Mereth Aderthad by oshun

Daeron and Macalaurë

Read Daeron and Macalaurë

The joy of that feast was long remembered in later days of sorrow; and it was called Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting. Thither came many of the chieftains and people of Fingolfin and Finrod; and of the sons of Fëanor Maedhros and Maglor, with warriors of the eastern March; and there came also great numbers of the Grey-elves, wanderers of the woods of Beleriand and folk of the Havens, with Círdan their lord. There came even Green-elves from Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers, far off under the walls of the Blue Mountains; but out of Doriath there came but two messengers, Mablung and Daeron, bearing greetings from the King. –The Silmarillion, “Of the Return of the Noldor”

The stars, although still bright in the sky, faded around the perimeter of the full moon. The deer dancer stood motionless looking above and beyond the heads of the crowd who had gathered to watch him. He held his head straight and erect despite the weight of his tall headdress made of the head of a stag, eight-pronged antlers intact. His stance recalled the isolation and grandeur of a large buck seen on a rise in the distance through a clearing in the trees. Tall, long-legged, nearly naked, stern of jaw, the dancer had mesmerized the audience before he made his first move.

Daeron drew back to find a good vantage point before the dance began in earnest. He had witnessed the ritual countless times, but was eager to observe it again with the inducement of scrutinizing the assembled Noldor who would be seeing it for the first time.

He eyed the base of a huge oak tree, which looked inviting, but undoubtedly would be too low. Then he spotted him: dark hair, wonderful bone structure, high, elegant cheekbones, slanting astonished eyes. Daeron watched him quickly making notations upon a piece of parchment. His foot tapped in time with beat of the drums and susurrus of the rattles, made of tiny pebbles sealed within butterfly cocoons and tied around the ankles of the deer dancer.

The note-taker's foot abruptly stopped when the high, surprising tone of a reed flute interjected itself into the music of the drums. He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes not unlike the ritual movements of the Elf dancing the role of the sacred stag. Then he began to scribble even more frantically.

Like most of the Noldor he had met at this gathering, this one approached his chosen task with an ardor and single-mindedness of purpose that made Daeron grin. He liked that quality. It reminded him of his own intensity about his work, something that had often caused people to consider him strange. At the moment that Daeron felt the smile reach the muscles of his face, the Noldo glanced at him.

"Do you know this dance? This ritual?" he asked, his voice deep, yet surprisingly melodious. His cheeks pinkened charmingly as he spoke, no doubt in embarrassment at the possibility of having his obvious intensity remarked upon. Daeron recognized the reaction all too well from personal experience. Clear blue-grey eyes widened at Daeron with hope, as the Noldo pushed a flyaway lock of dark hair behind an ear.

"You are either a musician or a loremaster I would guess." Daeron moved closer.

"Actually, I am not the scholar in my family. That would be my eldest brother. Music is my avocation," he said, sticking the pencil behind his ear in order to extend a hand to Daeron in greeting. "And you?"

"I am both. They go together among the Sindar, as my people do not have the respect for record keeping that I once might have hoped. I do know far more about this dance than almost anyone you are likely to have the opportunity to question. What can I tell you? This is the perfect time to explain; the next part coming up goes on far too long for my taste. But then it is not art to them but sacred ritual."

"First, who are these people? What are they called?"

"They are cousins of the Sindar one could say, Green-elves or Laiquendi we call them. They live largely to the east, in Ossiriand. They keep to themselves, deep in the forests. It is a credit to the perseverance and diplomacy of your organizers that they are here."

"My uncle, King Nolofinwë, is an formidable organizer. He was an able administrator under my grandfather and also acting King of the Noldor during our last years in Valinor. Oh. I am Macalaurë, by the way, second son of Fëanáro." He jutted his handsome chin up as he spoke. Daeron thought possibly in a gesture of pride or defiance, but more likely, noting the vulnerable curve of his lips, wariness of being hastily judged.

"And you are?" Macalaurë asked.

"I am your rival," Daeron said, giving him a flirtatious wink, thinking, 'Why waste time? He is too delicious not to let him know I fancy him.'

"Daeron of Doriath. Excellent!" Macalaurë extended his hand again, his face lighting with renewed enthusiasm. "The single person I had most hoped to meet here. I would not have guessed. You are not what I expected. Much taller than I had imagined. In fact, my picture of you was different in almost every way."

Daeron laughed. "Not a pretty little piper of a quaint, rustic people, I hope?"

"Hardly," Macalaurë said, shrugging his shoulders good-naturedly. "I made the acquaintance of various of the Sindar in the area of Lake Mithrim. We have worked together there for some years now. In particular, when my brother was recovering from severe injuries, I became well acquainted with a young healer, originally from Doriath. Tadiel is her name. She is a close friend of my brother, Maitimo, and his . . . my cousin, Findekáno."

"Ah, yes, Tadiel. She is a distant cousin of mine."

"Fascinating," Macalaurë said, clearly not referring to his cousin. "Where are the drums?"

"Probably behind those trees over there. They keep them out of sight. Makes the illusion more potent. They use three double-headed cylinders. The first is quite large, called the mother drum, and the smallest is the baby drum. The variation in size produces the distinct pitches. The drums as well as the dance itself are considered sacred. The Laiquendi claim the drums speak, think of them as sentient, guiding the drummer."

"Didn't you ever feel that way about your instrument?" Macalaurë looked totally serious.

"Perhaps. But I never thought to admit it to anyone."

Macalaurë laughed. "I would guess by the quality of their resonance that they must be carved of a solid piece of hard wood, not constructed of staves. And the skin? A deer?"

"You have a good ear."

"Of course, I do. I am the great Canafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion." The seductive glint in his eyes combined with the self-deprecating humor of his tone, elicited a pleasurable frisson of response in Daeron. Macalaurë held his gaze a moment too long for affability alone.

"Yes. Deer skin. Watch this now. The deer is alert to a possible threat."

The deer dancer had been miming with remarkable accuracy the characteristic movements of a deer, grazing in a meadowland, and gracefully picking his way through the trees. Suddenly he raised his head and froze. An elf carrying a bow had appeared at the edge of the space which had been cleared for the dance. He raised his bow and pretended to place an arrow in it. The deer dancer suddenly took off, executing a series of running leaps. The hunter stalked and the deer avoided him. At last, the hunter hit his mark and the wounded deer continued his movements for several minutes, dramatically demonstrating his increasing weakness, until finally he collapsed. The hunter knelt beside him. The dying deer moved his head slightly and locked his eyes with the hunter, who then bent over him.

"The hunter is kissing the deer?" Macalaurë asked, his voice husky with strong feeling.

"No. Not exactly." Daeron watched as the hunter Elf did not quickly release the lips of the one who had played the deer.

"Well, in this case, you may be right. But that is something added. Inhibitions freed by the intensity of the moment. The ritual in its purest form requires only that the tribesman who brings down the stag show his desire to partake of its nobility and courage by appearing to inhale its dying breath. Usually indicated by placing his lips above those of the other dancer or touching them lightly. I have also heard that movement described as being symbolic of gratitude to the deer for giving his life to feed their people or a way of easing the animal to peacefully accept its death."

"Oh, whatever the explanation, that young man kissed that deer," Macalaurë stated emphatically.

Daeron controlled his tongue. He did not say a word about how obvious it was to him that the sight of the magnificent stag, so convincingly played by the powerful dancer, overcome by the beautiful young Elf, had left Macalaurë aroused. He did run his fingers lightly up the sensitive skin on the inside of Macalaurë's lower arm. Macalaurë grinned, but refused to look at him keeping his eyes fixed upon the dancers.

The hunter Elf rose to his feet and raised his bow aloft, chanting a short invocation. Then at his shrill whistle, a crowd of women and children rushed to take their assigned places around the hunter and deer. The drums took up their primal beat slowly as the dancers swayed and stomped, moving in a circle.

"Well, that is all of the interesting part. The rest is the usual: around and around, faster and faster."

Macalaurë turned on Daeron with a bemused smile, startling him with the suddenness of the move. His fingertips touched Daeron's still-smirking lips. "Are you always so confident and opinionated?"

Daeron sighed. "No. To be honest, I am a total fraud and both excited by and terrified of how you affect me."

"You fooled me. But perhaps you should be. Afraid, I mean," Macalaurë said, so softly that Daeron strained to hear his words. "You have the advantage of experience in this situation, but, if you knew me or any of my kinsmen, you might be aware that we are known for our lack of restraint."

"Experience?"

"I have never responded to another man. You, however, intrigue me and I have been alone a very long time."

Clearing his throat, Daeron responded, "I left out one thing about the ceremony. The combination of the ritual dance, the simple, repetitive music, you know, the entire ambiance, causes one to, sort of, let go of one's inhibitions. Like the dancer and the kiss."

"Daeron, I know that. I am not entirely stupid. Just, like I said, inexperienced. But I don't care. Is there somewhere we can go?" Macalaurë leaned in closer to him, in the cool evening air his warm breath against Daeron's neck felt scorching.

For a moment Daeron wondered if he was the one who had been hypnotized by the ritual and was imagining all of this. "Are you offering yourself to me?" he asked in a choked whisper.

"Now who sounds slow? Yes. I am. Say you want me before I lose my courage."

"You know I want you." Grabbing Macalaurë's hand he dragged him away from the torch-lit clearing. As soon as they were out of the immediate view of the other spectators, he pulled Macalaurë into his arms and kissed him. The kiss was lovely. Macalaurë responded as though he had done it countless times.

"Are you sure?" Daeron said, when he reluctantly broke off the kiss. They both breathed loudly. Daeron could not comprehend why he wanted to move more slowly, when everything he had wanted from the moment he had seen this Elf seemed to be his for the taking.

Macalaurë shot him a vibrant smile and took his face between his hands. Macalaurë's skin looked translucent in the moonlight and his stately beauty had taken on a savage grace.

"I told you that I am very unsure. So do not ask me again." Macalaurë chuckled softly. "Don't give me time to think. I would rather regret this than wonder what if. Kiss me again. That was different, different in a good way, than I thought it would be."

"All right then." Daeron kissed him again. The second kiss involved even more enthusiastic participation on Macalaurë's part. He kissed Daeron as though he had waited much too long for this type of physical contact. Macalaurë pressed his prominent erection against his own. Daeron thought if making love to him was anything like kissing him, it would be impassioned and uninhibited.

"Are you staying alone?" Macalaurë asked.

"No. I am with my friend Mablung from Doriath."

"Well, then, we have no choice but to go to my tent. I don't think that Maitimo and Findekáno will be there tonight. They have been staying at Findekáno's. It is larger and located in a more isolated area."

"Are your brother and his friend . . . "

"Yes. But I did not tell you that. Eru, you are amazing." Macalaurë rubbed his cheek against Daeron's, kissed and licked him on the neck, took his ear lobe between his teeth and tugged softly. Then he initiated another long open-mouthed kiss. Finally, he pulled away slowly, looking into Daeron's eyes. He sighed and whispered. "Let's go. I cannot stand here doing this much longer before I explode. It is not far from here at all."

"You are the one who is incredible, Macalaurë." Daeron took his hand, wondering of how Macalaurë was willing, even eager, to pursue something he knew nothing about, with someone who was a virtual stranger. But then, he mused, one could not underestimate the power of lust alone. "Take me there."

"This way," Macalaurë said, tugging at his hand. Daeron became aware of the almost feathery touch of Macalaurë within his mind. These Noldor were intense and highly skilled. Macalaurë reassured him. "But I do know you and trust you. Your decency is transparent."

As they walked further away from the clearing, the cessation of the drumming signaled the performance had ended. Silence was followed by an eruption of voices, which also disappeared as they neared Macalaurë's tent to be replaced by the sound of a waterfall cascading into the nearest of the shimmering pools. Daeron had heard that there was something at least semi-magical about this area at the foot of the Ered Wethrin Mountains. Some insisted that a protective force allowed one to relax certain barriers and internal defenses here without fearing harm to either the flesh or the spirit.

He wanted to ask Macalaurë why they were here. The Golodhrim did not strike him as a particularly superstitious people. "Did your uncle choose this location because the Pools of Ivrin are renowned for their beauty? Or, I wonder if he has heard the stories that the power of Ulmo protects any who venture here?"

"I have no idea. But, I do feel set apart from everything before this night and untroubled by what will follow. Shall we exploit that to our advantage before it fades?"

Daeron could not take his eyes off Macalaurë as they walked. Grateful that he had walked this same path several times in the last two days, he realized that he otherwise might have tripped. The beauty of the woods and reflection of the moonlight in the pools visible ahead of them diminished in comparison to Macalaurë's profile.

"This is it," Macalaurë said, a tone of affectionate pride in his voice. It was a neat tent, slightly larger than those visible in the vicinity. He untied the front flap and gestured to Daeron to enter before him. As Daeron passed him he brought his lips close to his ear and said in a low voice, "Thank you for coming here."

"Please, let us be honest with one another." Daeron fastened his eyes on Macalaurë's exquisitely vulnerable mouth just before the tent flap fell back into place and cut off the moonlight. "A legion of Orcs could not have kept me away."

Macalaurë's laugh was musical, erotic. A soft curse in Quenya that Daeron did not understand accompanied a clatter of glass against metal.

"Ouch. I found the cursed lamp." Macalaurë struck a flint and lit it. "You are handsome. The light outside did not do you justice." He laughed and touched Daeron's face. "And, of course, I was distracted by your voice, that silver-blond hair, and your broad shoulders. I'm getting butterflies in my stomach. I think you had better kiss me again."

"Trust me. I will take good care of you."

After a few minutes of lips and tongues, moans and clumsy fumbling with clothing, Daeron found himself upon a mattress, kneeling between Macalaurë's legs, gripping their erections together in both of his hands. Macalaurë's silky hair, pure black in the lamplight, spread out across a pillow, while his eyes remained squeezed shut. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his labored breathing, his lips barely parted, while his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"Open your eyes, Lachenn," Daeron said, his voice darkly seductive even to his own ears.

"Eru, Daeron." Macalaurë's eyes fluttered open, innocent, tender, and aggrieved. "I cannot hold on."

"Then do not try." Daeron released him for a moment, moved to his side and curled up next him, dropping light kisses upon his mouth, taking hold of Macalaurë's shaft again, and beginning to stroke slowly.

"Do I have to keep my eyes open?" Macalaurë asked, between returning his kisses. Then suddenly, grunting and grimacing with embarrassment, he covered Daeron's hand and both of their stomachs with his hot release.

"You don't have to do anything. I just really like your eyes and I wanted you to see how we looked together like that."

"I saw. It looked so good that I had to shut my eyes or I would have spilled even sooner." Macalaurë gazed at him in such relief and pleasure that Daeron laughed out loud.

"Now, there is something that I must do," Macalaurë said, with a grin. "You still have a problem." He bent down over Daeron, completely shocking him by taking him into his mouth. Macalaurë obviously had no experience, but he appeared to know exactly what he wanted to accomplish. The artlessness and sincerity he brought to his task affected Daeron far more profoundly than skill alone might have.

Macalaurë took in a little too much and gagged slightly, moving his mouth back up he circled the head with his tongue and mumbled, "Sorry."

"No. It's wonderful." Daeron told the truth. He was lost, floating. 'There is perfect and then this kind of imperfect. And this is the best,' he thought. A single glance from Macalaurë brought him unexpectedly to the edge.

"Oh. Careful. I am going to come." Macalaurë gave him another sidelong look, but did not pull his mouth away or stop moving, instead he fumbled to find one of Daeron's hands and grasped it tightly. Macalaurë choked a little and swallowed conscientiously as Daeron spilled into his mouth. Drawing very slowly away, Macalaurë scooted up next to Daeron and with a mischievous crinkle of his nose kissed him on the mouth, teasing him with the taste.

With a languid sigh, his nestled his face against Daeron's neck. "I liked that much more than I expected I would."

"I tried to warn you . . . I didn't expect to you would care to swallow . . ."

Macalaurë put his hand against Daeron's mouth, laughing against his throat, before lifting his head to look at him. "I didn't know if there was a right or wrong way, but it did seem like it would have been rude to spit it out. It's not like I am a shy maiden doing it for the first time."

"But it was the first time with another man for you." His manner amused Daeron, making him like this man better every minute. He liked his boldness and lack of pretension. He liked his directness and humor.

"Yes. That was fairly obvious. I suppose one gets better with practice?"

Daeron stroked his face, so beautiful and golden-tinged in the lamplight, surrounded by a mass of fine dark hair. His pale bluish grey eyes seemed to hold the light within them rather than reflect it from without. All of these returned Noldor had those eyes, giving them a slightly alien look, attractive but strange. The effect was even more startling up close than it had been from a distance.

After a few minutes of holding one another close, not speaking and barely moving. Macalaurë began to plant kisses upon Daeron;s neck and throat. He bit him sharply on the collar bone.

"You will have to show me how this is done. Take the initiative. I do not think it is something that I can so easily improvise as causing you to climax with my mouth."

"Do you know how it affects me to hear you talk like that?"

Macalaurë softly laughed. "I can only hope." He rubbed his thigh insistently against Daeron's hardening length. "So, show me."

Unable to keep his hands from exploring the silken texture of his skin, the hard plane of his chest, and moving lower to take hold of Macalaurë's fully erect shaft, Daeron looked into those curious, star-lit eyes. "Are you asking me to take you?"

