Same Shade of Gold by Maggie Honeybite

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Chapter 2: Finrod

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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