Promises Kept

Promises Kept


Disclaimers: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R Tolkien and his estate. I am making no money from this and intend no infringement of copyright.

Rating: NC-17.

Summary: Celebrían reminds Elrond of a promise.

Thanks to Isis and Lalaith for betaing this.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris, sat at breakfast, idly crumbling a honeyed roll between the fingers of one hand. In the other, he held a cup of strong black tea, cradled thoughtfully to his chest. His keen, grey eyes perused the documents spread before him on the long table in the great hall of the haven of Rivendell. Early golden sght ght slanted low through the arched windows, for the long summer of the year had not yet drawn to its ending, and the days had not begun to fade into the dusk of autumn.

The elf-lord brought a bite of pastry to his mouth, concentrating his attention upon the letter before him, a missive from Valandil of Arnor, concerning the ordering of the Northern Kingdom. New roads and ditches and lines of trees; fortifications on the high hills and towers westwards towards the Ered Luin; the yields from the mines, and the expectations of the corn crop in the fertile lowlands; tales of the to-ings and fro-ings of the ever-growing family of the king, and questions about the household of Imladris, in which he had grown to manhood in his father's absence.

Elrond admitted a pang of guilt. He should have answered the letter a week past or more, and he had sent none of his own to the King of Arnor for far too long. Indeed, he had shown little enough care for any part of the wide world which was his trust in these last months. These last months since he had taken the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn to wife. His own, his dearest Celebrían...

He met Erestor's curious gaze, and only then became aware that the grin which had spread across his face might be counted unbecoming in an elf-lord of the line of kings. In truth, although he schooled his features into some semblance of their customary gravity, he cared not. He nodded at the other Elf, who smiled slyly, and then he returned his attention to the pile of papers before him.

Only the slightest change in the atmosphere of the room warned him. He glanced up to see Celebrían standing in the vaulted doorway, her silver hair flowing freely about her shoulders. She was clad in a simple gown of linen, in a nondescript shade of pale lavender, unadorned, unbecoming, and very demure.

He was immediately on his guard. There was very little demure about Celebrían: that he had known almost from the first, from that meeting long ago in the chaotic time after the fall of Eregion. She affected no outrageous fashions which might offend against the sensibilities of taste, but it was not her wont to dress in the manner of a mortal woman of advanced years and poor eyesight. She was born and bred to neither coquettish flounces and indecently low necklines nor to missish airs which demanded the utmost in concealment as if she feared that aught else would draw any eyes to her. It was not in the heart of Finarfin's daughter to raise her only child thus.

Such a demure gown was definitely a sign of warning to Celebrían's husband although, as of yet, he knew not what he was to be warned of.

Elrond met her blue eyes across the crowded room, and caught the glimmer of mischief lit therein before she lowered her gaze and curtsied deeply to those assembled for their morning meal.

The apprehension within him only grew as she crossed the hall with bent head and tiny, meek steps, and settled herself beside him, making a great show of arranging her rustling skirts. Finally pleased with the folds in which they fell, she gave her hand to him to kiss.

What devilry is this, Brí-nin? He turned her hand over and planted a kiss on her palm, not lingering a moment more than necessary - much to her disappointment.

None at all, my lord husband, she answered severely, but he could hear her merriment rippling through his mind, bright as the running rills of the Bruinen in its valley below. His curiosity was fully awakened now, and he smiled down at her, raising his hand to brush across the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck beneath the fall of her hair for a moment, before letting it fall to his side.

She busied herself with coring an apple, while he began to formulate an answering letter to Valandil in his mind, and for some minutes they were silent, content in the soft murmurings of the hall. At length, she spoke, her voice little more than a whispered undertone. "You work too much, my lord."

He arched an inquisitive eyebrow in response. "Rather too little; I have been otherwise occupied..." He left the words to hang in the air between them, and was gratified to see an answering blush rise in her cheeks.

"Really? I cannot imagine of what you speak."

His hand found hers under the table. "Indeed? Then I must rectify the situation."

“My lord, I must protest: this is most indecorous behaviour.” But she squeezed his hand gently before releasing it, tracing her fingertips across the sword calluses on his palm.