"It can hardly be otherwise." More kisses on Daeron's throat ended with a tongue exploring his ear and then a whisper of breath, cool against the wetness there. "I have never before felt the urge to be taken in that way, but the desire is strong within me now, and I have no wish to question or second guess it." Macalaurë drew himself away from Daeron and held his chin with one hand, looking into his eyes. "Will you do that for me?"

"You do not have to ask twice. Do you have any concept of how irresistible you are saying those words?" Daeron could barely speak for swallowing and breathing roughly.

"I have a good imagination." Macalaurë's brilliant smile caused Daeron to exhale shortly in response.

It did not take but a few minutes for Macalaurë to find the "something oily and viscous" that Daeron had requested. A salve intended for chapped skin, made with oil of wintergreen, had been rejected for a heavier odorless, colorless grease used for cleaning swords. Daeron had insisted it had a far better consistency.

Macalaurë added, smiling and wrinkling his nose, "And without the sting or that dreadful smell."

Daeron decided that he probably had fallen in love with him when throughout the entire search and decision-making process, Macalaurë's erection refused to wilt.

They returned to the mattress and Daeron maneuvered Macalaurë onto to his stomach, pulling his hips up. Resting his head on a pillow, Macalaurë lifted his backside up a bit higher using his lower arms to support himself. Macalaurë closed his eyes, with the slightest upward curve of his lips, breathing audibly. The susurrations reached straight into Daeron's groin, causing more blood to rush to where he scarcely believed he could have accommodated it. Macalaurë's erection remained hard, but he also appeared relaxed, completely confident in his partner. Daeron thought him to be not simply brave, but dauntless. As Daeron prepared him, the only syllables Macalaurë formed were an occasional approving "hmm" or "ah."

"I think you are ready. Shall I try now?" Daeron asked.

"Yes," he answered, his beautiful voice clear and determined. Holding him close, his chest against the satiny skin of his back, Daeron pressed against his opening. Macalaurë tensed at first and then relaxed. When Daeron pressed forward again, he found himself suddenly inside him. He waited for a moment, before pushing deeper. The only sounds were Macalaurë's deep breaths.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Good. You were careful."

Again Daeron's heart took flight, the surge of affection nearly overwhelming. He began pushing and withdrawing, slowly and shallowly at first. When the rhythm of Macalaurë's breathing sped up and he began to moan softly, Daeron allowed his movements to grow faster and stronger. Daeron reached beneath Macalaurë and grasped his length, stroking and caressing it until he was pleading "more" and "harder." A longer, deeper thrust brought forth a sudden howl of pleasure from Macalaurë which indicated to Daeron he had found the spot that he had hoped to hit.

After that Macalaurë pushed back forcefully against him, moving with him, and did not cease to vocalize, flooding him with demands, endearments, curses and praise. Daeron joined him with groans and strangled cries until they both exploded.

Daeron slid off to the side, still holding Macalaurë tightly. He found himself babbling. "I had no idea. That was unbelievable. Brilliant. I never expected . . . do you realize you are extraordinary?"

Macalaurë gave a sleepy chuckle. "I did nothing." He raised an eyebrow and ran his thumb across Daeron's lower lip. "But I was right to insist that you should do me first, wasn't I?"

"Maybe right. Maybe favored by fortune. I never did that before. Had it done to me a couple of times. Whichever. It was nice."

"Nice! You admitted yourself that it was bloody brilliant."

___________________
Lachenn = flame-eyed, Sindarin term for the Noldor, referring to the light in their eyes.
Golodhrim = Sindarin for Noldor

The deer dance is based upon a Mexican folkloric dance I have seen a lot of times. The part about inhaling the breath of a deer was influenced by a scene with a dying deer in Elfscribe's story "Ohtarnil: A Warrior Love."

 

A Little Help from My Friends

Thanks to IgnobleBard, Moreth, Pandemonium, Claudio and all the gang at Lizard Council for help and corrections. (The credit for the chapter title goes to IgnobleBard.)

Read A Little Help from My Friends

 

The glen had a wild and wondrous beauty, away from the torch-lit clearing still crowded with merrymakers. Raucous laughter, relentless drumming, and the smell of roasted meat, caused Findekáno's head to throb and his stomach to roil. He had not consumed an excessive amount of alcohol, but the little he had drunk left him inexplicably unsteady on his feet and hypersensitive.

"How are you feeling now?" Maitimo said, considerate but not worried in tone.

"I think I'm feeling a little better."

The surrounding trees, full of summer sounds and scents, and their distance from the festivities helped Findekáno to breathe somewhat easier and quelled the worst of his discomfort. Despite the thick trees, the full moon hanging above them lit the forest path. The pools and their feeder streams, overhung by a network of slender trunks and branches of small alders, glittered with a silvery light.

Findekáno was reminded of Telperion's diminished radiance during long summer nights in Formenos and, by association, of Maitimo's eyes. The moon reflecting upon the pool directly ahead of them seemed to fracture and splinter into shards of brighter light. He rubbed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling lightheaded again. He swallowed to relieve a burning sourness at the back of his throat. His improvement had been slight and temporary.

Maitimo reached out to take his arm as though aware of his discomfort. "We'll just stop by my tent and pick up a couple of towels. There is that smaller pool near here warmed by an underground hot spring."

"The one that smells like rotten eggs? No, thank you. I'd rather be cold."

"I hate it when you feel ill. You have no patience at all."

"I am sorry, but you have no idea how bad I feel right now."

"We also have fresh drinking water in the tent. If you drink a lot of water and soak for a while that should help."

Findekáno wrinkled his nose at the thought that Maitimo was not going to let go of the idea of the sulfurous pool that easily.

The sides of the tent coming into view glowed soft amber, puzzling Findekáno in his impaired state. "Look. There is a light inside the tent. Stop. Listen. Do you hear that?"

Maitimo laughed. "Yes. I do. That certainly is Macalaurë. But it sounds as though someone were killing him. It's about time. I cannot imagine how he has abstained this long. Can't picture who he might have in there though."

"Do you think we sound like that?"

"No. Not at all. You are a great deal louder and coarser in your choice of language."

"Ha, ha," Findekáno sighed. "Aren't you clever."

Maitimo kissed him on the neck and ran a firm, comforting hand up and down his back. "Let's just stop here and wait a moment. From the sound of him, he won't be long."

Findekáno snorted and chuckled. "Now that sounded like something I might say."

After sinking down onto a log not more than ten strides away from the tent, Maitimo pulled Findekáno onto his lap and rested his chin on Findekáno's shoulder.

"Still feeling sick?"

Findekáno nodded and then realized that Maitimo couldn't see the nod. "I feel dizzy. A little nauseous. Fuck, Maitimo. I'm not just drunk. I think I've been poisoned."

The light of the moon filtering through the trees above the tent burst into another cascade of lights.

"You are dramatic." Maitimo's voice, warm and tender against his ear, was not unsympathetic, but neither did he give the impression that he realized Findekáno might be dying.

"Tulkas' hairy bollocks, Maitimo. I am going to be sick."

"It's all right. Stand up. Lean forward." He pushed Findekáno to his feet and pulled his braids back away from his face.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. I've got you." Maitimo twisted Findekáno's braids around his hand and wrapped his other arm around his waist. "Go ahead. It will make you feel better."

Findekáno coughed and retched, but nothing came up. "See. I told you I couldn't."

"Fine," Maitimo said, he at last sounded appropriately anxious. "I don't care if Macalaurë is finished or not. We have to go into the tent. I know there is some water there and something that will settle your stomach."

"This is so disgusting. I feel so nauseous." Findekáno squeezed his eyes open and closed, trying to get rid of the exploding lights in front of his face. "It got quiet."

"Come on then. Let's go." Maitimo held him firmly around the waist with one arm and guided him toward the tent.

Walking somehow momentarily dispelled Findekáno's queasiness.

"Macalaurë," Maitimo called out.

"Nelyo? What?" Macalaurë sounded alert and less annoyed at the interruption than resigned.

"I'm really sorry. Káno is sick. I need to come in and get a couple of things, please."

"Come in. I didn't tie the flap." From within the tent, a murmur sounding distinctly masculine followed a softer one from Macalaurë.

"It's not a woman. It's a man," whispered Findekáno as they shuffled toward the tent.

When Maitimo pushed the flap aside, the light from the lamp assaulted Findekáno's eyes, appearing far brighter than it should have. He closed his eyes again for a moment and grasped Maitimo's arm. Along with the swift return of his nausea, the strangeness of his sensations called forth a sense of mild panic.

Then the mattress in the corner of the tent, which served as a bed, caught Findekáno's eye. Macalaurë and a man he did not know sat side-by-side. Macalaurë looked distinctly put out, the man with him less so, but not pleased either.

Two tousled manes of bitter chocolate and silver hair tangled together against their touching shoulders. They had pulled the bed covering halfway up their bare chests. Their cheeks were crimson and lips kiss-swollen. Distracted by the sight despite his misery, Findekáno thought he had rarely seen anything more beautiful.

"What is it now?" Macalaurë said, his irritation transparent. "He looks fine to me."

"Hullo, Macalaurë," Findekáno said. "The two of you look like a set of bookends, contrasting but a perfect pair. Who is your friend?"

Maitimo shook his head. "Ai, Káno. You speak far too freely. Please try to remember that you are inebriated." Nodding in the direction of the blond man in the bed, he said, "I'm Maitimo, Macalaurë's brother, and this is Findekáno."

"I am happy to make your acquaintance. Please excuse me for not standing up." Both Maitimo and the stranger chuckled. "I'm Daeron. Macalaurë tells me you are a loremaster and a scientist."

"Your reputation precedes you as well." Maitimo had secured a mug, filled it with water, and held it out to Findekáno. "Drink this." Findekáno took the mug as Maitimo turned away looking back to Daeron. "I'd like to ask you some questions about your runes. Well, not now, obviously." Maitimo grinned at Macalaurë.

"Thank Eru for small blessings," Macalaurë said.

Findekáno swallowed a big gulp of water. "Daeron the singer. Elwë's chief minstrel? Have you heard Macalaurë sing yet? If you haven't already fallen in love with him, you will when you hear him sing."

Maitimo frowned and shook his head impatiently at Findekáno again, but he deliberately ignored him. "Is that lamp especially bright or does it only seem that way to me? Can I lie down here on the foot of your bed?" Findekáno curled up on the end of mattress.

"This is a nightmare," Macalaurë sighed. Daeron and Maitimo laughed, loud enough to hurt Findekáno's head. Macalaurë pulled to free his foot, partially trapped under Findekáno, and gave him a little shove.

"Careful," Findekáno said.

"I'm really sorry," Maitimo said. "I'll get him out of here in just a moment. I've never seen him like this before."

Macalaurë crossed his arms over his chest and stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout. Findekáno thought Macalaurë wouldn't be nearly as cranky if he knew how bad he felt.

"I do feel really sick."

Macalaurë began to speak, "Next thing he will do is ask . . ."

Registering too late that Macalaurë was already speaking, Findekáno interrupted, "How was your first time, Macalaurë? Did you like it? You look like you did."

"These two are generally the most sane among my brothers and cousins," Macalaurë said to Daeron.

Daeron's face suddenly lit up with ill-suppressed hilarity, before he gained control and solemnly addressed himself to Maitimo, "What exactly are his symptoms besides sensitivity to light?"

"Oh, I am so sick at my stomach," Findekáno groaned. "Don't worry. I won't throw up on your bed."

"Apparently, complete lack of control over his mouth," Macalaurë added, his pale skin flushed that time not with pleasure but exasperation. Findekáno tried to smile at him in sympathy. Macalaurë looked away. Even in his less than perfectly lucid state, Findekáno was aware of the absurdity of the entire situation. His felt his mind worked properly, but he could not make his speech and behavior conform.

"I saw him drink very little. We had a couple of mugs of ale, then I was talking with his father and some of my cousins. I found him a few minutes later discussing music and the ritual dance with some of the Nandor from Ossiriand. We left almost immediately and came straight here. He started complaining about feeling unwell while we walked."

The sound of Maitimo's words pulsed fainter and louder in Findekáno's ears in the strangest way, ending in a faint reverberating echo, before Daeron's voice forced him to focus.

"Findekáno. Findekáno? Did the wood-elves offer you anything to drink?"

"What?"

"Did you take a drink from any of the Nandor?" Daeron asked.

"Yes. They gave me just a sip of something. Wasn't very good, but they were being extremely friendly. Said it would make me understand the mystery of life and see my inner self or something like that."

Daeron kept pressing. "What did it taste like?"

"Not good. Burned. Had a faint woody aftertaste."

"I think he ingested a compound, distilled from root vegetables, to which is added a tincture of hallucinogenic mushrooms. The principles of the Deer Dance probably drank it before the ceremony began. If he was asking about the ritual, they may have decided to share." Daeron laughed. "He should consider it an honor."

"Could it harm him?" Maitimo asked, sounding genuinely anxious. "He has been sick for nearly an hour now. Ought I try to find a healer?"

Daeron shook his head. "No. The nausea should be subsiding already. Make sure he drinks plenty of water. You are in for a long night. He will not be able to sleep until the effect wears off. I would not leave him alone if I were you."

"I certainly do not intend to do that," Maitimo said.

Fascinated, Findekáno sat up a bit too quickly, but immediately regained his sense of balance. "What? I am going to hallucinate? Am I going to see balrogs chasing me or imagine a group of lascivious wood-elves trying to have their way with me?"

"Unlikely it will be anything quite so spectacular. Might be only patterns overlaying ordinary things or strange plays of light. I think you were experiencing some of that already. I drank some once in Ossiriand. I do not think I would do it again, although it was far from unpleasant. The idea of losing huge blocks of time does not appeal to me. I spent half of the night mesmerized by a candle flame and the other half agreeably distracted by one lascivious wood-elf. It does often act as an aphrodisiac."

"As though he ever needed that," Macalaurë groused.

"Fuck you, Macalaurë," Findekáno said, collapsing back onto the bed in a fit of cackling. "You are hardly in a position to be self-righteous."

"Drink some more water," Maitimo said, pulling Findekáno back up into a seated position and shoving the mug under his nose. Maitimo looked heart-clenchingly beautiful, his eyes wide with concern and lips parted.

"You are so beautiful," Findekáno said. "Kiss me."

Maitimo stood up and pulled Findekáno up with him. "I think it would be best if we got you back to your tent now."

Findekáno threw his arms around Maitimo's neck. "Just one kiss."

Maitimo released a long-suffering sigh and gave him the quickest, most unsatisfactory little peck. "Please, Káno. Later."

"Do you need me to help you get him back to the tent?" Macalaurë asked, sounding like he just volunteered for a month of latrine duty in a military encampment.

"Absolutely not," Findekáno said. "I am perfectly capable of walking by myself. As far as I am aware, and I doubt I would have missed hearing about it, this is first time you have slept with anyone except your wife. I am certainly not going to tear you out of bed now."

Daeron suppressed a surprised, unhappy look, but not quickly enough for Findekáno to have missed it.

"Whoops," Findekáno said.

Macalaurë took a hold of Daeron's hand and said in a barely audible voice. "I would have told you later tonight. She left me."

"Eru! I'm really sorry," said Findekáno. "I wasn't thinking. Actually though, she didn't really leave you. More like you left her. I mean I know you begged her to come and she refused, but you were the one who left Aman. And now none of us can ever go back, no matter what we . . ."

"Káno, shut up now," Maitimo said in a stern voice, sounding exactly like Fëanáro in a snit. Findekáno remembered that he ought not laugh in time to catch himself.

"Do not speak unless someone directly asks you a question. You are completely incapacitated."

"Not completely," Káno said, grabbing Maitimo backside and squeezing.

"Yes. Well, then. We are leaving. Thank you, Macalaurë, for offering, but I can handle him on my own. I hope to see you soon, Daeron, under better circumstances. Thank you very much for the information and advice. Out now," Maitimo said, guiding Findekáno through the flap of the tent.

Drawing Closer

Read Drawing Closer

 

A pan of water still bubbled and jiggled gently on the tiny camp stove. In the sitting area one of the folding chairs had been knocked askew near the table. Macalaurë laughed under his breath at the thought of Findekáno, wide-open shocked eyes and all flailing arms and legs, when Maitimo, none too gently, had hoisted him up from the bed.

Despite the night having turned much cooler, the tent would become overly warm if he did not turn off the stove, or worse, the pot might boil dry. Macalaurë reluctantly untangled himself from the sheet they had hastily pulled over them and padded over to extinguish the stove.

Settling down into bed again, Macalaurë rolled onto his side to face Daeron. He found himself looking up directly into Daeron's mild grey eyes. He had been half afraid that he might find a change reflected there, where he had earlier seen only affection and trust.

Macalaurë might have wanted to be able to hold back, calculate his next move, but he realized that it was simply not going to happen. He cared too much what Daeron thought and could not summon the energy to pretend that he did not.

"Are we still friends?" he asked, in a voice that came out sounding unnervingly young and more insecure than he had hoped it would.

The response was a genuine smile quickly crinkling around Daeron's eyes, followed by a short but tender kiss.

"Oh, more than friends. We are almost family now, don't you think? After that whole incident with your brother and his friend."

Daeron flopped down onto the pillow and wrapped his arms around Macalaurë, pulling him close to his chest. To Macalaurë he felt like home, the best place to be just then.

"I am so sorry about all of that," Macalaurë mumbled, pressing his lips against Daeron's neck, wondering if there was anything he could do to restore the easy familiarity they had felt before the interruption by Maitimo and Findekáno.

