Pottymouth: 18. 18

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18. 18







black nothing, no air, no earth





no voice or sound





lost, I am lost, no self, no other





had I a voice I would cry out but no one would hear me, lost, lost for endless ages




black black black, no cold or heat, no light of star, nothing, nothing








brush over me, not air but some movement








What is this? For as long as I can remember there has been nothing, nothing at all; no feeling, no sound, no taste, nothing. Now a voice speaks, and I listen.








How? I am formless, empty; I am nothing.






The brush again, a pull, a breath



Come, Greenleaf



I don't know to whom he's speaking, but he is very compelling. Were I able I would come as well.


Perhaps I can. I have no limbs, no purchase, but I move, I feel air against me, a soft feathery touch. I want to obey his command, so I move again. Now the air moves too, and I push against it. Then I see it, the lightest spark.




Yes, my lord, I'm coming.

I push toward the spark, though now I can feel it I am pulled as well; something draws me, draws me from the thick cloying blackness to that tiny point of light.

Light! How I have craved it all these centuries, crushed by the cold; how I have strained to see, to hear, to feel, and been thwarted. But now I hear a voice calling, and feel the air around me, and see that little shaft of light as I approach, as it grows nearer, brighter.

Now I am pushing faster, being pulled faster; I can feel the air streaming about me, I am streaking toward the light, it is pulsing and growing. And I can hear other voices too, voices crying a name I do not know, voices praising someone for his great deeds. I do not know for whom they call, but I want to join with them, so great is their joy, so deep their approbation.

Now I see them, they are in the light, a great multitude of them; shining faces, shimmering, translucent; they lift their faces to me, raise their pearlescent arms; they are smiling, laughing, singing. I look down upon them, full of delight. That I should go from such an agony of loneliness to come to this! I weep for happiness; this is more than I could have hoped for.

Not yet.

I do not pause; still I speed along, and soon the wispy lucent people bid me farewell; I am sorrowful, but not terribly so, for now the wind about me is stronger and I fly, I fly faster, faster toward a yet brighter light. Now I hear music, the voices of ineffable beauty lifted in song, and light, light inextinguishable, two tall shining trees upon a high hill, and standing about the hill tall, immense lovely beings, smiling upon me, reaching down to touch me. All about their feet throng others, singing, crying out to me in a language I do not know.

I look down upon them. There are faces there I feel I should know, if I could but remember; there is that one there – marvelous, golden and shining – and that one, with the crown of leaves upon his fair hair – he is speaking to me, the woman at his side weeping, and she is laughing as well.

"Well done, my son. Oh, well done."

I am no one's son, I am no one, nothing, so why should this great lord say such things to me? I turn to the greater ones, the ones who stand tall above me; they look down upon me, smiling, and I love them, I love them.

Yet above them is yet another, one I cannot see, but I can feel Him. He is greater by far, higher, wiser, brighter, better; I cannot look upon Him. Greatest, Highest, Wisest, Brightest, Best. His blessing settles upon my head, but I lower my gaze to the grass at my feet, for I am not worthy.

A hand lifts me, it is one of the tall ones; he is smiling, holding me. He speaks, and it is the voice that called me out of darkness.

"Now, my Greenleaf, your reward shall be complete."

The throng shouts, and there is more music; I look around – who is this Greenleaf to whom he speaks? But then I am flying again, faster this time, away from the city of light; I can see them receding, waving to me, bidding me farewell. The Golden One calls out to me, I can hear him –

"Do no forget to breathe – it is very important. Just breathe, and everything will be well."

What can I say to that? I do not know what he means. But he is gone as well, they are flying back from me, growing smaller and smaller, and I am surrounded by darkness once more. But this darkness is warm, and the air pungent; I turn into it, spread my arms into it, let it tear at my hair, whirl me along.

Go, Greenleaf. Go with our blessing.

Oh – I think he's speaking to me. Greenleaf? Have you named me, my lord? Very well, then, I shall be Greenleaf. It is a good name – it makes me think of things I cannot remember, things that are fresh and moist and new, or that are curled and dry and brittle, crackling beneath my feet in the cold.

Now I am flying even faster. I see something in front of me, some sort of body; it is still, dark, empty.

Fill it.

Without being told I know how to do this. I rush toward it, though whether I am rushing up or falling down I cannot tell –

I stop with a jolt.

Now it's black again. What happened? I can smell things, can smell something musty, and something musky, and something damp. And I can hear someone breathing next to me, and voices somewhere else, but they're hazy, indistinct. I can feel something on my back, something soft and giving.

Shake off this old husk and be renewed.

As you wish it, my lord. I, Greenleaf, shall never fail to do your bidding, for I love you.

As we love you, beloved Listener.

