Be more cruel, Love, and so be kind. by Agelast

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A Boat, Under an Open Sky

---

The wind picked up and whipped at their clothes, tugging the hats from their heads.

Carnistir’s was lost, now half-way down the cliff to the beach below. The briny air made his skin itch, and his hair spilled over his face. Of course, Findaráto looked very well. Somewhere along their journey from Tirion to the outskirts of Aqualondë, he had acquired a nice tan (while Carnistir had merely burned) and his hat stayed on his head, and looked good doing it.

It was enough to almost hate him, really.

They had both campaigned hard for this trip to happen, and had found an unexpected ally in their grandfather, Finwë, who was, by all accounts very pleased by Carnistir and Findaráto’s unexpected friendship. This was, he had announced, how he had hoped all of his children and their children would be -- united in friendship.

They had two weeks and a pack of supplies that would last them a bit longer, and a cottage by the sea.

The cottage, Findaráto was explaining, had been built by his uncle -- not Nolofinwë, but one of Eärwen’s brothers, and he had always had rather eccentric tastes. It was not a very big house, indeed, it was more of a cottage -- or a shack -- than a place anyone could live in, year round.

It sat, precariously, on a craggy rock above the water, a house made from driftwood that had floated, for centuries on end, from the other shore. Findaráto placed a loving hand on the doorpost. “To think, these trees grew and died, never having seen the light of the Trees.”

“Or any light at all, if the loremasters are to be believed, except starlight. One has to wonder how they grew,” Carnistir said. His finger caught a splinter and he hissed in surprise.

“Come on, the key’s in here,” Findaráto said, lifting a rock on the front step. And to be sure, there it was, and when Findaráto opened the door, the stale smell of shut-in house rushed to greet them. They opened the windows and doors to air everything out, and then Findaráto insisted they go see the beach.

Carnistir looked at the pile of things that still needed to be unpacked and shrugged. This had all been Findaráto’s idea, he had gone along with it because it pleased him. And it had also amused him to see the disbelief in Tyelkormo and Curufinwë’s faces when he announced that he was running away to Aqualondë with Findaráto for two weeks.

Well, it was a bit farther than Aqualondë, and perhaps for more than two weeks, but the point still stood.

Along the path, someone had planted flowers; daylilies, gazanias and sea-pinks. The season was ending soon, and already their petals had begun to look bedraggled, but still as the cousins rushed past them, all they saw was a riot of colors.

There was a stairwell, carved from the living rock, that went down to the beach. The beach itself was pebbly, with grey and white speckled rocks, and none of jewels that the Noldor had gifted the Teleri to adorn their beaches with were in evidence.

The water was a dark blue and shockingly, breath-stealingly cold.

Carnistir asked, teeth chattering, “How can you like this?!”

“It’s invigorating!” Findaráto said, splashing him.

“You’re mad!”

Findaráto cackled and stamped his feet against the rocks, a Noldorin prince transformed into a wild sea-elf. He stripped down to his underclothes and rushed into the water, leaving Carnistir on the shore with his mouth agape.

“This doesn’t make you look less mad,” he shouted to Findaráto’s retreating back.

And after a moment of contemplation, Carnistir rushed to join him.

The water cut through him like a knife. But with the cold came a sharp, inexpressible happiness.

 

+

The driftwood fire spat out sparks and burned blue and orange.

The fish-pies that were to be their dinner began to smoke a little, and had developed scorch-marks before Carnistir could rescue them from the fire. He made a face, hating even the idea of fish-pies.

But at least Findaráto’s uncle believed in keeping a good cellar, as the row of wine-bottles on the mantle proved. Carnistir picked out a red wine from Tol Eressëa and popped the cork out. It bounced once, twice, and fell into the fireplace and was consumed with a little lick of flame.

Carnistir debated the merits of starting without his cousin, but in the end it was all for naught, since Findaráto came in just then, still drying his hair with a towel. He bumped his shoulder against Carnistir and reached for the bottle.

The night commenced with drinking and eating, and soon the fish pies lay cold and abandoned, and they were sprawled in front of the fireplace, with only a thin blanket between to ward off the chill of the air and hardness of floor.

