Same Shade of Gold by Maggie Honeybite

The wind had been high during the night, cruelly whipping against the sides of the tent. It died down toward morning, so that you could hear the faint crackling of the frost on the icy ground, cold but not biting. It boded well for the coming day, Elenwë thought. The march would be easier.

“She’s sleeping,” Turgon whispered. He shifted closer, hand burrowing beneath layers of fur and coming to rest on Elenwë’s hip.

“I thought I heard her talking.”

“She was just dreaming. Still asleep.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re awake.”

Elenwë wasn’t sure she wanted to be. Not yet anyway. The previous day’s march had been cold and miserable; the few precious hours of rest those in Fingolfin’s camp were permitted were more necessity than luxury. It felt like a waste to squander them on idle conversation.

But it seemed Turgon had other things in mind. He shifted closer still, whispered, “She won’t hear us.”

“What, now?”

“Why not?”

“The camp is stirring.”

“That’s just the cooks melting ice for water. We have plenty of time.” Turgon’s honeyed tone was more breath than whisper, tracing patterns on Elenwë’s neck. “Stay with me a while.”

Against her better judgment, Elenwë relaxed under his slow, questing touch. Pressed up against her back, he looped an arm about her waist. His hand slid up to cup her breast; his thumb gently circled, then moved down her belly to her sex. Fingers advanced slowly like trickling water that finds the crevice it seeks, patiently, then fills it because gravity wills it so.

“Oh.” Elenwë closed her eyes. She let out a breath, felt muscles taut with tension let go of their burden. He was good at this; he knew her well.

Turgon’s mouth traced the curve of her jaw, his long hair falling over her collarbone. “Dear heart,” he whispered. For someone so valiant and stoical, he could be terribly sentimental. It was touching but not always well timed. Idril could wake at any moment.

Elenwë arched her back to press her rear against Turgon’s morning erection. He was hard and ready, seemingly undaunted by the frozen wastes that lay all around their camp. In their small tent, the outside world didn’t matter just now. Elenwë shifted her hips from side to side. Heard Turgon’s breath come faster.

“Beautiful one,” he sighed in her ear.

Still with the endearments. No, subtlety wouldn’t do here; a more direct approach was called for. Elenwë reached behind and took his length in hand, parted her thighs and guided him inside her. One push, two--and he was fully sheathed. She exhaled with satisfaction. There really was no sensation quite like that of being filled: complete and incomplete all at once, that, and a desperate need to move, to feel more of him.

She pushed back against Turgon’s body, felt his hips meet her movements with sharp thrusts. He wasn’t talking anymore; once he set about this task he fulfilled it in silence. Their rhythm was even, purposeful. Elenwë took Turgon’s hand, drew his thumb into her mouth and then placed it on her breast to circle her nipple. She slid her own hand between her legs, coaxing her pleasure. She could feel her climax building already; it would not take long.

“Mama?”

Idril’s sleep-muffled voice was quiet, not fully awake. We have a few moments still, Elenwë thought. She turned her head as much as their position would allow and captured Turgon’s mouth in a hungry kiss, urging him on. Stilled her hips and parted her thighs to allow him easier access. He thrust wildly, buried his face in her hair.

She doubled her own hand’s efforts, fingers circling, intent on their aim. Closed her eyes and called up an image of Turgon as he stood on that momentous night in Tirion, when there was still a chance they might stay home. Speaking out against Fëanor, voice hoarse with conviction, his broad shoulders squared, eyes alight with purpose— But no. Usually it was enough, but not today. Reluctantly she reached for another memory, one certain to do the job.

Turgon on horseback, reaching down to clasp hands with his dear friend Finrod; he in turn looking up, their eyes locking. Turgon’s dark hair swinging down like a curtain around them both, Finrod’s other hand stroking the horse’s flank right next to Turgon’s sinewy thigh. There was something about the public intimacy of that picture; something about the horse’s twitching muscle, all dormant energy and power, as if it expressed the spirit of the two men whenever they were together; something, finally, about the way Finrod stood below Turgon, his equal – willingly stood below him, choosing to look up as if with fealty and reverence. Elenwë didn’t know why the memory was so potent, but it was. She shuddered and felt waves of pleasure rock her to the core.

Turgon’s breathing slowed. He kissed her temple. “She’s up.”

“I know.”

“Told you we’d have enough time.”

Elenwë could hear the smug joy in his voice even if she couldn’t see his smile. It was good that he was happy. There hadn’t been much cause for cheer in the camp lately. Maybe it would be all right to lean on him a bit more, share her worries just now. They were small, concerned one person instead of a whole people, but they kept her up at night nonetheless.

