The Rarest Flowers Blossom in Winter by Sleepless_Malice

Chapter 1

Dear Evandar, I wish you a lovely time amidst your dear ones and a HAPPY 2016.

I hope that this ‘little’ fic meets the idea you perhaps had for them in your mind and that you enjoy what I have written for them. Well, and pardon me that I took massive liberties in regard to the word count — I hope you like longer stories...

Read Chapter 1

The rarest flowers blossom in winter

*

“For Maglor took pity upon Elros and Elrond, and he cherished them, and love grew after between them, as little might be thought; but Maglor’s heart was sick and weary with the burden of the dreadful oath.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion - “Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath”

 

 

---

 

The early years after the assault of the Havens of Sirion pass swiftly for Elrond and Elros, and perhaps much to the surprise of all, the two boys thrive and flourish under their captors’ tutelage, and a family-like relationship grows between them.[1]

Well, pre-dominantly it is the beginning of a friendship between them and Maglor, because Fëanor’s second son is the one who invests most of his time, whilst Maedhros keeps their daily lives running; it is Maglor who introduces them to the ancient lore of his own kin, the delicate style of writing he had once learned from the masters in Tirion, who shares the few books he still possesses with them willingly, who goes hunting with them and explains with such patience the healing properties of wild herbs.

It is Maglor who holds them close late at night when nightmares of flames and blood-stained swords plague their slumber, who sings to them until their minds drift off into the realm of dreams at last.

As the twins grow older, and older still, the lessons shift towards the art of defending themselves, which both Maedhros and Maglor deem absolutely necessary. They train with wooden sticks at first, but real weapons come shortly after, and many an afternoon they spend on the training fields.

Although Maglor himself is outstandingly skilled in fighting, with bow and sword alike — Elrond cannot quite fathom how the innocent love of music can coexistent with such deadly skills — Maglor’s talent for it seems to be a faint glow in comparison to his brother's.

There is no other who fights with such deadly precision as Fëanor’s eldest son.

More often than not, both children find themselves staring in awe at the mesmerizing dance he performs on the sparring grounds to teach them with such patience as they haven’t thought him capable of.

Occasionally, when time permits, the brothers fight against each other to teach Elrond and Elros the subtle differences between their very special ways of fighting. These sessions seem to continue forever as their strength and determination is identical, their willingness to yield to the other equally non-existent. These hours are the only moments when the haze of melancholy is completely lifted from Maedhros’ sharp eyes, Elrond often notices, when he seems to be young and carefree again, and he finds himself curious if the time on the training fields provokes long-forgotten memories within him.

Elrond never dares to ask.

As the years pass by, he often finds himself sparring with Elros in the hours they are granted to spend as they wish, and the twins fit together perfectly in their way of fighting. For endless hours they spar and laugh and roll across the ground until they are covered in dust and sweat alike, and so exhausted that they usually fall asleep even before dinner is served.

If they do not, both spend the evening either in each other’s company by themselves or join their foster fathers in the chamber that can be described as the household’s living room. There is a hearth at the far end of the room, with brown furs and scarlet cushions in front of it, and a wooden table where they usually eat together; but dominating the room is the harp that stands near the hearth, and many evenings Maglor plays for the three of them.

Their foster fathers treat them well, and neither he nor Elros lacks anything throughout the years.

Never, not even once, Elrond remembers, do they hear the Fëanorians speak ill about their ancestors; if they do, they do so in secret.

Over the years they are taught according to their own preferences and interests, and whilst Elros finds anything musical not exactly to his liking (which is in fact a slight understatement), claiming he lacks the talent for it, Elrond wholeheartedly embraces everything Maglor teaches him — the songs of old, tales of long forgotten realms and lands which he will never see with his own eyes, the magical dance of fingers against the strings of the harp and everything what comes with it.

There is no better tutor than the greatest singer of all, Fëanor’s second son.

In the beginning it is easy.

Maglor is his tutor, his mentor, his friend (at least that is what Elrond hopes for) — and to some extent he is even his lord, although Maedhros is the head of the household. Upon both Elrond looks with respect and admiration, so much more than his twin does; Elros often cannot understand his fascination for them, especially in later years, when they truly understand what happened during the assault on Sirion.

In the beginning it doesn’t matter how patient Maglor is with him, how clever and skilled he is, and least of all how beyond attractive he is: the long black curls that fall across his broad shoulders like a gushing waterfall, the sparkles in his grey eyes, which often seem to be rather blue than grey, the delicately shaped eyebrows and the mischievous wrinkles in the corner of his eyes when he smiled.

Time has changed how Elrond perceives him, and more often than not, he finds himself distracted by his tutor’s mere presence, by his gentle words and touches, as Maglor is outstandingly beautiful even among those of his own kin, who all are fair.

Elrond has always admired him, has hung to his lips whenever he spoke, but now it is as if he looks differently upon him, with strange fascination and equal repulsion, and the young Peredhil cannot quite fathom what on earth this means. And worse: there is no one whom he dares speak to about his change of mind, about the loss of control in regard to his emotions where Maglor is concerned, and in silence he wonders if Elros ever feels the same.

He never asks. Instead he locks away his thoughts and inner turmoil and pretends to be interested in the stable boys’ blatant talk of bare breasts and the warmth between a maiden’s legs, which, at least in their words, is like bliss. Not that he is repulsed by it — no, it simply does not capture his interest at all.

The months go by, and where Elrond originally hoped his awkward and disturbing thoughts would turn out to be nothing more than a fleeting fantasy of childish folly, he soon has to admit that he is mistaken, gravely so. With every month that passes, with every day that his body matures and strange hormones make an emotional mess out of him, everything he feels is only intensified tenfold.

When the household is quiet and all around him are soundly asleep, he lies restlessly awake.

Maglor. Maglor. Maglor. It is always him he finds himself dreaming about, in wakefulness and in slumber. At night, as the hours draw long and he is constantly shifting between sleep and wakefulness, he imagines many things he deems inappropriate, forbidden. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he fights against it, the thoughts do not vanish; instead, they grow and prosper amidst his dreams until they have developed in the breathtaking emotion of love.

During the days, Elrond is now mostly mentally absent, as in his lessons he all too easily he loses himself in the softly spoken words spilling from Maglor’s lips; for endless hours he could listen to his foster father’s silvery voice without getting bored, and often he catches himself as his mind goes astray, his thoughts impure as anything could ever be. In his reveries, Maglor’s voice, sweeter than honey, more melodious than the sound of nightingales, says things his foster father would never even dare to think of in regards to him.

Once, many months ago and for many years, Elrond simply admired the divine and languorous melody of the harp when they gathered around the crackling fire, his gaze always directed at Maglor in fascination and awe. Sometimes the composition was playful, carrying fluttering notes, but occasionally it was more serious — whatever their mood demanded, and often the melody was inspired by the seasons.

However, for a while now, Elrond’s mind refuses to follow the essentials of sanity, and long has his interest in the glorious melody ceased, diverted towards something entirely different. Maglor’s fair face with those high cheekbones, the sinful curve of his lips, his charcoal black hair that shimmers in the flickering light of the candles is so much more interesting than anything else can ever be, and more often than not he finds himself staring blatantly. And each time his behavior goes unnoticed, an inward sigh of relief leaves him.

Yet despite the beauty of everything Fëanor’s eldest son is, most spellbinding are his hands and fingers, and never do they fail to spur his fantasies. Amidst the rich décor of his foster fathers’ chamber, his mind goes astray more often than not, and lying upon the silks and plush furs he imagines Maglor hovering over him, his fingers playing along his exposed skin in the same manner in which he caresses the strings of the harp. With these sinful images he goes to bed night after night, and when morning comes it is these thoughts that force him awake, along with everything that comes with the maturation of his body. So vivid his dreams often are that his cock reacts accordingly, and sticky fluids cling to his heated skin, his nightshirt, his fingers when he wakes up, and when he has time he lingers for many minutes in the beauty of the aftermath of his dreams.

Worst of all (and at the same time the highlight of his weeks) are his regular lessons in playing the harp himself, something he has done for nearly as long as he has been in their care — the only difference being that he now favors wide robes over plain breeches and tunics, something which has earned him some rather nasty comments from his twin already. Usually he sits cross-legged in front of the massive instrument, precious wood ornamented with gleaming threads of gold, and Maglor sits close behind him to allow quick corrections of his fingers. For many years it has been like this, and it has never bothered Elrond in the slightest because it is incredibly efficient.

He learned the basic skills quickly. Only sparsely has his mentor had to intervene, and he was beyond flattered whenever words of approval rang in his ears.

Well, strictly speaking, Elrond is not quite certain if the situation indeed bothers him now — or if it is quite the contrary. They sit so close together that he can sense Maglor’s body warmth against his back, smell the unique, divine scent that clings to his dark locks, his breath tickling his neck when he speaks, until the tiny hairs stand on edge. Everything nearly robs him of his senses, and everything he has once known about music and playing the harp has slipped from his mind, extinguished by the forbidden. Yet because of the forbidden nature of his thoughts, the feeling is nearly overwhelming in its intensity and impossible to ignore; with such frenzy it soars through him that he felt as if it will burn him alive. Naturally, not a single tone comes right that day.

“Elrond,” Maglor inquires with such innocence that he almost feels sorry. “What is the matter today? Are you not feeling well?”

‘Aye, and nay,’ would certainly be the appropriate answer, but he doesn’t say what he thinks; instead shameful embarrassment creeps up his cheeks. “I do not know,” the young Peredhil says at last, forcing the words past his lips. This is not exactly the truth, but it is not a blatant lie either, because in fact he does not know what is going on with him, only that the close contact is pain and salvation alike. Keen eyes keep burning on his back, of that Elrond is certain; they travel down his shoulders, over his arms, his hands leaving a shiver in their wake. Oh, how he wishes to let go of the tension of his muscles, to let his torso fall against Maglor’s chest and feel his arms enwrap him so close that he cannot breathe any more.

“Let me help you,” offers Maglor with nonchalance, as he has done at least a thousand times before, and with the last word spoken he shifts his position slightly, leaning in, and Elrond feels as if he will faint.

Is Maglor truly that blind?

Actually, Elrond doubts it, but apparently he is — because what follows just makes everything worse.

He slides his arms so tantalizingly slowly down Elrond’s own, until his hands envelop Elrond’s, directing his fingers towards the correct strings, which he failed to strum previously. By all that is dear to him, Elrond doesn’t know what to do, what to think anymore, entombed in a mêlée of numbness, of fear and insane sparks of utter joy. So close and yet so apart they are, and at the end, frustration wins.