Listener? Is my name Listener now? Two names, when before I had none! Oh, I am blessed, blessed.

I feel the skin around me shudder and split; I feel it burn away, but it is still black.

Open your eyes.

Oh yes – eyes – I forgot about eyes, that is how I see. It takes me a moment to remember how the muscles work, but I raise my lids, and I see.

I see a flat surface with a crack in it, and a brown stain. It's a, a ceiling – it must be – I'm lying down, that must be a ceiling above my head. And to the left I see a yellow glow. What were those things called, that gave out light? Lamp, that's it. And there is something to my right. If I can remember how to move my neck muscles, I can turn my head and see what it is.

Oh, look; it is a – a – I cannot remember what it is called, they are short and hairy and live in caves, what is it – a Naugrim, that's right. It looks as though it is sleeping, its eyes are closed, though its face is very wet. Why is its face wet? I don't think I've ever touched a wet face.

Using muscles gets easier the more I do it. I can lift my arm now. It's transparent, like the people in the first place I went to, and it's covered in a glowing light, like the two trees. I can see the Naugrim through my hand. I think it is male. Yes, definitely male. I watch him through my hand; he looks funny that way.

His eyes open. Oh, good. I was hoping I would have someone who would talk to me. I would like to be able to hear something again.

This is a little louder than I expected. He's yelling, and falling backwards, and thrashing around. What does that mean? Is he trying to tell me something? I sit up so I can hear him better. He yells louder and runs out of a doorway.

Very odd. I wonder if all Naugrim act like that? If so, it's going to be very difficult to get along with them.


What the hell is all the yelling for? And who turned on the TV? The house is filled with this blue-white light now; I can even see it through the sliding glass door, past the reflection of the sunrise.

Hm. Sounds like Gimli. Maybe he's got the D.T.s.

Well, I'm sure it's nothing Aragorn can't handle. I'll just stand out here a couple more minutes and admire the sunrise.


Yes, I think I've gotten the hang of these muscles. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I can see through them, can see past the curve of my thigh right down into the blue coverlet. I hold out my arms. I can see through them, too. What about the rest of me? Am I transparent everywhere? I stand up and turn around. There's a mirror next to me, showing me my reflection. Yes, I'm transparent everywhere, glowing with a blue light. How pretty! I wonder if the Naugrim thinks it's pretty, too. I'd better find him and ask him.

Now someone else runs into the room. This must be a very busy place. There's even ANOTHER someone behind HIM. These ones are taller, they're – oh, wait, I know what they're called – Edan, that's it. The first one has dark hair, and he's staring at me and yelling something; the one behind him is taller and broader, and has lots and lots of yellow hair, kind of like the Naugrim but not so bushy. He's staring at me too, and his mouth is hanging open. Why are they staring? Do they think I'm pretty? I think I'm pretty – but then, I don't have much to compare myself to. I like the way I glow. Don't you like it? And think how useful it will be when it's dark out.

The first Edan comes up to me, very very slowly. Is he afraid of me? I think he is. Oh, that's terrible, that makes me feel sad. I don't want you to be afraid. I want you to like me. Maybe if I smile he'll like me.

He's speaking. If I listen hard I think I can understand him.

"It looks like him. But he doesn't seem to have any substance."

The Naugrim comes back in. He looks very frightened, the poor thing. What can I do to make him feel better? "It's a ghost!" he's yelling. "A ghost! A ghost!"

A ghost? Where? I look around. I don't see any ghosts. What is he talking about? I look back at him. He's still scared. If I hugged him, would he feel any better? But before I can go up to him the dark-haired one comes up to me, his hand extended to my face. He's speaking very slowly. I think he's talking to me.

"I'm going to try to touch you. Do you mind?"

You mean me? Oh, sure, go ahead. I'd like to be touched.

He puts two fingers on my neck. You call that a touch? Very strange people here, first they yell, then they put their fingers on my neck and press down. He's frowning. Then he looks into my face, into my eyes.

"Well?" says the big yellow-haired one.

"No pulse," says the dark one. "He's not breathing, either. But I can touch him, he's definitely corporeal."

Corporeal, what a nice-sounding word! I bet that rolls off the tongue nicely. Maybe I should try to say it. But before I can try another Edan runs into the room, and then some more, females this time, all staring and chattering excitedly.

"Tell her! She's out on the patio! Quick!" one of them is yelling over and over. I don't think anyone's listening to you, you know. They're all standing in here looking at me.

Wait. That's not an Edan. I should know what this is – this is important, this one, it's a – a – a Maia, that's right! Wow, a Maia. What an honor. I smile at him. He doesn't smile back. What's wrong with these people? I'm just trying to be nice.

"What do you think, Gandalf?" asks the dark-haired one, and the one with all the white hair, the Maia, looks closely at me, and I can feel his mind press up against mine.

