Winter's Kiss by ohboromir

Winter's Kiss

Read Winter's Kiss

Winter snows blanketed the forests. The trees bent under its weight, the leaves sparse, the shrubs bare. Shimmering crystals of ice formed out of the dew, glittering in the white starlight. In these deep dark hours, the mist gave the woodland a dreamlike haze, curling around the bare feet of the two elves, but its chill did not disturb them.

The first elf was lithe and strong, his hair unbound and floating over his shoulders, his head back as he laughed at the words of his companion. His face was bright in the starlight, almost childlike in his wonder and joy, and though he had the form of a warrior, he seemed more like one of the trees than elf, half spirit, and half branch.

His companion was even taller and even broader, his hair bound with leather ties in an elaborate braid. His face was stern and unlined, the only mark a scar along the arch of his right cheek. But his eyes were bright too, with love and joy, and he did not quite seem of the physical either, in this deep wood, touched by the ancient power of their Queen.

They walked together in the quiet stillness, far from the dwellings of their kin. Nan Elmoth, they called this place, where once the Queen had enchanted their king. It was quiet now. Their people dwelt in hidden groves and tree hollows, spread far and wide, with their king by the river, and this pair – like their King and Queen before them – had wanted privacy, from the prying ears of their friends and of the trees that knew them. The trees of Nan Elmoth did not gossip.

“I shall be Melian.” Beleg declared, his laughter still ringing in the trees as he danced lightly over the snow cloak of the earth, ahead of Mablung. He spiralled, twisting and turning, mimicking what he imagined would have been the dance of the Queen in the ancient days, when Thingol had come across her. “And you shall be Elwë.” He had a new name now, but Beleg had yet to grow used to it. “You are almost as tall as him.”

Mablung rolled his eyes, but Beleg knew well enough the twitch of mirth in his face. Beleg continued his dance, singing to himself an old tune. Despite winter being in its peak, so cold that almost nothing grew, there were flowers in Nan Elmoth. A pale carpet of snowdrops, blood bright hellebore, climbing purple clematis. Beleg danced among them, the sweet scent stirring in the air. Mablung could not refuse to join in, his deep voice interrupting the song.

“Fair creature!” he called, and Beleg halted his dance, his face curious but eyes sparkling with delight as his partner indulged him. Mablung continued. “Fair creature, O he who has walked in the youth of the world! Why do you come to my forest and dance with me, but always leave me alone and heartbroken?”

His impression of Thingol was not very good. Beleg would not dare intimate the Queen; her power scared him and unlike the king, they did not have a long friendship that permitted such teasing. But he would play himself.

“I came to sing. Will you sing with me?”

“I will sing with you.”

Mablung joined in both song and dance. It was not rehearsed, but they both knew the steps, instinct and memory combined. They continued, though there was no sense of time in the starlight, sinking deeper and deeper into the woods, where the ages have left the trees twisted and gnarled – but beautiful still, ancient, wise and knowing. It was a comfort to them both.

They came at last to the centre, a grove of the oldest trees, and Beleg halted in the snow.

“Now I must leave you, noble love, for my own kind. I am a spirit, and not of this world.” Some said that was true of him. Beleg disagreed. He was more of the world than anyone else; his flesh was as much like wood as his bow, his blood the rainwaters, his hair the fibres that the elves spun into clothes. Only Mablung could understand him, only Mablung knew how Beleg’s heart ached and longed for the world as it had once been for him.

“I would have you be of my world.”

“Wed me, then, and keep me.” Beleg declared, and Mablung laughed, reaching for him, and kissing him, their heads resting together. They sank into the snow, untroubled by the cold, and held each other, resting, savouring.

“There is no one who could keep you, Beleg.”

“I know. But I like the game. It amuses me to imagine.” Beleg said into the quiet, toying with the end of Mablung’s braid. Mablung was quiet, but that was not unusual. He was often quiet, letting Beleg talk, or share the silence with him. Long moments of silence passed, and then:

“Will you marry me, Cúthalion?”

