I Loved You Once in a Dream by Rocky41_7

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I Loved You Once in a Dream

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It was years gone now that Anairë’s husband had returned, almost hesitantly, from the Halls of Mandos. Years gone since she had first been truly confronted with the notion of what to do with him standing in front of her again; since all those conversations she’d played and replayed in her mind over the centuries were suddenly not just an exercise in fantasy; since there had been another laying down their head in the home she’d grown to think of as hers.

Indis and Finarfin had been kind enough to let her keep the old apartments in the royal palace—she was, they said, still a princess of the Noldor.

When Indis had followed her eldest back to Valmar, and Eärwen had departed for Alqualondë to grieve and offer aid, and Nerdanel had quitted the palace for a home of her own (she didn’t say where, when she left, though Anairë had since figured it out), Anairë had learned just how quiet those apartments could be. When it was just her and Finarfin at dinners that had once held dozens, conversation now sparse and shallow, she understood at last the meaning of the word empty.

Was Fingolfin her responsibility? Only as much as she would be his, in a similar scenario, she reasoned. And where was he to go, otherwise? She doubted he would be welcomed in Valmar, even if Indis and Findis wished to offer him a place. So perhaps it was inevitable that he landed back in the same home he had resided in when he left.

Anairë made him sleep on the sofa.

They had slid a bed into his old study since those early days, for never since his return had Anairë allowed him into the bedchambers which now belonged to her, and he would not overnight in the children’s rooms (although she had caught him lying on Aredhel’s bed one afternoon, fingers clutched around some youthful wood-working project of Turgon’s sill lingering in his sister’s room).

Forgiveness was a fickle thing sometimes, she thought. Eärwen had still not forgiven her children for their leaving and the manner of it, as if all her forgiveness had gone into Finarfin and left none for the children. Finarfin had been nearly delirious with joy at the return of any of his babies and if he had harbored any resentment until then, it had vanished the moment Finrod stepped light-dazzled and wary out of the Halls. What discussions—and there had been many—Indis had had with Fingolfin Anairë couldn’t say, for Fingolfin had not shared much and she had not pried. She knew Finrod had been often in conversation with Olwë since his return, continuing the efforts at healing which Eärwen and Finarfin had been driving at between their peoples since the Kinslaying. Findis had not yet called on Fingolfin, though they had spoken once when she traveled with Indis to and from Tirion.

Anairë knew why Fingolfin had done what he had done. She had resented his departure, particularly after Alqualondë, but at the same time, she could not wholly condemn it, even if she thought it had been the wrong choice (Only once had she pointed out that Finarfin had been willing to return and take his due punishment, and that had been one of their more raw conversations). Still, she took several years to decide that she was going to forgive him. The next question was whether that forgiveness included allowing him to be a part of her life again, and to what extent. That was another several years.

All told, when she invited Fingolfin up to the bedroom that had once been theirs, few could blame him for seizing the chance.

His fingers must have remembered the trick of the lock on the door; he flicked it closed with one hand even as he pressed Anairë back against the wall beside it (the lesson learned in a family as large as Finwë’s was better safe than sorry even if you were quite sure the house was empty). His hands were like a dream as they slid up beneath her pale blue robes, so achingly familiar and yet so distant she had to reach for the memory.

Anairë sighed and leaned back against the wall, her hair pillowed in a black halo around her head; if she shut her eyes with his mouth against her throat, it could almost be one of those things she pictured in her mind late at night, with one hand pressed between her thighs, furious with him him and wanting him, and most of all, missing him.

Fingolfin had been the last of his brothers to wed, though he and she had been courting before Eärwen and Finarfin began. Anairë did nothing in a rush. But all her careful planning and weighing of options and possibilities had left her in no better position than Nerdanel’s hasty nuptials with the shockingly young crown price; in the end, her house had been just as vacant.

Fingolfin’s hand began to travel upwards, but there was a hesitancy there she had never felt in him before, and when she opened her eyes, the realness of the moment shocked her, sending a shudder through her body, a not-unpleasant ache low in her belly.

His topaz eyes were fixed on her face, a slight knit in his brow, a question on his lips as his fingers brushed against her thigh but dared not yet reach for more. Anairë stared back and said nothing, wondering what he would do if she went on saying nothing. But there was something in his eyes that made her remember what the others had told her about how he had died.

