The Call of the Loon by SonOfMandos

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Chapter 2

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Serving Lúthien was not nearly as terrifying as Celegorm apprehended. There was no room ready for him, so she had suggested to share her bed. Celegorm was not in position to reject her proposition. They both had bathed—not together, Lúthien did invite the Fëanorian to attend her, but he blushed so violently she judged better to spare the poor boy.

The Ñoldo twirled in his night-robe. It was large and puffy, and he liked it. Nightclothes were not gendered, he noticed. In the facts, Doriathrin fashion was androgynous. The only difference was that many robes and dresses were adjusted to the body shape of men and women; wider shoulders for men, narrower waistline for women. Designs remained the same.

Lúthien, who was reading a book in her bed, watched Celegorm with amusement. Aurion did well to recommend a herbal tea that increased feeling of relaxation and euphoria. It made the Ñoldo easier to deal with. Celegorm had nothing of the fierce hunter of Oromë and kinslayer that he was reputed to be when the benefits of the tea showed. It gave him back the innocence he had murdered at Alqualondë.

After spinning around for a while, Celegorm decided he was dizzy and that he had to stop. He grinned at his own cleverness. When you twirl and you’re dizzy, you stop and all is good! The tea made him feel silly and stupid.

He climbed on the bed and slid under the covers. Lúthien closed her book, murmured a spell in Valarin and the three lamps of her room became a faint glow in the dark. She rested a hand on Celegorm’s stomach. The hunter was no longer grinning like a fool. Fear pinned him down in motionlessness. Lúthien shifted closer and pressed her front against his side. Her hand trailed to Celegorm’s muscular chest. The princess hummed with satisfaction. Celegorm closed his eyes, afraid to see the light of hunger in Lúthien’s eyes. Fingers ghosted on his shoulder, neck, jaw, cheekbone, nose bridge and lips.

“If you slay me in my sleep,” she warned him, “my mother will call upon the Great Hunter. He will take care of your soul—or rather, deal with it—before it arrives to Mandos.”

Celegorm nodded.

“Good,” purred Lúthien. She stroked her retainer’s arm. He tensed and squirmed. “Calm down,” she whispered. “I will not take advantage of you. I am no monster.”

Celegorm could only believe her. Lúthien turned his head to face her and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. She muttered a ‘goodnight’, rolled on her other side, pulled blankets above her shoulders and drifted to sleep.

 

***

He thought his repetance as retainer of the Princess of Doriath would include submission, humiliation and carnal service. Nothing prepared him to the tasks he was assigned. He helped Lúthien reorganise her books in her personal library; discussed whether blue or lilac was a more appropriate colour for a shirt; hung decorations all over the royal quarters for the spring festival; collected honey; was stung by angry bees; made honey candies; shooed raccoons away; tripped on Huan who was sleeping in the middle of an alley; taught young Iathil to make tools with animal nerves and bones.

To his surprise, Lúthien washed herself and dressed without being attended. She was equally surprised when Celegorm made the remark. Celegorm explained that Ñoldorin nobles had grooms and servants to do it. She voiced that if Ñoldor lacked the capacity to dress by themselves, then it was time to rethink their fashion. Sophistication was not meant to be at the cost practicality. It pained Celegorm to agree with her, but he did. The reason he became a hunter was that he needed whatever excuse to not spend his days in heavy robes full of laces, accessories, shawls and other idiocies of the kind. It allowed him to wear simple clothes.

Lúthien also replied that if he were bored and did not have enough things to do, he was welcome to wash and comb her hair. Celegorm, for a lack of verve (may Fëanor never hear), said, ‘erhm.’ The Sindarin princess took it positively. She took his hand and led him to her personal washroom.

Lúthien’s hair was very long. It reached her knees. Her mane was thin and soft. The princess’ favourite hairstyle was a bun to the back of her head. She often covered her head with a tight scarf or a veil that reached her ankles. The sight of her hair was as breathtaking as it was rare. As breathtaking as her naked milky skin.

Celegorm stood next to the silver bathtub, a black plait in his fist, unsure what to do with such a length. It would be difficult to wash it properly without him being in the water too.

“May I…?” he asked tentatively.

Lúthien raised a leg lazily and washed it with her sponge. Her soap smelled like coriander. “Take off your clothes,” she said, almost sighing of pleasure.

