A Love Like Darkness, Like Light by Sleepless_Malice

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

A Love Like Darkness, Like Light

 

*

Fëanor had felt the arrival of his brother’s soul long before the onyx gate that separated the living from the dead had swung open to welcome Fingolfin to the eternal darkness. The arriving soul was guarded by Námo’s Maiar and of course, Fëanor wondered what had happened that Fingolfin was dead.

Not that Fëanor had exactly mourned his brother’s death, no. All of it had been based on selfish instead of genuine compassion because his brother’s arrival meant that he no longer was alone. Perhaps then, Fëanor had smiled and his soul had flickered in excitement. Námo’s realm of death and darkness never had much appeal to Fëanor, it was worse than everything he had ever imagined if his memory had not tricked him. Hoping beyond hope, Fëanor still dreamt that one day he would walk the soft green grass again and feel the wind play about his hair, although Námo had made clear enough that his soul shall never walk the earth again. He was bound to the shadows, and in return they were bound to him, so long as the world prevailed.

‘One day, there will be a reckoning’ – even dead, Fëanor remembered the last words he had spoken on his deathbed well. How he had cursed the Moringotto and all his wretched servants, how all around him had sworn the oath anew as his soul had fled his corpse.

What did it mean that Fingolfin now was here? That the world had fallen to dust and ashes under the Black Foe’s rule and now his eye was fixed on Valinor? It must be so, there was no other answer to the riddle with Fingolfin being dead. But then, where were his sons, what had happened to those he had loved above all else? The mournful songs played on the lyre never spoke of it.

Fëanor could have simply asked, either the Maiar who went about their daily business or the fallen souls who had arrived shortly after his brother’s coming. He could have asked the keeper of the halls – and Fingolfin himself.

Unsurprisingly, Fëanor never asked, caged by his own pride.

*

In the beginning, Fëanor perceived the brush of his brother’s soul quite regularly whenever he walked the gloomy hallways on his own, sometimes so close that he could feel the warmth of it. Immediately Fëanor withdrew, afraid that his brother might notice him. But then, all of a sudden Fingolfin’s soul was gone from Fëanor’s presence. No matter how far he ventured into the labyrinth of hallways, he could not find the warmth of his brother’s soul any longer so that in the end a strange mixture of jealousy and worry arose in Fëanor’s heart.

What if his brother had been already granted leave from the wretched halls? Hardly, Fëanor concluded: after all, Fingolfin had played his part in the rebellion.

It could not – must not be, not when he was locked in the wretched darkness for all eternity.

‘For all the years to come, these halls shall be your home.’

‘No.’

‘You think otherwise?’

Another one would have bowed his head. Not so Fëanor, who had answered with clenched fists. ‘I do.’

Upon such words of defiance, Námo had only mildly laughed – and had left.

No, Fëanor decided, Fingolfin still was somewhere in the halls. What if his brother was locked away, somewhere in the caves below the underworld? Fëanor was certain they existed for all sorts of sick entertainment and saw all his initial suspicions now painfully confirmed. Where else if not there should his brother be, Fëanor wondered, surprised that amidst such terrible thoughts a strange protectiveness began to blossom. And worse – his mind brought forth memories he had not allowed himself to remember for so many years; of a time long before rage and war had reigned his heart; of flower crowns and hair black as his own; of touches clumsy yet at the same time speaking of heated desperation.

For thousands of years Fëanor had banished all pleasant memories he had of his brother; for thousands of years neither loneliness, nor love, nor desire had had a place in Fëanor’s heart in a world where such words had meant nothing to him; in a world in which he had betrayed and deceived his own kin. A wave of agony ripped across his face as now the memories, and all emotions they stirred, stung with an unexpected violence. They rattled in Fëanor’s mind and shook him and, although he was well used to the oppressive silence of the halls, it felt suddenly like choking hands.

He had to get away. And he had to find Fingolfin, or at least he had to try.

*  

Although his sense of time had become different in the twilight prison of the Valar, it felt to Fëanor as if he had already spent hours searching. No matter where he went and where he looked, his brother’s soul remained frustratingly hidden. Where else should he go, Fëanor wondered – he didn’t know but to change his mind, once set had never been a valid option, not in life, nor in death.  

He began his frustrating search anew, and then, when once more he had wandered each and every corridor and all his hopes had faded, Fëanor finally came to a stony stairway right next to the meandering river. He knew he had been there once. Fëanor had walked along the river a thousand times in futile hopes of finding its exit and surely, he would have noticed the staircase – it simply had not been there before.

