The Nature of My Game by elennalore

The Nature of My Game

Read The Nature of My Game

There was a loud knock at the door. Twice. Thrice. It was the sign Fëanáro had been waiting. He checked the room from the armchair. Everything was orderly; the bed was made, his notebooks were safely locked in a travelling case, and all his spare clothes were hanging in a wardrobe. In anticipation of the extraordinary meeting, he gave a nervous sigh. Then he rose, walked to the door and promptly opened it.

“Good evening,” said the Vala he had been waiting for. “May I come in?”

Melkor wore a modest grey cloak over his travelling clothes. He lowered his hood to confirm his identity, but his height and a certain might radiating from him had already revealed him as one of the Holy Ones, however humbly dressed. Yes, he was mighty still, Fëanáro acknowledged, although he was not to be revered like the Valar.

“Did anyone see you come here?”

“No one.” Melkor’s voice was softer than Fëanáro had expected. “I understand the need of subtlety.”

“You took your time to get here. I was going to leave tomorrow.”

“I started the necessary preparations as soon as I got your letter, but of course I respected your wish to arrive discreetly. And I’m afraid it took some time to arrange my leave – discreetly.”

Fëanáro met his gaze and felt triumphant despite the initial annoyance at having had to wait. So far, he had succeeded. Melkor was willing to meet him.

“I thank you for agreeing to my conditions. The need of secrecy is essential, I’m afraid. As you know, I’m the crown prince of the Noldor, and people talk. A meeting like this could easily cause a scandal, and I’m sure neither of us wants that.”

Melkor watched him, his head slightly tilted. Fëanáro wished he could read the Ainu better. Was that amusement in his eyes?

“Of course, there’s absolutely no scandal involved,” he hurried to add. “Everyone knows that you were pardoned. Please, come in, I have been eager to meet you for a long time.”

Fëanáro had stayed in that Tirion inn for a week, pretending to write a research paper. His lame excuse for staying there had been that the cry of the baby made it impossible to work at home. While it was reasonable that he deserved a break from the hectic family life, Nerdanel didn’t know all about it. He hadn’t told her that he had been trying to contact Melkor. All that secrecy had made him slightly uncomfortable, so he was happy that Melkor had chosen to come, and they could have their meeting at last.

The Vala stepped in; his presence seemed to fill the room and dim the light. He had long black hair like Fëanáro, but there was a different quality in it. Instead of shiny raven-black Fëanáro had inherited from his father, Melkor’s wild hair, surrounding his angular features, was like a black hole in the canvas. He handed his cloak unceremoniously to Fëanáro – there were no servants present – and revealed a gorgeous black outfit that looked just a bit too intimidating for a Vala. Fëanáro understood why he had covered his attire in public with a plain cloak of penitence. That he didn’t feel the need to conceal his true nature here felt oddly intimate. Not wanting to think about the possible implications, Fëanáro turned away, for a while busying himself with the search of a coat hanger.

Fëanáro realised that there was only one armchair in the room. He showed Melkor to sit down in it and went to bring to beverages waiting on the side table – a bottle of Valmar’s best red wine and two crystal glasses. He filled their glasses and, satisfied with his choice of wine, noticed that that it seemed to be to Melkor’s liking. Fëanáro looked around in search of a chair, but in the end, he chose to sit on the edge of the bed instead. It was more comfortable than the stool that currently held the washbasin.

“I’m curious,” said Melkor, “about the nature of this meeting. You didn’t tell me much in your letter, Curufinwë. Only that you and I have to meet, and although I disliked the imperative tone of your letter, I have offered my knowledge and skills as a service to the Eldar, to right any wrongs and heal any hurts I have possibly caused. My question still remains: what exactly would you like to know?”

Fëanáro gave a hearty laugh. Straight to the point! He was relieved that they could forget the small talk part; it was never his strong point, and besides, there was no time to waste.

“Why, philosophy, of course! The laws of Arda, the workings of the universe! How the world was created, and what the properties of matter are. And what about the limits of creation; why do we always fall downwards and never upwards? In other words, natural philosophy, where you must have considerable expertise!”

Melkor frowned at the flattery but looked still attentive; it was a promising sign.

“But what interests me most is – light,” Fëanáro quickly ended his speech while Melkor stayed silent and sipped his wine.

