A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Nine

Rating: R
Category: Humour, Drama, AU
Pairing(s): Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit, Orophin/Elladan, Elrond/Rumil, Legolas/Gimli, Elrohir/Frost, Mauburz/Rhimlan, Amaris/Ilinuil, and others
Warnings: Slash (means: two male Elves in love), Mpreg, Angst, Violence, Language, Light BDSM
Summary: Dark truths come forth, one House comes out from under a shadow, while another falls under, Faramir befriends a kindred spirit, and Aulë learns that no kind deed goes unpunished.
Notes: Meadbunny Rating 5
I promised Tiel, Silvarbelle and Malda a cameo in this chapter. Sorry guys, I just did not have room and I didn’t want you just to be standing in the background when the camera panned by. Next chapter.
Beta’d by Mirien.
Special thanks to Mirien for her help with Fëanor and his history.
This chapter dedicated to Scary Mary. Happy Birthday, hon, Elrond says you can share his cake with him.

Some time ago, Priestess Vesta and I came up with our own challenge for one another. Originally, it had been intended for a one-off fic, but I simply do not have the time to write a rather large and intensive fic along with all the other writing I have to do. Ergo I have worked the challenge into this series. I will not reveal what the challenge is, nor what characters it will involve, but indeed I shall say this.
Vesta! The gauntlet is thrown!

Elrond walked home slowly along the beach, finally mounting the path that led up to the top of the cliff where his house now stood. He reached the cliff top, and paused, then looked across the expanse of grass to where his party was still going on. He could see the lights dancing; hear the song and laughter. Likely it would go on for another couple days; when one was immortal, a week-long party to celebrate one’s birth was only fitting.

Elrond was not in the mood for gaiety right then, however. He crossed the damp grass to the house, entering it, and heading for the chambers where, until so very recently, Gil-galad would be waiting. He had thought he was done crying, but the tears came unbidden as he entered the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, and smiled through his sadness at the form settled in the bed.

Rúmil was curled into a knot, blond hair wild and untidy, dark circles under his eyes. Elrond was concerned with how fast Rúmil had borne the children. He would have to keep an eye on him, lest he fall prey to the same illness that claimed Frost. He glanced about for the babies, but they were not there. Elladan had taken them to watch over, and give their parents a few hours of peace to adjust to the idea. Elrond undressed, and carefully slid into the huge bed, taking Rúmil into his arms. He smiled as the green eyes opened.

“You should be resting.”

Rúmil blinked, still fogged from the pain medicine. “He left, didn’t he?”

“How did you know?”

Rúmil closed his eyes and snuggled close. “I don’t know. I think… I think I heard part of your conversation, but was too drugged to react. But..?”

Elrond stroked his hand over Rúmil’s hair. “We will speak of it in the morning, Rúmil. You must rest. I shall tell you everything in the morning.”

Rúmil made a soft, sleepy sound, and pressed closer to his husband, placing an arm about his middle, his head upon his chest.

“You have to tell me the next time I’m pregnant.”

Elrond chuckled. “Yes, dear.”

“I’m not supposed to have shocks like that at my age.”

“Indeed. Well it took a few centuries off of my life as well.”

Rúmil blinked, eyes glazing over as the drugs once more pulled him into the embrace of sleep. “Elrond?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Tell the goats that the purple cheese is in the fireplace.”

“I shall do that right now.”

“Good,” said Rúmil, plainly no longer functioning in the waking world. “’Cause it will spoil if the Dwarfs find it.”

“Yes, love.”

He grinned broadly, watching Rúmil slip into unconsciousness, sighing quietly. He stroked golden hair, watching him sleep.

***---***

“Lord Fëanor, you are drunk,” said Elrohir with mock chastisement in his voice.

“That’s a bloody lie,” said Fëanor as he fell into a seated position in a chair. “I’m plastered.”

Elrohir kissed his brow. “You sleep here tonight.”

“Oh that’s very kind of you, my dear boy, but really I can’t. I’ve spilled wine on myself and I smell like wood smoke. I want a bath and my own bed.”

“Well you can’t go alone.”

“Oh do send me home with Legolas, he’s very pretty.”

“Yes and his husband thinks so, too.”

“Crap.”

Elrohir rolled his eyes. “Language, my Lord.”

“I can swear in five of them, care to hear?”

“No!” said Elrohir, laughing. He stepped into the hall and looked for a likely escort, and spied Faramir.

“Lord Faramir, could I ask a favour of you?”

The tall Man turned at the sound of Elrohir’s voice, and smiled. “You have but to ask.”

Elrohir opened the door a bit wider. “Could you please take this lush home?”

Fëanor waved boozily. Faramir grinned.

“I suppose I could.”

“Thank you. And watch him, he has no manners.”

“Ah. So it will be just like a night with my brother.”

Elrohir rolled his eyes. “I doubt your brother has anything on this mischief-maker. Make sure he passes out on the rug and not the steps, or he’ll catch cold.”

Faramir saluted. “I shall not fail you.” He walked over to Fëanor and gently picked him up, slinging him over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Lord Elrohir.”

