Man-maiden / Learning by Adlanth

She’s the one her mother called Nerwen - man-maiden - but it could just as well have been Irissë, she thinks. Her cousin isn’t like most of the girls she knows. Not like Nerwen’s cousins in Alqualondë. Not like Nerwen’s mother, or her aunt Anairë. She’s something different, and a bit like Nerwen herself. She wears her hair in one long, tight black braid - with no gold thread, except for that time, years ago, when she stole Findekáno’s, and he tried to make her give them back, and couldn’t, which made Nerwen laugh a lot. She wears dresses sometimes, long white gowns, but more often than not she’s in her riding clothes: white trousers, tall leather boots, short white coats.

Nerwen finds herself glancing at her narrow waist, her small breasts bending the leather of a sleeveless riding jacket, her long legs. It’s admiration, she tells herself; she’d like to be the same. Irissë calls her ‘little cousin,’ though Nerwen is likely to outgrow her, and Nerwen chafes at the name. Irissë sits with her knees apart and her elbows on her knees, shoulders squared, and for months Nerwen imitates her without even being aware of it. It’s not until Turukáno and Findaráto notice and tell her that she stops, and then she’s angry at Irissë, even though it’s not her fault. Sometimes she dislikes Irissë intensely, and sometimes she wants to be her best friend, wants to go riding with her and maker swear that she’s her favourite cousin, better even than any of Irissë’s cousins on her mother’s side, better than Nerwen’s brothers, better than the sons of Fëanor. “Maybe,” Irissë says.

***

“Come,” Irissë says one day. “We’ll race Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. We two - we can beat them easily.”

As far as Nerwen is concerned, it’s another silly quarrel between Irissë and their cousins, and she can’t stand them - but when Irissë asks her to be on her side she never disobeys.

As they ride across the woods, leaves glistening in gold and silver Tree-light, Nerwen keeps stealing glances at her. Irissë’s braid is coming undone, dark tendrils spilling from their ties. Her thighs clasp her stallion’s flanks, and she is always steady, always secure. When her horse moves beneath her, struggling as they ride up a slope, she urges it on with a touch of her legs and of her hands, and the animal, huge and powerful as it is, obeys. Nerwen can hear their cousins behind them, shouting and urging their horses onwards, but she does not care.

Suddenly Irissë rides straight off the path, turns to her. A flicker of her white hands tells Nerwen that she should do the same, and though she does not understand, she does as she is bidden and rides down a gentle slope towards Irissë. When she turns back to look at the path, she realises that they are low enough now not to be noticed, and she holds her breath. In a flurry of movement her cousins ride along the path, never noticing the two girls and their horses. When they are gone, Irissë lets out a deep bark of a laugh.

“Let them look for us,” she says. “It’ll be a long race for them.”

“And what are we going to do?” Nerwen asks.

Irissë shrugs.

“Wait.”

She dismounts, and ties her horse to a tree, so Nerwen does the same. It is Telperion’s time now, and Irissë, in white and grey and black, is like silver in the dark. When she casts herself down in the grass, Nerwen comes to lie by her. She watches her as Irissë unravels the last of her braid, and when Irissë lifts her arms to tie her hair again, she looks at the curve of her back and of her breasts. It is easier, somehow, in the dark, and when Irissë catches her looking she refuses to blush, and says instead, sullenly:

“How long are we going to wait?”

Irissë finishes tying her hair, flicks her braid back, and shrugs. Nerwen, without thinking, grasps at her hair, and gives it a tug, as if they were still children. She does not know if she is angry at Irissë, or if she simply wants to touch that black hair, or if she is angry because she wants… Not that it matters to Irissë, who shoves her back, half playfully - and then Nerwen is pushing back and they are wrestling,

She does not know exactly how it changes; when she becomes aware of the feel of Irissë’s warm flesh under her own, Irissë’s chest against her own breasts. She notices, though, when their legs entwine, and Nerwen finds herself straddling Irissë’s slender, muscular thigh - grinding against it almost. When she looks down at Irissë, she can see that her cousin is grinning now, and that although she is lying flat on her back she has the smile of someone who has just won.

Then Nerwen is flipped on her back, and it is Irissë who is looking down at her - and then pressing a hand against her legs. Nerwen blushes, truly blushes, this time, feels heat spreading across her cheeks, her neck, her chest. Irissë laughs, and her hand moves just a little.

“So you do like this, after all?” she says, her laugh low and deep. “I thought you might.”

“Like what?” Nerwen asks, though she knows, and she bucks, coltishly, against Irissë - whether to escape Irissë’s touch or press into it she does not know. But then Irissë’s hand just brushes against her, and as a shudder runs through her, all her doubts leave her. Oh, she’d never tolerate it if it was a boy - she’d not want to lie back like that - but when Irissë does it, with that grin… Her left hand moves to cup Nerwen’s cheek, and Nerwen turns clumsily to kiss it, thinking of the palm of Irissë’s other hand against her sex; then Irissë runs it down her neck, and her flank, sliding low along Nerwen’s ribs, then up again until it reaches her breast, and the tight bud of her nipple. When Irissë presses it, sensations spark across Nerwen's body, and she gives a slight moan, in spite of herself.