Celegorm swallowed and nodded, but Lúthien did not see him, as he was standing behind her, still holding her hair. He delicately put it on the surface of the water. The way her hair floated around her reminded the Fëanorian of her mother’s veils. With trembling hands, he obeyed her command, removed his shirt, fumbled with his trousers, and entered in the bath. Lúthien shifted to make him room. Intimated and self-conscious, Celegorm crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh, the bucket,” said Lúthien. She moved to her knees, bent above the bathtub, retrieved a small bucket that contained a bottle of shampoo and handed it to her retainer. Celegorm averted his eyes as her chest was no longer hidden in water and a sea of hair. “You can look,” she spoke those words with the enchanting whisper she had when she wanted something. It commanded attention.

“No, I-,” protested Celegorm.

“I would like you too,” a smile was drawn on Lúthien’s lips.

The Ñoldo took a deep breath and raised his head. Lúthien rested her arms on the edge of the tub with an air of ease and defiance. Her arms and shoulders were graceful but no less toned. She was not as muscular as women of Men and Orcs (Men and Orcs had the talent to gain muscle like nobody else—Elves often appeared frail in comparison. The Fëanorian was terribly envious of Men), yet her shoulders showed she was a trained archer. Her breasts were small and round, so small Celegorm almost missed them. They had an adolescent quality. Her areolas and nipples were no bigger than those of a male. Celegorm had seen a few busts during his youth, when he had the heart to court ladies behind bushes, and they, for most, had breasts that were pointy and facing slightly downwards. They bounced under thick robes when women walked. Celegorm liked chests that bounced. Lúthien’s chest clearly stayed in place when she moved around. That was a losing point for the Fëanorian. However, the perfect round shape interested Celegorm. It reminded him of Vána. With a pang of regret and nostalgia, he saw with his mind’s eyes the six small breasts of the Valië. She had antlers like Oromë, the ears of a horse, and the upper part of her body was like an Elda. From her navel, skin turned to dark grey hair and she had the legs of a goat. More than once, when Celegorm was exhausted from a fruitful hunt, the Ainu had let him suck her nipples and fed him with her milk, milk could satiate an Elda for a week.

Staring at Lúthien’s breasts, he noticed that water pearled on her chest in an unusual way. He frowned and leaned in.

“You have… feathers?” he gasped.

Lúthien hummed.

Her feathers were pale blue, thin and small. She had some around her breasts, and her feathers converged to a trail from her stomach to her pubic area.

“Touch,” she ordered.

Celegorm brushed a finger on her chest. Lúthien shivered and her tiny feathers lifted. He repeated the motion and brushed her sternum area with his fingernails. The princess relaxed and her eyelids were heavy. His pale beige hand caressed her white skin, making Celegorm appear dark—and Celegorm, as a Ñoldo, was very fair himself. He moved his hand downwards, smirking at the contrast of colours. Lúthien gave no objection when he reached her nether parts.

Had it been elsewhere than in Doriath, Celegorm would feel blood rush to his member and he would consume his desire. In the tub of the princess, his position as a retainer hang heavy in the air. His shoulders sank. There was no one he could start anew, court her like an equal and walk by her side. He grabbed her inner thigh as if she were as delicate as porcelain. Between the two, he was the fragile porcelain vase, he thought bitterly. She had him under her hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. She reached with her fingers Celegorm’s cheek. He leaned in the touch despite himself.

“I can’t,” he whimpered.

“Get hard?”

Celegorm scowled. “Don’t spoil the moment.”

Lúthien shrugged. “It is what it is,” she smirked.

Celegorm’s scowl deepened. It was her fault for bringing him in, not that would change the situation he was trapped in. He was content enough to wander around Menegroth and do what was assigned to him. He did not need somewhat dubious intimacy to be ruined, neither his sour, self-loathing whispers that crept from the back of his mind. He certainly did not need his present erectile defect to be named so crudely. It hurt his pride.

Arms circled his shoulders. “There, there,” Lúthien’s breath came in warm, short bursts on Celegorm’s cheek. “It’s not like you to think-”

“Hey! I can think! I’m not dumb!”

“…I wasn’t finished, but good to know you can think. Or perhaps not. It means I cannot give you stupid, contradictory orders for the sake of it,” she sighed dramatically.

