Joy as Sharp as a Sword by oshun

Welcome to Nargothrond

Read Welcome to Nargothrond

Finrod spread one of the large sheets of his building plans across his work table. Instead of paper made of vegetable fibers, he used the highest quality vellum, smooth as silk to the touch and much more durable. Perhaps that choice involved a certain amount of vanity, but his concept—to use Menegroth as inspiration and improve upon it—had been nothing if not bravura when he began, and he had wanted to preserve a record of the construction of his city.

To even call his fortress on the west bank of the Narog a city had at first sounded self-important to him. With the passage of time, it appeared instead that he might have underestimated the scope of the venture. The reality was that Nargothrond had grown in population by a steady trickle since he had first begun construction. The Dwarves, of course, were only temporary residents. In addition to the Noldorin exiles who founded the settlement with him, a few families, followed by dozens more, had arrived from his brothers’ lands. Not satisfied to hunt, raise horses, or plant and harvest grain, they had been drawn by the rumors of his need for skilled craftsmen. Finding that the caverns had a plethora of masters and not enough workmen, they had recruited a number of Sindarin workers as well.

Felagund of Nargothrond was not unhappy. He felt challenged and totally engaged by the work. Perhaps that realization made him feel a little guilty. It seemed wrong that he should be more content now than he had ever been in Tirion or even when visiting his grandfather in Alqualondë.

He had almost convinced himself that he had been compelled to accompany the majority of his father’s people out of Aman because it would not be right to let them, and his younger brothers and sister, come to Endor without leadership. How pretentious had that been? He chuckled to himself. Being an eldest son among the princes of the Noldor bred such conceit, he supposed. One could justify a multitude of selfish pursuits under the heading of duty.

The truth was, if he had the courage to admit it, that the thought of the journey into the past of their mighty people had thrilled him. No less than Galadriel or Fingon, Fëanor’s promises moved him. He remembered the exact words that first fed his appetite to explore, to return whence their peoples had come, to where “sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about, where a free people might walk.”

He, of course, could not have had any idea of the suffering, of the loss of loved ones and innocence that the quest for freedom might entail. But still, how nearly casual it seemed in retrospect the manner in which he had left Amarië behind, when he had known she could never follow him here. He had asked her. But had his proposal ever been more than an empty gesture? Had he not always understood, even then, that she must and would refuse? True, he shed more than a few tears. Now it grew harder to even remember her face at times or the timbre of her voice.

He did recall with crystalline clarity how it felt to make love to her. Now, of all times, with a purpose and the means to succeed at his ambitious venture, he had decided that he might, in fact, feel lonely. If this were to be the manner in which he responded to a day or two of liberty from hard labor between projects, perhaps he should never take a holiday.

He looked around him with a disparaging eye. Little by little, he allowed the room adjacent to his bed chamber, intended for his leisure hours and entertaining visitors, to transmogrify into a work room. He ought to arrange it better, install more shelving against the front wall so that he could organize some of his clutter. It cried out for decorative elements also, like adding tapestries for color as well as to conserve heat. The room was large enough to accommodate a couple or three of additional cushioned chairs, and it needed better lighting. If one lived in a cave, illumination would always be a concern. Mirrors might be used to amplify the light.

Seeing all of his plans spread out across the table at one time suddenly oppressed him. He tried to clear his head by rolling up and securing the sketches of the completed areas. The activity helped to banish most of his self-pity. He soon turned his thoughts back to the drawings.

The kitchens were more than adequate. Improved lighting above the preparation area and adding some ceramic tiles would lift the spirits of those who worked there. But he did not think he was flattering himself to recognize that the communal baths were nothing short of an engineering marvel and esthetically the most pleasing quarter so far. Although, he did intend to further embellish the stone work around the baths with more of his self-indulgent carving—his reward to himself for completing necessary but less entertaining labor.

He thought fondly of his collaborators, some had been architects and others masters and journeymen in the building trades in Tirion. Above all, he appreciated his Dwarven advisers, who were never afraid to get their hands dirty or take on heavy work—an ethic they shared with Noldorin craftsmen. They were brilliant, often gruff and always blunt, and they put up with his eccentricities. Nay, at times even encouraged them. He would have been more melancholy without the warmth of their straightforward regard.

There were others to whom he owed consideration. The resilient population had sworn fealty and service to him in return for his succor. Some few had even borne children within these harsh stone walls, which became more homelike day by day. He must care for his people's needs. The barely adequate residential quarters would need to be expanded sooner rather than later, perhaps as his next task. They were dry and warm, but larger areas for families affording more privacy would make the confinement of the coming winter easier to bear.

He believed the spacious but rudimentary workshops were adequate for the moment. The Dwarves recommended expansion of the forge area in the next short period--not only for immediate construction needs, but to continue to produce necessary household goods and weapons in the future.

Edrahil stuck his head around the doorjamb of the open door. “Sire, two warriors approach on the northern path. Would you like to come take a look?”

‘Warriors’ he had called them, by which he probably meant Noldor. If he had believed they looked Sindar, he would have said ‘two scouts’—a distinction based in the commonly held Noldorin sense of pride—‘warrior’ somehow sounded higher, more noble. Finrod had become more aware of the prevalence of that sort of unconscious partiality since his first visit to his kinsmen in Menegroth.

If the travelers were Noldorin, it probably meant their visitors were family also. But then again he was not expecting anyone. His younger brothers had returned to their territory, only a little past a fortnight ago. And he knew it could not be Galadriel, who had definite plans to visit for his begetting day in a less than two months.

They stepped outside of the main entrance to the caverns and looked to the north at the rocky, overgrown path wending downward from that point in the gorge. The travelers bore no banners, wore no armor, no doubt conscious of the secrecy of the location. The lead horse picked her way daintily along the trail cautious of the sheer drop on one side. The horse behind her, a warmer-blooded and heavier-bred animal, plodded trustingly in her path.

Only his brothers or Galadriel could have given anyone such precise directions. The riders wore simple hunting leathers and yet sat their mounts with a carriage betraying classical equestrian training. Their sharp attention to their surroundings and the long swords they carried distinguished them from any random hunters or far-reaching scouts or messengers from Elu Thingol.

As they drew closer upon the narrow path leading directly to the entrance, the height and the hair color of the taller man revealed their identities. The exact moment that the thrill of recognition swept over Finrod, the riders spotted him and his cousin Fingon waved with his characteristic energy. Finrod waved back with equal enthusiasm. A flood of sheer joy swept over him. This was what he had needed--a few days with old friends and cousins, and none were more welcome among his extended family than these two.

Working on Nargothrond engrossed him as nothing in his life ever had before. But as he had observed earlier, he had begun to feel isolated at times. Upon seeing his visitors, he was glad that he had already decided he would be taking a much needed break. It would be the perfect time to spend several days alone with them. The eldest scions of the three houses of Finwë’s sons would be together again and, for once, without all of the other cousins and brothers demanding attention. None of the other princes of the Noldor shared as they did such a similar sense of responsibility, desire to achieve, and fear of failure, a brotherhood which deepened their bonds of personal affection.

o0o0o0o

After Fingon had walked their mounts to the stables and had a brief consultation with a groom, he was grateful to accept a mug of Dwarvish ale in Finrod’s private apartment. The three kinsmen and Finrod’s closest counselor Edrahil, a Noldo of Tirion, clustered at the end of a long table in the warm glow of hanging lanterns of red and gold glass. Maedhros clenched and unclenched his jaw and bit his lower lip. Fingon knew the reason for his fit of nerves and found it both amusing and endearing. He wondered if Finrod noticed.