Irissë moves close to her, and her lips trail across Nerwen’s cheek, then lips. Nerwen thinks she might kiss her, but then Irissë merely speaks.

“Are you sure you want this?” she asks.

Nerwen nods, fiercely.

“Say it,” Irissë says.

And Nerwen, who has never begged in her life, says: “Please.” And she says it again, and again.

Then Irissë’s other hand, still between Nerwen’s legs, starts to move against her again - Irissë pushing the heel of her hand, even through layers of cloth, against that small nub of flesh that causes Nerwen to quiver, and clasp her thighs tight around her hand. At that Irissë laughs - another deep, low laugh that makes Nerwen tingle all the more, even though Irissë’s hand stills between her legs - and dips her head to kiss Nerwen’s cheek, then, very lightly, her lips.

And then her hand moves again - first the palm pressing hard against her, then the fingers, lighter, at her lips; again and again, again and again. Pleasure ripples through Nerwen, and the fabric of her trousers slides wetly against her now. When she moans, Irissë grins roguishly, and moves to cover her; her left hand leaves Nerwen’s breast, and Nerwen whimpers, but Irissë merely braces herself against the ground with her left arm, and the hand between Nerwen’s legs starts pressing harder, more urgently now, pausing only briefly to tease her with her thumb, before she moves again.

She too is flushed now, but her hand and her gaze are steady. Nerwen remembers the horse, how it bucked under Irissë, and how she controlled it with her touch. She too is strong, she thinks, stronger than Irissë, perhaps, in the end - but she is content to lie there, to let herself be rocked by Irissë’s strokes. And then she stops thinking, and feels only the hand that touches her again and again. When another shudder slides across her skin, she raises her arms to clasp Irissë’s body closer, and her thighs close almost convulsively around Irissë’s wrist. One, two, three strokes and she is coming, gasping, pleasure spreading from between her legs and through her body.

***

They don’t talk about it. Their cousins come back too soon, for one (and Nerwen blushes to think that they might have come even earlier, and caught them). And besides Irissë does not seem inclined. Still, whenever they meet now, at her uncle’s house or at their grandfather’s palace, there is a certain glint in Irissë’s eye; a peculiar curve to her smile. Sometimes she winks at Nerwen, for no particular reason. Nerwen’s blood boils at that, and she imagines herself marching over to Irissë, toppling her till she lies down under Nerwen, and then until that grin is quite gone, and she moans, and cries out, just as Nerwen did - nay, louder. Show her who is the man-maid.

How sweetly Artanis smiles, other people say, murmuring approvingly. Nerwen does not hear, but keeps looking at Irissë, imagining her undone and spread beneath her, back arching, fingers clenching. Yes, she thinks, and smiles softly, one of those days I shall do exactly that.

She comes into Doriath as an Exile, a Kinslayer. Dreams of blood-stained waves at Alqualondë wash through her every night, and she wakes stiff and shaking with anger. Sometimes she thinks the Helcaraxë has frozen her through, and that she will never feel warmth again. Not even her hopes of dominion are to be achieved, for Beleriand is not empty. She who had hoped to rule her own realm finds herself spending most of her time in another kingdom’s. In Doriath, she finds Thingol too proud; Lúthien, too wild. And she is certainly not inclined to spend much time in the company of coolly-mannered, aloof, silver-haired princes. Then there is Melian: serene Melian in her flowing gowns of dark silk, slowly stepping through the halls of Menegroth, soft-spoken and quiet. A Maia! Artanis thinks in disgust, thinking of the powerful creatures she knew in Aman. A Maia reduced to playing the matron.

When Melian offers to teach her she is surprised and unwilling. Only at Findaráto’s bidding does she accept.

Alone in her chambers Melian is warmer, less stately, less grave. Artanis learns of the power she wields over the borders of Doriath, and of how she struggles against Morgoth’s will. Some things she cannot teach a mere Elf, but there is still much that Artanis learns: how to cast out her thought into the past and the futures in search of answers, how to touch another being’s mind without doing violence to it. During these lessons she has no choice but to let Melian glimpse into her mind, catch snatches of dreams, memories, hopes and desires.

“You are a very proud girl,” Melian says once, and Artanis bristles - whether at ‘proud’ or at ‘girl’ she does not know. But Melian merely smiles. “No matter. I love a very proud man.”

Still, she teaches Artanis how to kneel.

***

Silence and stillness come easily to Melian, a being far older than Artanis can possibly fathom; less so to Artanis herself. She has to learn. Melian’s power weighs heavily on her skin, twines like vines about her body, detects the merest hint of motion. Kneeling in a shadowed, sandy grove, Artanis thinks of Thingol, rooted in awe of Melian for centuries. He too must have knelt beautifully as the trees grew about them; he must have been utterly still and worshipful in his desire.

