Joy as Sharp as a Sword by oshun

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.

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?”