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Artanis meets Amarië’s green eyes and notes how they shine when she smiles.
It brings a memory of Findaráto showing his siblings what different gemstones looked like when bathing in the light of Laurelin. Artanis remembers citrine, aquamarine, red beryl, among others.
Peridot, in specific, is what Amarië’s eyes make her think of.
(Artanis wonders if it’s one of the reasons Findaráto courts her—because he likes shiny things. She immediately chastises herself for the thought.)
Amarië holds out her hand in an invitation to dance. Artanis takes her hand and allows to be led amidst the dancers.
It’s Itarillë’s fiftieth begetting day, and there’s a celebration on a clearing in the forest not too far from Valimar and Corollairë. There are bards playing, taking turns, sometimes singing and playing together, and most revellers are inebriated from all the wine on supply.
(There's red and white wines from the orchards of Kementári, and sparkling wine from Alqualondë, but Artanis's favourite is honey-wine. It’s stronger, and sweeter. Just like her.)
A drowsy sort of happiness hangs in the air.
Amarië doesn't let go of Artanis's hand when they dance.
Artanis feels dizzy—this is what she's imagined, this is what she's wanted. She wants. She meets Amarië's green eyes again and Amarië smiles back at her, knowing, just as joyous.
On the inside, Artanis is, however, annoyed by how clumsy and dazed dancing with someone she has desired for so long makes her feel, when usually she is so suave and takes what she wants and has her words at the ready, but the annoyance is easily forgotten by how finally being closed to her infatuation fills her with gladness.
Artanis spins Amarië around and they both laugh. They nearly bump into Turukáno and Elenwë and all four laugh some more. In fact, Artanis and Amarië laugh so hard they nearly stumble upon each other's feet, and they stop to gather themselves and one of Amarië’s hands rests on Artanis’s shoulder (bare shoulder! for she’s wearing an off-shoulder dress) to steady herself. When they resume dancing, and find the rhythm again, the hand stays on Artanis’s shoulder.
When the song changes, Amarië’s fingers land on her lower back, guiding her closer, and the dull ache of desire that’s made a home inside of her begins to simmer.
Artanis reaches to play with strands of Amarië’s hair. It’s a similar gold-blonde as her own, and straight—unlike Artanis’s oft-unruly curls.
(Not nearly as radiant, though. Assumedly. That’s what everyone says, at least. That Artanis has the most golden, beautiful, radiant hair, shining with the light of the Two Trees.)
Amarië’s smile is intoxicating, better than honey-wine.
The desire in Artanis’s abdomen cannot be ignored anymore, she decides.
In a bout of characteristic—this, this is how this should go—recklessness, she leans in until her lips brush Amarië’s earlobe and whispers: ”I would like to go to the woods alone with you.”
Amarië’s eyes widen a little, and for a fraction of a second Artanis fears she’s made a mistake, but then, then, the vanya smiles. Knowing. Excited, even.
”I was beginning to worry you were never going to ask,” Amarië says, and there's a glint of mischief in her smile, too. Artanis laughs, surprised.
”Better late than never?” she suggests.
Amarië laughs, too. The celebration has Artanis in a peculiar, light mood, so she finds herself thinking that the laugh resembles the bells woven in Nessa’s hair, the way they tinkle when she dances. ”Quite so.”
Amarië takes Artanis's hand in hers, again—or did they ever even let go?—and they head towards the thick of the woods. She can't help taking a glance at where she last saw Findaráto, to see if he sees them leave.
(He doesn't. He's too busy talking to Findekáno and knocking their wine goblets together, making a mess.)
When they're far enough to be out of sight and out of immediate hearing range, Artanis steers Amarië so that she has her back against a mallorn and kisses her.
Kisses Amarië.
Finally.
Amarië laughs against her mouth—the sound nearly drives Artanis out of her mind—and wraps her slender hands around Artanis's waist and kisses her back.
(Amarië isn't the first elf-maiden she has kissed, she has kissed and lain with more nissë than nér but she can't remember it feeling this good and all-encompassing before. She supposes it’s possible it’s different with Amarië. It is different with Amarië.)
She smells like peonies and tastes like the honey-wine they’ve been drinking to celebrate Itarillë. Artanis is very near to tell Amarië to tell as much but stops herself. Now is not the time to talk.
Now, she wants to feel Amarië’s skin, under her fingertips, against her own skin, everywhere.
When she moves her mouth down to Amarië’s throat, the vanya sighs.
”Oh, Artanis.”
”Mmmm?” Artanis hums in question, against the soft skin of Amarië’s neck. The only response she gets is a laugh. It’s enough, though.
Artanis’s soft kisses descend down to Amarië’s collarbones, and she flicks down the straps of her pale-green dress. A gasp comes out of Amarië’s mouth when Artanis pulls down the front of her dress and exposes her breasts.
”You’re beautiful,” Artanis whispers, making Amarië laugh once more. The laugh turns into a quiet moan when Artanis bends down and runs her tongue over Amarië’s left nipple. The sound is even better than all the laughter Artanis has heard today, she thinks.