With pounding heart he flew down the stairs in his last hopes of finding Fingolfin and indeed, below the earth now, Fëanor felt his brother’s soul flicker, faintly but strong enough that he could follow it. His brother’s soul flickered and tingled with odd excitement, though there was worry, too, bubbling underneath the surface. Even though Fëanor got lost in the endless maze every now and then, in the end he found Fingolfin. He did not see him at first but sensed his spirit, right there in Námo’s main hall, where all arriving fëa were welcomed and Vairë’s giant tapestries hung on the walls. To Fëanor it was as if his brother had played an idle game of hide and seek with him, and he grew angry. After all, he had lurked into the hall thrice before and not once had Fingolfin been there.

Fëanor pressed his back against a massive pillar to collect his thoughts, worried that anger would win over the relief he had initially felt. He wanted to ask Fingolfin about that, wanted to ask him so much more and he wanted to hear his reply if only it was for the simple reason to hear him speak again, yet most of all he desired to see him. Fingolfin was still there in the Vala’s great hall, and all the while his spirit had remained static.

Drawing in a deep breath, Fëanor forsook his hiding place behind the pillar just so that his head peered out from behind it. He saw Fingolfin then, for just a moment – but his brother was with the Vala of these wretched halls. As Fëanor watched, the Lord of the Dead placed one bony hand on Fingolfin’s waist, leaning in to whisper something to him that Fëanor could not understand although the affection of the touch was not lost on him. Filled with disgust and terror, Fëanor had to look away. What he had just seen left little to his imagination of what that meeting was truly about; it startled him as he had never thought that the gods harbored even the remotest interest in intimacy; it sickened him, as Fingolfin was his in his captivity just as everyone else was. It was wrong – all of it.

Fëanor had to look again, ensuring that it was not another trick of his troubled soul. Oh how then he wished it was. As if in trance he watched his brother’s gentle hands ghost over the Vala’s collarbone, watched his relaxed features, radiating an all too familiar excitement. Jealousy began to stir Fëanor’s heart. He burned – in desire and in doubt, and despite not actually wanting it he found himself unable to look away. His brother’s beauty among such ugliness was spellbinding. It was then, that he noticed something else: the robe the Vala wore was extraordinarily similar to the one Fëanor had worn during the feast to celebrate Fingolfin’s coming of age; dark red with hues of gold woven into the thick and heavy fabric. As if it was yesterday, Fëanor remembered the night that had led to extensive consequences, the way Fingolfin had kissed him – and how he had kissed him back with wine-stained lips.

The Vala’s voice cut through Fëanor’s memories. “Suck.” The command came right before Námo slid three fingers into Fingolfin’s waiting mouth, a sight that sent a shiver down Fëanor’s spine.

Fëanor felt awful about his own reaction. He remembered well how skilled his brother was with his mouth and tongue, the way his own fingers had felt against his brother’s lips in the clumsiness of drunken desires too long suppressed. He grew hard beneath his cloak, and he hated it with all his heart.

Fingolfin was not himself, Fëanor told himself: it was the Vala’s filthy tricks that made his brother react as he did. Fëanor told it to himself each time he saw his brother’s throat flex in an all too familiar way, each time his eyelids flutter, and perhaps for a while, he even had believed his thoughts.

At least until the Vala’s bony fingers slipped out of Fingolfin’s mouth and thus he spoke. “Unlike others, I shall never grow tired of your desperation to kiss me.”

A smile of triumph flashed across the Vala’s face when Fingolfin nodded solemnly. It was then that Fëanor realized that his presence had not gone unnoticed, idiotic to even think it had, he now concluded. To see the unlike pair kissing was ugly, yet uglier still was his brother’s love-sick smile just shortly after.

He had seen enough, Fëanor decided and crept back into the comforting shadows of the corridors.

‘What benefits had Námo promised him?’ And then, along the way back he wondered ‘Had the Vala kissed anyone before or was Fingolfin the first?’ Idiotic thoughts and absolutely irrelevant, Fëanor knew that well.  

In the quiet environment of his room, Fëanor sat with his back against the onyx walls, brooding, with the flickering light casting its shadow upon him. To Fëanor the Halls of Awaiting meant darkness – and only that. How could it be that his brother smiled and laughed in these wretched halls; that he kissed its keeper who once had cursed them?

To Fëanor, the halls were a forsaken place. They were the Everlasting Darkness of a starless night he had once called upon, the eternal punishment the waves had promised him by screaming whispers on his desperate flight. ‘I defy the world, your wretched laws of thralldom!’, he had answered them and his cries had been carried far and forth by the raging storm.