At the thought of several days of comfort, Fingon could barely control his eagerness for the company of their dearest cousin, and something more, much discussed over the past several days between Maedhros and himself, which he hoped would be resolved in their favor.

Fingon took in his cousin’s lush golden hair, and lithe build, somewhat bulkier in the upper body than he remembered. “You look magnificent, Ingo,” he said. “Look at your shoulders and arms. I can’t call you a scrawny, stooped scholar anymore. Hard work appears to agree with you.”

Finrod shook his head and cocked an eyebrow at him before grinning. “Some people here might still consider me bookish, but I never have been stooped or skinny! I would say, ah, maybe slender, but I have always been strong as a young deer.” Maedhros looked at Fingon and rolled his eyes. The four of them laughed together at Finrod’s poetic self-description.

“I don’t often get laughed at here either. Do I, Edrahil?”

“I would say you are usually treated with exactly the respect you have earned, my lord,” Edrahil answered, feigning a shocked expression, his pale blue eyes merry. Fingon knew that Finrod’s seneschal did not share his cousin’s enthusiasm for the two of them in particular. The older man had not yet let go a resentment of the Fëanorians. Nonetheless, whatever he personally thought of them, Edrahil was sincere in his welcome. He was loyal to a fault to his sworn lord and wanted only to see their cousin happy.

“Anyway, what with all of the hauling of lumber and stones, not to mention the carving and even some carpentry, I suppose I have added some muscle,” Finrod said. “But I would argue I can carry it gracefully.” He threw back his mane of glorious hair and winked at Maedhros, blatantly flirtatious as always.

Fingon found the two of them breathtaking together. Maedhros sensed his attention and smiled at him, before turning back almost at once to continue admiring Finrod.

The crinkles around Finrod’s eyes and his laughing mouth were a pleasure to observe. No question he was stunning. He had everything: high cheekbones, a straight nose that Fingon envied, a strong jaw and sensual mouth. Combined with personal warmth and that heavy silver and gold hair of his, his physical beauty was beyond a delight for the eyes, it was a balm for the spirit. Despite his work deep in the caves, his skin appeared lightly tanned, as if the warmth of the recently passed summer still clung to him. Must not spend all of his time underground, Fingon thought. He and Maedhros had talked while on the road of how much they missed Finarfin’s eldest son and how they feared growing apart from him. Without question, Finrod was the best-natured of all of their family and appealed to them uniquely. There was a history among the three of them, unfinished actually.

“So, tell me, Russo, what brings the two of you here? I hope it is not bad news,” Finrod said.

“Far from it. Nothing more or less than love and friendship brings us here, dearest cousin. Yes. This visit is entirely personal,” Maedhros said, unable to keep from exchanging the briefest of conspiratorial glances with Fingon, who gave him an encouraging grin. Maedhros seemed relieved also to see their favorite cousin so happy and engaged. They had suspected that the distance of Nargothrond from others in his family must have made his life feel solitary at times and frustrating at others for the social and gregarious Finrod. As far as they knew, he had taken no lovers, found no special companion to bring him comfort and warmth during the long winters.

Edrahil watched Finrod with the proprietary air that spoke of more than a close collaborator. First among the lords of Nargothrond, he was, in addition, strongly dedicated to his King personally. Yet, as far as they knew, had never been more than a good friend. Finrod’s brothers were far away and occupied with their own concerns. And Galadriel had settled in Doriath, playing her own deep game there under the tutelage of Melian the Maia.

Finrod’s brothers had as much or more than they could handle. With the steep slopes of the Dorthonion mountains at their back, Aegnor and Angrod looked out over the grassy plains of Ard-galen, no longer entirely barren. The fruits of their vast lands had been slow to reveal themselves to the untutored eye. In places, Ard-galen appeared to be an endless dun-colored landscape, with its menacing view of the black cliffs of Thangorodrim to the north. As one traveled around the area, one found hardy plants that bloomed with each rain in the rocky soil and provided sustenance for all manner of small wild life. To the east, the plains widened. There, fertile volcanic soil had resulted in flowering grasslands which proved ideal for grazing. In addition to their constant patrols, they had turned to raising horses and harvesting grain. Always, and most importantly, Finrod’s brothers manned a defensive line of forts looking to the north. They did not have time to wonder if Finrod felt alone in Nargothrond or if his bed seemed cold and empty.

o0o0o0o

Maedhros said, “We bring greetings from Nolofinwë and enough news from here and there to provide conversation for a few days. All of interest I am sure, but of no great import.”

“Nothing we cannot share with you at dinner,” Fingon interjected.

“Well, then, if you have no exciting news or gossip. I have things I want to show you. Enough wine for now!” Finrod said, turning to his adviser. “You must leave our guests to me, Edrahil. I am certain they yearn to wash off the dirt from the road. I will show them their room and then I will take them to the baths.”

Edrahil jumped to his feet. “Let it never be said that I cannot tell when I am no longer wanted.” He extended a hand first to Maedhros and then to Fingon. “Again, welcome to Nargothrond. I will see you at supper. My lord is bursting to show off his most beloved accomplishment. The baths are but one part of his ambitious undertaking that he has more or less completed to his satisfaction.”

“He’s right, of course. I am vain about what we have achieved here,” Finrod said, blushing. “And the baths are far from the least of it.” His rosy cheeks and glittering pale eyes, with his lips further reddened by the wine, and the rippling waves of his golden hair falling over his shoulders made him look to be about forty years old.

Maedhros sensed the surge of embarrassment in Fingon, gently nudged him seeking to read the thought. 'Perhaps Maitimo is right. Perhaps we are arrogant to assume that Findaráto needs what we propose to offer him? '

The familiar touch of Fingon upon his mind caused Maedhros to look up and catch the querying glint in his beloved’s eyes. He responded instantly. ‘Or, perhaps he doesn’t need it. He might only desire it. And what would be so bad about that?’

Finrod chuckled and said, “Are you talking about me to one another?”

“I guess we were,” Maedhros said. His face heated up--the revealing complexion of a red-head betrayed his mild embarrassment. “My apologies.” He placed his hand over Finrod’s on the table top and squeezed. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“We’ve been practicing this kind of mind-touch,” Fingon said, not put off at all by being exposed. “You’re more sensitive than most people. Could you understand what we were saying?”

“No. But it reached me. More like an irritating tickle, a whisper I could not quite decipher. Unlikely that I would have sensed anything if you had been thinking about anyone but me.”

Fingon gave him one of his warmest smiles. “We were thinking of you, but only the very best of things.”

In the Baths

Read In the Baths

Finrod stood unseen at the main entrance into the baths, watching Fingon and Maedhros shed their weighty outer leathers until finally they stood barefooted and bare-chested. Before exchanging a brief embrace followed by a more lingering kiss, they paused to look appreciatively at one another, as though neither of them had seen the other’s slender but muscular body countless times.