“Wait,” he says at last, the words nothing more than a scornful whimper, “I cannot” and simultaneously tears fall. He turns around to face Maglor, burying his face deep in his foster father’s robes.

“I am sorry,” Maglor whispers in such a rueful tone, and Elrond has no idea what he is even apologizing for. He is so, so close to confessing everything that weighs so heavily on his heart, to allow his turmoil to spill across his tear-stained lips when he weeps against his foster father’s chest, but then in the end he does not; he relishes the physical closeness of the fatherly caress he is offered.

They remain like this for some time, until the stream of tears finally subside.

 

*

After the incident it gets worse, and worse still, and the fierce longing nearly threatens to consume him, until Elrond thinks he might go mad. So much he wishes to share his thoughts with his twin, but he doesn’t dare. So ashamed he feels. It is the one and only secret he ever keeps from Elros, as they share everything else with each other.

Whenever he closes his eyes, Maglor’s form appears; his fair face seems to be etched into Elrond's eyelids, and in the afterglow of light he still sees his indulgent smile playing upon his lips. What on earth shall he ever do? Elrond frowns to himself, because there is no answer to this question. They live together — he simply cannot ignore him, pretend that he is not there. Nor does he want to.

This is madness, Elrond knows it all too well, but instead of finding a way to escape the maelstrom of insanity, he wholeheartedly indulges in his reveries, and where he once desperately fought against the sickening knowledge that Maglor was as much a father to him as he has ever had, that very thought intrigues him now late at night. Although he deems his fantasies wrong and depraved, the evidence of his shame visibly manifested upon scarlet cheeks, his hands and mind soon develop a life of their own.

When all the candles have burnt low, when darkness has long descended and veils the sky, when all is silent and nobody can hear his muffled cries, he begins to explore his maturing body, amazed by the exquisiteness of the sensations he feels. His dreams are innocent at first — gentle, exploring, caressing — but soon the innocence is replaced by frenzy and desires foreign to him, fantasies in which, from time to time, even blood-stained hands entangle themselves. Shocked he is, yes, but not repulsed by it at the slightest.

For many months he has successfully hidden his ridiculous crush, at least that is what Elrond assumes, and secretly hopes for, but at one point he becomes tired, so very tired, of secretly admiring, pining; although without the amounts of alcohol that flow through his veins that day, he would not even have thought about revealing his best harbored secret from the one whom it concerns. In fact, it should follow him into his grave; but it things turn out differently on the day Elros and he celebrate their coming of age with their foster fathers.

Besotted by wine, by frantic excitement and insomnia, he rises from his bed again when all are already long asleep. In silence he hushes along the corridor that leads to Maglor’s room, and in front of the wooden door he halts then, a foolish grin spread across his face, with twitching hands and unsteady feet. Aye, late it is, very late in fact, as all of them have not retired early that night, and Maglor is most certainly already asleep.

Briefly, Elrond considers knocking, but in the end he decides against it and simply slips inside as he has done so often when he couldn’t fall asleep. He tries to be careful and silent, but in his drunken state of mind his movements are clumsy and extraordinary loud.

Of course, Maglor is startled.

“Who is it?”’ Maglor asks when the door falls open, and Elrond's slurred voice he replies, “Just I,” and it is as if a sigh of relief falls from his lips when he reveals his identity.

“Elrond! Do you know what unruly hour it is?”

“An hour as good as any other,” he coos, and the hitch of excitement in his voice should have warned Maglor already, but he simply dismisses it as a side-effect of the spiced wine the Peredhil consumed earlier. “Come hither, as you haven’t disturbed my slumber. I was not sleeping.”

“Neither was I.”

Well, that is obvious, Maglor thinks as he lifts his back from the mattress, and silently Elrond sits down at the edge of the bed and draws in a heavy breath, caught in a maelstrom of emotions.

Close to tears he is, but then he isn’t.

“I am sorry to hear that,” Maglor says with genuine interest, and draws his form close to him with such gentleness that Elrond nearly faints, “I hope it wasn’t the nightmares again,”

At that he shakes his head, entirely taken aback by the unexpected offer of comfort, “Nay, other dreams,” he responds bluntly, with his heart beating heavily against his ribcage. For a few seconds he revels in the beauty of the moment, his cheek pressed against Maglor’s naked chest, inhaling the unique, alluring scent, and within him an incredible boldness arises.

“What dreams then, I ask you?”His foster father’s words are almost drowned out by the pounding of his heart, and without much thought he shifts his position to face Maglor, and before he knows it he throws his arms around Maglor’s neck and shifts closer still. He catches him entirely off guard, as he can push him backwards into the silken covers with such ease until he straddles him, cooing, “Thy lips upon my own, and thy body covering my own.”

And then he leans down and kisses him on the mouth with eyes closed. Nothing more than a clumsy brush of lips against lips is this, but to the young Peredhil it means the world.

“Elrond!” harshly Maglor snaps, shock and worry are dancing in his eyes.

For moments Maglor is truly at a loss of what to say, frozen onto the silken covers with his foster-son hovering above him, “what do you think you are doing?” he asks in disbelief, although he knows the answer already. Without awaiting a reply he hastily struggles to free himself from under him, something that does not prove all too difficult given Elrond’s state of mind and body.

“I .. I .. thought,” stammers Elrond, but no words come, and suddenly his head is clear again. “I .. I do not know what I thought, but .. but.. I feel for you, more than I perhaps should.”

Finally out his secret now is, proven by word and deeds alike, and involuntarily tears begin to stream down his cheeks; it, all of it, is simply too much for him to bear.

Of course Maglor could lull him into slumber with his golden tongue that has proved so skilled in politics and song alike, and with the amount of alcohol still flowing through his foster-son’s veins an easy task this would be indeed; he only needs to croon softly to him, to whisper some words of affection into his ear and soon Elrond would drift towards the realm of dreams. Easily then he could lift him up and carry him back to his own chambers and the chances were high that, once morning came, his foster-son would not remember anything at all and they could pretend none of it had ever happened - but he doesn’t and refrains, the thought alone is unsettling.

“Hush now,” Maglor responds with one of his indulgent smiles and pulls his trembling form close, and closer still, so close that Elrond nearly faints and soon helplessly sobs until heavy sleep overwhelms him.

The next morning swiftly comes, and Elrond feels more horrible than he has ever felt throughout his entire life. With merciless vigor a headache beats against the insides of his skull, and acidic bile gurgles up his throat, at which Elrond is forced to finally move his body into an upright position, eyes still tightly shut. A groan slips past his lips, and finally nausea forces his eyes open. Upon that, he blinks – once – twice, because the light was blinding and hurts his drowsy eyes. When he shifts his gaze he blinks again, because what meets his eyes is certainly not his own chambers but Maglor’s, except that he has no idea why on earth he is in his foster-father’s bed.

With desperation he tries to recall the last hours of the night before, but no memory is to be found inside his pounding skull, and terror of what he may have done seizes him.

At the end, as is often the case, it is Maglor who saves him, who is burdened with the folly of his youth and takes endless hours to explain what has happened – and what not, and why it shall never happen again.

 

 

---

 

Over a year later on a cold winter’s day

“Everything I know, you have taught me. Why not this? Why, Maglor, just tell me?” yells Elrond with such fury that it even surprises Maglor, who knows and loves him best of all. Over the past year they have had this exact argument over and over again, and everything is as it always is, but then it is not. Never before have Elrond’s eyes glittered as they do now, his gaze devoid of the mirth Maglor loves to see so much there, and indeed not once before has the young Peredhil lost his temper in such a way. Maglor’s day was a long one, and he is tired, both of the day and the ever-repeating argument between them.

‘Why not this?’ – it was always this one, stubborn question spilling across Elrond’s lips, and usually he said in response: ‘because what you demand of me is entirely out of question’, but this far he does not come today, as Elrond’s piercing question tears him out of his thoughts.

“WHY NOT?” the Peredhil shrieks, eyes wide and cheeks burning.

At one point it simply is too much, even for Maglor, who is described as the more patient of the brothers, and indeed in all the years he had hardly lost his composure with the twins in his care.

“Would you have asked your father the same?” thunders Maglor, devoid of his usual eloquence and consideration, the words sharp like a knife’s blade.

Elrond eyes grow wide and with a howling shriek and without much thought he spits, “you are not my father!”

For seconds the world around them seems to stand still as they look at each other in shock and disbelief and it is impossible to tell who of them is surprised more by the words Elrond uttered in such distasteful fury.

Bitterly they sting.

“Very well, then” it bleeds from Maglor’s lips who is visibly fighting to keep the myriad emotions that toil through his head all at once at bay, “as all seems to be said between us, I will take my leave and bid you a good night.”

This is certainly not the response Elrond expected to receive, not at all! Actually he has hoped for soothing words, perhaps to even be able to pull an apology from his foster-father’s lips in his folly of youth, but this?

Nay, never!

It only fuels the anger that raged within him.

“Get out!” With distaste the words just tumble across his lips in blind hatred, “get out of my sight already,” and Maglor is lucky nothing that Elrond can throw is anywhere near the the young Peredhil.

Immediately he turns on his heels and strides with quick steps towards the door without turning around once.

Then he is gone, and desperation begins to fill the young half-elf.

He didn’t want this, none of it, and truly miserable he feels.

Deliberately he had hurt the one he loved and respected most, which was perhaps worse than anything else he has ever done.

“Wait.. Maglor,” Elrond tries, but his words are drowned easily by the sound of the door which Maglor slams close as he storms out of the room, “I didn’t mean it. Gods I am sorry. WAIT!” he yells and sobs alike, and he is not even certain if his foster-father can hear his desperate pleas.

If he does, he ignores him.

 

*

Startled from his work by distant shouting, which was immediately followed by the sound of slamming doors, Maedhros rises from his seat in his private study. The room is located at the other end of the corridor, but he hears the yells nevertheless. Just in that moment Maglor rushes past him, face red with anger and disappointment shining in his eyes. He opens the door.

“What is it, brother?” Maedhros inquires carefully, eyebrows arched with curiosity. That something is gravely amiss is visibly manifested upon his brother’s face.

“Nothing,” snaps Maglor, much more harshly than he originally intended to. Maedhros is the last person who has anything to do with their never-ending discussions and quarrels, and he does not even know if his brother suspects anything. He doubts it, and, if he is indeed mistaken, Maedhros always had the courtesy to remain quiet on the matter. With an apologetic smile he continues, his voice much softer now: “I merely have to get away from the insanity that reigns in this household for a while, that is all. Good night.”