It was Findaráto who made the first move, a feint to grab something just above Carnistir’s left ear. But Carnistir had not grown up in a house full of brothers for nothing and soon he had Findaráto on his back, with himself on top. He felt very smug about it.

He said, smiling down at Findaráto, “What would Amarië say if she saw you like this, cousin? What would her parents say? It is not very proper, is it?”

Findaráto strained upwards, his mouth curved into a feral grin. “I thought Fëanorians cared not a jolt for propriety.”

“Really? And I thought that was all Arafinwëans cared about,” Carnistir said, his lips grazing the knuckles of Findaráto’s outstretched hand. His cousin pressed the palm to his mouth, and Carnistir kissed it. There was a long moment when they were both silent.

“I suppose we are not so different after all,” Findaráto said with a sigh, taking his hand away.

Carnistir lay down beside him and said, “Don’t be silly. We could hardly be more different.”

Findaráto said, “Perhaps we’re so different that we loop back around and become the same.”

“You’re impossible to talk to when you’re drunk.” And considering it further, Carnistir said, “And when you’re sober.”

“You like talking to me, I know it. That’s why you always avoided me before. You don’t like liking things! It makes you feel vulnerable.”

“What rubbish,” Carnistir said warmly, rubbing his chin and peering blearily at Findaráto and the fire.

“I do love Amarië, you know. I love her! And she loves me. But the problem -- if it is a problem, and I don’t think it is -- is that we are as content to be apart as we are to be together. Everyone says that we should be married while we are still young, but I don’t see why. We have so much time. All we have is time.”

“Very profound, but what does it have to do with me?”

“She likes you, you know,” Findaráto said, looking at Carnistir uncertainly. Carnistir opened his mouth to say -- I understand it. I understand but I don’t care, do shut up, Ingoldo, shut up and let me kiss you, I will make you forget all about --

“I like her too,” Carnistir said instead, pulling away from Findaráto. But I love you.

Findaráto patted Carnistir’s thigh. “Yes, I know.”

Carnistir slapped his hand. “Egotistic arse.”

+

The next day, Findaráto disappeared for the whole morning and came back with a silver-haired, taciturn man, whose skin resembled boiled leather.

“This is Lingwimityo,” Findaráto said proudly, “he’s kind enough to take us fishing today.”

Carnistir had spent the morning frantically ransacking the cottage’s tiny kitchen for any trace of coffee -- or tea -- even the tasteless, flowery sort Findaráto favored. The best he had managed was to brew a sickly green cup of herbal tea. Of what herbs it was made of he had no idea, but it promised to be the most disgusting drink this side of Aqualondë.

“I don’t think I can go,” Carnistir said, taking a firm sip from his cup. He heroically stopped himself from making a face. Then he looked at Lingwimityo critically. “Your parents were unusually cruel people, weren’t they, Fishguts?”

Lingwimityo gave a loud, phlegmy laugh, though his eyes were flinty. “They weren’t the only ones, Red-Face.”

Carnistir felt his face grow hot -- damned timing! -- when Findaráto interrupted hastily. He said, “Think of it as an adventure, a new experience to write home about.”

“Boat’s already been paid for,” Lingwimityo said, and spat on the steps.

Carnistir took another sip of his tea.

+

It had started well, their fishing expedition. The sun was out and the sky, clear. Their small boat chugged out into open waters with surprising speed. Lingwimityo barked out orders and Findaráto obeyed without question. Carnistir kept out of the way, mostly, clutching the rail as hard as he could, trying to ignore the way the deck went up and down beneath his feet.

He was not seasick, he was not --

“If you move around, it won’t be so bad,” Findaráto said sympathetically. And it was true that he didn’t quite feel like falling over when it came time to haul up the nets. But overhead, the sky had turned dark and the wind picked up. Soon it began to rain, sheets of it, lashing against the deck.

A sudden gale rocked their boat to-and-fro on the rough waters.

“It seems that Ossë has taken a shine to you, young sir,” Lingwimityo shouted at him over the dim, with almost demonic pleasure.

“Bugger Ossë!” Carnistir shouted back, getting a faceful of salt water for his troubles.

“That’s between him and Uinen, you blasphemer!” Lingwimityo said, as a peal of thunder rattled their little boat. Findaráto, who had disappeared below decks as this exchange was going on, appeared again.