Beleg stared into his lover’s eyes, searching for the familiar signs of teasing. He found nothing, only hope and sincerity and love. His heart swelled, and almost at once emotion threatened to overcome him, to burst through his chest and swallow him whole. The world shrank to just him and Mablung.

 

“Yes.”

His answer was to cup Mablung’s face with his hands, drawing him close and kissing him. He tasted of pine and the clearest spring water Beleg had ever tasted. He kissed him, long and deep, the two of them entwined in the snow, hands grasping, hair tugged, eyes closed. Beleg could have kissed him forever, but eventually he pulled away, leaving a lingering final kiss on Mablung’s lips, and lay back in the soft snow.

“I know you will want to do it as our people do.” Beleg spoke after his breath had returned to him. He thought of the engagements he had witnessed over these long years; it was not how he would have done it, but neither was it unappealing. He would happily wear Mablung’s ribbon in his hair for two seasons, and be wed in the third – summer, he mused, they could have so many flowers. The king announcing their intention to wed to the entire court was less exciting, but he could bear the well-meant ribbing of his friends for Mablung. No one of them would be surprised, at any rate. Daeron insisted they were all but wed already. They certainly behaved as spouses. Was the ceremony necessary? No. But he was not the kind of elf that would refuse his friends a party.

“I do.” Mablung admitted, laying on his back in the snow and looking up at the canopy of stars and bare branches. “I have long pictured us drinking from the same cup – as they did in the old times – and binding our hands. But we do not have to do it entirely my way. Neither of us are the traditional kind, are we?”

“No.” Beleg agreed. They had no family to exchange gifts with. Beleg had never had any. Mablung was an only child and his parents had gone with Olwë across the sea. Beleg was selfishly grateful for it. He had known Mablung’s parents, and to this day, he had no idea what he could have given them.

But if they could not dip themselves in the waters of the Great Lake together as they might have done then, they could still share water together now – the Sindar had taken that custom, though at the wedding itself instead of before it – and Beleg still remembered the old words. Perhaps he could convince Mablung to let Thingol pour the blessed water over their heads instead, at the ceremony. In Cuiviénen, engagements were secret, only announced to a single witness at the drinking, and to the rest at exactly a season before the ceremony. Long engagements had been common, few willing to bind themselves so firmly in a haste. He would not want to wait so long for Mablung.

 

Beleg sat up and took his water flask from his belt.

“Share the water with me, Captain Mablung.” He said, offering it to him, as he had done so many times before. Never like this.

“We have no witness.” Mablung was not really arguing, though. He was smiling, letting his fingers rest over Beleg’s on the flask as he sipped from it, never breaking eye contact.

“We have the forest.” It had been the witness to so much of their lives. It was only right it was a witness to this.

Beleg guided the flask to Mablung’s lips, watching the drop of water left behind. Mablung pushed the flask back towards him, and with their fingers still interlaced, Beleg drank.

“I love you.” He leaned in again, brushing his nose against Mablung’s, before kissing him, light as the leaves fall in the autumn.

Beleg did not know how long they stayed there. It might have been forever. It would never be long enough. But eventually they parted, walking hand in hand back to the grove where their king kept his court.

Elu Thingol sat on a carven throne of wood, winter berries in his hair. The Queen beside him sat, the infant princess sleeping in her lap. She smiled knowingly when she saw them. How did she always know?

“You return to us at last, friends.” Thingol rose, bright and merry, “What news? To be gone so long, you must have found some great treasure.”

Beleg felt his throat constrict, mouth suddenly dry. He looked around the clearing – Daeron sat with Oropher, half an eye on them as they compared notes on a harp. Nellas was braiding her hair with winter flowers, her piercing gaze on Beleg. Did she know? Why did it feel like she knew? Why was it so hard to speak – these were his friends, his companions, he knew they would be nothing but happy. And yet no sound left him.

