Like a Dream Come True by chrissystriped

Like a Dream Come True

Read Like a Dream Come True

The spot where Míriel’s body lay was a peaceful place. Her bed stood under the eaves of a willow whose branches hung down to the ground and screened her from the view of passers-by. Fireflies blinked between the leaves in the cool light of Telperion but the elf sitting beside her bed had no eyes for any of this. Fëanáro was holding his mother’s cold, unresponsive hand in his own as if he wanted to share his own warmth with her – the fire in him that she’d given him in the first place. Tears were running down his cheeks, but he cried silently, no sob escaped his lips. The curtain of branches was pushed aside and he looked up. His eyes flashed when he looked at Irmo.

“You are troubled”, the Vala said gently.

“Of course I am”, Fëanáro snapped. “Manwë just told me I’ll never meet my mother – and only because that... that husband-stealing hag can’t leave my father alone.”

“You are troubled”, Irmo said again, deciding that he wouldn’t condemn the young nér for anything he was saying right now. He wasn’t in his right mind.

He sat down beside Fëanáro, so close their shoulders almost touched and looked into Míriel’s still face.

“Your mother was very clear that she is tired of living. She does not want her body. She loves you and she is sorry for the pain she is causing you, but her decision stands. It would have been her decision whatever Finwë had done.”

“And so I should give her up and forget her and call Indis ‘Mother’?”

“No.”

Fëanáro looked surprised at him and Irmo smiled.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I know this is unfair to you, I know you are in pain. I’m just saying this is not Indis’s fault, or Finwë’s, or Míriel’s. This is Arda Marred and so we can not be perfectly happy, we must live with what we are given.”

“It’s easy for you to say that”, mumbled Fëanáro. “You are a Vala, you don’t know how it feels to lose a parent.”

“True. But I walk in the Children’s dreams and I feel. You are troubled”, he said for the third time. “Stay here for a while. Let me help you. Let me give you some peace.”

Fëanáro leaned into him and Irmo put his arms around him. He was still so young... Irmo wished Finwë could have waited a few years longer. But the decision was made, for better or worse.

They sat silent for a long while, Fëanáro holding Míriel’s hand and Irmo holding Fëanáro. He felt Fëanáro’s tense body slowly relax into him, accepting his silent comfort. Irmo hummed a little melody under his breath, nothing recognisable, just some notes that came to his mind.

“I don’t want to share him”, Fëanáro suddenly said. “He’s my father. There’ll be other children now. Why am I not enough for him?”

His eyes were so full of a souldeep pain that Irmo pulled him into a tight embrace. No, nothing about this was fair to Fëanáro. He wished there could have been some other way out of this mess, but he did not see how.

“Have you thought about having children?”, he asked.

Fëanáro bowed his head to hide his flushing cheek behind his hair.

“Maybe...”

“And do you think you would love your firstborn any less because they have siblings?”

“I... understand what you want to say”, Fëanáro answered slowly. “But it still feels like he’s trying to replace me. A new wife, new children. I just don’t see where I fit in there.”

Irmo gently stroked his head.

“Have you told him that?”

Fëanáro shook his head and he continued: “Maybe you should, then. Your father loves you, Fëanáro. Talk with him. Let him assuage your fears.”

Fëanáro nodded silently, Irmo could see that his lids had become heavy. It was hard for elves to stay awake in Lórien. He regularly found Fëanáro sleeping beside his mother’s bed, lying in whatever awkward position sleep had taken him in.

“Come”, he helped him up. “Let me take you somewhere you can rest.”

Fëanáro didn’t object and Irmo led him a short way to the roots of another tree, where he laid him down on a bed of fern and moss.

“Sleep, my troubled child”, he said and kissed his forehead gently.

 

Fëanáro walked beside Irmo on the path around the lake. The Vala found him whenever he came to visit his mother. He knew it was only her body lying here and that her fëa was in Mandos, but still he felt connected to her when he came here.

“You come here quite a lot, recently”, Irmo said softly.