"Don't be. Sindar or Noldor, we all have family, don't we?" Daeron raised one eyebrow while giving him a boyish grin. "Well, those of our generation in any case."

Macalaurë cut off the thread of his own ruminations about the effect of the visit from his troublesome kinsmen to kiss Daeron lightly. He released his breath with his palpable sense of reprieve that Daeron was not going to pout, be dramatic, or exert a price for the accidental revelation of the details about his past that Findekáno had blurted out.

"You don't even know how old I am," Macalaurë said, stalling.

Daeron laughed softly, wrinkling his nose so endearingly, that Macalaurë's heart jumped into his throat.

"You forget that you and all of your kin are well-known, or notorious, however you prefer to think of it. The arrival of your people and your movements did not go unnoticed, long before the call for this convocation, as I am sure you must be well aware. You told me that your father was the eldest son of King Finwë and you are his second born. So, I would suspect that would make you only a little younger, if at all."

"Sometimes I still feel young and other times I feel I have experienced so much during this last period of my life that it has made me as ancient as this land. You know this was all the stuff of legend for us growing up in Aman."

"I hadn't thought of that. Aman and your Belair were but legends in my youth."

Knowing that it would be nearly impossible to keep his hands off Daeron, Macalaurë did not even try. Yet, he did not want to be totally distracted. There were things he wanted to say, clarifications he wanted to see made, but he felt reluctant to begin. He stroked a wayward lock of silver blond hair off Daeron's cheek and traced his bottom lip with his index finger. After more light kisses and caresses of Daeron's hard, flat abdomen, warm and silken-smooth to his touch, and eliciting a few melodious responses, Macalaurë finally spoke.

"And about Vingarië . . . my wife . . ."

Daeron huffed in gentle irritation at the interruption before turning solemn. "You worry too much. I was surprised. That is all. Let's talk about that later. I heard as much as I needed hear for now. You are here and she is not." He pulled Macalaurë into a longer, more leisurely kiss than the ones he had just received. "You want to be here with me, don't you?"

"You know I do." Macalaurë said.

"Good. Because I am convinced that you belong here."

"Yes. Yes, I do."

The haunting call of a loon to his mate and the increased twitter of morning birds outside the tent signaled that dawn approached more quickly than Macalaurë would have wanted. But he dismissed the inconvenience flatly and conclusively. The tent seemed smaller and more isolated, a tiny world that he would hold apart from all else for as long as he was able. He would not move from there until they both were ready or unless someone came to fetch him and dragged him out of the tent.

Daeron had begun to explore his body again, with firm knowing hands and a remark of joyful surprise at how quickly, how passionately, Macalaurë responded to him. But Macalaurë wanted something different. Daeron had given him so much already. He almost lost himself in Daeron's caresses, but deliberately pulled himself back.

"No," Macalaurë said, his voice rough with the unexpected strength of his surge of longing. "Let me . . . I want . . . "

Daeron stopped and rolled onto his back, arms outstretched and welcoming. The vulnerable, expectant look on Daeron's face, caused Macalaurë's throat to clench with a wave of shocking tenderness, followed by another sudden rush of raw need, painful in its intensity.

"Yes," Daeron whispered, both a plea and an acquiescence.

Macalaurë lost himself in the soft willingness of Daeron's mouth, with his last flicker of conscious will stubbornly committed himself to trying to give Daeron the best he had ever had.

* * * *

Making love with Macalaurë or, in the last satisfying instance, being made love to by him, had been both a consolation and an affirmation. Daeron did not want to worry that over the last few hours he had repeatedly pushed back the limits he usually maintained, that he was allowing himself to fall a little bit more in love with each kiss, with every touch.

One promise he had made to himself was that he was not going to allow the disappointing aspects of his relationship with Lúthien make him afraid of feeling anything. Yet, he did not relish the thought of once again finding himself in the role of the one who truly cared, while the other did not. He told himself that he was not self-destructive. Meanwhile, for better or for worse, he would deal with all of that later.

The relief of no longer being put off, held back, told to wait, or have every intimate touch parceled out as though they were in short supply liberated him. Therein lay the difference. Macalaurë was exceptional, the farthest thing from an interchangeable partner, and wonderfully, magnificently not Lúthien. He could never remind him of Lúthien either. Macalaurë was eager, generous and, even if it turned out to be nothing more, physically completely available to him.

"Was that good for you?" Macalaurë asked, eyes wide, as though the answer were critical.

"What do you think?" Daeron growled.

Macalaurë tilted his chin downward, before looking up at him from under heavy eyelashes with those glittering Noldorin eyes. And with an half-hearted attempt to repress a sly smile, Macalaurë answered, "You loved it, didn't you?"

"You know I did. You cannot call yourself inexperienced any longer. There is nothing more I can show you."

"Maybe not. But together, with practice, we could become really, really good at this, don't you think?" Macalaurë took his hand and kissed it on the knuckles. "Will you sing me a song?"

"Macalaurë. I can barely breathe." Daeron could not resist shaking his head with self-deprecating humor. He did appear to find himself inexorably drawn to compulsive people.

"Don't be like that. Nothing exceptional. I don't expect a masterpiece. Any silly little song will do. I can't relax because I keep obsessing about it. I'm trying to imagine every time you speak what your singing voice must sound like."

"All right. Fine. Do you have any instruments?"

"I have two small harps and a lute also."

"I don't know what a lute is. Let me see it. Maybe I will recognize it."

Macalaurë jumped out of bed and strode across the tent to reach into a large leather bag, to pull out and unwind a length of cloth from around a wooden stringed instrument with a long, thin neck, a teardrop-shaped, flat top, and a deep rounded body on the back.

"Let me see if it is properly tuned first. It's nuisance to explain." Macalaurë fiddled with the strings for a few seconds only, his expression avid, his teeth biting down on his lower lip, looking incredibly passionate and alluring to Daeron.

"I'm almost finished. I used it earlier today. There. That should do it."

He held the instrument out to Daeron, with a grin as excited as that of a child.

Taking it with both hands, Daeron turned it over studying it.

"Oh, I've seen something very similar among the Nandor, only with a triangular-shaped body and a flat back. Shall I try?"

Daeron plucked each set of double strings individually a few times, strummed a few standard chords, and then picked out an undemanding melody line. The instrument appeared deceptively easy to play, yet he suspected that Macalaurë could do marvelous things with it. But all he needed was to play a simple accompaniment and he was certain he was capable of that.

"You are good," Macalaurë said with obvious appreciation. "It took me two days to teach Findekáno how to play it and he is actually musically quite gifted."

Macalaurë threw himself back down onto the bed and leaned upon one elbow, his face eager with anticipation. Everything he did radiated energy and intensity, even the act of preparing to listen.

Acutely aware that this man was rumored to be as good or better than him, Daeron felt suddenly shy. It had been three-quarters of his lifetime since he had last wondered if he would live up to expectations. It also made a difference to him, no matter what anyone else thought, what this man would think of his skill. His mind went suddenly blank. All that came into his head at that moment was an ancient folk melody. Once in a fit of self-pity, he had indulged himself by writing some heartsick verses to it.

Daeron settled himself into the nearest of the folding chairs and tried a couple of chords again. Then he sighed deeply and looked up. Macalaurë met his anxious gaze with an empathetic nod. He thought that if anyone could understand how he must feel, Macalaurë surely could. Somewhat reassured, Daeron began to sing, softly at first and then somewhat more strongly, still nowhere near full voice.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take love easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

He stopped abruptly, involuntarily shuddering. Relieved that he had finished, he looked to Macalaurë for a reaction. Macalaurë had cocked his head to one side and allowed his lips to part in a relaxed, approving smile.

"Bravo. Well done. Your voice is beyond belief. So clear and pure. I can still hear it in my head and feel it here." He put is hand flat against his chest and did not mask a shiver of appreciation. "You cheeky rascal, you certainly know how to play your audience also, don't you?"

"And you don't?" Daeron scoffed, although still grinning with gratitude.

"Maybe," Macalaurë drawled, eyes twinkling, before his face clouded. "Who was the girl?" he demanded, unashamedly insistent. "Is she still around?"

"Yes and no. But, in my case, she is not my wife."

"Ah ha!" Macalaurë crowed, as though certain he had been vindicated. "I knew it bothered you when Findekáno spilled the particulars about me having a wife. At least, I am not afraid to admit that it means a great deal to me whether you have someone else in your life or not."

"Fine. So, you are more self-assured than I am," Daeron complained.

"You think so? I would have thought it just the opposite: an admission of weakness."

Macalaurë was not joking. His expression remained completely serious and unselfconscious. Clearly, he had been raised to speak his mind and damn the consequences.

Daeron beamed. "Well, you were wrong. But now you have just admitted a weakness. Lack of self-knowledge."

"Hmm. You think? All right. But, I am going to ask you anyway. Who is she and what is the problem between the two of you that resulted in my good fortune?"

"You have to know, don't you?" Daeron shook his head, chuckling. It seemed impossible for him to refuse this disarmingly brash prince of the Noldor anything.

"I want to know. I want to know everything about you."

"Her name is Lúthien, the daughter of King Thingol and Melian the Maia."

"Seriously?" Macalaurë gave him a deliberately seductive half-smile. "What chance does a mere musician with a wife who has forsaken him have against such a maid? I have heard talk that Thingol's daughter is illustrious for her beauty."

"Ah, but you have other qualities. And I think you are well aware of what they are."

"Are you saying I am easy?" Macalaurë held his hand out to him and pulled him back onto the bed. "But there is more to your story. You would not have discovered a thing about those other qualities, as you call them, if she had been treating you well." Daeron noted with fondness that Macalaurë had already instinctively taken his side.

"I hardly know where to start. She is much more than just pretty and knows it. She can charm a stone. Is indulged and self-indulgent.

"She's very musical. Likes to dance. She asked me to play for her while she practiced. Then I started to compose pieces for her. Over time we began to spend a lot of time together. Alone. We were both young. And she is younger than I am." Daeron felt his voice falter. "I hate talking about her."

"Hey," Macalaurë said, touching Daeron cheek, his voice soothing. "It's only me."

"She flirted and she teased, liked the reactions she got. But always maintained a distance. You know how that is."

"No. Actually, I don't know how it is. I wasn't a graceful, sociable youth. Maids did not flirt with me. Then there was Vingarië. We were not even forty when we first became close. Childhood sweethearts, I guess people might have called us. Although, I do suppose I can begin to guess what your situation was like. You were romping around with the beautiful daughter of the king, who was younger than you, eliciting sexual responses from you, and enjoying the power of it, but who was unwilling to commit herself. Then what?"

Feeling foolish at hearing it described so succinctly, Daeron all but barked back. "It went on for years. Or off and on would be more accurate. As time went by, I became impatient and she also became more demanding of my time and attention. In reaction, I began to push the physical aspect, with a considerable measure of intermittent success. She could be hot or cold. I never knew which it would be. And there are a lot more sordid details. Are you starting to get the picture? Or do I have to keep going?"

"Yeah, I think I get it." Macalaurë said. He sounded angry. "She sounds like a right nasty bitch to me."

Daeron laughed out loud. "Well, remember you only heard my side of it and not all of that." He had never allowed his resentment such free expression before and, if he had done so in Doriath, he was relatively certain the response would have been different. He was shaking with uncontrollable, sidesplitting laughter.

"Are you all right?" The worry in Macalaurë's voice was genuine.

"I am fine. It's off now between her and me and I want it to stay that way. I really would like to talk about something else for a while. And not the story of the wife you left behind, if you don't mind. I do not want to be self-centered, but can we save that for another time? In the morning perhaps?"

Macalaurë put his arms around him and pulled him close.

"We can talk about whatever you want to talk about, or not talk at all."

"Then, tell me about your handsome brother and Findekáno the Valiant. Incidentally, I can see how he got the name now. Anyone who is willing to unquestioningly drink an unknown substance offered him by those feckless Nandor has to be brave, recklessly so, one might say."

From the unenthusiastic expression on Macalaurë's face, it appeared to be his turn to object to the choice of conversation. "If you had any idea how tired I get of watching people swoon over my handsome brother . . . "

"Don't be ridiculous. Why would I swoon over your brother? You are beautiful, friendly, and naked."

Macalaurë chuckled at Daeron's words, giving him a playful punch. Moving unexpectedly to straddle him, Macalaurë grabbed both of his hands and held them stretched out on either side of Daeron's head. Daeron's arousal quickened with Macalaurë's groin pressed against him and he became aware of an immediate response. Another quick smile lit Macalaurë's face; his Aman-bright eyes surrounded by long lashes outshone the soft amber of the lamplight.

"I could fuck you again already," Macalaurë said in an awed yet faintly aggressive tone.

"Oh? You won't hear any objection on my part."

---

Chapter End Notes

Verse adapted from "Down by the Salley Gardens" by W.B. Yeats.

Belair = Sindarin for Valar

Gratitude to so many for help and encouragement that it is almost embarrassing to name everyone: IgnobleBard for Beta, Moreth, Pandemonium, NiRi and others at the Lizard Council, and my LJ friends, especially Mirien.

Down by The Water

Many thanks to IgnobleBard for the Beta and, on the Lizard Council, to Moreth for reading and Pandemonium for extremely useful picks.

Read Down by The Water

 

Maitimo guided Findekáno toward a narrow path leading away from the meadow where he and Macalaurë had pitched their tent. The path meandered past the new growth on the edge of the clearing and led them ever deeper into the forest, where the deep, dark pools lay.

A full moon lit their path, but Maitimo remained watchful to ensure that Findekáno did not misstep himself in his intoxicated state. He realized belatedly that he had walked them in the direction of the pools. Their original intent, before Findekáno had begun to feel so ill, had been to find somewhere to bathe.

“How are you feeling now? Shall we go back to your tent so you can rest?”

“Not normal but no longer sick. You wanted to bathe. I can manage that, if you like.”

“We don’t have to if you would rather not. You don’t really need a bath tonight. But my hair is the type to capture and hold onto the smoke of the bonfires and the cooking fires as well. It must smell like a combination of the aftermath of a forest fire and roast deer.”

“Love your wild hair.” Findekáno wound his arms around Maitimo’s neck, nuzzling the skin behind his ear, face buried in his hair. “Yes. Wood smoke and meat grease. But I’m not complaining.”

“You don’t complain when I show up covered in the dust of road, smelling like horse sweat, and haven’t bathed in days.”

”Aww. Pitiful creature. Let’s go clean you up, because if we do not, I know that you will not cease whinging about it.” Findekáno pointed. “Look. I see lights ahead. Apparently we are not the only ones who thought of a bath.”

“Are you sure that you are up to dealing with company?”

“You can trust me. I promise to hold my tongue." Findekáno's blatantly tongue-in-cheek declaration caused Maitimo to roll his eyes, earning him a playful punch.

"Not likely we will know anyone in any case," Findekáno said. "These woods are crawling with strangers.”

“I was worried less of what anyone else might think than how you feel. Do I appear that inconsiderate to you?”

“No. I was only tweaking you for hustling me out of Macalaure’s tent so fast. I was awful in there, wasn’t I?”

Maitimo did not answer, but smiled and tightened his grip on Findekáno’s hand.

As they drew closer, the lights they had seen through the trees were revealed to be lanterns suspended here and there among the lower branches at the near side of one of the larger pools. The moonlight reflected off the surface. A few bathers stood in the shallow waters. On the bank some three dozen or so others gathered in small clusters, mostly lightly clad, bare, or girded only in towels.

Maitimo made out the figure of Findaráto, wearing a short, white chiton that showed his admirable legs to good effect, a towel thrown over one shoulder, shining and calm in the center of a group of three. If one could say that his cousin Artanis was magnificently beautiful, somewhat taller and broader of shoulder than the ideal of feminine beauty, then her oldest brother might contrastingly be described as her perfect male counterpart, marvelous of face and form and yet somewhat leaner and more refined than most Noldor, at least, would view as the archetype of a handsome male.

The scene of Findaráto and his companions, standing amid the groupings of scantily clad bathers, reminded Maitimo of an elegant stained-glass window in the palace of Finwë that depicted the awakening of the Quendi under stars alongside the waters of Cuiviénen. Accustomed as he was to Findaráto and his inclinations, he believed his cousin had no doubt charmed his new acquaintances and now listened to them with rapt attention, more than a little fascinated with the idea that he might find a way he could help them.

There was, however, an imperial quality to Findaráto’s beneficence that reminded him less of his open-hearted Uncle Arafinwë and more of Nolofinwë. He did not for a moment doubt Findaráto's good will but questioned how much his philanthropic view based itself upon ignorance of the methods the Sindar and the Nandor had developed to adapt to their environment and its threats. They all had much to learn.

Findekáno slipped his arm around Maitimo’s waist and whispered in his ear, “They make a pretty picture don’t they. You’re thinking of that window in the formal dining room, aren’t you?”

“I was,” he admitted, turning to Findekáno and softly kissing his lips. “I also thought of the first time I saw it. Atar carried me on his hip, so I could see above crowd. That was before even Macalaurë was born. I asked Atar if the first of the Quendi had awakened there clad in their nightclothes. He laughed and told me that he doubted that they had, but he suspected Indis wouldn’t enjoy her dinners looking up at bare breasts and dangling bits and pieces.”

“Ah, yes.” Findekáno grinned. “I can just imagine him saying that. That sounds exactly like Uncle Fëanáro as I like to remember him.”