“Itarillë is worn out,” she said. “When I folded her into her sleeping bag last night her eyes were already closed.”

Turgon held her closer. “She’s strong, healthy, full of light. She’ll make it. You don’t need to fret.”

Elenwë let out a quiet sigh. She’d woken once the previous night to check on Idril only to find a tiny bare foot peeking out from under heaps of furs. The heel fitted perfectly into the palm of her hand, five little toes flexing instinctively in sleep. She’d tucked the cold foot back into its fur-lined bootie and brushed back the sweaty mop of gold from her daughter’s forehead, reassured to hear the sound of regular breathing. Safe for another night, Eru be praised.

Hearing her name, Idril emerged from under her furs and leaped on Elenwë and Turgon. “Daddy!” All knees and elbows was their quicksilver daughter. Turgon let out an “oof!” as she landed on his stomach, then gently settled her between them. Found the tiny bear carved of ivory-coloured bone, pressed it into her hand, prolonging the peace of the morning for a few moments.

“Did Bear sleep well?” he asked.

“Yes! He was snoring!”

“I think that was daddy,” Elenwë suggested. Heard Idril laugh, silver bells pealing.

“Daddy, was it you?”

“Not me. Must have been mama.”

“Me? Certainly not.”

Idril wriggled between them and began to talk to Bear. Turgon looked over her flaxen head, directly into Elenwë’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, his voice serious all of a sudden. “We all need rest – the dogs especially, and you know if the dogs aren’t well we don’t stand a chance. The ice here is thick. We could camp a while.”

“Really?”

“I mean to talk to father about it. Our scouts have spotted seals in the distance. We could provision, rest the dogs, repair our equipment. Sleep.”

That last one sounded tempting. “But the cold?” she said. “The elements...”

“That’s just it: Finrod and I have a plan. He has an idea that we could build huts out of the very snow under our feet. It’s certainly thick enough. If the scientific principle holds, as we both believe it should, they would be warmer than any tent, by far. I know that our purpose is to move forward, but sometimes the best way of moving forward is to stand still.”

Elenwë rolled her eyes. “Turukáno, now you’re talking nonsense.”

“The huts or the philosophy?”

She paused to consider. “The huts might work. Could we have fires inside them, do you think?”

“Not fires, but maybe a candle.”

“Light would be lovely.”

“And with the heat source in the confined space, it would be warm. Warmer than the tents we use. We wouldn’t even need to chide Itarillë about putting on her shoes, like we do.”

Hearing her name, Idril pounced on Turgon again, bare heels kicking up their fur covers. He gathered her up, smiling, said, “Enough for now.”

“Put your booties back on,” Elenwë said, drawing her daughter close. Kissed her just behind the ear, inhaled the Idril-scent she always found there: summer meadows in Aman, flowers bathed in golden light. The smell of home.

*****

Finrod’s idea was a good one. His ideas usually were, although he was never quick to take credit for them, preferring to lay them in Turgon’s lap and have the resulting outcome be a joint creation. So it was now. The huts had gone up across Fingolfin’s camp, and Finrod’s: blocks of snow placed on top of each other in a round, with a dome-like roof. “It’s so graceful,” Elenwë had said when the first hut was complete, and Finrod had smiled and patiently explained the structural purpose of the shape, its strength. A thing of beauty but not mere whimsy after all.

It was Elenwë who suggested they have a proper celebration to mark this time of respite, so badly needed by all. Now they sat in their snow hut, the candle in their lantern burning bright and warming their living space so well that they’d set their furs aside and wore silks and linens. It felt civilized to be able to do that. Elenwë had washed Idril’s hair, then her own, and then Turgon’s, and combed it out to dry. That too felt like a luxury. She’d watched her husband’s long dark locks fall about his handsome face and smiled at the private joy it gave her.

“Findaráto,” she now said to their guest. “Even I have to admit that these huts of yours were an inspired idea. I haven’t been truly warm in so long, it’s heavenly. And Turukáno can’t stop praising your design.”

“You’re making him blush,” Turgon joked.

On Finrod, a blush looked fetching. It made him seem younger, a bit unsure, the junior partner in the friendship – even though he’d competently led his father’s people for years now, and he and Turgon were the same age. Elenwë liked to see the odd rose bloom on his cheeks, enjoyed the hint of revelation it offered.

“It’s just the wine.” Finrod waved his hand dismissively. “We’re not used to it anymore; it’s a strong vintage.”

Turgon held out his empty glass. “Hit me again.”

“Me too, while we still have some,” said Elenwë. The bottle was almost out. They’d carried it with them from home and made it last. Usually they made do with spruce tea; tonight too, until Idril fell asleep.

