More by Himring

I.

Maedhros:

I lift my head. Semen has spilled onto my cheek and chin and his thigh. Some of it seems to be still in my mouth. I swallow again.

I suppose it would be too much to expect my thoughts to make much sense just now. Some childish idiot in my head keeps insisting: I did it! I, Maedhros the cripple, I made him come...  There is a dizzy feeling of swooping, plunging: disorientation at finding myself enacting all those night-time dreams and early morning fantasies that I half endured, half relished, but never thought of as something I might experience in reality... A forlorn wish to cling to the dissipating illusion that he actively participated in the act, just because I felt him thrusting instinctively upward into my mouth...

But the dominant emotion is fear, which is quickly developing into blind panic, for I’ve really gone and done it now. No room left for ambiguities. Did I actually manage to convince myself that I was doing it for his sake? What a transparent excuse!

Yes, he was suffering—but what could justify me in my belief that it was in my power to do anything at all about it? How was I qualified to decide what might help him? Had I any real reason to imagine that persuading him to let me touch him in this way could? No, I had no right at all to involve him in this...transgression. He was half out of his mind with grief and not sober. He did seem to accept my offer of physical comfort, but how can he not see it differently by the light of day?

Did I really plan this in advance and think I’d live it down somehow eventually?  Oh, I’m all set for a quick getaway in the early hours of the morning, but did I think that would save me? I’d need to get off the bed and start running right now and even that wouldn’t be fast enough or soon enough. No, I should have run before, before I succumbed to the temptation to go through with this insane idea. 

I close my eyes to put the evil moment off just a little longer, can’t resist attempting to inhale once more the scent of his skin, something to take with me on yet another kind of exile. But the silence is unendurable, too. I can’t even hear him breathe anymore, because of the hammering in my temples and the rushing sound in my ears. His hand, clenched in my hair a moment ago, lies slack and heavy now. I open my eyes again, steel myself to face my impending annihilation and hoist myself on my elbows so as to look into his face. As I do so, I feel his hand slide down my arm.

No, there is no condemnation for me yet in his face. I don’t think he’s sobered at all; in fact, he looks almost frighteningly befuddled and out of it. Did he have a lot more of that wine than I imagined he had? I thought I was watching the level in that carafe so closely! Or is this an effect of what we just did? He’s looking at me, but I haven’t got a clue what he’s seeing and I daren’t ask. I’m not sure I could speak if I tried.

His lips move, silently at first. Then he says a single word, in a small, hoarse voice: ‘More.’

More. Just as I was about to wonder whether I hadn’t simply added rape to the long list of Feanorian crimes. More what? Does it mean what I think it does? Have I been granted a reprieve? But it cannot be true consent, no more than it was before. So do I owe it to him to refuse, because I’m almost certain he will regret asking for it tomorrow? How hypocritical would that be—having gone and seduced him, I am now going to turn squeamish and request a letter of permission in triplicate made out by the royal secretariat, with his personal signature?

I lower my head again and gently trail my lips across his abdomen. And that is when misery hits me, like the backlash of my earlier terror. I feel tears of self-pity start in my eyes, because I’m in bed with the one who I love more than anybody else in the world and I feel appallingly lonely.  He is right here, and I can’t hope to succeed in reaching him.

For a while, I find it difficult to move. This won’t do, it won’t do at all. I was supposed to be in charge of this misguided operation; he must think I know what I’m doing. I can’t let him see how hopelessly out of my depth I am.

I feel him lift his hand again. His fingers, fumbling, uncertain, seem to be groping for some kind of hold. I move a little to the side and offer him my wrist to catch. His fingers close on it.

I steal another look at his face. During the long moments while I was doing little but struggle with my overblown emotions, it has changed again. His mouth relaxed, his eyes half-closed, he seems to be about to go to sleep.

‘Findekano...?’

His eyelids flutter slightly in response, but seem too heavy to lift. He’s still holding my hand. It strikes me that an innocent bystander might think this was a peaceful scene, give or take a few clothes, and, maybe, just maybe, they would be right. In which case I wouldn’t have entirely failed in what I tried to do, although I lost the plot so badly just now...