They were more attractive to him together than either was alone—that was his security. If he kept both of them together, he would never fall too much in love with either of them. He could not decide which of the two might be considered the more attractive. Fingon’s ebullient charm masked the courage and heart of a lion and an enduring loyalty. It brought tears to one’s eyes to think what he had dared for his beloved. Finrod blinked, swallowed, and involuntarily sniffed in his attempt to rid himself of how deeply his cousin’s bravery affected him.

Then there was Maedhros. Finrod had always called him Russo, the handsomest among all of Finwë’s grandsons. But even in Tirion there had been a vulnerability about that brilliant young man. All of Fëanáro’s sons were arrogant, sure of their own worth, and Maedhros was no exception. Yet they never took anything for granted. They believed in effort as an ethic and were always ready to fight for what they accepted as right, as well as what they thought they deserved. And Maedhros, beneath his calm exterior and elegant manners, was the most intense of all of that ardent brood. Some might have found his terrible maiming injury or the fine silvery net of scars on his back disturbing. When Finrod saw those marks of unimaginable endurance, he felt a stab of anger in his chest, followed by a swell of admiration.

No one else could compare to the charisma of those two, so nearly opposite and yet so well matched. To think of being with the two of them together, made his throat turn dry and his heart thump. But he was no coward, he thought, and not without beauty himself, with wit and charm of his own. He had dared to think of them before and would do so again. If this does not happen this time, it will not be for lack of effort on my part, he thought.

He entered the humid chamber and began to unlace his tunic. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Please sit here with us,” Fingon said patting the space on the bench between them. “There is room for all. Then we won’t want to have to shout to have a conversation.”

There was precisely room enough, and not a hand’s breadth more, for Finrod to sit between them on the stone bench submerged in bath.

“Magnificent,” Maedhros said, his voice breaking in transparent appreciation. He looked into his eyes, as Finrod fitted himself into the empty space on the seat.

“He is, isn’t he?” Fingon smirked.

Maedhros smiled loosely back at Fingon, raising an eyebrow. “I meant the baths. Not our cousin. Although, yes. He is.”

Turning back to Finrod, he looked directly into his eyes again, his face mere inches away. Finrod noticed how thick and dark the eyelashes were around Maedhros’s pale grey eyes. The lightest sprinkling of freckles dusted his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “I recognize your hand in the work," Maedhros said. "Your particular style. Still, you were never nearly so good in Valinor.”

“He’s right,” Fingon said. “It’s amazing. You have come into your own here, Ingo. I am so happy for you. You can call yourself a true Noldo now. A master craftsman!”

Finrod glanced around him, seeing the bathing chamber through their eyes. Several but not all of the wall sconces had been lit, revealing a half-dozen graceful archways leading to the steam room, lavatories, showers, and other larger and smaller bathing rooms. Elegant support columns of cream-colored limestone framed the perimeter of the pool. Hanging lamps of amber colored glass suspended from the ceiling cast a golden glow upon the fog of steam rising from the water.

“I’ll accept that as a compliment. Thank you. You cannot begin to imagine how happy I am to share my obsession with you. I didn’t even realize until now how much I wanted you to come to me here.” Curses, Finrod thought, embarrassed; the timbre of his own voice in his ears sounded like a parody of seduction, and his choice of words like those of a callow youth determined to woo a reluctant maiden.

“You were always an artist at heart, but you have at last allowed yourself the luxury of truly giving into that passion.” Maedhros’ voice all but caressed him, husky and warm.

Scarcely breathing, Finrod could not release Maedhros’ gaze. He leaned in and covered Maedhros’ mouth with his own. He had not intended to kiss him. Finrod fumbled for his hand, forgetting for a moment it was the right arm he had grasped.

Over the drumming of his own heartbeat in his head, he could discern Fingon saying, “I told you Ingo is very impulsive.”

o0o0o0o

Without thinking, Maedhros kissed back. This was not the level of intimacy he had expected—at least not so soon—although, clearly he should have. They had been obvious enough, more so than they had discussed on their trip. He glanced down uneasily to where Finrod held his right forearm, running his thumb over whitened scar tissue. It tickled in a way that made him feel slightly queasy. The sensation did not have a physical basis. He never felt like that anymore when Fingon touched that arm. Finrod looked at him with a world of tenderness painted across his face, before the expression morphed into something that looked more like determination.

Fingon interrupted the moment, sounding a little a peeved. Perhaps jealous? "You're always too familiar too fast, Ingo."

"Oh, please, Finno. Admit that all of this was exactly what you came here wanting."

“It was! But don’t pressure him,” Fingon said. “You need to court Maitimo, not tackle him. You know he can be skittish.”

The entire set of circumstances suddenly felt ridiculous and funny to Maedhros. “I’ll skittish you, you little shit,” he said, turning on Fingon and grabbing him around the waist in a vise with his right arm. He started tickling him, attacking that sweet soft skin to the side of his rib cage. Fingon grabbed him by the shoulders and knocked him off balance, causing them both to fall off the bench with a huge splash, pulling Finrod with them, sputtering and choking.

Giggling and howling like a hyena, coughing and pretending to choke, Fingon yelled, “Who’s the pushy shit now? You tried to drown me!” The ludicrous accusation made them all laugh hysterically again.

“When I figured out what the two of you were up to. I foolishly got the idea it would somehow be more romantic,” Finrod drawled. With his cheeks glowing with exertion in the light of the sconces, he looked heart-breakingly perfect, years younger than he had when they first spotted him in front of the main gate an hour or so earlier.

“We can do romance if that is what you require,” Maedhros said, smiling with sudden rush of yearning that tightened his chest. He did not actually think he could handle a lot of discussion or romantic foreplay.

“Let’s get dried off and go to your bedroom.” Skittish, he thought, perhaps a little. As usual, Fingon was right. He could handle all the physical parts if he didn’t think too much. They both loved Finrod with the familiar affection of close friends tinged with more than a casual hint of physical attraction. But Finrod was the kind of man one could fall crazy in love with if one was not careful. This whole proposition was fraught with danger. Fingon was a risk taker. He himself had will and determination enough, but did not like to take chances with those he loved. And that had been exacerbated by the instance of so nearly losing Fingon once already.

“I have one question,” Finrod began, pulling himself up onto the edge of the pool and standing, extending a hand to Maedhros. “Why would you want me if the two of you have everything you need? I don’t want to be in the middle of some trouble that you are having.”

Maedhros turned to Fingon, who clambered out of the heated pool, shaking water off himself like a dog. “Do you want to try to explain it, Káno?”

A cocky smile lit up Fingon’s face. “What was the question again? Why you? The answer is a question. Why not?” He looked around him, and at the sight of the solemn faces, erased his smirk instantly.

“Fine. I can try. You see, Ingo, we have had a few years to think about the physical side of our feelings for you. It is more than pure lust, although that has always been strong.” He boldly winked at Finrod, before turning serious again. “You’re dear to us in many ways.

“Maitimo and I have talked about it a lot. I finally decided that I think it's more than fulfilling wants or needs that all of us share and have been aware of for a long while. Not acting on our desires has become distracting, a temptation that affects all of our encounters with you.”

“Káno is not one to turn down a challenge,” Maedhros said. Fingon’s face in unusual gravity was a beautiful thing indeed, if fleeting. Perhaps he was wrong to fear the consequences. Fingon’s instincts, despite appearing less considered, were usually better than his own.

