Separation Fantasy
by S Badger
Copyright© 2022 by S Badger
Fiction Sex Story: [A note from Bondi Beach] This text is from a very close friend who lived in Sydney about the same time as I did. She asked me to post it for her. A Tolkien fanatic, Badger cast her fantasy partly in Middle Earth. It's fan fiction with real people, an erotic romp, and a story of separation with its attendant sorrows. In the end it's a love story, albeit a very short one.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Fan Fiction .
He awoke with her voice in his mind, “Come to me.”
Startled in the darkness, he hears the city’s midnight noises. She is not there. Alexander gets up, carefully, as his knee braces remind him he is not who he was since the fall. He goes out the second floor door at the front of the silent house and sits suddenly in the rickety rattan chair on the balcony. I wonder why I come out here so little, he thinks.
The glittery waters of Sydney’s Rushcutter’s Bay hypnotize, even in the dark. He listens to the click-clack of the berthed sailboats as they ride the breathing bay. This, despite the evergreen screen of glossy-leaved Moreton Bay figs across the street from the house. Sometimes the trees themselves are full of the shrieks and chortling of fruit bats, it is the nesting season. But always there is the snapping and constant tinkle of the boat lines and rigging gear against a forest of naked and sheetless masts on the sloops and dinghies in the Yacht Club hidden from his view.
On the other side of the world, she notes the red digits, the brightest things in the enveloping gray gloom of the suburban station entrance: it’s 7:13 a.m. where she is now. As if Mia were really somewhere else, watching herself, she goes along for the fumble in her black wool coat pocket, the one with the hole in the satin lining almost big enough to lose whatever she stuffs into it. She sees she still doesn’t know which end of the card to sweep across the card reader, losing two seconds to adjust the plastic card so the other end touches the electronic eye and lets the turnstile admit her. Now she hurries ahead of a spiky-haired woman with a beat-up suitcase on wobbling wheels—she recognizes someone who will take over a whole step on the oblivious escalator with its unvarying tempo for the entire trip down to the train platform, not allowing the anxious and the needy to pass on the left.
Moving too fast, she nearly slips and must call on the remnants of her willpower to slow herself down. She calculates her way down the moving staircase, leaning awkwardly to the left to miss entangling her bag with the backpacks and purses and briefcases of the other morning commuters. Fleetingly aware of her bag, she realizes it is full of books she didn’t need to carry today and probably will not open, even at lunch, and a pair of shoes to change to from her boots once she gets to the office. She remembers she meant to clean off the shoes, now they rub their dirt into the books she is hoping to resell.
Arriving at the platform, she suddenly feels the cold again, grabbing her like fingers around her naked neck. Her scarf dangles, nearly pulled off by her need to escape the escalator and all these people. She searches for the announcement board, but it is dimmed and has nothing to tell her about the next train. Now she must decide, gamble that the train is coming soon and claim a space near where the eighth and last car will stop despite the fact that most commuters will make this lazy choice, or pick her way carefully across the slippery wet red tiles and in and out of the clots of passengers who already have staked out their positions to the place where the front car will be arriving.
Returning to herself, she finds she has become hopelessly indecisive. It does not compute. She no longer has any need or desire to get on a train. She can only think that she wants to turn around. She wants to go home again. She wants to start over. This time, when the alarm sounds and the first unrecognizable words of the news announcer insinuate themselves into her dreaming, she will turn over and she will kiss Alexander, a phantom Alexander, an Alexander who is still in Sydney, getting along without her. She will not pretend she doesn’t feel his warmth against her back and legs; she will not elbow him in the chest; she will not swing her bare feet out of the sheltering bed, over the abyss of this far away Monday morning.
Alexander, never more aware of her than now she is gone, hears her words clearly, the tears edited out in memory, “Alexander, I need you.”
