The Coimas War by Russandol

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Chapter 2

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‘Wake up, my lord! Wake up!’

It took the King of the Noldor a few heartbeats to realise that someone was shaking him rather vigorously, and that the tone of the caller was anxious, almost hysterical. The movement and the screeching voice made his head rattle, as if pounded into powder by trolls’ maces, and when he opened his eyes he had to rub them several times to confirm that they were not being pierced by red hot needles, but merely caressed by the first rays of the morning sun.

With a groan Arafinwë remembered the excessive amount of miruvor he had consumed the previous evening, after a pleasant dinner of oysters and saffron rice in their balcony arranged by Eärwen, no doubt, to promote their reconciliation. Where had his resourceful wife found oysters, scarcer than emeralds these days?

A warm tingle flowed through his veins at the thought of Eärwen’s loveliness, all but seducing him as enticingly as in the initial years of their courtship and marriage. He was happy that their silly quarrel had been fortunately forgotten. Sadly, she had been called to an urgent errand by one of her ladies in waiting and had not returned to consummate their passion before he fell asleep, but surely something could be arranged before he had to attend his council meeting. He wondered where she was now…

‘You need to get dressed at once, my lord!’ His aide all but shouted in his ear. Arafinwë briefly considered sacking him, though he had served him since the Darkening. The man was far too persistent in his duties, which sometimes was downright annoying. In the end he obeyed the urgent call, dragged himself out of bed and threw some clothes on his body. Why did he have to be the Noldóran, bound by duty, never free to do as he wished and instead being ordered about by his servants?

Outside the gates of his house he joined a sizeable crowd. They watched the beginning of the first harvest procession of the Yavannildi, the women who would gather the blessed corn of Yavanna to make it into coimas, the life-bread.

As usual, the Queen, the Bread-giver amongst the Noldor, led the procession on a white horse, its reins covered in green vines. As usual, the maids and women that followed wore, like her, garlands of pale niphredil around their necks, the symbol of their pledge to Yavanna, and carried no tools, for the corn would be harvested with their own hands. As usual, they left for the fields at dawn on the first day of the month of Yavannië, and would work for a whole cycle of the moon.

What was not usual, however, was that instead of the customary two or three dozen women, four at most in exceptional years, the whole female population of Tirion seemed to have joined the parade.

Also most unusual and the reason that made most of all present males drop their jaws open was the attire of the women, or lack of. A few of them wore the most diaphanous gowns Arafinwë had ever seen, that left very little to the imagination. But the majority of them were even bolder, clad in nothing but their long tresses, which usually reached their knees. As abundant as their beautiful hair was, it did not suffice to cover their marble-like skin in its entirety. The Queen belonged to this latter group.

In fact, when he managed to recover from his first shocked impression, he was completely convinced that he could see his wife’s nipples peeking most enticingly through her hair, despite the thick garland of niphredil that hang from her neck.

And if he could, so could others. He blushed when, from the intent stares around him, he realised he was right in his assumption. Mercifully she was sat atop a horse and other alluring parts of her anatomy were not revealed, except for the cleft of her perfect buttocks when she rode past.

All men watched in incredulous fascination and utter silence, only broken by the soft clip-clop of hooves and the whisper of bare feet on the ground. All of them who had a wife or betrothed would find her in the parade and any smugness they might have displayed before their comrades and friends would die in shocked embarrassment.

‘What in Mandos is this mockery?’ Arafinwë called out, only to be completely ignored by the women.

When he tried to approach Eärwen’s mare, usually a well behaved beast, she nearly bit his hand off. He stepped back hastily while his nostrils were treated to the sweet scent of jasmine, the perfume his wife used in her bath. He was hit by the nasty realisation that he was not only being ignored, but snubbed. To aggravate him further, his unfulfilled morning arousal had soared to an uncomfortable level due to the excessive display of tempting flesh.

He loved his wife, but of course he could not be impartial to the charms of so much beauty paraded before his eyes. Some maidens blushed, others even dared wink at him when he was found staring at… well, at their naked shapes.

Finally the last group of women walked past leading the empty cart that would be full of golden ears by nightfall. Arafinwë snapped out of his trance-like stillness and gruffly asked Carmiswë, the captain of his guard, to disperse the crowd of dumbstruck men. Then he went up to his study to consider this development. Did his wife truly believe she would be able to claim any sort of victory with such a crude trick? Well, she would soon find out her mistake.