Fingon wrinkled his nose at Maedhros and continued, “The question became for us whether it was more courageous to resist the temptation or to allow ourselves to give in to it. So, we decided to seduce you,” Fingon said, with a shrug and a snort. “Finally. Not that either of us thought it would take more than the quirk of a finger, of course.”

“Think you are that irresistible, do you, Nolofinwion?” Finrod said, laughing right back at him, with the sense of humor that always kept his philosophical bent from turning pious.

“To you I am. And, if I were not, one need only consider that I offer more than my own appealing charm and intelligence. The gorgeous, long-legged red-head is included in the deal.”

“It is a very strong offer indeed.” Finrod turned toward Maedhros, smiling when they locked gazes. Maedhros stroked the silky skin on the inside of Finrod’s arm, causing him to gasp and then release his breath. Fingon cleared his throat in a bid for their attention.

"So . . ." he said, looking from one to the other of them. "During this past period, after Thangorodrim and since the Mereth Aderthad, after Maedhros and I had reconciled, we gradually learned to accept our love like we had before our estrangement--only on even more solid ground perhaps. We will never let go of one another again. We think we can share our bodies with you and enjoy yours. It would be a kindness to one another and hopefully bring joy to you, as well. That is if you still want us the way you did before. I feel bad about Lake Mithrim--we simply weren't ready yet. It was too soon after everything . . .”

Fingon colored a little, but then continued without any fuss or excess of embarrassment. “We think we can make love with you without changing anything. I mean nothing between Maitimo and me. Does that make sense? I mean, obviously it would change things with you. Now I am meandering. All I am trying to say is that we're all right. We're great. Right, Maitimo?”

Maedhros leaned into Fingon and gave him a slow kiss, partially to reassure him and a little to tease Finrod. Fingon pulled away, seeming eager to finish what he saw as the responsibility of negotiating an agreement. Maedhros couldn't resist a silent chuckle and surreptitious eye roll at Finrod, who responded with that golden sunshine smile of his.

“I have one question for you, Ingo. And how did you manage during all of those years alone to remain chaste? Or did you?” Fingon asked.

This is rich, Maedhros thought. It took iron self-control not to laugh aloud at Fingon.

Finrod took a deep breath, tucking his chin into his chest, and looking up at Fingon through his heavy black and gold eyelashes. “There was no one for me except that one time with you, just coming off the ice. And my rejected overtures to the two of you at Lake Mithrim, of course,” Finrod said. "How do you manage, cousin, on your own so much, with Russo so far away?" He imperiously raised an elegant eyebrow, his merry eyes giving lie to his presumption of haughtiness. “You have never been known for patience.”

Fingon winked at him and pumped his hand up and down in an unmistakable gesture, which made both Finrod and Maedhros explode with laughter.

“Ah, I see. It's been a lot like that for me also,” said Finrod. “But with better technique. You appear to lack finesse.”

“Oh, you liked it well enough before as I recall," snorted Fingon with pretended umbrage. “I could argue with you about my finesse or lack thereof, but it seems pointless when I can demonstrate on you in a little while. After supper I think?”

"Ah, yes," sighed Finrod. "There probably is a hall full of hungry people gathering by now. We ought to dry off and dress. You must be starving too."

 

Dinner

Read Dinner

Unlike the softly lit baths, the great hall of Nargothrond blazed with light. Every sconce held a lit torch. Lanterns hung from every beam as well. A wooden table at the head of the hall was set on a raised dais, covered with a white tablecloth and set with bright pottery plates. Each bore variations on the crest of the House of Arafinwë transformed into a more relaxed style than usual with a splashes of bright enamel—yellow, golden, and red, with small accents of blue and green—rendered in broad, irregular strokes. No two plates were identical—so different in comparison to the more elegant furnishings of Finrod's family’s household up on the palace hill in Tirion. Maedhros caught Finrod’s eye and smiled.

“These are great,” said Fingon, picking up a plate and studying the design. “Splendid in an almost fierce way!”

“I would not say ‘fierce!’ Maybe lacking in unnecessary artificial restraint? Recognize the inspiration, Russo?” Finrod asked. “I always loved Nerdanel’s tableware.”

“Of course,” Maedhros said. “I can really appreciate the style now. I remember when I was a child how much our entire house embarrassed me. Kids crave the conventional. Don’t want to be different. Amil always said, even when you were little, that you had a good eye.”

Maedhros looked around the half-empty hall before asking Finrod, “And where are your Dwarven comrades tonight. Do they not dine here with the rest of you?”

“They do eat with us most of the time. Occasionally, they eat among themselves and join us later for music and ale. Dwarves keep many secrets, but still are a social people and as warm-hearted as they are thorny by nature—a veritable bundle of contradictions, more subtle than one might imagine.”

Edrahil interjected, “Tonight they are apparently observing some special occasion. They didn’t say what, only that we should not expect them to sup with us for the next two days. It could be anything from a memorial to a fallen comrade to some arcane rite in honor of Aulë their maker. They keep close counsel among themselves. We have no idea what they are doing half of the time. And we’ve learned not to ask if the information is not offered.”

Finrod laughed. “He sums it up well. But despite our differences, I am quite comfortable with the Dwarves now. You will meet them day after tomorrow, I guess. I think you’ll like them. They seem fond of me.”

“And why wouldn’t they like you?” teased Edrahil. “Not only does affection come easily to my lord, but they admire him and his many talents. They have even given him an epessë. They call him Felak-gundu, which they say means hewer of caves.”

“I am never sure if they are complimenting me or pulling my leg. They are the experts. I’m only their apprentice!” Finrod insisted, his face reddening with an irresistibly attractive blush. “But I do love the work.”

“Well, I know they are most willing to express their esteem for him as an artist in works of stone and Dwarves are not effusive folk. You’ll see. They never say anything they do not mean.” Edrahil insisted. “I’ve also heard them praising his sculpture when they did not know I could hear them.”

“We told Ingo in the baths how much he has refined his skills since leaving Valinor.” Fingon said. “He studied with Maitimo’s mother for a while, you know. She always believed he had undeveloped talent. But what he has done here is brilliant. Not just the decorative carvings, but the engineering as well.”

Edrahil brightened at any opportunity to talk about Finrod. “Did he tell you how they have heated the baths? The hot and cold running water, and the showers?”

“We did not get around to that yet,” Finrod said, exchanging a sly grin with Maedhros.

“I am interested to hear all the details,” said Maedhros.

“This is excellent,” interjected Fingon, pointing at the roast meat on his plate. “The entire dinner is terrific, Ingo. Delicious. Do you eat like this every day?”

“Asks the deprived lad who is accustomed to the meager fare of Eithel Sirion,” said Maedhros. They all laughed. “But seriously, this easily matches Nolofinwë’s dinners.”

A kid goat had been spit-roasted to perfection with black pepper, garlic and herbs, served with an impressive selection of fresh vegetables, braised or steamed, and fresh green salads dressed with sweet and tart sauces. Waiting on a side board were plates of assorted cheeses, what looked to be honey and lemon seed cakes, and large wooden bowels stacked with small red Lady Apples.

“Thank you. I am so happy you are enjoying it. I cannot resist praising my own table. We are very fortunate in our head cook. She truly appreciates her position; she faced competition for it from some older men formerly of the Cook’s Guild in Tirion.” Finrod beamed. “She had planned on making a rabbit stew with bacon, mushrooms and shallots today—she’ll probably serve that tomorrow. Very good as well, the way she prepares it. But she decided that, traveling so far, you had more likely than not eaten rabbit or squirrel as your last meat and would enjoy something entirely different.”

