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What Dreams
Author: Aratlithiel Summary: The Ring has many methods of persuasion Warnings: Het content (sort of), very dark Rating: NC-17
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June 26, 2003
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WHAT DREAMS
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He is sitting, blinking against the (fire smoke cinder) inky darkness, wheezing in harsh, sharp breaths even before he is fully awake. He presses his hand to his brow, wipes away the (ash soot) sweat, runs a shaking hand over his face and finds tears beneath his fingertips. He presses his palm to his mouth, locks in the scream that hunches - biding, crouching at the back of his throat.
a dream only a dream
He draws his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs, curls his toes into the (scorching rock) feather mattress. Cold, he’s (hot too hot) so cold and a shudder breaks loose, rolls beneath his skin, an agonizing wave of heat and ice, pricking its way to his bones. He lays his head to his knees, presses his nose into the sheet draped about them and pulls (fumes) cedar-scented air deep into his lungs.
a dream a dream only a dream stop it just stop
He clenches (the ring) his hands into fists, fingers creaking with the force and it (burns oh it hurts!) clears his head just a little. He sucks in another (choking) deep breath, wills his trembling to calm.
A (malice) gentle hand presses at his nape (freezes burns) and he startles, turns and (it) she is there, dark eyes piercing him with (black flame) the love and comfort they hold and he (can’t have can’t want) wants her, needs her and he realizes that he is painfully hard. His eyes meet hers, lock on and (don’t see me stop seeing me) all of the answers to any question he has ever wondered over are in her eyes. He wants those answers, wants (it) her and she (mocks him) opens her arms to him, invites him to take what he will.
He pulls her to him, lays her down and (wrong all wrong) presses his mouth to her throat, grinds himself against her silken thigh. She smells of (brimstone) apples and (sulphur) musk and she tastes of (blood ash) honey. He trails his fingertips over smooth (gold) soft skin, cups her warm breast and circles a nipple with his thumb.
She writhes beneath his touch, (hisses) gasps out his name and (laughs) pleads for him to (put it on just put it on) take her, fill her, have what is his and freely given. He lays his mouth to hers, closes his eyes and delves deep and wants, oh but he wants and she is here and willing and so (precious) beautiful and she needs him to take her, needs him to claim her.
He pulls his mouth from hers, (drops the chain from his fingers) slides himself between her legs and she opens for him, pulls her knees up. He can feel the sultry heat coming from within, can feel it (demanding) beckoning, wanting, lusting, calling. And he is so hard and it hurts (hot cold too much) but he can’t, he just can’t. It’s wrong somehow, all wrong, all of it and scalding tears burn behind his eyes.
She moves her hand, takes hold of him gently and (put it on put it on) guides him to the searing-sweet relief he craves. A wail of (terror) frustration catches in his throat because he (wants) cannot do this, (needs) cannot take this, (must) cannot have this. She does not belong to him, she is another’s and he must resist, must not let himself fall, must not betray (everything) himself.
She (leers) smiles up at him, her face filled with (fire) tenderness, (lust) love, her touch against his skin (empty flame) warm and sweetly demanding. She skates her fingertips over his cheek, (hurts oh it hurts) down his throat and heat rumbles over his skin.
“You (will) can,” she (hisses) whispers. “It is only what is already yours.”
He groans, grits his teeth. His whole body is trembling with the strain of self-control and (I do not choose…) he can’t, he just can’t but he is weak and she wants him, needs him and oh, she is so beautiful but he (must) must not, (will) will not...
She cants her hips (mine) and heat explodes inside of him and he (places the Ring on his finger) plunges himself in, (cold so cold) brutal and violent and it’s sweet and it’s bewitching and he (shrieks writhes weeps) cries out, pulls back and slams in again. His hips move fast and frenzied and he slides deep, pounding out a staccato rhythm that loosens his mind from its moors and sends it reeling.
And she is (laughing) gasping, thrashing, twisting beneath him. Her hands (claw) grasp his hips, pull him deeper into (cold so cold and it burns) velvet heat. Her nails dig into his flesh and fire jolts through his spine. She rocks and moans and screams and (snarls) wails his name and all the while her eyes are locked on his (don’t see me stop seeing me) and he tries, tries, tries but he cannot pull his gaze away.
Heat is building within him and it’s wrong, it’s wrong but he cannot make his hips stop thrusting, cannot stop himself from bending and laying his mouth to hers, sucking those screams from her mouth, plunging his tongue deep and scraping her cries into his own throat, releasing them to resonate through his soul (please it hurts and it feels so good and it won’t stop).
It mounts, builds and he is shattering beneath it - breaking, weeping, screaming his (horror) lust. He is crumbling, falling and there is no end to the (void) chasm he teeters over, no bliss to fall into, be cradled in but he cannot stop his hips from thrusting, cannot stop the wild frenzy his body is convulsing with. Blazing (rock) flesh beneath him, (the world) crumpled linen fisted in his hands and he rocks and weeps and laughs and throws his head back and screams.
