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He carefully traced his finger along his Master's face once again. The red line slowly descended sculpting the tanned skin below. The Lieutenant bite his lip in concentration.
It was their usual annual ritual, but it always seemed, as he murmured the protection spell, that time stopped during those sacred minutes.
It started one day two centuries ago, when he had offered his Master his acquired knowledge of enchanted symbols under Aulë's apprenticeship. At first the Dark Vala refused to hear anything about the matter and cut him before finishing the explanation. But as time went by, and his body bounded to Arda became an almost unbearable painful burden, he allowed his ever faithful servant to try those ancient Valarin spells, with the condition he translated them to Black Speech.
As always, his Master had been right. The power of the spell had increased, transforming the hidden light in them into dark, dense essence. There was also something intimate in the act. Neither felt the need to say it aloud, but the spiritual bond between the Lieutenant's words and the Master's body was there, outwordly but palpable and obvious. Furthermore, this was done in the Vala's private chambers, for their orcs and subjects needn't know about this exchange.
Both his Master's face sides had been covered in dark-red blood from the enemies. The design he had chosen for this year had been a simple one; two long lines that traveled from above the eyebrows down to the broad jaw.
The final touch was the shortest line across the full, grey lips he was tracing. He lingered in them a little longer, reciting the last words, chanting them low as if remembering a long forgotten song.
The yellowish eyes of the rebellious Vala glowered under the light of the Silmarils. As he fixed them more intently in the reddish ones of his Lieutenant's, his mouth opened a little, at the pace the long fingers were slipping by, mimicking the curve of the Maia's lips while the last dark words escaped from them.
Their distance wasn't the same as at the beggining. Every year the ritual happened, they conciously displayed an approach game, the only rule being how much the boundaries could be forced without speaking. The Lieutenant's eyes were fixed in his Master's neck now. And his fingers ran across the Adan's apple, without any blood or sounds to accompany them.
This time, there was a silent agreement on going a little further. As if following unspoken orders, he sealed the spell with a reverent, almost untouching kiss on his Master's lips, feeling a wave of warm might run along his spine. He closed his eyes, relishing in the overwhelming sensations, fearing that if he opened them, a prophanity would be committed.
There was a long inhaling, but his Master didn't move. For the briefest of seconds, though, he could sense his Master leaning into him. When the Lieutenant cautiously retreated, their gazes finally met. An ethereal but easily perceptible electricity still connected the little space of air between them. Adoringly, he licked his lips, treasuring the moment.
Without need for speaking the order out loud, the Master bid him continue the usual daily tasks. The Lieutenant bowed deeply and left the room. He resolved that next year, his spells would require painting his Master's chest.