At the sudden twitch in his groin at the memory of her nudity, he suddenly realised what Eärwen’s pledge to Yavanna would mean to him personally. Every year since she had become Queen, she had only joined the Yavannildi on the first and the last day of their sacred task. During those days she had had to abide the rule of “abstinence from pleasure of the hröa in the arms of a man” as the law and customs duly prescribed.

After her behaviour towards him during the procession he was convinced she would have no qualms about abstaining for longer than a day, and thus deprive him of his share of marital pleasure.

A number of epithets came to the king’s lips, all of them unspeakable in polite company. He was alone, so he almost shouted them. Then he laughed ominously. Well, if his wife thought he would fall for such a pathetic ploy, he would wait for her to return to him, desperate for pardon and unsatisfied lust. Then she would find out who was King. Had he not defeated Moringotto? A gang of impudent ladies would prove to be a far easier foe in comparison.

His confidence wavered slightly when he watched the parade march back into Tirion that night. The orange flame of torches and candles made his wife’s bare skin glow like gold, shadows danced over her body, and her flowing hair caressed her in ways his fingers could not, titillating his every nerve. But he resolutely stood still and did not approach her. When his gaze met hers, she looked at him in utter contempt, equal in his opinion to that she would bestow on a slimy slug found on her plate.   

She never went to her rooms, adjacent to his own. Instead she fortified herself with Nerdanel in a set of guest chambers in a different wing, and her personal Telerin guard protected her door. Was she hoping he would demand or, Eru forbid, beg to be admitted? He had endured years in Beleriand without her to warm his bed. This would, in comparison, be children’s play. She would be the one to yield and plead for his favours. 

Three days later he began to get irritated at the farce. To add insult to injury, the King was bound by law to provide supplies to the Yavannildi, so that every day a long line of laden carts would roll down the streets towards the hallowed coimas grounds, and the Noldóran’s gold reserve dwindled from feeding half the population of the realm.

A report from his spies pointed at the stirrings of serious trouble. Little work was being done in the city, with half of the realm dedicated to the laudable but ultimately redundant job of producing coimas and the other half distracted by growing physical urges. Men were muttering complains about the law forbidding their wives from sharing their hröar. No arguments or pleas could persuade the women to forgo their pledge to the Queen and remain faithful Yavannildi until she released them.

Besides, a considerable number of men from all walks of life were regularly found hiding behind the trees that surrounded the corn fields, to watch the naked harvesters as they performed their tasks. Some brawls had been ruthlessly broken up by the city guard when jealous husbands, fathers and brothers had suspected others from eyeing their respective wives, daughters or sisters with anything but utmost respect.

At dusk, after a harder than usual day at court and meetings, Arafinwë decided he needed to study the situation in person. He ordered his horse saddled and rode through the city gates to the fields, only a short canter away.

When he arrived the grounds were teeming with singing and dancing, and mostly bare, women. Guided by one of his agents he perched himself at the best vantage point to spot his quarry from outside the boundary.

Under a large open tent, well lit with oil lamps sat his wife with a group of laughing maids. As the spies had already advised, they were dressed in nothing but their long unbound hair and garlands of flowers. Most of them merrily danced, twirled and leaped, while some others played flutes and small drums. They drank wine and miruvor.

His wine. His miruvor. He gritted his teeth.

This scene may have just been about bearable. What happened next definitely was not. His wife took seat by another woman, who soon began to feed her sweetmeats out of her hand. Eärwen licked the offering fingers in a truly sensual, most shocking way, while sighing and giggling. Who was the impudent maid who dared behave towards his wife in such indecent manner? He recognised her features when her face turned to the light. It was no maid but Nerdanel, Fëanáro’s wife.

Arafinwë watched in fascination as the two women locked their bodies into a sinuous embrace. Then he blinked, doubting his eyes. No, there it was again. They were kissing each other. Hesitantly at first, then with more enthusiasm, as if they wished to sample their taste more deeply, unhampered by inhibition despite the numerous audience around them.

They proceeded to fondle each other’s breasts lovingly, their lips never breaking contact. Eärwen placed one of her hands between her legs; the motion and rhythm of her arm left her stunned husband no doubt as to its activity. She swayed, both to the music and to her own pleasure, then threw her head back in complete abandon when Nerdanel slowly began to ravish her naked body with demanding lips and firm fingers, as if modelling her curves in clay.