With a heavy sigh, Maedhros shakes his head and retreats back into his study to resume the work that sits untouched upon his desk – many years it has been since last he saw his brother consumed by such a fury.

A few moments pass in silence, perhaps half an hour but certainly not more, before another door is violently banged shut. Again, with reluctance though, Maedhros rises to his feet, and steps out into the cold corridor to take a look what the reason behind this is. Swiftly he sweeps past the few heirlooms which are still in their possession until the sight of Elrond meets his gaze; clad in the thickest coat the young Peredhil possesses. He stands defiantly before him, a mixture of anger and sadness shining from his dark eyes.

Beyond obvious it is where exactly he is heading to. “Elrond! Where do you think you are going? The sun already begins to set and a snowstorm is gathering in the far east,” Maedhros says, his voice firm and strong as it always is, but Elrond stands unimpressed before him, straightening his back in defense.

“I do not care,” he mutters in response, ignoring the authority Fëanor’s eldest son has over him, an authority which he usually both accepts and respects.

“Enough of this folly,” hisses Maedhros and indeed icily the words are said, meant to be obeyed, but Elrond could not care less, ignoring the warning stare of his foster-father, “you are going nowhere!”

His mind is reeling, heavily so, because if Maedhros truly wishes to stop him, there is no possibility of escape, this Elrond knows. “You won’t command me,” he screams with desperation, and uses the moment in which Maedhros’ mind processes his words to run past him, adding on his flight, “and I will go, if you like it or not. My mind is set.”

Insanity indeed reigns in his household this day, Maedhros thinks to himself in odd silence, but he had no idea what this is all about: either Maglor arguing with Elrond again, or Elrond with Elros and Maglor intervening, or - even more likely, Maglor fighting a verbal duel with Elros and Elrond intervening at the end because he simply cannot stand discord for long. Either way, there is little he can do about it right now and, if he is honest, so it ever was and possibly so it will always be as long as they live under one roof.

 

*

Elrond is out the heavy front door in an instant, standing in the glooming twilight with his breathing hitching and uneven; a deep and unsteady breath he takes then in a futile attempt to calm himself but he finds himself unable to. He is still just too upset, a myriad emotions toil within him – worry, anger, and sorrow. He feels as if he has lost everything that is dear to him.

The howling wind offers its icy embrace and rings in his ears, but it doesn’t sooth him as it has often done the past years, and indeed he feels a chill rushing through his body despite the warm clothes he wears. Swiftly, Elrond hurries towards the adjoining stables to retrieve his horse to get away from the place he lives in.

Silently the snow begins to fall from the dark clouds above him the moment he leads his horse out of the stables, and a wave of icy winds welcomes him. For many weeks already winter reigns over the land with its icy gusts and howling winds, and Elrond can't help but compare the season to his own state of mind. A quick glance skywards tells him that Maedhros was right in regard to the snowstorm. Still he couldn’t care less about the ruthless forecast; he has to get away from here, he has to find him, whatever the cost, to make all the wrongs right again.

Soon the sun disappears completely behind the charcoal clouds that hang so dangerously across the sky in the distance like a massive wave, and with every moment that passes the snowfall becomes denser, and denser still, until everything around him seems to blend into an endless sea of white.

Deliberately he squeezes his eyes shut to fight against the dizzy feeling in his head; to find Maglor is a forlorn hope, a ridiculous endeavor; still he has to at all costs. But how? If it takes him much longer to find the prints his foster father’s horse has left behind in the snow the way he had showed him countless times when they hunted for prey in winter, he wouldn’t be able to see them anymore; they would be covered by fresh snow and ice, disappearing in the darkness. Sharply he inhales and focuses on everything Maglor has taught him, on everything he knows, and carefully he searches for any sign that would reveal the direction in which he went. At last, when all hope is almost fading, he discovers the treacherous marks of the stallion’s hooves, and a heavy sigh of relief spills across his lips.

Snow cracks and crunches beneath his horse, and snow swirls around them, tumbling from the sky in a dense veil, swirling upwards from the ground, and a hollow cloud of ice follows Elrond as he rides on and on in the direction he now is certain Maglor headed - it simply must be, and it all makes sense. A small cabin is located at the far end of clearing, a hut they have often used when they were out in the wilds for hunting, and more than once his foster father had mentioned how much he likes this place far away from everything, Elrond now remembers.

Where else should he have gone? Freezing cold it is, and slowly the moon rises against the darkness of the forest with its obscure twilight; under these conditions Maglor could hardly spend the night outside, now could he?

In the end, Elrond is successfully tracks him down, the light that shines onto the clearing from the little cabin and his foster father’s stallion close by tells him as much, and once more he feels a wave of relief wash through him.

Quickly he dismounts his steed then, and everything around him is eerily silent apart from his heavy and unsteady breathing and the violent heartbeat hammering against his ribcage. For a moment he hesitates, and the snowflakes begin to catch in his dark hair anew, settling upon his woolen coat as he tries to steady his breathing. Slowly they melt on his skin and run down his burning cheeks, over his lips in the same way his silent tears did so many a night when he despaired.

Sharply Elrond inhales, and then again, before he secures his horse next to the other and hastens to the door. Despite his nervousness he does not bother to halt or even knock before he enters.

 

*

With a loud noise the heavy door creaks slowly open, and not a moment later the characteristic mélange of fir deriving from the cabin itself, smoke and spiced wine fills his nose, eliciting yet another memory. The cabin is dark inside but for the fire burning at the opposite end, and with crackling sounds the flames consume a freshly stoked piece of wood. Despite his inability to see Maglor he knows he is there, seated in one of the armchairs that face the fire; apart from that the cabin is sparsely furnished: a few furs in front of the iron hearth, a little table and two additional stools, a woolen blanket, and that is all. It has always been like this. Elrond doesn’t dare to speak nor does he dare to step further into the cabin, but with quick movements he finally removes his cape and then there he stands, idly playing with his fingers whilst he waits — for what exactly he does not know.

“What do you want?” The tone is dismissive, and amidst the words resentment and disappointment simmers; never before has Maglor spoken to him in such a manner, Elrond recalls, and now that he has had enough time to reflect on everything he said and did earlier, it is only understandable. Nevertheless, the words sting and cut deeper than a knife ever could. No, Elrond never wanted this — none of it — and no matter how hard he searches for an answer, he does not even have an explanation why he deliberately tried to hurt the one he valued most.

Futilely he finds himself struggling to keep the tears from falling. Was this the beginning of the end? “I am sorry, terribly so,” Elrond says, carefully choosing his words, although no words exist in the tongue of elves that are befitting for the how much he wishes his deed undone. “May I come in?”

Sadly, Maglor’s face is hidden from his view, Elrond thinks as he awaits a response, even if he is not quite certain if he truly wishes to see the stern expression in his foster father’s eyes.

“You are already inside,” the Maglor begins, his voice so devoid of love and respect that for a moment Elrond regrets coming in the first place, and with every word that spills across Maglor’s lips his heart and spirit sinks; he truly should not have come. “So yes, you may, but please close the door behind you as it is getting cold already.”

Indeed he hopes to hear an expectance of his apology, just something that gives him reassurance, but not this, not the cruelty of indifference! Why, for once, can Maglor not scream at him — rage, lose his temper — as Maedhros would certainly have done already? Why? He finds himself asking all over again.

With trembling hands he reaches behind him and closes the door. But then, what next? What should he say and do? How can he convince Maglor that he means it, that he is utmost sincere?

Elrond finds himself unable to keep his emotions at bay, and he is at a loss for what to say, because it does not seem that his presence is welcome at all. And what is worse, he cannot even blame Maglor — he simply cannot, as everything he said earlier is impossible to forgive. Nevertheless, he hears himself begging. “Please,” he tries, the quivering of his body affecting his speech in a way he so hates, “I did not mean what I have said earlier; so enraged I was that I forgot myself, and when I noticed, you were gone already. Maglor, please, I do not know what I was thinking. Pardon me for my outburst, and forgive me. This is what I have come to tell you.”

A heavy silence falls, and only the crackling of the fire disrupts it.

Elrond does not dare to move, nor does he dare to speak anew.

“Your behavior was unacceptable and inappropriate,” states Maglor matter-of-factly, and finally he rises from his chair and turns around to face his miserable-looking foster son, whose hands twitch nervously in front of him, “but this you already know; otherwise you would not have come. Sit down. We need to talk, don’t you agree? If not of this matter, than of another,” he announces, and upon the words the blood freezes in Elrond’s veins. Scenarios of his foster father sending him away spring to his mind, of him refusing to teach Elrond any longer, of his grey eyes becoming cold as stone, indifferent where once affection reigned. Gods, he feels so miserable, so incredibly sorry. Yet at the same time he finds himself enchanted by the shadows the fire casts over Maglor’s face and the garments spilling across his form, and whilst he stares he forgets to react to what his foster father previously said.

“Sit down,” demands Maglor, and with a brief gesture of his hand he points at the empty chair. When Elrond does not move a single inch, he adds, annoyance ringing in his voice, “Or do I have to repeat myself a third time?”

Elrond simply shakes his head before he carefully takes a step forward. “Aye, I suppose?” he offers with the insecurity of youth. In the dim light of the embers Maglor’s clothing seems to shine, a surreal light spilling from the fabric such as Elrond has never seen it before, and despite the fact that he isn't dressed in formal attire — black leather breeches and a dark-purple tunic without any ornaments, fingers and neck devoid of jewelry -- Maglor looks like a true lord to his eyes. Slowly then he walks towards the empty chair, but his eyes never leave his foster father’s form, and the longer he looks — stares even — he does not know what to say, what to feel or think anymore. This is madness, Elrond knows, and in silence he curses himself. His inappropriate desire, and everything that comes with it, has brought him here in the first place, and for once he should simply erase this folly from his mind.

But he can’t.

He simply cannot, as lustful thought after lustful thought pours into his mind.

No matter how hard he tries, the sinful images won’t leave his head, and all he ever sees are Maglor’s luscious lips and the long dark strands of hair. There were many times when Elrond simply wished to run his fingers through them, catch a fistful of that hair and pull him close until their lips touched.

With an exaggerated sigh he sits down in the empty armchair, made entirely out of dark-brown leather, and at last forces his gaze away from Maglor to the restless dance of the flames. Nervous he is, anxious even, all the more when Maglor remains silent for so long, and he cannot help but divert his gaze yet again and he looks at his foster father.