Thingol started to speak again when neither of them answered, but then Mablung found his deep well of courage.

“We are engaged, Lord.”

Thingol laughed, a bright, joyous sound, and raised a hand to call for the attention of the gathered elves. Beleg felt his face warm and laced his fingers with Mablung’s for comfort. Mablung squeezed his hand and Beleg smiled.

“This, my dear friends, brings us all great joy – and indeed surprise, since there are those among us who believed you already wed.” Thingol announced, teasing, and there was a cheer from their friends that made Beleg want to hide his face in Mablung’s shoulders. “We would all be honoured to share in your love – sit with us at the high table.”

There was much cheering and shouting as he followed Mablung’s lead to sit at the place of honour at the king’s table. Thingol pronounced more blessings upon them, and the Queen in her enigmatic way said she hoped they would have a long and bright future. The tiny child in her arms squirmed and babbled at them as the noise in the clearing grew louder and Beleg smiled, thanking the princess for her kind blessing.

Elves scurried around them, a feast appearing before them – Beleg thought of the Queen’s smile, the looks Daeron and Oropher had given them, and wondered if they had prepared for this already. The wine was overflowing in their cups and before long he lost himself in the celebration, forgetting his bashfulness in the face of such fun.

In a lull in the music, Nellas approached them shyly.

“Beleg, Mablung.” She began, haltingly, gaze darting nervously up to the King, awed in the presence of the King. She turned her attention back to them and smiled sweetly. “I have gifts for you.”

A pair of crowns, branches of holly and mistletoe with bright leaves and red berries. Mablung reached and took the first from her, and instinctively, Beleg leaned forward to let him place it on his head, feeling more like a bride than a warrior. The image did not displease him; he resolved to share his imaginings with Mablung later. He crowned Mablung with the second crown and the beauty of him took Beleg’s breath from his chest. With the gentle starlight soothing his features, his braid loosened from their rolling in the snow, the rare smile on his face, he seemed more like a king of the Ainur than an elf of forest. Beleg raised his goblet in a grateful toast to Nellas.

The celebration continued for many hours – the Sindar of Doriath needed little excuse to party, and the engagement of both of their captains was an extraordinary occasion. In their place at the honoured seat, Mablung seemed more like an imitation of Thingol than he had in forests, Nellas’ crown of branches in his hair, sitting tall and regal. He seemed calm, but Beleg could see even the most hidden emotion in him – there was a little clench to his jaw, his hands were too still, his grip on his goblet was too tight. He disliked being the centre of so much celebration and attention – even from their friends – almost as much as Beleg did. Mablung did not even celebrate his begetting day. He had once told Beleg that he had not wanted to since he had turned thirty and one of the few good parts of his parents leaving had been that no one else knew the day. Beleg did not even know it.

Mablung was good at hiding the tension in him. He was talking to Oropher – Beleg’s thoughts were too loud, but he thought he heard him give his congratulations, and there might have been a joke in there, because Mablung was laughing.

“Do you want to step away, Beleg?” His voice was hushed in Beleg’s ear. Beleg glanced once more around the room and then nodded, rising from his seat without hesitation and slipping into the trees before anyone could stop him, relieved to be away from the attention and the noise. He kept walking, knowing Mablung would follow when he had made their excuses, until he could no longer hear Daeron’s harp.

“You are like a fleeing deer, Beleg.” Mablung’s voice reached him, and a moment later he appeared from between the trees, laughing. Beleg rushed to him, ready for the usual lecture on manners, but then Mablung kissed him, grasping him by the hips to pull him in.

Beleg gently pushed him away, after too short a moment, and Mablung’s whine was half-complaint, half-need.

“In a moment,” he promised, seeing those pale eyes darkened with desire that made Beleg’s limbs feel weak. “I have something for you.”

“I do not need a gift.”