The young elf prince rose from his sleeping place. Seeing that the others were still deep in their rest, he stepped lightly over Merry and Pippin, and looked around him. It was the voice of Galadriel, the queen. He wondered how he knew the way, but in the moonlit darkness, he discovered a stairway, and he began climbing. Not made of the wood from which everything in the city was formed, this stair was of ancient, worn stones, so overgrown in places by moss and fern that he had to step carefully. As the path rose up to the height of the tallest tree below, it turned back into the hill. The path was level now and its stones, shimmering mirrors of the moon, led on to the place where she was waiting for him. Now he saw a glowing light, but still not its source. He felt a vague fear—why had he come with no weapon? He also felt drawn ahead, as if he had no will of his own.
After he had gone some way into the overgrown sheltering hillside, he paused. His muscles were tense, ready for what lay ahead; his black eyes were alert, seeking the source of the light. Then he saw, through the massed leaves of a half-hidden arbor, a shape. “I am here, Alexander. Come to me.” He could not calm his heart, but he obeyed.
Behind the leafy screen, Galadriel waited, looking for his eyes. She stood upon a stone terrace, behind her was a soft platform cloaked with silk that gleamed in the light of a hundred candles. She seemed the source of the light herself, her face reflecting the bejeweled silvery gown she wore and her glorious golden hair that lay upon her shoulders like a cloak. He had never seen anyone as beautiful as this. He was without words. She smiled, “You have come, Alexander.”
He had stopped, out of respect, at the edge of the terrace, not wanting to affront by stepping too close to Galadriel. Somehow he felt, too, that she was dangerous and that he himself had no power over her. She moved closer to him and looked down into his face. He saw her pale eyes flash and a whisper of something that was not under her control vanished as it appeared in her mind.
“Alexander, I must ask of you a service. Are you willing to help me?”
He felt a moment of dread but knew he could not resist her will. He touched his hand to his heart and said, “Whatever you wish from me, I will do it if I can.”
She continued looking at his face without saying a word. He felt her gaze on his lips, his forehead, and he braced himself to look back into her eyes with his own. He wondered what it was he had promised to do.
She held out her hands to him. Startled and unsure of himself, Alexander placed his hands in hers. She held his hands and she looked into his black eyes. “Alexander, I will diminish and go to the West, over the seas to the Undying Lands along with our people. I have one task more before I can leave. I will create a child that will stay in Middle-Earth. I want you to lie with me this night to make the child.”
She did not cast her eyes down, she was not ashamed. She seemed to be looking inside of him.
Alexander could not help but gasp in surprise. He couldn’t speak. His thoughts were drowned by a sudden wake of confusion and sense of helplessness and something more. He remained on the step below her, his hands in her grasp, his limbs rooted. He tried to look away, but could not. She was beautiful. She commanded him to keep his gaze upon her.
“I see that you are troubled. What do you wish to ask me?”
He didn’t know what to say. Then, he did: “And the King?”
She did not smile, but in her face was understanding of his confusion. “Yes, Celeborn is my consort. I will return to his side after this night, and I will be with him all of my days until the end of the world. “ Now she smiled, “You see, the child must come from the seed of youth. I have chosen you. It is Celeborn who will raise the child.”
Alexander opened his mouth, but, again, there were no words.
Galadriel pulled him up to where she stood and very close to her, still holding his hands. He felt dazed with the light and her fragrance. He felt that she was warm. She was as tall as he was, and now that she was pulling him close, he could not hope to look away. Why was she asking this of him?
“I ask this of you,” she frightened him with an answer to his unspoken thought, “because you are of royal blood yourself, because you are valiant, and because you wish to save the free peoples of Middle-Earth. There is no one else but you I would ask for this great favor.”
She let go of his hands, and she turned away from him, moving towards the bed. He was frozen, he could not move.
“My lady...” he tried to speak, but the phantom thoughts in his mind formed no words. He saw her unclasp her gown from a silver holdfast. The shiny jewels fell to her feet, she wore a soft chemise beneath. Without thinking, he stepped forward, to be closer to her. She turned and he saw that she felt pity for him. Then she smiled again.
“I will help you,” she said. “I can show you the way.” She moved close enough to him to reach for his face. She stroked from his brow to his chin, then she traced his lips with her finger. “You may kiss me.”
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