Author's Note:

This is unlike any other fic I've ever written.

For once, it's a romance fic, which I'm written once or twice, but never such an intense one, and never one in which the romance was the heart of the matter. Secondly, it's rated R, which is completely new. This is actually the first time I'm writing a sex scene. And while I have no social taboos restricting me (long story), I was held back by both wanting to refrain from making the sexual act itself the main idea and also, plain and simple, my lack of experience.

It's very unlikely there will ever be another such fic from me. I have no idea why I wrote it. I was just stuck thinking about Feanor and the Silmarils, and wondered if I can write a story about passion. This was intended as a simple exercise in writing, and look what it turned into…

I hope you'll like it. Elrond and Celebrian are sorely neglected, as are stories in which sex (and for the matter love) is something that means something for itself rather than just snogging. If I indeed set you thinking about passion, I'm happy. If not, I hope you enjoyed this anyway.

Disclaimer: You know, don't own people, events. All belonging to Tolkien, who probably never dreamed someone will do anything like this with his Elves.


"Life is not tried

It is merely survived

If you're standing outside the fire"

Garth Brooks – "Standing Outside the Fire"

They made love under the shadows of the trees and the light of the stars, a game of touch and go that turned into an all-consuming fire, engrossing their interlocking bodies, flames dancing over their skin. They played, explored each other, touched and tried, probing, seeking the pleasure, seeking the pain, tittering on the limit between the two in a wild storm of passion that was almost a dance in body and a song in spirit. Hands held, broke, fingered, hesitantly slipping over skin wet with salty sweat and faces wet with tears of rapture. Hidden under the shadows of the trees, clothes and defenses came off, storm and fire seemed to mingle with flesh and blood. Flesh against flesh, blood roaring within, fingers and lips, chest against chest and mouth against neck and cheek, tenderly but ferociously, with a hunger and painful yearning and yet with fulfillment, discovery and silent joy. No sound to pierce the night except the whispers of kind words, shadow of trees and light of stars, dancing to love's soft tune.

They made love under the quiet, glorious night sky; deep into the late hours and yet not parting though soon it was to be dawn. In the peaceful and undisturbed, cool and orderly gardens of fair Imladris, by the waterfalls and the flowerbeds with their sweet scent, mingling with the sweeter yet aroma of their bodies. It began as an innocent enough encounter, a stroll among the quiet, ever-calm beauty. The Lord of Imladris and Princess of Lorien, unsuspecting of what is to come at first, shy and reserved, still frightened of what was growing in their hearts. In the depth of the sunset assaulted them that nameless passion, so unlike their people, the Elves who count their lives and loves by centuries, who are content to wait a decade and more for one hour of joy. The gardens were awash with blood-red light, and in the clouds were light and golden fury. Of a sudden their lips touched, and they lay under the cool shade of the trees, hidden from the world, and the blazing in their hearts and bodies set them afire together. No way back was there now from those sacred few moments, so short and meaningless in an eternity, so powerful and perfect in the now. Passion was always, and the flame was always, and it was always sunset in Imladris between the mountains, and always Celebrian and Elrond, always one soul in two bodies now united. Always in a moment, and forever so.

Up rose the Star of Earendil, and the moon shone down on them when yet unwilling to put out the flame and return to the cool peace of the night. Together they lay bare by uncaring on the grass, uncaring of their ruffled hair, silver and black mingling, uncaring of the robes they have abandoned and uncaring about propriety, rules and restraint. Still their hands met, the tips of the gentle fingers, loving in the smallest of touches. Their faces began to drift toward each other, reaching through the cold air to the warmness of the other and the comforting closeness in the night. Closer they came, drawing warmth from each other, drawing security in the tumble of passion. Their lips touched, their bodies touched, their souls touched. The storm rose anew.

The storm rose anew, and as Celebrian seemed to melt, giving in to the embrace completely, abruptly something there seemed to freeze within Elrond's chest. His eyes snapped open, though with her glittering, laughing blue gems closed, she could not see.

His hands found her back and took comfort in stroking the velvety skin. Her fingers caught in his dark mane, playing with it in a way both childlike and erotic. He tried to let the touch be all he felt, and yet he could not.

He felt passion.

Burning, all-consuming passion. Love like a flame and rain and lightning, and physical passion, a need to possess her, to claim her, to make her for his own. A senseless and mystifying need to be one with her, in any way he could, to take if he could not have. Passion burned his mind, and of a sudden it seemed to consume him like a fever. He shivered, still burning hot.

Passion, now it took lease, nothing could banish it save acting on it. There will be no rest for his feverish soul nor for his trembling body till she was his, she was his world. Passion, not the way of the Elves, not the way of the proud Noldor… but their way as well, in the dawn of days. Passion, flames like a lifeline, flames that can warm, flames that can burn.

Like a knife's slash there pierced his mind the memory of the tale of Feanor and the Silmarils. With passion he made them, the great Elven-smith of the distant age. Passion he wove like crystal and fire, and caged the light and made it into his own. Passion he poured into them, and passion haunted every last of his kin from the day of their creation hence. Passion burning bridges, burning lives, burning loves, burning homes and cities. Passion razing Arda.

Passion. It was as if he could taste her now, like a ripe fruit ready for the taking, like a sweet flower and yet a rose redder than blood, redder than fire. Her hands traveled down his body, he would not make them stop if he could. Unwilling he held her, kissed her gentle face, her graceful neck, her perfect breasts, as if to swallow her, make her his own, passion…

Passion. Pain. Forever interlocked. Passion, desire and need, he knew them all, before her, before anything, before taking his first steps he knew the maddening need. That scarring need to be loved, to be cared for, as a small child parentless and frightened, need, burning, passion. Passion drove Maglor to Sirion to crush it underfoot, passion pulled Elwing out of her window and into the sky, passion took away his life and left him with nothing but itself.

Passion, abruptly it was so clear. In the heat he could almost see the fires of Mountain Doom, and Isildur on the cliffside, his fist tightening around the One Ring. Passion, he understood now.

Ice water seemed to cover his body, tears of horror, sorrow and shame poured now, trickling down as the tears of ecstasy had. Ice water, yet bearing no coolness, ice water freezing him outside while inside he burned on, consuming himself. She moaned softly, throwing her head back, her hair like a waterfall of spun silver in the moonlight, the lines of her body without one fault. Passion, his fingers clasped so hard around her back he feared he may hurt her. But that, too, seemed natural, passion and pain.

Passion, burning him, driving him mad, consuming him body and soul… passion poisoning his peaceful life… passion destroying her, passion destroying them. Passion destroying worlds. Passion, fire, he would be nothing but ashes in the wind...

Passion. A faint light seemed to appear of east. They both fell back on the grass, spent, sweaty and breathing hard, shuddering with something that was and was not joy. Passion. Now he looked at her anew, and saw her in daylight, so fair, so true, so deeply in love with him. Her bright blue eyes like lakes at nightfall, her playful smile, her smooth curving body, the delicacy of her hands. He saw all that was to see of her, pure soulful love, and fiery physical desire, pain and yearning, the hope she held and the hope she gave. Pure she was in the light of the dawning morning, and yet not so, as if something else there was around her like an aura of flames.


An aura of flame was upon her, an aura of light and of life, like the sun that is so bright it may burn, the sun that gives life and warmth and the hope of the dawn to all.

Passion. He could have it no other way. No being that was truly alive could.

Slowly he stroke her silver hair and she lay her head between his neck and his shoulder, and together they lay and slept under the morning sun, peaceful and undisturbed now after the night has burned away.