There in the Fragrant Pines by Maggie Honeybite

Chapter 1/1

Read Chapter 1/1

 

The weather had been cold when Finrod first chanced upon the Atani in the glow of their night fires and woke them with his harp playing. The weeks that followed were marked by mist and rain, chilly nights and frosty mornings. But then dawned a spring day both clear and temperate, with the noonday sun warming the forest as a crackling fire warms a bedchamber when all windows are shut against winter. There wasn’t a breath of wind.

Bëor came to his tent and said in broken Sindarin, “Water? Wash?” And then in his own language added, “The warriors are bathing downriver. It’s a beautiful day for a paddle. Will you join us?”

Eagerly Finrod agreed; it had been a long time since he’d bathed properly.

There were women walking in the same direction but headed upriver, away from the men – it seemed the Atani were a modest people, and this was an opportunity for getting clean, not for sport. Finrod smiled to himself as he felt budding affection for the Secondborn pulse under his breastbone. Modest, hardworking, clean: these were all things of which he approved.

The warriors had laid their weapons on the riverbank, close to hand – clearly having taken to heart his advice not to let down their guard in this land. Nearby lay piles of their discarded garments, some folded carefully, others dumped in haste. Apparently here too such things were governed by personal preference rather than the characteristics of a whole people. Some Atani were messy, some neat.

Bëor handed him a grey lump of something Finrod supposed must be soap and began to undress. Finrod followed his lead. From around the riverbend he could hear the women, laughing and splashing, and the joyful squeals of children. Here, downriver, the warriors seemed just as happy, if not quite so loud.

He and Bëor waded out into the middle of the shallow current. Finrod could sense the eyes of all the men trained on him – and why not? He was a foreign visitor, a member of an alien race. None stared openly but he could feel their curiosity like the latent heat of the sun hidden behind a cloud. The only one not looking at him was Bëor, who seemed to want to set an example of polite disinterest for his warriors to follow. When the water reached the tops of his thighs, Finrod sank down until he was submerged up to his neck, and began to wash his hair. Soon he’d ceased to be the centre of attention and became just another bather in a stream, which was how he preferred it. Because now he could observe unimpeded.

He'd never before seen so many Men in the nude. Hadn’t seen any, really, unless you counted the odd glimpse of someone taking off a shirt or discarding wet boots. The sight was fascinating, all the more so since he could tell at a glance – even to his unpracticed eye – that here were Men of various ages and stages in life. Some were youths barely sprouting facial hair, their chests smooth, not unlike his own, their flanks narrow and lean. Some were clearly in their prime: broad of back and strong of shoulder, their forearms and chests furred all over with fine hair, their faces bearded. As they lifted their arms to scrub themselves down, he glimpsed hair in their armpits too, like clumps of short grass growing along the riverbank.

“We must seem very different to you.” Bëor sounded thoughtful. “You certainly seem very different to us.”

“I am like any of my kind,” Finrod said.

“Oh? Do your kind all shine as a firefly in the night forest?”

“Shine?”

“You are luminous.”

“Some do, I guess.” Finrod looked down at himself. He’d stood up to soap his body; rivulets of water ran down his thighs, glinting in the sun. He was no brighter than the tiny fish darting along the river’s rocky bottom, their scales picked out by the sun’s rays. Just a part of nature. “I’m really nothing special among my people.”

“Hmm.” Bëor didn’t sound convinced but politely let the matter drop, though Finrod could feel the weight of the man’s gaze warm his skin. Appraising but respectful and discreet.

They washed in silence for a while, until Finrod’s curiosity got the best of him. “Does it itch?” he asked.

“Does what itch?”

“Having so much hair all over. On your chest, in your armpits. Does it get in the way?”

Bëor let out a good-natured laugh, which rumbled up from his hairy belly and crinkled his eyes. Hooted and slapped his thigh, sending a splash of water upwards, and then wiped his face with the back of his hand. “It grows gradually so you get used to it,” he said. “Would you like to feel?”

“Your hair?”

Bëor nodded and extended his arm. Finrod waded closer and laid his hand on Bëor’s wrist, slid his palm up to the man’s elbow, then back down. Felt the short hairs between thumb and forefinger. “It isn’t too rough or coarse,” he said. “Not like animal pelt at all. Does it feel the same everywhere? All over the body?”