There was no mistaking the amusement in Melkor’s eyes, twinkling with that same primordial light that had been the focus of Fëanáro’s inquiries. Fëanáro felt himself falling into the abyss of those unearthly eyes almost against his will.

“You must have seen it all,” he muttered, lowering his eyes to gather his composure. It was not often that his own boldness disconcerted him, but it was a long time ago when he had last revealed his private thoughts to a Vala. He was acutely aware of the powerful being next to him whose presence made him think strange thoughts. What was he compared to such a magnificent mind; just a bug that could be wiped away, or perhaps crushed? Strange thoughts, indeed; he tried to erase them from his mind.

Fëanáro felt a touch of hand on his shoulder; the touch that made his skin tingle in not-entirely-unpleasant ways. His eyes snapped wide open, and Melkor’s face was before him, his sharp features dominating Fëanáro’s view.

“Please, there’s no need to be afraid,” Melkor said, raising one of his dark eyebrows. His expression was slightly intimidating still, but his voice was gentle like summer. “Not every day someone asks me about the mysteries of the universe. I’m honoured.”

For a moment, Fëanáro feared that Melkor was making fun of him the way Nolvo sometimes teased him about his interests. But he could sense Melkor’s own interest, and something else, a certain magnetism. He decided to trust him for now.

“How much time do we have?” Melkor asked. “Light – is a complex thing.”

Outside, gold and silver of the Two Trees mingled together as they always did. “As much time as you need.” Fëanáro stood up, his body slightly brushing Melkor’s as he went to close the curtains. The room became almost too dim; he decided to light another candle.

“I suppose you should start from the beginning. From Ainulindalë. Tell me about it, from your perspective. And you must tell me about light – I need to learn all about it.” He could feel his confidence returning as Melkor started his tale.

Too absorbed in thought, it took some time for Fëanáro to notice that Melkor had stopped talking. His mind had been far away, in the beginning of things, and in the nature of matter and song – and the mysterious being who was currently sitting in his armchair had seen it all with his own eyes. Fëanáro had heard Aulë talk about the creation before, and Irmo had explained him many things – he had always been closest to Irmo – but only Melkor made him feel like an equal when he talked about those things. Melkor knew that Fëanáro was capable of understanding. He spoke as if to a partner, not to a child. Fëanáro felt excited; ideas began to stir in him. He thought about the gems and crystals he had already made, and how much more they would be, filled with light in its paradoxical liquid state.

“Is there anything else you want to know, Curufinwë?” Melkor asked.

Their eyes locked, and a shiver passed through Fëanáro’s body. For a while he felt like he had seen the beginning of the universe in the depths of those dark eyes.

“Please call me Fëanáro. Only strangers and officials call me Curufinwë.”

“I suppose that means we are not strangers anymore. Very well, Fëanáro, Spirit of fire. Like the secret fire I once was searching for. I wonder what kind of flame burns inside you, Fëanáro.”

His words stirred something in him. “You have told me much, Melkor, but not yet about the secret fire. I would like to hear about it.”

A small smile appeared on Melkor’s face. “This is not the time for it. It’s a subject we shouldn’t take lightly, and my brother is already waiting for me in his palace in the clouds. We can’t keep him waiting, can we?”

His words sobered Fëanáro. “Of course not,” he said quickly and stood up with Melkor. A hand touched his back, a gesture of reassurance. It was gone as soon as Fëanáro registered it, but it left a peculiar warm feeling on his left shoulder blade. He straightened the robe he was wearing; he had a linen tunic under it, but still it felt as if Melkor’s palm had left a mark against his bare skin.

“Shall we meet again, then?” he asked as he followed Melkor to the door.

“I think it can be arranged, Fëanáro.”

* * * * *

Spring had turned into early summer when Fëanáro finally returned to the same unremarkable inn on the outskirts of Tirion. His second letter should have reached Melkor by now. Fëanáro hadn’t got a reply, but he didn’t really expect one, either. Last time, Melkor had turned up on the guestroom door unannounced, and Fëanáro suspected that he would do the same this time as well, if he indeed chose to come. Fëanáro had let him know that he was staying there during that time – now he only had to wait.