Desire, yes. She has too much time to stare, to look at Melian’s body flowing beneath the dark cloak of her hair and of her clothes. For a long time she does not know if Melian knows, until the merest downwards flicker of Melian’s gaze tells her she does. Artanis trembles in embarrassment, and yet a spike of desire shoots through her. Because of this she earns further punishment. She thinks she too could kneel for centuries, millenia. She must.

***

Eventually, Melian reaches out to her in pity. Her hand rests on Artanis’s throat and on the pulse that beats there and then beats faster at her touch. Her fingers steal over Artanis’s cheek, her lips. Both her hands smooth down Artanis’s shoulders, then softly down her breasts. Artanis barely breathes. When Melian’s fingers untie her clothes, she thinks she might feel dizzy, and when she is entirely bared to the cool air, a shudder runs through her. She yearns for Melian’s nakedness, longs to touch the round, soft breasts she can glimpse beneath her gown, to worship every inch of Melian’s warm skin. But Melian merely leans close, so close that her fabric of her dress brushes against Artanis’s erect nipples.

“Close your eyes,” she says. “Do not move.”

Artanis obeys. There is a sound of rustling fabric, and Melian is behind her. Artanis feels her hair being lifted, and cool air flows against the nape of her neck. Artanis is not proud of her beauty, but she loves her own gold and silver hair, and for a moment she thinks Melian might cut it, rob of her one vanity. But Melian lets go, slowly, and strand by strand it falls back against Artanis’s naked back, brushing her buttocks, and she nearly sighs at the caress of her own hair.

Then, when Melian’s soft, commanding hands guide her down, she lies on the cool sand of the grove. For a moment she is alone, then she feels the slightest touch against her neck, then her breasts. This time she knows it is the dark silk of Melian’s own hair, softer than her own, falling upon her like night. Softer, and yet as it touches her it raises a keen pleasure. It caresses Artanis’s breasts, and raises goosebumps, falls against her nipples, her heaving ribs, covered in fine sheen of sweat. Artanis draws in a great heaving breath, and her stomach hollows - Melian’s touch follows like water pouring over her, over her belly and down between her legs. Artanis’s thighs part of their own accord, and she lies splayed, open wide. She is not so proud now; she does not care how much her body begs.

For a moment she is alone, then there is another rustling sound, and the faintest touch against her inner thigh, and she knows where Melian is. She does not dare breathe, and her whole body tenses in anticipation. Then something touches her where she is most vulnerable, most open - Melian’s lips, infinitely soft and powerful upon her. For a long time she does not move, and Artanis, shaking, draws in a shaky, desperate breath, then another. Still she does not open her eyes, merely imagines Melian kneeling between her thighs, humbling herself to kiss with lips of flesh a mere child of Eru - humbled and all powerful.

Then Melian starts to move, her tongue sliding along Artanis’s folds, parting them. She is warm and slick and Artanis rocks her hips slightly but helplessly each time. Pleasure unfolds through her, and she abandons herself to it, though she longs to crush herself against that mouth, to press her hand into Melian’s warm dark hair. Once, she raises her hand and extends it blindly, and at once Melian leaves her. Only after she has let her hand fall back does Melian return to her, unhurriedly, and this time she keens her pleasure, digs her fingers deep into the forest floor, arches into the touch.

And then there is something in her. It is not flesh, but it is Melian. Raw power filling her - almost like a physical presence in the hollow between her legs, then diffusing through her body. There is nothing ethereal about it - Artanis knows that Melian’s power could tear her apart, that there is nothing soft about Melian, and the way she guards her realm. Again she arches, and in the grip of that power she is as terrified as she has ever been on the Helcaraxë, or at Alqualondë. But Melian does not seek to destroy, and what tears through Artanis is not pain but a heart-wrenching pleasure. It pulses in her limbs and in her belly, across her skin and in her sex, and she nearly sobs.

When it leaves her she slumps against the floor, and in the end it is Melian’s mouth alone that brings her pleasure, as Melian moves between her trembling, tired thighs. It is gentle but it is that soft, warm touch upon her sex that brings her pleasure, rippling through her again and again in clear waves.

At last her body slackens, sated and worn out. There is a fluttering touch upon her eyelids, and she opens her eyes at last, looking up into the face of Melian, who has never seemed so beautiful than now, tendrils of black hair about her face, and flushed, after all. She is naked now, though Artanis does not know when she loosed her gown; she is bared and vulnerable, like a child of Eru - and she is not. But she will don it again, Artanis thinks, and leave her slumped on the forest floor. But Melian does not, and merely lies next to Artanis. She drapes an arm around her, and her slender leg slides between Artanis’s stained thighs. At last Artanis feels that body flush against hers - the warmth and softness of it. She does not wish to grasp at it now, or to capture it; she lets herself be lulled by its presence, by Melian’s hand sliding softly, caressingly into her hair, soothing her into sleep.

When she raises drowsy eyes, she finds that Melian’s gaze is full of pity. Yet there is no softness there. A steely-eyed compassion, a hard-edged love. She sleeps.