He didn’t ask him why in so many words, but that was Irmo’s way. If he wanted to talk, he could and if not, Irmo would keep the silence with him.

Fëanáro looked at the Vala whose silver hair had a slight lavender hue in the light of Telperion. He was wearing a necklace of silver birds – nightingales. Fëanáro smiled, he’d made that for him. The fire of his anger at the decision the Valar had made in regard to his mother and father still simmered in his breast, but he’d learned a lot of smithcraft from Mahtan Aulendil and even Aulë himself, and Irmo had always been a friend to him.

A friend – Fëanáro wondered if Irmo thought of him that way, too, or if he only saw a petulant young nér, barely past his majority, in him.

He’d moved out of the palace a few years ago, explaining that he wanted to intensify his studies under Mahtan – it had been a relief to not see Indis every day any more – and secretly also because he wanted to spend more time with Mahtan’s clever, talented daughter.

“I just feel comfortable here”, he said belatedly.

Ironically, when he’d realised that he felt more than a passing fancy for Nerdanel and that he wanted to court her, he’d also realised that he’d felt the same way – or at least a similar way – about Irmo for years and years.

“I’m glad to hear that”, Irmo answered with a smile that made Fëanáro’s heart skip a beat.

Could you love a Vala like that? Was that even allowed? And did he care if it wasn’t? He reached out and took Irmo’s hand, lacing their fingers. The Vala looked surprised but he didn’t pull away. Fëanáro shivered delightedly when his warm thumb caressed his knuckles. He did not dare to tell Irmo about the feelings he woke in him – not yet and maybe never, he knew in his heart it wasn’t possible – but he would take the closeness he was allowed to have.

“You can always come here”, Irmo said, squeezing his hand. “You’ll always be welcome in Lórien, just for a visit or if you need help. I’ll be there for you.”

 

Fëanáro’s eyes burned with tiredness as he wound a golden wire around the leather-wrapped haft of a sword. Since they’d arrived at Formenos a few weeks ago, he’d worked unceasingly, sleeping barely two hours a day. He’d never needed a lot of sleep but this wasn’t enough even for him.

But they needed more weapons, needed to be prepared for when his scheming half-brother came to make sure he’d not lose the throne of the Noldor again. He’d always known Nolofinwë intended to take his place, but that he’d be so conniving to usurp the kingship...

Fëanáro felt the air change, a smell of flowers that opened their blooms in Telperion’s light filled the forge. He gripped the haft of the newly finished sword and whirled around.

“What are you doing here?”, he growled at the Vala of Dreams.

“I’m worried for you”, Irmo said, ignoring the blade levelled at him. “You sleep so little and you haven’t visited your mother since you... moved here.”

“I couldn’t spare the time to take the long journey from here to Lórien”, Fëanáro snapped. “It’s all your fault!”

The tip of the sword quivered with his rage. He threw it down angrily on the workbench. He might have stabbed almost anyone of the Valar, but even in his rage at them all... his barely acknowledged feelings for Irmo were different. Darker now maybe than they’d been in his youth, but now Nerdanel wasn’t here – the thought of her stabbed at his heart – and he felt free to follow his urges.

He gripped the front of Irmo’s robes and pushed him up against the wall.

“You banished me from Tirion. You made certain Nolofinwë could take the throne from me and I suppose you’re very happy with that!”

Before Irmo could say anything to his accusations, Fëanáro pressed his lips to the Vala’s in a bruising kiss. He didn’t want to hear anything from him. Irmo didn’t struggle. He shuddered when Fëanáro bit his lower lip and moaned into Fëanáro’s mouth when he brought their loins together. Fëanáro could feel his excitement against his own.

“Fëanáro...”, Irmo started.

“Silence!”, hissed Fëanáro and bit his lip again, hard enough to draw blood. “Don’t try to appease me. Don’t try to turn me away. You want this, too. I can feel it.”