A large golden implement, of certain size and shape that made it impossible to confuse it with anything else suddenly appeared in Nerdanel’s hand. Actually, the size was excessive, in Arafinwë’s view.

‘Puhtat! Tiutarincë?^[1]’ cursed the outraged king loudly. ‘I will have them both thrown into prison for this shamelessness.’ Simultaneously he made a mental note about finding out the object’s origins. Could it be real gold? Had Fëanáro crafted such exquisite toys when not engaged in making sons or Silmarilli? He discarded these distracting musings and focused on the scene unfolding before him.

His eyes stayed glued to Eärwen, drinking in her every movement, including her minute shivers while Nerdanel traced her skin with the golden phallus, and his imagination recreated her every sigh and gasp. His treacherous groin had responded to the deluge of visual stimulation in the most ardent way but, unable to relieve his need, he was frustrated, furious and aroused as never before in his long life.

At that time it was no longer clear what was happening between the two women, by then lying naked and golden in a swaying tangle on the grass, but at length they parted reluctantly and rose to their feet. Eärwen put her arm around Nerdanel’s waist and together they walked out of his line of sight, behind the drapes of the pavilion. The other women smiled knowingly and clapped and cheered at their departure. The drumbeats echoed louder and faster, the dancing grew wilder.

That was it. Arafinwë would not put up with such an affront any longer. With a cursory downward look to check that his tunic covered any signs of his predicament, he stepped towards the tent. His determined strides were broken when a line of women blocked his advance.

‘You may not pass, my King,’ one of them said sweetly. ‘This is sacred ground, hallowed by Yavanna, and only to be entered by the Yavannildi.’ An undisguised smirk lit her features.

Arafinwë would have strangled her on the spot but with an effort he clenched his hands to his sides and walked away, seething.

Had he looked behind, he would have witnessed how his wife and Nerdanel peeked at his retreat from their refuge, tears of mirth on their faces.

‘Our strategy is working, my sisters,’ Eärwen laughed. ‘Let us celebrate!’

After the women returned to Tirion, late into the night, the balmy breeze brought to Arafinwë the sound of silver laughter and whispers in the dark. He had to invoke all his will power not to knock on his wife’s door demanding entrance. He resorted to his hands to relieve his throbbing lust, but this reprieve could not satisfy his hunger for warm, soft skin under his fingers and a pliant body dancing with his own. He went to sleep with images of Eärwen riding him with a flower garland gracing her neck and a smile on her lips.

His second visit, two days later, proved even more disturbing. Another outrageous scene of seduction and surrender was followed by the departure of all other women from the tent so that this time there was no music to mask the unequivocal moans of pleasure of someone lost in the throes of passion. Could he hear Eärwen’s voice that huskily urged for completion? His own desire was unbearably stoked by the scenes his imagination portrayed of the happenings behind the veils.

Once again he rode back to Tirion most uncomfortable with the pressure in his groin. A cold bath did not truly solve the matter. Images of his naked wife, writhing with pleasure in the arms of Nerdanel or other women kept flashing in his mind and would not be dispelled. He felt miserable, betrayed, and plagued by contradictory urges ranging from burning lust to cold schemes for exacting revenge.

He was adamant he would prevail over his wife’s war games. During the following days he ruthlessly curbed the rising protests of the men of the city, increasingly more prone to react in a belligerent manner to the slightest perceived provocation. He imprisoned several of them who had disturbed the peace with rowdy quarrels, no doubt caused by their raised spirits. As an additional precaution he established an armed guard around the perimeter of the coimas grounds to keep everyone away and therefore avoid more incidents. But he had to remove it when several soldiers were brought back in disgrace, accused of having taken themselves in hand while on duty.

Every evening, after he watched the women return, when Eärwen was so near and yet so far, he kept musing on riding behind her on the horse, her beautiful breasts warm under his hands, and wondered what would and would not be feasible on horseback.

Any temporary reprieve of his rampant desire only left him more unsatisfied, until it got to a point where her swaying form was constantly present in his mind, and he was finding it difficult to even attend the business of estate. His self discipline was all but flagging. Worst of all, deep within he knew he was defeated.

 

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Chapter End Notes

^[1] Puhtat (Quenya) Second person (singular) of the imperative of puhta- copulate.

Tiutarincë (Quenya) Dildo (literally "little consoler"). Term coined by Darth Fingon for Pandemonium_213 in “The Elendimir”, used with his kind permission.