“Hmm,” said Fingon, nodding in agreement, as he applied himself with energy to his well-filled plate.

“Excellent,” Maedhros said, musing to himself that Finrod enjoyed not simply the architectural and construction work but the details of running the castle as well. “How do you acquire your black pepper? Eressetor mentioned it while I was packing. He always has a wish list ready for me whenever I prepare to travel. That would be a pleasant surprise for him, if I managed to bring some pepper back.”

“I’ll ask cook. That is not one of the items I have ever heard her complain about when she prepares her endless lists of shortages. Perhaps she can spare some of ours.”

Maedhros had eaten more than he had intended, tempted by the aroma and the succulence of the roast kid and the allure of the herbs and spices. Finrod had not overrated his cook. Even the pleasant drowsiness, brought on by the abundance of good wine and food, had not entirely dispelled his arousal. However, it was no longer as urgent or uncomfortable as it had been at the beginning of the dinner. But one sidelong glimpse of Finrod’s golden hair and his eyes as bright and blue as the cerulean tunic he wore. Finrod returned Maedhros’ smile in full measure, which brought back his aching need. He wondered if Fingon shared his painful yearning and shifted slightly to meet his eyes.

As though on cue, Fingon looked at him and pursed his lips together, exhaling through his nose, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Apparently, he was in the same state. The two of them glanced at their host. The epicene beauty of the facial structure that Finrod shared with his sister was stunning in both, although Maedhros had never reacted to it in Galadriel the way he always did with Finrod.

At that moment, Finrod became aware of their appraisal. A soft blush covered his face and throat. He quirked the corners of his mouth—barely, almost shyly—not a full smile. He did, however, place his hand boldly on Maedhros’s upper thigh under the table and squeezed, before allowing it to rest there.

“It should not be long now,” Finrod whispered, loud enough for both of them to hear and no one else.

Fingon chuckled, before leaping to his feet with his usual exuberance and raising his goblet. “I propose a toast to all of the dwellers of Nargothrond and your beneficent lord, our cousin Findaráto. You must be rightly proud of what you have accomplished here.” The hall broke out in applause, every goblet raised.

When the din had quieted a bit, Fingon continued. “The Lord of Himring and I have had a long trip, not disagreeable, but wearying. We will need to take our leave soon in order to snatch a few quiet moments with our cousin before much needed sleep. Prior to retiring, I propose that we offer you a song or two. If Findaráto and I might borrow instruments, a lute and perhaps a small harp? I am sure that you know that your lord can play and sing.” Fingon paused, looking about the room with an impudent grin. “I may not be quite as good as him, but I promise you, I can sing. And play a little too.” He received a wholehearted laugh from the gathering. His proficiency on a harp was well-known to the Noldor present. It was hard not to warm to Fingon.

Maedhros succeeded in holding back a laugh, but he did not resist making eye contact with Finrod. Fingon had a beautiful voice as well, and he had trained for a while in his youth with the best there was—Maglor, no less.

From among the musicians who had entertained them throughout the supper, a petite Noldorin woman, with heavy black hair and unusual amber eyes, approached the dais. She had impressed Maedhros earlier with her skill on the lute during their meal. Now she bowed toward Fingon, holding a lute and an exquisite lap harp which, more likely than not, had survived the Helcaraxë.

“I’ll take the lute and leave the harp for Findekáno. Can you find a flute for yourself, my dear, and join us?” Finrod said to the pretty maiden.

“I’d be honored, my lord.”

The trio organized themselves on three tall stools in front of the dais with the petite flautist between Maedhros’ long-legged cousins. The first song, which Fingon suggested, was a rollicking riding song which Maglor had written for his two youngest brothers. It had become instantly popular throughout Valinor after its composer had sung it at a children’s party in Tirion. The Noldor in the crowd sang along with the chorus immediately. The Sindarin elements joined them at the second chorus, as the vivid tune rang out as though it had been written for the marvelous acoustics of Finrod’s soaring hall.

“That song always makes my voice sound good. But this hall takes it to another level,” Fingon announced cheerily unselfconscious. The crowd applauded. He winked at Finrod. “My cousin did not sound bad either, did he? And the flautist is amazing!” They laughed and cheered at that.

If Fingon had not been a prince, a leader, a warrior, he could have easily made his living as an entertainer. Finrod sought out Maedhros’ gaze and grinned in complicit admiration of their valiant harpist.

Then Finrod sought a traditional Sindarin song of an ill-fated knight’s sad farewell to his lady. Everyone knew this one also, but did not join in this time, leaving the musicians to pluck at their heart strings without any outside help. Maedhros thought that, although it did not compare to their Macalaurë, still it was a haunting melody.

When they finished, Finrod stood and hugged his fellow musicians, shaking off a pensive mood. His face had softened to near melancholy by the affecting sentiments of the song. He handed his lute to the flautist along with an extra kiss upon her forehead, and bowed to the crowd with a languorous grace reminiscent at that moment of a mannerism used by Finwë and each of his sons, whenever they took leave of a gathering. There was actually an openness in his elders’ unhurried manner when engaging with their people in public—a form of leadership characterized by accessibility, affecting a comportment never hurried or abrupt. Finrod shared it, as did Fingon. He wondered if he did. He was less gregarious than either of them, but sincerely wished to put his followers’ welfare before his own fleeting interests.

“Thank you for your indulgence,” Finrod said. “You are, as ever, an appreciative audience. May you all enjoy the rest of your evening and, please, do not cut it short because we must take our leave. I would be a poor host indeed if I did not escort my cousins to seek their rest after such a long journey.”

They controlled the haste of their exit as best they could, Maedhros noted. It would indeed appear unseemly to scamper out of the hall like a bunch of eager youths who had hidden a bottle or some girls in their room.

They bade a leisurely good-night to Edrahil and even stopped to stick their heads into the busy, noisy kitchen to pay brief compliments to the cook.

As they wended their way through the dimly-lit passages in the direction of Finrod’s chambers, he asked, “How about that choice of music? Finno picks a tune that will rile people up and then I have to find another that will soothe the gathering again, so we can make our escape without encountering protest.”

“Well, between the two of us, it worked, didn’t it?” Fingon smirked. “I had almost forgotten how fine your voice is. I have to pick my tunes carefully, to minimize my flaws. The old deflect and distract method!”

Finrod turned to Maedhros. “Do you ever notice the only time that Finno is modest is in relation to his voice?”

“Actually, I have noticed that. You have a rich, wonderful voice also. But, you are right Káno’s is really quite . . .”

“Stop! You’re embarrassing me!” Fingon said. “You’re as bad or worse. You have a good voice, Maitimo. I have always told you that. I guess Macalaurë casts a long shadow. Isn’t this your room, Ingo?” He pointed toward the largest and most magnificent door in that corridor.

“Oh! Yes. The two of you are so disarming that I almost walked past it.” Finrod pulled the door open while bowing deeply from the waist. “Please, enter, my lords. What is it that villains always say in the plays in Tirion when they are plotting a seduction? ‘Alone at last, my lovelies!’”

Joy as Sharp as a Sword

This is the payoff for sticking with me to this point. I hope it was worth the wait.