Elrohir giggled, then stepped behind Faramir, using both hands to lift Fëanor’s heavy black hair. “Sleep well, Fëanor.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“Yes it was a lovely party, I think so too. Faramir, best walk briskly.”

“Right. Good night.”

Elrohir giggled, watching Faramir carry Fëanor out of the room. Just as he was about to close the door, he heard Fëanor’s voice fading off down the hallway.

“Are you mad? The archers’ bathing chamber is the other way!”

Elrohir shook his head and closed the door, then sighed. He wondered how the friend who had come to mean so much to him could also be the same Elf who had cut a swath of blood and destruction across Middle Earth, beginning on this sacred isle. True, Fëanor was mad, and arrogant, but there did not seem to be any evil in him. What could have possibly made him do such a thing? He wondered if he dared ask Maedhros about it. Fëanor was a touchy subject with most of those dwelling on Valinor, and Elrohir had learned quickly to tell very few about his children’s surrogate uncle. Fëanor could not die, but he could certainly be harmed, and the line to cause him hurt was a very long one indeed.

Elrohir undressed and put on a nightshirt: a recent addition to his wardrobe, now that he was frequently visited in the night by children. No sooner had he settled into bed than Nocturne poked his head into his Ada’s room, his movements quick and cat-like. He glanced about for Fëanor, and seemed disappointed when he did not see him. Moonshadow materialized behind him, shoving his brother into the room. Elrohir smiled at his children.

“Uncle Fëanor had to go home, wee ones,” he said.

They came into the room, hopping onto the bed. They were tall and leggy, but Elrohir could tell that, no matter what their size, they were still only babies.

“You’ll be a whole year old in three weeks,” said Elrohir. “Would you like a birthday party of your own?”

‘Birthday’ was still a concept that held no relevance for them. They were far more interested in snuggles and stories with Ada. Moonshadow clumsily passed his father a book, nearly smacking him with it. Elrohir groaned inwardly as he saw the title.

“Military Tactics and Strategies – the Art of War by…” he squinted at the name, “Falatar of the House of the Midnight Star. I have heard of this goof – he fell trying to defend a keep from a lone goblin. And it was drunk. You two have been into Lord Ecthelion’s books again, haven’t you? At least it wasn’t his first edition Mirkwood Love Secrets with the special section devoted to vegetables again.”

They settled on either side of him, gold saucer eyes staring balefully back at him. If Elrohir did not know they were wee faery babies, they would terrify him.

“You want a story. Okay, let’s see what’s in here.”

Elrohir opened the book, and gasped as most of the contents spilled out. He at first thought the aged tome was crumbling, but then realized that was not the case. Someone had cut the pages out, and was using the cover as a secret diary. Elrohir picked up a page, and made a soft sound of astonishment.

The drawing was nothing short of amazing. He could almost smell the dust of the horses; hear the distant sound of the siege engines that rolled towards the great walls. It was an image of the fall of Gondolin, as seen from horseback. The signature at the bottom was a simple ‘E’.

Elrohir slowly sorted through the drawings and watercolours, sharing them with his children, talking about what was shown. The subjects were many and varied. There was only the one of Gondolin, and it was plainly of vast age. The others were far more recent. There was one of Elrond and Rúmil walking hand in hand by the Bruinen. Another showed Glorfindel, nude, posed in a feral position with Bramble’s cheetah. Fëanor rode his great black stallion on the beach, Rabbit stalked Bramble in the long grass, Ithilian worked in his forge, his small, powerful body gleaming with sweat.

“These are fantastic!” breathed Elrohir. “Look, there you two are! And me! And…”

Elrohir squinted at the graphite drawing, certain he could see another figure. Suddenly it winked into view, as though turning on a light. A fourth figure was resting in the long grass, artfully obscured. It was Frost, lying like some great white tiger, hidden, yet still very much in the picture.

Elrohir felt his eyes grow wet, and his body convulsed in a gasping sob. He carefully set the drawing aside, unable to look at it, making up his mind to ask Ecthelion for it when he returned the book. He laughed through his tears at the next painting. It was Legolas, braiding Gimli’s hair.

They looked at the art, then carefully replaced it in the book before closing it and setting it aside. The children settled down to sleep, but rest did not come to Elrohir. He picked up the drawing once more and looked at it. It was not hard to find Frost, now that he knew where to look, and once more his eyes became wet. His slender fingers traced over the image, and he felt a tear roll off his cheek. Frost had been gone nearly a year now, and Elrohir realized he had not been given much of a chance to mourn. The pain was so great in his heart he thought he would lie down and die.

“Where are you?” he whispered.

***---***

The black Elf stood on the beach, eyes glowing, timid in the darkness. He listened to the music and gaiety, knowing in some primitive way that this was home, but it was hard to think. He did not know how long he had been gone, or why this place was important. But it was, and he needed to be here. He snuffled the cool air, huffing steam, then put his head up and uttered a moaning, plaintive cry that ended in a questioning noise. Then he paused, listening as the music stopped, and the laughter died down to nervous whispers.