They finished their breakfast in peace, although Elrond was aware of the irregular rhythm of his heart in his chest, the nervous anticipation which clutched at him every time Celebrían glanced his way. He would have cursed himself as a fool to be thus ensnared, if he had not known his love to be more than justified, and, what is more, reciprocated in true faith. And the long, bitter years of waiting were over, and for that, he would have been more than glad to be counted a fool.

And Celebrían watched his face and smiled, not a little nervous herself. She had loved him since that first day she saw him, loved him through all the long years when he had said nothing of his love, and she had not dared even to dream. And, she thought, allowing a hint of a smirk to creep into her smile, perhaps she deserved a little retribution before she told him of her plans for this day.

~*~

Although she gave no sign, Elrond followed his wife back to their quarters, their Elven-quiet footsteps echoing but dimly through the corridors of the Last Homely House. Anar's light was stronger now, touching her silver hair with glints of gold, as she moved about the suite of rooms, her dress whispering behind her, her hands fluttering nervously from one object to the next, alighting now on an open book, now on the previous day’s discarded shawl.

"So," he said, coming up behind her as she stood at the glass, brushing her hair, and wrapped an arm around her waist, "for what are we treated to this show of excessive modesty, my love?"

She turned and glared at him stonily, and he suffered a momentary qualm that he had genuinely offended her, but she was unable to keep the longing and the joy in her mind from him, and it touched him to the heart, and he knew that his first assumption had been right.

Nevertheless, when she spoke, despite the long fingers of his left hand toying with the fastenings of her dress, caressing her skin through the thick fabric in ever smaller circles, her voice was cool and calm. "I know not what you speak of."

"This dress..." he smoothed his fingers across the drab fabric.

"Most suitable for the Lady of Imladris," she finished primly.

"You dislike the bonds placed upon you?"

"Perhaps." She eyed him through her lashes, resting her own hand on his hip beneath the heavy layers of his velvet robes.

"And what might I do to remedy that?" he turned her slightly to look down into her face, intent and grave.

Now there was no mistaking it; she smirked up at him, her blue gaze wicked.

With a shrug of her slim shoulders, she pulled away from him and retrieved a bundle of clothing from the depths of the wardrobe, casting it upon the bed. "Unlace me."

"Pardon?"

"Unlace my dress, Elrond."

"Oh." Perhaps he allowed his fingers to linger a moment too long over the pale skin revealed as he slipped the lacings from the eye-hooks, but Celebrían did not seem to mind in the slightest, leaning fractionally into his touch.

His breath caught in his throat, and a familiar hunger crept through him, but before he could act on it, she stepped lightly out of the crumpled folds of fabric, and moved to the bed, tugging a dark tunic on over her head. Elrond watched, perplexed, as she reached for a pair of breaches of similar make, plain and simple, the colour of charcoal. He found himself intrigued, unable to discern what her motive was in this odd behaviour. But whatever it was, it did nothing to dampen his need for her. The sight of her slender frame in these new clothes was definitely an improvement on the voluminous capacity of the gown she had worn to breakfast. Most definitely an improvement, he thought, allowing his gaze to rest on the soft curve of her breast.

Celebrían fastened a belt around her waist, and turned to face him, catching the look of frank admiration in his grey eyes. She crossed her arms and waited. "Well?"

"Well?" he repeated in confusion, feeling himself blush profoundly, and looking hurriedly away.

"I would have thought that you would have remembered."

"As it is abundantly clear that I do not, might you enlighten me, Brí-nín?" he asked, the tender smile which curved his lips softening the sharpness of his words.

"And to think that you are accounted a master of lore," she teased.

"May I take this most tasteful of all garments as a clue?" he gestured at her discarded dress.

"It is more in the nature of a reminder."

"Of what?" He was aware that in any other situation he might be exasperated to the brink of ill-temper by such teasing words, but as it turned out he was merely a trifle amused, regarding it as something akin to flirtation.

"Once you made a promise to me, Elrond Peredhil." She paced the room for emphasis, tugging at the hem of her tunic to straighten it.

"Oh really?" He reached out and caught one of her hands in both of his larger ones, bringing it to his lips. "On the day we were wed?" He caressed the skin bordering the golden band on her finger, and she shivered slightly.

"Nay; long before. Can you not remember?" Fleetingly, she touched her fingertips to his lips, and with the other hand she reached for a cloth-wrapped bundle with had hitherto stood unnoticed by the dressing table. "Once, you promised me that you would not demand of me any false modesties, nor any subjugation of my spirit..."