Findaráto had spotted them and waved for them to come over. He stood with two unfamiliar Elves. The dark-haired one stood imposingly tall, broad of shoulder and chest, with a strong jaw and aquiline nose. The other, another of those rare silver-haired blonds, like Daeron, was slighter of build, with an ethereal face, tempered by a pointed chin, merry hazel eyes, and a mischievous smile.

“Finno, Russo.” Findaráto kissed them both in greeting. “This is Mablung of Doriath,” he said, touching the arm of the dark one, “And Malgalad, one of the chieftains of the Nandor. These are my cousins, Nelyafinwë Maitimo Feanárion and Prince Findekáno, heir to our High King Nolofinwë. Findekáno is one of the principle organizers of this convocation.”

"Hey, Ingo," Findekáno said with warmth, before smiling and nodding to his companions, looking perfectly comfortable and not in the least inebriated. "Very pleased to make your acquaintance."

Maitimo greeted everyone as well. In process of clasping forearms and exchanging handshakes, Malgalad looked down at the leather glove and vambrace which Maitimo wore.

"So," Malgalad asked. "Then you must be the one-handed Noldo whose friend rescued him from the face of the cliffs of Thangorodrim?" Turning to Findekáno, he said, "And you must be his champion. I had half wondered if one should give any credence to the tale, or if it had been circulated by your people to impress us with the courage and heroism of their princes."

"Yes. That would be I." Maitimo smiled to relieve the anxiety for his reaction that he saw on the faces of Mablung and Findaráto. "One cannot underestimate the daring of Findekáno. For my part, a disastrous miscalculation cost the lives of my most trusted companions and landed me in the hands of Morgoth in the first place. Hardly something one would brag about."

"Humpf," Malgalad snorted. "Don't be modest. We all know the fortitude it must have taken to survive. I can see that your spirit burns strongly despite your ordeal. The Dark One must have seen that also and realizes that you now appear fell and terrible to his minions. Of course, both of you, having thwarted him, will be special targets of his malice."

"We already were," Findekáno volunteered. Findaráto widened his eyes in warning.

"Please make allowances for our friend's Malgalad's forthrightness. The Nandor place little value on courtly manners or discretion," Mablung said, affably enough to dispel any tone of criticism. "One learns to value him for his honesty, however."

Findaráto declared, "Nelyafinwë is always gracious, but is well accustomed to straight speaking. Findekáno, on the other hand, knows how to use pretty manners when he wants to, but is notorious for his bluntness. You are in good company here, Malgalad."

"Well, then, since I have no reputation for prudence to uphold either," Findekáno said. "I have something I am curious about. I wonder if you are familiar with the group of Nandor who performed the Deer Dance earlier tonight. Apparently, they gave me a potent drink which first made me sick as a dog and now appears to have greatly altered my perceptions."

Malgalad let loose with a whoop of laughter. "You have nothing to fear from their concoctions. They are harmless. I know those fellows well. They come from far to the east of me. They abide more closely by what they like to refer to as 'the old ways.' You should be feeling yourself again before morning. I expect you will want to sleep half of the day though. Fortunately for you, it is going to rain. So most of the meetings planned for tomorrow will be cancelled."

"Did they tell you it was a great honor to be offered a share of their magic drink?" Mablung asked, cocking an eyebrow in wry amusement.

"No, but Daeron did," Findekáno answered.

Mablung straightened in interest. "You've seen Daeron? I've been looking for him all evening."

"I do not think you will be seeing him tonight," Findekáno said. "He is holed up with Maitimo's brother, Macalaurë."

"They share an interest in music," Maitimo felt compelled to add.

"And other things," Findekáno said, in a completely matter of fact tone, followed by a wicked grin.

"You were warned," Findaráto said to Malgalad and Mablung, crossing his arms over his chest smugly.

"What kind of other things?" asked Malgalad.

Findekáno drew his eyebrows together, looking somber. "Of course, I can't tell you. They are of a private nature."

Malgalad laughed, slapping him on the back. Findaráto shook his head at Findekáno, unable to sustain the pretext of exasperation before chuckling.

"Ah, well." Maitimo sighed, throwing an arm across Findekáno's shoulders. "Before Findekáno got sick, we intended to go back to our tent to get some soap and towels. Do you think you could loan us that towel, Ingo? And might you have any soap?"

* * * * *

"There you have them, the pride of the Noldor, the two eldest sons among the grandchildren of Finwë, aside from me, of course," Findaráto said. "So . . ."

"So, they are a handsome pair. Not surprising they are the subject of so much talk," Mablung said.

The three men stared mesmerized as Findekáno unfastened Maitimo's tunic and leggings, before proceeding to strip. Maitimo easily shed his clothing using one hand. Only a shade taller than Findekáno, the appellation of well-formed one still fit Maitimo, despite his missing hand. They waded together into the shallow water. Findekáno looked up at Maitimo laughing, while tugging at his arm to pull him into the deeper water. Suddenly, Findekáno fell flailing into the water, apparently Maitimo had tripped him. Findekáno shot up out of the water, spitting and yelling, and tackled Maitimo. When Maitimo stood again, Findekáno gazed up into his face, arms draped around his shoulders. Findaráto knew as well as he knew his own name what would happen next. Nonetheless, he was surprised at the form it took.

"Valar!" Findaráto swore. "He goes too far."

Findekáno suddenly had jumped up and grabbed Maitimo around the waist with his legs, causing Maitimo to stagger and almost lose his balance. When Maitimo opened his mouth to protest, Findekáno silenced him with a hard kiss. Even from where Findaráto stood, the effect upon Maitimo of Findekáno's antics was noticeable.

Mablung laughed softly, and Malgalad commented laconically, "No doubt it is partly an effect of the mushroom elixir. I would add that it is also confirmation of the rumors you heard about them, Mablung."

"I would not worry if I were you," Mablung said, looking at Findaráto. "There are few of your countrymen left in this area now. The Sindar and, particularly, the Nandor take a much more relaxed attitude toward such behavior than your people do."

By then, Maitimo had persuaded Findekáno to stand upon his own feet and begin to soap his hair for him.

"Fine," Findaráto said, shaking his head in bemusement. "Please tell me about your king. I had hoped that he might travel here at my Uncle Nolofinwë's invitation. He is my kinsman as well. My mother is the daughter of his brother King Olwë of the Teleri in Aman."

"Thingol has not ventured out of Doriath since he withdrew after the battle against Morgoth in East Beleriand. He discourages others of our people from leaving the area protected by Melian's magic. I was pleased when he asked Daeron and I to bring greetings to this gathering."

Mablung's tone and choice of words subtly indicated to Findaráto that he might not entirely agree with Thingol's defensive posture, when the peoples of Middle-earth outside of his borders were faced with little other choice than an eventual head-on confrontation.

* * * * *

In the midst of all the talking, tiring of sorting out the disparate cadences and accents of the Sindarin, which was the common language they shared, Maitimo’s concentration began to drift. He would have been fascinated, completely engaged with the opportunity to learn about the experiences and problems of so many geographically scattered groupings, if he had not been preoccupied with Findekáno, who seemed to have wandered away from their discussion. He reached out with his mind and sensed an amused, ‘Look behind you, silly,’ reminiscent in tone of the rich tenor of Findekáno’s corporeal voice. Findekáno was definitely still under the throes of the drug, far from insensible, but as Maitimo's brothers were wont to say, ‘feeling no pain.’

Maitimo turned and spotted him some distance away. He stood observing a group of young Sindar who chatted nearby, while combing and braiding one another’s wet hair. Findekáno watched them, leaning against a tree, arms folded across his chest, a faraway smile on his face. His pale skin, marmoreal from that distance, glowing in the moonlight, emphasized his handsomeness. Yet no one appeared to be paying Findekáno any mind. Maitimo wondered how anyone could see him and take their eyes away. He caught Findekáno’s gaze and read there an unsolicited response, ‘Because I’m yours,’ followed by a sinful smile.

Realizing that Findaráto had said something to him that he had entirely missed, Maitimo squeezed his cousin’s bicep and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I was distracted. I’ll be right back.”

“Bring him back with you,” Findaráto called after him, smirking.

Maitimo fetched Findekáno and kept him close within their circle. At last, Mablung and Malgalad excused themselves, followed shortly thereafter by Findaráto.

Findekáno supported himself by hanging his arms heavily over Maitimo's shoulders from behind, pressing his pelvis against his backside. He brought his lips close to Maitimo's ear. “I have a small problem,” he whispered.

“Yes. I suppose we should be going back to your tent now. This all must have been a little overwhelming in your condition. Oh, by the way, your problem doesn’t seem so small.”

“I thought you’d never notice. Take me home," Findekáno said.

Realizing that the aphrodisiacal qualities of the Nandorin potion had by then completely taken hold of Findekáno, Maitimo could not restrain his own eagerness to seek the shelter of their tent and close out the rest of the world. They walked as quickly through the woods as they could, with arms entwined about one another’s waists, while stumbling over unseen roots and stones in their path, and stopping every few feet to exchange breathless kisses.

When they finally made their way into the tent, they collapsed onto the mattress on the ground. Maitimo tore at Findekáno’s clothing, while his partner laughed approvingly at his uncharacteristic haste. Maitimo felt Findekáno’s euphoric frenzy nearly as keenly as if he had ingested the drug himself.

“Tell me how you want it.” Maitimo begged of Findekáno, his voice shaky, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Like I usually do,” he said, his voice languorous and seductive. “Only this time, no matter how I try to provoke you, take it slowly, very slowly.”

”Oh, yes,” Maitimo moaned, caressing Findekáno’s warm, supple flesh, familiar but forever new.

As Maitimo took Findekáno as he desired, their mind-to-mind connection seemed stronger than it ever had been and Findekáno's filters virtually non-existent. Maitimo became acutely aware of a fascination on the part of Findekáno of his own fight against despair and his small but determined hope to find a way through the labyrinth of confusion and pride that had led their people into the situation in which they now found themselves.

After Maitimo had rolled off to one side, he brushed the hair from Findekáno's brow and studied him.

"Please, love, do not glorify the darkness within me or my ability to endure suffering. My willingness to fulfill my oath is a necessity, not a virtue. It cannot be foresworn. I need you to be my beacon in this dark night of my fëa. Although the Valar may have cursed and abandoned me, my one hope is that your love for me might signify that the One, who is wiser and stronger than they are, also could look upon me and offer mercy."

"Whatever," Findekáno said, his shrug bristling with ill-disguised impatience, before he wrinkled his nose in an expression of impudent indulgence and pulled him into a bear hug. "Hey, chin up. We can do this. And, yes, I do admire you excessively. You will not talk me out of that."

Maitimo attacked him again with a desire that flooded him like strong wine, possibly rooted in what he could discern of the effects upon Findekáno of the Nandorin potion. His mouth covered those delicious red lips, while Findekáno twisted under him, breathing into his ear, "I love you. I love you so."

All in all the effect of the drug upon Findekáno appeared only to make him more himself, but, for once, able to relent and relax, to enjoy the drawing out of their passion. His usual nervous energy subdued and quieted. Maitimo tried not to feel disloyal that this felt more in tune with his own propensity.

Sensing and laughing at his scruples, Findekáno said, "No guilt. Enjoy me this way while you can."

Findekáno finally came again, harsh and sudden. Maitimo looked down and saw Findekáno’s thick and heavy erection still hard, rock hard, jutting from a nest of dampened black curls, twitching slightly. If one did not know better one could scarcely believe that he had just spilled.

“I wish you could see your face now,” Findekáno muttered, the amusement in his voice transparent. "You look positively discouraged."

Maitimo looked up at him laughing unsteadily. Findekáno’s own visage shone transcendentally stunning in the dim candlelight, cheeks flaming, pupils dilated, black saucers with a narrow sapphire blue border.

“But you are still unsatisfied. I am sorry.”

“For what? You just brought me off for the second, no, the third time. You are a little mad, you know. You are so competitive. Lie down next to me. Let me hold you. Just rest.” Findekáno pulled him into his arms, stroking his back while making soothing noises. “Face it; you are not going to win tonight. It is the potion in the drink.”

“I do not know what you mean by winning or competitive.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Your attitude of: ‘Must keep the boy happy. I owe him so much.’ Screw me blind and senseless, until I cannot not remember my name and have made myself hoarse screaming. Then you walk around the next day, all quiet and smug, while your brothers make jokes about how noisy I am, telling yourself that you are the one who did that, always can do it.”

”I thought you liked it?” Maitimo felt his energy returning. A grin pulled at the muscles around his mouth. Maybe Findekáno was right. Maybe he was competitive. He could not deny there was something forever compelling about reducing that ball of energy to a puddle of mush, gloriously abandoned and yielding, and afterwards watching Findekáno’s eyelids dropping over those questing blue eyes, holding him while he slept, and, yes, most of all, knowing that no one else ever would do that to him.

”Do like it. But you have clearly had enough for tonight.”

“Don’t count your chickens, Káno.”

Findekáno laughed, cocky, challenging, but when Maitimo swiftly leaned over him and took him in his mouth, he gasped, “Eru in Eä, Maitimo.”

Looking up at Findekáno over the pale skin of his chest glistening with perspiration, Maitimo smiled, or as nearly as one could under the circumstances. He wondered for moment at how the ever-restless Findekáno was the one who brought him peace, who simultaneously calmed and strengthened him. He could not underestimate his debt to Findekáno but this had nothing to do with gratitude. This was pure self-indulgence and completely without guilt.

Soft pants from Findekáno slowed gradually, as he recovered from the initial shock of Maitimo’s sudden onslaught.

“Stop. Too much. On your back now. I want this one to be for you,” Findekáno ordered.

Maitimo followed his directions, but not before saying, “Káno, you get the strangest ideas. It is always for me.”

The Morning After

This is a short chapter. The next one, which is much more political and less personal and romantic, should follow much sooner, since I divided a longer one into two to make this one.

Read The Morning After

 

Daeron felt a soft breeze on his back. During the night he had awakened several times to snuggle closer to Macalaurë, who had instinctively tightened his arm draped over him in response. Finally, toward morning, Daeron had fallen into dreamless unconsciousness.

When he opened his eyes, Macalaurë sat in the folding chair in front of the opening to the tent, chest bared, wearing only a light short-legged undergarment. The tent flaps had been tied fully open, allowing in the fresh air and exposing a verdant world of sun-dappled foliage. Macalaurë immediately brightened at seeing Daeron awake.

"I've been waiting and waiting for you to wake up. It was all I could do not to pour cold water on your head," Macalaurë said, smiling as though that were a perfectly normal reflection for a grown man. "Did you rest well?"

"What do you think?" Daeron asked, as enchanted at the sight of Macalaurë in the sunlight as he had been by candlelight. Not only did Daeron not regret the night before, he felt exultant.

"I only hope that you rested half as well as I did." Macalaurë blew his fine, dark hair out of his face, while splaying his long fingers flat across the strings of the lute that he held in his arms.

"What have you been doing? I did not hear you playing."

"I barely touched the strings. I was thinking mostly. I did compose something about you." He tapped his temple to indicate that he had done it in his head. "Now you are going to think I am a real girl, aren't you?"

"No. I told you far too much about myself for me to ever think of calling you a girl. Come here, mírchen."

Macalaurë placed the lute on the chair behind him and walked to the bed. He closed his teeth over his bottom lip, looking Daeron up and down, seductive in his unselfconscious display of appreciation.

"Last night you called me lachenn and today you call me mírchen."

"I'm getting used to your eyes." Daeron laughed, reveling in the realization that it was true; he no longer felt anything but comfort, affection, and, yes, more than a twinge of lust, under the prolonged gaze of those tree-lit, silver-blue eyes.

Macalaurë crawled up next to Daeron, pulling the coverlet aside. Daeron drew a deep, noisy breath, while grabbing Macalaurë and kissing him.

"I'm hopeless. I'm wild for you," Daeron said.

"Don't sound so pained about it. There are those who would think you got yourself a real prize." Macalaurë grinned, his demeanor less smug than tender, despite his choice of words. "You know, I was completely sober and truthful with you last night. I have not felt like this in years. Maybe never." He took Daeron's hand and put it on his chest. "Feel that? Can you feel my heart?"

"That's physical," Daeron said quietly. "But what do you think?"

"I can't think or, more accurately, can only think about how much I want you." Macalaurë shook his head, looking nearly as besotted as Daeron felt. He wrinkled his nose at Daeron. "I did think you might ask to hear the song I wrote for you. But apparently you only care about my body."

"Aww. But it's so nice." Daeron nipped and laved a nipple, before rolling him onto to his back and straddling him, pinning Macalaurë's muscled arms over his head onto the pillow. He mused that if the Noldo, only slightly heavier but much stronger, had not permitted it, he never could have held him down. Daeron was a passable archer. Macalaurë, on the other hand, was clearly a highly trained warrior, an anomaly for a serious musician in Daeron's experience. Licking Macalaurë's ear, he teased, "You really wrote a song about me?"

Seeming to ignore him, Macalaurë asked, "Would it be foolish for me to say that you are the prettiest person I've ever slept with? Given there was only one other."

"I want my song." Daeron tightened his grip on Macalaurë's wrists, moving his body against him until he elicited a gasp. "Among the Sindar it is not wise to call a man pretty. Women and children are pretty."

Macalaurë cackled like an ill-mannered youth. He then furrowed his brow, trying to appear serious, before cocking an eyebrow rakishly. "It is the same among my people. But you should know, I have not seen any men among the Noldor as pretty as you."

"Pfft. Look who's talking! Surely the Noldor have mirrors? Your mouth would put the loveliest maiden to shame." Daeron laughed, leaning forward to touch Macalaurë's lips with his tongue. "I still want my song."