How brave was he! the returned Noldor cried to her, nearly clutching at the hems of her robes, How selfless! How noble! What an image of the Noldor! But all that Anairë had heard, when they spoke to her of how Fingolfin had ridden alone to the fortress of Morgoth and bid the dark lord come forth for combat, was the howling song of Fingolfin’s pain and despair. How can they not see! she had vented at one of her few visits to Nerdanel. How can they not see he had no hope? She needed not have been there to know that.

She cupped her hands against his cheeks, her skin dark even against the brown of Fingolfin’s. He had taken very much after Fëanor and Finwë’s looks, to Fëanor’s chagrin: there was no denying their relation (and if Nerdanel hinted that Fëanor was the better-looking of the two, Anairë would only shrug and give her beloved another kiss when she saw him next). She stroked her thumbs along his sharp cheekbones and followed the urging in her chest to lean in and kiss him, long and slow. Something like a whimper came from Fingolfin’s throat and he pressed nearer to her, pushing her against the wall as if to burrow in between her ribs and take shelter there, beside her heart.

Anairë parted her lips and slid her arms around his shoulders, the solid feel of him sweeping back the notion it was all just a fantasy of hers. She let go of him and began to pull at his belt and sash, stripping his robes away from his shoulders and baring him down to the waist. Fingolfin let them fall to the floor and did not move, waiting for Anairë’s lead. Her body ached for his touch.

“Did you not miss me?” she said, holding his gaze. Without troubling to pause for words, Fingolfin grabbed her in another kiss, molding his body against hers, hands holding her waist, and Anairë could not restrain a breathless moan as she felt his arousal against her inner thigh. She arched off the wall and his hands moved down, sliding under her ass to cup and squeeze and she moved her leg to press up against the growing bulge in his trousers.

It had been a learning process for each of them to loosen up in bed, enough that in the beginning, they had been sure they were doing something wrong, for surely this came naturally to everyone! Now, Anairë felt the ghost of those old barriers half reconstructed in Fingolfin’s absence, and a part of her wished to retreat behind them, to simply exist and let him touch her without taking any part of it herself. Such couplings asked nothing of her, but they were also far less rewarding, and the greater part of her felt she had earned a reward from Fingolfin—if it required her to make herself more vulnerable.

She put one hand over his, and together they guided it between her legs, drawing another low noise of approval from her. Fingolfin felt around in the folds of her clothes until he could slide his hand down the front of her shorts and press his fingers into the thatch of coarse hair there, his breath stuttering when he felt how wet she was.

“Anairë,” he breathed, dragging his fingers maddeningly up and down her slit without pressing deeper.

“Mm…” she responded, one hand on the back of his head, digging into his hair as he nibbled at her neck. “Yes?”

For a moment, his only response was heavy breathing and his fingers finally pushing a bit harder to circle her clit, teasing over the swollen head.

“I need you,” he whispered at last.

“I know,” she answered. “And here I am.”

Fingolfin dropped down to his knees, pulling her shorts down and pushing her robes out of the way to bare her sex. For a moment he only looked, as if he were gazing on some wonder he had expected never to see again, and then he leaned in, mouth open, and dragged his tongue over her lips. Pausing only to pick one short, curly hair off his tongue, he parted her and pressed his eager mouth against the bud of her arousal. Anairë’s head tipped back against the wall and the rush of need that swept over her as Fingolfin buried his face between her legs, lapping, sucking, scraping with his teeth, as if this were where he might truly earn her forgiveness—as if she had put him on his knees for this—was nearly enough to finish her right there, which was far too soon for her mood.

            Still, she could not bring herself to stop him. Another moan tore from her throat and she rocked her hips against his mouth, vaguely aware he was moving just before he shrugged one of her legs over his shoulder so that he could be nearer to her still. Electricity crackled through her body as if she stood on a hilltop in a thunderstorm; she clamped a hand over her mouth, and knew that if she did not stop him soon, her turn on this ride would be over very quickly.

            She raked her fingers back through his thick black hair and pushed his head back, away from her, giving her a view of how his mouth and chin glistened with her slick.

            “Not like this,” she said. “Together.” There was a brief confusion on his face, and she knew he had meant to bring her off here, and likely to ask nothing of her in return. “Bed,” she said, pushing him in that direction. “If I would have you, I would have all of you, Nolofinwë.”