‘I defy the one whose love is lost to me, too.’ He had not said that, had perhaps not even thought it then, but now, in all his misery, Fëanor did. Despite sensing the ridiculousness of it, he could not prevent another thought: ‘Watch me save him!’

He found himself yearning for Fingolfin’s touch and he decided that if he could only worship his brother once more, for one night and never again afterward Fëanor would be content. Fingolfin belonged to him – and him alone! Though, as always, there was more to it. To hear – and see –his brother so was shocking to Fëanor for it had nothing to do with the coldness of the halls. But then, he had often heard rumors of strange forms of merriment that were celebrated deep down below the earth, guarded by the ever-silent walls. He did not need to know more; the gossip of it was sickening enough. Ever since the day Námo had spoken announced their doom from the cliffs high above, to Fëanor he had become the epitome of abomination., Fëanor had wholeheartedly indulged himself in these thoughts during all the perilous years of his flight. The Valar harbored no love for those whose hearts had gone astray, these strangely lost souls who had forsaken all bliss and beauty. A view that all too easily had become set in stone for him and all of his followers.  So often had Fëanor told that to himself, his sons, and all his followers that it had become set in stone.

‘And now Fingolfin! My own brother!’ The golden goblet flew against the black wall. Fëanor’s mind rioted he constructed scenarios, one worse than the other. The world of imagination had always been a welcoming escape, in death with all the time to craft his labyrinth of half-truth even more than in life. So it went on for many days, in which Fëanor was caught between two colliding worlds and he became restless. Why was he trapped in the blatant bleakness when for his brother the halls meant light, a place in which his laughter mingled with the dancing shadows? Why could his smile grow radiant in torch-lit halls when all Fëanor had was the company of dull twilight? It was not fair! Why Fingolfin was granted the blissful illusion of choice when he, Fëanor, was denied it?

In search for answers, Fëanor began to wander again and soon enough he felt his brother’s soul brush against his own. Guided by Fingolfin’s mind he walked down the corridors, left and right and left again until he came to a smaller river, which he followed upstream. Hot, humid air pressed against Fëanor’s face when the river ended in a small pond. Fëanor hesitated to step any further because he had already seen enough. Two naked figures were sitting in it, caught in a position that allowed little doubt of what they were doing. He was close enough to see the droplets of water on his brother’s skin, the way he sat in the Vala’s lap and although he hated himself for it, the radiance they emanated was not lost on him.

What had he even been thinking to give into his absurd thoughts? He should flee but it was too late to turn back as his presence was all too easily discovered, and if he had thought they would stop for proprieties sake he was mistaken.

“I knew you would come.” There was a light of conquest in the Vala’s eyes. “Though I beg to differ: your half-brother is hardly in need of your help.”

Fëanor was certain he had never said that aloud and in the struggle of his thoughts the ambiguity of the words went unnoticed. Námo’s gaze wandered to Fingolfin as he added. “Correct me if I am mistaken.”

“Well,” Fingolfin began and to Fëanor it was as if he could spot a faint blush on his brother’s neck the moment Námo’s lips began to mouth along his throat. “It has been a while.”

Only then, the implication dawned on Fëanor, and realizing that Námo watched with amusement his expression transformed into one of fear. “Keep your damn mouth shut, brother!” Fëanor cried out in terror, as memories of their nocturnal dalliance with a high ranked soldier returned. It had started as a foolish wager between the brothers in a desolate state of drunkenness: the one who managed to lure the soldier between the sheets would win a night in which ‘no’ was not accepted as an answer. He was handsome and, if the rumors were to be believed, quite talented in certain arts – yet above all, he was clever, so that in the end their plan had not quite worked out but many things they had learned with him.

Námo smiled against Fingolfin’s throat, then laughed. “I dare say that only very few of your youthful escapades went entirely unnoticed. Why not bring them back to life, I ask you?” The sudden warmth in the Vala’s voice came as a genuine surprise to Fëanor but he would not be so easily deceived and for moments the implication hung heavily in the air until Fëanor fled, followed by a trail of laughter.

That night, and during many nights that followed, Fëanor did not find any rest. Each night, he burnt with ambiguous emotions, and each night he fantasized of Fingolfin riding him the way he had ridden the Vala’s cock. Soon desire won over all rationality. He would not go so far to say that the last flicker of doubt was quenched because it was not and the prospect of stepping into the Vala’s lair Fëanor liked not. But in that lair was his brother whose skin he once had so lovingly explored.