“Carnistir! Hold on to this!” Findaráto shouted, giving him a rope tied to the mast. And Carnistir held on for dear life as the salt spray stung his face and hands. He wondered if he should be knocked from the boat into the water, if he should drown and go to Mandos, see his grandmother, Míriel, for the first time... and have to explain to her how he had died under such idiotic circumstances.

He heard Lingwimityo shouting -- again -- and he realized a second too late it was for him to duck. After a long moment of utter darkness, and Carnistir woke up to Findaráto’s anxious face, lit by the glow of the fireplace. Carnistir sat up quickly and regretted it.

He was hit by a strong, fishy smell and faltered in his fury.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Findaráto said in his most soothing voice. “After you were knocked out, the storm abated and Fishguts was able to bring us back to shore. He let us have his bed for the night.”

“Does he sleep with fish?” Carnistir asked weakly, too tired to put much bite to his words.

Findaráto’s mouth trembled, but he said, quite seriously, “Not that I know of.” Then he patted Carnistir’s cheek. “The healer will be here tomorrow, but I think you’ll be all right. You have a remarkably hard head.”

Indeed, when the healer came -- a brisk-looking woman with dark-braided hair with a shy apprentice trailing behind her -- she declared him to be in perfect health, though he was to stay indoors for the next few days. And perhaps, in her professional and personal opinion, he ought never to mess about with boats if he could not listen to the captain.

Here, she and Lingwimityo exchanged a significant glance. Carnistir nearly growled aloud. The healer’s apprentice caught the look on his face and retreated backwards, alarmed.

After a breakfast of blackened fish, Fishguts saw them go, looking no worse off for having missed a night of sleep.

Stiffly, Carnistir thanked him for saving him. But Lingwimityo waved off his words. “It’s your kinsman you ought to thank. He grabbed ahold of you as you were about to go over and the both of you nearly drowned.”

The news of Findaráto’s heroics did not surprise Carnistir in the least. But what did was the uncharacteristic silence that descended upon them on their way back to the cottage, and how, afterwards, Findaráto begged leave to take a walk along the cliffs, alone.

Carnistir watched him go with a word of protest, wondering what had happened.

The rest of the day passed slowly. He had a slew of letters that needed answering, but he only gave them a disinterested look through before feeding them slowly into the fire. Night fell and the wind picked up again. Rain hit against the windowpanes, and Carnistir wondered if Findaráto had met with some accident on the steep and narrow path leading back to the cottage.

Not likely, he assured himself. Findaráto seemed to be at least some part goat, given the sureness of his steps. The rain fell harder and Carnistir resolved to go out and seek out his cousin, the healer’s instruction be damned.

But he did not have to, for there came a knock on the door, and opening it, Carnistir found Findaráto leaning against the door-frame, soaked to the skin.

Carnistir cut off his harsh words at their roots, and led Findaráto to the fire. Without asking, he stripped Findaráto of his clothes and brought a towel to dry him. Findaráto was silent and strange throughout, and did not stir even when Carnistir served him a hot bowl of soup.

Now, Carnistir was not accounted to be the best of cooks. Indeed, among his brothers, he was accounted to be the worst of the lot, even before the twins, but Findaráto ate the peppery potato soup that Carnistir ladled out without a single word of complaint. Then he put down the bowl and looked around, as if he was seeing everything for the first time.

Carnistir cleared away the rest of the bowls and spoons, and they sat together, silent except for the crackling of the fire.

After a long, awkward moment, Findaráto spoke.

“Carnistir,” he said, and Carnistir stirred from his seat, where he was hunched over, nearly half-asleep.

“Yes?”

“Do you think that it is possible to see the future?”

Carnistir stirred uncomfortably. “They say it is possible, that some of Elves are born with that ability. Why? Do you have it?”

“Yes,” Findaráto said, matter-of-factly, “I think I do.” At Carnistir’s raised brow, he said, a touch impatiently, “Usually it is small things. What color tunic father will wear tomorrow, what song I will sing at dinner. But yesterday, when you were drowning, I saw --”

“What did you see?”

“Darkness. I have never seen so much darkness! There were bodies, and they were drowning, their lungs full of blood. I heard your voice, but I could not understand what you were saying. A voice told me that it would have been better that you died today, innocent, than live and become … something else.”

