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This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Implied and graphic non-con/rape, incest, prostitution, power games, angst».
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Simulacra (NC-17) 
Written by Vanwa Hravani09 November 2011 | 30013 words | Work in Progress
VI
‘I told you, you can’t drink in here. You’re not welcome. We doesn’t serve no addicts in here.’
The beefy barman spoke gruffly to the figure slumped at the corner table, yet kept his distance.
A grating voice came from under the tangled mass of greasy gray-black hair. ‘Dint like us, shouldn’ hav brewed th stuff. Whaddyou care? Not hurting ‘nybody.’ A dirty long- fingered hand waved the tavern keeper away rudely.
‘Aye, mebbe fer now yer not, but it’s only a matter of time with you, in’t? Now shoo!’
The head jerked up sharply and the tavern went silent. The barman froze where he was collecting glasses. His eyes calculated the distance between them. Three paces. Not enough. He contemplated backing up slowly, knowing it was a bad idea.
‘You should count yourself lucky, friend.’ The voice was now less slurred and took on a quiet threatening tone, one that chilled every heart in the room, like rattler stilling before the strike. The barman found himself staring directly into the frighteningly bottomless blue pits of the elf’s eyes. They were the eyes of one with nothing left to lose.
‘Now I said, give me kaihf.’
Sweat beaded the brow of the barman as the blood drained from his doughy face. He took a trembling step backward, then another. Then turned and headed for the bar, muttering under his breath.
‘Who’s that then?’ the stranger asked, gesturing with his chin at the mass in the corner.
‘Goes by the name of Halda. Been in town for years.’
‘Halda, huh? Unusual name for an elf. Means ‘Shadowed,’ if my school days serve me right.’
‘Used to be quite the thing, a few years back. Made a good living among the nobles, scratching itches.’
‘A courtesan?’
‘No, better than that. Wouldn’t be taken or held by any of them. But they all scrambled over themselves for a few moments of his time just the same. To taste the sharper pleasures of which he was a connoisseur, so they say. Had the whole of the duchy in his hand for some time there.’
‘What happened?’
‘Don’ rightly know. Not sure which came first, the fall or the kaihf. Never can say that. The two go hand in hand. No one as tries it avoids the fall, and no one as has something to live for tries it. They say it’s especially bad for elves, oddly. Something about that light they carry inside ‘em. Don’t know if it dulls their senses or dulls the light, but keeps ‘em from being able to know what they are, or such like. And keeps their kind from being able to find ‘em again.
Weird things, is elves. Reckon we’d all be safer without ‘im around, now that he’s not so high on the hog, so to speak. Gets dangerous sometimes, when he remembers his strength. Mean. An’ wicked fast.’
‘But how does he live?’
‘An’ what do you think an addicted elf’d be doing in these parts to earn a living?’
The stranger grunted into his ale and drank deeply.
‘Still, seems a waste. Might not be bad looking, if he were clean. And they say elves have magic and all.’
The other grunted. ‘Him? No, he doesn’t even know what being an elf is anymore. Used to be beautiful though. Hair the color of dawn. Made you sigh just to look. Now look at ‘im. That’un’s got no magic left. He’s just a kaihf shell. Can’t live or die.’
His lined face resting on the sticky table in front of him, Haldir’s still keen hearing registered every word. Many years ago he would have corrected them on his name. No longer.
Halda, he thought dimly. They got it right.
Haldir woke in a sweat, feeling dirty. He glanced down at the weight on his arm. Red-gold curls.
Too dirty to touch.
Taking care not to disturb his sleeping lover, he slid his arm out and replaced it with a pillow as Faramir stirred and murmured. A reassuring hand on his shoulder and quiet again.
Snatching up a robe, Haldir walked on swift silent feet to the bathing chamber. He must get clean. Now.
There was not enough soap to make the memory go away. There never was. He scrubbed harder. Washed his hair again.
Staring into the looking glass afterward, the elf searched his pale reflection for traces of the lines he knew had been around his mouth, for the dirty streaks under from his eyes, the gray in his hair. He saw none, but still he searched. In his eyes, he saw them. In the seriousness of his gaze, the grim hold of his jaw, the distance and coldness. He knew others did too. They could not see the dirt, but still they saw… something.
Halda, he thought. Still.
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I am looking forward to reading more of this – I adore all of the undercurrents in their relationship.
— pinbot Wednesday 6 August 2008, 20:25 #