            “Yes,” he agreed senselessly at once, rising to his feet and shuffling towards the bed, dreamlike. “As you wish.” He paused there again, in front of the bed he had not touched since his return, and Anairë reached around from behind him to loosen the ties of his pants.

“If you wish to prove something to me,” she murmured, “prove it.”

            Fingolfin turned more boldly to her and, despite the considerable tent in his trousers, took his time undoing the clasps and ties of her robes to let them fall in a fluttering heap at her feet, eyes widening once again as he swept them over the expanse of smooth, dark skin and soft curves. His fingers brushed lightly at her hips, following the line of her body up over her ribs to her breasts, along the line of her throat to her face, where he cupped her cheeks and drew her into a kiss that made her nearly melt into him.

            I missed you, she thought, but if she lingered too long on that, she might cry. Instead, she broke away from him and dropped her earrings on the bedside table before she laid down, settling herself comfortably back against the pillows to regard her…husband? Former husband? Estranged husband? Lover? Friend?

            Fingolfin stayed where he was, looking at her as if he were one of the university art students being asked to memorize a scene within five minutes to recreate it after. Despite her body’s attempted urging, Anairë did not rush him past this.

            “Anairë…” he began again.

            “Yes?” she asked, more softly.

            “Do you want this?”

            She blinked at him.

            “Have I given another impression?” she asked.

            “You would never, unless you meant to,” he said. “But I…things have been…” Fingolfin was not often at a loss for words, and she could see even then a flash of annoyance in his face at this difficulty. “I would not wish you to feel this was any…obligation of yours,” he said at last, still displeased with this phrasing. “You are not…responsible for me.”

            “Nolofinwë Arakáno,” she said, “if I wished to keep you from my house, I would have done it.” Her face softened. “Think you that the pain of our separation was on your side only?” she asked quietly. “That I have not thought of you since you left? You know that isn’t so.” She had told him. Sitting up, she reached a hand out to him. “I want this,” she said. After a pause, she added, feeling more exposed than she had when he had dropped her robes to the floor: “I want you.”

            Fingolfin hastily stepped out of the remains of his clothes, cast aside his own golden earrings (one of which hit the bedside table and skittered onto the floor), and parted her legs carefully to kneel there. Once more he paused, eyes glazed with thought, and Anairë wondered what he was thinking, being back in their room again after so long. She could not think now of the pleasant times they had passed there before, or she would cry.

            Instead, she wound her arms around his shoulders and drew him into a kiss, sighing in pleasure as his sex rubbed against her own.

            “I want you,” she murmured against his lips. “As before.” What a fantasy, the notion he could love her now as if nothing had happened, as if beyond this door, beyond those windows, the world was all as it had been before the Darkening!

            Fingolfin shivered and pushed her back against the pillows, trailing his kisses over her jaw, down her neck, to her chest, where he nuzzled between her breasts. The ache within her had sharpened now and she squirmed impatiently, something that made him lift his head with a look she knew was his effort not to smile.

            Anairë stared him down.

            “Have you something to say, Nolofinwë?” she asked gravely.

            “Not a thing,” he answered promptly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

            Anairë, as has been noted, was not an impatient person. Therefore, it should not come as an enormous surprise that Fingolfin took an inordinate amount of pride in being able to make her impatient. This time, she could not stop the wave of memories from rolling over her, flooding her mind with past instances of his teasing—the firmness of his thigh between her legs—the thrust of his fingers—the smirk. Rather than allow it to make her maudlin, Anairë savored how these recollections made her throb with need.

            “Did you come here today not to please me?” she asked. His eyes snapped to hers at once, as if he might lose his chance. Before he could grapple for a response, she let a faint smile curve her lips. “Then please me, and let us be pleased together.” Fingolfin relaxed and shifted up to kiss her full lips again. One of his hands brushed over the outside of her thigh, shifting her leg slightly to position himself, and goosebumps broke out across her skin; her stomach twisted and flipped as it hadn’t since quite early in their marriage.

            “Only give me a moment,” he murmured, reaching down to use one hand to ensure the smoothness of their coupling. A whimper rose in Anairë’s chest as, for the first time in thousands of years, she felt Fingolfin press into her core. His breathing had gone all atremble and he could not restrain the wordless noises of throbbing arousal that passed his lips as he, with obvious effort, entered her slowly. When he had sheathed himself to the hilt, he stopped, and looked at her, with a look not unlike the helpless, lost look he had given her when first he had emerged into the daylight of Aman once more. For a moment they were still, absorbed in the sensation of being so connected again.