Bëor’s eyebrows rose but his smile stayed in place. “Some of it is coarser, some finer.” He lifted an arm, inclined his head to indicate his armpit. “The hair here is fine. But don’t touch or you’ll make me laugh; it’s sensitive there.”

“Where is it coarse then? Could I touch that?”

For a moment Bëor looked taken aback, then his amused smile turned into a grin. “My beard. And also – there.” He glanced down between his thighs, where his cock hung in a thatch of dark curls. “But I don’t think we know each other well enough for me to let you touch that.”

Finrod snatched back his hand as if burned, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. “My apologies. I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t worry about it, lad. No offense taken.”

That was the first time Bëor called him “lad.” Finrod didn’t mind it. He took it in the spirit in which it was meant: the venerable chieftain putting his guest at ease, having regard to experience in the ways of the Atani rather than to actual age. Finrod knew he looked youthful; knew also that Bëor was well aware that an Elf’s lifespan was infinite and that he, Finrod, had already outlived all of Bëor’s ancestors and would outlive his grandsons’ grandsons. But it was alright. Clearly the word “lad” wasn’t intended to take him down a peg; quite the opposite.

 

*******

 

The Atani lived in tents made of animal hides, in small groupings that mostly consisted of a husband, his wife, and their children. Sometimes an elderly relative shared their living space, but such elders were few. The number of children born into the tribe was astounding – like mushrooms sprouting out of the ground after rain – and Finrod wondered at the wisdom of having children so readily while on an uncertain journey, until it occurred to him that their reasons for doing so were pragmatic as well as sentimental. Fell beasts, hunger, disease – the Atani were vulnerable to all these and more. If children weren’t born, the tribe would soon die out.

Bëor had a tent to himself. There was no wife, and his sons were grown. The chieftain’s tent wasn’t out of bounds to visitors, and at times the small space rang with the sound of young voices and the tent flap nearly frayed with the to-and-fro of little heads ducking under it – his grandchildren. It was clear that their visits brought Bëor joy. They looked like him, every one. Hair dark, skin pale, eyes a clear grey, alive with intelligence.

Once, Finrod asked about the wife. “We’d had a couple of tough winters,” Bëor merely said. “She didn’t survive the last.” There was no mention of love, or of mourning, but Bëor – who generally kept up his end of the conversation easily, especially now his Sindarin was improving – had simply let the matter drop, which was telling. And then there was the fact of his empty tent. As chief, Bëor could have had his pick of any of the young maidens, and the thin tent walls would have made no secret of his nighttime couplings with his new bride. And yet Bëor slept alone.

And so it was that Finrod and Bëor found themselves sitting by the fire late one night, engaged in one of their long discussions as flames turned to ember and then to ash. The chill in the air was pronounced and the ground had a fresh coat of snow; winter had settled on the land. That’s when they first heard the howling.

Wolves. Not one, not a handful – a whole pack. Surrounding the encampment by the sounds of it, and moving closer.

In a flash, Bëor was up and shouting, rousing everyone from their slumber. His voice, usually measured and low, bellowed with his entire body’s strength behind it, resonant with authority. The camp turned out quickly, parents carrying small children, and soon the youngest ones were herded by their mothers and set to climbing trees – up and away from danger. Women with babes in arms did the same, having tied their charges onto their backs with blankets. The rest of the tribe wound cloths around fallen branches, smeared them with resin, and set them aflame to make torches. Warriors wielded sword and bow.

All formed a wide circle and awaited the attack. They didn’t have to wait long. With bared fangs the first wolf sprang, followed by a second and a third. Food must have been scarce in the mountains, for the beasts seemed exceptionally driven. Some were felled by arrows and sharp blades, some were held back by threat of flame, but still more kept coming, growling and snarling. The defence had started out in a spirit of confidence, but now fear gripped the community; they would beat back the attack eventually, that was certain, but the cost might be high.

The first casualty fell before long, with a scream that rent the night and made Finrod’s hair stand on end. Bëor leapt toward the figure lying prone on the ground and stabbed the wolf through its throat, but it was too late for the young woman now bleeding a dark patch into the snow. The loss of one link in their human chain had been felt; the circle swayed and threatened to collapse. The wolves came ever closer. Up above, in the trees, Finrod could hear children crying.

