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“You will leave me, soon.”
Felagund speaks with the quiet weight of certainty, with grief borrowed from a future that draws ever nearer. He strokes Bëor’s hair and lets a silver lock curl around his finger. Bëor turns his face to kiss Felagund’s warm palm.
His Felagund; hale and young and yet older than comprehension, with eyes that glitter like pale jewels. Beautiful beyond anything within the circles of this world. In this stolen moment of idle quiet, with dappled sunlight filtering down through a canopy of verdant trees above, his unbound hair is of spun gold.
It has been decades since Bëor was a young man. His joints ache now more often than they do not, and his hand, when Felagund takes it in his own, is wrinkled and marked with a lifetime’s worth of scars. “Soon,” he agrees, for there is no use in denying it. He has already been given far longer than most.
Though Felagund’s smile does not reach his eyes, underneath his grief lies quiet acceptance. His hand in Bëor’s is light and unpossessive; when the time comes, he will let him go.
Bëor squeezes tightly. “But a little time is left to us yet.”