Same Shade of Gold by Maggie Honeybite

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Chapter 1: Elenwë

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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.