Carnistir wrapped his arms around himself and looked into the fire. “I -- I think that I would like to live.”

“And I would not let you die!” Findaráto said fiercely. “I cannot understand what cruel thing could have possessed me to see that and to think in that way.”

“Findaráto...”

“What is this thing I saw? Why does it haunt me still?”

“Findaráto, listen to me. They say that to see the future is to see only one sliver of it, a possibility of a possibility. I do not know what coming disaster you saw but … it’s probably nothing.” He felt his cheek begin to redden and knew that he had said the wrong thing.

“You don’t believe me,” Findaráto said flatly.

“I did not say that. Findaráto...”

“Stop, stop,” Findaráto stood up and pushed away the blanket that he had been wrapped in. “I grow impatient with you. You come close, then you push me away. You think that you love, but you’re content to hate. Why did you come here, Morifinwë, son of Fëanáro? Did you come to laugh at me, to have the audacity to touch you? How do I dare, a son of a lesser house, think myself your equal?”

Carnistir started. It seemed to him that the Findaráto he knew had disappeared and had been replaced with an impetuous stranger, whose hair might fall, golden, upon his shoulders, but whose sneer was much his own. Findaráto spat out more words, words that had festered in the dark corners of Carnistir’s own mind, things he had never thought to say, until Carnistir could not bear to hear him speak. Findaráto had to be stopped.

Carnistir clenched his fist and took a step towards him. “Do not presume to speak for me. You do not know me well enough for that. Stop or else I will --”

“What will you do, Moryo, my dear? Hit me?”

If Findaráto had on a shirt, Carnistir would have grabbed his collar. As it was, he grabbed Findaráto’s arm and Findaráto snaked the other around Carnistir’s waist. They glared at each other for moment, and the kiss that followed was more of a blow than anything else. Findaráto bit down on his lip, enough to draw blood.

When it was over, Carnistir staggered back a little.

“Is that all you can do?” he said, with a shaky laugh.

Another kiss, longer this time. Findaráto pulled the clothes from Carnistir’s body, his hands ungentle. Carnistir pulled down his trousers down his hips, and Findaráto soon followed. Their clothes lay puddled on the floor around their legs.

Findaráto’s hands, those long fingers, grabbed a hold of both of their cocks, and slowly, deliberately, slid them against each other. The friction was not enough, and yet, it was already too much and Carnistir swore as he came. He used Findaráto’s trousers to clean himself off, as revenge.

But Findaráto only laughed and shook his head. He kissed him again, softer now, almost pityingly, his cock still hard. He reached down to finish it. But Carnistir knocked his hand away and brought him off.

They went to Findaráto’s bedroom hurriedly, almost tripping each other in their eagerness. Their first time was competitive and frustratingly short, but neither thought to give up. Eventually, when the window facing west began flood with golden light, they found sleep at last, arms thrown around each other.

+

Carnistir woke and found Findaráto was still in bed. He was trying to untangle his hair, which had dried into a golden frizz. Carnistir took some of it into his hands and marveled at it, silently. They worked until all of Findaráto’s hair flowed down his back, silver and golden mingled. Afterwards, Carnistir pressed his face against it and breathed in Findaráto’s scent, mixed with sea and himself, and was pleased.

Findaráto turned and quirked his lips upwards into an expression that was not a smile. Not yet.

Carnistir’s heart beat rapidly in his chest as he drew Findaráto on top of him, their fingers laced together. They did not know exactly how their bodies were supposed to fit together, but this time, Carnistir lasted a little longer, and when he came, sated, he looked to Findaráto with a speculative look in his eye.

When Carnistir had first heard of a maiden’s taking a man’s cock into her mouth, to give pleasure but not to bind to each other, he had thought it a lewd tale with no basis in reality. His own cock, while serviceable and not hideous, would not be a thing he would expect anyone to put into their mouth.

His brothers had, naturally, spoken of this at length. Even Maitimo’s cock, which everyone agreed (except Maitimo, who pointedly did not participate in the conversation) was the best shaped cock possible -- even that was not so tempting.

But now, Carnistir could understand the impulse. His face heated up and his skin felt as if it was covered entirely in sweat. And, he said, quite steadly, “I want to take you into my mouth. Do you have any objections?”