Celegorm shifted to face her. “You seriously-…” The princess smirked and raised an eyebrow. “…Right. Grey-Elves. Your strange humour,” grumbled the Ñoldo.

Lúthien giggled and brought him close. Her hands drew large circles on his back. Celegorm buried his face in her hair, blushing. Her breasts were soft and it pleased him. Even though they did not bounce. He circled her waist. She settled on his lap.

“My hair has to be washed,” she murmured. She kissed his cheek.

“The bucket-”

“You put it back on the floor.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. Do you know what a floor is?”

Celegorm froze with Lúthien in his arms. “Of course, I know what a floor is! Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Ah, really? You amaze me.” He felt her grin on his skin.

“Right, Sindarin mockery,” he muttered. “I’ll never get used to it.”

“Don’t forget what a bucket and shampoo are.”

If it weren’t for his new and peculiar life, Celegorm would consider a second kinslaying.

 

***

Daeron was sulking. He was sitting in one of Mablung’s luxurious chairs in the marchwarden’s immense talan and he was sulking. Mablung, to calm him down, had given him a cucumber to chew on. Daeron’s scowl was as ugly as the depths of his frown—the cucumber did not improve this. The cucumber only silenced his everlasting whining. Daeron loved cucumbers. He loved to eat them. As he once told Saeros, who did not believe him, cucumbers never consented to unorthodox usage; therefore, Daeron only enjoyed them for eating and nothing else.

Daeron was sulking because the love of his life had a male retainer. He knew she did not consider Celegorm a potential spouse. The Ñoldo was like a pet, a companion to her. Daeron wished he had his place.

What surprised Mablung and Beleg (because Beleg was already at Mablung’s when Daeron stormed in to execute his grandiose sulking) the most was that the bard resented Celegorm more than he resented Beren. This last one was far more intimate with Lúthien than anybody else. Beren, to Daeron’s eyes, was a good man. He was hardy, courageous, steady and kind-hearted. He was aware the Secondborns were better equipped to deal with feisty Maiar than Firstborns, and Lúthien had a feisty side. They had a flame in them that matched Maiarin mischief.

“What do we do?” whispered Mablung to Beleg. They did not dare to enter the living room.

“Fetch another cucumber?” suggested Beleg.

They heard footsteps. Someone stood behind the two Elves.

“Ha, Beren! It’s good to see you!” said Mablung cheerfully as he clasped the Man’s shoulder.

“Nice to see you too,” grinned Beren. “Where are you guys standing in the doorway? Don’t you want to sit on the couch?”

Mablung lifted his hand, gestured and dropped it.

“He’s eating a cucumber, and?” Beren raised an eyebrow.

Beleg sighed. “He’s brooding.”

“I can see that. Move, I want to pass,” said Beren as he entered the living room.

He crouched down in front of Daeron. The Elf barely acknowledged him with a nod. He continued to chew his cucumber.

“What happened?” asked Beren.

Daeron’s face was dark.

“The hunter that you spotted in the woods…,” he started.

“The Exile?”

Daeron nodded. “Beleg and Mablung,” he pointed at them with the remaining quarter of his vegetable, “consulted Lúthien, and they captured him.” His melodious voice was thick with reproach.

Beren raised his brows. He sat on the floor, eager to learn more. An Elven sacrifice was unheard of in Doriath—surely that was the fate of the kinslayer.

“They kept him as a servant. Personal retainer of the princess,” the bard growled.

Beren said nothing. He only scratched his stubble. Lúthien never was one to act without thinking first.

“Can’t you do something about it?” snarled Daeron. “It’s a bloody Fëanorian! I will convince the King to marry you to his daughter if that’s what it takes! But get the Golodh out!”

“Won’t you be angry that Beren will be with Lúthien until death does them part?” Mablung raised an eyebrow.

Beleg, who was mysteriously gone, came back with mugs and a bottle of mead.

“I prefer to know Beren near,” pouted Daeron.

“For being near Lúthien, that he is. More than near, I’d say,” snickered Mablung. Beren promptly ignored him and Daeron cast him an angry glare.

“So is her consort, surely,” said Beleg nonchalantly as he handed a cup of mead to Beren.

Mablung’s face fell. “I forgot about that,” he winced.