He had been using his sword, but that now seemed an inadequate weapon. His friends the Atani needed him to wield all the power he could muster. Amid the flickering torches, beset by crazed beasts on all sides, Finrod raised his voice and began to sing. He felt tendrils of energy flow through his body and travel into the night on the wings of his breath, sensed heat in his fingers and tingling in the roots of his hair. The life force vibrated up from his diaphragm and spilled out along the roof of his mouth, into the frosty air, where it spun outwards in a great circle, shielding the Secondborn and pushing against the snarling wolves.

He sang of friendship and strength, of wholeness and unbending resistance. He urged the blade to stay sharp and the arrow to aim true, urged feet to stay planted on the ground and sword arms not to tire. Those around him fought like before but now found it easier to prevail. The wolves fell back. Over his shoulder, Bëor cast him a look of awe.

Later, after a shallow grave had been scraped into the frozen ground to bury the young woman under a cairn of stones, and the wolf carcasses no longer littered the forest floor, Finrod and Bëor once again sat side by side by the evening fire. The silence was companionable but unusual. They had long been used to easy banter; now something was different.

“What is it, my friend?” Finrod asked. “Is something wrong?”

Bëor’s eyes focused on the fire; he didn’t turn. “I had forgotten,” he said.

“Forgotten what?”

“About you. I’d stopped thinking about how different you are, and thought of you simply as my friend.”

“I am your friend.”

“Yes, but you aren’t like us. You are an ancient Elf lord of great might. You are like the trees in the forest, old but ageless. We are like the animals that scurry below, there for a season or two, and then gone. You prevail. You remain. I’d forgotten.”

“I am what I am. It is nothing special, I assure you.”

Bëor prodded the embers until they sent up a shower of sparks. He didn’t look convinced.

“If I’d sung earlier, I might have saved a life,” Finrod said. “I should have raised my voice sooner, and for that I am sorry.”

“You didn’t want to frighten us with your power. I understand now that you hold back so that we are not dazzled by the light within you.”

“We all have light within. We are all children of Eru.”

“That may be, but my light isn’t blinding. It is like the moon to your sun.” Bëor’s eyes held a measure of apprehension. The easy trust that had been there before was shadowed by distance.

Finrod shifted closer to the fire. “Both sun and moon dispel the darkness. I would have things between us as they were before. Are we alright, friend Balan?”

“Yes, Nóm. We’re alright.” Bëor smiled an indulgent smile, the kind he usually bestowed on his grandchildren. But he didn’t call Finrod “lad” just then, nor for many months after.

 

*******

 

Spring came, then summer, and with every hot, pine-scented day things grew easier between them. It was good that the Atani set aside awkwardness quickly, Finrod thought. He supposed that, given their limited lifespan, it was only natural for them to do so. Like a high flame, their feelings burned bright and passionate, swiftly consuming whatever cause had called them into being. Soon Bëor was laughing and joking as he had before, which made Finrod’s heart glad.

Good leadership took planning, and Bëor had long been thinking about the implications of his age for the people in his tribe. He now decided to ease his oldest son into the role of chieftain gradually, by absenting himself for a spell at a time of year when problems were likely to be few. He and Finrod planned to go hunting for some days, wandering the mountainsides and scouting for alternate campsites. It was as much a pleasure trip as it was an errand. Judging by the spring in his step, Bëor was looking forward to it. So was Finrod.

They set out on foot, armed well but not anticipating many issues. Toward noon on the second day they came across some wild bees in a tree hollow. Bëor took a smoking branch, nimbly climbed the tree and came back with a honeycomb dripping sweetness between his fingers. He was stung once or twice but didn’t mind it, and Finrod – who could have lulled the bees by singing and so have avoided stings – didn’t bring it up. Bëor had his own ways, which were just as valid as those of the Eldar. The more time Finrod spent with the Atani, the more he understood that fundamental truth.

“Not bad for a man of fifty summers,” Bëor laughed as he handed Finrod half of the honeycomb, then licked his fingers. “I can still climb trees, if a bit slower now.”

Finrod didn’t think of Bëor as old, though there were a few threads of silver in the Man’s beard and chest hair. Like the young men in the tribe, Bëor stood tall and strong, and didn’t tire easily. Unlike them, he didn’t take every opportunity to strut about and prove his virility – which, paradoxically, proved it in spades. Bëor was past the age at which Men’s chests bulge and dip in pleasing ridges, then slope down to the planes of a flat stomach – form at one with function. But of all the Atani Finrod had had occasion to observe, he found he enjoyed looking at Bëor the most. There was something about him. His strength wasn’t just for show.

