Seawater

"You are sailing to Middle-Earth with me—tomorrow, at first light."

She's unwavering in her wild assertion, so fierce when she's demanding of him fight and sacrifice. As though if she swings her hair and tuts her chin up, pins him with her gaze while the borrowed name falls from her lips, he'll do her bidding. He promised –he swore – never to return. Nothing awaits for him across the sea, save for ash and burnt corpses, men nameless and crowned alike, no one escaping his wrath.

So he was the one to flee. Chose the skin of a repentant, washed his face in the sea –mortal wounds burning– and locked his power deep inside. Temptation to use it hardly waned, the urge to flaunt this flame of might and awe. He is tempted now, to show her what monster lies under the rags.

And the elf is offering seawater to a thirsty man—all he desires, and all that will inevitably destroy him.

"The Southlands need their King," she says. She palms the pouch hanging from his neck and pushes it to his chest as if by sheer force she can make it a part of him. He catches her hand.

"And a King needs his Queen."

She has the audacity to appear astonished. As if in all her elven years she hasn't known desire. The feeling licks at his insides as her lips part in realization. It has been lying there, unstretched, this binding thread between them. He reasoned he should sever it, let her cross the sea alone and hope she dies in battle. A foolish notion, when all he needs is to fashion the thread into a rope, tie her to him.

Or tie himself to her. He doesn't mind either way.

"I will fight, if you are with me." He can fight darkness itself. She will demand it, someday.

She lifts her chin, but leans closer. "I serve no King."

His nose grazes hers as he ghosts over her lips. "Then let your King serve you. "

He bites the skin of her neck under her ear, tasting her pulse under his teeth.

She lets him.