‘I await thee.’ Fëanor himself is unsure if he heard or just imagined it. As if summoned he heeded his brother’s call and slipped out into the gloomy twilight, not knowing what he truly left behind. The labyrinth of the halls stretched far and wide Fëanor had learned that soon enough yet for once he did not get lost. He crossed the river by a bridge, which had never been there before, then slipped through an unlocked door into another hallway, much narrower than any he had ever walked before. Somehow, the air was different there, fresher and sweeter, almost as if the cold breeze from green meadows found its way inside. It was there that for the first time that night he sensed his brother’s mind, vibrating in a mixture of anticipation and desire. From then on, Fëanor ran.

He came to an open door, where he halted to weigh the grave decision he was about to take if he crossed the threshold. But then he heard his brother’s thoughts whisper to him, faintly and yet so clear, bidding him to enter.

‘The first time I saw him, I knew I wanted him. Just as I had always wanted and still want you, need you.’

In the end, Fëanor discarded his remaining doubts and stepped into a room more beautiful than anything else he had come across in the wretched halls. Black walls adorned with dripping torches arched far up into the golden sky, whilst a spiraling stair led further down to where Fëanor could not see. It mattered not, in fact, nothing mattered – not when he saw the unlike pair like this. Something dark and sinister was about them, in the way the difference in power and status was made so clear. Námo sat upon a throne-like seat that was padded with velvet cushions of bright lilac, a color which perfectly matched the threaded highlights his flimsy robes. The robe was open to the Vala’s waist, revealing a muscled abdomen that Fëanor somehow had not expected.

Fingolfin wore nothing at all. In his glorious nakedness, he sat at the Vala’s feet with his head resting on Námo’s thigh, whilst Námo’s jeweled fingers were woven into his hair. To Fëanor all of this would have screamed of thralldom were it not for his brother’s adoring smile. Fingolfin was entirely content with the situation, and it seemed like he had sat this way perhaps a hundred times before.

And yet – it irked Fëanor. It repulsed him to see his brother, a high-born prince after all, like this.

Fëanor, having never been one to accept things as they were, was about to speak when Námo interrupted him. “We shall hear none of it – neither I, nor he.”

In search for support, Fëanor looked to Fingolfin who shrugged his shoulders in indifference.

Standing there, excluded from the moment they shared and without being granted support, Fëanor was lost.

“I tell you something, Fëanáro,” said Námo and for the first time since his arrival in the Halls of Awaiting, Fëanor truly listened. “You can count yourself blessed that your brother harbors such love for you after everything you have done, otherwise you would not be here. Little love have I myself harbored for you, you know that well. If I had wanted to, you would not even know that he is dead as it is in my powers to shield a dead one’s soul from those already dead. So you see, it would have been an all too easy task to keep him all to myself. I never did that, not once and although you may suspect that wearing that robe of black and red had been an idea of my wretched mind, it wasn’t. Your brother had asked me to and as odd you may find it, I obeyed.”

Fëanor’s mouth fell open. He had always assumed the Valar would simply take whatever they wanted. Unimpressed by Fëanor’s blatant stare Námo continued to speak. “All you had to do was to reach out to your fallen brother, though that you never did in your ridiculous pride. You see – I could have played a thousand games with you because you’re the greatest fool of all, Fëanáro, but know this: I am not one for gambling.”

Although it was hard, Fëanor held Námo’s gaze. “You have come here for a reason, is it not so?” the Vala went on and to Fëanor it was as if his voice changed ever so little.

Indeed he had come for a reason, so Fëanor nodded.

“Undress.”

Such directness came unexpected and Fëanor was outright shocked. Of course he had expected a scenario, not unlike the Vala’s request but not so soon, not so blatantly direct. Naturally, he disobeyed with a pounding heart as his gaze switched back and forth between Námo and Fingolfin. But when Fingolfin did not respond, or counter Námo’s demand in any way, Fëanor slowly came to understand that help would not be coming from his brother.

Námo’s voice cut through the silence. “You heard me well – undress.” The echo was like thunder against the onyx walls, frightening enough that Fëanor flinched. In the world of the living he had defied the will of the gods, but here, in the kingdom without light, Fëanor did not dare such offense. For the first time in his life, he accepted that a rule could be absolute.