“What by all that is fair was that?”

The night became still. The black Elf listened, not sure what he was waiting for. Again he uttered the moaning cry, then listened.

***---***

Haldir had just resigned himself to a night face down in the sand with Rabbit on top of him, when the cry came. Rabbit may have been drunk, but he was not dead, and his head jerked up, his entire body tensing as he listened. He made a low “rrrrrrrrrruffff” sound, and huffed. The he listened.

After a few moments, the cry came again. The “where-are-you?” call of a Plains Elf.

Rabbit jolted bolt upright and screamed for all he was worth, then raced off down the beach. Haldir heard the first Elf cry back to him, and now most of the clan was screaming; a hellish cacophony that was sending most of the party-guests diving for their weapons. Haldir picked himself off of the sand and stood up, wiping sand off of himself. He found a small crab nestled in his tunic and picked it out.

“I used to have dignity, really I did,” he said to the small crustacean.

It waved its tiny claws at him. He set it down, then headed after Rabbit.

***---***

The black Elf started like a wild thing as Rabbit came around the cliff wall to face him. Both paused, braced to flee, sniffing cautiously as they faced one another. Rabbit stepped a little closer, cautious, knowing the scent but not recognizing the one before him. The black Elf also moved a bit closer, and the two huffed nervously at each other, knowing something here was very odd. The black Elf was the first to lower his defenses, looking puzzled.

“Sia? Sia you look terrible, and you smell just awful.”

Rabbit pounced on him, throwing his arms around the other Elf, weeping openly for the second time in his life. “You were dead! You were DEAD!”

Frost held his mother, crying on him as well. “No I wasn’t! Who told you I was?”

“I saw your body, I sat with you! You were cold and stiff, and you smelled of the grave! You were dead!”

Frost shook his head, confused. “No, I couldn’t have been. The Faery-Queen said it was time for me to go home. She…” Frost stopped speaking, stepping back to look at Rabbit. “I was dead, wasn’t I?” He looked around, confused, then looked back to Rabbit. “Aie says to say hello. He also says dump the blond.”

Rabbit laughed through his tears, embracing Frost once more.

“Sia, you’re all dressed up and drunk as a Dwarf, what have you been up to?”

“Lord Elrond’s birthday,” said Rabbit. “But I am the one who has been given a gift.” He stroked his hand through Frost’s long hair, then looked over his shoulder at Haldir, holding his hand out to him. Haldir came up, taking his hand, looking at the Elf before him, studying the features of his face.

“By the Valar, Frost is that you? Elrohir is going to be so happy.”

“Elrohir?” Frost looked confused, but very little was making sense to him right now. The Faery Queen had said it would take a while for all to make sense. “Elrohir…” Then his features softened into a smile of recognition and love. “My Aia-Nen. I still carry his children. They slept, until it was time to return. They will awaken now, and grow.”

Frost looked at Rabbit and Haldir. “I remember now. Titania was concerned that there were no Shaman who were fully trained to look after her children her on Arda. Then I died, and left only poor Aia-Nen, less trained than even I was, and not of our blood. She taught me. She taught me the ancient ways, and showed me paths of power, hidden ways, to secret places.” He blinked. He almost looked drugged. Frost shook his head. “I am not fully material yet. I am still of mist and shadow. I shall to go to one of the sea-caves, and stay until such time as I am awake. I am not yet fully free of the spirit realm yet. Please do not tell him I am here. He will come seeking me, and there will be tragedy should daylight strike me too soon.”

Rabbit nodded, touching his face, then embracing him once more. “I will perform the rites for you. And we will not tell Elrohir just yet, though it shall be hard to keep the secret. Come, I know of a cave. Elrond’s friend Gil-galad was using it, and it is more comfortable than a hole in the cliff.”

Frost leaned forward to kiss Rabbit’s face, then Haldir’s, finally embracing them both. “I am so glad to be home,” he whispered.

***---***

Faramir walked Fëanor to the great door of his gothic stone home, gazing up at the black stone spires until the dizzy drunkenness nearly made him fall over. He tripped going up the last step, catching himself, both he and Fëanor laughing. Then he turned to the tall, black-haired Elf, grinning.

“Well my good Elf, you are safe at home, as Master Elrohir requested. Now, is there any other service I may render for you, my good sir?”

Fëanor grinned, his white teeth showing. “Perhaps one, if you are man enough.”

Faramir blinked, uncertain what Fëanor could possibly mean. The words sounded like a challenge, and yet the tone was almost….

‘Oh by the Valar, an Elf is putting the moves on me.’

His body as well as his emotions went into chaos. He had never found males attractive, though he knew his brother seemed to hold no such qualms. Part of him demanded he depart immediately, but something else, some deeper part, whispered, “Stay.”

He smiled, stepping a little closer. Fëanor was taller than he, but was currently leaning back against the wall, his hands behind him, one long leg drawn up so his foot rested against the rock wall. The pose made them roughly the same height. Faramir reached out to carefully move a wisp of hair out of the Elf’s face.