They were sitting in a clearing, eating the honey along with some flatbread they’d brought along, when two deer bucks emerged out of the trees. Silently Bëor drew his bow, but something stayed his hand. He and Finrod watched as the two young bucks rubbed antlers and began to nuzzle each other. One of them poked his nose between the other’s hind legs, licking the genitals he found there. Then he mounted his fellow from behind and began to rut.

Finrod felt his face grow hot. Bëor grinned and set down his bow. “I can’t spoil their fun,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll wait until they’re done at least. We’ve had no shortage of game.”

“That’s forbearing of you.”

Bëor shrugged, his grin still very much in evidence. “A courtesy I’d want extended toward myself, is all. I’ve been in their position.”

“A target in someone’s sights?”

“Rutting with another man.”

Finrod’s mouth dropped open. “You have? I mean—” He groped for words. “You have?”

Bëor gave him a look Finrod couldn’t quite identify. “Yes,” he said quietly. “A long time ago when I was young. Does it shock you?”

“No.” Finrod tried to keep his voice even. “It’s something about you I didn’t know, that’s all. Something we haven’t talked about.”

“Does this sort of thing not happen among the Elves?”

Finrod scuffed the ground with his heel. “It isn’t common, but it does happen.”

“Same with us.”

“And it happened to you?”

Bëor smiled. “Once or twice. Warriors spend a good deal of time together. They teach each other things before they marry. I wasn’t chief then, had more freedom.” He licked the honey from his fingers, never breaking eye contact. “What about you? Did anyone ever teach you?”

There was an intensity about Bëor’s look that signalled this was more than an idle question. Finrod’s heart beat faster. If he were honest with himself he’d admit that they’d been building up to this moment for a long time, like the sun which illuminates the world all around before ever peeking over the horizon. “There was someone, on the voyage across the Ice,” he said.

“And you and he—”

“We did things.” Finrod looked over at the rutting bucks. “Never quite that. But some things, yes.”

“And you liked it?”

Finrod nodded. In his mind’s eye he saw Turgon’s mouth open in a gasp, his hands gripping the furs covering the icy ground. It had been cold then; now, all around him was languid summer air, the scent of conifer and the sounds of the forest. Arousal was the common thread but the feeling of uncertainty and anguish he’d had on the Helcaraxë was absent. The excitement he felt now wasn’t tinged with anything negative.

“You said you’ve never married,” Bëor said.

“I haven’t. Marriage is a serious matter among Elves. We have an eternity to be married; we don’t rush into things.”

“And before marriage? Did you have a sweetheart? Did you lay with her?”

“I had a sweetheart. I treated her with reverence. Bodily love is for marriage only.”

“Does that mean you’ve never…”

“No, never.”

“Nor with a man either?”

“Not really. Touching, yes – but… not the other.”

“You mean fucking.”

Finrod swallowed and gave a short nod. All this talk was making him hard. The Atani were very blunt about such matters.

“But you did touch, and stroke, and kiss? With another? For pleasure and to achieve completion?”

“Yes. I did,” Finrod said. By now he was rigid as steel.

“And it was with men?”

“Just the one man, yes.”

“Often?”

“No, not really. A few dozen times over the centuries. And then finally not at all.”

“And you so ancient… Stars, that’s a long time to go without. Does desire not bother your kind?”

Just now Finrod felt very bothered indeed. He shifted on the moss-covered ground. “It isn’t easy. We feel desire just as you do. But I try to keep my mind on other things. Most of the time the distraction is enough.”

“And you’ve never tried fucking.”

“No.”

“But you’re so curious by nature.” Bëor frowned; he was puzzling something out. “Forgive me if I speak plainly, but you’re so keen on learning anything you can get your hands on. You’ve picked up our language, our customs, our music. You want to experience everything. It seems so unlike you to shy away from experiencing this as well. It’s very much a part of life. Maybe I just don’t understand.”

Finrod’s heart in his chest was like a thrashing bird trying to take wing. He opened his mouth and said, “Maybe I just haven’t had the opportunity.”