“I want to give it to you. We will not wear rings. We would only lose them in the wilds. I will wear your ribbon and you mine – when I find it, that is. I promise I have not lost another one – it is with my bedroll, somewhere in the furs.” From the inside pocket of his tunic, he brought out a feather. He had been carrying it with him for half the season, waiting for the right moment to give it. Beleg had intended it only as a love token, a small gesture, not an engagement gift. But it was a good one, he decided. Dailir had to be re-fletched often. He sometimes turned the old feathers into charms. Mablung would look lovely with it wound in his hair, or at his throat, or dangling from his ear.

Mablung took it in his hands, cradled tenderly. “Beleg… I will make you something.” Beleg’s lips twitched in a smile – he had been the one to teach Mablung woodcraft, but the student had quickly exceeded the master, with a focus for it that Beleg lacked.

“I do not need it. I have you with me always. You are in the curve of Belthronding, in every tree and branch – I think of you always.”

The strength of his own words surprised him, but the effect they had on Mablung was clear. Beleg did not have a chance to speak before his lover pushed him to the ground, swallowing his gasp with a fierce kiss. Cushioned by snow, he laughed against his lips as he brought his hands up to tangle in Mablung’s hair, freeing it from the braid and running his fingers through it, tugging him up into another kiss.

Mablung’s hands, large and warm, made quick work of his clothes, Beleg as bare as the day he had woken against the snow. But he could not feel cold, not when desire and love, when need, burned so brightly within him. Mablung had a single-minded focus, it seemed, his kisses already trailing down Beleg’s jaw, to the spot on his throat that always made him keen and whine. But Beleg would not be outdone – this was a time for them, not just him, and for all Mablung claimed to take all his pleasure in giving, Beleg would not simply take.

His fingers were long and nimble, and the ties of Mablung’s tunic were not complicated. The greater difficulty was in convincing him to move away for long enough to get it off over his head. Finally victorious, Beleg’s fingers danced over the smooth expanse of muscle, tracing every scar and dip, knowing the contours of his body better than he knew his own. He wanted to know all of him and even that would not be enough. Mablung groaned against his skin as Beleg slipped his hand into his trousers to stroke him.

“You should not look so smug, Cúthalion.” He laughed, shuffling back to hook one of Beleg’s legs over his shoulder. Beleg’s eyes darkened and the fire in his belly roared, desire setting his bones alight. He had been too lost in his exploration of Mablung’s skin to see where he had gotten the oil from – Mablung was always prepared, for they rarely made it to their beds. Now slickened fingers teased him, and Beleg arched his body, head thrown back into the snow.

Mablung was relentless, curling his fingers, adding a third as Beleg tried and failed to come up with something witty to say. Mablung was so good at this; he could always reduce proud Beleg to writhing and moaning in minutes and he took great pleasure in it, too, drawing it out until Beleg was almost moved to tears by overwhelming sensation.

Here, overlooked by their beloved trees, under the white winter starlight, they had never loved each other more dearly. Finally unable to bear the waiting, Mablung removed his fingers, laughing softly as Beleg whined at the emptiness, desperate for the closeness that this brought them.

“I have you, Beleg.” He promised as he pressed inside him. Beleg closed his eyes, tears pricking the corner of his eyes, murmuring softly – the old tongue, that few remembered now, whispered praise and confessions of love so raw he would never be able to say them in any other moment.

He could not have said how long it lasted, it might have been minutes, or hours, all Beleg knew was the building pressure in his gut and the feelings of Mablung’s hands on him, Mablung over him, Mablung in him. It reached a crescendo inside him and he spilled with a wail of his lover’s name that echoed through the woods. White light blinded him for a moment and he felt Mablung give one last deep rock of his hips before he came inside him, his face pressed into the crook of Beleg’s neck, panting.

Stillness came over them. They laid that, together, for a long time, neither moving nor speaking. Their minds were one as they were, the deep connection of Quendi lovers. No words had to pass between them.

There was nothing but them and the wide open world and they were happy.