“If you are sure you wish a Man, I am. What great task would you have me do?”

Fëanor stared back at him, with eyes like mirrors into Faramir’s own soul – centuries of torment and fear. And he breathed words that he understood all too well.

“Keep the nightmares away.”

Faramir stared at the Elf, feeling a deep intense bond take root. Fëanor knew, as they both did, the price of surviving a time of horror. Did he too see the fall of Númenor when he closed his eyes? Did he, too, remember futile quests to nowhere, for nothing? Faramir knew nothing of Fëanor’s past, but he felt a kinship to him. He did not draw back as he felt the strong, slender body move close, their lips almost touching as Fëanor spoke.

“You know of what I speak.”

“I do not know your tale,” said Faramir softly. “But I know my own well enough, and I see in your eyes that parts of them are not different.”

“I thought as much. The stink of war does not wash so easily from the body of a soldier.”

Faramir inclined his head back slightly, looking Fëanor up and down. “No. And I will not leave you to face the darkness alone, when I care so little for it myself.”

Fëanor took his hand. “Then let us go inside, the night is old, and the creatures of memory stir in the shadows.”

Faramir nodded, but did not immediately move away. He reached out one hand, gently placing it on Fëanor’s side, feeling the rippling muscle beneath the black silk shirt. “I will comfort you, though, it will be the first time I have done so with a man.”

Fëanor grinned. “What a coincidence, I have never been with a Man either.”

“I think our definition varies slightly.”

“You teach me, I shall teach you.”

Fëanor leaned forward and kissed him, slipping his arms around Faramir’s neck. Faramir’s whole body responded, and he pulled the Elf close, stroking his broad hands down the lean, strong body that was so deceptively slender. The kiss ended, and, arms around one another, they entered the house, their footsteps echoing in the great silent halls. They made their way up a spiraling staircase to the second floor, passing a bust of Maedhros in need of repair. They reached Fëanor’s bedchamber, entering it.

Faramir stepped into the lavish chamber, gazing about at the gothic furnishings and décor Fëanor chose to surround himself with, and the black draperies shrouding a bed deep in black furs and velvet. He turned, and allowed Fëanor to press close, smiling and taking pleasure at the feel of the Elf’s long body against his own. Fëanor melted against him, soft, almost submissive, allowing Faramir to take charge of the pace of their lovemaking.

Faramir kissed him, reaching one hand up to touch Fëanor’s face, feeling the silken skin over one high cheekbone. His hand made its way into the fragrant black hair, and he found something incredibly enticing about the way this Elf was so definitely male, yet somehow feminine as well. It called to mind a crude joke one of his men made after having spent a night with a male Elf.

“If it’s an Elf, it don’t count.”

Faramir opened the front of Fëanor’s shirt, slipping it from his white shoulders, unable to resist kissing them, and the long, elegant neck. Fëanor bent beneath him, relaxed, almost liquid, hanging from Faramir’s neck, his Elven body strangely weightless. Then the Elf somehow slipped away from him, stepping away to remove the shirt, and his long cloak. Then he moved onto the bed, turning to face Faramir as he lay back on the furs.

Faramir removed his own cloak, then his leather surcoat and shirt, leaving them on the floor as he made his way over the bed, climbing onto it and prowling over to Fëanor like some great cat. He lay over top of the Elf, looking down into his eyes as he lightly touched his face.

“You enchant me.”

Fëanor smiled. “Careful that you not give me anything I may break. You know I am not permitted to love.”

Faramir smiled. “It is a bit early to speak of love.”

“Perhaps. But these things oft come unsought. I wish your friendship, and comfort, but I will not hurt you.”

“Then I consider your words fair warning. We are then two soldiers, taking comfort after the battle. And I shall guard my heart carefully. But I still say that you enchant me. You are so unlike mortal men. I could not desire one of them as I do you, yet you are as male as they.”

Fëanor kissed him gently. “But I am an Elf. And therein lies the difference.”

Faramir drew him close, lowering his head and kissing him, stroking his hand down the strong body. He felt Fëanor draw one long leg up and drape it over him, his hips shifting to press against him briefly. Faramir drew his hand down and reached for the belt of Fëanor’s breeches. He opened the buckle, then kissed him before sitting up to slowly disrobe him. He slid the boots and clothes off, then sat back to admire the graceful white body beneath him. And went cold.

Fëanor was indeed beautiful, a perfect blending of muscle and refinement, graceful, strong, and elegant. He was also scarred heavily. Whatever this Elf had done in his life, he had not found a way to avoid battle and the lash.

“I am sorry,” said Faramir, running the flat of his hand over the scars on Fëanor’s ribs and belly. “Sorry that you should have suffered so.”

“My suffering was of my own creating, Man of Gondor. I see you too have not come unscathed to the bedchamber. Warriors we are, and such is our fate.”

Faramir said nothing, touching Fëanor’s lithe body, then lying beside him. He took the Elf into his arms and kissed him, laughing quietly as Fëanor lightly moved over top of him, straddling him and pinning his arms to the bed.