Findaráto, to Carnistir’s secret relief, also blushed.

He said, hesitatingly, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Yes,” Carnistir said, sounding braver than he felt.

Findaráto’s tanned skin petered out below his flat belly and became fair. His cock was more lovely than Maitimo’s could ever be, or perhaps Carnistir only thought so because he looked at it as a lover would. It was pink and smooth, except for a little vein on the underside of it. A light dusting of hair, darker gold than up top, completed the picture.

Findaráto was wonderfully responsive whenever Carnistir touched him.

Carnistir, who had no particular musical skill, thought he might be able to play Findaráto better than Makalaurë played his harp. But that, like all things that were worth doing well, would take practice.

+

They spent the remaining days entirely in each other’s company. They did not speak of Amarië or what awaited them in Tirion. Instead, Findaráto taught him how to fish with a fly, a rod, a reel, and weighted line.

There was a stream, a few steps from the cottage, that became so full of salmon that a fishing line ceased to be necessary -- one could just scoop out the wriggling fish with bare hands. And this they intended to to do, until Findaráto spotted a mother bear and her cub lurking at the edge of the woods. They retreated back to watch the two bears frolic and hunt in the stream, filling the air with droplets of water and panicking fish.

They went swimming, almost daily, on the sandy beach a mile away from the cottage. There was nothing there except endless stretches of ocean, sand, sky and the waving sea-oats. Carnistir would lie on the sand and soak in Laurelin’s light, which was weakened, so far from Ezellohar.

Findaráto would come upon him, dripping wet and they would kiss, lazily and slow, until the mood struck them to do something else.

Carnistir started finding sand in the most irritating of places; he complained, but not as hard as he could have.

“I see, that is how to manage your temper,” Findaráto said, one day as they were lounging on the beach. His teasing came with an edge to it now, a bite that Carnistir found more than a little tempting.

“Do you think so? That you can temper my harsh temper with a good hard fuck?” Carnistir said, blandly. Findarato laughed and shrugged. When Carnistir was not watching, he picked a handful of wet sand and dripped it down his back.

Carnistir sprang up with a cry and gave chase. But Findaráto was faster, and used to running in the sand.

After several rough starts, they grew familiar with each other’s bodies, learned what the other liked, and disliked, what felt good for both of them. The discovery that they could use cooking oil in bed was a revelation, though their suppers suffered for it.

They fell into patterns.

Findaráto was aggressive, demanding with sex in ways that he was not, could not be in ordinary life. Carnistir could let go, lose control without losing it all.

Once, Findaráto threw a necklace made of shells, white, lavender and blue to him, and Carnistir knew that as a son of Fëanáro, he ought to complain about the simplicity of the design and the plainness of the shells. But he found that he could not and wore it everyday until the string broke.

Two weeks passed. Then a month. In the back of Carnistir’s mind stood the knowledge that this could not last. Their lives would swallow them up again, separate them, perhaps forever. Findaráto did not speak of it, but Carnistir knew that he would go back to Amarië and do what was expected of him.

Carnistir understood that, but understanding did nothing to lessen his anger. But still, it lay dormant as the last, sweet days of summer ended. The sea changed again, from the color of Findaráto’s eyes, blue and candid, to Carnistir’s, grey and stormy.

One morning, when they lay together in bed, Carnistir woke to a pounding at the door. Someone was calling his name. Beside him, Findaráto stirred. “Five more minutes,” he said, burying his head in his pillow.

“Someone’s at the door,” Carnistir hissed at him. Findaráto looked at him blankly for a moment and then yawned.

“Judging from the noise, they’re looking for you.”

Carnistir dressed quickly and went to the door.

“Moryo! Moryo! Are you in there? Or have you died?”

Carnistir opened the door, scowling, to the smiling faces of his brothers, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë.

“I’m here and I’m alive,” he said and closed the door again. They redoubled their knocking, and by that time Findaráto had come down and stood beside him, quiet for once. When Carnistir opened the door again, his brothers shouldered in, laughing and shouting.

“Everyone thinks that you have killed each other. You don’t answer letters, you don’t come to town. It was only by Haru’s command that no one came to fetch you. He seemed to think that your friendship was worth cultivating, for some reason. Hello there, Artafindë, I didn’t see you there. You’re looking well.”