Elrond shifted uneasily, wondering if he had somehow unwittingly trespassed against that forgotten promise.

"...And in token of that promise, you gave me another: that you would fence with me." She unwrapped the bundle, and he saw that she held in her hands a long-handled sword. No child's blade or toy was this, but a masterpiece of Elven craftsmanship, a simple piece of forged steel, well-kept and oiled, which glimmered in the summer light. He could not doubt that it was the work of a smith of Eregion before its fall, such was its obvious quality.

"When was this promise? I have no memory of it."

"Poor Half-elf, losing his memory as long, slow old age comes upon him." Celebrían smirked, turning her blade over and over in her hands. "'Twas but eighteen hundred years of the Sun in the past."

Now he remembered with sudden clarity; a fair, clear day in early spring when they had walked together on the river's soft verge, the air between them heavy with unspoken emotions, and the new-founded Imladris rising up against the early Sun behind them, resplendent in not one-tenth of its present glory. Much had changed since then that he would wish unchanged, if his wishing had any more substance than the cool airs of the mountain-tops: the downfall of Númenor, the death of Elendil, Isildur and Anárion, and of Ereinion Gil-galad, the loss of the Ring to an uncertain fate...

But he smiled, for at least for the moment, the westlands of Middle-earth knew peace, and in that peace he had come to marry her whom he had first loved so very long ago.

Finding that the reality was better by far than the dreaming, he shook off the last tendrils of his melancholy reflections, and smiled at his wife. "Well, melethril-nín, you must make some concessions to the frailties and infirmities of a decrepit peredhel."

She laughed, fastening the scabbar her her belt. "Well, will you honour your promise, Master Elrond?"

He pretended to consider. "There is much work which needs to be done this day..."

Celebrían pressed her lips together in disapproval, an expression settling into place which reminded him more than a little of her formidable mother, and tapped her fingers against the hilt of her sword.

"But I fear the wrath of my lady wife too much to consider invoking her displeasure," he added solemnly.

She scowled, but her eyes were full of mirth. "Most wise indeed, herven-nín, for I have a sore temper if crossed."

“I had noticed.” He grinned and hurriedly divested himself of his ponderous formal robes, until he was dressed only in boots and breeches, and begun his search for a suitable tunic. It was amazing, really, how less than a yén had banished such garments to the nethermost reaches of his wardrobe, and he grumbled succinctly to himself as he sifted through a pile of tunics which would not even pass as dusting rags.

Celebrían giggled. "I must remember to teach you some of the more inventive Silvan curses. Yours are sadly lacking."

He straightened up, clutching a passable garment in one hand, and raised one eyebrow. "You might have helped."

"I did debate that, but then I decided that the view available to me was far too pleasurable to waste."

Much to his chagrin, Elrond felt a crimson blush mount in his cheeks, even going so far as to stain the tips of his ears. He wondered again how it could be that she could reduce him to such an abject confusion of emotions, and bent his head to hide his flushed face.

The corridors were not busy as they made their way through the Last Homely House, for most of its residents were busy at their allotted tasks in this lull before the midday meal. Those few they did encounter seemed only mildly intrigued by what their lord and lady might be doing in such strange garb at this hour of the day. Stopping but briefly in the Hall of Fire, oddly mournful in its still silence at this hour, Elrond unhooked his own blade from where it hung in pride of place over the great mantle. Even though he had had little enough cause to wield it of late, its accustomed weight still sat easily in his hand as if he had never had occasion to lay it aside.

Shaking off the spectres of the past, he emerged blinking into the brightness of the morning, rising now towards noon, and so different from the drab, grey pallor of Mordor on which his thoughts had touched in melancholy. In the distance, they could hear the thunk of arrows hitting their targets, as the Imladris guard honed their skills, and nearer at hand there was the hum and bustle of the kitchens and the tapping of a pen against wood from Erestor's study above.

It did not take long to find a suitably secluded spot, a gently sloping meadow cut off by a low stand of trees, ancient, bent and gnarled from millennia of winter winds howling down from the heart of the Misty Mountains, and from the barren expanses of the Forodwaith far away to the North. The first of the ripening fruit hung from branches twisted away from the worst ravages of the climate, and silence prevailed.