Then Fingolfin rose silently, his cock half hard as Fëanor observed, beautiful as he had always been. He still did not like the tone with which the Vala had addressed him, but then – how should he refuse when there his brother stood, bathed in golden light, awaiting him? Fëanor was nervous, they both were and at last, his robe fell under a pair of excited eyes.

Fëanor’s mouth twisted into something that was trying to be a smile. “Brother mine,” he said, taking a step towards Fingolfin.

What was he about to do then, he briefly wondered, what was expected of him and most of all towards where would all that lead? He had come for his brother’s sake, and only for him, yet even then Fëanor had known that nothing would be limited to Fingolfin alone. He had accepted it with all its consequences, and now he had to accept the Vala’s gaze taking in every inch of his skin.

Distracted by his own thoughts, Fëanor felt his brother’s fingers brush against his hands, and then his stomach, right there where the scar from his reckless youth sat. Caused by Fëanor’s idiotic need to show off whenever a suitable situation presented itself, Fingolfin had cut him there. Although it had been Fëanor’s own fault, Fingolfin had fussed over the little cut as if Fëanor was deadly injured. It felt as if the entire moment was perfectly choreographed. No doubt by Fingolfin, because who else would know how and where to touch him so. Or perhaps not? Had not Námo himself had said he had watched them from far away, just as he watched them now with a smile filled with hunger?

By all means, Fëanor had not expected it but the lusting eyes only increased his desire. Perhaps it should not have come as such a surprise: Fëanor had always been vain and had loved to perform, to be the center of attention. Whenever Fingolfin just touched him so exquisitely, gasps and moans fell from his lips more easily than they would if they were alone and Fëanor hoped that Námo was listening. He dared to cast a look into the Vala’s direction, where he found immediate confirmation. His brows were thick and utterly expressive, his lips parted just a little, quite sensual, Fëanor did not fail to note, just as for the first time he was able to sense the Vala’s soul, warm and soft and yet demanding.

And then, with re-hearing the words Námo had said to him the day his fëa had arrived in the Halls of Awaiting, Fëanor felt like a moron. He realized that he could have had all these ages ago. ‘Though I have harbored little love for you whilst you were alive, my mind might change on that matter.’  In his desolated state back then, emotions fueled by grief and imagined injustice, Fëanor had discarded each and every word the Vala had said if he had listened at all. Rage had coursed through his veins, pumping, and hammering until he could hear nothing but the rushing of it in his ears.

But now, with lips and hands pressed to his brother’s skin, Fëanor did listen to whatever words of beauty and desire Námo placed directly into his head. Amidst all of it for the first time, the realm of the dead came to life with images flickering and swaying in his vision. Instead of dreary bleakness, Fëanor began to see the golden veins within the onyx walls, those crystals of amethyst that were reflecting the soft glow of the burning candles but above all else, he saw his brother’s smile and the hunger in his gaze. It was more radiant than any crystal could ever be.

The press of his brother’s hand against his shoulders told him exactly what to do and so Fëanor sank down onto his knees, eyes obediently directed upwards. Fingolfin shook his head. So it was not that. Fëanor almost regretted his brother’s decision since he felt like he would have given the world for to pleasure him so. Nevertheless, he shifted on the polished stone until he was on all fours, a position with which Fingolfin seemed to be content, and the press of hands against his buttocks telling Fëanor as much. He had long since grown hard.

‘Just do it.’  Fëanor tried to urge his brother through his thoughts. He felt hot and cold alike as his brother’s fingers found their way to where a brother surely should not touch him so. Over the years and their strife he had almost forgotten how exquisitely skilled Fingolfin was and the touch of his brother’s lips, warm and wet against his back, sparked something Fëanor had long thought buried. It was enough, and then it was not, Fëanor wanted all and everything, and for that he, at last, he was willing to discard the last remains of pride. There was a flash of pain, of course, but it was so quick that it mattered not, not when they were reunited after so many countless years. Fëanor could hear himself breathing, every hot, quick rush of it, eyes tightly shut in the beginning.

Fingolfin set a smooth, slow pace, one of the sorts that Fëanor remembered all too well. Usually, his brother had used it to fuck his mouth when he had knelt before him. What difference did it make, to kneel as he did? On all fours he dared to look to the side so that he could look right into the Vala’s face and see how Námo in return looked at him, reflecting their lust back at them. Fëanor had little doubts that he and Fingolfin were beautiful together, their bodies moving together and muscles working under their skin so he lowered his upper body a little further and spread. If it was a performance the Vala wanted, Fëanor was willing to obey. The effect came instantly, affirmed in the quickened pace of his strokes, the way he was fucking them with his eyes. Fëanor even wondered which position Námo desired to take, perhaps running through multiple scenarios in his mind before he was willing to commit to one. Such curiosity was either awarded or punished, thought Fëanor, who was well aware of the fact that his thoughts were read and he was genuinely surprised that nothing happened. Never had Fëanor suspected to see the look of ecstasy on a Vala’s face; lips half open, eyes dark and hungry as he stroked himself. It was a most mesmerizing sight. To Fëanor however, the realization that he was admiring the Lord of the Dead whom he had so much despised was quite shocking.