“Thank you, Turkafinwë, so are you.”

Curufinwë said, “Tyelko always looks well, that’s his tragedy.”

“The only tragic thing is how his fat head ruins his looks,” Carnistir said, closing the door.

“I see that you are as pleasant as ever, Moryo,” Curufinwë said with a thin smile.

“Well, now your days of idleness are over and it’s back to Tirion you go,” Tyelkormo said briskly. “Although, wait a minute, I’ve got a letter for you, Artafindë, from King Olwë. I suppose he wants to you stay over in Aqualondë or something.” He threw a letter, thick and cream-colored, at Findaráto, who caught it easily and tucked it into his pocket.

Carnistir’s eyes sought Findaráto’s, but he could only see his own apprehension and disappointment in them. Finally, gathering himself together, he said, somewhat carelessly, “All right, I was getting bored anyway. Let’s have breakfast and then pack. Tyelko, there’s good hunting in the woods here.”

“We ate at the inn on our way here. It was terrible, the stupid cook put seaweed into the soup. But -- hunting, you say? Curvo, let’s see what we can get.” Looking at Carnistir, he said, “You’ll be finished by the afternoon?”

“Of course.”

“Good. We’ll leave then. Come on, Curvo.” Tyelkormo was out the door like a shot.

Curufinwë shot Carnistir a bright, knowing look and left the room. When he closed the door behind them, Carnistir found that he was trembling.

Findaráto was at the window, watching them go. He did not speak until their backs were swallowed up by the woods. “Were you truly bored here?”

“No! I -- I’ve never had such a wonderful time,” Carnistir said, rubbed his fingers together, feeling the the little scar that a fish hook had made on the pad of his thumb some days ago.

“But why then did you say...?”

“My brothers always put me on edge,” Carnistir said, not apologizing, not quite.

+

Breakfast was a subdued meal, comprised of all the leftovers they had that were still worth eating. They did not speak much; a definite feeling of gloom had settled upon them both.

After breakfast, they wandered back to their rooms and began to pack. Along with his clothes and books, Carnistir tucked the broken shell necklace into his bags.

After he was done, he sat on the bed he had not slept in since the beginning of the trip. The window before him looked out to the rocks and sea beyond. It had begun to rain again and the sky was greying and dark.

He expected at any time to hear another knock at the door, to have Tyelkormo declare the day’s hunting to be a wash, but it did not come. Perhaps Tyelkormo -- and it was always Tyelkormo who did this -- did not wish to give up the chase merely because of some inclement weather.

There was a soft knock on his door.

“Come in,” he said, his eyes not leaving the window.

“Are you packed?” Findaráto asked.

“Yes, I’m ready. Are you?”

“Oh, I don’t need to take much back with me. I shall be back here, by and by.”

“Findaráto,” Carnistir said, turning to look at him, “come here.”

And Findaráto came, expectantly. He was wearing one of Carnistir’s shirts and his hair was tied back with a piece of string. Carnistir pressed a hand over Findaráto’s heart. He was so beautiful, it hurt to look at him. But Carnistir did; he drank him up, all of him.

Findaráto said, tentatively, “It’s not like we’re going to be separated forever. We can see each other as often as we like.”

“It wouldn’t be the same, and you know it,” Carnistir said. Then he kissed Findaráto’s bright and expectant face and led him to the bed. It creaked alarmingly under their combined weight, and Carnistir pulled Findaráto down to him.

“We haven’t much time,” Findaráto said, in between their kisses.

“Yes, I know that,” Carnistir said impatiently, “we have to make the best of it.”

And they did make the best of it, because there was nothing more to do, and nothing less, than that. To escape the inevitability of fate, of choice, and luck (not all of it bad) now, that was impossible. So, Carnistir ran a hand inside the smooth line of Findaráto’s thighs and watched him transform into a hazy-eyed creature of love and sex and he shuddered when Findaráto bit into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Carnistir swore, a blacksmith’s curse he had learned from Mahtan as a child -- his grandfather hadn’t known he was hiding under that particular table -- and Findaráto laughed, which splintered and cracked into a million pieces.

They were quick to make love, and quick to separate.