Chapter Text
The problem—one of them, anyway—is that you don’t know the first thing about seduction yourself, or if it’s even possible to wrench the two of you out of your patterns and into something new and better. There are times you’re certain change is impossible and you border on the edge of despair, knowing that if something doesn’t give, the what-if will always haunt you.
Then there are days like today that dawn so bright and hopefully, blue skies and sunlight, that hope stirs anew. Elendil’s home for the summer and won’t ship out until the fall—something he was able to arrange as a newlywed—and so when he returns home from the Guard offices, you greet him at the door, breathless, and ask him if he wants to ride out for a picnic.
He doesn’t often say no to you, and this time he seems eager for some time away from the city, so it’s a painless agreement. You change into riding clothes and pack food while he prepares the horses; then you meet in the front of the house, and ride out in the light of the afternoon sun.
Things like this are always easy, always pleasant, and have been since you began courting; but this time you have something of an ulterior motive. In the meadow outside the city that is a favorite haunt of yours, you let the horses graze while you set your little picnic spread: a blanket and a basket with sweet wine, soft honey rolls, grapes, figs, and dates. You’ve always loved your stolen afternoons here that bleed into evenings; it’s peaceful and quiet, with the woods behind you and the sound of the sea just past the cliffs.
But you won’t forget your plans. With courage you summon from the depths of your heart, you bravely untie the capelet that kept your upper body from view and cast it aside, leaning back on the blanket and looking up at the clouds floating by. You can feel Elendil’s gaze track over you as he approaches, because you’ve done something most improper: wearing summery, see-through linen without an overdress. Practically naked, as far as high society is concerned—but what does it matter? You’re here with your husband and no one else. If he can see the dark of your nipples and the shape of your body through the garment, you’re not breaking any laws. Always the wisest are saying that a husband should delight in his wife, and a wife in her husband. And you want it desperately, the love and want and need that lovers are said to have.
“Wine?” he asks mildly, and you halfway sit up and squint over at him with a little smile.
“Please,” you say. He pours it and passes you the cup; your hands brush. You try not to gasp.
It’s always like this at the start, feeling like you’re climbing up a cliff and readying yourself to soar off it. Most of the time it’s a disappointing descent. But you’re determined not to overthink it either. You want to be a being of pure instinct; then and only then will that itch inside you be scratched. Maybe he feels the same, somewhere in his mind.
You drink the sweet, fresh wine, and it loosens you up further. The sun warms your skin, while the birdsong and the buzzing of insects makes the whole meadow feel as if it’s under a spell. You want to kiss him, want his hands on you, but you refrain, and he does not move to you, though his gaze drops to your body more than once.
When some time has passed, and you’ve drunk your cup and eaten some grapes and figs and licked the juices off your fingers as innocently as you can given the circumstances, you sit up, shoulders back, and look over at Elendil. “You can tell me if you hate this,” you say, “but I—had an idea.”
He props himself up on his side to listen, blue eyes very intent. They scared you once, their depth and intensity; now it is something of a comfort: he is listening to you, all his attention directed at you. Unnerving, but comforting.
Your voice drops, partially because you’re afraid of sounding foolish and partially because, for all your isolation out here, it still feels too loud for such an intimate thing. “I thought of you chasing me through the woods,” you say in a half-whisper, “catching me, and… having me.”
His eyebrows lift ever-so-slightly. “Ah,” he says. “And you would—enjoy that?”
“I think I would,” you say, pulling on the hem of your dress. Invoking the Valar in such matters seems close to blasphemous, except don’t they also rule over such things? Maybe you should call upon them a little more. The need to defend yourself rushes in. “It’s not unheard of, you know. Plenty of people like the thrill of the chase.”
“I wasn’t saying it was,” he returns. He sits back, considering. “We can try it. But I don’t want to hurt you.”
You knew he’d say that—prepared for it even. You roll over to him, one hand on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. “Elendil, I know that and I love that about you, but you’re far too careful, and a bruise or a scratch won’t kill me. I want to feel so much more, I want it to feel real. Dangerous.”
He sighs, tilting his head back. “You must have been terribly unsatisfied then,” he observes, “if this is something you wanted and I did not know it.”
“Unsatisfied only in that I think I did not know yet what I really wanted,” you say, fiercely sincere. “In all other areas of my life, I have been happier than I ever was before. You make me very happy.”
He glances over at you. “Chased and caught,” he says. His chest is rumbling; you feel it under your hands.
You can only hope the adrenaline will help both of you be a little more honest about what you want from each other. Without it you’re often reduced to thinking too hard and ruining the moment.
“And—” you say softly—“taken.”
There’s a flash of concern in his eyes; then his hand comes, caresses your cheek. It’s very tender; you melt into it, and he cups your face. “Ever have I wanted to fulfill all your desires,” he says lowly. “Forgive me that I do not quite know how. I will learn.”
You exhale, leaning into his touch, closer to his face, when your breath mingles with his. Wine and figs. “I will teach you,” you say.
He leans forward to capture your mouth, but you stop him with a finger pressed against his lips. His eyes fly open, flashing with shock. You’ve never stopped him like this before.
“Only when you catch me,” you whisper. It’s deadly serious. You won’t undermine the moment by joking, not when you’re so close to victory you can practically taste it.
You rise to your feet—more clumsily than you would’ve liked; you’ve been lying in one position for too long—and look down at him.
He swallows; you see his throat work. “Ten seconds head start?” he offers helpfully.
“Fifteen,” you say, and he nods once.
You turn away without thinking about it too much, and without another word you’re off at a sprint, boots against grass, till it changes to hard dirt once the meadow becomes forest. Fifteen seconds. You count it in your head. Pretty soon he’ll be right behind you: he’s strong and fast and very capable, and you have no doubt he’ll find you.