He licked the blood off Irmo’s lip and took pleasure in the fact that Irmo didn’t protest further. He wanted to see his gentle composure broken, swept away by lust. He made short work of Irmo’s robe and shirt and slid his hands over the milky expanse of his chest. He looped one arm around his waist to pull him closer and gripped his hair, drawing his head back to bare his throat. Irmo gasped, his hips thrusting against Fëanáro’s – fanning the flame of pleasure in his belly –, when he sucked a bruise under his skin.

 

Irmo’s mind was alight with colourful music that mirrored the pleasure in his body. He was no stranger to his body reacting in this way. He had felt it more than once when he’d come upon certain dreams of the Children. But he’d never acted on it, it had felt wrong to do this to the dreams of someone else – like exploiting them.

He wasn’t entirely sure if it was right to do this with Fëanáro. The elf was clearly in distress – he’d come here to see if he could help him – and maybe not capable of making good decisions. But Fëanáro didn’t seem like he would take No for an answer – and Irmo didn’t really want to say No.

Irmo closed his eyes, his ëala basking in Fëanáro’s fiery fëa as his fana was in Fëanáro’s touch. For him this was as much a thing of the soul as of the body, if not more. He felt Fëanáro bow him over the workbench, felt the rough wood under his fingers and Fëanáro’s hands on his heated skin – and let himself be swept away by the pleasure of his body and the music of their souls rising together.

 

They lay together on the workbench, sweat drying on their bodies. Fëanáro sighed, feeling as relaxed and calm as he hadn’t in a long while.

“Why did you come here?”, he murmured.

“I was worried for you and wanted to help you.”

Fëanáro laughed quietly.

“Hmm”, he hummed. “I think, I might be ready to sleep and dream now.”

Irmo laughed, too, and pulled him close until Fëanáro’s head rested on his chest.

“Sweet dreams, Fëanáro”, he said, stroking his hair and Fëanáro closed his eyes. “I’ll make sure of that.”

 

When Fëanáro put a torch to the first boat, he hadn’t dreamed in weeks – since the Kinslaying at Alqualonde. It wasn’t that he didn’t sleep, but it somehow wasn’t restful without dreams. He supposed that was why he didn’t notice that Ambarto wasn’t present until his youngest son jumped from a burning boat into the water. His heart stopped a moment then, realising he’d almost killed his child in his rage. But his restless sleep only fanned his recklessness and only when he was surrounded by the flames of the Valaraukar, did painful reality snap into place again – too late for him to survive.

 

“You can’t see him”, said Námo. “He’s raving. He demands being sent back. As if that were so easy! Even if I were inclined to listen to his demands, which I’m not.”

“Please, brother. Let me try to talk to him.”

Fëanáro had never been an easy personality, but that he’d be capable to kill other elves had shocked Irmo and saddened him. While Námo had calmed the murdered elves, he’d had to deal with the nightmares of the survivors. Irmo was slow to anger, but after Fëanáro had spilled blood, he had pulled back and denied him the relief dreams brought. A punishment, but also a measure of safety. He’d feared what he might do to Fëanáro’s mind if he came close to him. He wanted to see him, hear from his own mouth the reasons for his deeds. Námo shook his head but it wasn’t a no.

“As you wish”, he sighed. “I just don’t think you’ll get anything out of him but demands and that a little time to himself would do him good.”

“I trust your expertise, I won’t take long.”

If Námo said it was no use, it likely wasn’t, but Irmo felt the overwhelming urge to see him. It wasn’t right, he knew that. His motives weren’t entirely pure (the memory of their last meeting before disaster came over them all, made his ëala and fana thrum) and he shouldn’t feel like that towards one of the Children - especially not one who was married. But the thought of Fëanáro being lost to him forever pained him deeply. He needed to talk to him, see if something of the nér he had known could be salvaged.

 

Fëanáro was aptly named, his soul was a burning flame that could be easily found in the endless Halls of Mandos. Irmo could feel his anger, his despair, but also his intense love for his sons.