Macalaurë arched up under him aggressively rubbing against his groin. "You'll get your song. Shortly."

That time Macalaurë demanded, "You take me," doubtlessly cognizant that if he experienced an unfamiliar tenderness, then Daeron must be more uncomfortable, having borne the repetitions that had followed their first coupling. This fit completely with everything Daeron had learned about Macalaure, self-assured, nearly cocky, yet always considerate, and, most of all, generous.

It was not long before the atmosphere turned almost too bright, too treacherous for Daeron to bear, as though he were lost and would never be found, that nothing would ever again be as it had been for him, yet perfectly right. Finally, utterly spent, both exhilarated and relaxed, Daeron reflected that their time together might be short-lived.

He could not resist saying, "Imagine having this night after night," as he stroked Macalaure's hair away from his face to permit a better look at those sharp cheekbones tinged in color from exertion. He cursed himself at how wistful his voice sounded.

"Oh, I already imagine it. Trust me, Daeron; I intend to live on these memories for a long, long time. Can you at least stay here for the rest of the summer?"

"Wild horses and Mablung wielding his mighty ax couldn't drag me away."

"Good. There is little enough happiness in these hard times. Let us share what we can while we may." Macalaurë gave him a bittersweet smile which, despite its poignancy, contained enough heat to melt iron.

"With the greatest of joy," Daeron answered. Again and again over the past twelve hours, he had felt that the two of them seemed to fall naturally into balance, had a rare understanding, and yet, still, there seemed a mystery in the other man, something he could not read. Transparently untroubled, Macalaurë beamed as he pulled Daeron into a triumphant kiss.

"Want your song?" Macalaurë asked when he stopped.

"Yes."

Daeron waited while Macalaurë jumped up to find the lute again. He wondered what the song might be like. He imagined an elegant mannered melody with a darker undertone. He had heard what has been purported to be Noldorin music. Nothing traveled faster than music in Beleriand he thought. No Noldor had approached Doriath yet, but Sindarin bards had returned from close to Mithrim and its environs eager to demonstrate what they had heard. The music those musicians presented as that of those powerful Lords from the West, had been credited to Macalaurë or others who professed to have been his students.

An elegant mathematical perfection contradicted by an underpinning of raw emotion gave that music the unique character that Daeron had come to think of as the Noldorin approach. Despite the fact that the melodies and their harmonies had not rested easy on his ears at first hearing, the musical style had intrigued Daeron. He half-heartedly fought against some of its elements overtaking his more basic, intuitive mode. What Daeron had learned of Macalaurë in a few short hours led him to believe that the recreations he had heard might have missed some essential quality.

He told himself as he watched Macalaurë tuning the lute, that he could not expect a polished complex piece given they had spent most of the night making love, talking, or sleeping.

Macalaurë let one last chord echo, before looking up at Daeron and asking with a shy smile, "All right? Now?"

"I'm dying to hear you."

Shockingly sensual, bright yet sumptuously textured, Macalaurë's voice burst forth like a force of nature, yet replete with warm affection and compassion. He had taken his cue from Daeron's offering of the night before and composed a simple love song, which ended with a direct reference to the two of them.

Future bards will tell how we loved of old,
Twin natures, silver voices, in an age of gold.
 
"You have an incredible voice," Daeron said. "We must sing together. That'll be the subject of songs for certain. Come here now though. I intend to stick my tongue down your silver throat."

__________________
Mírchen means bright eyes as opposed to the somewhat pejorative Sindarin expression of lachenn, meaning flame-eyed which is used to refer to the exiled Noldor.

In Need of a Wife

Read In Need of a Wife

* * * *

Maitimo awakened to the sound of a distant waterfall. He had fallen asleep with Findekáno stroking his hair away from his forehead and spouting soporific nonsense in a monotonous voice. Findekáno used a carefully conceived routine to prevent nightmares when he and Maitimo slept together. The truth was that Maitimo never had the nightmares when he was with Findekáno, unless they had gone to bed after a rip-roaring argument without making peace with one another.

With one arm slung possessively across Maitimo’s waist and the other arm curled under his pillow like a child, Findekáno lay on his side facing him. Maitimo slipped from under that protective arm. Although he had probably slept for less than four hours, he did not feel tired. Some things provide the body and the spirit with more ease than sleep. He grinned, shaking his head at the memory of the night before.

After washing his face and cleaning his teeth, Maitimo threw some clothes on and stepped outside the tent. Although it was at least two hours after sunrise, the early warmth had not yet burned off all the dew. Along the edge of the field of scattered tents, Maitimo could see a faint golden haze at the grass line. A warm breeze from the other direction stirred his hair, carrying with it the scent of dark earth and green trees. Calming water sounds filled his ears: the rush of falls, the gurgle of streams, and the occasional splash in one of the pools of a water bird or small animal. Since Findekáno would sleep until early afternoon at least, Maitimo decided to seek out one of the pavilions serving food. He could eat breakfast and then look for Nolofinwë. He suspected that the need of an heir for Findekáno was still preying on his uncle's mind. He and Findekáno needed to make it clear that, although they shared his concern, any consideration of the question had to be on their terms, not those of Nolofinwë.

Maitimo passed the handful of tents nearest their own and then followed a path out of the open meadow, which led him back into a lightly wooded area. After a short walk, he jumped across a narrow stream at the edge of the next clearing where all of the communal tents and pavilions had been erected. Hearing someone approaching rapidly behind him, he turned to see his cousin Findaráto.

“Ingo, have you eaten?” Maitimo called out, stopping to wait. Meanwhile, he struggled to hold one end of a leather hair tie flat against his neck with his false hand, while he drew the other end through a loop in an attempt to catch his unruly hair into at least one thick tail. He had seriously considered cutting his hair short more than once, but his vanity and sheer stubbornness had overcome the impulse. He huffed in cynical amusement at the thought that he might have lost a hand, but he still had incomparable hair.

Catching up to him, Findaráto said, “I spotted you and tried to overtake you. I was going to eat now. Have you eaten yet?” He reached out to gather and twist Maitimo’s heavy hair into a plait in the back. “Let me help you with that.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate it,” Maitimo said, handing the tie to him with a sigh of resignation that he did not even try to control. He remembered how only a few years earlier he would not have allowed anyone, except Findekáno, Macalaurë, or his squire Erestor, to help him with his grooming. Following his own stream of consciousness, Maitimo said, “I haven’t seen Erestor in two days, Findekáno’s sleeping, and Macalaurë . . . Well, we told you about Macalaurë’s adventures last night.”

“Yes. We should discuss the situation regarding Macalaurë and this Daeron of Doriath at some point. I wonder what Uncle will think. Our relationship with Elwë's representatives could be a delicate one. It’s not that I don’t trust Macalaurë’s judgment, but it is imperative that we talk about the stance we intend to adopt with them among ourselves rather than be sorry later." Findaráto gave a gentle tug on the braid he had made in Maitimo hair, testing its sturdiness. “The texture of your hair is so similar to mine. Impressive how well Káno is able to comb it for you. People with slippery, straight hair like his often find it impossible to deal with hair like ours. There. That should hold it."

"Thank you. It feels so much better off my neck and shoulders."

" But aren’t you worried about Erestor?" Findaráto asked. "Isn’t he awfully young and attractive to be left on his own amidst this motley crowd?”

“Erestor was already nearly of age when he left Valinor. I granted him a few days of leisure. He's earned it. And, if negotiations turn serious, I will have to curtail his freedom if I need his skills as a scribe later. He's conscientious and I work him hard. But you are right.” Maitimo laughed. “He’s probably found a partner by now. Truly, I don’t think we have to worry over that young man. He can look after himself. He hides strength of character beneath the outward veneer of innocence and naïveté. Erestor, despite his appearance, is more predator than prey.” He could not resist poking a bit at Ingo. “He is an eye-catching lad, bright, and loves men. Very particular about his partners, but he's far from abstemious. If you are interested, I could put in a word with him. I have no doubt he would be overjoyed at the idea of sleeping with you. He's told me that he's particularly attracted to Vanyarin blonds.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Ingo shrieked, before he realized that Maitimo was pulling his leg and started laughing. It was such a delight to stir up the noble, placid Findaráto.

The center of the encampment was a riot of color with flags and banners fluttering in the morning breeze. The larger tents and pavilions stretched out before them in straight lines across the field, appearing eerily quiet with a morning-after ambience compared to the boisterous festive mood of the previous night.

Findaráto pointed to a large yellow-sided pavilion. “Let’s try the main commissary tent. I’m starving. I want more than bread and tea.” He gave Maitimo a sly smile. “Everyone seems to be falling into bed with someone here. Except for me, of course. Not from any lack of looking on my part.” He released a soft sigh. “And, no. I am not interested in randy young men like Erestor. I'd rather consider a brief encounter with a married man, temporarily separated from a spouse. Someone, who could understand my lack of availability. The mood of this convocation is not exactly what I had expected. Who knows? Perhaps I still have hope.”

“Really?” Maitimo smiled at Findaráto, curious, but his kinsman avoided his glance. Findaráto had demonstrated an interest in Findekáno and him years earlier, but they had shied away from the idea at the time. More than once since then they had pondered whether they had been hasty or selfish to turn him away. It particularly troubled the affectionate and tactile Findekáno to think of Findaráto sleeping alone year after year. For his part, Maitimo found Findaráto surprisingly appealing physically but shrank from the idea of the possible complications of such an encounter.

Maitimo noted Findaráto’s significant silence and hastened to fill it. “I am more aware than ever in the short time since we have been here how little we know of our neighbors. This should be an informative gathering, if nothing more." His stomach growled. "I’m really hungry. I barely ate anything last night, looking after Káno."

Findaráto remarked, "The whole atmosphere here reminds me less of a serious exercise in diplomacy and more like one of our reprehensible hunting trips organized by Turko in his youth.” Both laughed at the memories of their not so innocent adventures in Valinor in less care-ridden days.

The lack of formality of the Pools of Ivrin gathering had struck Maitimo as well. The different cultures of Middle-earth impressed him as being much less stratified and constrained by conventions than even the Noldor, the least hide-bound of the Eldar in Aman. One of Nolofinwë’s suggestions in advance of the conference had been that they should remain open-minded and allow the other communities to set the tone. The more crucial discussions of future military collaboration and sharing of intelligence could wait until the groups of far-flung peoples had an opportunity to mingle and assess one another.

“Even after all we have endured since leaving Aman, everyone still refers to those infamous hunting trips as the epitome of debauchery,” said Findaráto.

"Artanis exaggerates," Maitimo grumbled. "I don't recall her ever turning down an invitation to join in one though."

Maitimo and Findaráto had joined a short queue inside the pavilion for food. The smells of freshly baked flat breads and roasting meat caused Maitimo’s stomach to growl again. Two efficient Sindarin servers dished up portions of some sort of root vegetable sautéed with onions that smelled marvelous, a couple of generous slices of venison, and covered all of it with a huge circle of bread.

“Thank Eru. Real food,” Maitimo observed with great satisfaction. “I still wonder how we survived our youths without any of us suffering grave bodily injury. What were our parents thinking?”

Findaráto said, “Our parents were probably happy to have some peace and quiet at home for themselves. Actually, none of them believed that anything bad could happen there. Probably thought that Turko’s beloved Oromë would keep an eye on the lot of us. I’m sure they didn’t realize that Turko was busier tupping Irissë than hunting.”

Aware that no strangers could understand their conversation, the cousins continued reminiscing.

Maitimo could not hold back a guffaw at the memory of pulling Tyelkormo aside dozens of times to warn him to no avail. “Seriously, if Nolofinwë had been aware of everything that went on, Turko would have been in more danger of physical harm from him than anything we might have stumbled upon in the forests in Valinor. But we did lead a charmed life, nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises, and a couple of near disasters.”

“Ai, poor Nolofinwë! At least you were principled enough to keep your hands off Findekáno until he was a little older.”

“I was grave and proper for my age, wasn’t I? I believed I had an example to set for the rest of you. But I can’t take all the credit for my self-control. Káno didn’t throw himself at me the way Irissë pursued Turko.”

They saw that Nolofinwë had secured himself a place at a long table near the center of the mess. He sat alone, a stack of papers at one elbow and an empty plate at the other, lifting a large cup of steaming tea to his lips and blowing on it.

* * * *

Although he had only arrived at the Pools of Ivrin some three days earlier, Nolofinwë had already established a routine. After bathing each morning, he dressed, walked to the main commissary tent and settled himself at the same table. Nolofinwë would then eat and observe, using the pretense of paperwork to ward off unwanted visitors. The majority of the participants in this gathering availed themselves of this same facility, the largest of the communal dining areas. He learned interesting things about alliances and affinities by observing the diners. When he spotted Maitimo and Findaráto, plates in hand, walking in his direction he lowered his mug and signaled for them to join him.

“Perfect,” Nolofinwë said as they took their seats. “You are the two I had most wished to encounter this morning. I had hoped my eldest son might be with you.” He raised his eyebrows at Maitimo, in what he hoped would provoke a straightforward explanation of the rumors he had heard of Findekáno’s lapse of judgment with certain wilder elements of the Nandor the night before.

“Sorry, uncle. He had a bit too much to drink last night,” Maitimo said. Findaráto snorted with good-natured amusement. “All right then!” Maitimo said, shaking his head at his half-cousin. “The truth is that a shaman of the Deer Tribe of the Nandor drugged him. He is fine now. Sleeping it off. Kept me awake most of the night.”

Maitimo gave him a challenging grin, as if daring him to express his disapproval of their sleeping arrangements. Nolofinwë had no interest in doing that. His sympathy with Maitimo had been aroused by the thought he had put into another subject that he hoped to raise with him before the end of the convocation. He had decided that he would discuss with both Maitimo and Findekáno his conviction that, as next in the line of succession, his son would have to give thought to producing an heir. Too many self-proclaimed petty kings among the scattered Noldor increased the necessity of an indisputably clear and universally accepted line of succession for their High King. Findekáno was a perfect heir from the prospective of popularity and respect among the disparate factions of the Noldor, but his childlessness and the lack of a wife could become a drawback in the future. And any son he produced would have to be born of a consort who would be both officially recognized and accepted by their people. The product of a casual dalliance would not be at all suitable either.

“Should Finno be seen by a healer?” Nolofinwë asked. He was certain that if such attention had been required Maitimo would have handled it already, but he hoped the inquiry conveyed his irritation without making it explicit.

Maitimo responded, struggling to control a grin. “We spoke with Daeron of Doriath, Elwë Singollo’s chief scribe and advisor. He is familiar with these peoples and their practices, has actually ingested the substance before himself, and recovered with no ill effects. He assured us it’s harmless once one sleeps it off.”

“Findekáno is too reckless,” said Nolofinwë, sighing that his complaint had grown feeble with fruitless repetition.

“He would argue spontaneous perhaps,” said Maitimo, with resignation. “However one wishes to describe his audacity, he’s loved for it and incredibly lucky as well. This time he managed to find himself named the true friend and an honorary elder of a tribe of the Nandor who are reclusive and bristly even with most of the Sindar. I am sure before the end of the day Káno will be citing it as a masterful stroke of diplomacy.”

A rumble of distant thunder caused both Maitimo and Findaráto to pause, forks in the air.

Nolofinwë said, “Here comes the predicted storm. The wise men of the Sindar of the north have advised me the rain will be heavy and last most of the day.”

“We heard the same from other sources,” said Findaráto.

“What can either of you tell me about Daeron and Mablung of Doriath?" Nolofinwë asked. "I met them briefly and they were less than forthcoming with me. A lot of polite words about friendship couched in deliberately personal terms, as though they did not want me to read any official position into them. I suspect they have little to no authority to negotiate, only to gather information about us and report back to Elwë.”

“We spent a couple of hours chatting with Mablung,” Findaráto volunteered. “An interesting fellow. I would not say he appears secretive by nature. Seems an outward-looking type and well-traveled, as he claims Daeron is also. But you are right. Their king wants information and appears to have instructed them to offer as little as possible in return. I still believe that my earlier plan of going directly to Elu Thingol in Doriath,” pronouncing the Sindarin name perfectly if with some effort, “is our best prospect for learning anything significant about the man or his intentions.”

Nolofinwë restrained a laugh at how evident from the heat that rushed to color Findaráto’s cheeks was his eagerness to race off to discover the mythical, no doubt wildly embellished, wonders of Elwë’s hidden refuge. With a barely suppressed smile pulling at his lips, Nolofinwë said, “You’ll have your chance, Ingo. But, for the moment, we must learn what we can from the representatives that Elwë has sent us. What did you discover about these fellows last night?”

Findaráto explained, “Mablung’s the muscle and Daeron is the brains of the pairing. Not to say that Mablung is not intelligent, but his specialization is arms and defense as one of the captains of Doriath's border guard. While Daeron is Thingol's chief scribe and a trusted counselor, second only to a kinsman of Thingol whom they refer to as Prince Celeborn. You might have heard of Daeron's reputation as an artist. There are those who have heard both musicians play and sing who would claim Daeron is actually as good or better than our treasured Macalaurë."

"Ah, interesting. So what did you personally think of the musical counselor?" asked Nolofinwë.

Findaráto laughed silently, his shoulders twitching as he glanced at Maitimo. “You’ll have to ask Nelyafinwë. I did not meet him or speak with him.”

”But you did?” Nolofinwë asked, turning to Maitimo. Apparently, he was going to have to pry loose every bit of information about the night before.