“What will we drink when it’s gone?” asked Finrod with mock horror.

“No doubt you two will figure out a way of distilling something palatable from seal blubber. There’s nothing the Noldor can’t do if we set our minds to it.” Elenwë knew she was being silly but the lightheaded feeling was delicious, like bubbles fizzing to the top of a glass. The past few days, spent building the huts, had been wonderful. They had all needed the rest, the change, the gift of purpose that came from being able to do more than simply put one foot in front of the other. Even with the cold and the darkness, it almost felt like a festival. Like the exiled Noldor were in good graces with the Valar again. And, judging by the plenty brought back by hunters at the end of each day, it might almost have been so. “Findaráto,” she said, sipping her wine, “I think it’s time you favoured us with a song.”

“Hear, hear!” agreed Turgon.

“Only if you sing too, Elenwë,” Finrod said, settling his harp on his lap.

He waited until she had set her glass down and sat up straighter, then strummed a tune halfway between joyful and introspective, with enough of the feel of home about it to make it beautiful but not enough to choke her with longing. They sang. Elenwë’s soprano blended effortlessly with Finrod’s tenor – they had done this often enough back in Aman. Like strands of long grass swaying in the wind their voices flowed, and after a while Turgon joined in, his baritone making for pleasing harmony. Elenwë could see Turgon watching them — his wife and his friend, both with hair of gold and voices like honey; could see the delight in his face as if he beheld riches beyond measure.

Back home they had sung as a foursome, Amarië’s resonant alto making their sound-pictures complete. Elenwë half wished Amarië had come along on their so-called adventure, but that was like wishing someone ill fortune. Besides, if Finrod had Amarië with him in his camp, he might not visit Turgon and Elenwë as often; it wasn’t contentment which made him restless. So it’s not like Elenwë would have gained a sister for the journey anyhow.

The song Finrod was playing morphed from slow and uplifting to faster, with a more driving beat. They let their voices fade away and listened to Finrod’s fingers strum their magic. Maybe it was the wine, but Turgon rose from his seat and extended a hand to Elenwë, pulling her toward him in the centre of their ice hut. He held her waist and she let him guide her movements, swaying and turning in time with the music. She was still languid from the alcohol, her body relaxed and her thoughts flowing in slow motion. It was like being someone else and yet fully herself at the same time. She let her head fall back and felt her hair stream behind her as Turgon danced them in tight circles.

Giddy from the spinning, safe in her husband’s arms, on the edge of being able to think herself far away from this world of ice and snow, she felt Finrod’s eyes on the pair of them like an ever-present constant. It wasn’t an intrusive gaze; it never was. Rather, it was all you’d expect from Turgon’s loyal shadow: warm, appreciative, interested. It made things feel better. Turgon’s hands on her waist, the way their thighs touched through layers of fabric, the dizzying spin of the music. Why was it that Finrod’s presence always made things feel better?

The music slowed, and Turgon drew her closer still as they rocked in place now instead of spinning. His hands were in her hair and his cheek was against hers; the mood seemed to have suddenly turned serious. Finrod let his harp fall silent.

“Findaráto,” Turgon said, “come here.”

In a moment, Finrod was beside them and Turgon broke the tight clasp in which he held Elenwë and put one arm around Finrod’s shoulders, including him in their circle. It seemed natural for Elenwë to put an arm about him too.

It was a strange night. Things seemed to make sense that would never have done in the light of the two Trees. Finrod’s hand was on Elenwë’s waist, his eyes were wide and watchful, he was looking to Turgon for direction. Elenwë watched Finrod in turn; the night’s strange possibilities had begun to occur to her. There was something about the expression on Finrod’s face that told her his thoughts followed a similar pattern.

“Findaráto,” Turgon said. “You are my closest friend. But you know you are more than just a friend to me.”

Roses bloomed on Finrod’s cheeks in earnest now. Elenwë had the sense that he was holding his breath, making space for the words Turgon was about to say, drawing out their message.

Turgon continued, “I cannot imagine how much you must miss Amarië, but at least you know she is safe and protected. When we set out on this voyage we had a sense that things would be dangerous and hard, and we met that challenge head-on, like proud Noldorin men. But we never bargained for what it would do to our wives and children.”

Turgon’s voice was full of emotion. He drew Elenwë and Finrod closer so that their heads were nearly touching. It had been warm in the snow hut; now the air felt hot.

“You know that Elenwë is the dearest thing in the world to me, next to Itarillë,” Turgon was saying. “Findaráto, I need you to promise me something.”

Finrod’s eyes were dark. “You can ask anything of me,” he said.