That's fine. You want to come in? Enter, and welcome.

His thoughts snake in, tentative, unsure; I want to tell him to make himself at home but he pulls out too soon. "It is he, without a doubt," he says to the others crowded around him. "There's no memory, no experience; his mind's a blank. But it's definitely Legolas."

Legolas, now THERE'S a nice word. I wonder what it means? It does something to me, makes me feel funny, like I ought to know it.

"Where did he come from?" asks another. Not an Edan, not a Naugrim, not a Maia – not sure about this one . . .

"They sent him back, I suppose," says the white-haired one. "It's not unprecedented. Glorfindel came back. I came back."

Glorfindel – the Golden One – yes, that's the one. He's the one who told me something about breathing. But why do I need to breathe? I look around at them. They're still staring at me. I'm starting to feel a little crowded. I wonder if the next room is any bigger? I'm sure we'd be much more comfortable in a bigger room. I walk forward, they part before me, let me through. Yes, much bigger out here. Much better.


"Éowyn! Come quick!"

I turn away from the sunrise. It's Lothíriel, stumbling out onto the patio; she sounds terrified. Holy shit, NOW what? Oh, all right, here comes the Shieldmaiden to save the day again.

I walk up to the sliding glass door where she's standing. She's perfectly white, shaking like she's having a seizure, her eyes popping out of her head. Not an attractive look, hon.

She grabs my hand. Her fingers are very cold, and she's gripping me very tight. I look up at her.

"What?" I ask.

"Look," she says, and drags me through the doorway.


Yes, much more space. I like this better. Now they can all stand around and stare at me and talk, but I'm not so crowded. But they're not talking, not any more. I can hear a voice, outside, but I can't understand what it's saying. Now everyone is looking toward the voice. Maybe it's important. Maybe I should look, too.


The room is full of light. Not the TV after all. Blue-white light, pulsing, throbbing. Everyone's standing around in it like shadows. The light coalesces, it becomes a form, it becomes – it's – it's –





Oh, it's another Edan. A female. I like her hair, very pretty. Especially with the sun shining behind it, it looks – it makes me feel – I don't know; the other females were pretty too, but this one is making me feel awfully funny.


It can't be. It is. It's him. It's him. It's him.

Aragorn and Gandalf are talking at once, trying to explain.

"There's no pulse and he's not breathing, but there definitely seems to be a solid form there."

"I don't think he remembers anything, but it's the same personality, I'm convinced of it."

"I don’t understand it – if he were really alive he'd be breathing, we could see organs working, but we can see right through him."

"That light is just like the light of Valinor, it has the same quality."

"He hasn't said anything, I'm not sure he's mentally capable of speech."

Oh, great. So it's HIM and it's NOT him.

He stands looking at me. Naked and yet not quite naked; clothed in light. You can see the outline of his body through the glow, you can see through him, as though he were a glass filled with light. His hair is white, gossamer-soft, his eyes the most intense blue I have ever seen, bluer even than the neon glow he had when he was Listening.

It's him. But it's not him.


I know that face. Why do I know that face?

She's staring at me, she looks hungry, hopeful. That's a nice change from all the yelling and looking terrified. I think I like this Edan. She's pretty. And she's doing odd things to me. My throat feels tight. Why is it tight? And why does my chest hurt?

I know her. I just can't seem to remember.


He cocks his head, looks at me more closely. I can almost see him thinking.

This is so not fair. It's him and it's not him. If the Valar were going to bring him back, why didn't they do it right in the first place? Good grief, can't you guys up there do ANYTHING right?


Oh. I remember now. She has a name. I remember the name. Actually, like me, she has two. Two beautiful names. Maybe if I call her by name she'll come up to me.

I want her to come up to me. The dark-haired one just touched me on the neck with his fingers; I bet the pretty Edan will do better than that.


He opens his arms, the lips – not pink but the same cupids-bow shape – curve into a sweet smile.

"Acushla," he says. "My Éowyn."


She flies into my arms, I can feel her, solid, pressed against my chest. I wrap my arms around her back. I can see the fabric of her shirt through my arms, but she doesn't seem to care. She buries her face in my hair, and I'm laughing.


Rosemary, I smell rosemary. It IS him. It is. It's him. Oh, thank you, thank you, Yavanna.

You're welcome, Shieldmaiden.

He lifts his head; he can hear her too. He smiles at me. His eyes are clear, open, unguarded, unfilled. But it's the same beautiful face, the same silky hair, the same DIMPLES. I can't help it. I put my arms around the shimmery, quivery throat and kiss him.


Oh! This is – well – I wasn't expecting this kind of touching – not that I'm complaining, mind you, it's just that it's – it's – it's making that tightness in my chest feel worse, and I – I can't –

Remember what Glorfindel told you.