“Let me go!”, he was screaming. “I have to go back! I cannot let my sons fulfil the Oath alone. I need to be there with them! I want the Silmarils back, you will not keep me from them, Námo!”

“Fëanáro”, Irmo called. “Your demands will not help. You died and even if you hadn’t done the deeds you did, you would not be able to form a new body, yet.”

“What do you know about that?”, asked Fëanáro with a sneer.

“Enough.” Irmo refused to get angry at him, not for this. “Fëanáro, I know you are angry with us – you’ve been for a long time – but can’t you see that murdering Olwë’s people was deeply wrong? You killed them, you stole their ships and burned them in disregard of their craftsmanship!”

Fëanáro went rigid at his words. “I have nothing to say to you, Irmo.”

“As you wish. I’ll come, if you call me.”

Fëanáro said nothing and Irmo left with a sigh. He’d always been hard to read, if he hadn’t wanted to be read and Irmo didn’t know if it was just wishful thinking on his part that led him to believe that Fëanáro had seen the horribleness of his deeds, but was too proud to admit it to him. Be that as it may, Irmo would not give him up.

 

“I’ve been thinking”, Fëanáro said.

They walked through his memory of Irmo’s Gardens, their bodies likewise just a memory as it was the way in Mandos. Irmo had come back – even without being called, he just couldn’t stay away – and Fëanáro had slowly warmed to his presence again.

They didn’t talk about the hard things, not yet. Not about the Kinslaying, or the Shipburning, nor about his oldest son’s capture and his subsequent rescue by his cousin – a relative Fëanáro had left behind.

Instead they walked through memories of happier times that Fëanáro allowed Irmo to see.

“About what?”

“Mother and Father and... Indis. And Nerdanel and me – and you.”

Fëanáro looked very young in his nervousness as he sat down on a bench at the lakeshore. Irmo made an encouraging sound and sat down beside him.

“Well... I loved Nerdanel with all my heart and I love her still, even through the estrangement that came between us. But you know I have feelings for you. I’m just... wondering. You ruled that no elf can have two spouses, but might it have worked out? For Father to love both Mother and Indis, I mean, with all of them alive.”

“I’m not sure, I’m the right person to ask that”, said Irmo. “You must have noticed that I was not entirely... unwilling and I’d like to think I could have a place – in some way – with you. So I’m not impartial. I don’t know if what you propose would be possible without hurting anyone, but obviously the decision that was made brought you a lot of pain – and Finwë, too.”

“So you think, Manwë was wrong to judge as he did?” Fëanáro’s eyes were burning, but then he took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask you to criticise your King.”

Irmo said nothing to that. He did indeed not want to say anything against Manwë’s decision, but it was also a fact that he’d already defied his ruling when he’d let Fëanáro take him in his forge in Formenos. Maybe he wasn’t objective, but he thought now they didn’t know enough about the Children to make decisions like that for them. They should rethink it, especially now that Finwë was dead.

Námo had told him that he intended to give up his right to be reborn in favour of Míriel who’d expressed the wish to weave for Vairë. Fëanáro knew nothing of that. Námo still thought it better to keep him away from the other dead.

Irmo sighed.

“Would you have accepted that, I wonder”, he said. “Indis at your father’s side the same as your mother?”

Fëanáro shrugged. “Back at the time, probably not. I really don’t think anything but my mother’s waking would have satisfied me then. But I can see now that Father didn’t love Mother any less for his love of Indis – or me for his love of my brothers. Why should he have to choose? Why should he not have a marriage-bond with both of them, if they agree to it?”

Irmo could feel Námo’s presence in the background – too drawn back for Fëanáro to pick it up – and his approval, maybe not of the idea of double-marriage, but of the change in Fëanáro this sentiment was prove of. Irmo had never heard Fëanáro call Nolofinwë and Arafinwë ‘brothers’ without that pointed half- before it.

Námo stopped him after Irmo had said his goodbyes to Fëanáro.

“You’re walking a thin line there, do you know that?”

