Title: Sea-Fever

Author: Ilye (ilye_elf@yahoo.co.uk)

Website: www.geocities.com/talesfromthevale

Pairing: Círdan/Ossë

Summary: "I must go down to the seas again..."

Rating: PG-13/R

Notes: I heard this poem by John Masefield, "Sea-Fever", and the muse 
has been eating me ever since. Just a brief ficlet, but I'm sure it was a good 
exercise for me!

Disclaimer: Not mine, never have been - like I could own an Ainur, 
anyway.


***************
Sea-Fever
***************

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.


I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.


I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted 
knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

 John Masefield

~~~

There it is again: the Sea is calling. Those who cannot sense it think me 
mad - feverish. They are, to an extent, correct, I suppose, for it not only 
echoes in my ears, but burns in my veins, thickens my blood, quickens my 
breath and grogs my head, until I am powerless to deny it. This is Sea-
Fever, and I am struck.

Ithil's icy sliver lends little light to the deserted beach through the sparse, 
grey clouds, but I know my lover is here. I can hear him breathing, that 
slow rush of wash tempered by the moon. I can smell him, that distinct 
briny tang that permeates our home, and I can feel the dampness of his 
breath on my face as a fine mist creeps over the beach.

Shingle crunches underfoot as I make my way down to the tide-line, 
smooth, cool stone worn flat from centuries of my lover rolling them 
through his fingers. I shed my robe onto the pebbles, feel the knife-bite 
chill of the wind whip at my skin. My breath quickens and my pulse beats 
harder with every step I take closer to the water's lapping edge. The Sea-
Fever lulls me, fuelled only by my own willingness.

The first ripple of water over my toes is ice-cold, like Ithil's light tonight, 
but this consumption in my blood negates it all. This is no ordinary 
sickness such as that contracted by Men - the cool of the water only serves 
to further inflame my flesh, failing to douse the fire within me. Another 
step, then another, until the waves swell about my waist, and finally I suck 
in a deep breath and sink beneath the surface. 

The initial envelopment of the water chills to the bone - it always does. 
Yet I have long passed the stage whereupon this panics me. It is only a 
matter of moments, then the waters around me grow warmer, welcoming. 
I knew that the surf would not shun me; Ossë would not have called 
otherwise.

'Tis as though the buoyancy of the swells bears me up again, like two 
great, tender hands. Upon my back I am kept afloat, my head and 
shoulders breaking the surface, my hips and legs somewhat lower. 
Reclining in these strong, oceanic arms, I am weightless, safe. 

The waves lap around my nipples: long, watery fingers that tease them 
taut. A liquid kiss touches my throat, causing me to arch my head back - 
yet my crown meets only further support, to prevent the water from 
covering my face. The Sea around me is wonderfully warm and 
comforting, just as a lover's embrace should be. Mist rises from us both, 
transcending the heat in our beings into Autumn's algid air. It touches the 
point of my ear, like hot, damp breath from parted lips; just as I see mine 
crystallise above me. 

"My Círdan." The words are slow, disguised within the rushing sound of 
the Sea so that you would not hear if you did not listen. 

"Aye, you have me," I whisper back, and indeed, he does have me. I am 
kept afloat by the watery cradle of his arms, my head braced against his 
shoulder as his fluid fingers fondle my fevered flesh. He will not assume 
the corporeal form tonight, I know - this is one of the times when he will 
simply take his pleasure from mine. At first this made me wonder, made 
me question, but he soon taught me that he enjoys this as much as I, just 
from being in my presence. So I question it not, for I love being with him, 
too.

Despite this, though, I cannot help but see him in the flesh as he begins to 
stroke my itching skin. Behind closed eyelids I can picture the lights of his 
eyes, molten cobalt like the depths of the Seas, yet when I look up it is the 
stars that I see. The wind's breath calls to mind the tickling of his hair 
across my chest as he leans over me, those long, glossy locks so black as 
to be near-blue. His face is as Ithil, luminescently, beautifully pale amidst 
that night-hued Sea - I know not if it is the way with all the Ainur, or if he 
is exceptional amongst them.

Yet his hands... his hands are always the same. Like the tempo of the 
current are the caresses of his hands; like the spume at the prow, his 
kisses. His touch flows over me as the gentle stream of water, but instead 
of soothing, fire evolves in its wake; this is the exorcism by the Sea of the 
fever, my Sea-Fever. I am held as the waves smooth and stroke it out, as 
they excite my already trembling body and cause my flesh to swell, my 
blood to roar - it is strange, I dazedly notice: always in time to the tide. 
Incoherency builds with the impending release, for the fever burns me to 
breathlessness, sets my head spinning, renders me speechless.

And when, finally, the watery hands coax the heat from my flesh in an 
eruption of dizzying proportions, and I am left gasping for the frosty air, I 
sink back into the liquid embrace. On the rising mist, on the swoosh of the 
surf, come Ossë's breathy words: "Love you."

"You too," I murmur back. I have always loved the Sea. My head is 
permitted to dip just slightly, so the water covers my chin, and eagerly my 
lips part, welcoming a heady, salty kiss. The taste does not repulse me, as 
one might think - rather it thrills me, having been one with the ocean all 
my life.

We part, but the taste lingers. It is laced into the very air we breathe here 
with spray blown from the surf, but this is a far finer way of achieving the 
same. The lapping of the waters now gentle the tremors that shake my 
frame, rather than stirring them like they did before. 'Tis calm, and still, 
for the fever, like the storm, has broken. Yet come tomorrow night I shall 
be inflamed just the same. 

This is Sea-Fever, and I am lost to it.

The End