She draws more lovely moans and gasps out of Amarië before she is interrupted, by a gentle yet insistent hand on her waist. Artanis looks up to gaze up at Amarië’s face, and lifts a brow.
”My turn,” Amarië says, breathy. ”Go lie own the ground.”
The possibility of not doing as she’s asked doesn’t even cross Artanis’s mind.
She settles down on the moss-covered ground, resting the weight of her upper body on her elbows. Amarië settles on her knees, between Artanis's thighs, and the smile she gives Artanis would have made her legs give out, if she had not already been lying down.
Then, Amarië buries her face between Artanis's legs, making her slump back to lie down on her whole back. When she grabs Amarië's hair by the roots, the vanya laughs, the sound sending vibrations to her already high-strung core.
It’s good. Amarië is good at eating her out, and Artanis lets it be known. She arches her back in delectation, doesn’t hold back her sighs or praises, and keeps tugging at Amarië’s hair while she does wonderful things to her.
Right after one particularly good something-to-do-with-tongue that earns Amarië plentiful praise, she looks up at to smile at Artanis, with half-lidded eyes, and pats her clit with an index finger. Artanis whines and pulls at Amarië's hair, trying to get her lovely mouth back on her.
"As you wish," Amarië says, chuckling, and Artanis gets what she wished for.
Now, Amarië's style is more relentless. She doesn't give Artanis a break, no second to catch her breath, not until she comes, rutting against Amarië's jaw and making a mess.
Afterwards, Amarië looks up with a smirk and Artanis is almost scandalized by the way she wipes the wetness on the hem of her dress. Almost. Mainly, she is pleased. And impressed.
”Mmm,” Artanis hums, content. Her eyes are tempted to flutter close, but she fights the urge, and gazes at Amarië. The vanya smiles back at her, her lips dewy with the slick from Artanis’s sex, and the sight makes Artanis quiver with a soft aftershock. ”Kiss me,” she urges, and is granted her wish.
In addition to what she knows is herself, the kiss tastes of want. Artanis slips her tongue past Amarië’s lips and runs a hand along her back, earning a shiver beneath her fingertips.
It’s thrilling to have Amarië so susceptible to her touch—which makes her think, she wants to, needs to, give Amarië more. She buries her hands in Amarië’s hair, again, and gently pulls back to break off the kiss.
”Would you like to —” she begins, but is silenced by an index finger against her lips. She doesn’t try to finish the sentence, and instead waits to see what Amarië intends. By now, she’s starting to learn that she can count on Amarië to know what she wants.
And, sure enough, Amarië rolls up her skirt, all the way up until her waist, and straddles Artanis.
Artanis’s eyes widen when she notices it. Amarië isn’t wearing anything beneath her gossamer dress.
”Have you been like this all day?” She asks. Amarië grins, bashful. Her cheeks heat up—and it’s a gorgeous sight, paired with her peridot eyes darkened with desire.
”I have,” she confirms.
Artanis groans. ”Come here,” she urges.
Amarië smiles, almost tenderly, and crawls up so that she’s sitting on Artanis’s chest. Artanis can feel how wet the vanya on top of her is and it alone is enough to set the fire in her alight again.
But now, it’s Amarië’s turn to get her pleasure.
Artanis does show off a little, that she can admit. But she must show Amarië she knows how to make someone see stars like this, that she can give her toe-curling bliss.
(And, though she will never admit it out loud, she must have Amarië know she is a better lover than her brother is—because she knows Amarië will choose Findárato, eventually. Maybe it’s foresight or maybe it’s just the way things go, but still, regardless, Artanis cannot let Amarië do that, choose her brother, without leaving her own mark on this sweet vanya first.)
She loops her arms around Amarië’s thighs to guide her movements better, and to lock her in place when she starts quivering in the tell-tale way of approaching climax. The unability to move—as rousing as the thought of Amarië shamelessly riding Artanis’s face is—has Amarië hissing, and Artanis is delighted.
Amarië comes with a open-mouthed moan, head lifted upwards, facing the golden sky. Then, she slumps back to lean against her palms that she rests against Artanis's thighs. Artanis lets her go from her tight hold after she has nuzzled the vanya’s nub with her nose one more time.
Then, Amarië rolls off from on top of Artanis, and lies down on the ground beside her. Artanis glances at her and sees that she’s gazing at the trees towering over them. The trunks are white and glowing with a soft light, and the leaves are luscious and green.
Not too far away from them Laurelin is waning, and Telperion is waxing, and the gold light is mixing with silver in the sky.
”Oh, Artanis,” Amarië sighs, for the second time.
Artanis hums, content.
(She thinks about how her brother’s name hangs between them, unsaid. For Artanis, in this context, it primarily means yet another embodiment of sibling rivalry but she doesn’t know what it represents for Amarië.
Guilt? Nothing? Artanis doesn’t know which one she would prefer.)
Amarië sits up and adjusts her dress, to cover her upper body again, and Artanis smiles at her. ”I would like to do this again someday.”
(Before you choose my brother, Artanis thinks but doesn’t say.)
”Me too, Artanis.”