Irmo blushed, sure that his brother had picked up on his feelings.

“I know”, he answered. “I can’t help it. And don’t you think he has a point? They should be able to decide who and how to love without us meddling.”

“Well, Finwë asked and Manwë did his best to answer.”

Námo touched him gently and Irmo leaned into his love. (He could not imagine how it must have been for Manwë to lose his brother.)

“I know it was the best he could do, but maybe it wasn’t entirely right.” Irmo sighed. “And I’m not sure myself, if I’m only thinking that, because I’d like him to have been wrong for my own sake, or if I really believe it.”

“I will think about it again”, Námo said and Irmo knew that meant he intended to meditate on the meaning of the Music.

“Thank you.”

“You’re my brother, it’s the least I can do for you. And whatever the reason, you do have a hand with him. He mostly only shouts at me.”

Irmo chuckled. “Well, I know him since he was a child, that has to be good for something.”

“He trusts you. I’m glad you didn’t give up on him despite what he did, you are good for him.”

“It’s time to allow him to see his parents, don’t you think?”

“After what he said today... Yes, maybe.”

 

Irmo walked up the paved way to the house, not sure what to expect. It lay a little way off Mahtan’s home, hidden away in a copse of birches. He’d been told it was called ‘Honeymoon Cottage’ for it’s being usually inhabited by freshly married couples.

The letter he’d received a few days ago had been penned by Nerdanel, very politely asking him to visit her and her husband at his earliest convenience.

He remembered well the conversation he’d had with Fëanáro all these long years ago, had seen his elation when finally the Valar had allowed Finwë to leave Mandos, despite both Indis and Míriel being alive. Irmo had been glad about his happiness for them. Fëanáro’s fëa was still as fiery as ever, but since he’d let go of his hatred for Indis, he was much more even-tempered.

Irmo knocked at the door and waited nervously for someone to open. Yes, it might just be an invitation to a friend, but all things considered... Had Fëanáro told her about that night in Formenos? Had he told her about the topic of some of their conversations?

Nerdanel smiled at him, she wore wide, high-waisted trousers and a loose, blue blouse embroidered with little amber jewels.

“Lord Irmo, please come in.”

“Thank you and please, just Irmo will do.”

Nerdanel nodded with a smile. “Welcome, Irmo.”

He followed her into a bright sitting room. Fëanáro stood up and smiled at him.

“It’s good to see you, Irmo.”

“It is.” Irmo accepted the drink he offered him and sat down. “Are you enjoying your second honeymoon?”

Nerdanel laughed in amusement.

“So you heard about the name of the cottage? But yes, in a way it is. I hear you’ve taken good care of my husband when he was in Mandos. Thank you for that.”

Irmo felt himself blush. He really should have his fana better under control.

“I did my best.”

“I doubt I’d have ever gotten out without your help”, Fëanáro said. “You are the best listener.”

Irmo smiled wryly. “That’s my job. I heard you’ve just come back from making amends to people. What are you going to do now?”

“It’s not over yet.” Fëanáro grimaced and pointed at a stack of letters. “I have made known that anyone who has a grievance against me, can write. I haven’t made plans, yet. But I’ve made amends to Olwë and his people and my brother was kind enough to forgive me my betrayal. And I’m just glad that Nerdanel took me back.”

They shared a look of such tenderness that Irmo wondered what had gotten into him to think that he could have a place with them, but then Fëanáro looked at him again and said: “Do you remember the conversation we had about my father and his wives – a long time ago, before Manwe decided to rethink his ruling?”

Irmo nodded, licking his lips nervously.

“I do”, he croaked.

“I told Nerdanel about it”, Fëanáro said. “About my feelings for you and about that one night in Formenos.”

Irmo’s eyes flitted to Nerdanel who smiled at him and he remembered that it had been her who’d written the letter. He wouldn’t be here, if she weren’t okay with it.

“I was surprised to hear it, at first”, she said. “Especially when he told me that you had given him cause to believe that you returned his feelings. It seems unusual for an Ainu to fall in love with an elf.”