Too much, it’s too much and he is spiraling up, up and he holds, hovers at the brink and he can’t, he can’t and this is his last chance, his only chance and he must (deny) stop, must (resist) pull away, must (let himself fall) save himself but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t and he feels it building, feels it trying to crash through. Begging, she is (screeching) begging, (seething) pleading, clawing at him, pulling him in. She locks her legs around his hips and strong, she is so strong! He is caught, trapped and she rocks her hips up, hard and pitiless and he can’t breath and he (must) does not want this, (must) cannot have this, (must) must not take this.
This last thing, this (only) one last thing and he (can’t) can do this, he must (fall) do this and he stops, stills, gasping and weeping and now it’s his turn to beg and he (steps to the fire) pulls away from the heat that is tearing away his soul, shredding his sanity. He struggles against her grip, tries to pry her (white bony fingers) arms from his neck, her (slithering grasp) legs from his waist but she won’t release him, won’t relent (precious) and he has no choice now (give it to us), never had a choice anyway, so what does it matter in the end?
She is leaning up, moaning, whispering and (razor teeth) her mouth is at his (hand) throat and her lips close around his flesh and she (bites) suckles and her kiss hurts, it hurts, burns, scorches and (blood flows rich and red) she gnashes her teeth. Blinding pain at his (hand) breast and she laughs through blooded teeth with his heart crushed and dripping in her fist as she (imprisons) releases him, (gathers him in) falls away and he clamps his eyes tight and opens his mouth on a throat-tearing shriek.
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A whistle of breath works its way up from the narrow chest and out through parched lips. The dirty face is screwed into a grimace of what might be terror or pain or sorrow or any number of things that he can only guess at if there was any amount of strength behind it.
Aragorn wipes a cool cloth over the ashed and ashen brow, dribbles a trickle of water through the cracked lips. The mouth keeps moving, air wheezing in and out in pitiful gasps, choking gurgles sounding in a cadence that suggests words but cannot quite seem to form them.
The yet uncrowned king looks to the wizard, a question writ large across his furrowed brow. Gandalf only looks back, face stony yet somehow filled with sorrow. His countenance gives no answer.
Whispers, weak and urgent bubble up from the wasted form, fingers scrabble feebly at crisp linen. Aragorn leans in, wonders why his throat has suddenly gone dry as he bends his neck, places his ear close.
Gandalf watches the Dúnadan, sees his brow crease deeper still. The wizard sighs low and leaden when Aragorn’s eyes widen and his hands clench and spasm at either side of the Ring-bearer’s head. The king’s back straightens and he jolts back, sharp and sudden as though hot iron has been laid to his skin. He stands slowly from the cot, turns as one in a dream and finds the wizard’s gaze locked upon him. His jaw hangs loose, his limbs are weak and watery. He is too numb to feel the tears burning white tracks down his cheeks.
“What have I done?” he chokes then stumbles back, turns from the wizard and drops to his knees, lays his head to the thin mattress. “What have I done?”
Gandalf moves to the other side of the narrow bed, lowers himself, places one hand to Frodo’s chest and the other to Aragorn’s shoulder. He leans in to the agonized muttering that has already been casting about his heart, echoing through his soul but now he will hear it with his ears, now he will place it firmly in the earth where he can no longer allow himself to deny it, can no longer pretend it is a trick of his weary mind.
“…don’t see me stop seeing me let me fall let me die…”
Gandalf bows his head, ancient eyes closed tight, chin trembling beneath the jut of snowy whiskers. He whispers slow in an ancient tongue, imprecation and benediction and it rolls soft and mellow from his lips. The heart beneath his gnarled hand slows its rhythm, the breaths lengthen, ease. The wizard leans up and places a kiss to the cold, grimy brow. He smoothes Frodo’s matted hair back, squeezes Aragorn’s shoulder.
“You did what you had to do,” he murmurs to one and both but, though he knows the same is true of his own deeds, he gives himself no such comfort. This small one will forgive him, he knows, deserved or not and he wonders if his heart can bear that kindness. “Now we do as we must.” The words are hollow and empty, fall cold and shriveled to the ground.
To himself he thinks: ‘Betrayal begat from hope and love is betrayal still. Choose another name – duty, burden, calling – all mean as much, all cleave as ruthless and as deep.’ He stands, sweeps to the edge of the emerald glade then stops, turns. He looks to the frail form, at last in peaceful slumber and the king, bent in supplication beside him. ‘I am sorry, Frodo,’ and the wizard removes from those most beloved, dims into the gloaming, fades to grey. He chooses solitude for his lament.
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