Oh yes – breathe.


His lips pull away from mine, and there's this loud sucking breath – he throws his head back, mouth open, inhaling deeply – then he exhales, looks down at me in wonder – inhales – exhales.

"He's breathing," says Aragorn. He looks astounded. "He's breathing."


In. Out. In. Out. Reminds me of something else I used to know that I can't remember. But my chest feels much, much better. Fuller, heavier, but I can feel the pretty Edan better, can feel the way her chest presses against mine. And instead of being flat, hers has these two soft bumps, and they feel very nice.

The dark-haired one steps up to me, looks at me, puts his fingers on my throat again. This is a very odd man. "Still no pulse," he says to the pretty Edan in my arms. "But look!" He's pointing at my mouth. "Look where Éowyn touched him. The skin isn't see-through there. It's solid."

Everyone crowds around to look. My pretty Edan looks too, then puts her fingers on my cheek, lightly draws them down to my chin. Oh, I liked that.


Well, I'll be damned. Wherever I touch him, he goes solid. I can see the lines my fingers drew on his face – four thin lines of warm porcelain skin, white against the glowing translucent blue of the rest of his face. I look at his lips. They're not glowing – they're that same alabaster. Not pink, though.

Aragorn notices. "No pulse, no blood, no blush," he says, grimacing. "He's breathing but there's still no heartbeat."

Damn. But it'll be nice to draw skin-pictures on him . . . I touch his chest. I leave an imprint of my hand in white skin, solid against the transparency. He looks down at his chest, then meets my eye and smiles. He takes my hand, puts it on his stomach, takes it off. Another hand print. He laughs.


I like this! Her touch changes me. Touch me some more.

The white-haired one steps up, looks around. They all fall silent, watching him. It's nice to see a Maia getting some respect. They deserve it, after all. I watch him, too. They are speaking to him, the tall shining ones. I can hear them. They are telling him things, things the Edan is supposed to do. And now he's looking at me, looking at my pretty Edan and me, and he's smiling.

"I have just been informed by Elbereth herself that it's Éowyn's touch that will bring Legolas back to us," he says. He looks around at them again, he thinks this is funny, but I don’t know why. Why should it be funny that her touch changes me, makes me more permanent? Is this strange? "The Valar have an amusing sense of the apropos, after all."

The big yellow-haired one is looking at me strangely. "Are you saying he and Éowyn have to – erm – keep touching each other before he goes back to being normal?"


Hm. I don’t think I'd complain about that. I like touching him – like little jolts of electricity, only soft, they hum and caress. I would love to see how that glowing translucent skin feels pressed up against mine.


Yes! What a wonderful idea. Yes, yes, please. I think I'd like that very much.


Gandalf turns to me, looks seriously at me, though he's still smiling. "I think it's about time we all headed back to the Marriott," he says, his black eyes twinkling. "Let's allow these reunited lovers the chance to see if love really DOES conquer all."

They look at him, at each other, then start collecting shoes and coats and shuffling to the door. They're murmuring, whispering, excited and smiling, looking back at us with anticipation. Gimli especially looks torn, as though he wants to stay and see what happens, but desperately doesn't want to have to watch the actual process.


Wait – where is everyone going?


"Hey," I say. Gandalf turns back to me, shrugging on his leather jacket. "Wait a minute. What the hell am I supposed to do, exactly?"

"Now, now, Éowyn," he says chidingly. "Don’t embarrass an old man by forcing him to describe acts of intimacy before younger and better experienced folk." Then when I blush he winks at me and says, "I have every confidence in you, my dear, that you'll know exactly what to do with him."

Now everyone's smiling, filing out, looking back at me and grinning. Gimli's staggering, still a little drunk, completely confused, but happy too. Lothíriel and Éomer are the last to go; Éomer's smiling wistfully, but Lothíriel looks back, gives me a big sunny grin and a thumbs-up. "Call me," she mouths, and the door shuts behind them.


That's too bad. Well, at least the pretty Edan is still here.

What was her name again? Oh yes.



Oh, there's that voice saying my name, that voice I thought I'd only hear in my dreams. I turn in his arms. They're light, insubstantial, but when I brush my fingertips over them I see the flesh beneath, as though I'm wiping the light away. He watches as I touch him, watches my fingers draw patterns on his arms, his shoulders, his chest. His hands, shimmering with a sort of veiled energy, are on my hips, holding me; I can see the denim through his hands. I take them, run my fingers and palms over them. He watches as his hands fade into solidity, then when I release them he smiles at me and lifts one of them to touch my cheek.

"Kiss?" he asks. He looks very hopeful. Well, heaven knows he's been through the wringer; I'll give him that one.