Maglor sustains his gaze, jaw clenched so hard that Elrond can see the tightness in his chin just before he speaks, and swiftly he looks back to the flames again. “Elrond, you cannot be surprised when I tell you that your angrily uttered words have cut deeply,” he begins, carefully choosing his words as he always does, and involuntarily Elrond flinches at them. Aye, that much he has assumed already, but to hear it aloud is a different matter altogether, and he feels all the more apologetic and bad for what he said. Briefly he thinks to offer yet another apology, but he refrains and forces himself to listen to what his foster father has to say. “Perhaps more than I am still willing to admit. You are dear to me, you have always been, and I feel for you as if you were my own son if I can judge with my inexperience in such matters,” Maglor adds and at last the icy note is gone from his voice, something Elrond is eternally grateful for.

Could it actually be that Maglor’s eyes are slightly wet, or is the dim light just playing a trick at his own expense? “Gods, forgive me. I know, I know,” Elrond explains with a cracking voice, and for once he lifts his gaze from the flames and turns it towards Maglor. If it is wise or not, he is not entirely certain, as again he feels blood rushing to his cheeks. However, refraining to do so would be simply unacceptable and inappropriate; after all, his foster father has spent a fair amount of time teaching him manners. “I never meant what I said to you, and I do not have an explanation for why I reacted as I did. Please accept my apology,” he begs in a tearful tone.

“Calm down, Elrond,” responds Maglor, and now his voice is calm and soothing, which only makes it worse for the young Peredhil. Until now he did not even notice the silver chalice and the carafe of wine that stands on the small table between the two armchairs. So preoccupied he has been with everything else; only when one of the goblets is offered to him, he realizes at last, and without much thought he accepts the offering. “You were emotionally unstable. You still are, and that is the explanation you are searching for. Know that I do not hold a grudge against you or harbor any anger. A little disappointment, yes, but nothing more. Although I doubt you will believe me, I can even understand you to some extent.”

“Emotionally unstable,” Elrond repeats the words between two sips, and although he knows he should not drink of the wine, given the effect it had once before, he does, heartily so, hoping that it might ease his nervousness. “Admittedly this is fairly accurate, I think.”

“That much I have assumed.” Maglor nods, and for the first time a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “After all it is not the first time that we had the same argument. In a year, I daresay, if not longer.”

“A year and five months,” Elrond says with a heavy sigh as memory washes through him; it was on his birthday, the day when he and Elros finally reached their majority, and he wouldn’t forget the incidence as long as he lived.

“So be it,” continues Maglor between sips of spiced wine before he idly sets the cup aside, “and do not think I have forgotten your folly.”

Elrond finds himself staring, mesmerized, when his foster father runs his fingers through the dark locks, which are still slightly damp from the heavy snow fall. Downward his gaze drifts then, over the pointed ears, along Maglor’s jawbone, lingering at his throat — just below his ear, where Elrond often finds himself longing to bring his lips.

‘What is wrong with me?’ he thinks, but he does not heed the internal warnings of his mind, as the words are already spill past his lips. “Although I would not exactly call it a folly,” Elrond corrects with a smirk he didn’t realize has formed, “I hope you have not.” When he notices what he just said, slight threads of nervousness begin to coil and spread within him. Maglor’s proximity distracts him, chases all coherency from his mind yet again. After all, no harm was done that night, and all Elrond remembers are his foster father’s lips upon his own for the briefest of moments.

“Elrond, please have the courtesy to tell me why on earth you are asking for what I cannot give.” A heavy sigh follows the words, and almost Elrond feels sorry yet again, but he doesn’t have a chance to ponder his thoughts any further, as Maglor simply continues to speak — and for the better, because it would hardly be appropriate to voice his desires aloud, causing yet another rift between them. Heavily his foster father’s eyes rest upon him, and Elrond can hardly bear it. “For what you perhaps do not even want? I am a thief, a murderer, a kinslayer. Over the centuries I have become a monster, bathing in the blood of my own kin; it was I who assaulted your family, the friends of your family — innocents. Traders, merchants, advisors. And what for?”

“For the same reason my mother jumped off the cliff, forsook her innocent children for the jewel in her hands!” intervenes Elrond, but Maglor does not wish to hear any of it, he simply cuts off whatever words might follow.

“Elrond!” he exclaims harshly then, his eyes glittering dangerously in the golden light of the fire, but it nearly is as if sadness, melancholy even, accompanies all the other emotions. “Why are you so unwilling to accept this part of my history? Amidst the blood-stained bodies I have searched for the shining jewel — my hands, my face covered in their blood just as my brother’s face and hands are stained with blood; as my other brothers were covered in the blood of our own kin before. Maglor the poet, Maglor the bard with his fair voice... This is a part of me, yes, a part which you might know all too well — and then there is the rest. My fingers are stained just as the hands of my father and of my brothers are, of those brothers who already abide their judgment in Námo’s halls! Condemned am I, an outcast together with Maedhros, and at the end of all things we both shall pay for our deeds, bitterly so I fear, as nothing can rob me us off our guilt.”

They have had the same argument so often in the past years that Elrond has lost count, and he is reluctant to hear everything all over again, even though Maglor has never spoken so openly about the deeds of his past, which truly are unforgivable.

“You entomb, enslave yourself!” Elrond rasps, furiously so, as his temper rises all of a sudden, and dangerously his eyes glower. He cannot explain his fit of boldness, he simply cannot, but the words are there all of a sudden. “You say so because it is easier to see it thus! However, this is not how I see you; it is not what you truly are, but what you might have become due to the oath. It is the oath, it always was, and from time to time I feel as if the godforsaken oath is a humble excuse for everything you do or do not do!”

Maglor’s eyes widen in surprise, and slowly he shakes his head. “Nay it’s no excuse, it is the bitter truth.”

A silence falls then, and whilst Elrond ponders how to respond, suddenly he becomes aware of his foster father’s gaze; Maglor looks somehow differently at him, but then he does not, as if he is strangely detached from time and space, stares as if he sees through him. If he is still angry with him, Elrond cannot tell. Or perhaps he is angry anew? Carefully he chooses the following words, and softly he speaks, keeping his flaring temper at bay: “You are not my father in the sense of you being my creator, and this neither of us cannot deny. However — and more importantly — you have been more a father to me than Eärendil ever was. You raised me, you spoiled me, prepared me for whatever shall come in life. You are my friend, Maglor. I do not see the ‘monster’ you proclaim to be. All I see is you. Those rare smiles, your melancholic eyes when you are deeply lost in thoughts, the burden that lies so heavily upon your shoulders, I… I… I cannot help but see you through different eyes, perceive you differently than others may.”

Elrond is not quite certain what exact response he expects. Perhaps just another monologue of how wrong his feelings are, perhaps an explanation of what the oath truly means — but the words that follow take him utterly by surprise.

“This is the ecstasy of love, whose violent property foredoes itself and leads the will to desperate undertakings, to words which were never meant to be spoken,”[2] says Maglor, his voice melodious and spellbinding; never before Elrond has heard anything like it — so pure, so beautiful, and with wide eyes he stares now at him, unashamed of what he desires, and steadily Maglor holds his gaze as he continues. “Have you ever asked yourself of how I might feel when you make such inappropriate advances? To be honest I seriously doubt it. I always have, and your open mouth tells me that I am right in my assumption. Over the years you and your brother have become the children I shall never have, odd as it may sound. Whatever I touch is condemned to misery, and I cannot allow you to follow the path I have once chosen. You shall live, and happily so for many years. What kind of father figure would I be to interfere, to meddle in your life, again? Once we have done so already, when we robbed your parents from you, driven by the oath that binds us.” [3]

Elrond closes his eyes for a moment, and allows the memories of his past to occupy his mind; he thinks of carefree times when he was nothing more but a clumsy toddler, when he played with Elros among the other children, dust and dirt covering them once they returned. Of his mother, his father he thinks, and tries to recall a time when Elros’s and his lives were more valuable than the shining light of the forsaken jewel. They were his family once, aye, but they have been gone for many years already. It is Fëanor’s eldest sons he sees as family now, no matter how wrong this might be. And nay, he has never asked himself how Maglor felt upon his sordid advances, something for which he feels incredibly sorry and selfish now.

“But...” he intervenes. Maglor raises his eyebrows, but apart from this his expression remains soft, and yet again Elrond finds himself staring in strange fascination. What witchery is this? he asks himself, but his thoughts are interrupted when Maglor speaks again.

“For once you will hear me out.”

In response, Elrond finds himself merely nodding.

“Do you truly think I have never noticed your mental absence, the glances you gave me when you thought nobody saw you staring long before you came to me completely drunk? If so, you are mistaken. Long before you have voiced your desires in the darkness of the night we both won’t forget, I have known. By now countless are the nights during which I have lain awake, repeating the self-proclaimed mantra that you are not for me to look upon in such a manner. Over the years you have become beautiful, and no matter how often you lashed out at me, yelling, ‘You do not want me because I am not an elf,’ you know it is a lie. Never have I thought such a thing, because I am not blind.”

“You didn’t?”

Once more, Elrond finds himself caught in a maelstrom of emotions and thoughts he cannot comprehend. What does this mean? What is this all about?

“Nay!” Maglor affirms and with all sincerity he begins to explain, “and if you truly think you have never caught my eye, you are mistaken once again. However, it matters not, as you deserve much better than I can ever give — a young maid, a young man — not someone who is bound to an ill cause by an oath he has sworn in a land you have never seen, one who is so much older than you, burdened by everything that has occurred once he left the Blessed Realm behind. I am weary Elrond, both in mind and in body; I am so sick and weary, but the oath forces me to continue, it always does,. There is no escape for me or my brother.”

‘Deserve much better.’ The words echoes through Elrond’s head, maddeningly so, and he hates Maglor for saying them; it sounds as if he has lost all his wits, and it questions his sanity, which he definitely has not lost. He does not want a young maid, and he doesn’t want a young man, either! All he wishes for is Maglor, and Maglor alone! No matter if he is many thousand years older than he himself, no matter if he is bound to an oath sworn on distant shores.

“It is my choice, and mine alone, to judge what I do and do not deserve!” Elrond lashes out furiously in an outburst of temper, “and as for the rest of what you have said: I do not care! You say your heart is weary, that you are. So I ask you: Why, for Valar’s sake, do you shun the one who claims to love you, the one who simply wishes to ease your pain, even if it is only for a few moments late at night. Why, Maglor? Just tell me why!” He refills his own goblet then, taking a large sip as he awaits his foster father’s answer whilst he hears his heard pounding in his ears.

