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Under The Branches of Memory

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It seemed a lifetime ago that she had walked in these woods. And, she supposed, it had been.

A lifetime ago she had found love under the golden mellryn. Twice, really, but her fate had led her away from the first Elf to capture and hold her heart. The only one, she thought, to continue holding it. The only one who would forever hold the spark of a burning flame they had once carried for one another.

Deep into the forest she rode, her eyes forever filled with tears she was unable to shed. When she at last came upon a glade very near the mound of Amroth, she released her mount. She spoke in lyrical words, a language lost to those of the Age of Man. As her steed, as old and weary as she, walked into the darkness of a wood that had once contained only light, she wondered on all she had lost in making her choice to be Estel's bride. Across the forest floor her skirts swished like a black cloud of mourning, disturbing little as her mortal feet glided over fallen leaves.

The trees seemed to part before her, taking her down a forgotten path of her childhood. The dying light of day sparkled on a pool in the centre of a glade, and through the haze of memory, Arwen swore that, splashing in the depths, was her playmate of many, many summers. Limbs, long and graceful, danced in crystal-clear water, sensuously beckoning to the darkling Elf that stood upon the shore. The water nymph's silver hair floated about her, cloaked her nudity while clinging to every supple curve of the Elf's body.

But the bare flesh hidden by the curtain of moonlight was flesh seared into the memory of the Elf-Queen of Men. Her palms still remembered the firm weight of full breasts and nipples so responsive that all she had to do was whisper over the pink buds for them to tighten. The sighs made as warm breath stole over water-cooled skin rang in her ears and teased her senses.

In the welcoming embrace of the weeping willows that circled the clearing, she would drag her lover from the pond. Under the dappled light of Anor, she would lick the crystalline drops from the pale body that writhed beneath her.

Arwen felt her face flush and her heart flutter as the images played out before her tired eyes. It was as if the quiet of the Golden Wood she had loved in woke once more, spent the last of its dwindling magics to give its protector's grandchild one last moment of happiness. Yes, the peace was disturbed briefly so that Arwen, last of those who remembered clearly all the trials and sacrifices Middle-earth had seen, smiled once more before eternal darkness swept her away into its folds and stole all these precious moments from her. The glade was scented with their musk and echoed with their soft moans, tenderly spoken words.

Fingers delved into moist palaces of pleasure, forcing notes of bliss and ecstasy from bruised and swollen lips. Tongues tasted forbidden honey, savouring the sweet, milky thickness.

She walked from the clearing of her childhood love -- their secret place, their secret passions. Arwen walked until she came to the mound, where all past loved paled to the future love.

It was here her lover had cried.

It was here she had cried.

And now, bereft of King and long-lost love, she laid herself down.

In the bittersweet arms of memory, Arwen Undomiel passed from the realms of Man and Elf, her beauty, her life, her heart, lost to the tales of legends.


	Navigation single-part stories		Under The Branches of Memory Beta: None It seemed a lifetime ago that she had walked in these woods. And, she supposed, it had been. A lifetime ago she had found love under the golden mellryn. Twice, really, but her fate had led her away from the first Elf to capture and hold her heart. The only one, she thought, to continue holding it. The only one who would forever hold the spark of a burning flame they had once carried for one another. Deep into the forest she rode, her eyes forever filled with tears she was unable to shed. When she at last came upon a glade very near the mound of Amroth, she released her mount. She spoke in lyrical words, a language lost to those of the Age of Man. As her steed, as old and weary as she, walked into the darkness of a wood that had once contained only light, she wondered on all she had lost in making her choice to be Estel's bride. Across the forest floor her skirts swished like a black cloud of mourning, disturbing little as her mortal feet glided over fallen leaves. The trees seemed to part before her, taking her down a forgotten path of her childhood. The dying light of day sparkled on a pool in the centre of a glade, and through the haze of memory, Arwen swore that, splashing in the depths, was her playmate of many, many summers. Limbs, long and graceful, danced in crystal-clear water, sensuously beckoning to the darkling Elf that stood upon the shore. The water nymph's silver hair floated about her, cloaked her nudity while clinging to every supple curve of the Elf's body. But the bare flesh hidden by the curtain of moonlight was flesh seared into the memory of the Elf-Queen of Men. Her palms still remembered the firm weight of full breasts and nipples so responsive that all she had to do was whisper over the pink buds for them to tighten. The sighs made as warm breath stole over water-cooled skin rang in her ears and teased her senses. In the welcoming embrace of the weeping willows that circled the clearing, she would drag her lover from the pond. Under the dappled light of Anor, she would lick the crystalline drops from the pale body that writhed beneath her. Arwen felt her face flush and her heart flutter as the images played out before her tired eyes. It was as if the quiet of the Golden Wood she had loved in woke once more, spent the last of its dwindling magics to give its protector's grandchild one last moment of happiness. Yes, the peace was disturbed briefly so that Arwen, last of those who remembered clearly all the trials and sacrifices Middle-earth had seen, smiled once more before eternal darkness swept her away into its folds and stole all these precious moments from her. The glade was scented with their musk and echoed with their soft moans, tenderly spoken words. Fingers delved into moist palaces of pleasure, forcing notes of bliss and ecstasy from bruised and swollen lips. Tongues tasted forbidden honey, savouring the sweet, milky thickness. She walked from the clearing of her childhood love -- their secret place, their secret passions. Arwen walked until she came to the mound, where all past loved paled to the future love. It was here her lover had cried. It was here she had cried. And now, bereft of King and long-lost love, she laid herself down. In the bittersweet arms of memory, Arwen Undomiel passed from the realms of Man and Elf, her beauty, her life, her heart, lost to the tales of legends.