He had asked for the same room and got it. The inn was practically empty this time of the year when almost everyone had gone to a festival in Valmar. He had told Nerdanel that he was too busy to come with her and little Nelyo this year. She wasn’t happy but became more understanding when he claimed that Indis’s presence would just make him tense and sad and destroy his festive mood. It was true, if not the real reason for his nonattendance. The time of the festival was the prefect time for meeting Melkor who, despite his pardon, was still not welcome in the celebration.

He knew he shouldn’t feel this anxious about their second meeting, but when Melkor failed to appear that day, Fëanáro found himself lying on the bed, frustrated. His robes and laces of his many garments had started to feel uncomfortable, and he fumbled with them until he lay unclothed, bathing in the silver light of Telperion. He couldn’t forget Melkor’s touch on his back, and how his closeness had sounded like a humming in his ears. In his imagination, Melkor’s firm hand found new places on his body to touch, grip, and stroke. He knew it was not unprecedented; everybody knew about Ingwë at the feet of Manwë although it was not polite to mention it in public. Melkor had kindled a new fire inside him, a fire that had left him desiring and in need.

Fëanáro’s hand mimicked the movements of Melkor’s imagined hand, setting a pleasurable rhythm. In his mind, the rhythm mixed with the continuous humming surrounding Melkor’s being, becoming more intense and demanding, impossible to resist. The lust arose him like a wave. His breath became heavier until an involuntary cry escaped his lips with his climax. Telperion’s light coloured his come silver on his belly, but he felt too lazy to go and close the curtains. His room was on the second floor, anyway. As he cleaned himself, his mind had already turned to more practical matters. He thought about liquid light and how he had failed to bottle the dew of Telperion. He needed Melkor’s help to really understand the essence of light, or the project would remain stalled for ever.

Melkor’s arrival followed the next waning of Laurelin. Hearing the familiar knocking on the door made Fëanáro’s heart pound against his chest; he had started to fear that Melkor wouldn’t come. He tried to appear composed as he opened the door. This time, Melkor had not bothered with the grey cloak of penitence. His attire was completely black, which seemed to be his preferred colour. Black from leather boots to the collar of his coat; against it, his handsome face looked pale, but his lips were a vivid red.

Before Fëanáro managed to find his voice, Melkor had already stepped in and shut the door behind him. Their bodies were suddenly very close.

“I still don’t understand how to keep light stable and alive,” Fëanáro breathed as a substitute for a greeting. “I have tried to collect dew of Telperion, but it becomes dull after a while, and I have no means to revive it.”

Melkor’s finger touched his chin and tilted his head up so that he couldn’t avoid the light in those eyes anymore. He was being studied, and the feeling was not altogether uncomfortable.

“The trees are meant to keep the light alive for you. Why would you need to separate the light from the trees?”

“Because I want to see if I can, I suppose. Besides, why can’t we have several light sources?”

Melkor leaned towards him as if he were a puzzling specimen for him. The humming around the Vala had become louder, or perhaps Fëanáro’s hearing had become sharper. He hoped that Melkor would touch him soon.

“Why indeed,” said Melkor and let out a short laugh, startling him. “You are a fascinating being, Fëanáro. Just during our last meeting, you begged me to tell you everything about the secret fire, and now you want to know all about the ways to contain light. Will you ever be sated?”

Fëanáro thought he most likely would never be, but as he prepared for a speech to defend his thirst for knowledge, an essential part of a fulfilling life, he felt Melkor’s warm breath on his face. He smelled like air during a thunderstorm. Melkor’s lips were very close to his own.

He could have pulled away then, but he was curious to know how those ruby lips felt like. His own lips parted, and Melkor’s strong hand guided his head so that their lips met in a wet and demanding kiss. Fëanáro’s mind stopped thinking.

He must have dragged Melkor with him and pushed him into the sole armchair in the room even though he didn’t have a clear memory of doing it. Melkor’s hands were on him again, his fingers sinking into his hair and tugging hard. He gave a surprised ‘ai’, and Melkor laughed, but his touches became gentler from thereon.

“You wanted to know about the secret fire,” Melkor reminded him. “A subject like that cannot be spoken in words – but I can show you.”