Maglor seems to be at a loss, Elrond notices, his mind is reeling, and he does not know what to make of this. Never before has he seen him like this. Vulnerable, almost fragile and apologetic Elrond feels in response.

“My brother certainly would not approve,” says Maglor, diverting his gaze towards the flickering fire. He does not believe his own words anymore, as it was more likely that Maedhros would not care all too much in the end, if he even noticed a change in their relationship at all. Still, what Elrond wants of him is wrong as anything could ever be.

“Maglor! What is this? Another humble excuse?” Despite the fact that not a moment earlier he has said to himself that he does not wish to lash out again, he does, and springs to his feet in all his anger. “If not, and if that is the truth, then so be it. And if Maedhros shall not approve, I do not care.”

“You should,” Maglor weakly tries again, but it is beyond obvious that he is lying. The hitch of his breath betrays him. Over the past years, Elrond has closely studied him —his eyes, his fingers, every single nuance of how his voice changes when he is nervous or upset, and now he can finally use it to his advantage. Although he doesn’t exactly know what it is that makes Maglor respond as he does, despite the fact that he cannot quite decipher the emotions rushing through his foster father’s eyes when he looks at him again, there is certainly more than he is willing to admit. But what? Elrond finds himself thinking as he regards his foster father with narrowed eyes.

“And you should not use him to justify your behavior. This is not about Maedhros or Elros,” harshly he says the words, much harsher than he intended to, but he is emboldened by the wine and tired of the endless excuses that slip past Maglor’s lips. More cautiously he adds, “This about you and me -- about us,” and when the last two words fall from his tongue a shiver runs down his spine, and something further down springs to attention.

‘About us.’

Oh so wonderfully it rings in his ears, so perfectly right it sounds that without much thought he walks over to where Maglor is seated. All or nothing — there is nothing in between, and the turmoil within him erupts in a fit of boldness. He comes to stand right before him, so close, and for a moment, Maglor’s eyes widen in surprise. Elrond doesn’t respond to it, but merely leans forward, one hand now resting on Maglor’s knee whilst the other hand grips his shoulder.

Maglor could easily slap his arms away if he were truly uncomfortable with what Elrond is doing, and Elrond almost expects it to occur, but for some reason he does not, although his body tenses under the touch; he does not exactly flinch, but close to it. “Still,” is all that comes past his lips.

“I might reconsider,” coos Elrond unable to suppress the twinkle in his eyes, and with every word spoken his fingertips wander from Maglor’s shoulder to his neck, which is not covered by the tunic he wears, and as his fingers wander, he leans in until their lips almost touch, whispering, “Once dawn announces the new day, I may reconsider — and possibly so you will.”

With the last word spoken, he bridges the remaining distance between them and seals Maglor’s lips with his own. The touch is barely there. Briefly and with no previous experience he kisses him, but it is more than enough to set his world on fire.

With eyes wide in a mélange of shock and disbelief, Maglor stares at him when he withdraws his lips and offers him the most radiant and indulgent smile, at which his foster father simply shakes his head. “Elrond, this is... wrong as anything can ever be, do not tempt me so,” he stammers, and actually to Elrond it as if he has to force the words past his lips, because his glittering eyes are saying something entirely different.

He wants him, now Elrond is certain of it. He wants him with every fiber of his being, and the thought alone makes him shiver and his breeches become too tight; and he feels bold, so much bolder than he usually is around Maglor. His cheeks are glowing red, his breath us already coming ragged, and he can feel yet another surge of heat stir in his lower abdomen — sparks of fluttery excitement. He is visibly aroused now, and a shiver rushes down his spine when he catches Maglor’s gaze for the briefest of moments.

“For being wrong it feels perfectly right, I daresay, does it not?” murmurs Elrond in perfect awe when such searing longing is set ablaze anew, a desire that nearly threatens to consume him. So badly he wants him; he has to know what exactly his foster father feels for him. He simply needs to hear it from his own lips. “Tell me now that you do not want this, and I shall never speak of it — any of it — again, this I sw—”

“Do not!” Maglor almost yells as he places a finger against Elrond’s lips to seal them, “nothing shall you ever swear in my presence, no matter how harmless you deem the oath. Never.”

Upon these words Elrond lets go of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The oath, of course. How could he ever forget?

“Regardless, bid me now to take my leave, and I will,” he offers again, and he would leave indeed, although the rejection would most likely break his heart; too long has he desired him, too often has he dreamt of him late at night, of the dark hair where shadows now cast themselves. Much to his surprise, Maglor does not move a single inch, and allows his fingers to remain where he placed them. His gaze is open, more so than Elrond perhaps has ever seen it, as if his thoughts and dreams are laid bare for him to see, and indeed his voice shakes when he speaks.

“Once I promised to you that I will be there for you — for both of you — whenever you need me, and until now I have kept true to my promise; a time will come when you will be free of my guidance and protection, yet many moons will wax and wane before then, and loneliness shall reign in my heart once more. Why should I reject what you are offering so freely, something based on mutual interest? My future lies hidden from my eyes, as it always does; however, I sense that the following years shall ease the endless misery that is to come when everything is nothing more than faint memory. I know I should fight against it — as your friend, your foster-father — as everything that I am, yet I find myself unable to deny you your wish, Elrond, not anymore.” Barely the words reach Elrond as their eyes meet for a brief moment, and what shines in them is enough to make his stomach flutter and set loose everything he has kept at bay. With a quick motion he withdraws his hands and shifts his position until he is comfortably sitting in Maglor’s lap, straddling him.

“Káno,” Elrond says softly, and he cannot remember when he last had used this name for him, “there is no reason to fight against something we both equally desire; you are not my father in the way that we are related by blood, if that it is what troubles you. I am fully grown and of age, as you well remember. I am not drunk or otherwise mentally incompetent that you would take an advantage of my innocent mind and body, and if you think otherwise, be assured it is not so.”

“I doubt that your state of mind is all too innocent right now, Elrond.”

Naturally, Maglor is right.

The smile that plays on Elrond’s wine-stained lips broadens as he inclines his head in agreement, mirth sparkling in his eyes. “Point taken,” he laughs, but becomes more somber briefly thereafter. “Do you know how long I have dreamt of this? What thoughts have robbed me of slumber when I lay awake late at night and all I could ever see was you? No matter how hard I tried to chase all the thoughts to the back of my mind I failed, utterly so. Please do not reject me, not anymore, not again.”

Momentarily silence falls, and much to his surprise then, Maglor cups his cheeks and looks him deeply in the eyes. “Are you certain you want this?” he asks in a quivering voice, and therefore it is beyond obvious how much he struggles to say these words.

‘For Eru’s sake, yes!’ he wishes to mutter, but instead of voicing his thoughts aloud he removes one of Maglor’s hands from his face and guides it downwards with trembling fingers until Maglor’s fingertips brush the bulge in his breeches. It feels divine, and Elrond does not dare let his thoughts spin any further. Much to his surprise, it is his foster father who speaks next. “Perhaps — no, certainly — I should not wish for what I have indeed desired for many year. It may be wrong, but I cannot stop my heart from yearning for you.”

Maglor’s sweet voice sends a chill down his spine, and the poet in him truly shines through in that moment. Between them the air crackles with both tension and anticipation, a sizzling heat that is merely waiting to finally explode, and Elrond finds himself so utterly lost in those grey eyes. He revels in Maglor’s beauty, bathed by the golden light of the flames, shadows flitting across his skin like flames and darkness, and in the beauty of the words, he revels, too.

Carefully he lifts his hands then, still unsure whether his fingers will be slapped away a moment later, as if Maglor’s words are nothing more than a figment of his imagination. “Neither can I,” he breathes, and simultaneously his fingertips brush against Maglor’s cheeks, where they linger for a while to feel the warmth that emanates from the pale skin.

“The heat that rushed through me when your lingering gaze fell upon me, the knowledge of the way in which you desire me — it is the greatest feeling of all, a feeling I have thought long lost in my internal numbness. If I tell you just how many years I have been lonely, you will be surprised, and perhaps you won’t believe me.” With every word that now spills so freely past Maglor’s lips, the corners of his own mouth twitch up in the barest hint of a smile, and excitement rings in his ears. For once he forsakes all carefulness and allows his fingers to explore with more demand, and when Maglor mimics his own explorations, his heartbeat quickens, all the more from the look in his eyes, from the loving expression spread across his face.

Oh, how wonderful it feels, so perfectly their bodies seem to fit together, Elrond thinks when he shifts closer upon Maglor’s lap. Never, not once in all the years, has he wasted a single thought that his feelings could perhaps be mutual, that what he called humble excuses were nothing more than self-defense on his foster father’s part.

Maglor wants him, just as much as he wants the one he perhaps should never desire in that way, but soon, when Maglor snakes his arms loosely across his waist, all thoughts are erased from his mind as he feels his need and desire through the layers of clothing that they still wear, a stiffness against his stomach.

“You are not lonely anymore,” replies Elrond barely audibly, and Maglor almost melts at the words that slip so sincerely across his foster son’s lips. Elrond means it, every word he says and has said. He means it with all his heart, and there is so much more he cannot not quite phrase, not yet at least.

Maglor’s voice is like the endless surf against the shore, rolling in his ears with a divinity unbeknownst to him. “Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs, a fire sparkling in a lover’s eyes; being vexed and a sea nourished with lovers’ tears. A choking gall and a preserving sweet for many lonely nights to come,” [4] the dark foreboding goes unnoticed as Maglor’s arms wrap around his torso, pulling him closer, and closer still, until their bodies are nearly aligned and Elrond thinks indeed he is caught in a dream, “a tale of anguish, of devotion and desire, creating memories to feast upon for many years to come.”

With such slowness, Maglor’s hands skim his sides, sneaking beneath the dark tunic he wears, and with every touch bestowed upon his shivering skin he sinks deeper into oblivion, all the more when his lips are covered, carefully and almost hesitantly at first; soon, however, maddening desire flashes behind half-lidded eyes, and the kiss grows in intensity and demand. Enchanted and spellbound he finds himself, reveling in the beauty of the moment.

Elrond was previously barely aware of all the sensual spots his body has to offer, his pointed ears, his lips, and above all his throat just below his ears. In contrast to himself Maglor seems to know every single spot that makes him gasp, makes him tremble against his form. For once he simply exists, floating in a sea of bliss that engulfs him with such tenderness and intimacy he has never dared to think would come alive.