“If I should die…” Turgon pitched his voice lower. “I need you to look after my wife and my child. Get them across the Ice safely and make sure no harm comes to them in Middle-earth. Put your life on the line if need be but make sure Elenwë and Itarillë are safe.”

Finrod’s face had grown pale. Was this what he’d been expecting to hear? He said, “Turukáno, you can count on me.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“If I should die, I need you to step in.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Finrod said.

“Maybe not. But if I should, you need to take this family on as if it were your own. I need you to be me.”

“Turukáno, no one could replace you.”

“Maybe not, but I need you to try. This world of ice we’re in – it’s too harsh to face alone. There is strength and security in numbers. We are a unit, the three of us, here on this journey. Like three pillars holding up a roof. If one of us falls, the other two must hold each other up. Now, will you do it?”

“I’ll do my best.” The look on Finrod’s face was resolute.

“Good. That puts my mind at ease.” Turgon leaned over and placed a kiss on Finrod’s cheek. The roses bloomed once more.

Elenwë felt unmoored and a bit shaky even though the effect of the wine had begun to wear off. What exactly had Turgon meant? In the light of the Two Trees such a request would have seemed chaste, innocent – no, she thought, in their light such a request would never have been made. In the flickering light of the portable lantern, with orange reflections glinting off their round cavern of ice, chastity and innocence seemed irrelevant. What Turgon had asked was audacious and yet perfectly logical. Had he really asked it, or had she just imagined it?

Turgon’s eyes slid from Finrod’s face to Elenwë’s and then back again. “Go on,” he said, nodding to Finrod. “It’s all right.”

She hadn’t imagined it. Finrod glanced at Turgon once more, a hint of hesitation on his face, and then smiled at Elenwë and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, as a brother would a sister.

“You can do better,” Turgon said, and then ran his thumb along Finrod’s bottom lip. “I know you can.”

Elenwë only realized she’d stopped breathing when Finrod’s mouth met hers and she felt his breath. Soft lips, a gentle kiss, unfamiliar and different. Not chaste but not lewd either. Forthright and sweet – it was Finrod all over. Different than Turgon, than what she was used to. And oh, the thought of Turgon’s thumb rubbing against that full lip, and the words “I know you can” – what had he meant by that, what past indiscretion had led to such knowledge?

Her heart was thumping in her chest and her knees were buckling; Turgon held her fast around the waist to keep her from falling. He kissed her neck and her cheek, and then he put his palm flat against Finrod’s chest and gently pushed him away.

“That’s enough, my friend,” he said. “She is still my wife. Tonight is about promises made, not fulfilled. There will be time for that later, if the Valar will it. For now, know that you have my trust. I would not place this precious burden in anyone’s hands but yours.”

Finrod stepped back and gave something between a nod and a courtly bow, and then quickly turned around and set about tidying his harp. The colour was high in his cheeks and his hands were unsteady. Beyond the walls of their ice hut, the wind was howling and one of the sled dogs had begun to bark. The lantern on the little camp table was flickering again; it gave the room a feeling of unreality, as if what had just transpired between the three of them was merely a dream.

Later that night, after Finrod had gone back to his camp and Elenwë and Turgon made frenzied love on the ice hut floor – twice – and then lay sweat-slicked and entwined, furs half-covering their nakedness, Turgon kissed her ear and whispered, “Eru willing, what we talked about tonight will never come to pass. For it is my fervent wish to walk with you, hand in hand, until the end of Arda. I love you. I don’t know what I would do without you. And yet, in this dangerous time and place, I would not have you endure alone. Above all, I want to see you happy.”

She’d felt safe then, and steady, as if nothing in the world could ever do her harm.

Twenty years later

“Uncle! Oh, isn’t it marvelous?” Idril looked up at the sky and extended her arms upwards, opening her hands as if to catch the silver globe of the moon in case it fell. “I’ve never seen anything so bright! You can see everything without a lantern, I’ve been walking around the camp just looking at things all evening. Isn’t it grand?”

Her enthusiasm made her seem very young. Finrod looked at the maiden before him and saw the child she’d been not that long ago. Back then she’d shrieked with delight at the building of the snow huts, now, it was the novelty of the moon overhead. Then again, the moon’s appearance truly was amazing. Perhaps he should give her more credit.

“Marvelous and grand. And a good omen,” he smiled. “Where’s your father?”

“Inside.” She inclined her head toward the tent. “I asked him to join me at the big bonfire tonight but he says he likes quiet. Maybe you could keep him company?” She looked eager to depart.

“Bonfire?”