"Yes," I say, and he smiles and lowers his face to mine. Our lips touch.

He seems to remember kissing, at least. Those soft lips slide around mine, I can feel his breath on my cheek, and when I touch the tip of my tongue to his mouth he opens and answers, and for a while we just stand there and kiss and breathe.


Actually, I think I’m kind of glad the others have left. I don't think I'd be enjoying this nearly as much if they were watching us. As it is it's quite nice to kiss her, to feel her tongue against mine, and as long as I remember to breathe it's very comfortable.

I would like to touch her back, but that's not what the Maia said – he told her to touch me. I wish she'd keep going; I like watching my skin go opaque. And it gives me a heaviness, too, a feeling that I'm actually here, and not floating any more.

She raises her hands to my head, she's running her fingers through my hair. I can feel its weight floating down my shoulders and my back. What does her hair feel like? I lift one hand to her head and touch it gently. Oh, it is soft, soft and curly; I bury my fingers in that silky twisty warmth, pull my mouth from hers and rub my lips and nose against it.

I know that smell. Why do I know that smell? What is it, what is it called . . .


Oh, that feels so nice, to have his breath on my face, his mouth against my ears. He's nuzzling me, breathing deeply; it's a little disconcerting, since I still can't feel any sort of heartbeat, and he's still very cold.

"Oranges," he says into my hair, and I can feel him smile against my scalp. "Oranges and lemons."

He's not the first person to tell me I smell of citrus. I wonder if the Valar gave us our own personal scents? I never really noticed it in anyone else; I'll have to go around sniffing everyone to see.

He's still about two-thirds glowy see-through stuff. I'd better get cracking, I don't know how long everyone will be gone. I step back a little and start running my hands over his chest, arms, stomach, watching the light fade beneath my fingers, seeing the familiar planes and angles, the smooth muscles of his abdomen and arms, the light scattering of golden hairs on his navel and forearms, the pale downy fuzz that covers everything else. When I run my hands over his pectorals his nipples go dark; he flinches back, and they pucker up into little nubs.

Whoa. Wasn't expecting that.


Oh! That was – it tickled – it makes prickles, goose bumps all over. And why did I draw in such a quick, sharp breath? I didn't mean to do that.

She's looking up at me, it looks like she's thinking. Her hands are still on my chest. This feeling reminds me of something, something I can't quite remember. Is she going to do it again? I'm not sure but I think I'd like that.

How can I show her I liked that? Maybe if I kissed her. And anyway, kissing feels and tastes and smells good. Even if she doesn't take the hint at least we can kiss some more.


What did Gandalf mean? Am I supposed to try to get it on with Mr. Night of the Living Dead here? I don't even know if he has a penis down there; I can't see anything, just a bright glow of blue-white light. And judging from his reaction when I touched his nipples, he'd probably faint if I just reached down and grabbed him.

And what if I grab, and nothing's there?

THAT would be a big damn disappointment.

He's watching me, his eyes puzzled. He doesn't remember any of this; he barely even remembers my name. He doesn't realize we've explored each other's bodies, touching and caressing and kissing in every conceivable position.

Maybe I can remind him.

He leans down, he wants to kiss me again. Hell, I'm not about to complain about THAT. Undead or not, he's still a hell of a good kisser. But this time, when our lips touch and our mouths open, I keep up the rubbing and touching, making sure I get every square inch of his upper torso. I can't quite reach around his back, though.


All this, this touching and kissing, it's, it's making me a little, I don't know, anxious perhaps is the word I'm thinking of; my chest is tight, but not from not breathing; in fact I think I'm breathing faster now than I really need to be. But every time her mouth moves against mine, every time her fingers brush those sensitive spots on my chest – nipples, isn't that what they're called? – every time her hand reaches around my back my breath gets tighter and shorter and more uneven. Glorfindel told me to breathe, but I'm not sure he knew how hard it would be to breathe properly with an Edan kissing you at the same time.

She runs her hands up my shoulders again, sinking her mouth into mine; I'm holding her by her waist, not sure what to do with MY hands. Do I touch her back? Would she like that? Would it be proper, under the circumstances? I don’t know – I wish I could ask her, but my mouth is busy doing something else right now.

Now her hands run up my neck to my hair. Is she going to touch my hair again? Her hands are brushing the back of my scalp, pulling my face closer to hers. Now her fingers are –



He gives a great jerk, his breath sucked in with a sharp hiss; nearly bit off my tongue there. What did I do? I just ran my fingers up the rims of his ears, to make sure the glowy stuff was gone.

His fingers have tightened on my waist; I can feel them trembling. He's looking down at me, his luminescent eyes wide, his face stunned.

What did I do?


She's watching me, concerned. Oh, what was that; I felt like something cold and sharp slid into my stomach . . .