Maglor is everything he had ever wanted, and so much more, he realizes just when his foster-father’s lips grazed along his throat.

“More,” begs Elrond, shamelessly so, as he buries his hands in Maglor’s long tresses the way he has done in his dreams so often. Closer he shifts himself then, letting his head fall against his foster-father’s chest until the familiar and musky scent of his skin tickles his nose.

“You like what I am doing,” states Maglor matter-of-factly, a notion rather for himself than for Elrond to hear, but the corner of his lips twitch nevertheless in response.

Of course he does, isn’t this exactly what he has dreamt of so many a night?

So many a year?

However, all his dreams and reveries have certainly lacked the sensuality, the divine sensations, he feels now with every fiber of his young body. A million things he wishes to say, but no word comes past his parted lips; instead they are sealed only seconds later, before Maglor plants kisses along his jaw bone, his neck, the hollow of his throat until the restricting garment stops him.

With a sigh of annoyance Maglor curses under his breath, “Be gone with it,” and briefly Elrond thinks he will simply tear his tunic apart as his gaze falls onto his eyes, which resemble searing flames more than anything else right now; he wouldn’t mind – he has others to wear and all that matters now is to feel, to explore and caress, but apparently Maglor has other ideas.

Without further warning he shifts in his seat and nearly rises, but then he does not; instead he pulls Elrond close and sinks down with him onto the furs right in front of the burning fire, arms and limbs entangled, breath ragged and heavy. By all that is dear to him this is divine, Elrond thinks before his thoughts are drowned in a searing kiss and a wave of desire that washes over him. Maglor’s hands and lips seem to be everywhere, brushing against his lips, against his throat, his ears – demanding, exploring, erasing the last doubts he might still have had in regard to Maglor’s sincerity.

This isn’t the Maglor he has known for so many years now; gentle and patient Maglor who has often treated him as if he was made out of the fairest porcelain, because right now he is neither, much to Elrond’s delight his grip upon him is firm and utmost demanding. With such frantic haste Maglor undoes the lacings of Elrond’s tunic, cursing under his ragged breath when a knot does not wish to come undone beneath his fingers, and not much latter he carelessly tosses the garment onto the floor and all Elrond can ever do is to mimic his actions and rather clumsily he fights with Maglor’s own garments until he at least can add his tunic to the pile of clothes.

Shadows flit over the Fëanorian’s skin, red and golden and black, highlighting the hollows and angles of his muscular frame, mingling into a sensual blend upon his skin. Desperately he tries to touch, to kiss, to devour what he has dreamt of so long, and at the end both finally succeed in their frantic wrestling and all their clothes lie scattered upon the fur covered floor.

The air between them is heavy with expectation, with longing suppressed for so long, and when he looks right into Maglor’s eyes he nearly melts, as such undisguised desire and fierce passion shines from them; they usually harbor calmness, but now they are cast like the sky just before dark clouds gather on the horizon before the storm. Elrond doesn’t know what to say as for once words do not seem to be sufficient anymore.

Apparently his thoughts are visibly spread across his face as it is Maglor who disrupts the silence at last: “Elrond,” he softly declares, but strangely faint to his ears the words seem, although they mean the world, “no matter how wrong this might be, no matter if the world stands against this union – I do not care. So long have I desired to feel you, to touch you … as nobody has ever touched you before.” On normal days, his foster-father’s voice is melodious, mellifluous even, but now it is hoarse and ragged, so highly unlike anything Elrond has ever heard before. With strong arms, Maglor easily shifts Elrond’s position and urges him closer, and closer still until every inch of his skin seems to be covered by heated skin.

The words alone provoke a wave of maddening desire in which he nearly drowns, and from that point there is no hesitation on either of their parts. Their lips are on each other soon, and helplessly Elrond finds himself lost in sensation; no words are made for what he feels, and the few which spring into his mind, are devoured by searing kisses, erased from his mind by eager hands and lips, and drowned in moans and cries, because oddly nothing is as it has been in his dreams – languid and careful, exploring for hours and hours.

Maglor’s lips press against his own and demandingly his tongue seeks entrance which he willingly gives anew, their bodies aligned, pressed so close together that he feels the heat and sweat emanating from their skin. Both of them breathe hard, their hips thrusting against the other, all the more when Maglor begins to suck marks into the skin usually covered by his garments, and it is nearly as if every moan that spills from Elrond’s lips only spurs him on further.

Hot and cold alike he is, shivering and trembling beneath him, and soon his entire body aches against the touch, and with such frenzy he feels his fingernails scratch along Maglor’s scarred back whilst Maglor’s teeth are scraping over his skin. Over his lips, his collar-bones, his chest and further down.

By all that is dear to him, Elrond briefly thinks, how glad and grateful he is that Maglor declined his advances a year ago; the chances would have been high that he would not remember anything at all once morning came (what would be indeed a pity, because everything that Maglor does is exquisite!) and almost more important is that right now they are out in the wilds with nothing more than howling wind listening to them.

Maedhros’ sleep is light and easily disturbed Elros and he were often told, and well – right now he is, much to Maglor’s delight as it seems, everything but silent. Maybe he should keep his voice down, maybe he shouldn’t let the filthy words spill so freely across his lips, but with every moment that passes he finds himself unable to; especially when wet lips engulf the tip of his erection.

Downwards he lets his gaze wander, and the divinest of sights greets him; coyly Maglor glances upwards, and it nearly is as if he smiles – which actually is rather impossible with his lips spread wide around his cock, showering him with such intimate affection.

The sight alone nearly catapults Elrond over the edge, and as Maglor continues he soon finds himself writhing helplessly against the furs, moaning and panting, nearly screaming when the tip of his erection hit the back of his foster-father’s throat.

“Gods, I want to take you,” breathes Maglor against the wet skin, and the warm breath leaves a shiver in its wake. So wanton he is – in fact so wanton and needy both of them are, longing so clearly shining from Maglor’s eyes and most likely from his own, too.

“I wouldn’t object too much,” teases Elrond and he is surprised by himself as he has no idea where the words upon his tongue suddenly come from, “maybe a little, but be assured I can cope with it.”

The sight Maglor presents is heart-breaking. “I cannot – I am not prepared for it;” he complains, and all Elrond can ever do in response is offering his most naughty smirk. He should say something, he truly should, but for seconds he relishes in torturing the one he desires so much, “when I came here, I thought I would spend only a few hours here until I finally have calmed down – alone.”

“But I am prepared.”

With the words spoken, he lifts his torso from the furs and sits upright, relishing the sight of his foster-father. Surprise and astonishment are visibly spread across Maglor’s face, and delicately he quirks an eyebrow, then, asking: “You are?” He has no idea from where exactly Elrond retrieved the small phial that he now holds triumphantly before his eyes, but he finds himself unable to care, “tell me, how long have you been carrying it around, how long have you planned to seduce me? Oh my dear, you are incorrigibly – and for once I am grateful that you are.”

“Truly?” Elrond asks, his voice devoid of too much innocence, with mirth sparkling in his eyes. Maybe he is treading on dangerous ground, maybe he isn’t, but he cannot find himself able to care anymore. “I assume you know what the consequence and final step of seduction means,” he purrs in addition and it nearly is as if Maglor’s breath hitches for the briefest of moments when he pushes him backwards onto the ground and straddles him.

Intensely Maglor watches him before he speaks, low and dangerously so: “And you do indeed assume I would allow it?” Elrond is utterly aware of the burning gaze upon him, and a searing flame burns in his foster-father’s eyes, set ablaze by their mutual desire and something Elrond has never seen before; along his exposed body the gaze travels then, and a shiver it leaves in its wake. Gods, Elrond thinks, he’s ensnared by what he sees and feels, a thousand threads running like currents through the raging sea of his trembling body.

“Perhaps you would,” he teases nonchalantly as he lets his fingers brush against the well-defined muscles of Maglor’s chest, lets them trail further down and with amazement his eyes follow them until both rest upon the erection between Maglor’s legs. “Perhaps you wouldn’t – maybe I should find out myself?” at the end he offers, and gods, he feels as if he would come from his words alone.

Before he can even comprehend what happens, their position is reversed and Elrond finds himself pinned down onto the furs with Maglor hovering above him, hands tightly held down above his head. “For once, you will not,” Maglor hisses in such a sharp tone that Elrond nearly tries to flinch beneath him, but much to his relief his eyes hold no malice; he simply is not used to see the side his foster-father has veiled for so long, and for a second Elrond even wonders if he should be afraid when parts of their history rush unwanted into his mind.

Yet oddly, and despite the exposed position he finds himself in, he feels his traitorous cock grow harder against his chest when his legs are pressed apart with Maglor’s knees alone. So many nights he has spent dreaming about this, playing through every different scenario he could come up with, has recalled the incidents on the training field when Maglor loomed identically above him, sword pressed against his throat. Now he remembers, all the emotions, all the sickening details, and what is worse: he does not even feel repulsed by it. With such desire he kisses Maglor then, and at last he managed to wrestle his hands free of his hold to weave them into the dark strands he loves so much.

With his lips still wet from saliva, and barely able to catch his breath he demands: “Then at least have the courtesy to make some haste.”

Upon the words Maglor merely smirks.

“Is this the infamous human trait of impatience?” He inquires with a hearty laugh and in response, Elrond stares at him with wide eyes, not entirely certain if it is meant as simple tease or subtle insult, or perhaps both, and for moments all words seem to be tied upon his tongue.

“Shut up, will you?” at the end he spits out, cheeks tainted scarlet and excitement throbbing through his veins as he pulls on the dark strands with a certain strength until a gasp of discomfort falls from Maglor’s lips.

“With pleasure,” he announces with a smirk that easily could be interpreted as nasty, malicious and devious even, “but before I do so, please let me add something of importance. Do you truly think I have not noticed then?”

“Noticed what?” interrupts Elrond, curiosity piqued, and if he is honest Maglor’s words both scare and thrill him.

With amazement he watches Maglor’s expression transform into one of self-satisfaction and ruthless mirth, and he wonders what on earth rushes through his foster father’s mind; he tries to understand, to fully comprehend the emotions that flicker through his stormy eyes.

“Well,” Maglor begins, his voice horse and almost filthy, certainly enough so to send a shiver down Elrond’s spine. “If you must know: your hardness against my thigh when I straddled you after you have lost in a training match many years ago.” Elrond’s eyes grow wide, because nay, he indeed assumed that he hadn’t noticed, but Maglor continues, “oh my dear, apparently you have indeed thought so -- perhaps I shouldn’t be astonished if you dare to pretend not to have thought about the incident just a second ago, and are possibly still thinking about it.”