Read Joy as Sharp as a Sword

The walk down the circuitous corridors had seemed interminable to Maedhros. They finally reached a massive double-door; the high sheen of its polished wood shone warm and welcoming under the amber light of the heavy iron lamp hanging over it.

Finrod pushed the door open to reveal his bedroom. The room had been furnished with elegance, luxurious while not lacking in any simple home comforts. Clearly it would be assessed as a bed chamber suitable for royalty even in Tirion or Taniquetil.

“They take good care of me here,” Finrod explained. A low fire had been banked in the large fireplace and a table set with a decanter of wine, a tea service, and a basket of toasted rounds of dark sliced rolls, and a platter of the last of the season’s strawberries, cheese, and rounded scoops of potted meats and pâté. “We entered through the door in the adjoining room earlier,” he said.
             
A huge bed dominated the room, covered with a luxurious spread woven of silken emerald and golden threads, probably worth nearly as much as Fingon’s horse. It had been turned down, showing snowy sheets and half-dozen pillows plumped and smoothed to perfection.

“The other room where we sat before is through that archway, beyond those curtains.” Finrod indicated with a sweeping gesture. “They were open earlier. So,” he shrugged, “what do you think? Almost as though I were a real king, isn’t it?”

Ah, but he is here, Maedhros thought, the undoubted leader of these loyal, hard-working people. Finrod might not seem to be one much taken with formality or pomp, but this opulent setting surpassed the indulgence with which Fingolfin was served.

“Oh, you are!” crowed Fingon. “King Finrod Felagund first of his name,” he intoned in the reverberating tones of a proclaimer in the protocol of the court of Ingwë, with its greater formality than either that of Finwë or Olwë. “King of Nargothrond, Prince Findaráto grandson of King Olwë of the Teleri, Prince Artafindë Ingoldo Arafinwion of the Noldor, unquestioned head and settler of disputes within the quarrelsome house of Arafinwë in Endórë.”

Fingon looked around, taking everything in, japing, and shrugging his shoulders, appearing animated, but Maedhros knew he was actually nervous too.

“’Alone at last.’ That is a classic. Sooo?” Fingon drawled. He held his arms open to Finrod, who moved into them without hesitation. Maedhros had been half-expecting to witness a tempestuous kiss, instead, Fingon pulled Finrod tight against his chest, rubbing soothing circles onto his back. “There. There. I promise we will be so good to you. Don’t worry about a thing. ”

Easy for him to say, Fingon could laugh in the haggard face of death itself. Well, perhaps not death. He took risks, but because he loved life. There could be no half-life of caution for him. But apparently his reassurances worked, for when Finrod lifted his head from where it had been buried in the crook of Fingon’s shoulder, he no longer looked hesitant or uneasy. A rapturous glow did suffuse his face that he struggled to subdue. “So, tell me again, about your change of heart? Do you both really want this?”

“Have no doubt--or, better said, you soon will have no doubts,” Fingon said. “Tell him, Maitimo. I am apparently not eloquent enough. We truly do not lack contentment with one another, neither physically nor within our hearts. But you have showed us trust and kindness when others were far more guarded. And we want you! Don’t pretend you have any uncertainty about your attractiveness. You could stir the dead.”

“You are more eloquent than you think, my love,” Maedhros said, chuckling. Turning to Finrod, he said, “Perhaps you are uneasy, Ingo? Because of Amarië?”

“Indeed, I’ve thought about that. No,” said Finrod. “Perhaps I would like to speak to you of her later, but not now. I am resolved that I need not wait all the Ages of Arda before I touch anyone again. I cannot believe the One would give us these bodies and these needs and then ask Ages of abstinence of us. And I am overcome by the two of you. Set on fire by the idea of being with you. Try to imagine the nights I have fallen asleep thinking of what this might be like.”

Fingon laughed--that open-hearted, unstinting laugh of his. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

“I can hardly wait.” Finrod gave him one of his sweetest smiles.

“This will be amazing. I promise you,” said Fingon, jubilant.

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Finrod agreed, his voice suddenly turned earnest, tender and relieved. He hauled Fingon against him in a crushing kiss. But he reached out for Maedhros with the other hand and caught his sleeve and yanked him against them. Fingon wrapped an arm around Maedhros, without opening his eyes, pulling him into their fierce embrace.

Maedhros bit Fingon on the neck and then nipped on Finrod’s earlobe and sucked. When Finrod and Fingon finally broke apart breathless, Maedhros could only laugh and shake his head at the two of them. He was ever more certain of the rightness of them together, although he believed he had been sure of it since Fingon first suggested it. As philosophical Finrod had said, what could be wrong in sharing, which such affection, something so basic and human?

“Love is the candle that lights this hard, cruel world,” Fingon said, disentangling himself from the awkward three-way embrace. “Let’s get naked. That is one magnificent bed.”

Already pulling his tunic over his head, Finrod sought to make fun of his own love of abstract discussions. “Ah, yes, Finno! But first let me just clarify one concept. Are you offering the love of three fear bound together in intimate affinity or crass carnal desire, animal lust?”

“Why not both?” Fingon asked. “I choose both!” he all but shouted, flopping himself flat on his back, spread-eagle and shirtless. This was Maedhros’s favorite view of him. Fingon looked marvelous shirtless. His chest was beautifully muscled, without a hint of bulkiness to detract from his elegant balance. And his skin was flawless. “Help, please with the boots, so I can get out of these trousers!”

Laughing at Fingon, but with the underlying sense of regret that he had never been, not even as child, and could never be, as lighthearted as his love, Maedhros asked, “How do I put up with you?”

Fingon answered, cocking his head to one side and frowning. “Obviously, because you really, really need me, gloomy old bear.” Then he grinned and kissed Maedhros wetly on the mouth, while proceeding to show exactly how useful he could be by undoing the long row of fasteners down the front of Maedhros’ tunic. Meanwhile, Finrod knelt and pulled off Fingon’s boots and then Maedhros’ as well.

“There, you two love birds, stop slobbering all over one another long enough, to help me with my boots!”

Finrod’s blue tunic of a rich brushed silk was made in the simplest of designs, like a farmer’s blouse worn in outskirts of Tirion, with no laces or fasteners and a low open neck. In one graceful movement he removed it, as though eager to show himself. His face lit up with pleasure, a deep flush flooding his golden cheeks stemming from residual self-consciousness, giving lie to his attempt to match Finno’s levity. An almost imperceptible gasp and a flutter of his eyelids indicated he struggled to control his reaction to the fact that this was really going to happen--now.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at him, admitting to himself that the flickering tentativeness on his cousin’s face moved him even more than he had expected. He leaned forward and reached for Finrod, guiding him onto the bed between them, and yanking off his boots without any trouble. He had wanted to leave his prosthetic on for a while at least, it made moving about and such tasks that much easier.

“Ingo’s different than he was with me alone,” Fingon said, smiling slyly at Maedhros. “Shyer and less aggressive.” Finrod turned and kissed him, intent upon stopping his chatter.

“So teasing him about it will make him less shy?” Maedhros asked.

“Aww, Russandol,” Finrod crooned softly. “My champion against the big bully.”

“You’re adorable, you know,” Fingon said, a swell of fondness evident in the softening of his voice.