“Now I have you.”

“Oh indeed. Hmm. Now what shall you do with me?”

“Something terrible I am sure.” Fëanor kissed him, lips parting, their tongues meeting. Faramir put his arms around him, drawing him down, then rolling on top of him. He felt something long and hard pressing against his belly, and his moved his hips slowly, their penises caressing each other. Fëanor gasped, bringing his legs up around Faramir.

“Enough of this, I desire you inside me.”

Faramir paused, not wishing to admit he wasn’t sure just where he was supposed to put it. He had not thought a lot about coupling with men, and certainly had not asked Boromir about it, knowing he would get far more detail than he desired. Fëanor however was less shy, and laughed quietly at Faramir’s pause. He nearly giggled.

“You’re not sure, are you?”

“Well, no, actually.”

“That is so cute.”

Faramir rolled his eyes, and was about to speak when he felt Fëanor flex his long body beneath him like a great serpent, drawing his long legs up high until Faramir’s penis slipped down to nudge at the opening between his buttocks. The mad blue eyes glittered with want.

“Oh you must be joking,” said Faramir. “Won’t that hurt?”

“No, I will show you.”

“Must be different for Elves,” mused Faramir aloud as Fëanor reached for the black, cut-glass bottle next to the table.

“Quite sure it’s not,” said Fëanor. “You do know that we die if violated.”

“No, I did not, but I confess a certain revulsion to the concept of laying a hand on an Elf in anger. I could not harm one. Beauty should not be abused.”

“Ah I do so love a Mortal with an appropriate level of reverence for his betters.”

Faramir rolled his eyes again, then looked down at Fëanor, one eyebrow raised. “I said I could not harm an Elf. You will note I said nothing at all about not bringing one near release before finding something else to do.”

Now it was Fëanor’s turn to pause. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I may be moved to do so, if the Elf were of a suitably arrogant nature.”

Fëanor sighed. “Well there you have it, I shall never have a good shagging again. Well let’s try anyway. You are most handsome, perhaps I can mind my manners for one night. Forgive me?”

Fëanor’s long hand clasped gently around Faramir’s erect penis, slowly stroking it, and Faramir forgot all about Fëanor’s remark. He gasped softly, closing his eyes. “Forgiven.”

“Thought so,” Fëanor purred. He gently guided the hard shaft against himself, then brought his hand up to rest on Faramir’s back. “In me. Hard.”

“But...?”

“I like it rough.”

Faramir at this point would not have cared if Fëanor confessed to liking it dressed as a turtle. He positioned himself over the Elf, resting on his knees, his hands on the Elf’s slim hips. Fëanor’s long legs were wrapped around him, and he slowly pushed into him, closing his eyes and relishing the delicious feel of penetration. He closed his eyes, head back, lips parted, pressing deeper, then lowering his head to look into the blue eyes staring back at him, dark with desire.

Faramir had been warned that Elves were stronger than they looked by Gimli, who had on several occasions underestimated his seemingly delicate husband. However he was not prepared for the power of an Elf of Fëanor’s age, not realizing that, with Elves, might came with the years. Faramir was being far too gentle.

The wind was knocked out of him, and his ribs took quite a hit as Fëanor used his long legs to pull Faramir hard into him, timing the flexing of muscle and sinew perfectly. The Mortal coughed, bringing one hand to his ribs. “Ow.”

“Harder, dear. You fuck like a Sindar.”

“Never let it be said I cannot take a hint.”

“Bright boy.”

Faramir grinned, moving himself into a better position, his arms under the long back, holding him tightly. “Rough you said.”

“I did.”

Faramir began thrusting into him slowly, forcefully, sweat forming on his strong young body as Fëanor clawed his shoulders in appreciation. He kissed him hard, tangling his hands into the black hair.

By the time Faramir realized he was about reach his climax, it was upon him. He bit Fëanor’s shoulder, shoving into him, hearing himself make strange animals noises as the Elf’s fingernails carved trenches in his flesh. He knew he had spent himself far too soon, and was about to apologize when he was flung onto his back, and Fëanor was straddling him, his long hair falling wild about his shoulders, a large and decidedly toothy grin on his face.

“My turn.”

“I’m going to regret this whole night, aren’t I?”

“Nonsense child, I would never hurt you.” Fëanor dove for something under the bed.

“I am not a child, I am twenty-five.”

Fëanor rummaged beneath the dust ruffle. “And I am nine thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven.”

“’Child’ it is, then,” said Faramir. He watched as Fëanor sat up, a long black whip between his hands. “No, I think that’s a bit advanced for me.”

“You’re right, do forgive me. Silk ropes or shackles?”

Faramir laughed, and shook his head. “Ah me. Silk ropes, but I want a drink first. And no tickling!”

“Damn.” Fëanor tossed the feather duster aside, then handed Faramir a drink before kissing his nose. He gently touched his face. “No worries, my handsome friend. I promise you a night you shall never forget, not one you will dread to remember.”