“I... I… “ Elrond stutters then, all the more when a fit of laughter slips across Maglor’s lips, and his temper flares anew upon it. Underneath him he struggles, trying to wrestle himself free but he fails, utterly so. “WHAT?” he asks with curiosity, and again his question is met with a laugh, soft but mocking in its nature, yet in the end, Maglor finally answers him.

“Well, I was just thinking if I should retrieve my sword, or if you are confident as it is?”

“No,” with trembling voice he affirms at last, “all is well, except... I would be forever grateful if you could use your mouth for something other than talking.” No later than the words are out, he blushes crimson. Did he truly that it out loud?

Apparently the answer is yes, because with a naughty smirk Maglor lets go of his hands and shifts his position downwards. He sculpts Elrond’s lithe torso with his hands as his head sinks down and further down, until Elrond’s breath hitches in response; he knows what comes next, and the thought alone makes him needy and wanton as he has never felt before. The friction of their bodies is prickling, electric and so sensual that it leaves his body quivering, and all he wants is to feel Maglor’s warm and willing mouth around his cock.

Before he can think any further, he finds his hips pinned down and lewd, filthy sounds of sucking break the tranquility of the night. Good lords, Elrond thinks as within seconds his body thrashes in response, and he fists the furs in desperation, eyes tightly shut.

In the back of his mind he takes note of everything Maglor does, just as he always has done in the past years, because Maglor is the greatest tutor of all. Elrond tries to lock in his mind every nuance of what he does in combination with what he feels in response, and he finds himself truly fascinated by his own body’s reaction to the divine stimulations.

Never has he experienced anything like it before.

He cannot keep still, and he is not even certain if he wants to as wave after wave of such frantic passion washes over him, and nearly of their own accord his hips begin to hitch in the same rhythm as Maglor brings his mouth down on him. Rather easily Maglor could restrain his movements if he wanted to, because Elrond simply lacks the strength to fight him, an elf fully grown, battle-steeled and worse; placing his hands against the Peredhil’s hips would be more than sufficient to hinder him from thrusting, but Maglor doesn’t — perhaps he does not even think about it and lets him fuck his mouth.

‘Fuck his mouth,’ the words ring through his head repeatedly, and although he finds it hard to admit it is the truth, just because it is such a filthy notion, it is exactly what he is doing! The thought alone is enough to let another moan tumble from his lips, and despite the indignity of his position and that his eyes have become watery, with tears clinging to the thick lashes, Maglor is still beauty incarnated, and mesmerized Elrond stares down at him. At first, in all his bliss he does not even notice that idle fingers go astray and slip between his buttocks to encircle the entrance to his body, but when he does he nearly forgets how to think, how to breathe.

By now Maglor’s hair is a tousled mess as the braids have nearly come completely undone by Elrond’s hands, and lose strands tickle against his stomach, against his thighs leaving such wonderful chills on his skin behind.

It seems so wrong on so many levels, so depraved and filthy — but this is exactly what ignites and fuels the searing flame within him. There is something he wishes to choke out, but the words are drowned by his own moans and cries, when without warning he spills his seed into Maglor’s mouth, fisting strands of dark hair between his fingers, involuntarily holding Maglor down.

Sorry, so terribly sorry he feels shortly after, when he lingers in the aftermath of orgasm because, well, this is hardly acceptable, Elrond thinks, but much to his surprise, the Maglor appears entirely unimpressed as he simply remains and continues to prepare him for what is yet to come. Intrusive the twisting fingers within him are, so very different from anything he has ever experienced, but not entirely unpleasant, Elrond thinks as he stares downwards, transfixed.

“Now this is what you wanted, is it not?” Maglor remarks after a while, and barely the words pierce through the veil of post-orgasmic haze. He floats in a sea of divine numbness, panting and sweating whilst his youthful body recovers from the sensational experience, and he finds himself unable to respond vocally. Instead he smiles and nods his head in reassurance. If he had known just how amazing it feels to be touched there, to be spread open and fingered, perhaps he would have tried it himself already, but he hasn’t -- not once — and he is grateful for it as now Maglor is truly the first in everything.

Again Maglor shifts his position to kiss him languidly, tenderly, but still with searing longing, and there is lust shining in his eyes, fierce desire, something Elrond could not describe with words alone.
When Maglor enters him he writhes and quivers and thrashes beneath him with his hands clutching the furs in desperation; moans and sharp gasps slip across his parted lips, and at the same time he begs him not to hesitate, not to stop as he focuses on the stretch and the ache, the fullness he has never before experienced. And thankfully, Maglor heeds his not-so-silent pleas, silencing him with a searing kiss, his tongue exploring every inch of his wet mouth, licking along his teeth, along his lips, claiming him as nobody else has ever done before. By the time he withdraws his lips all threads of pain are extinguished by something greater, something far more pleasurable for which Elrond has no words. In a languid pace Maglor begins to thrust into his stretched opening, and with amazement he feels the muscles clench around the cock that breeches him. Soon, however, Maglor’s thrusts become more frantic, harder, his desire apparently fueled by the moans and gasps that fall from his lips.

Elrond forces his eyes to remain open, to absorb the divine sight above him; everything about Maglor is elegant and beautiful, even whilst he takes him amidst the plush furs on the floor in a frenzy that Elrond is certain he has never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. There is an almost magical aura surrounding him. His black locks cascade down over both their faces, veiling their kisses, muffling their filthy sounds.

Their lovemaking is devoid of all gentleness, a frantic indulgence in the arts of carnal lust and longing, spurred by desire that has been bottled up for far too long. Tightly Elrond clutches to the strong arms when wave after wave of pleasure washed over him, aches and moans beneath Maglor’s strong body, and so desperately he wishes to meet every thrust.

Never had Elrond thought it possible that anything could be so — breathtakingly intense? Aye, intense is certainly the best word he can find for what he feels whilst Maglor pushes inside him relentlessly; and then he suddenly stops, and Elrond’s eyes snap open.

The sight that greets him is divine as dark strands of hair cling to Maglor’s face, which is covered with a thin film of perspiration, and dark his eyes glow in the light of the flames.

“Say, Elrond, what word will you force past your lips in the heights of pleasure?” coos Maglor, and it nearly is as if he is suppressing a hearty chuckle when he speaks, “the name I was once given, or rather what you cried out late at night when you thought no one would ever hear you?”

At first, his mouth gapes, and a violent tremor rushes through him at the notion; simultaneously astonished and thrilled Elrond feels. What he screamed out late at night when his hands were not idly lying at his sides was so wrong. He should be embarrassed and offering some sort of apology, but he is not. He is not even the slightest bit ashamed.

His temper flares anew, and without much thought he hisses, “You vile bastard,” and simultaneously he yanks Maglor’s head not so gently upwards, asking, “how?”

“Now, now, watch your tongue,” equally breathlessly Maglor mutters in response, but no real threat accompanies the words, and now Elrond is truly at a loss. Doesn’t Maglor feel repulsed by it?

Did he ever?

How long has he known? In endless circles his thoughts coil, and it is once more as if Maglor can read his mind, as the explanation follows quickly and with a charming smirk: “You haven’t been all too quiet. I do not condemn you. I am merely curious.”

So sick this is, wrong on so many levels, yet at the same time it feels so utterly right, and without much thought he plays along, edging along depravity with every word he says. “Despite your feigned innocence you are lying! Say, Káno, would it make you happy if I were indeed to whisper atya’ in your ear?”

It is lustful and sinful alike. Wrong. So strangely intriguing and arousing, and for a few seconds he is not quite sure if Maglor will not end his life on the spot, so threateningly he regards him.

With such demanding force Maglor kisses him then, robbing him off all the filthy words that lie upon his tongue, until he writhes and thrashes beneath him, futilely so; for a moment, Elrond is not entirely certain what it is that finally catapults him into heights previously unknown to him. The strength with which he is pinned down, the filthy word he just uttered or, most likely, all of it combined.

With a last arch of his back he comes, violently so, clutching in blind desperation onto his foster-father’s body – and indeed it is not Maglor’s name he cries out against his lips when his body jerks and spasms uncontrolled. With a searing kiss Maglor follows him into oblivion and when he collapses on top of the panting Peredhil the transcendent state of euphoria engulfs him, the seductive mélange of flying and floating in endless heights Elrond has never known before.

The tenderness he has imagined throughout his dreams comes later though, when the first firework of lust was sated, as amidst the furs beside the crackling fire they linger, their arms and limbs entangled and lazy kisses are bestowed upon the other’s skin. There is no haste or hesitation in their movements, both devouring the alluring sight of the other, enjoying the warmth of the other’s skin against their own; idly, fingers go astray to explore, to caress, to elicit yet another sigh from parted lips which mingle with the howling of the wind outside.

Elrond rolls onto his side, smiling and looking right into the stormy eyes as if he tries to read what thoughts are occupying Maglor’s head. Gods, he is beautiful, Elrond thinks – he always is, but now in the golden light, the high cheek bones flushed crimson, tiny pearls of sweat still glistening on his pale glooming skin he is more beautiful than ever and for Elrond it feels as if he falls head over heels for him anew. He cannot help but be attracted to him, the dark tresses that now spill around Maglor’s head like a dark halo, the full and luscious lips now swollen and bruised, the well-defined torso where his fingertips draw idle patterns across the skin.

That night, the desire for the other ebbs and rises like the never-ending surf against the shores, and when the veil of post-orgasmic haze is lifted the longing soon sparks anew and neither of them grows tired. Although from time to time Elrond has to force himself not to drift into the realms of slumber when Maglor’s arms pull him close so tenderly, whispering myriads of filthy confessions against his prickling skin, words of love and devotion he has never heard before. With every touch he still feels the burning heat of his skin, the scratch of teeth and fingernails which have felt so amazingly in the throes of passion and he simply does not want to let go.

Afraid he is that the dream he is caught in would pop and vanish, that his foster-father will change his mind and curse himself for indulging in such folly. However, easily fatigue can be kept at bay when Maglor’s lips cover his own, when his finger trace along every curve of his chest and stomach, when he comes to sit on his heels between his parted legs again. That night it is when Elrond learns what other talents he possessed; not only the harp his fingers could play in such divinity, of what wicked deeds and filthy words his mouth was capable of. Soon he finds his body arch and clench in response when Maglor takes him again amidst the furs. Where uncontrolled desire and passion has previously reigned, now devotion and slowness are prevalent. Languidly Maglor lets his sinuous lips graze along his shoulders, his neck, his ears so intoxicatingly that he finds himself begging for more and every wish he voices is heeded instantly.