“They’ll be roasting a boar on a spit! And there’ll be singing. Some friends are going. But I wouldn’t want father to be alone.”

“He won’t be alone if I’m here,” Finrod said. “I’ve a lot to discuss; I’ll stay a while. You go on, enjoy yourself.”

Idril hopped in place, then turned on her bare heel and hurried off down the path between two rows of tents. Halfway between woman and girl, tonight the woman was nowhere in evidence. Maybe that was good, Finrod thought. There had been so much seriousness and tragedy on their journey that they’d all earned the right to some mirth. Besides, they were here at last: Middle-earth! How could one not sense the palpable excitement of the moment? Finrod could swear he felt a tingling in his feet from the solid ground on which at last they trod.

He raised the tent flap, lowered his head and stepped inside. A little less palpable excitement in here: Turgon sat at the low table, glass in hand and a half-empty bottle in front of him. Half-empty, surely, not half-full, judging by his mood.

“Celebrating?” Finrod asked.

“Something like that.”

“Got enough for two?”

Turgon raised his head, searched for his smile a moment before he found it. “Of course, my friend. Forgive me, I forget myself sometimes.”

“No matter.” Finrod sat down on the camp stool across from Turgon. Took the proffered glass, sipped its contents. “Strong,” he said. “Where did you get it? I thought we’d finished the last of it long ago.”

“Apparently someone managed to bring it all the way across the Ice. It was gifted to me when we arrived on these shores a few days back.”

Finrod raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“In thanks,” Turgon answered the unspoken question.

“Ah.”

If your child had fallen through the Ice and been saved from impending death by Turgon leaping in after them, you’d be thankful too. There were more than a handful of parents who owed a debt of gratitude to his friend: Idril wasn’t the only little girl he’d rescued. Turgon was likely to go on receiving gifts for some time. Still, it was a sore subject; Finrod knew better than to pursue it. “When will your camp set out again?” he asked instead.

“In a week’s time, I imagine, if not a bit longer. We need to provision, make minor repairs, rest. The usual. We’ve been doing it for long enough, we have practice. Only the setting is different, solid ground beneath our feet.”

“You aren’t eager?”

Turgon looked up, a strange glint in his eyes. “Oh, I am, believe me. I have business with Fëanáro.” He held Finrod’s gaze for a moment, then looked down. “And Morgoth of course.”

“Of course. But also...” Finrod searched for the right words to give voice to the feeling of sap rising up through his veins, yearning for spring. “The moon is shining, we have lands unnumbered to explore and make our own. These are exciting times. I’d set out tomorrow if I could. My camp will probably need another three days though.”

“Three days? But that’s hardly any time at all. How will you manage it?”

“We’ve been preparing round the clock since we arrived here. Like you said, repairs, provisions... The hunting a bit inland from here is excellent.”

“And you’ve probably done half the work yourself?” Turgon’s mouth quirked in amusement.

“It does make things go faster if I lead by example.”

Turgon shook his head. “How are you so goddamned perfect all the time, my friend?”

“I’m not and you know it.”

“You lead without effort, get work accomplished without trying, and still you find time to come over to my camp and see me.”

Aye, there was the crux of it, Finrod thought. He did find time to see Turgon as often as he could, but perfection had little to do with it. Sometimes he wondered if it was more of a flaw. “Coming to see you isn’t a burden,” he said, looking down at the dregs in his glass. “I wouldn’t do it if it were.”

“Well, I do enjoy your company,” Turgon smiled. “And appreciate your taking such pains to help us. You’ve been a real boon to Itarillë and me since—” Here his smile wavered. “Oh, hell. I’m getting maudlin.”

Finrod could see the pain in his eyes and hastened to help. “Refill my glass?”

“Of course.” Turgon grabbed the neck of the bottle in his fist and tipped it into Finrod’s cup. His dark hair swung forward to cover his expression. He took his time filling the cup to the brim. When he set the bottle down and looked up, his face was composed.

“Shall we toast?” Finrod suggested. “No more blasted ice.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They drank in companionable silence for a time. From the quiet of their table they could hear distant whoops of laughter, joyous shouts, voices singing. Apparently the bonfire was in full swing. Finrod thought back to the last time there had been singing at Turgon’s table. Idril had been little, they still had endless miles to go over the frozen wastes, and a bonfire had been an unthinkable luxury; they’d made do with a candle in their ice hut on that strange night. Still, there had been such joy. Elenwë’s voice had soared, twined with his and with Turgon’s in pleasing harmony.