“It is”, Irmo admitted. Melian and Thingol had made it work, but he knew of no one else. “It is unusual for us to feel like that for one of the Children – and to feel sexual desire at all, we are beings of mind more than of matter. But that is what I feel for Fëanáro, love and desire, both. But”, Irmo looked seriously at her, “I would never try to come between you and him. I am and will always be happy to be his friend – and yours, too, if you want me.”

“I’d be honoured to be called your friend, Irmo”, Nerdanel said with a laugh in her voice. “But we talked, my husband and I, and I’d be fine with you being rather more to him.”

Irmo felt his heart skip a beat, happiness welling up inside him. And he realised he didn’t care what his siblings would think of it.

“That would be... Thank you, that’s very generous of you, Nerdanel.”

She shrugged with a mischievous wink. “I was not alone the whole time, either, and Fëanáro is okay with that, too. Let me be plain. I would not be comfortable with you moving in with us, but I don’t think that’s what you had in mind.”

“We of course never talked about it”, Irmo said and looked at Fëanáro. “But I don’t think living together was on your mind.”

Fëanáro shook his head.

“Coming to Lórien is like taking a break from all the cares of the world for me. Being close to you was always a large part of that. I’d like to come there again to visit you and be even closer to you.”

Fëanáro took his hand and caressed the palm with his thumb, Irmo felt a pleasant shiver course through his fana and the elf’s fëa touching his ëala.

“You are always welcome”, he said. “And then we’ll see where it takes us. You know I feel deeply for you, but I’m not an incarnate being and thus for me it is more a thing of the soul than the body. Although I enjoyed the physical part.”

Fëanáro smirked and Nerdanel gave a suspiciously amused sounding cough.

“I think, we’ll all be fine”, Fëanáro said and kissed first Nerdanel’s cheek, then Irmo’s hand. “It almost feels like a dream.”

Irmo smiled indulgently “Which is fitting, don’t you think? Me being who I am. But I admit, I’ve seen the dreams of many elves, but I never was the dream of someone.”

 

They sat on the shore of the lake, hands laced and watched the sun sink over the rim of the world. It was a golden light, more fiery than Laurelin’s had ever been, but warm and comforting nonetheless.

Fëanáro leaned into Irmo, kissing his lips and when Irmo kissed him back, his heart flowed over with happiness. He did not deserve any of this, he read that daily in some of the letters he was sent. Not his life, not Nerdanel’s forgiveness and love and surely not the love of a Vala.

He had been wrong in some of the things he’d done, he could admit that now – but the Valar had been too and they’d admitted it and made his father happy in a way he hadn’t ever seen him. In another life that would have made him jealous. But he’d come back to life with a certainty of his father’s love that the memories in death had given him and what was there to be jealous about when he was so happy himself?

He sighed into Irmo’s mouth and slung his arm around his neck, pulling him closer. The sun had vanished and Eärendil was bright in the sky. That was the only thing that still twinged a little. The Silmarils should have been his and his family’s and how things had happened there at the end of the War of Wrath had not been right.

Fëanáro pushed the thought down. He’d met forgiveness for his deeds from a lot of people and he would do well to forgive in his turn. And the thought that his jewel was giving hope to the people across the sea who still fought against the Moringotto’s servants felt good.

He climbed onto Irmo’s lap, wanting more closeness and felt Irmo shudder.

“I want you”, he whispered into his Vala’s ear. “I want you inside me.”

He let himself be laid down in the fragrant grass. Irmo’s eyes shone like stars, his silver hair like a mist around his head as he made love to him to the song of the nocturnal birds. Fëanáro let himself be swept away by his pleasure and thought: “’Fair shall the end be, though long and hard shall be the road.’”

It had been a long and hard way but he had finally arrived in a place where he could be content.

---

Chapter End Notes

"Fair shall the end be, though long and hard shall be the road." is, of course, a direct quote from the Silmarillion, p.83