 

As dawn announces the break of day Elrond felt as if he knows every inch of Maglor’s creamy skin, mapping it with both his fingers and his lips, traced the scars that countless bloom on it, knows ever tiny sound that can spill across his lips when he is caught in the heights of pleasure, every whimper and affectionately whispered word.

When light chases away the darkness of the night Elrond is exhausted – wrecked even, terribly so, and incredibly sore which is hardly a surprise after they had made love already thrice that night, and with delight he now relishes in the intimidate closeness of the aftermath: at the end he has indeed succeeded in seducing the reluctant creature which now rests in his arms and lets his mind recall the biggest surprise of all.

With wondrous amazement he has listened to the words which so nonchalantly spilled across Maglor’s lips and came out of nowhere as they were pressed tightly against each other under the woolen blanket: “Pardon me if my mind just plays another trick upon my expanses, but haven’t you said that you desired to take your pleasure from my body, vengeance for what I have kept hidden from you for so long?” Maglor has asked, and for seconds Elrond was at a loss of what to say. It is not so that he has not want to, he had to admit, but that he has long forgotten about the words he has said. Heavily his heart has beat against his ribcage then, driven by surprise, by desire and frantic anticipation.

“Not exactly vengeance I would call it, but nevertheless gratefully I will accept your offer.” Elrond has whispers before he covers Maglor’s lips with his own and straddles him.

And so he has, under the divine guidance of his tutor he has pleasured him with his lips, his tongue, his hands – divine it was, utterly so, and with every detail he recalls now, the smile that plays upon his lips broadens.

 

*

“Maglor?” begins Elrond, his head now resting against Maglor’s warm chest, and idly his hand plays with a strand of those dark locks he so much loves to touch, “may I ask you something?”

The smile that greets him when he looks up is a genuine and lazy one. “Of course you may - what occupies your pretty head?”

Carefully, Elrond chooses the words that kept running through his mind for almost the entire night ever since his foster-father had given him the first hint, and he clears his throat before he speaks: “How long ..,” he murmurs, but the words do not come easily to him, although he feels rather confident in his foster-father’s arms. “I mean, how long have you wanted this?” he asks at last and he cannot deny just how curious he is to hear the answer. Given that Maglor would reveal his little secret to him.

“Oh well,” he begins with a laugh, but soon his features become sincere: “longer than it might be appropriate I fear. If you desire a specific date I have to disappoint you because I cannot give you one; slowly my feelings for you have changed over the years, and not one specific incidence I can name: how your eyes began to change, how the features of your face began to harden, growing more mature, how your voice changed, the muscles beneath the skin, and almost as long have I known that the interest was mutual.”

Longer than it might be appropriate must mean at least one and a half years, possibly much longer – has he truly been so blind? And dumb? In fascination and disbelief Elrond stares down at him now with wide eyes, the words that fall barely audibly. “I have never even suspected.”

“I am good at hiding,” Maglor confirms the obvious with an apologetic smile.

“You were,” corrects Elrond with an indulgent smile, mirth shining from his eyes, “no longer shall you be, as wherever you go I will find you.”

Such innocence the words hold that Maglor does not dare to spoil the beautiful allusion, but pulls him close and closer still against his body. The day the oath awakens anew will come and once it comes he shall heed the jewels’ call – as he has done so often in the past, as his brother certainly will.

For once it sleeps, but not forever shall it last, no doubt of this Maglor has.

 

*

Oh, so much Elrond desires to linger forever amidst the furs, and he suspects that Maglor thinks exactly the same when his eyes fall onto his dreamy eyes. “We should return, should we not?” he inquires rhetorically and with reluctance, knowing already that it is not wise to indulge into the pleasantries of doing nothing for all too long. However, soon something entirely different springs into his mind and upon the thoughts nervous he gets, anxious even, and he voices his thoughts aloud before Maglor can respond anything to his previous question. “But what to say if he sees us, what if he notices? Nobody must ever know, you have said so yourself,” he stammers and confusion is visibly spread across his face.

He dearly hopes that Maglor has an idea how to prevent such an occurrence.

With a hearty yawn Maglor sits up, and stretches his exhausted body before he speaks: “Aye, indeed we should leave rather soon, but do not trouble yourself too much about my brother: I will come up with an excuse for our absence, tell him that I was searching for you around the house when I noticed your horse was gone from the stables. Naturally I followed you and just found you in the early hours of the day somewhere in the forest.”

Not entirely convinced is Elrond that so easily Maedhros will believe the lie they plan to serve him. “Do you not think he will notice?” he ask as he too rises his back from the furs.

Carefully, Maglor lifts his hand and brings his fingers under Elrond’s chin to make him look at him. “Plainly speaking, I doubt it,” he answers, “his wits are sharp as ever and much there is which he sees and notices. However, since his return from Angband’s darkness his gaze is veiled in everything where love and affection is concerned, blind almost he is on this eye I would dare to say. The captivity is the dividing mark in my brother’s life, before and after, and only on very rare occasions these two lives mingle and entwine.”

Never before has Maglor talked about his brother’s captivity in such a regard, and Maedhros himself never spoke of it too with Elrond or his twin. ‘I am glad it wasn’t you’ Elrond thinks, but immediately he forces the nasty and inappropriate thoughts towards the back of his head, and instead he simply says: “I am sorry.”

And he is.

“Hush now, there is no reason to be, we cannot alter our fates, Elrond, merely learn to live with them and in this Maedhros certainly has succeeded,” at least partly Maglor adds in silence, the nightmares still hunt his brother late at night, and possibly will hunt him for the rest of his immortal life. Gracefully then he rises to his feet and offers Elrond a hand to follow which the young Peredhil gladly accept, and rather hastily they dresses themselves because the fire has long burnt down and without the other’s body warmth and the woolen blanket it simply gets cold rather quickly. “If you worry about arising suspicions, you must fear your own brother more than mine; Elros thinks differently where we are concerned, he always had - you know this; and the last thing I wish for is that anything should come between the two of you.”

Well, this is a valid point, Elrond has to admit, because Elros is always rather suspiciously when his twin is concerned and he has not even thought about how to deal with him once. “But I love you both,” Elrond blurts out, and he means it. With all his heart he loves his twin, who is so alike him in mind and body, but he loves Maglor, too, although in a completely different way, in a way he never even had thought about his brother.

“Perfectly fine that is,” responds Maglor in his soothing voice, the one which has lulled him into slumber so many a night, and if words are not enough reassurance, he gently cups Elrond’s face as he continues to speak: “ There is no need to choose between us, Elrond and I will never force you to make such a choice, be assured; I merely advised you to be cautious around him in what you say and do – I know you wish to scream out your happiness, tell him every detail of what had occurred last night because the happiness is visibly spread across your face still, and this is what I meant you deserve better.”

Aye, he is right, Elrond thinks, because despite his fatigue and the fact that every inch of his body seems to deliberately hurt, he indeed feels as if he can uproot the trees and so much wishes to tell the entire word how exactly he feels. So grateful, so enchanted, so beyond happy. However, it is the heart wrenching melancholy in Maglor’s voice that truly sadness him, not the fact that what happened between them might be frowned upon by others.

“There is nothing better than you,” he tries to reassure him, and nothing but the truth his words are. This is exactly how he feels, is exactly what he has ever wanted, dreamt of – and so much more. With desperation he wishes that Maglor would see it, would believe him; he wraps his arms around him and pulls him close in a gesture of comfort and a little surprised he is when Maglor allows his head fall against his shoulder. Deeply he inhales the air around them until the familiar scent that escapes Maglor’s hair tickles his nose, brings back the memories of their shared night because subtle nuances of arousal still cling to his skin.

“Oh my dear, I am flattered,” says Maglor with a laugh, and the sincerity of it was palpable to Elrond; just how he wishes to remain like this – forever, enwrapped in his strong arms, and although deep inside he knows already he never shall as his future is to be an entirely different one, “but now come, late we are already and at one point our absence will be noticed and others might come to search for us.”

With certain reluctance he lets go of him, but – as always – his foster-father is right, and he allows him to fidget with his tousled hair, rearrange the braids which nearly have come undone over the many hours amidst the furs until he looks presentable again.

 

*

When they step outside the wooden cabin, an endless sea of blinding whiteness greats them, as the dark clouds have finally yielded to a clear blue sky and bright sunshine, which is not all too pleasant to their tired eyes.

The ride back is uneventful.

Neither of them speaks too much, each of them occupied with his own thoughts about what transpired between them just moments ago, and rather quickly they approach the place from where they have set out the night before.

In silence they bring the horses away to the stables, and much to Elrond’s relief no-one else crosses their path at that time of the day. There is something weighing on his heart, heavily so, but until now he has dared not to voice his thoughts aloud.

“Thank you, Káno,” he declares after a long moment's consideration. As much as he hates it to admit it, he is nervous and unable to keep it from affecting his speech. ‘For everything, for what I do not have words for,’ he wishes to add, but before he can even begin his sentence, he finds himself pinned against the nearest wall with Maglor’s lips covering his own in a breathtaking display of affection and desire, their bodies pressed tightly against each other until he feels as if he might faint from the kiss alone.

“When the moon is as its peak, come to my chambers if you wish,” mumbles Maglor against the skin right beneath his ear, “under one condition: as much as I love to hear your filthy moans in my ears, you MUST keep your voice down — and know that if you find yourself unable to, I have my methods to make you shut up.”

*

 

---

Chapter End Notes

[1] “For Maglor took pity upon Elros and Elrond, and he cherished them, and love grew after between them, as little might be thought; but Maglor’s heart was sick and weary with the burden of the dreadful oath.” J.J.R Tolkien – The Silmarillion

[2] “This is the very ecstasy of love, whose violent property foredoes itself, And leads the will to desperate undertakings.” W. Shakespeare - Hamlet

[3] “Great was the sorrow of Eärendil and Elwing for the ruin of the havens of Sirion, and the captivity of their sons, and they feared that they would be slain; but it was not so. For Maglor took pity upon Elros and Elrond, and he cherished them, and love grew after between them, as little might be thought; but Maglor’s heart was sick and weary with the burden of the dreadful oath.” J.J.R Tolkien – The Silmarillion

[4] “Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in a lover's eyes; Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.” W. Shakespeare – Romeo and Juliet