            Tendered to his vulnerability, Anairë guided his head down to kiss him gently, then with sharper desire, teeth against his lips, her hips twitching up against his.

            “Is this what you want?” he murmured.

            “Yes,” she breathed. “And you?” He nodded hastily.

            “I have thought of—since I left you—I have wished—have dreamed—” Anairë silenced him with another kiss.

            “It is not a dream,” she whispered. She pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the faint beat of his heart. “It is real.” There was a furrow between his brows for just a moment, and Anairë wondered if he was playing an obstacle course with thoughts that would bring tears to his eyes as well, but he smoothed it out and leaned down to kiss her cheek as he drew back and thrust into her at last, chasing away all other thoughts from her mind.

            He began slowly and she guessed he wished to savor their first union since before the sun rose; the problem with that state of affairs was the neither of them was inclined to patience. Anairë had come near to finishing once already, and Fingolfin did not seem likely to outlast her, and as much as they each wished to draw the moment out, they were perhaps more eager still for their final pleasure. It was therefore not long before Fingolfin was fucking her with something near desperation while Anairë arched off the bed, rutting vigorously against him.

            “Anairë,” he gasped, shifting to balance his weight on one forearm so that he could reach his other hand between her legs to thumb her clit, “I can’t—”

            “It’s okay,” she panted, frissons of pleasure washing over her, pulling her closer and closer to her finish, emptying her head of all thought. “It’s okay. I’m nearly there.” But she held on, wanting to feel him go first.

            It didn’t happen.

            Not for lack of effort, but it was not as if they had never engaged in these unions before, where effort was not necessarily enough to bring about a finish. The more difficult thing was that Anairë wanted to, but the growing sensation that something was not right made it feel inappropriate.

            “Nolofinwë,” she said, trying not to gasp out his name as if she was holding herself back from climax, which was precisely what she was doing, although the vigor of his movement from moments earlier had cooled.

            He made some indistinct humming noise and did not stop moving, which was not conducive to their having a coherent conversation, because all Anairë’s body wanted her to focus on was the stretch and thrust of him.

            “Nolofinwë.” Then he paused, and she said: “Is everything o—oh. Oh no.” She had not meant for things to go in this order, and there was a certain indignity in having to wait for her orgasm to finish before she could go on asking him if something was wrong.

            She had grown so accustomed to those she gave herself she had nearly forgotten what it was like to finish with a partner: the waves of pleasure that washed out over her from head to toe, making her cry out and dig her nails into Fingolfin’s back; the intensity of her need to be close to him in that moment, feeling his weight pressed flush against her; the way her muscles relaxed entirely afterwards, leaving her limp on the bed.

            When she came to again, Fingolfin was stroking her cheek delicately, unabashedly watching her, his lips slightly parted in awe.

            “I meant to say,” she tried again, still half out of breath, “is everything okay?”

            “Okay?” Fingolfin echoed. “Okay?” For a puzzling moment, she wasn’t sure if he had somehow failed to understand the question. It was also difficult not to be keenly aware that he was still inside her. “How could I be ‘okay’ when—” She recognized his effort at controlling his feelings, trying to keep his voice steady. “I did not think…I could not…” Once again, words failed him, and he bowed his head over her, the trembling of his shoulders coming shortly after. “I thought I might never see you again,” he said, his voice cracking. “I thought you might never wish to see me again. And yet—to see you now—like this again—and you ask if I am okay—”

            He raised his head and there were tears on his cheeks; he touched her face again, reverently, as if it were she who had called him forth from the Halls, and whispered: “I missed you so much. I missed you so much.”

            Anairë’s throat was tight, and if she thought too much on the tone of his voice, she would cry too. She drew him near and pressed her forehead against his, smoothing her thumb over his cheek.

            “I missed you too,” she answered quietly.

            She did not say I wish I had gone with you; neither did Fingolfin say I wish I had stayed. Perhaps they could live with that, she thought. Each thinking they had made the right choice, even if they had both been pained by it. Perhaps larger differences in thought could be accommodated than either of them had believed when all they had known was the bliss and petty squabbles of the noontide of Valinor.

            It might have been nice to sink into that moment and let it stretch out for hours, but they had gotten themselves into a more pressing situation—resolved now for Anairë, but not for him.