Discarding the cumbersome scabbards, both Elves took up their positions, facing each other across the greensward, their weapons held at the ready.

"Afraid?" Celebrían taunted, feeling the balance of her sword in her hand, and the hot sun beating down on the back of her head, unusually strong for this time of the year.

"Should I be?" Elrond inquired.

She thought that in that moment he looked every inch the Elven warrior of old, tall and lean, clad all in black, lightly poised, his sword seeming to be an extension of his very arm. But she knew him, and she loved him, and the fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach was very far from being fear. "Perhaps..."

She circled cautiously to her left, keeping her attention fixed on his blade, and on the minute changes in stance which might presage a sudden move on his part. "Ready?"

"As always." He bowed gallantly, a wry grin on his face. Happy.

And that was his first mistake. Before he could right himself, almost without a sound, there was the flicker of steel in perilous proximity to his left shoulder. He twisted hastily, flicking his own blade upwards to divert the deadly stroke, and braced himself on one knee, pushing upwards with vigour. Celebrían stumbled backwards, but quickly caught herself, disengaging her blade and holding it before her body defensively.

Elrond jumped to his feet. "I had not thought I had married a wild thing."

She raised an eyebrow in uncanny imitation of his own manner, already seeking some chink in his guard. Her blade seemed to waver, but Elrond could see that her grip was as firm as ever on the weapon's hilt. "Someone needed to temper you tendency towards the staid, my love."

"Staid?" He took advantage of momentary distraction on her part to lunge, his sword clattering against hers, engaging and disengaging in a flurry of strokes, slipping in when she held her own weapon too high, only to find that he had been tricked and she was away from him, the trailing edge of her tunic brushing his thigh as she moved away. "Never that."

“Prove it.” She laughed merrily, her eyes bright.

Back and forth they went, first one and then the other in command of the battle. He had the advantage in strength, and in skill, but she was light on her feet, and fought with a fierce joy in the battle which he had long since lost. He wondered idly, in a moment's respite, whether the blade she held so easily had ever tasted the blood of an enemy; he very much doubted it. Parry and thrust; up and down the shallow slope, the sun hotter on their faces now as they moved, the faint breezes of the day fading away with a rustle of leaves.

Celebrían held the high ground, wondering at the lithe grace of her husband as he blocked a series of deft blows, and trying as hard as she could not to be distracted by it. That would be the most ignominious defeat... but really, he did look most appealing there, with his black hair escaping from the knot of leather at the base of his neck, and a high flush raised along his cheekbones by his efforts… She had stared too long, and lost the advantage.

The curse which escaped her lips was neither ladylike nor Elvish, but it seemed apt for the occasion.

Elrond smiled broadly, closing the intervening distance, and slowly but surely backing her up against an apple tree bent with age, its bark rough and warm in the sunlight as she felt it grate against the fabric of her tunic. He was very close to her now, and his face was suddenly grim although there was nothing but humour in his eyes. The point of his sword pricked at her sleeve. "Defeated, my lady?"

"I am a lady of the line of Finarfin; I am never defeated." She lifted her chin proudly.

"And I am a lord of the line of Fingolfin, and I say you are," he retorted cheerfully, taking yet another step closer.

Her sword-arm hung at her side, rendered useless by circumstances. She glanced around quickly, assessing the options, of which surrender was certainly not one. And with a sudden wrench, she cast herself sideways to the right. She felt more than heard the wrenching rip as the coarse linen gave way, but she was more interested in regaining her feet. When she did so, more than a little breathless, she found her husband staring at her aghast, the tip of his sword resting loosely on the ground.

"What?" She touched her free hand to the dead leaves clinging to her bright hair. "I know I must look a state, but really..."

"You might have been injured." His gaze was fixed upon her torn sleeve.

"Nay." She flexed her shoulder. "See: no blood."

"It was foolhardy; you did not know that I was not holding my blade in such a way as it might have injured you. You did not know that I did not hold the point too close." His eyes were very solemn, and it seemed to her that the day’s light was gone from them.

"I knew; I always know where you are." She dropped her gaze, a shiver running through her despite the heat of the day, awkward still at such openness.