Faramir smiled and kissed him, then grinned nastily. “Promise me something, my pretty friend.”

“If I can.”

“Never do this with my brother.”

Fëanor sipped his wine, and shrugged. “Well, granted, but why?”

“All my life, my brother has tortured me, in the manner of older brothers everywhere. When I was little it was loogies, wet-willies and wedgies, when I was older it was making me look like a fool in front of the ladies.”

“I have no idea what a loogie is, and if you tell me I shall hurt you. So what is it you wish of me?”

“He’s going to come crawling to you on his hands and knees when he finds out about you.”

“Ah!” said Fëanor. “I think I understand, my dear Faramir. Tell me, have you ever heard the tale of the Sadist and the Masochist?”

Faramir shook his head. He watched as Fëanor elegantly arranged himself on the bed, and proceeded to speak, sipping his wine.

“These two fellows were in a tavern, when one says ‘You know, I’m a Masochist. I derive great pleasure from being tortured.’ The other fellow says ‘Really? How interesting. I’m a Sadist, I derive great pleasure from giving pain!’ So our two happy fellows skip off the to Sadist’s house. So there stands the Masochist, naked, bound spread-eagled and tied to a rack, and behind him is the Sadist with a great huge savage-looking whip. And the Masochist, his voice full of trembling anticipation, says, ‘Well? Aren’t you going to whip me?’ And the Sadist, holding his whip taut between his strong virile hands, leans close, and whispers into the Masochist’s ear…” Fëanor moved close to Faramir, his lips brushing his ear as he breathed a single word: “’No’.”

They laughed, and Faramir allowed Fëanor to push him back to the bed, watching as the Elf picked up the whip again.

“Oh what the heck,” he said.

***---***

Dawn came, slowly filling the chamber with a golden glow, and Faramir shifted, feeling something tickle his nose. He opened his eyes, and stared at the mass of long black hair that fell heavily across a white back, and remembered what he had spent the night doing. He slid his arm around the Elf, pressing close, stroking his hand over the soft hair, smiling as Fëanor made a small sound, then rolled into his arms.

“Good morning,” said Faramir softly.

Fëanor muttered something in Elvish, snuggling close. Faramir kissed him, and felt the tall Elf respond, albeit sleepily. Fëanor shook his hair out of his face, then buried his nose in Faramir’s neck.

“Your sword-hilt is poking me.”

“I’m not wearing a sword.”

Fëanor reached down, clasping the erection he found with his long hand. “You’re right.” He stroked it gently. “So what shall we do with it?”

“Well,” said Faramir, kissing Fëanor’s brow, “I thought perhaps, since you are my first male and my first Elven lover, you would perhaps be willing to let me have you my own way this time. Softly.”

“No whips?”

“No. No whips.”

“No ropes either?”

“No ropes either.” Faramir stroked the soft black hair.

“Hmmmm… I suppose I can do that.”

Faramir gently pushed Fëanor onto his back, moving his body on top of his. He pushed into him with little effort, and they settled into a comfortable love-making, their movements slow, Fëanor making quiet gasps of pleasure. Faramir kissed his nose.

“See? It’s not so bad this way.”

Fëanor kissed him, locking his long arms around Faramir’s neck. “No. Not so bad at all.” He stroked his hands over Faramir’s back, then wrapped both his arms and legs around him. “I’d forgotten how lovely this is. Been so long.”

Faramir unglued a strand of hair from the Elf’s face, then kissed him gently, his tongue slipping between Fëanor’s lips. “Yet you are so beautiful. I should think you would have lovers lining up.”

Fëanor laughed quietly, and sighed. He nuzzled closer to Faramir, and remained quiet and passive beneath him, languishing in the gentle love-making.

***---***

Aulë had no particular reason for passing through the garden that day, other than it was a beautiful garden, and a fair day, and there were times when he chose to enjoy the fragrance of flowers rather than heated metal. He paused in the midst of the garden and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of rare flowers, and of the perfume Mauburz had brought them. It sat now in a bowl, enchanted so the perfume would not dry up or fade, and the wind could carry the fragrance all over the mountain that the Valar called home.

He breathed deeply again. He was in a good mood, and all was more or less right with the world. It was, to paraphrase a mage’s words to an impudent Hobbit years ago, a good day, and a day to be good on.

He suddenly spied a great tapestry upon a loom, and made his way over to look upon the intensely complex pattern of colours. He seated himself and gazed upon it, his craftsman’s heart delighting in the labour of Vairë the Weaver.

“Couldn’t do it on a bet!” he announced to the empty garden, then peered more closely at the tapestry, spying the tiniest of flaws.

“Oh now that won’t do,” he said softly. “Seems some mischievous wee bird has picked herself a fancy thread for a nest.” He glanced about, then spied a thread upon the ground and picked it up. “Here we go, the culprit has fled without the spoils!”

Aulë may have been a smith and not a weaver, but he had forged tiny things of great delicacy and intricate nature. He picked up a silver tool, and carefully, gently, replaced the thread. Then he sat back, and smiled.