How odd to think back on the Helcaraxë with nostalgia; they’d barely left its hellscape behind. Finrod shook off the memory and raised his head. Turgon was looking at him. No, not at him. He was looking at his hair. Finrod followed his friend’s line of sight, saw how Turgon’s eyes lingered on the spot where his hair fell over his shoulder, catching the light. A cascade of gold.

“She’d have been so relieved.” Turgon was miles away. “To finally have made it. To be safe, to have Itarillë safe. To finally sleep at night without listening for that rumble under our feet. How she longed for solid ground.”

“I know.”

“I failed her.”

“Don’t say that. It’s no use to look back.”

“I should have been by her side the whole time, the rest of the camp be damned. I should have held her hand, should have caught her. I should have kept her from falling in the first place.”

“There was no way to do that, and you know it. The night she fell through the ice was an awful night.”

“There were other bad nights after. Others survived.”

“Because of you! You rescued them like the competent leader you are. To this day they are grateful, and will be always.”

“And yet I couldn’t manage it with my own wife.” Turgon rested his elbows on his thighs, put his head in his hands. They had had this conversation many times in the past, and it always came to this: here was the pit that Turgon could not swallow, the bitter truth he could never accept.

So Finrod said what he always said at this juncture, “You saved Itarillë. It’s what Elenwë wanted most.” And when his argument was met with naught but silence, he added, “She would forgive you. That much I know for certain.”

Saying these words invariably helped, for putting it in these stark terms peeled the facts back to their bare essentials: the impossible choice between his wife and his child was no choice at all. Or rather, it was a choice Turgon would make all over again. They both knew it. Elenwë had known it too.

“You are right of course.” Turgon was looking at his own hands now, curling them into fists. “I’m being selfish and self-indulgent. I just wish she were here, see? Tonight of all nights, when we can finally celebrate. It feels empty somehow, a milestone marking nothing.”

“It marks a beginning.” Finrod rose from his camp stool and sat beside Turgon on the wide wooden bench. Put an arm around his friend’s shoulders, squeezed. “And just think of all the joys you do have, Itarillë growing into a woman, a whole new world at your feet. Strong sweet wine from Aman’s vineyards here in this very cup in front of you.”

Turgon huffed, but the tension in his jaw eased somewhat. “You’re good to me, Findaráto,” he said.

“It’s nothing.”

And it was. Finrod would gladly do that and more just to see Turgon at peace. To see his eyes lose their haunted look, to see that crooked mouth curl up in a grin like it used to. That beautiful mouth. To make plans like they had before, full of fervour and ambition, confident that nothing was out of their reach. They had balanced each other out once, in serious matters and trivial, sensing what the other’s next step would be before he even took it. Now Turgon was unsteady. But Finrod would never let him fall.

“Another?” Finrod lifted the bottle, prepared to pour only a small amount should Turgon say yes. But Turgon was nothing if not sensible.

“Best not,” he said. “I’m already poor company. And I don’t want Itarillë to fuss over me in the morning.” He put the cork back in and lifted the bottle up to the light of the lantern, watched the ruby coloured liquid shine like a gem. Stowed the bottle back in a leather-bound trunk under the warm furs. Closed the trunk, ran his hand along the top of it as if considering what to do or say next.

Finrod waited for his cue.

“Help me to bed?” Turgon said quietly.

And there it was. Finrod felt the tension release like a plucked string. His body buzzed with the anticipation of it. The cue didn’t always come. They had done this often enough over the long, cold years since Elenwë’s death that Turgon could not say that the first time had been a mistake, but certainly not enough for Finrod to take for granted it would happen at every visit. There had been long dry spells in between, and the timing of it was always up to Turgon.

Finrod rose and narrowed the distance between them in a few steps. Turgon did seem a little drunk but there was intent in his eyes. Electricity crackled in the tent’s confined space. It was always like this if the dry spell had been long; it almost made the wait worthwhile. Together they made their way to the far corner, behind the trunks and packs and folding screen, to Turgon’s makeshift bed. Along the way Turgon blew out the candle in the tent’s only lantern.

They stood facing each other. Darkness hummed around them, the air alive with their breath. Finrod undid the buttons of Turgon’s tunic, splayed his broad hands on his chest. Leaned in, craving that tempting mouth, but Turgon turned his face away: too soon. He would have that mouth yet, but not until Turgon’s desire had eroded his compunction. For now, Finrod kissed his friend’s neck, ran his tongue slowly along it as his hands slid down Turgon’s stomach. Pulled at the lacings at his crotch.

Now it was Turgon’s turn to undo Finrod’s shirt buttons. He was quick about it; the tempo of their encounter was already increasing. Their shirts discarded, they lay down side by side.

