"Some things that should not have been forgotten were lost."
Eru Ilúvatar. The Creator. The Father of all within Eä. It was he who began it, the shaping of the universe and its inhabitants. He bore knowledge in all things; knowledge of things that w...
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March 12th, 2933 TA.
West. Eriador. The White Towers. Emyn Beraid. ﴾Arthedain﴿ West of The Shire. Southeast of the Grey Havens.
He endeavored to force his thoughts back into some semblance of order. Albeit, it was too much. It was all too much. She impelled him to this place. A place of delirium, filled with desperate desire. He forgot gentleness; his strength dwelt in their fusion, a momentary mendicant to aid his suffering soul. "Focáil, I-I can-cannot control myself!" he exclaimed, "Aaaahhhh-I am, I am e-eructing s-so hard!"
His form snapped. Like the string of a great war bow, he drew his hips abaft, thereupon forth, his turgid arrow finding its mark.
Pounding
Pulverizing
Punishing
An inescapable, pulsating pressure shot his thick, torrid seed down her sensual throat. His mind went blank, and his form convulsed as he came. A deep-seated, ungovernable shout arose from his lips. An electric, ethereal plane of pleasure coursed through his veins. His muscles were made weak, and he came to collapse, satisfied and spent. Riwal let the lids of his eyes fall low. Esola removed her red, swollen lips from his emollient erection. Her gaze was hard and harrowing. She stressed his name, her sing-song tone hateful, "Riwal!"
"Mmm?" He replied.
FFFFTT!
It was sudden. It was swift. His eyes bulged. From his gaping mouth he drew a sharp breath. Where once he found himself swept amidst the throes of bearish, raw bonding - forthwith the carnal fog that shrouded his better senses, came to clear. He swallowed thickly. Endeavoring to repeat his prior query, "E-Esola... w-what are you doing?"
A strange sensation disrupted his current deliberation. Pain. It began like a dart of ice, settling like a drift from a blacksmith's forge. Biting. Burning. A sudden torrent of crimson color cascaded nether his chest. His eyes went from wife to wound, and back again.
In the palm of Esola's hand, Riwal's eyes beheld the thing that had remained hidden, lying amidst the lush green grass. A breathtaking blackened blade hand-forged from damascus, perfect and raw in its potency. Honed to reflect the curving claw of a wild caracal, with a bitter-stinging point, its edges both sharp and stunning. The apex of the hilt adorned carefully crafted, gold-relieved, twining foliage. Therefrom came an iridescent, pearl grip, bearing resemblance to the wings of the supernal seraphim from Áit-Neamh aloft.
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The blade was bathed in blood. His blood. His mind whirled, as he gathered the gravity of her true intentions, the true meaning of the interplay amidst himself and his wife. "My queen concealed. The demon revealed," he breathed, heeding the crimson path she paved upon his chest.