After the wolf attack, Bëor had looked at Finrod with awe. Now he looked at him with undisguised, unbridled lust. Finrod felt his mouth go dry. The forest around him pulsed with life, shimmered with lush promise.

“I’m not misreading this, am I?” Bëor said carefully. “Because I don’t think I am.”

Finrod shook his head. “You’re not misreading it.”

“If sex is such a serious matter for your kind, I would never presume—”

“I think if it involves one of the Atani, the rules don’t quite apply.”

“Good.” Bëor flashed a wolflike grin and moved toward Finrod.

Being kissed by one of the Secondborn would have been exhilarating in and of itself: exotic and different. But this wasn’t just anyone; this was Bëor – Bëor’s hand threaded through Finrod’s hair and cupping the back of his head, Bëor’s thigh parting his legs and rubbing against his erection. Bëor’s beard rasping against Finrod’s cheek.

Finrod could feel the rough bark of the pine tree against his back; some of the sap had got on his hand and now felt sticky in his palm. He scraped it along the ground to try to get the stickiness off and then tugged at Bëor’s shirt. Got it undone, slipped his fingers inside. Hot skin, beating heart, broad chest covered in a glorious pelt, and then a trail of coarser hair down to his groin, and a long, thick cock that fit into Finrod’s hand as if it had been made just for that purpose.

Bëor thrust into his palm, pulled Finrod down until they tumbled onto the ground. “You make me rise like a youngster,” he breathed. They moved against each other, hard and insistent, kissed with mouths open, tasting honey on their tongues. Finrod ran his fingers through Bëor’s chest hair; it yielded like water. He grabbed a fistful: springy like moss it was, strange and yet so right. He could hear a desperate panting coming from his own mouth; he’d never been more overcome, but the summer forest was drowsy all around him and didn’t judge.

“Hand me the bow grease in your belt.” Bëor’s voice was hoarse. “And then up on your hands and knees.” Finrod must have looked a question because that’s when Bëor gently said, “I know you’re an ancient Elf lord, lad, but I’ve done this before.”

And then they were like the two deer across the clearing. Bëor mounted him from behind, held him fast by the hips, and rocked, and rocked. Moss under Finrod’s knees, prickly pine needles between his fingers, honey still on his tongue, and Bëor’s cock inside him, fucking him deep and plain and good.

“My beautiful buck,” Bëor whispered as he rocked. “My beautiful buck.”

After they were done, Finrod’s seed spilled on the mossy ground like an offering, Bëor handed Finrod a water skin and smiled. Sweat beaded on Bëor’s forehead; Finrod wiped it away with the back of his hand as they settled against the tree trunk, catching their breath. There were pine needles in Finrod’s hair. Bëor ran his fingers through it, combing them out. “It’s like liquid sunlight,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to touch it. It hardly seems real.”

Finrod pulled away, suddenly uneasy. Memories of another coupling clouded the moment’s tranquility. “I don’t remind you of your wife, do I? The way I look? My hair?”

“Bronwyn?” Bëor looked confused for a moment, and then laughed. “Heavens no. She looked nothing like you. Small, soft, hair like ripe chestnuts. Best damn wife a man ever had, gave me fine sons, kept my bones warm many a winter. I miss her something awful. But no, there’s no resemblance.” He looked Finrod up and down, his gaze forthright and appreciative. “You don’t look like anything I’ve seen before. You’re beautiful but not soft. When you shine, you exude power. It’s like looking straight at the sun. You’re mighty and frightening.”

“You didn’t seem frightened a moment ago.”

Bëor smiled. “I don’t scare easy.”

A woodpecker rapped on a nearby tree as a breeze rustled leaves and branches all around the empty clearing.

“Look, our quarry has gone,” Bëor said. Indeed, the two deer bucks had finished their business and wandered off, unaware of how close they had come to danger. “I guess we were too distracted to notice.”

“Their lucky hour,” Finrod said.

“Aye.” Bëor nodded, taking Finrod’s hand. “And mine.”

The Man’s palm was calloused and his grip firm. This wasn’t what Finrod had planned back in Aman, wasn’t how he’d imagined his life unfolding. But it was what he’d found. Unexpected and sure to be brief, like dew drops on spider silk that shine for a moment on a forest morning. But how lovely they shine when the sun hits them from just the right angle, like diamonds.

 

 

END