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April 6, 2011

The Turning of Nimros

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AelKennyr Rhiano

She was everything. She was nothing.  Nails with silver tips trailed across exposed skin, and the sensation drove all thought from his mind.  The feel of her skin under his hands, silky, smooth, firm, was an intoxication stronger than any drink, any elixir. The scent of her was a heady perfume, and when his fingers entwined in her silver hair, he shuddered, captured as much by her presence as by the very thought of her.

She was not meek.  She was not mild.  She was not demure.  She was powerful, sleek, a predator.  She reeked of danger.  She exuded exoticism, and he fed upon the danger with an abandonment he could have never dreamed. Being with her was a rich, dark flavor in his mind, on his lips, and while he gave himself up to the experience, another part...the cautious, thoughtful, dutiful Nimros deep within him noted how she avoided questions, the constant misdirection.  The idea  rose up from that part of his being that he was very much in the arms of a predator.  And the thought both chilled and excited him.

Never once could he imagine spurning her, turning her away, denying the pleasure she offered. She was the fire that burned its way into every nerve ending, and recklessly, he allowed himself to be engulfed by that flame, neither knowing nor caring if it reduced him to smoldering ashes. Each moment bound him more to her, more to a need of her, more to a want for her. 

Each moment found his heart hardening against the gentle way of his life before, in Alqualonde.  The regular and peaceful pace.  The tranquil and repetitive daily routine of a fisher, a simple fisher.  The very thought fed a cold hardening of his heart, even as his flesh was warmed.

"Here, "came the thought, dark, cold, hard, "here, I can be more.  I may die...sooner, but I will have lived. I will have known...power." 

Then she touched him, and all thoughts,  hot, cold, all thoughts fled and only lust remained.


For the first time in his young life, Nimros feels keenly and fully a disgruntlement with the role in Teleri society in Alqualonde...a fisher, son of a fisher.  No warrior, no ranger, nothing of consequence. A fisher.  A resentment, bitter and hot, arose in him.  Why must he be a fisher, there, when here...here...and a musing arose...here could he be more?

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