Disclaimer: Total fiction. No real people were harmed in the making of this fanfic.
Notes: For lotrpschallenge 37.
Orlando is on his knees: head bowed down, a crooked halo of afternoon sunlight reflecting off the side of his face, the gentle curve of his neck, the tangled curls of his hair. So still: his hands clasped together in his lap, fingers pressing white marks onto his own skin.
Elijah is sitting on the bench: arms draped over the unforgiving back-rest in a crucificial arc, legs spread apart to cage Orlando, eyes closed. So bright. The sunlight touches him nowhere, but he's transfused anyway: glowing with an inner light.
God, Elijah murmurs, Oh, God. His body is rocking slow and steady--back and forth--in time to the gentle wash of waves against the pebbled beach outside the boathouse.
Orlando is spilling sound: foreign, joyful tongues full of unfamiliar verbs of adoration that hum and stutter from his throat.
Elijah shivers and the bench creaks; Orlando's halo slowly dims.