I Won't Bite by Agelast

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Chapter Five

This chapter contains hunting with a decided moral slant to it. (Evil things, you know. And that's a judgement right there.) 

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Watch yourself, you foolish boy. What terrible danger you're in!

Suddenly jolted awake, his mind was ablaze with the fast-fading memories of his dream. Hands, his own, were grasping at unknown flesh, his fingers lacing together with another hand, his mouth pressed on another lips. Mouth opening, a wicked tongue darting in. He was drawn ever closer to the edge, closer to destruction. If he should close his eyes again, he could see the imprint of flames against his eyelids, and feel the heat of the fire traveling lightening-quick through his body.

With a sigh, he wrapped his wrinkled bed sheets around himself and resolved to leave at dawn. His dream had been a warning, he was sure of it, of the way he was heading. He had been here too long, growing a little more content every day – speaking to Síriel, to Maedhros, exploring Himring, climbing the highest towers until the sky seemed to reach out towards him and take him to its breast, giving him a glimpse of a kind of freedom that he had never thought of, in the deep forests of his home.

But that promise was false, and was not why he lingered. You must be brave, said a voice in his head, one that sounded like the voice of his king. Oropher had only heard him – the king –   once or twice in his whole life, but he recognized it within a heartbeat. You know why you linger.

Repent.
Redeem yourself.
He would. He could do nothing now but that.

* * *
“We're to hunt the wolves, will you join us?”

Some of the denizens of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, fleeing the might of Huan and the deadly enchantments of Lúthien, had escaped to the east, and came ravaging throughout the countryside, until the white snows turned black and red from their depredations.  Oropher said yes, pushing aside, again, the small worried voice in the back of his mind warning him that he ought not to linger, that he ought to leave as soon as he could. But it was easier to ignore that voice when there was so much to distract him. Maedhros turned to him, eyes brightened as if he remembered some joke.

Oropher leaned towards him, to catch what he said. And then pulled back, stricken by guilt. Guilt gnawed at his gut, knotted with lust and uncertainty. He stole a glance at Maedhros, who seemed to see nothing out of the ordinary about him. But he knew it was there, trembled within him, threatening always to unloosen, finally, and all his sins, his disloyalty would spill out for all the world to see.

He did not know if Maedhros could understand this, if he knew about. Before, he had believed the Fëanorians were loyal only to the memory of their dead father and to their dreadful Oath. But Maedhros seemed – he was – not at all what Oropher had expected. Before, he could have never imagined that the grim Lord of Himring could bring himself to joke, or allow himself to laugh. But hadn't their first encounter started with a joke on Maedhros' part?
So it hadn’t be a very good joke – an appallingly bad one at that –

What am I thinking! Oropher frowned to himself. Oh, Maedhros can't be such a terrible person – he can take a joke! And you're a fool, Oropher.

Jokes aside, in the time they spent together, Maedhros took – pains, very special care, never to reveal too much about himself. Oropher knew very well what Maedhros did not want to think of. At least he thought he did.

***

How Oropher wished he could stop dreaming about him! He woke, panting and hard, and could have torn the pillow apart in frustration.  Fool, fool! echoed in his head.
***

But he had not much time to brood on his frustration. With Lady Síriel's reluctant permission, Oropher was allowed to go with them. The hunt was on. They went forth abroad, on the lookout for the pitiless beasts that ravaged the countryside. For days, then weeks, and finally months, they were all intent upon their quarry. And Oropher spent those months in Maedhros' company, and observed, as best he could, all that the Noldor did differently from the Sindar.

That was what he told himself. And certainly, there was much to observe. The Noldor did not rely as heavily on the element of surprise, as as his own people did, when it came to a fight. They would rather overpower – with their sharp steel, and – he admitted it to himself, if no one else – their courage, which was high and rarely daunted. If he could forget what he knew of them – of Maedhros – he could come to admire them. If, if. It was a dilemma.

And Oropher did not like dilemmas.

***

Another bothersome dream. He shook off the tangled threads of sleep, and rose from his bed. He dressed and dragged a comb carelessly through his loose hair. Careful to make no sound, he left the tent full of sleeping men and ventured into the night. The cool night air served to wake him more and sharpen the hazy resolve that gathered strength within him. He felt for the belt on his waist and found what he sought – a knife with a red jewel on its handle.

It had been a gift, given to him by Maedhros earlier that day, in acknowledgment for a thing that Oropher had done the day before. I should have let that wolf tear his throat! Oropher shivered. His light linen shirt was no protection against the night air.