"Are you all right?" she asks. She looks worried. Am I? Oh yes, I am DEFINITELY all right, do that again . . .

"Again," I say. My voice sounds strange, thick; my throat is tight. She raises her eyebrows, but reaches her hands up to my ears again.

Ooohhh . . . that feels nice, nicer even than the nipple-thing.


His lids droop shut, his mouth drops open. Ooo. A previously undiscovered erogenous zone. No wonder Arwen won't let Aragorn touch her head in public. Wish he'd told me about this before. Probably saving it for a special occasion, the dork.

Now I'm definitely curious about the penis question.

We need to take this somewhere else. I don't mind making love in the living room, but the couches are leather, the floor is tile, and quite frankly, if I'm going to have nookie with a virginal vampire or whatever, I may as well make sure it's comfortable for us both. That means the bedroom.

Our bedroom.

Let's hope all his parts are present and in perfect working order.


Every time her fingers stroke up the sides of my ears the tight fluttery feeling gets stronger; when her fingertips linger on the points my stomach starts to shake. Oh, don't stop, don’t stop . . .

But she stops, trails her hands down my throat, my arms, to my hands. I open my eyes. She's smiling, looks nervous. She really is very pretty. I like her gray eyes, sparkly like they have jewels in them; I like her red mouth, especially when she smiles. And I like the little dent under her nose that curves into the top of her upper lip. I wonder if it's as soft as it looks? I hope she doesn't mind my touching her. I reach up with my fingertip and brush it carefully. Oh, it is soft, and she seems to like it; her eyes close. I trace her mouth with my finger; when I get to the middle of her bottom lip she opens her mouth and kisses my finger.


This is promising.

He smiles at me. He has the same dimples, the same delicious mouth. Suddenly I don't care if he IS still dead. Necrophilia was never one of my things, but if this is what it takes to get me off, I'm all for it.

Now. Time to do what Gandalf said.

"I need to touch the rest of you," I say. He smiles innocently at me. Obviously that doesn't trigger any kind of memory in him. That's a little worrying. Then again, he didn't seem to realize my touching his ears or his nipples would do anything either, and boy, did he like that!

Maybe he'll like the rest of it, too.


Okay. That's fine. Then we can make all of me opaque, make the brightness go away. And anyway, I like how her hands feel when they make my skin appear. Her hands are nice, warm and soft, like the rest of her. And maybe, when she's done touching me, she'll let me touch her. If it feels as good for her having her ears and nipples touched, maybe she will.

"You'll need to lie down, though. I need to be able to reach all of you."

That makes sense. "Okay," I say. I look around for somewhere to lie down.

"Not here," she says, and she's smiling. I smile back. She has a pretty smile. "You need to lie down on the bed. It'll be more comfortable."

The bed? Oh yes, that blue thing I ended up on. All right, we can do that.

"Okay?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. She smiles again and leads me back to the other room.


It's almost a shock to see the empty bed, see the rumpled comforter pressed down in the shape of his body. But oh, I'm so glad it's empty now, because I'm going to be able to put him back there, and even though he's not really HERE, at least he's moving and speaking, and that's so much better than his dead cold shell.

He walks up to the bed confidently, trustingly, sits on the edge. He's about half-glow now; there are hardly any glowing spots on his upper body, but from the navel down he's just one big blob of thick white light. When I approach the bed I see that I've missed a few spots, where I couldn't reach the middle of his back between his shoulder blades, or a few shining parts of his scalp.

Might be better to start with the backside, anyway. If all goes well, by the time I reach the front we'll have a major distraction on our hands.

"You'll need to lie down on your stomach," I say, and I sit on the other side of the bed and pat the middle. "Right here."

"Okay," he says again. He rolls onto the bed, stretches that long lean body out into the groove his dead body made. He brings his arms up under his chin and nestles down comfortably with a sigh and a smile.

It's like I'm going to give him a backrub or something. I scoot forward on my knees. Better start at the top and work my way down.


This is very cozy, I like this bed. It smells nice, it smells of her and of me, of citrus and rosemary. I can feel her weight moving across the bed beside me, then I feel her knee touch my side. Her hands touch my head, stroking and petting and swirling through my hair. I can feel the light fade, feel her fingers chasing it away.

Now her hands are between my shoulders, rubbing and stroking. They're following the groove of my spine. I turn my head and look up at her through the shining strands of my hair. I would really love to have her touch my ears again.

"Ears?" I say.

She looks surprised, but pleased. She smiles, reaches out a fingertip and traces my ear.

I love that rush of warmth, the prickly chills that go down my spine. I sigh again.

"You like that?" she whispers.

"Yes," I say. Very much.


