Sometimes, in the evenings in spring and autumn, Lothíriel ventures into the forest.
Not always, and only when she has the time and will not be missed for the night, but some days, she walks through the forest until she cannot remember the sound of waves, and the forest greets her with leaves falling on her shoulders like kisses, branches curving in arcs to graze past her skin, and soft touches of flowers brushing her hair.
Sometimes, the forest is alive.
And sometimes, the forest is a woman, a woman Lothíriel only glimpses from the corners of her eyes, flashes of green and red and gold, unknown and yet known, a beauty too great too be looked upon.
She closes her eyes, and walks, and the forest-woman's hands run along her body, fingers and fingernails tickling and dancing over and under clothes. She does not open her eyes—for if she does, the woman becomes the forest again, melts into trees and flowers and leaves—but somehow, she does not stumble, for the forest guides her forward.
And the forest kisses her, and her mouth tastes of earth and honey, bitter and sweet all at once, and hands tangle in her hair, touching and stroking. There are kisses and touches, and she keeps her eyes closed even as she touches back, gentle hands stroking along her skin.
Sometimes, a trail of kisses wanders onto her neck, and below, and her clothes are gone, as if by some strange magic (but it is no magic, only the forest-woman's ) She shivers in delight as her nipples are rolled between calloused fingers, as kisses are placed on her breast. Then a mouth, and she gasps as her nipples are sucked on even as hands wander her sides and belly, lower and lower, tickling and leaving tingles across her skin.
And Lothíriel touches, too, and the forest-woman's skin feels, in some places, like soil under her fingers, crumbly and strange. In others, it is leaf-like, smooth but ribbed with veins. A rare few places are beautifully soft, like flower-petals, and when she touches her here, the forest-woman moves in delight even as the her fingers skim along Lothíriel's mound to reach her most intimate of places.
Lothíriel lets her own hand wander, and even though her eyes are closed, it is easy, as if she has known the forest-woman since the beginning of time. Their hands find each other, and it is awkward, entangled uncomfortably as they are, but they stroke and touch slick, moist skin even as they pepper kisses on each other, and the heat builds, and builds, and builds.
They climax together, shuddering in delight, and Lothíriel's sweat-soaked skin presses against the forest-woman's body as they exchange quiet kisses.
After, they lie under a canopy of leaves, and Lothíriel falls asleep in the forest-woman's arms. When she wakes, she is back near the shore, the forest-woman disappeared back to wherever she dwells. A single leaf always rests in her hair.
When she leaves Dol Amroth, she misses her family. But the forest stretches to Rohan, and sometimes, still, the Queen of the Riddermark ventures into the forest.