“There. Good as new.” Then he rose and continued on his way, whistling.

He had no sooner left when Vairë herself bustled into the garden, making her way over to the loom. She seated herself, unrolling a piece of the new wool she had brought with her. She cut a tiny piece, set it into her hook, then leaned forward. She paused, staring hard at the tapestry.

The thread she had plucked had been replaced.

“Oooooooohhhhhh….. deeeaaarrr…..” she said softly. Then she sat back and crossed her arms. “Well I will not be the one to explain THIS nonsense to Manwë!”

***---***

It was late afternoon when Faramir and Fëanor rode up to the great circle of pavilions, where the second night of Elrond’s party was to take place. Faramir gently pulled his great black steed to a halt, laughing as the beast bobbed his head, prancing, his hairy black hooves stamping the grass.

“I have never seen horses such as these!”

“Well I have had a lot of time to perfect the breed,” said Fëanor. “They are kin to the great horses of Rohan, but I have mixed them with the blood of more exotic steeds. They are intelligent and strong, good for battle or a long run. They even make fair companions. If you like that one, you may keep him. I have not had a chance to name him, yet. You shall have to do that yourself.”

“Keep him?! No I could not, it is too great a gift.”

Fëanor moved his horse close to Faramir’s, taking his hand. “I slept last night for the first night in years. That alone is worth a horse.”

Faramir smiled back at him, gently squeezing Fëanor’s hand. “Thank you. But keeping you from fear was a delight, not a grueling task for which I need to be paid.”

“Good, because if it was then I would soon be out of horses. Keep him anyway, as a gift from one friend to another.”

“Thank you. I shall.” He leaned forward and softly kissed Fëanor on one fine cheek.

“Mr. Faramir!”

Fëanor laughed as Faramir’s eyes grew large. “Your Elfling has seen you holding hands with another.”

“Shit,” muttered Faramir. He turned to look at Lindir. “Lindir! How did you enjoy the party last night?”

Lindir ran up to Faramir, his blue eyes resting on Fëanor briefly. He was suspicious, but the concerns seemed to fade away as Faramir smiled at him. He reached up to touch the horse.

“It was wonderful! Did you see me playing with Mr. Maglor?”

“I not only saw, I heard! You were wonderful!”

“He said we could play again tonight.” Lindir stroked the black horse’s muzzle, looking towards Fëanor. “Mr. Fëanor, Mr. Fin says you’re not to show me any more tricks with the t’kill-ya.”

“’Tequila’, Lindir, and Mr. Fin is what we Noldor call a party-pooper.”

Lindir laughed, then looked up at Faramir. “Can I ride your horse?”

Faramir smiled. “Of course. Hop up, we’ll go for a ride on the beach. Coming Fëanor?”

“Oh, no, I want to check in on Elrohir. But you two have fun.”

Fëanor turned his horse and rode towards Elrohir’s quarters, laughing. Faramir narrowed his eyes, suspecting that Fëanor was enjoying his emotional discomfort a bit too much.

“Mr. Faramir, you have a bruise on your cheek.”

“Yes I know, Lindir. I got it when I brought Fëanor home last night.”

“You were gone all night.”

“Well I was… very tired. I slept there.” He turned his horse to the beach, wincing as the restive animal pranced. A night of passion with Fëanor was hardly conducive to a comfortable ride the next day.

Lindir narrowed his eyes at the faint pink ligature mark around Faramir’s neck. “You have a rope burn.”

“Yes, Lindir.”

“How did you get a rope burn while you were sleeping?”

“It… was an accident when we were getting the horses into their harness.”

Lindir hooked one finger into the front of the shirt Faramir was wearing, one that plainly belonged to Fëanor, and peered into it. “Mr. Faramir you have marks all over you, and that one is bleeding! You should be careful around sharp things.”

“I thought we were,” he muttered

***---***

Fëanor rode up to the house, setting his horse loose to roam the grounds, and jogged up the curving stone stair and into the great structure. He made his way down the hall, to the door to Elrohir’s room, opening it and breezing in. He crossed the room with a flourish, and flopped into a padded chair, looking towards Elrohir. The young Elf stared back at him, then rapidly seated himself on the bed facing Fëanor. Both broke into giggles and screeches like a pair of teenaged mortal girls.

“Tell!” said Elrohir.

“Five times.”

Elrohir’s jaw dropped. “FIVE!?”

“Three last night and two today. Oh my word Elrohir but that man is FINE!”

“I thought you couldn’t love.”

“Oh I do not know if I can, but certainly I can lust! OH such beauty. Those broad shoulders, and that soft hair on his chest with the little path trailing all the way down his stomach.” Fëanor narrowed his eyes and growled.

“And you bravely endured his loathsome advances.”

“Oh indeed, screaming my head off in revulsion.” Fëanor sucked in air as he dug his fingernails into the padded arms of the chair. “Took every bit of courage to let him get on top of me and put that…”

Elrohir held up one hand. “More information than I require, Fëanor.”