”Ah, well, yes. I did. Káno wasn’t feeling well, we stopped at my tent to get some water, and inadvertently barged in upon Daeron and Macalaurë there. They weren't expecting visitors. It seemed that Daeron intended to spend the night. With Macalaurë. We didn’t stay long.”

Nolofinwë laughed despite his concern for relations between the Noldor and the Sindar of Doriath. One had to see the humor in the situation. “Brilliant. So Thingol's lore master is sleeping with one of my nephews and was introduced to my son and heir while he was in an advanced state of inebriation. We are off to an impressive start for diplomatic relations between our peoples.”

“Could be worse,” said Findaráto. “They probably have lowered their guard against us somewhat now. Finno was not in a chatting mood. Ah, a bit uninhibited even for him in his manner . . . . but not giving away any state secrets. Aside from being more openly affectionate with Nelyo than would have been considered strictly proper in Tirion--less noticeable here by far--he kept to himself.”

Nolofinwë grunted. He reluctantly envisioned Findekáno whispering in Maitimo’s ear and smiling adoringly at his lover. “Findekáno will be Findekáno, I suppose,” he said. “In any case, someone will need to speak with Macalaurë about the danger of loose pillow talk.” He sighed to think that he had believed Macalaurë was the least likely of all his nephews to involve himself in any sort of scandalous entanglements. Of course, on the other side of the spectrum, and no less of an irritant, was the standoffishness of his own second son Turukáno, stiff and proper beyond sufferance, looking down his nose at their presumptive allies.

“I’ll talk to Macalaurë,” Maitimo said. “Trust me, Uncle, they were not talking politics last night.”

“Yes, it could be worse, I suppose," Nolofinwë said. "I am sure Macalaurë understands the necessity for discretion."

Maitimo and Findaráto did not appear to be listening, with their eyes fixed upon the entrance to the pavilion behind him.

"Look who is here," Maitimo said smiling.

"Well, who?" Nolofinwë asked.

"Uncle," Findaráto said with a chuckle, "Don't be so imperious. Turn around and look for yourself."

Ignoring Findaráto's teasing of Nolofinwë, Maitimo said, "It's Pilimor and Tadiel, the healers from Lake Mithrim." Nolofinwë was pleased that they had taken his suggestion to travel to Ivrin after all.

"Uncle?" Maitimo interrupted his self-congratulatory musing. "I'd like you to spend some time with Tadiel while we are here."

"Oh, dear," Findaráto said shaking his head in consternation.

"What?" Nolofinwë demanded.

"Maitimo has decided that Findekáno needs an heir," said Findaráto.

"So, you are prepared to accept that?" Nolofinwë asked Maitimo.

"More gladly than my brothers accept the idea of Turukáno serving as high king if something should happen to you and Káno." Maitimo chuckled uncomfortably.

"The idea is madness," Findaráto insisted. "It's simply wrong. I don't care what they say about Tadiel liking them and Maitimo saying he could live with the situation."

Nolofinwë realized that the topic had been subjected to heated discussion among the three cousins, that probably shouldn't have come as a surprise to him he thought. None of them remained political novices. He had expected that Findaráto would support him and it would be Maitimo he would have to convince. Nolofinwë was surprised but pleased that idea that Findekáno needed an heir had been considered by Nelyafinwë. Findaráto certainly would have understood as well if he were not such an idealist.

Maitimo grunted and shrugged his shoulders at Findaráto, who reacted. "Doesn't matter that she has told you that she has had her heart broken and doesn't expect to love again. She is still young. We've all suffered from unrequited loves in our youths."

Maitimo responded to Findaráto, biting off each word with an obvious effort at restraint. "I think you underestimate the lady. She does like me and adores Kano. We are fond of her as well. It is not as though it would be a cold, heartless relationship. You don't know her as well as we do."

Findaráto harrumphed. "And you've never been married."

"Neither have you," said Maitimo.

"Near enough to know it's not so simple."

Nolofinwë had heard enough of the difference of attitude between Maitimo and Findaráto. Maitimo had experience at making difficult decision, for good and ill. Findaráto's high-minded impracticality was a known quality. He interrupted to ask, "And what does Findekáno think?"

"He's willing to consider it at least. I told him that I think that we . . . that is he and I . . . could still . . . ah . . . remain close." Maitimo blushed to roots of his scarlet hair.

Nolofinwë couldn't make eye contact with Findaráto who had straightened his back and clenched his jaw. No doubt Findaráto believed, and rightly so, that Findekáno would hear the arguments about the responsibilities of leadership and the good of the Noldor being presented by his lover and his father and accept the proposition unenthusiastically.

"I'd consider the match with favor also," Nolofinwë said. "She's a sensible, competent woman, of noble blood. Related to Thingol on the distaff side I've heard. I think people would accept her."

Maitimo nodded in an affable way, looking past Nolofinwë again toward the front of the pavilion. " Pilimor and Tadiel are walking in this direction now. May I ask them to join us?"

"Yes. Please do," said Nolofinwë. He caught Maitimo's clear grey eyes for an instant and realized his nephew could read him like an open book. He wished not for the first time that he had more of his younger and older brothers' capacity for mind touch.

* * * *

Findekáno felt a mixture of mud and grass squishing up between his toes, despite the protection of his heavy-soled sandals. Supporting Tadiel on either side, although she was perfectly capable of walking through the mud on her own, Maitimo and Findekáno wound their way around puddles and rivulets of water down the long walkway dividing the rows of tents leading to the first outcropping of trees. The afternoon had passed quickly. All formal meetings had been cancelled, ostensibly due to the thunder storms in the late morning and the steady rain of the early afternoon. Although Findekáno also guessed that the festivities of the night before had worn out most of the participants of the convocations, even the most intrepid of the Nandor.

The largest of the pavilions, the main commissary tent, had been filled all afternoon with people eating, drinking, playing cards and catching up with old friends. One thing had led to another after he had tracked Maitimo down there and here they were, on their way back to their tent with Tadiel. No one could argue that he and his two companions were wholly sober, but neither were they drunk. The rain had ended in the late afternoon ushering in a cool, misty early evening. A chilly breeze dispelled most of the effects of the spirits they had consumed earlier.

"Do you still want to come with us, or shall we walk you home?" Maitimo asked, his tone one of the courtly deference that would not have been out of place with a noble maid of Tirion. "Did you tell us where you are staying?"

Findekáno reflected that Tadiel was not one of the sheltered and feckless girls that Maitimo had once been notorious for pursuing in his youth. Although, she was easily as pretty of any of them. A good friend and ally, a grown Sindarin woman, she might have been carefully reared in Doriath, but certainly since leaving there had not led a sheltered life. She had treated men with grievous injuries, both physical and of the spirit, suffered in a long, dirty war--Maitimo himself in fact.

"I stayed with Mablung and Pilimor last night. I used my cousin Daeron's cot. I set up my own this morning before we left. Daeron never returned last night. I'm not in a hurry to go back there yet. I have nearly two months more to catch up with Mablung's and Daeron's gossip of home. And who knows if I will ever have an opportunity to corner the two of you like this again."

"We were thinking of more than just conversation," Findekáno warned.

Maitimo exhaled loudly and raised an eyebrow. They had not discussed if this was the right moment to raise the issue. But Findekáno figured that the longer they delayed the more he would dread it and the less willing he would be. It might indeed be now or never for him.

Tadiel laughed. "Your methods of seduction need a little refinement, Finno. That's hardly a romantic way to put it."

"Oh, I assure you it will be though," Findekáno insisted solemnly. "Maitimo is an incorrigible romantic."

"And you? You are not romantic?" she asked. Eyes wide open with curiosity, she did look quite lovely.

"I can be, but hardly under the circumstances. I'm terrified. I've never been with a woman."

Maitimo choked. Tadiel laughed again. "Well, that is a challenge. But I've never been with two men. So I suppose that levels the playing field a little." She winked at Maitimo and lowered her voice, her breath ticklish against his ear, "We'll be gentle with you, sweet Finno."

"Cheeky wench! I feel I must tell you that I wouldn't be trying this if it weren't important." Findekáno paused and cleared his throat. "Matters of state, you know."

"Shut up, Káno. You're drunk," Maitimo growled, his voice thick with embarrassment warring against affection.

"Am not," Findekáno protested.

Tadiel giggled at them in the most endearing manner. Findekáno thought he might actually be able to manage this after all.

"I do understand now," Tadiel said, suddenly serious. "You need to know if you can bear to be with a woman before you consider marrying in order to produce an heir." She tightened her grip on Findekáno's arm, perhaps in reassurance. "And where does that leave Maitimo?"

"Well, it leaves him exactly where he has always been, the center of my universe," Findekáno said, feeling suddenly stubborn. "Maitimo's right. I am an idiot, aren't I?"

Maitimo shook his head. "Ai, Káno!"

"Not at all," Tadiel said. "It's an honor for me that you would trust me enough to share this with me. If you haven't noticed--I know Maitimo has--I am quite attracted to both of you."

"I am a perfect idiot. Help me out here, Maitimo. I'm afraid I've stuck my foot in it again."

The three of them had stopped dead in the middle of the path leading into the copse of trees through which they must pass to reach the meadow where Findekáno's tent had been pitched.

Maitimo took Tadiel's' chin in his hand, bending over to kiss her lightly on the mouth. "Perhaps Káno is right. We need to be straight forward with you. We had no intention of deceiving you. If we withheld any information from you it was by omission only and intended to be short-lived. The unvarnished truth is that the impetus to approach you in this way was a political one. But we could not have looked in your direction if we had not both already cared for you. And, yes, you are right. I'm aware of the mutual attraction between you and me. Like you said, I think together we can try to entice Findekáno gently. And if that doesn't work, then that will have to be the end of it.

"I promised Káno I would do what I could to help, but he will be the one who marries and helps to raise a child. I also promised him that he and I would still, as we do now, spend as many months or weeks a year together as we are able. No one is asking you to marry Káno in the morning, just to spend some time with us. To see if you think you can even seriously consider the situation. I don't know what I am trying to say. . . . We've been talking about this for days, but not how we would explain to you. I realize it is not a very attractive proposition, but . . . "

Tadiel interrupted Maitimo. "I've had far worse proposals presented to me. And within the last two days even. Maybe we can talk a bit more over another drink. Or not talk. If you think that would work better. I suddenly feel as sober as I felt tipsy a few moments ago."

Tadiel extended her hand to Maitimo's mouth and touched his red, full lips with her fingertips. Findekáno felt a twist of jealousy accompanied by a surprising tinge of arousal. He took a deep breath, causing Tadiel to turn to him with a knowing look from under hooded eyes. "Do you have any wine in your tent, Finno?"

"Thank you for even considering this," Findekáno said, pulling on Tadiel's hand and beginning to walk again. He needed to try to regain some control of the situation or it could slide away from him all too easily. The tiny bones of her strong hand felt alien to him, but not at all repulsive. "Come along. You are a beautiful, generous woman. Let's just see what happens. I do have wine and Maitimo brought several bottles of an interesting distilled drink. Do remember that horrible rot gut that Tyelkormo used to make at Lake Mithrim?"

"You're not suggesting we drink any of that, I hope," Tadiel said, pretending to be aghast with horror. She rubbed a silken cheek against Findekáno's shoulder, bare in his sleeveless tunic. Her scent, that clean childish one that clings to some women throughout their lives, was not unpleasant either.

To be perfectly honest with himself, she appealed to him on some subconscious plane that he had never touched. He suspected her natural perfume would never drive him mad with desire like the heady musk of Maitimo. Still, he also had to admit that he liked the cast of the sharp fine bones of her heart-shaped face, the ethereal semi-transparency of the pale skin stretched over them.

Tadiel had always intrigued him. She reminded him of Maitimo in that she contained at her core the same type of strength coupled with intellectual acuity that hid a rare emotional openness and vulnerability. If there was a woman in the world who could arouse him physically, she might be the one. He could tell that Maitimo's response to her was totally different from his own, completely easy and unforced. He had always known that Maitimo's range of sexual preferences varied greatly from his own. Far from being something that had ever troubled him, Findekáno always had perceived that this fact made Maitimo loving him the way he did even more precious.

Findekáno said, "No, I wasn't suggesting the rotgut, I wanted to say that Turko's gotten much better in his experiments with different fruits and vegetables, over the last twenty years. The kind that Maitimo brought is distilled from grain and flavored with caraway seeds. It's strong, but it goes down smoothly."

Maitimo reached around Tadiel to ruffle Findekáno's hair. "I love you, Káno," he said.

Names:

Maedhros - Maitimo, Nelyafinwë, Nelyo
Fingon - Findekáno, Kano, Finno
Finrod - Findaráto, Ingo
Galadriel - Artanis
Aredhel - Irissë
Celegorm - Turko, Tyelkormo
Fingolfin - Nolofinwë
Maglor - Macalaurë

Secrets

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Daeron and Macalaurë remained outside in the open air throughout the morning. While talking and playing music, they drank cup after cup of strong black tea. At last, the promised storm broke. They had just finished composing their song, when torrential rain followed the rumblings of distant thunder driving them back into the tent.

"We ought to have left much earlier for the commissary pavilion," Macalaurë said, watching Daeron with simple pleasure. "We are going to go hungry now."

There was something endearing even about the way the minstrel shook the rain water from his hair. Macalaurë sensed that his fondness for Daeron exceeded physical attraction. The continence and loneliness of the last period of his life no doubt exacerbated the intensity of his feelings.

They finished lowering all of the flaps and securing them before the sheets of rain began to batter against the sides of the large tent. Macalaurë flung himself into one of the canvas folding chairs and studied Daeron with interest, wondering what he sought, rummaging among the boxes and tins that Nelyafinwë had stacked neatly near the camp stove.

"Don't worry. It can't rain like this all day," Daeron said. "But let me check to see if you have anything we can eat." A lazy smile reached Daeron's slanted fox eyes. The humidity and rain drops had already caused his silver-blond hair to begin to frizz up into a soft cloud around his head.

Holding up a small iron skillet in one hand and a waxed-paper wrapped package in another, Daeron crowed, "Look. Cooking utensils! And cheese. The bread doesn't appear to be older than yesterday either. If I grill the bread with the cheese, you won't even be able to tell that it isn't fresh baked."

"You are clever," Macalaurë said, laughing. "For all of the rough traveling we did in Aman, all the sleeping in the open, and my father's attempts to teach us how to cook over an open fire, none of it took with me. I'd starve if I had to cook for myself."

Daeron shook his head at Macalaurë with a wry grin. "You'll never starve. You're too good-looking and talented. You'll always run across someone willing to fall over herself, or himself perhaps, for the opportunity to look after you."

Macalaurë's face burned at the compliment. No one had ever reacted as keenly to him before, or if they had he had not noticed. He felt compelled to vocalize the thought. "People don't respond that way to me."

Daeron grinned at him again. "No doubt a large part of your appeal is that you do not realize how attractive you are. Look, here are some scallions too. Can I chop up some of those and add them to the melted cheese?"

"Anything you want to make will be delicious, I am sure. Anyway, beggars can't be choosers. Nelyo must have picked the wild onions. He actually enjoys cooking."

The economy of movement with which Daeron lit the camp stove and handled his utensils and ingredients demonstrated that he was comfortable with food preparation as well.

"So, as a privileged Noldorin prince did you live in a grand palace in Valinor and have servants who looked after your every need?" Daeron asked, an unexpected sweetness around the eyes turning a remark that might have been interpreted as criticism into a simple reflection.

"Not really. My father was born in a palace—the greatest in Tirion. My oldest brother Nelyo was born in the wilderness, but lived in my Grandfather Finwë's palace for most of his early childhood. The rest of us grew up in the big sprawling house that my mother and father built later on the outskirts of the city. That house would certainly be considered luxurious here. Less so in Valinor. More than anything, my father simply wanted the open countryside around him. And he liked having his forge and the workshops near the house.

“But he did not live like a prince, much less the heir to the kingship of the Noldor. He lived more like a well-off artisan. Or so I thought until I was old enough to realize the value of the resources he held in reserve—the precious metals and stones. My mother also used only the best materials for her sculptures. There was never a thought of stinting on fuel for the forge or rationing supplies for any of his projects.

“We had expensive clothing in our closets for every occasion, although we wore the more elegant ones rarely. As children, we might be expected to wear hand-me-down every-day or play clothes, but our dress-up clothes were uniquely our own and no expense or craftsmanship was spared in their making. The horses and ponies he kept were of the highest quality. But, unlike my cousins, we looked after them ourselves."

Daeron had finished chopping the green onions and arranging them on top of the slices of cheese between two pieces of bread. He placed the bread in the heated skillet and turned back, his expression rapt, to hear more of Macalaurë's story. Daeron's look, intent and sharply interested, contained the merest hint of prurient curiosity which reminded Macalaurë to whom he spoke.

This was Elwë's man, he thought. Elwë Singollo, King of the Doriathan Sindar, might have been a great friend to his grandfather, but the Sindarin chief had shown his suspicion of the newly arrived Noldor and had greeted the news of their desire to stay on in the north with imperious assertions of his authority over all of Beleriand and statements that they should remember that they settled there only at his sufferance. All of the Finwëans had been at least mildly irritated when Macalaurë's cousin Angaráto had communicated the same to them.