Amidst the kissing and teasing, they had managed to divest themselves of the last of remnants of their clothing. It was a wondrous and compelling thing to be touching bare skin everywhere.

“Of course, I have seen you both unclothed countless time throughout my life,” Finrod responded aloud to their shared sensation. “But everything is different now, knowing I can touch you. I may, mayn’t I?”

“Please,” Maedhros said, hoping he had not sounded desperate.

Fingon smiled at him over Finrod’s shoulder. “Kiss him, Ingo. He looks like he needs a kiss. Maitimo is a wonderful kisser and so are you. You are going to love this. I’ve imagined the two of you together as well. I’m looking forward to watching you, only don’t forget about me.”

Maedhros laughed. “As though anyone could forget you.” He leaned across Finrod to kiss him. And then released the kiss only to have his mouth captured by Finrod. Fingon reached between them to tease and caress.

One’s body could not but respond to comeliness like that of Finrod, the individual elements of which seemed to equal far more than their sum. Not only did the sensation of desire feed off Finrod’s heat and his none too shabby beast of desire. A sense that Finrod’s natural responsiveness and his need for physical comfort, despite his unfailingly generous and kindhearted temperament, had not been met drew Maedhros to want to remedy that for him as thoroughly as possible.

o0o0o0o

Meanwhile, Fingon squirmed and twisted to be able to take Finrod’s sex into his mouth. Finrod rewarded him with a satisfying groan. After a while, his jaw aching from the effort, he drew away, not from fatigue or awkwardness of his position, but from fear he could not resist the temptation to finish him. He wanted to hold back, curious to see to what was happening above him that was causing Maedhros to make happy little humming noises. Not surprisingly, he saw Finrod plundering Maedhros’s mouth. Finrod loved to kiss and Maedhros was a joy to kiss.

Finrod had tangled in his long artist’s fingers that magnificent flame-colored mane. It was difficult to keep one’s hands out of Maedhros’s hair, not to mention an act of pointless self-denial. Fingon sat up alongside them leaning over to give Maedhros a few wet, lingering kisses on the neck and shoulder. Meanwhile, Maedhros had instinctively reached with his good hand to encircle Finrod’s cock. He stroked at a gentler pace than Fingon’s earlier movements, causing Finrod to squirm and whimper in vain for more attention.

“Shhh. Easy,” Maedhros said, in the softest of murmurs. “If I am not careful, this will make you come right now. Is that what you really want? Or would you rather have something more?” Fingon’s own cock jumped at his words and he rubbed himself against Maedhros from behind.

“More?” Finrod choked out, his voice husky with arousal and louder than Maedhros’s had been. “Could I be in the middle for a while?” They both looked at Fingon together, to see if he would assent. Maedhros was smiling, Finrod’s cheeks were, if that was even possible, burning hotter.

Fingon felt his heart would break with the tenderness he felt for both of them in that instant, there was an elusive element of longing as gentle as a summer’s morning mist coupled with a joy as sharp as a sword. Maedhros’ spirit burned steady, enduring, and attentive, his love tested and immutable. While Finrod flared with a surprised, greedy innocence about him, disproportionate even to his admittedly limited experience. Their cousin’s face filled with open wonder as he placed himself in their hands with a humbling trust.

Fingon clambered over the two of them and snuggled against Finrod from behind.
“He wants to know,” he muttered softly into Finrod’s ear, taking his cue in tone from Maedhros, “ . . . he wants you to tell him how you want to reach your climax. You are obviously on the cusp. He wants . . . we want . . . you to decide what you want to happen next.”

“Oh,” Finrod said. “I don’t know. I want everything. I want to fuck someone and be fucked. Not just the kind of touching you and I did before. Remember?” As though I could ever forget, Fingon thought! “. . . years ago, at the first rise of the Moon. Can we go all the way this time?”

“Oh, Eru, yes! If that is what you want, baby,” Maedhros gasped, with a convulsive shiver, which wrenched a groan out of Fingon. “So, do you know what you want to do first?” Maedhros asked carefully.

“If I get to choose, then I want to fuck Finno while you fuck me, please. Will that work?”

“You bet it will!” answered Fingon.   

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical. “With some effort and patience we can make it work. Oh, by the Valar, do you have any idea how gorgeous you are? How hot you sound saying things like that?” Finrod’s pupils were totally dilated, his fair hair, pure gold in the candlelight, was a wild tangled mess, rivaling Maedhros’s in the sheer volume of it.

“You are gorgeous!” Fingon said.

“We all are! I am mad with the awareness of how beautiful we all are at this moment. We’re perfect,” Finrod said.

Maedhros chuckled quietly. “We need some salve or oil and I will show you what to do with Findekáno.”

Finrod jumped up and walked to dresser adjacent to the bed and opened the top drawer. Fingon and Maedhros exchanged a glance while admiring his rear end--high, rounded, and well-muscled.

Maedhros said, “You held back from me how sweet he is in bed.”

“It seemed wise at the time.” Fingon smirked. “Just teasing. Actually, he was different. He was very nice, but more domineering and less sweet with only me before.”

Finrod laughed from across the room. “Finno’s a lot to handle alone! Oh, look. I have these two.” He held up a bottle and a jar. Maedhros snorted gently, amused. They could be anything. Finrod grinned at him. “One is some kind of oil, smells like sandalwood, and the other is an ordinary kind of salve for chapped lips or hands.”

“Bring ‘em both,” Fingon said.

Finrod gave him a smile filled with mischief. “Now I am beginning to get worried.”

Three could become complicated in a way that two never had been. Although Fingon and Finrod had made love that one time years ago, they were virtually different people now. They had not only been thin and wiry, all bone and stringy sinew, dry skin and brittle hair, but they had been desperate, grieving, and existing by a force of will alone. Only that fire in blood of the House of Finwë prevented them from giving up, and, perhaps, a little, Finrod’s wisdom at suggesting they provide solace and comfort to one another.

Even after Fingon had pushed past the intermittent twinges of jealousy and the acceptance of an invasion of a private space that had always belonged to him and Maedhros alone, he felt, despite the intense pleasure, a nagging uneasiness. That emotion at first threatened to overwhelm him, but even after he had subdued it, everything felt like nearly too much--too much sensation, too much to read of the hearts of the others, and too much to monitor about preferences and responses. Fingon took making love seriously. It was important to him and, if a thing is important, he thought it worth doing well.

But, at last, the desire to please fragmented and turned illusory, sliding away when he tried to hold onto it. He kept losing himself in the pure carnality of the moment and losing track of what Finrod or Maedhros wanted or needed. He repeatedly felt like each time he had finally recaptured some sense of intent and control that he was in constant danger of being overwhelmed. That his self-awareness could mutate into the fear of being unable to hold onto any sense of equilibrium. All of those elements came together with a sense of extreme hypersensitivity and intensity. He felt as though Finrod and Maedhros were not struggling as hard as he was. Maedhros reached out to him, trying to ground him. You’re thinking too hard. Just relax. Just allow yourself to feel how good this is.

The he was floating in exquisite state of pure sensation that felt not wholly physical. It was not literally magic. It remained as purely natural, as human, noisy, funny, and free, as a wrestling match among any of the cousins. But it far transcended that, with touches so tender and loving, yet also as crude and raw, honest, not entirely without pain either, although there was more pressure and strain than real pain. The entire experience felt more and better and deeper than anything that wasn’t enchantment.