He closed the distance between them, and rested one hand on her bared shoulder, assuring himself that she was whole and unscathed. "Your mother taught that move to you?"

"Aye. She said it had rendered her good service when fighting her brothers.”

Elrond chuckled. "I might have known. I pity the sons of Finarfin."

"You worry too much, melethron-nín."

'So you have told me."

"And you show too much compassion for an enemy." She stepped back and lunged, her point held high, aiming for his heart.

"I am used to fighting orcs, not elf-maidens," he complained, blocking her blade and driving her backwards with a sudden barrage of blows, the stamina of his long training beginning to tell.

Celebrían swiped at his feet, and they fought on. The nooning sun cast its short shadows on the meadow, and soon they could both feel its effects, as their clothes seemed to cling closer to their skin, and their breath came in gasps, for all their Elven resiliencelronlrond brushed a lock of sweat-dampened hair back from his eyes. "Peace, my lady?"

She eyed him speculatively, but the offer was too tempting. "Aye, a peace."

She lowered her blade, only to find his sword lain across her throat, sun-warmed and deadly. “I believe I am learning to fight elf-maidens, however.”

“Curse you,” she said, but without rancour.

Carefully, he lowered his sword, and raised his hand to her temple to smooth back an escaping lock of silver hair. He was so close now that she could feel the erratic beat of his heart, and the warmth rising off his body. A heat ran through her that had little to do with her exertions, and she swallowed, pulling him closer yet.

For a handful of moments, they stood like that, savouring the contact, the sense of anticipation which echoed and re-echoed between them, before breaking apart.

A brook ran along the lower edge of the meadow, and they were glad indeed to scoop handfuls of the clear water into their mouths, although the chill of the mountains burnt their throats as they swallowed. Their thirst satisfied, their brows cooled with yet more water from the stream, they flopped onto the grass, their heads resting against each other. Their breathing was still a little fast from their exertions in the heat of the day, their laughter a little breathless.

"A fine match, my lord." Celebrían laid one hand on his broad chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing beneath her palm.

"Perhaps I am not so far past my prime," he said lightly, looping a strand of silver hair round his finger.

"No. I do not think you are that." And because she loved him, and because she could feel the heat of his body against hers, and because he looked as relaxed as she had ever seen him, save in sleep, lying there with the hair at his temples dampened, and his lips slightly parted, and his sword cast aside, she leant up and kissed him.

Elrond groaned, feeling the incipient arousal he had been able to contain throughout their bout, at her movements and at the languorous curves of her figure just revealed by the severe tunic, return with renewed vigour. His breath caught, harsh and ragged, and he deliberately opened his eyes to see that hers were half-closed, a lazy glint of blue showing beneath the lids. A fine tendril of pale hair made a line across her jaw, and he brushed it aside with the ball of his thumb.

Celebrían 's hand crept to the soft hair at the nape of her husband's neck, and she worked the leather cord free, letting his dark tresses fall about hands, tangling her fingers in them, drawing him closer.

His hands trailed across her back, over the tunic, and then returned, warm against her bare skin, and she felt a sudden heat pool within her, a heat which owed nothing to Anar’s fire.

"But I think ... I prefer ... this match..." The words did not come easily, and so she chose to devote her attentions to the rather easier task of kissing him. The corners of his mouth ... the arch of his brows, so severe at times when he was angered or afraid, almost laconic now, in repose ... the line of the vein beating erratically in his throat...

He lowered her gently to the ground, his long fingers sliding round to caress the sides of her breasts with tender skill, even as he fumbled hopelessly with the fastenings of her tunic. She moaned softly as he grazed one nipple, and decided that she needed to redress the balance somewhat if she was not to be worsted in this fight. She shifted her head slightly to the side, inhaling the strong, clean scent of his hair, and nibbled at the curve of his ear, only slowly making her way to the sensitive tip. Elrond shifted atop her, eagerly pressing himself against her, his voice ragged as he murmured in her ear. "Much ... better ... meleth-nín... But I believe ... a lack of ... clothes ... would make it ... better ... yet..."

Laughing, she guided his fingers to the lacings of her tunic. Perhaps her hands were none too steady, although her eyes were bright, for they seemed to wander unduly much. A wicked grin spread across Elrond's face. "Like this?" He pinched gently where her hand had guided him, and was rewarded as she writhed against him, only increasing the arousal that was straining against the cloth of his breaches.