It always got less awkward at this point: with the deed half accomplished, their objective clear, misgivings were set aside. It was dark, and Turgon kept his eyes closed, but his fingers held Finrod’s cock in a firm grip. This was Finrod’s favourite part, every time: with his erection in Turgon’s hand, and his own hands feeling Turgon grow harder by the second, now he could look his fill. How he loved to watch Turgon’s mouth open in a silent gasp, his chest rise and fall, his hips buck in search of pleasure. It did not matter who Turgon was picturing behind those closed eyelids. Here and now it was he, Finrod, who made him feel good.

Usually this is all they did; with the conditions on the Helcaraxë Finrod could hardly hope for more. But he felt greedy tonight, and bold, as if their arrival on Middle-earth’s shores had whetted both his appetite and ambition. He leaned in and kissed that open mouth, inhaled Turgon’s breath, with elation felt him yield and not pull away. Twined his tongue with his friend’s, tasted the sweet wine they’d drunk earlier. Still he wanted more.

Amazed at his own audacity, he trailed his mouth down Turgon’s stomach, determined to taste the shaft his hands so firmly stroked. He’d imagined it before: the scent, the feel of it on his tongue. Now the reality was here. The knowledge of it felt like being filled with light. Rejoicing, almost dizzy with it, he opened his mouth and took Turgon in deep.

“Findará— What are you— Ah!”

Turgon’s hips lifted clear off the bed. His breathing was ragged and shallow, and he was thrusting up now, into Finrod’s mouth, his hands clutching handfuls of blankets. Finrod felt triumphant. His own erection stood neglected but it mattered little, for this was better than anything he could have imagined. They had come to Middle-earth to rule over new lands, to carve out a place of their own; well, if he could have dominion over anything at all, it would be this——nothing could be better, more thrilling, more precious.

Turgon was gasping, moaning, his cock hot and hard in Finrod’s mouth, his body pliant like the most responsive instrument. It was like nothing else. It was better than music.

Suddenly, in the glass lantern at the foot of the bed, the extinguished candle sputtered into flame. The light, low at first, quickly glowed brighter than any candle ought. Finrod, occupied though he was, glanced back; there was no one there. Turgon opened his eyes. His face, though contorted with pleasure, showed shock. For a moment it looked as though he might speak. Then his body tensed all over and, with a cry, he came.

Still the candle burned bright. Finrod wiped his mouth and shifted up to lay beside his friend. Turgon looked spent and a little awed, but not markedly different. This was good; although pleasurable, liberties had been taken that could change things between them, and not necessarily for the better. But Turgon seemed the same. He turned his head toward Finrod and let himself be kissed. His hand reached for Finrod’s crotch. “Let me help you there,” he said.

Finrod didn’t need much helping. A dozen strokes was all it took. In the midst of his climax he was vaguely aware that Turgon kept glancing back and forth between his face and the burning candle. When his breathing was regular again, he opened his eyes. The candle was out. “What was that?” he asked, still too awash in bliss to give it more than a passing thought.

Turgon gave no reply; he seemed troubled. Best not overstay my welcome, Finrod thought, and made as if to rise, intending to get dressed and find a corner to curl up in. But Turgon stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You may as well sleep here,” he said gently. “There’s room.”

Turgon had never extended this sort of invitation before. His tone of voice, too, was cause for cautious hope; perhaps Finrod’s impulsive gambit had nudged things in a fortunate direction after all. Could it be that here in Middle-earth all things were possible? That their talk of pillars holding up a roof would come to fruition in this new land? They were the only two left after all. Finrod was half tempted to stay awake all night so as not to waste a single moment. But he was weary and the narrow bed felt like a haven. He fell asleep pressed up against Turgon’s back, nose buried in that dark curtain of hair whose swish he’d committed to memory.

He woke a few hours later, tipped into awareness by Turgon’s stillness. Too still for a man asleep. Finrod could see him looking into the middle distance, brows knitted, clearly trying to work something out. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“Do you ever get the feeling,” Turgon said, “that there’s someone here?”

“You and me, surely. Itarillë, if she’s back from the bonfire.”

“No.” Turgon shook his head. “Nothing like that. More like a presence in the room you can almost see but can’t quite catch a glimpse of. Like someone looking over your shoulder.”

“You mean like me right now?” Finrod said in jest, his chin in the crook of Turgon’s neck.

But Turgon wasn’t in the mood for jesting. “Findaráto, be serious.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes I get the feeling that she’s here... when we do.”

“You mean when I help you to bed?”

“Yes.”

“Who? Who is here?”

“Elenwë.”

It was like slipping though the Ice into the freezing water below. Finrod was instantly awake. “Surely not. Why would she...”