Upon hearing of Elwë's response, Nelyafinwë had noted, "A king can only claim as his own the lands which he is able to control. Elwë seeks to grant us the land where he lacks the ability to rule. If it were not for our people defending the north of Beleriand against Morgoth's hordes, he would be unable to claim anything as his own outside the borders of Doriath. So let him sit within his magically protected enclave and brood. He should be happy that he has the House of Finwë as his neighbors and not Morgoth's Orcs which we encountered and drove back. We will go wherever we like beyond the reaches of his sheltered little kingdom."

Macalaurë, of course, had no intention of revealing to Daeron their reaction to Elwë's arrogant message, a communication which had seemed even more delusional in light of the fact that he could not be bothered to respond to Nolofinwë's invitation to the gathering at the Pools of Ivrin. It did not bode well for relations between the Noldor and Doriath that he sent a meager party of two individuals, without even the authority to negotiate.

Elwë had sent a lore-master and a general. He no doubt hoped Daeron could give an accurate report of all he witnessed and his military chief Mablung could be presumed to be able to assess the strength of the Noldorin alliance. Elwë might not have a wicked purpose, but neither was he their friend. And, Macalaurë thought, one who holds back from unity in the face of the black Vala's amassed forces draws very close to being a threat to the survival of all the others. It would be safer to continue to entertain Daeron with more innocuous tales of his childhood and Valinor.

"There is more I could tell you about Tirion. Although, mine was not a remarkable childhood. It was more similar to the youth of any son of any of the well-off lords of Valinor than that of one of the highest princes of an accomplished people. A lot of lessons, writing, rhetoric, and geometry, with more practical work and training in crafts than our cousins received. Any among my brothers who showed talents or strong preferences in arts or sciences were encouraged to pursue those."

"So, for you that always would have been your music," Daeron said, his voice softening in puzzlement. Macalaurë was certain that Daeron had grasped that the candidness of his narrative had frozen midstream.

Acutely aware that he had no talent for dissembling, Macalaurë tried nonetheless to continue in the same tone. "If you truly want to know what it was like to be raised as one of the princes of the Noldor, you ought to ask one of my cousins. They did live in palatial houses, with swarms of servants, elegant table settings at every meal. Their parents brought them to parties, dinners and entertainments from their earliest childhood surrounded by the beautiful and remarkable of Noldorin nobles in Tirion who clustered around my grandfather's court."

Daeron shook his head and shrugged before speaking. "I fear I've touched a sensitive point. Never mind, let's eat," he said, reaching across the table to squeeze Macalaurë's hand before sliding the sandwiches onto a plate and cutting them into halves.

"I should have made tea," Macalaurë groused, greatly relieved to interrupt his monologue. "Is it too early for a glass of wine?"

"Never too early for me." Daeron smirked.

As Macalaurë set the glasses on the table and began to pour the wine, Daeron reached out and took hold of his arm. "When I asked you to tell me about yourself," he said, his light eyes wide and wholly without guile, "I only asked because I want to know you better, to understand you. I was not fishing for information. I can always do that later with others. I would not compromise my relationship with you for a few bits of information of uncertain value about your history."

Macalaurë chuckled involuntarily. "I'm sorry," he said. "Am I really so transparent?"

"That you suddenly became concerned about how much or what you were divulging to me?"

Yes," Macalaurë answered.

"You'll never make a spy," Daeron teased. "And I can honestly tell you that I do not intend to become one either. I made that clear to Thingol before I left. The role doesn't suit me nor does it suit my own assessment of the situation. It's clear to me that your countrymen came here in distress as well as ambition. Your people are entitled to the privacy of their grief. You should be able to tell us what passed between you and your Belain in Aman that made you want to distance yourself from them when you decide you are ready to talk about it."

"Of course," Macalaurë said carefully, "it's obvious to you that we are not entirely forthcoming with everything. We can be a rash, contentious people, given at times to intrigues, among ourselves first and foremost. But my personal belief, and that of my brother and numerous others with authority among the Noldor, is that our goals and interests need not be incompatible with those of your King. I am not, however, the one who decides what to reveal and when. I hope you understand that."

Daeron locked eyes with Macalaurë, swallowing a large mouthful of cheese and bread before replying. "Not bad at all, if I have say so myself."

"It's very good. Thank you so much for preparing it. I'm sorry. I'm being incredibly rude." Macalaurë took a large bite and nodded approvingly.

"You're enchanting," Daeron said, extending his hand to tug at a wayward lock of his hair which had fallen on his forehead. The heat that suffused his face and upper body maddeningly reached into his loins as well. "Eat your bread and cheese." Daeron smiled lazily, licking a bread crumb from the corner of his mouth, as though he were acutely aware of Macalaurë watching him. "Imagine a world where we were free to sing and play and let our more practical kinsmen pursue politics and war."

Macalaurë had to laugh at Daeron's seductive manner and his own response to it. "Ah, the fantasy only works," he said, "if we can also trust that they are always right and never need our counsel. Or always perfectly alert and strong and do not need us at their backs."

Promises and Negotiations

Read Promises and Negotiations

 

Whenever Maitimo thought of the day they first took Tadiel into their bed, he remembered the after-the-rain scent of wet earth and the surrounding forest. Standing at the camp stove just inside of the tent, he glimpsed water droplets caught on ferns, glittering like diamonds in the last rays of afternoon sunlight. But as he heated the water to prepare a good pot of tea, it was Tadiel and Findekáno who held the largest part his attention.

Findekáno had sprawled languid and seductive across the bed, while the young woman perched on its edge, her back straight and shoulders tight. Tadiel talked earnestly at Findekáno, as though hoping to find some way for them to make contact with one another short of her abandoning her defensive position to loll upon the sheets with him. Maitimo felt like shaking Findekáno for being so obtuse.

Couldn’t he see how uncomfortable he was making her? It looked to Maitimo as though Findekáno might precipitously try to turn the entire encounter into a physical one or worse withdraw into himself. Maitimo’s anxiety began to escalate—he fumbled a cup and caught it before it fell.  Setting the cup solidly upon the small table, Maitimo took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

Meanwhile, Findekáno at last began to speak, at first in a quiet almost meditative tone. "I first realized I had fallen in love with Maitimo when I was still a child.” He continued in a stronger, louder voice. “We all adored him, but I always knew in my heart of hearts it was a different kind of love for me. I was relentless and he held back. For years, actually.”

Clever Tadiel had breached Findekáno’s defense with her determined patience. Maitimo finished preparing the tea, as he listened to Káno’s version of the story, which he knew as well as his own. Sighing deeply, he handed Tadiel one of the cups of tea and sat next to her on the bed.

"But there is much more to our tale than falling in love, you know. More than how I was cautious and Káno bold,” Maitimo said. “We do intend to tell you some closely guarded secrets of our history eventually.” His heart clenched at the thought of burdening her with the convoluted legacy they brought with them. That they asked her to be the wife of a man who had sworn to love another ought to be more than enough for any woman to bear. But there was more, so much more, and none of it good. “I think it’s necessary to talk about what Káno and I mean to one another. But now I am wondering if you could tell us about the mysterious lost love that you have hinted at over the years."

Tadiel smiled sweetly. "Finno has always been curious about that and now you too! Lost love is not the correct term for it.” She wrinkled her brow in concentration. “I'm not denying that I might have even used the expression with one or the other of you in the past. But, in fact, one cannot lose what one never truly had." She sighed and stopped speaking, as though waiting to be prodded.

"Heh. Unrequited then?" Findekáno asked. “Maybe you told him that.” He nodded in the direction of Maitimo. “Not me. What a dolt the object of your affections must have been.”

Tadiel laughed, tossing her head. The last rays of the sunlight entering through the open vent in the roof of the tent caught the hints of gold among the auburn highlights of her light brown hair. Maitimo had always found her attractive.

"Don't bother to honey-coat it, Finno!" she teased, more than half serious.

"Ah, yes. My manners." Findekáno grinned, unrepentant, and Tadiel’s face relaxed. A smile from him was hard to resist. "Sorry, I'm not used to speaking with ladies about such questions. Only my sister and my cousin Artanis have heard so much about my love life, and no one who knows them would make the mistake of considering either of them proper ladies."

"Don't listen to him," Maitimo interjected with a huff. "Irissë's nickname is the White Lady of the Noldor. She’s as regal a grandchild as Finwë has. And Artanis intimidates almost everyone. But he is right about one thing. As an extended family, we--the cousins at least--don't stand on formality amongst one another.”

Findekáno interrupted. “Rowdy and argumentative, he is trying to say. Interfering, nosy, and far too involved in one another’s private concerns. And, as you know, there has been a love affair or two.”

Maitimo smiled at Findekáno before continuing. “Over the years, Káno and I noticed how you relate to Pilimor and the other physics, male and older than you. I think you could fit in well with us, if you wanted. You've the softness, the compassion one hopes for in, ah, in a woman . . .”  Perhaps it was too soon to dwell on the question of motherhood. “ . . . with the ambitions of a man or at least a combination of the elements that our people label as masculine and feminine. We are unaccustomed to delicate self-effacing females in our family. Or any of those stereotypes for men either."

"Take Maitimo, for example," Findekáno said grinning, determined in an annoying way to resist serious discussion. "He is as gentle and tender as any girl and yet terrifying with a sword.” He effortlessly caught the apple that Maitimo lobbed at his head. “Watch the teacups, love. There are no more of those to be had! Maybe you don't talk as much as the typical Finwëan. But we can work on that."

She giggled. “What?” asked Findekáno, pretending to be affronted.

“Oh, I was thinking of Maitimo’s brother. The rambunctious fair-haired one with the hound.”

“Bloody Tyelkormo!” Findekáno swore. “He’s a throwback to an earlier more primitive period in the history of our people. Nice bloke though. I love him a lot.”

Smiling, Tadiel said, "I do think I could love you, Finno. Perhaps I already do." Maitimo had no idea where that came from. He felt with a pang that they might already have their own private understanding that excluded him.

Even more of a surprise to him, Findekáno leaned across Maitimo and kissed her quickly. "Don't try to avoid the original question. Name him, fair lady."

"Celeborn." She spat out the name as though it left a bitter taste.

"Well!" Maitimo said, truly taken aback by that revelation. "I have heard him called Elwë's right hand." Their young healer was a dark horse indeed. Why hadn’t she wedded the Sindarin prince?

"Some might call him that," she answered, "or Elu's favored one or simply his beloved nephew, depending upon how they feel about Celeborn. He is one of those people who inspire a range of emotions. I worshiped him. He was the only true prince within Doriath. He could be merry and approachable, and yet wise. I was even younger then, awed that he was so close in confidence to Thingol and Melian, and, especially, that he should show any interest in me. He was not young, but born on the Great March."

 

"You, however, are still young," Findekáno said, drawing his eyebrows together, almost stern. "And yet he, all but one of the ancients, allowed himself a dalliance with you."

“It just happened,” she said, bristling, lifting her chin. “He never made me any promises, and he was careful that I remained a virgin inviolate, so to speak."

“Ha!” Findekáno barked. “I’ve heard those stories. The everything-but mode of lovemaking that certain men initiate with maids they don’t intend to wed. He cast an accusatory glance at Maitimo, which might have made him flinch if they had not trod that path so many times before. Instead Maitimo had to struggle to control a snort.

“I suppose you think he is beautiful and noble also?" Findekáno asked.

"Don't torment me, Finno!" she said laughing. "Even those who haven't met him have heard that about him. He is also powerful and competent. And a formidable warrior. He'd be any young girl’s model of a perfect lord. Perhaps, he has not your sort of rugged handsomeness. Or as likely to immediately be spotted in a crowd as our flame-haired Maitimo." She reached out to caress the line of Findekáno’s jaw. "But, yes, the silver prince of Doriath is stunning, and as proud and vain about his looks as any woman. Up close he is every bit as beautiful as Maitimo.” She turned to meet Maitimo’s eyes, with a shy smile. “But I would describe him as more similar in the refined elegance of his features to your cousin Findaráto."

"Another blond then?" Findekáno snorted. “Women seem to like blonds.” Maitimo bit his tongue to hold back the remark that Findekáno himself could be counted among those who fancied Findaráto for his flaxen locks, among other notable qualities. But he appreciated he was learning more by remaining silent.

"He is not a golden blond like your cousin, but the silvery sort of even paler blond." She shot Findekáno a sharp look, daring him to laugh again. "Why is all this detail so important to you?"

Findekáno opened his mouth to answer, but Maitimo could no longer resist breaking into their exchange. "You see, darling, Káno is watching your every expression and listening to your voice, while he alternately baits and lulls you into revealing exactly how you really feel about this Prince Celeborn."

"Ah. I understand. Well, I have no deep dark secrets concerning him.” Her lower lip trembled. “And worse still, I can't promise you that he couldn't have me back in an instant if he ever decided he wanted me. But I am smart enough to realize as an absolute certainty that he will not. There is something else he wants and he may never find it. But I am not it."

"So, sounds like he is a quite a fool not to have discerned your worth." The smile Findekáno gave her was both flirtatious and compassionate.

Maitimo felt a flash of jealousy. Findekáno turned to look at him, as though he sensed his discomfort. “You’ve been quiet,” he said to him.

“Just listening to the two of you, Káno. You know one another better than I had realized.” Maitimo was mortifyingly aware of how uncertain he sounded.

"Don’t be ridiculous! This was more your idea than mine!” He shrugged in apology at Tadiel. “I need you, Maitimo. We both need you. I need to know you are in this with me. I cannot go through with this without your help."

"Oh, I'm sure you could," Maitimo said, his voice gruff before he released a relieved exhalation.

"But," Tadiel said, looking directly into Maitimo’s eyes, "you understand as well as I do that Finno doesn't want to. Not yet at least." She put her hand up to Maitimo's forehead brushing his hair back. "I cannot consider any of this with Finno unless I know you agree to share it."

"I do. I will," Maitimo whispered, knowing in that moment at least that he actually did want to share Findekáno with her and there was no possibility he would simply hand Findekáno over to her. His partner was gregarious and not usually shy about showing affection publicly, but no one in all of Arda realized what it truly meant that Findekáno, incomparable, remarkable Káno, belonged so completely to him. He wanted to show Tadiel that, for her to know that Káno was his. Some small part of wanting to do so also contained an element of vanity. She might marry Findekáno and bear his children, but Káno belonged to him.

Maitimo surprised himself by saying it aloud, his voice suddenly husky with emotion. "Just do not forget that he will always belong first to me." He half expected Findekáno to object that no one owned him, but instead Káno laughed.

Tadiel pulled Maitimo closer to her, pressing him back against the pillows with a kiss, releasing him just long enough to say, "Silly man! As though either of you will ever let me forget that."

"Don't worry," Findekáno said to her. "He gets nervous. But we wouldn't have offered you this proposal if we were not certain that what we have is strong enough to share without losing any part of ourselves.” He sounded short of wind and looked splendid in his flushed-cheeked breathlessness. “We can do anything you want. When we are all together like this, each of us is equal.”

“I’m not sure that I know what I want,” she said. She stroked his plump lower lip with her index finger.

Findekáno grabbed her slender finger, kissed the tip of it, and shrugged. “That’s what Maitimo is here for, right? To help us both with that sort of thing. He’s the more experienced one and brilliant at making love.”

Maitimo looked at Findekáno speculatively, wanting some sort of clearer guidance, and got nothing but a bland stare. He wanted to wring Káno’s neck, but considered that wouldn’t be fair to Tadiel. “Perhaps we, Káno and I, will try to take the lead and if you do not feel comfortable with something, anything, let us know. I’ll pay attention also to what you seem to like.”

“He is not exaggerating. He is really incredibly gifted,” Findekáno said with a dreamy smile, stretching.

“You make it sound lovely.” Tadiel grinned at Findekáno and stroked his cheek before turning to Maitimo. “I think I would really like to watch you kiss him, Nelyo.” Findekáno gasped. She leaned in to kiss Findekáno lightly on the lips. “Would you like that? Or would that seem like a violation of your privacy?” It occurred to Maitimo for a painful moment that maybe she and Findekáno might not need him at all.

“I think we already gave up that privacy when we asked you to come back here with us,” Findekáno said, his low voice sounding young and puzzled. “I think I like the idea of you watching us for a few moments before all of us . . . do . . . ah . . . whatever it is we’re supposed to do.”

Then it dawned on Maitimo that Findekáno truly had no idea what one might want to do with a woman and little to no independent compulsion to find out. But because they had discussed it and he had agreed to it, he would follow through with what was expected of him with valor.

“It’s not so complicated,” Maitimo said, his voice cracking with emotion. “We’ll try to please ourselves and in doing so please one another.” Sharing Káno, he thought, might be harder than he had expected.

“So beautiful and so wise,” Tadiel said, glowing with earnest appreciation. “So, yes, please kiss him. I want to see that. I really do.”

All three of them were warm and slightly flushed, still damp from the rain, from their tramp through the woods, and sitting so close together on the bed that they all touched. Maitimo could smell the distinctive scents of both Findekáno and Tadiel. Her heavy hair exuded a bouquet of lavender and sandalwood. The fragrance could not have been further from the fussy, excessively feminine, flowery perfumes that had been so popular among the maidens of Tirion in his youth. And Findekáno, smelled of himself, his own so familiar woodsy musk, with the faintest fresh but spicy overtone of bergamot. Soap no doubt.

“Kiss me like she said,” Findekáno ordered, nearly irresistible. But Maitimo felt compelled to play at disobeying him.

“Ladies first,” Maitimo teased. Instead, he gave Tadiel a solid, brief kiss on the mouth, with just a bit of tongue. She squeaked in surprise, but kissed him back with confidence. The silver prince apparently had assured that she was comfortable with certain parts of lovemaking.