Fëanáro was kneeling in front of the armchair occupied by Melkor; he had no memory of getting in that submissive position. Melkor’s thighs were hugging him, and Fëanáro’s first reaction was a flash of a rebellious thought – I won’t kneel before a Vala like you – urging him to stand up. But there was a desire in his heart he couldn’t get rid of, and the intimacy of their position felt alluring. So, like Ingwë kneeling before Manwë, he stayed.

“Can you feel it?” Melkor spoke fervently now. “The desire to know? The desire to make? The desire to change the world?”

Melkor’s eyes were watching him with a passionate intensity, quite uncharacteristic for a Vala. Fëanáro’s throat constricted, and he could only nod. The pressure of Melkor’s legs kept him in place, but being held like that didn’t feel bad. He realised that he was hard under his clothes. It was nothing to do with love, it was lust and power, and he allowed himself to succumb to it.

“Show me then,” he burst out bravely; and Melkor took up his challenge. A slightly wicked smile appeared on his face. Never before had Fëanáro seen such a smile on a face of a Vala. Slowly, Melkor opened his own belt and untied the laces of his trousers, leaning back in his chair. The cock which was thus revealed stood like a perverse marble sculpture. Nerdanel would have appreciated its shape.

Fëanáro wasn’t immune to its magnificence, either. His own hardness was aching against his garments, but he knew better than to touch himself at this point. This was all about pleasing Melkor, and if he played his cards well, it would give him a clear advantage.

“Go on,” said Melkor, a little huskily, “Open your mouth, elf."

He wondered if Ingwë had been in this same position: kneeling before his Vala, bowing his head in silence and taking the Vala’s exposed erection in his mouth. If so, it must have felt a great privilege to hear a Vala moan with pleasure. To have that kind of power over them.

Melkor’s eyes never left him as he began his task, alternating suction with swirls of his tongue. After a while, his lips were swollen and wet. Only then Melkor started to fuck his mouth for real, as if he believed to become the winner in this game. For a while, it felt almost too much. But Melkor’s breathing became heavy and raw, and he groaned and made strange helpless noises, and with a final wordless cry it was over, and they both knew Melkor had lost.

Fëanáro wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The possessive touch of Melkor’s legs was gone; he was free to rise to his feet, but the act had left him breathless. Melkor’s chest rose and fell, and a hand covered his crotch from view. His eyes were closed as if in meditation, and an intoxicating feeling filled Fëanáro as he sensed the power he still had over the Vala.

“Melkor,” he whispered softly, still staying on his knees.

“What is it, little flame?” Melkor murmured, his eyes still half-closed, as if waking from a dream.

“Can you help me bottle the dew of Telperion? You must know how it is done. The Two Lamps contained light in them, didn't they?”

Melkor’s eyes snapped open; Fëanáro’s question seemed to have pulled him back from his dreams.

“The Lamps are gone. I broke them.” His tone was faintly amused.

“I know. And a good thing that you did  – Otherwise we couldn’t have got Trees, and I prefer their waxing and waning to the constant light of the Lamps. I would imagine that that kind of light would give you a headache! Of course, I wasn’t there – but you were. I’m sure you must know something about the mechanism of making them.”

Melkor stretched himself languidly, revealing his now flaccid organ. “Give me some time. You have a pleasurable mouth, Fëanáro, although I enjoy it rather more when it’s filled with something.”

Fëanáro could still taste Melkor in his mouth. He didn’t smile as he brought the washbasin and a couple of cloths for them: “Let’s clean ourselves, and then we can talk.”

* * * * *

Some time later

Just as many times before when he couldn’t sleep, Fëanáro left Nerdanel and Nelyo in their bed at home and went to walk in the gardens around Mindon Eldaliéva. The area was deserted at this time of the day when the light of the trees was in their dimmest. The lamp of the tower radiated comforting silver light toward Middle-earth, and Fëanáro watched the lamp while his mind worked with the problem of bottling holy light. It was a subject that was often in his mind these days. In the two meetings with Melkor, he had gained essential knowledge, and he was confident that he could create something marvellous one day. He would make his Silmarils, as he had already named them, even though they were but an idea, yet to be realised.

A major breakthrough had been the understanding that he could never store light in its usual forms. He was a master maker of gems, however, and if he could make crystals of liquid light and stabilize the gem’s structure to create a new kind of substance – yes, that was how it could be done!