Turgon weighed his words carefully. “She always said that we looked well together.”

This was no answer at all. Confused, Finrod stared at Turgon. “What?”

“Back in Aman, she would say it. On the trek across the Helcaraxë too sometimes.”

“Turukáno, you’re scaring me. I don’t understand.”

Turgon’s eyes were closed; he seemed to be trying hard to put into words thoughts that made sense in his head. “You and me,” he said. “Our friendship. The way we look together, light and dark. Somehow it pleased her.”

“Yes.”

“No, you don’t understand. It pleased her a lot. It gave her... pleasure. That was her tonight, her soul’s burning desire, I know it.”

This was so strange that Finrod didn’t know what to say. He said nothing.

Turgon turned toward him and ran a hand through Finrod’s hair. “I think we should, you know... more often. Here in this tent. Maybe she’ll visit again.”

Shocked into silence, Finrod managed to stammer out, “Why?”

“Because I miss her. And with the candle, and your hair...” He twined some around his finger. “It’s like she’s here. Like she never left.”

“So the reason you asked me to sleep here was...”

“I thought she might come again. I could sense her near.”

This was like getting your heart’s desire and finding out it was hollow and rotten on the inside. What they were to each other was as murky as the skies over the Grinding Ice, and Finrod knew better than to shine too bright a light on it. Now Elenwë had shone a candle and there was no looking away.

Turgon still held a strand of Finrod’s hair. “Same shade of gold,” he said wistfully. Finrod thought he might be sick. He rose and made his way across the tent to get a cup of water, more to catch his breath than because he was thirsty. On the bunk under the far wall he saw Idril sleeping, curled up and clutching Bear in her palm, her hair spilling over her pillow. Gold, like her mother’s.

Coming back to bed, he said, “It’s been a long night. Come, Turukáno, get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” But even after Turgon’s breathing had slowed and his hands relaxed at his sides, Finrod remained awake. He stared into the darkness for a while, feeling the treacherous warmth of Turgon’s body at his back, tempted even now to give him all that he asked for. Only, why did Turgon have to ask for so little?

Quietly he got up, dressed, and left the tent. The air outside was fresh and cold, but felt balmy after their icy trek. The bonfire was clearly over since the camp was mostly silent, save for the barking of a dog in the distance and the quiet chatter of the posted guard. Above him, early-morning birds were beginning to twitter as the dew settled on the grass.

He looked east and saw that the sky had a slightly pink tinge; he started to walk toward it. Past the rows of tents, past the laundry hanging on a line, past the remains of the bonfire, which was mostly ashes now, no longer smoldering. The camp at night looked more straightforward somehow, as if the striving of the day had given way to more honest exhaustion. The baggage piled haphazardly, the limp laundry——none of it was for show. What did I expect, he thought, that his broken heart could be made whole merely because I wanted it badly enough? That this unknown land would be the balm? It’s just another place from which she is absent.

I am absent too, he thought, only from a different place. He remembered Amarië’s eyes, imploring him not to go, long before the thrill of the Noldor’s anticipated adventure had turned dark and bitter. But he could no more have kept from following Turgon than he could have cut off his own arm. Just as now, Turgon could not help this. There was nothing to be done.

He'd been staring ahead blindly, lost in his own thoughts, but now something made him stop and pay attention. The sky in the distance was growing ever brighter. From slightly pink it had gone to a dull orange, which turned more vivid even as his eyes widened to take in the sight. The whole horizon looked like it was catching fire. Unease prickled under his breastbone. What could it be? Another treachery devised by the Enemy?

I must alert the guard, he thought for an instant before it occurred to him that they probably stood now like he, rooted to the spot, staring. He looked around, amazed to notice that the night was dissipating like smoke before the wind; what magic was this? Every blade of grass was visible now, drops of dew shining on it like tiny jewels. And then he forgot to breathe, for up ahead the horizon was changing again, and a globe of radiance was rising slowly into the sky, round and yellow like the yolk of an egg. And as it rose it diffused a golden light on the land below, revealing plain to the eye what had hitherto only been visible by moonlight. A lush green land, wild and ripe for the taking.

Turukáno, Finrod thought, oh Turukáno, you must come, you must see this, it is amazing, it is beautiful. This is not the work of the Enemy; clearly, it is a blessing. We are meant to be here, we were meant to journey this far, whatever sacrifices were forced upon us, surely they were worth this. It is a divine gift, a sign that we still have the Valar’s favour. Oh, Turukáno, just think of the things we will accomplish here in this land. We should be watching this together.

But Finrod didn’t go back to the tent to wake his friend. He stood and watched the first sunrise alone.

END