As soon as he released Tadiel’s lips, Findekáno grabbed him in an aggressive open-mouthed kiss, pulling him over and onto Tadiel, causing Maitimo’s groin to press against her thigh. By thoroughly assaulting his mouth, Findekáno caused him to begin to breathe heavily and his cock to harden against Tadiel’s leg. Her body felt firm but covered with a lovely layer of womanly padding that he remembered well, so different from Káno’s granite thighs.

“Can you feel how quickly he gets aroused,” Findekáno said. “Can you see his face?”

“Mmm. Too close to see his face well. I can feel him and you as well, Finno” she whispered.

Maitimo harrumphed at Findekáno. Who predictably took umbrage at the sound. “I never said I was dead inside. Just that I prefer men.” Findekáno then began kissing her forcefully, while reaching around to grab onto to Maitimo’ backside and pull him closer still. Maitimo was being deliciously squished against Tadiel.

She pulled away from him, laughing. “Precious Finno! Have you ever kissed a woman?”

“Ah, before you? Ah. No.”

Maitimo eased slightly away from Findekáno so they were not crushing Tadiel between them. “You should try to be a little gentler with a maid than you are with me.”

“I’m not made of glass,” she said, giggling with delight. “I like the way he kisses!” All three of them laughed.

The scent of her and the feel of her baby soft skin beneath Maitimo’s fingertips reminded him of another life. While it was sweetly satisfying to hold this woman, it also reaffirmed for him his belief in the utter brilliance of the choice he had made to give his love to Findekáno--a marvel of judgment he would never cease to appreciate. He adored the feeling of holding and touching a woman. It also reminded him of how close he might have come to living his life without knowing the utterly unique and amazing feeling of making love to a man. Findekáno, barely of age, had made that happen. He wondered if it might have ever been possible for him to have made another decision or if it had always been fated, inevitable.

Maitimo reached across Tadiel to kiss Findekáno on the mouth again, gentler than before. Tadiel pushed and squirmed until Káno allowed her settle on the other side of him. With Káno securely in the middle, she said, “There that’s better. He belongs there. Since he is the one who is not sure how he will find satisfaction in this.” The conspiratorial look she gave Maitimo made him melt.

She sought Maitimo’s hand, which she found stroking Findekáno's sex, and intertwined her fingers with his. It seemed natural to them to seek to pleasure Findekáno first.

As Maitimo might have expected, Findekáno's appreciative writhing and moaning would have sparked flames from the coldest ashes and no one in that bed that day was tepid. Findekáno's acceptance of his own pleasure in the act of love had always for Maitimo been the most powerful of aphrodisiacs and he noticed that it affected Tadiel in the same way. Each gave and received the caresses and kisses of the others until none of them could move. They managed to work free of their clothing and ended up three bodies tangled together upon the bed in a state of lethargic satiation. Whatever minor self-consciousness any of them might have retained had faded quickly.

 0 0 0 0

Much later, Findekáno watched with a mesmerized curiosity as Maitimo ran his hand down the center of Tadiel's body, from her breastbone to her navel. It was as though he observed for the first time what everything that Maitimo had told him about finding pleasure in women looked like in reality. He was surprised that he did not feel more jealous at how much Maitimo relished making love to her and how natural he made it look. But even then Maitimo had buried his nose in Findekáno’s hair, pulling him up against the side of them. It was characteristic of Maitimo that he seemed conscious of never showing affection to Tadiel without seeking to simultaneously reassure Findekáno.

At last, Findekáno permitted himself to relax, lying on his side facing Maitimo, with Tadiel on her back between them. Findekáno's hand rested lightly on top of Maitimo's splayed upon Tadiel's stomach. It was Tadiel who caused Findekáno to stir at last when she wiggled to sit up.

"I have to go relieve myself," she announced.

"You are lucky today," Findekáno said. "Since we intend to stay here a couple of months, Maitimo and I constructed an outhouse just a few feet downhill from the back entrance to the tent."

Maitimo, yawning, offered, "I'll show you where it is if you like. But it's hard to miss."

"I'll find it," she said, climbing over Findekáno to get out of the bed. She slipped Maitimo's tunic over her head, where it fell to mid-thigh on her. "I'll be right back."

Findekáno studied Maitimo's face for some indication of his mood, but he only looked drowsy.

"I think that went surprisingly well. Don't you?" Findekáno said.

Maitimo raised himself on one elbow and scowled menacingly at Findekáno. "Oh, please, Káno! How dare you try to understate your reactions like that? Remember who you are talking to. I know you better than I know myself. After everything you said to me about not caring for women. All the 'yes, yes, yeses' you were groaning. Or were you only doing that to make me jealous. I wouldn't put it past you." Maitimo cursed under his breath, probably speaking without any attempt to temper his anxiety. “It was all I could do to be polite at times.”

Findekáno laughed aloud and pulled him into a demanding kiss. "That's a relief. You had almost convinced me that you weren't jealous at all. I do promise you though, you do not need to be worried in the slightest. That was very nice, but I am quite secure in what I prefer. I think she actually likes us quite a bit—together, I mean. What do you think?"

Maitimo bristled. "And why wouldn't she? You're ridiculously appealing and responsive, and I do know how to please a woman."

"You do, don't you?" Findekáno gave him a little grimace that he knew Maitimo always found charming. "I have to admit I was impressed. Although, she did seem to like some of the things I did as well. Did you notice anything I should try to improve upon?"

"Are you serious?" Maitimo barely choked out. "You're a natural. You always have been from our very first time. Perhaps you were a bit tentative at first with her . . . "

Frustrated and unexpectedly relieved, Findekáno grabbed him in a neck lock, rubbing his knuckles against the top of his head.

"Eru in Ea, Maitimo! A bit tentative?” He released and, grabbing his face with both, hands locked eyes with him. “I am never going to feel anything remotely like I do when it's just you and me. That is so magical, in every sense. We've such a history, and I am still so stupidly, irrationally in love with you! I've tried to explain that to you a thousand times. And, what part of 'she's a girl!'--well, actually a very lovely woman--do you not understand?"

"Let me go." Maitimo squirmed loose. "I’m sorry. But it is hard for me to imagine how different we are in that way. We've always been perfect together, Káno. I do realize how fortunate I am. This is going to hurt us, isn’t it?"

"I thought I was the one who was supposed to be worried about that? Maybe just a little. The whole situation is bound to cost us something. But you told me that only the day before yesterday.” He could feel a tightening in the back of his throat, although he tried to relax as he spoke. “I will do what we agreed. I will make a son and the Noldor will have an heir--and he will be half-Sindarin. Am I forgetting anything else you promised my father?"

"Stop it Káno. You're everything I've ever wanted. I don’t want to share you with anyone," Maitimo said, the slight rise in his voice making him sound fraught, or if not fraught, at least extremely uneasy. “It is just something you have to do. And I, for one, if I am going to do this with you--for you--cannot try to stop myself from caring about her also. Anything else would just be wrong.”

"Aww. Of course, you would be like that,” Findekáno said, kissing him with tenderness. “I was worried that I might doubt us, watching you make love to a woman. Oh, and I cannot emphasize strongly enough that I am as different as can be from you on that issue! I see that clearly now. But that doesn't mean as much as I had feared it would. I was afraid if you held a woman again that it would remind you what you have missed. But you couldn't keep your hands off me. I liked that part a lot. And it was more than pleasant with Tadiel. I worried too much about that. I kind of . . . no, more than kind of . . . I really enjoy the idea her watching us. Is that strange?” He rattled on in a frenetic stream of consciousness, barely able to catch his breath, clearly frantic with nerves. “It is a whole other matter whether I can do all of those things as well when you are not with us. I'm still quite certain I could have done none of it without you today."

"Shush, Findekáno.” He held him tight against him. “I am terrified too that somehow this might be a horrible mistake. It seems like it must be done and that we should be able to do it. But I cannot bear the thought of risking losing you. I don't think I could live without you. I'm not exaggerating about that. Were it not for you, I would not be alive now."

They both relaxed quietly back against the pillow and held one another gently.

0 0 0 0

After a few minutes, Maitimo was the first to speak again.

“I don’t even need to promise you. You’re everything to me.” It occurred to Maitimo that a child would change that, if a woman couldn’t. But that was normal to him. He was used to babies taking precedence and, from personal experience, understood that children did grow up. The transformation that a child or children could make in one’s life might feel differently to Findekáno who had been raised in a quieter household.

“You do have to come see me more often and stay longer, sweetheart,” Findekáno said. Maitimo could hear the smug grin in Findekáno’s voice at that thought.

“You had better believe I will, lady killer,” said Maitimo. He would have to make a greater effort that they did not grow apart.

0 0 0 0

When Tadiel returned from the outhouse, she listened outside of the tent for a moment, both curious and anxious. She could hear their voices rising and falling. They spoke rapidly in their native tongue, which she had gone to great pains to learn, living in Mithrim in close proximity to so many Noldor. But it was still difficult at times, impossible to understand muffled and at a distance. The conversation sounded intense and then there was a long silence. When they began speaking again, more softly, she rapped on a support at the back of the tent, calling out, "May I come back in?"

"Please do," Maitimo hurried to say in a loud voice. She thought he wanted to be certain she did not feel as though she had interrupted anything.

"I just didn't want to walk in on you. I thought you might be talking about me, about us. I didn't want to interrupt . . . oh, you know what I am trying to say."

"Come here," Maitimo said, sitting up and holding his arms open to her. He pulled her onto his lap and held her there, with her back against his chest.

Findekáno looked at them, cocking his head to one aside as though intrigued. "Would you like to watch me do him? Or the other way around?" he asked her, his voice sounding sweetly considerate on the surface, but with an implication behind it of uncertain meaning.

Maitimo was clearly used to being surprised by him. He only laughed and gave Tadiel a little squeeze. “Nice opening line, Káno! Subtle.”

She wondered if perhaps Findekáno wanted to clearly assert his privilege to do whatever he pleased with Maitimo and demonstrate that it must always be permitted.

"We don't have to if you think it would make you uncomfortable," Findekáno added, suddenly apologetic.

She responded with a ragged whisper. "Oh. I think I would like that." Covering her mouth with her hand, she managed a shaky smile. She actually had not expected that they would allow her that far into their private space.

Maitimo she instinctively trusted to be good to her. But she suspected that one ought not to be taken in by Findekáno, with his natural sweetness, his tender, lovely mouth, as beautiful naked as she could ever have imagined. All of that could be distracting and disarming, when self-protection might be needed. There was a lot about Findekáno that she did not understand.

They had explained to her certain things which were non-negotiable. The entire matter of Findekáno taking a wife had always hinged upon whether each of them could bear to share his beloved. When they finally had agreed to experiment, they had not known if Findekáno could respond to a woman at that level of intimacy. He had responded. She thought that had to be good for their purposes.

She well remembered Findekáno flirting with her when they first met under the influence of a lot of alcohol and always with Maitimo right there, joking and teasing as well. Once she had thought they might have come very close to spending the night together. In that first year of his recovery, Maitimo had refused to dance. Findekáno had actually tried to titillate Maitimo by dancing with her with some measure of success. But Maitimo had also mentioned earlier that day that neither had known how they would react to seeing their partner in the arms of another.

"I'd love to watch you together," Tadiel repeated, still whispering, afraid or unable to say it aloud. She colored, touched her cheeks, and then laughed. "I did stumble upon a couple of young apprentices once at the Houses of Healing on the Lake. They had found an unoccupied isolated alcove. They did not see or hear me. I wondered if they looked anything like the two of you might look. They were nothing like the two of you physically—both younger and much slighter. A Noldorin lad and a lovely Sindarin boy. But it did not seem to me to be a casual act for them. They obviously had some experience together and treated one another with great affection.

"You surprise me, Tadiel," said Maitimo before chuckling softly. "Not in a bad way. It is amusing that we did wonder from time to time how much privacy we had there. Although the lack of absolute isolation could never have prevented us from making love. We were dying for one another at the time."

She shoved Maitimo with her shoulder. "Shame on you. No one spied on the two of you at the Houses of Healing!” The idea that he would think she would so misuse her position of trust horrified her. “In fact, we had a policy of allowing you as much uninterrupted time together that we could manage. Pilimor insisted from the beginning that your healing depended upon having Findekáno to support you in every way possible, that your physical intimacy increased your chances of complete recovery."

Findekáno said, "Don't be upset. He's just trying to agitate you. We could tell that at least Pilimor seemed to know and accept what we meant to one another. That was the cultural difference that we most immediately noticed between our people and yours. In Aman only the wisest or most foolish accepted our love for one another without questioning its validity."

"I would never have tried to spy on you," she insisted, still disconcerted. "I came upon those boys by accident and . . . I already had heard of many things that men do with one another, but I was curious to see what that would look like. It was hard to look away."

"So when you watched them, you imagined Maitimo and me," Findekáno said, keeping his voice neutral, showing through the little smile he gave her that his intention was wicked. "Did you touch yourself?" he asked.

Tadiel growled and hit him on the arm. "You horrid man!"

"No shame in that. I'm sure I would have." He grinned before adding, "At least, I would have if I did not have the self-control to walk away."

"You really are an insufferable brat," Tadiel said. She felt a swift surge of affection and amused tolerance for Findekáno’s ribbing, which surely showed.

"Yes. But you already knew that about me. And you like it, don't you? I realize that Maitimo may be the ideal of a handsome prince out of a maiden's dream, but you've always admired my willingness to make a fool of myself."

Findekáno had told her once that, for him, Maitimo's glow might not compare to the hard, almost god-like brilliance of his famous father but was truer, felt more like clear sunlight than lightning's flame. She and Finno shared an untouchable admiration for him. She wholly agreed that Maitimo possessed a luminosity that none of his suffering or losses could ever tarnish. Findekáno himself projected the high, fine nobility and courage of a legendary hero, until his roguish humor showed him to be genuine and earthy. Her two Noldorin princes were not close to ordinary in any sense.

Looking not to Tadiel for encouragement but to Maitimo, Findekáno stretched with a deliberate insouciant grace, the intent of which was blatant seduction. The tent still smelled strongly of sex and perspiration. They might both be legends, but they were human ones, flawed and imperfect, but perfectly adorable.

“My heart,” Maitimo said, looking into Findekáno’s eyes and stroking his strong jawline. Finno only gasped and said nothing. “Let me make love to you.” That time neither did Maitimo look at her to offer reassurance.

Sinking down onto the rug at the side of the bed, Tadiel leaned against it and watched. She knew it would always matter more to Findekáno how Maitimo perceived him. He measured his happiness by his sense of his importance to his beloved. Well, she thought, I can live with what they share with one another. Her heart had been broken once and mended, she expected less and allowed herself more latitude. Was it not a bargain to trade the most likely unobtainable ideal of romantic love for what these two handsome and likeable princes offered her?

She felt a sense of loss, not an aching loss, but a sweet, wistful one. They were so beautiful together with their strong, lean bodies and long legs. Finno had the more sculpted upper arms. Maitimo’s broader shoulders balanced his slightly greater height. The missing hand and the light sprinkling of freckles over Maitimo’s shoulders and cheekbones were the only things that made his painful beauty tolerable to her. She doubted that she would have even dared to touch him in his pristine state in Aman. But Finno had apparently always had courage to spare.

They had lost all awareness of her presence, or at least it appeared that way. Finno was right, she had to touch herself as she watched them. After beginning with a tenderness that equaled or surpassed the way they had handled her, they progressed to a fiercer, rougher intensity in their lovemaking that she envied and slightly feared. She suddenly realized, as they climaxed and she brought herself to completion along with them, that it had, after all, been a showing. Perhaps it had not been a conscious one. But they had demonstrated for her: this is us; you may observe, but this we can never entirely share.

Findekáno looked to have fallen instantly asleep, half on, half off Maitimo, who reached a seeking arm out to her. In a voice, dazed and blissed out, he said, “Come here and rest for a moment. If you can wait just a little while longer, then we can all go to the lake together and bathe.” She crawled up onto mattress and curled up against his chest. The bed sheet was somewhat damp beneath her, but she could not be bothered to care. She was suddenly unable to keep her eyes open either. He pulled her a little higher up onto his chest keeping his arm around her.

“Thank you,” Maitimo said before falling asleep.

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Thank you, Ignoble Bard, so very much for making a valiant effort to find all the typos on the last draft of this.

Illustration for Deer Dance in Chapter 1

Read Illustration for Deer Dance in Chapter 1

Illustration for the Deer Dance in Chapter 1,
by the very talented and generous Hrymfaxe.

(Click for larger image.)

Please do not copy or use without the express permission of the artist. http://hrymfaxe.livejournal.com/28354.html

Further illustrations for this story.

Read Further illustrations for this story.

Mereth Aderthad.

"The hunter is kissing the deer?" Macalaurë asked, his voice husky with strong feeling.

"No. Not exactly." Daeron watched as the hunter Elf did not quickly release the lips of the one who had played the deer.

"Well, in this case, you may be right. But that is something added. Inhibitions freed by the intensity of the moment. The ritual in its purest form requires only that the tribesman who brings down the stag show his desire to partake of its nobility and courage by appearing to inhale its dying breath. Usually indicated by placing his lips above those of the other dancer or touching them lightly. I have also heard that movement described as being symbolic of gratitude to the deer for giving his life to feed their people or a way of easing the animal to peacefully accept its death."

"Oh, whatever the explanation, that young man kissed that deer," Macalaurë stated emphatically.

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