He paused outside Maedhros' tent – larger and finer than all the others – there was a guard, sleeping. With his right foot, Oropher nudged his leg, but the guard slept on, lost to the land of dreams. With a shrug, Oropher let himself in. Maedhros' tent was darkened, except for the red glow of a solitary lamp. And in his bed, low-slung and long, slept Maedhros himself, his back to the door. Oropher crept closer, and could, in time, hear his steady breathing.

And his own.

Out slid the knife, its edge glittering even in the dim light. Oropher stopped in front of the bed, and waited. Slowly - maddeningly slow -  Maedhros turned and looked at him, his eyes dark in his pallid face.

Conversationally, Oropher said, “If I were to kill you now, I would be a great hero. The Mariners of Aqualondë would be avenged.”

Maedhros said, “Do it then. Strike me down, I won't stop you.” He pressed his hand against his chest, motioning to Oropher to strike. Here.

And Oropher could do it. He could.

But instead, his grip on his knife loosened, and after a moment, he threw back his head and laughed.

“Are you always this dramatic?,” he said, as he climbed into Maedhros' bed. Surprised, Maedhros rolled over to make room for him, though in the end, they crowded close together, limbs bent and heads down, surrounded by a vast expanse of white sheets.  

Maedhros' voice was low and smooth, liquid to Oropher's ears. “You call me dramatic? You were here to assassinate me.” His hand traced the line of Oropher's jaw, Maedhros' thumb indenting his lower lip. Instinctively, Oropher bit down, softly against Maedhros' skin. It was a moment before Maedhros took his hand away.

With some difficulty, Oropher said,“I could do it still.”

“You could try --” Maedhros' lips hovered close to his, too –

Oropher moved a little closer, and caught his chin. He kissed Maedhros, impatiently, hungrily. He had wanted to since the very first time he had seen him, from the very moment. It had driven him to distraction, to know that he could never – should never – consider doing this.

Well. He had never been good at following orders. (Or prudent advice.)

Perhaps, perhaps he should raise his sights to something – higher.

But this was not the time for such thoughts, because the future did not exist then, there was only the present and it was filled up with Maedhros, with peeling back his bedclothes – shoving them down roughly, and kissing a freckled shoulder. He paused to paw at his own shirt, ineffectually, until, Maedhros untied the stubborn knot with a quick twitch of his long fingers.

“Practice,” he murmured, before Oropher silenced him with another kiss.

Maedhros' scars crisscrossed his whole body; they were as mortal marks on immortal skin. Oropher traced one, made by a serrated blade on the flat of his stomach, with his fingers and with his tongue. He wanted to know, to touch, and to see Maedhros shudder as he did it.

He wanted to know – so much. Was it true – what they said about him – and about his cousin – Finbar the Bold or something like that. (Those Fin-names, they all sounded the same.) Oropher's hand closed around Maedhros' right wrist, and he examined the jagged ring of scarred flesh that surrounded it, and where the flesh stopped.

“They say he loved you, the one who did this to you. Is it true?”

“Don't. You can't –“

Oropher raised an eyebrow. “I am naked in your bed, what do you know of what I can or can’t do?”
“Being naked in my bed does not entitle you to know everything about me.”
“Everything about you?” His voice rose to an indignant pitch. “I know nothing about you, except rumors and half-truths.”
“The things you know are true. Or near enough, anyway.”

Oropher scrubbed his eyes, and sighed. “If you wish, I could leave this tent, steal the finest of your horses, and never see you again. Would that make you happy?”
“I'm never happy.”
“Then I'll stay.”

* * *

Oropher started. “Did you drug the guard?”
Maedhros looked innocent – or tried to. “Who, me?”

* * *

It wasn’t like Oropher was a blank slate.

He had scars too, places where a knife blade had slipped between the cracks of his armor (which proved all too light) or where an arrowhead had nicked the smoothness of his cheek. Of course, there was now an ugly scar on his left leg, marred forever (or however long he managed to live.) He leaned hard upon that leg, ignoring the sharp, brief stab of pain as he leaned on it, straddling Maedhros' thighs, his hands holding lightly to Maedhros' hips.

“Ah. What would you like me to do?” Anxiety cut sharply into his self-confidence.  It did not help that Maedhros shrugged, pretending vast unconcern, as if he could comfortably lie there all day. If it weren’t for the hardness against his leg, he would have assumed that Maedhros was completely disinterested in what he wished to do. The last straw came when Maedhros made a move to stifle a yawn. Oropher's leg began to ache, and he tumbled over and hid his face in the bed sheets.

His voice was muffled as he said, “All right, you've won. Which one of your horses are you especially fond of?”

He did not jump when he felt a cool hand on the back of his heated neck or lips on his ear.

“I could show you,” Maedhros said, his voice like honey.

Oropher turned to him – and shivered. He said yes, and all right.