They had turned their attention to Finrod again and played with him until he came a third time, thrashing and shouting with his climax.

“Stop please, stop!” he gasped. “I mean, don’t stop.”

Maedhros whispered into Fingon’s ear, “I really think he could come again! It’s that mind control stuff he does.”

“Stop talking about me!” he gasped, with a little chuckle. “Don’t even think about me coming again right now. I am afraid it would kill me!”

The remains of magic seemed to break apart into mist of golden and rose-colored light, a visual and physical sensation. “Wow!” Fingon said. “You’re a wonder. You could conquer the world with that skill. Where did you learn it?”

“I thought it was the two of you. The mind play you talked about practicing.”

“No,” Maedhros said. “I guess it is the combination of the three of us. Like combining certain chemicals causes a particular reaction . . .”

“Shut up you two! I can’t take it!” Fingon cried. Maedhros wanted to turn it into science, while he wanted to accept it as instinct and good fortune. Meanwhile, Finrod reached for some transcendental mystical ideal just out of reach.

Fingon said, “We are simply really good together. I knew you would be a great fuck, Ingo. Remember? I told you that I thought that, Maitimo.”

“Indeed, he did,” Maedhros said, with a loose, lazy, satisfied smile. “He surely did predict it. I suppose I should learn to trust him about certain types of things.”

All three of them laughed together. “Thank you, so very much,” Finrod said, his voice sounding like that of the gracious, well-mannered lad that he had always been as a youngster.

Fingon started shaking with unreleased laughter. “It was entirely my pleasure, darling.”

Maedhros choked, before breaking out in a loud guffaw. “Oh, no, actually. The greatest pleasure was all mine. We really must do this again sometime.”

“I love you two so much,” Finrod murmured. “I need to sleep. Don’t move. Stay exactly where you are. Do you have enough pillows and covers?”

“Ah,” Maedhros said. “I don’t think I will ever be cold again.”

“Umph,” snorted Finrod into a giant pillow, already barely awake.

They were still all touching, as though reluctant to let any distance come between them yet, physical or emotional. A few minutes later, Maedhros said. “He is asleep. Are you comfortable?”

“I’m fine,” Fingon whispered. Grasping Maedhros’ left hand across Finrod’s abdomen and lacing their fingers together. “I’m falling asleep myself.”

o0o0o0o

When he awakened in the morning, Fingon felt happy and replete, but ached all over. Maedhros apparently felt only marginally better. He groaned the entire time, as though he were pushing a boulder up the side of a cliff, when he attempted to push himself into a half-sitting sitting position.

“There you are, Ingo,” Maedhros said cheerily, however, upon seeing the blond’s beautiful blue eyes flutter open. “Good morning. How are you?”

“I feel wonderful.” Finrod said, in a dreamy puzzled voice. “You two are magic.”

Epilogue

Very short epilogue written to get briefly back into Finrod’s head. He is the one who initiated all of this in my extended story!verse.

Read Epilogue

Finrod had first stirred while the others still slept. All of the candles had burned down and the last lamp, drawing upon the dregs of its oil, gave off a wavering glow. Nearly mid-morning, he guessed, without the slightest sense of guilt or any desire to force himself into full wakefulness.

Unlike Tirion, no cock’s crow, no chatter of children passing on their way to school, nor any clattering rumble of merchants’ carts, would ever reach this deep into his cavernous stronghold. He would never hear any soothing everyday noises like the chants of shrimp fishermen hauling in their nets that he remembered awakening to on the highest floor of his grandfather’s palace in Alqualondë.

The lack of sound or natural light in the chambers on the lower levels could be disorienting. He thought vaguely, as he often did, that there must be a way to provide an impression of morning sunlight by placing a source of illumination behind the stained glass panels hanging on the far wall.

Maedhros stretched, innocent and at peace in his sleep; his left arm extending above his head ended in a heart-wrenchingly elegant long-fingered hand. He was pale-skinned and beautiful, his hair, wine red in the semi-darkness, spilled out across his pillow in wild disarray. A tragic vulnerability refined the raw power that emanated from him. Incongruously, his perfect alabaster shoulders were sprinkled with freckles.

If Maedhros’ skin could be described as fine as that on the inside of woman’s wrist, Fingon’s was satiny and golden, a perfect contrast in texture and color. Fingon slept like he was working hard at it. His brow was smooth, but his full lips were closed in a slight pout. He breathed deeply and evenly, silent and intent. Finrod kissed Fingon’s cheek and he did not stir or regain consciousness, but some part of him recognized the touch and the pout relaxed to be replaced by a sweet smile.

Just then, Maedhros shifted, not entirely awake, never opening his eyes, and pulled Finrod closer to him, kissing him lightly on the mouth.

The two of them together like this, with him in the middle, filled Finrod with a wistful exultation. The problem with this kind of happiness was that one could never get enough of it. The mingling scent of the two them intoxicated him. Fingon had a sensuous spicy smell reminiscent of cinnamon and autumn leaves. Whereas Maedhros was fresh mown grass and spring rain--clear, clean, and guileless.

Their love making the night before had surprised Finrod in many ways. Fingon’s exuberance had been tempered by tenderness, while an elemental sensuality seemed to dissolve any remaining solemnity in Maedhros. Finrod felt the encounter to be far more carnal and less cerebral than he had expected. He had worried before about stumbling upon some kind of blackness in the recesses of Maedhros’ mind. He’d never understood Fëanor and, as much as Curufin, Maedhros was wholly his father’s son—the eldest, the one Fëanor had first burdened with all of his hopes and dreams. But if such darkness existed, he had seen no evidence of it.

He thought with chagrin that he remembered more about the shape, size, texture, and taste of Maedhros’ cock than what he had found inside of his head. He shivered in delight at the memory. The dichotomy between the spiritual and animal had blurred. He smirked at his recollections of the hours of making love, stopping to eat and drink a little. And then, a glance, a touch, or a kiss would remind them how pleased they were with themselves and one another, they would fall back into bed and start all over again. Becoming aware of how much he ached from their exertions, he released a soft laugh at his own unflagging inclination to try to make something arcane and mysterious out of purely human and no less marvelous activities.

He had been more than a bit of a love-sick fool over them for few years now. One might have thought he should be embarrassed, if not for the fact that he finally knew he had been right. They were good together and their enhanced attachment might help with the nigh impossible task of keeping their scattered people unified and not at one another’s throats. The experience left Finrod musing, although he was not entirely sure what the two of them felt for him, that whatever the nature of the affection, it was momentous for them as well. Perhaps it was of greater significance to him, but not something any of the three of them would lightly forsake.

It might take some determination, but they should make the effort to ensure that the future held more occasions like this one. He wished for a fleeting moment that he could clutch the two of them to himself and never let go. But such childish daydreams had been frozen out of him on the Helcaraxë. Extravagant wishes were no longer even mourned by him—they bored him. The here, the now, the near future, the possible--those were the things that inspired him. Was it Fingon or Maedhros who had projected the thought that their union had produced a “joy as sharp as a sword”? He could hold onto that.

After he had allowed his eyes to drift shut and fully indulge his dreamy half-awake pondering, Finrod felt both Fingon and Maedhros stirring.

He opened his eyes to see Maedhros smiling down upon him. “There you are, Ingo,” he said. “How are you?”