After that, Fëanor did not look again.

It was an easy task, as Fingolfin’s way to touch and fuck him had always proved as the most perfect distraction, assisted by the obscene noise of slapping skin. Caught in the glory of the moment, with cries of pleasure loud enough to drown all other noises, Fëanor did not hear the footsteps cross the room. Only when his gaze fell onto naked feet right before him he realized the Vala’s presence and looked up in stunned silence. From above, Námo looked at him with eyes glittering in amusement, black with violet and silver stars, as if he was a feast ready to devour. Well, his position was not far from that. Then, the Vala squatted before him and traced his bony fingers along the edge of Fëanor’s jaw and then his ear before he kissed him in a way no-one else had ever kissed him before. He went instantly into shock at the kiss, tensing up yet his mouth went slack. Fëanor instantly tensed with shock at the kiss, though his mouth fell slack beneath the Vala’s. Much to Fëanor’s surprise neither the Vala’s lips nor his fingers were deadly cold and although it felt strange to be kissed by a Vala like this, but more surprisingly still was the fact that he did not fight but kissed him back with a frenzy.  

Námo smiled as if amused by Fëanor’s initial surprise. “You know … I could think of other ways to use your mouth.”

Behind him, Fingolfin made a strangled noise and as if sparked by jealousy the pace of his thrusts sped up and in the wake of it, Fingolfin shifted his weight. It was more than Fëanor could handle. “Then do,” he said, completely overwhelmed by the situation.

Not-so-gentle fingers gripped Fëanor’s jaw, digging into the joints until he opened his mouth. Námo was large, much larger than his brother’s cock had ever felt inside his mouth, but Fëanor had never backed away when challenge presented itself.

This … was new. This was exciting, and Fëanor had always been open to all sorts of experiments. So had his brother. Anyhow, he could feel Fingolfin tense behind him, gripping his hips harder than it was necessary and around the Vala’s cock, Fëanor smiled. Possessive. Jealous. Protective. To have his brother’s mind laid bare like this, was worth all that might follow. So it came to pass that Fëanor knelt on all fours before the Lord of the Dead whilst his own brother thrust into him hard and fast, and soon the sensation of the bewildering mixture of pain and pleasure became too much to bear. Fëanor squeezed his eyes in hope to block out the reality of being used in such a way that drool kept running down his chin each time he tried to swallow around the Vala’s cock, only to realize that with closed eyes the sensations became too much. His brother’s body was draped over him, Fingolfin’s teeth scraping against his shoulder while his mouth was fucked relentlessly. He couldn’t differentiate any longer who was touching him where and when and he found it did not matter. Through wet eyelashes, Fëanor looked upwards and caught the Vala’s wrecked expression, the way he looked down at him with praise. His arms and limbs were aching from exhaustion, as was his mouth but with a genuine effort, he held it open; he knew that he was drooling, that saliva trickled down on the polished floor. Fëanor could not care less: not for his aching knees and arms, nor for the mess he created and the sounds that almost sounded as if he was crying, and least of all about the Vala coming deep down his throat. The unrelenting hand against the back of his head that held him down, his brother’s release building deep inside him; it all was more than Fëanor could bear in his overstimulated state. His body arched up against Fingolfin’s, every muscle tensing and untensing until his arms forsook  him and he fell into the Vala’s arms. “Let go,” Námo whispered against his ear, his voice rough and hoarse and sweet, and close to crying, Fëanor obeyed.

*

Later, when he lay curled up between his brother and Námo in the Vala’s bed under layers of finest black silk, Fëanor reflected upon certain parts of his life. None of his relationships had been conventional, so perhaps it should not have come as such a surprise to find comfort and desire in the most unlikely arms, and, for the first time, he indeed believed the words he had once said, ‘fair shall the end be’. And then Fëanor smiled.

*

 

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Chapter End Notes

Thanks to my amazing beta reader, RC. <3

‘fair shall the end be’ - The Silmarillion