Daeron, clearly, never forgot. If possibly, his expression became darker than it already was. His face twisted with dread and horror. What happened behind closed doors…

“Come back to Menegroth, please,” the musician begged.

“He will,” announced Beleg. “Beren, the King requested your presence.”

“I suppose he shares Daeron’s sentiment,” mused Mablung.

“He did not say,” continued Beleg. “I assume it concerns the Golodh since Beren was the first who saw him in our woods.”

“Stupid Golodh,” Daeron took another bite of his cucumber.

No one disagreed with him.

 

***

“Beren, mae govannen,” smiled Thingol as he noticed the Man standing in the arch of the doorway to his personal office. “Come in, take a seat.”

Beren nodded. The king showed no sign of discontentment, but he was wary of the discussion to come.

“Dog, stay out!” shouted Thingol. “The entrance is too narrow!”

Beren jumped.

“No, not you,” said the king. “The dog behind you. You’re not a dog. Careful, he’s big.”

Beren yelped. The hound was as large as a strong stallion. It wanted to enter the room, but the doorway was too narrow.

“Queen Melian?” he tried.

Thingol laughed. “No! He is a hound of the Great Hunter and of Lúthien’s Golodh. This is why I summoned you here. Regarding the Golodh more particularly, the dog is no concern.”

Beren, on his guards, stepped away from Huan despite that the hound seemed friendly rather than aggressive. The dog was stuck in the doorway but wagged his tail like it was the happiest moment of his life. He took a seat near Thingol’s desk.

“I wanted to thank you,” started the king.

“Huh?” Beren raised his head.

“’Huh,’ indeed,” scoffed Thingol with a thin grin. “You were the one who warned my marchwardens about the presence of the kinslayer. You did my kingdom a great service.”

Beren blushed. “I, hm, huh, mrhrh,” he said with exceptional eloquence.

“With that being said,” pursued Thingol, paying Beren no attention, “my daughter captured him and took him as a slave of… sorts.” He grimaced. He censored himself from thinking about what Lúthien could do with that piece of meat—the Fëanorian—but his censorship was not infallible.

Beren played with his trousers. This was no topic he was interested to discuss with the Elvenking who once refused him as the princess’ consort. ‘Sir, I wooed your half-divine only child; let me woo her some more to distract her from her servant!’ was not recommended to say aloud.

“Beren, I allow you to live in Menegroth permanently.”

Beren jerked his head up for a second time. “Really?” he rasped.

Thingol nodded solemnly. “Yes,” he said. “Your children will always be welcome here.”

‘Make me grandchildren before the Golodh does’ was the unspoken command.

“Please come back to my daughter,” pleaded the king. “Do what you must, but keep the kinslayer away, I beg you.”

Beren bit his lips. The only strategy he thought of was to unleash an angry Daeron on the Fëanorian. There was nothing he could do personally. Lúthien had been firm on keeping the Fëanorian alive and under her service. What if somebody else claimed him…

“My father, Barahir,” he articulated. “He had a ring given by Felagund. Felagund swore allegiance to my people. Perhaps we could gift him the retainer.”

Beren was unaware of Elven customs but hoped they were alike to those of the House of Hador. Hadorian Men gifted servants to their allies. It was a tradition to maintain good political relationships. To receive a servant was a great honour. In return, the one who was given the gift had to treat their servant with respect. It was a metaphor of the respect given to their allies. Giving the Fëanorian to Felagund would strengthen the bonds between Doriath and Nargothrond.

Thingol smirked. “Finrod is the grandson of my brother Olue. I can summon him here.” He rested his chin against his palm. “Isn’t his sister said to be the greatest of her people? Surely she can have a hold on the Golodh. Last she came, she seemed to be smitten with Galadhon’s son; I’m sure she would be pleased to see him again…” His smirked deepened. “I shall invite them both here. Let us see what they do to their half-cousin.” He rose from his chair and put his hand on Beren’s shoulder. “Thank you for your suggestion. I underestimated your kin. You are far more astute than you present to be.” He huffed. “And they say Elves are wise! Wise, perhaps, but tactical? No.”

Beren, at loss with what to say, simply cleared his throat.

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Chapter End Notes

Golodh: Ñoldo
Iathil: Doriath Elves
Olue: Olwë