            “Let me—” she began at the same moment he began to pull out of her saying: “I should—”

            For quicker results, Anairë just pressed the heel of her foot against his ass to keep him from moving away.

            “‘Together,’ I said,” she said. “I did mean that. Think you I brought you into this room for the first time since before the sun rose to let you leave unsatisfied?”

            “I am not—” he began very emphatically, but Anairë just shook her head and reached down to grip him in her hand. A few jerks of her wrist silenced him quite effectively—at least as far as words were concerned.

            “Shh,” she murmured against his lips as she kissed him. “Carry on; finish. I want that too.”

            So Fingolfin pushed into her again and she tugged at his hair and nipped as his neck as he moved within her until with delight she felt the tension in him heralding his climax and then the warmth of his seed as he moaned through his finish. When it was done, he slumped on top of her and Anairë ran her hands through his hair, eyes half-shut, and for once, her anxieties about the rest of the world—even about Fingolfin—could not speak loud enough to grab even a fraction of her attention.

            Fingolfin moved off of her and she felt his absence, along with his fluid seeping out against her legs, another dimly, yet deeply, familiar sensation. As they lay beside each other on the expanse of Anairë’s midnight blue sheets, she allowed herself to skim the surface of memories she had been trying to keep at bay.

            On the night of the day that Fingon was born, they had gone to bed in that room—her, exhausted; him, keyed up with excitement—with their precious bundle between them. Despite her weariness, Anairë had not slept until Laurelin’s light was warming the sky; she had lain up all through the night, marveling at Fingon: the perfect swoop of his tiny nose; the outline of his flawlessly-formed little ears tucked beneath his cap; the roundness of his tender brown cheeks. At some point in the night, she had lifted her gaze from the baby to see the light of Fingolfin’s eyes on the other side of the bed—still awake, doing the same thing as her. At that moment, Fingon was the greatest thing either of them had made—and they had made him together.

            “Do you remember—”

            They both stopped.

            “Were you thinking of Findekáno?” she asked.

            “Arakáno,” he replied.

            How could she forget the first night with Argon! The night they had both wanted to sleep, but somehow the baby did not, and had pulled their hair all night until they were snarling at each other—and then realized it was the baby responsible (always a squirming thing—swaddling him effectively had been a nightmare).

            A smile twitched on Fingolfin’s lips, and Anairë couldn’t help returning one in kind. She shifted, pulling the sheets up over herself—it was chillier to be naked in the room when they were no longer moving. She caught Fingolfin’s intention to move just before he did it, and blurted out:

            “You may stay, if you wish.”

            It wasn’t quite the hour for sleep, but it was not uncommon for Elves to nap after such things, given how much energy it took from them.

            He still looked hesitant, so she flicked the sheets out over him as well.

            “Stay,” she said, softer, holding his gaze.

            “Somehow,” said Fingolfin, “I had imagined this moment…differently.” Anairë felt her cheeks warm slightly; married life presented a host of scenarios less than the totally thrilling experiences one might expect after reading a few novels and having a few breathless conversations with other similarly inexperienced individuals—like falling asleep during the act, which had happened to both of them (children took a lot of energy!)—but she could have had her first time back with Fingolfin without such atrocious timing on her part.

            “We are rather out of practice,” she sighed. Fingolfin said nothing. Anairë reached out and wiped some of the tear-tracks away from his cheek. He merely held still and let her touch where she wished. Only when she drew back did he reach out to touch her in turn, skimming his fingers lightly over her shoulder and then no more.

            It was not the first time that Anairë had felt that being with Fingolfin now was like learning to walk all over again.

            “Let us have rest,” she said quietly. She turned over, for if she kept her eyes on him she would not sleep, and pulled the sheet up over her chest as she closed her eyes. For a moment the room was still, and then she felt Fingolfin shift nearer to her back. Still he did not touch her, so she reached back blindly for his hand and pulled his arm over her. Promptly after, he snuggled up against her, fitting the curve of his body to hers as they had once done with such familiarity, so that she liked to imagine she could feel the beat of his heart against her back. She felt him nuzzle briefly into the cloud of her hair, before settling on the pillow. She threaded her fingers through his and held his hand against her chest.

            I missed you, she thought, and this time, she did not feel like crying.

            Neither of them slept, but laid like that until there were other duties that called them up, and when she rose from the bed, Anairë squeezed Fingolfin’s hand, and smiled.

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Chapter End Notes

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