He shivers under my touch, and I can feel shivers of my own starting up. Oh hell, even if he doesn't have a penis he can still touch me; I'll show him what I like, dammit, and he can bring me off that way. Since he's being so agreeable I might as well take advantage of it. I have to wriggle a little; my shorts are very tight, and the thick doubled-over denim seam between my legs is rubbing and pressing up against a suddenly very tingly, achy spot.

I run my fingertip over the sharp point of his ear again, circle it gently. He inhales sharply, closes his eyes. I can see the muscles of his arm clench up. Oh yes, very promising.

Now then. Let's see what kind of reaction I get below the waist, shall we?


Oh, that is nice, very very nice; when she's finished I'll have to see if I can return the favor. I don't know if her ears feel like mine, but maybe I can find some other spot she likes to have touched.

I would like to explore her. All I can see is the skin outside the clothes. I wonder what she has underneath them? I know it's not going to look quite like mine. I wonder what the differences are? I know I ought to know, I know I ought to remember, but I can't . . .

Her fingers leave my ears, which is disappointing, but as they're trailing down my back and my sides I suppose I can't complain too much. And now – oh my – they're, they're running over my, my backside – the palms of her hands flat, stroking, circling – not quite like touching my ears, but it makes me want to jump and twitch and wriggle.


Ah yes, see those back muscles constrict and tense; oh hello there, Elven Ass, I really, really missed you . . . those beautiful round globes, the crease of the middle, with its slightly darker skin, the two dimples flanking the end of your spine. I won't scare you and start probing your depths, so to speak, but I will trail my fingers down the cleft to that tight spot between your legs . . .



And I thought it felt good when she touched my ears, oh my, oh my

Oh dear – she's leaving it –


Don’t get him too wound up – still have the legs to do.

I skim the hips, smoothing the light down into soft pale skin; I enjoy the curve and play of muscle, the fold of flesh from his backside to the back of his thigh. When I stroke my hands down one leg to the back of his knee he twitches, jerks back, then laughs breathlessly.

"Does that tickle?" I ask.

"Yes," he says, then turns his head back around to look at me. He's grinning, flashing his dimples at me through that tangled golden mess of hair. I grin back. Ticklish! That's something to remember. When I do the other leg I press a little harder, so it doesn't tickle as much.

I trail down his calves to his feet, his beautiful slender feet; he jumps again when I knead the flesh back into them, and laughs – laughs like bells ringing, like water chuckling over stones in a stream. It makes me laugh, too.

I finish his toes and look him over. The only blue-white light I can see is seeping out from beneath his hips and legs, where I haven't touched him yet.

All right. Show time.

"Turn over," I say. He smiles over his shoulder at me and complies.


I roll onto my back. Ah, that feels better; I can feel the cloth beneath me better, it's soft, soft and giving beneath my skin.

She's watching me, her eyes hooded; still smiling, but I can tell something is about to happen.

I know I should know what it is. Why can I not remember?

She kneels at my feet, and I watch her look at me. Her eyes start at my legs and move up my body to my chest. She pauses when she gets to my hips. What is she looking for? Does she suspect, as I know, that the center of this agitated, nervous, jiggly feeling is right in that bright white place? It started with her fingers on my nipples, and only got worse as she touched my ears, my bottom, slid her fingers beneath my bottom. Oh, please hurry; I want to touch you, make you feel like this, too. We ought both to feel this way, trembly and goose-bumpy and excited.

She puts her hands on the tops of my feet, strokes up my shins. The light fades beneath her palms, and I see the flesh there, stretching up to my knees, to my thighs.

The trembling is getting worse now. The closer she gets to that bright white core, the shorter my breaths are, and the more my stomach twists and turns. Her breaths are coming fast too, I can hear them, short and ragged; her eyes are bright, she's concentrating hard.


Smooth white skin, curly golden hairs. Oh please, oh please –

He's quivering beneath me, but when I look at him his eyes are trusting, ingenuous. I can feel him, tense beneath me; I can hear his sharp breaths, smell the piney, musky maleness of him.

Only a few more inches – come on –

The light flees before my touch. The golden curls thicken, the skin grows darker. I circle around this last bright point, find the dip of the navel, the sharp points of his hips. I run my fingers through the coarse hair.

Now or never.

I bring them up, in, and together, and what I find there more than makes up for the last six hours of living hell.


Oh, you are almost there, lovely Edan; closer, closer, touch me, touch me please –

Oh yes –


He arches, thrusts up against my touch. It stands out from the nest of curls, ramrod-straight, swollen purple head, hard as a rock, the sac beneath high and tight.


Oh – yes – what was your name –

"Éowyn – "

She looks up at me. Her eyes are clouded, feral; with trembling hands she grasps the hem of her shirt and pulls it up over her head.