Of course, he had tried. The shards of broken crystals had made several cuts in his hands, a mark of his failed experiments. Sometimes, the light just oozed away, or simply vanished. As simple as it sounded in theory, Silima was not easy to make, but Melkor had assured him that he was on the right path.

“Still thinking about your Silmarils?”

Melkor’s voice startled him – he had not expected to meet him there. He whirled around, and there he stood, an inky blackness against the light of the mighty tower. He had left his grey cloak somewhere again; his penitence was just an act, and he knew Fëanáro knew.

It was alright; what bothered him more was that Melkor now knew about his Silmaril project, but it had been the price he had to pay for the secrets of the universe. That, and a lowly blowjob which had given Melkor the satisfaction of feeling equal to his brother, at least for a moment.

“I didn’t ask you to join me,” Fëanáro said grumpily to the disturber of his peace.

“I suppose I don’t need your permission to come here. Besides, why so sullen? I just happened to see you standing there, all alone, and decided to come to greet you. I thought we were friends.”

Memories flashed through Fëanáro’s mind, memories of their secret meeting he would rather like to forget. “I wouldn’t call us friends.”

Melkor took a theatrical step back, pretending to be offended. “Ouch. Well, I heard you don’t keep many friends. People say you hardly speak with your relatives, lately.”

Now it was Fëanáro’s turn to be miffed. “Nonsense! Nerdanel and I are very close.” He couldn’t resist adding, as a proud parent: “We are expecting a baby soon.”

“Another one! My warmest congratulations. Being a father suits you. And why stop at two?”

Fëanáro frowned. “Enough with flattery. I suppose you didn’t seek me out just to exchange pleasantries. What’s your business today, dark Vala?”

“Some unfinished business with you, that’s all. I’m curious about your Silmarils. I believe in you, Fëanáro, I believe that you will really create them one day. And I hope you won’t forget that you have learned much of the needed knowledge from me – secret knowledge without which your work would be futile. Remember this when you have succeeded in your task, as I believe you will. The Silmarils are mine as much as yours.”

Such arrogance! Fëanáro couldn’t believe his ears. “When I will complete my work and create the Silmarils, they will be my work and craft only! How can you even suggest that they belonged to you when your own hands and mind are clearly unable to master such craft? No, it won’t be so. Only my hands will touch them, and no one else’s!”

“That remains to be seen.” Melkor studied him, a brooding image, until his red lips suddenly turned into an ugly grimace. “For a moment, I thought you were the fire I was seeking, Fëanáro. But sadly, I was mistaken.”

Fëanáro laughed out loud even though Melkor’s rejection had hurt him more than he would ever admit. “I knelt for you once, and you already have fantasies of us as an item? You’re pathetic!”

He knew his words had probably acquired him an enemy, but there was a rebellious streak in him, and he didn’t care. He had learned enough; the Vala could vanish from his life now.

Why was he still there, then, staring at him in the most obnoxious way?

“Go away,” Fëanáro snapped and crossed his arms, tired of this game already. “I want to be alone. I can’t think with you around.”

Melkor didn’t leave. The Ainur usually left Elves alone if they announced that their presence wasn’t needed, but Melkor seemed willing to break all their unspoken rules, and this was no exception.

“I remember your mouth,” Melkor said, “and how eager it was to please me. I should have guessed the nature of your game. I should have known that you were a slut – slut for knowledge.”

Fëanáro was getting really annoyed now. He turned around to leave; he wasn’t going to listen any more of this nonsense. The golden light of Laurelin was stronger than before. Nerdanel would be waiting for him at home, and little Nelyo.

Melkor hadn’t finished his speech, though. “There will be a time when you wished you had stayed with me,” the Vala dared to shout at his back, his voice bellowing in the empty garden. “Many people will try to betray your trust, but I have always been honest with you.”

Fëanáro stopped, and there was the shortest moment of hesitation before he continued his determined walk downhill. But he was hardly like Ingwë, and his place wasn’t at the feet of a Vala. He was more than that. He was Curufinwë Fëanáro, and he shone.

“I don’t believe in you,” he muttered without turning his head, and the subtle humming noise in his ears ended abruptly. The Vala was gone.