhouette against the trees so that he could see the perfect shape of
her body, opaque through the translucence of fine linen. She lifted her arms
to the sun, either in reverence or kinship, he knew not which, and the shape
of her breast against the light dishonoured his eyes. And as his heart turned
mad and his legs weak, he could not force himself to leave her to salvage
the remnant of her deserved mystery. So he watched still, and his thoughts
became tangled in lust.
Soon she started to dance again, though this dance was new, rapid and staccato.
It was not practice for court, her new dance, but something wilder. Improvised,
he knew, since he watched closely and her movements were never repeated except
in halves and inexact references. Her arms moved more freely than before,
and she tilted her head at a less precise angle. Even her hands changed their
style from rigid posing to colubrine twists. But the sweet grace of her steps
was no less striking because of it. Indeed he found the new dance more beautiful,
for it was entirely of her doing, and so marked with ambient sensuality.
She spun faster, and then faster, weaving between the trees with such careless
perfection that he could not help but forget to breathe. And as she turned
the shift climbed higher on her body until he saw her pale thighs, soft in
the light, bare as she danced.
He squeezed the stone under his hands as the heat of trees came into his
eyes and caused them to burn with the tracing of her image. It was a fair
drop, he saw, from the terrace to the garden below, but he could make it
if he dared. He could jump from the cold stones to the warm trees, and be
at her side in seconds. What he would do then, he was uncertain; if he could
trust his voice, he would speak to her and confess. Or he might fail at civil
speech and, forgetting propriety, allow his body to convey to hers, beyond
all crudeness of words, his desires.
He could touch her, he thought, if he did not speak, if the time was left
free of spoken stains. It could be a dream, or a whim, or a slice of ecstasy
without unwanted unnecessary unsweet sound. Silence would govern them. His
hands would adore her bright hair and tease her frail clothing before dropping
to those soft bare thighs.
He imagined what her skin would feel like to his; surely it would be subtly
warm, and satin-smooth in contrast to his own combat-worn roughness. He would
be able to feel the blood in her veins running under the skin, and feel the
vaguest movement of each surprised muscle beneath his fingers, and see the
questioning cast to her tourmaline eyes, though she would not be concerned
or unsure. He would kiss her. With his hands on her thighs, though barely,
he would lower his lips scarcely to her cheek, half missing the half flush
half falling on her skin- a heated pink called on by his audacity. Then maybe
she would turn her face to his and bless his own cheek with her breath.
If she kissed him, it would be for only a moment, since time was dear and
the dream might at any moment die. Her sugared lips would tempt him for a
second, or a few, or a minute, but no longer. He would move quickly to have
his hands learn all lessons of her body, if she would allow it; he would
sell her his heart for the pleasure. And then he would drop to his knees
before her, not to speak dull words of love but to act speeding passions
in true evidence.
He could confront the scent of her fresh skin, so near to his face but separated
by cruel threads of cloth. His hands would soon be beneath that cloth, at
her consent, as a poor substitute for eyes. He would not see yet, only feel,
her fresh, tingling skin. But he could still taste, and he would, the taste
of clean water and air and linen. His tongue would circle her breast in a
spiraling move to the peak, until the fabric of her shift was wet and translucent,
and he could at last see her slightly dampened beauty. Her hands would be
on his shoulders, then in his hair, then held high as he lifted the shift
from her body. Shy fingers would fall over the edges of her shape as the
fabric passed.
She would stand unclothed before him then, with her warmth and ivory radiance
outshining all else in the world. He would sink lower to the ground, and
his mouth would follow from her breast and the soft shadow beneath to her
waist and the soft hair below. Then even lower as his breath stroked her
slender leg, from hip to knee. Then back up again, then back down. The sweet
smell of her arousal would sing to his well-sharpened senses as he pressed
closer between her thighs, first with fingers, then with tongue, which would
graze like energy across her skin and between her knees, ever upward, until
her heat was ruled on his memory and her taste changed the style of his soul.
He would spare no time, and they would frighten the sky with their quickness,
finding a sanctuary of a temporary kind on the prickling grass between the
trees. Over and over they would protest the ground, naming it not ground
but their bed, at last, and protest the trees, calling them not trees but
witnesses to their union, forever. Then he would call her wife not by ring
but by right of circumstance. And she could be his.
But such considerations came uninvited into his mind. There she still danced
in the garden, and there he still stood on the terrace above. Nothing had
passed.
He shamed himself at his thoughts. He had fouled her innocence with the things
he dared think, with the violence of his impurity, as if his body could leave
a scar on hers through mere fancy. He was certain it had. He could no longer
look upon her with light affection or fondness, only terrible coveting lust.
She had cursed him for his indiscretion, or perhaps he had cursed himself
in her defense. So he turned his eyes downward and looked upon her no longer,
for he could not bear the verdict of fate that he should be drawn to love
her in such an unhoneyed way for ever more.
Slowly he left the terrace. He climbed the stairs back up to south arcade
and passed around over high bridge to the center way. As he went his pace
quickened, desiring with every step to put himself as far from the garden
as possible. The memory of the heat of trees stung him.
Master Elrond was coming down the steps when he reached north arcade. He
stopped, somewhat breathless, and nodded to his friend.
Elrond grinned obliviously and asked, "Have you seen my daughter?"
Glorfindel smiled faintly in return, then quickly looked down at his hands.
"I believe she went to the great garden," was all he could say.
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