Oh . . . lovely – so that's what she has underneath there. She has nipples too. Oh, they are lovely.


His eyes are on my breasts, darkening with desire. The light is gone now, except for the glowing in his eyes. His cock is trembling, lying quivering against his belly, thick and dark and leaking from the tip.


She looks at me hungrily, as though I were a feast for her own consumption. Devour me, show me what to do; I know I should know but I can't remember, can't remember, just take this aching, this itching, this heaviness in my chest, this trembling away before it drives me mad


His eyes are desperate, confused; he knows he's supposed to do something but he can't seem to remember how to do it.

Not to worry. Got it covered.

Have to get these stupid shorts off, hurry hurry hurry, he's watching me, eyes wide, panting; his arms are stretched out beside him, fingers twitching and flexing and grabbing at the comforter. I tear the shorts off, pulling my panties halfway down in the process; they're drenched, sticky.


That's a new smell, it's – it's – oh, what is it, I know that –

Oh, look – a thick triangle of hair, what's beneath it, I should know, why don't I know

Now she crawls up me, her knees on either side of me, her hands on either side as well; she is breathing hard, her gray eyes clouded, her red lips open.

Touch me – touch me some more – oh, please, touch me – this aching, this shaking is driving me insane –


Careful – careful – don't spook him – he looks close to terrified, but he's desperate too, and oh how he looks up at me, adoration and trust and desire all at once –

My labia brush the length of his cock; his eyebrows pucker in his forehead, his hips twitch upward. Not yet, not yet –


Oh please, lovely Edan, please, Éowyn – what was it I called you, it rolled off my tongue so easily –

"Acushla – "

She jerks her head up at that, meets my eyes; startled, pleased. Then oh, her fingers circle that hard heat, pull it forward, and she shifts down



oh god finally, thought I was going to explode

I clench around him; his eyes flutter closed, cutting off the glowing light. His hips buck up into mine and I can see sparks. I pull up, then push down again, feeling that fat thick head rub up inside me. Oh god, that feels so good.


She makes a moaning sound; I open my eyes. Her eyes are shut, she's moving, moving back and forth, and I am inside her. Oh I fill her, she surrounds me; oh this is what I wanted though I didn't know it; I remember it now, I remember the clenching the pulsing the heat and friction

She shifts above me, braced on her knees, oh no lovely acushla we can do better, I remember now


His arms spring like snapping elastic around me, his hands on my back, pressing me to him; when he moves his hips I feel him rubbing inside me, and outside too; the jets of electricity shoot from front to back, my entire pelvic area is throbbing

Then we twist, we two; the long springy body flips me, pins me down on the bed, the hips shifting, his length still inside me, pumping, stroking; I can feel his legs on the insides of my thighs, the long silky hair falling about us like a brilliant waterfall; he tucks his face in the crook of my neck, thrusting, deep, even strokes, oh god it feels wonderful

And odd as well, though I can feel the sleek skin, feel the rubbing, the pulsing, he is light as a feather, light as a cloud; there's no weight, nothing pressing down on me. But that doesn't prevent those muscles clamping and clenching, the shifting, pushing, palpitating rhythm building that spiral within me, that circle



this is what

I remember

the heat within her

that answers mine

oh yes

there is something coming

I think I know what it is

and it is within me

but I think

it is about to come out

and into you

my acushla


Our breath is short, ragged, I can feel his mouth against my throat, I want to see him as he comes, want him to see me, oh I'm close, the shimmery electricity of his skin ignites me, it is building building building oh I am almost there

I hold his head, lift it, his face is before me, restive, agitated, he looks down at me, his eyes shining blue blue blue; his rhythm quickens, my body answers

Our lips touch, the lightest brush, I am crying aloud, he is too, oh it is coming, coming


Oh look at you lovely Edan, look at you acushla, listen to you, listen to us, it is lovelier music by far than anything I have ever heard

We are approaching something, my chest is bursting, I want it but I don't understand it, oh help me reach it, acushla


I'm almost there

Wait I know I can push him over the edge, watch

I bring my fingers to the tips of his ears just










oh oh oh oh yes yes yes, that was it, oh yes I remember, oh acushla –

my body, my chest, oh it hurts, it hurts, but now –


He gives a great wrench in my arms, groans, jerks up and back down, takes a deep breath, and then –


yes that's what I was waiting for


His weight is on me, sudden heaviness, we sink deeper into the mattress and the bed creaks, he groans, gasping, trembling

I put my arms around him, he is solid, and I feel warmth beneath my skin

And when I press my face to his neck, when my ear is so close to his chest, I hear it.

His heartbeat.

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Le Rouret

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: Other

Genre: Humor

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 09/30/04

Original Post: 04/19/04

Go to Pottymouth overview


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