Celebrían seemed to follow his thoughts, for she rolled him onto his back, only narrowly missing a collision between his head and a tree root, although neither of them noticed that.

His hands were on her waist, insistent, impatient; anyone who knew of the legendary stoic nature of the Lord of Imladris would scarcely have credited it. He tugged at the fastenings, his fingers tracing small circles on her exposed skin, and she made no move to stop him.

Instead, Celebrían set to work on his garments, her fingers skimming across his arousal. His eyes closed, and, all usciosciously, he arched into her touch as she parted the fabric and slipped one hand inside. The world grew distant, but a dim memory of a dream once told of in song and story, and he simply concentrated on the sensation, the smoothness of her hand, almost cool against the heat growing within him. Desire burned him, and he knew only that he wanted her, and that he loved her... She circled his tip with her thumb, teasing at the minute changes in the texture of his skin, and reached down to cup his tender sacs until he groaned louder yet, barely capable of thought, adrift.

With some difficulty, Elrond opened his eyes to realise that his breaches were gone, and that Celebrían was looking down upon him, her eyes alight with desire, blue and bright as the outermost rim of the candle's flame.

"This will never do," he managed at last, attaining some fragile degree of mastery over himself. "Or I shall leave a debt unpaid."

She caressed him again, her fingers sliding across his tip with the lightest of touches, circling, promising, and then she moved away, and he could see his own desire mirrored in her eyes, and he wondered for a moment where one began and the other ended, and in that instant he was afraid, for he saw that this might be his undoing, beyond any Ring, or war, or power of Man mortal or immortal E But But he cared not in that moment, for he loved her, and he needed her, as she needed him, and the need was upon him, and his desire and hers were the whole world.

She lay beneath him now on the loamy floor, where the meadow met the line of trees, and grinned up at him unabashedly, as he slowly kissed her breasts, unhurried, knowing there was time enough, even as his desire bade him onwards.

She shivered beneath him, tense, waiting, as he moved lower yet, and found her centre, teasing, exploring, until she cried out beneath him, muffling her voice against the back of her hand. He tasted her then, salt and sweet, his tongue tracing languid paths across her, even as he slid hong ong fingers into her, revelling in the sounds she made, spurred onwards by them.

Celebrían cried aloud again; the House was far enough away, and its occupants had tasks enough to attend to, and the pleasure was too great to deny.

She resisted the temptation to hold her husband's head to herself and surrender utterly to the pleasure; instead, she gripped his shoulder and pulled him upwards. "Together, now, melethron."

And they were together, and he was within her, and she surrounded him, and the pleasure was almost beyond bearing, unquenchable fire, and longing, and love igniting it all. Hands on naked skin beneath the vaulted heaven of the day, and the dance, always the dance, as they had danced together with their swords, but now perfe, ma, made whole...

Almost tentatively, Elrond touched her once more, and she tightened around him, even as their breathing grew harsher, their movements more constrained by the invisibies ies of need which bound them together. He drove deeper into her, even as she rose up to meet him, and he felt the end approaching, faster now, but still none too soon for either of them.

Elrond opened his mind, and allowed his longing to flow through the new-forged bond of which he was as yet so unsure; and to his delight it was answered, and he felt the chord begin deep within him, rich and vibrant, consuming them both in its heat. And so they fell together in pleasure, and he found her centre one final time, and they cried aloud, together, with a single note, under the clear skies of Imladris.

"Celeb loth nín..." She did not know how long it had been before he spoke, but still she felt the reverberations of pleasure within herself, and she knew without doubting the source of her knowledge, that its time was not yet past.

"El-nín..." She turned slightly in his arms and kissed the angle of his shoulder. "I would never have thought that a morning's fencing could have been so pleasant."

"And yet we have the afternoon before us." She tasted herself as he kissed her, and the inimitable scent which she had learnt to associated with him alone, and she knew that the sadness of Elven memory was to be leavened with joy. And the afternoon was indeed before them, warm and bright.


FINIS


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


El-nín – my star.

Celeb loth nín – my silver flower.

Melethron – (male) lover.

Herven-nín – my husband.

Brí-nín – my Brí.

Melethril-nín – my (female) lover.


Reviews are very welcome.