“My best stud will sulk for a month.”

“Well I must say that is not what I had in mind when I asked him to take you home, but I am not sorry you enjoyed yourself.”

“Lindir will have my guts if he finds out.”

“Well he won’t find out from me. At the risk of sounding uncaring, Lindir has had ample time to decide if he wishes to be an Elfling or a lover, and he can’t be both. Yet he seems to wish Faramir to wait eternally for him. Faramir is mortal, he has not the time Lindir does.”

”But a child’s first crush is special,” said Fëanor. “And it is hard when the object of one’s desire is an adult. And yes, I know, Lindir is older than Faramir by some centuries, but not here.” Fëanor tapped his temple. “Besides, what Faramir and I have is a friendship. We shared a bed and our bodies, but no more. I have no heart to give him.”

Elrohir raised an eyebrow. “Are you quite sure about that? Because you are positively glowing.”

“No I cannot, Yavanna told me. She said that I could not love until such time as I…” Fëanor paused, blinking.

Elrohir cocked his head. “Until what, Fëanor?”

Fëanor turned to look at Elrohir. “Until such time as I had earned love. She did not say it had to be that of a lover. You love me, do you not, Elrohir?”

Elrohir smiled, feeling his eyes grow wet. “I love you, Fëanor. As do my children.”

Fëanor stared back at him, blue eyes glittering wetly. He swallowed hard, then said softly; “Well now, what more do I need?”

***---***

The day slowly faded to dark, and the second night of Lord Elrond’s party began. The crowd gathered, awaiting the guests of honour, and parted as Elrond himself arrived, clad in a robe of black and silver, smiling. He raised a silver goblet of wine, and addressed the crowd.

“My friends, mere words could never express how much this gathering of friends, both new and old, means to me. I thought I could have no greater joy than your company, until I realized that my young husband Rúmil had decided he would rather make my gift himself, forging it in secret, and giving it to me last night, much to the utter horror of his poor brother Orophin.”

The crowd laughed, and Elrond turned to face the former archer of the Golden Wood. “A toast to Orophin! Lord Glorfindel, if you would be so kind as to bring Orophin his ceremonial goblet?”

Glorfindel stepped forward, and with a flourish presented Orophin with a bucket of miruvor. Orophin laughed, and accepted it.

“To Orophin!” said Elrond.

The crowd drank. Orophin laughed, and raised his pail, having a long drink.

“And now,” said Elrond, “I give to you my beloved Rúmil, and ask him to come forth and show the gift he gave me.”

Rúmil stepped forward, rather shy in the face of so large a crowd, unused to being the focus of a gathering. He had one child in his arms, and beside him stood Elladan, holding the other. Rúmil looked about nervously, not really feeling up to the party and desiring to return to his bed, but determined to put in an appearance for his husband. It seemed to take the party-goers a few moments to realize what they were looking at, then applause broke out. Rúmil flinched, but smiled as Haldir walked up to him, taking the baby from his brother.

“How are you?” he asked softly.

“I now know what it feels like to be a cored apple.”

Haldir looked at the baby. “Why does this kid look like Ereinion Gil-galad?”

Rúmil leaned over and whispered into Haldir’s ear “Because I had sex with him.”

Haldir’s eyes grew large. “You WHAT?!” he hissed. “Does Elrond know?”

“He ought to, he was there.” Rúmil took his baby back, cuddling the tiny being close to his breast, then growled very, very quietly, low in his throat, as Maedhros drew near. The tall Elf raised an eyebrow.

“Now is that any way to greet your former High King?”

Maedhros reached for the baby, and Rúmil sucked air to utter a horrid snarl that Haldir was very familiar with. Elrond immediately appeared to intervene. Maedhros looked positively shocked.

“Elrond, I do believe your husband just snarled at me!”

“Yes and he means it, too,” said Elrond, gently pushing Maedhros back. “Come let’s go have a drink, shall we?” Elrond turned to give Rúmil a gentle kiss. “I will not be long.”

Rúmil smiled, and kissed him back. “Have fun. It is your birthday. I am sure I will have plenty of company, Orophin and Elladan set up a pavilion for me, and the babies, we shall lounge there and watch the fun.”

“All right. But no biting. And do not exert yourself. I am concerned with the speed of your first delivery, it was far too fast.”

“I am fine.”

“Frost was fine, too,” said Elrond. He reached up to touch the dark circles under Rúmil’s eyes. “Go rest. I shall be along soon.”

Rúmil nodded, and kissed Elrond before turning and making his way to the pavilion. As he departed, he could hear Maedhros address his husband.

“Why does that child look like Ereinion Gil-galad?”

***---***

Elrond walked with Maedhros to a table where the wines were laid, but was quickly called away, leaving his friend and foster-father alone. Maedhros poured himself some wine, and gazed around, then broke into a smile at the sight of a familiar face.

“Turgon! Cousin, I have missed you!”

Turgon turned at the sound of his name, and broke into a huge grin. Long had there been much animosity between the two, but the years and the grace of Valinor had served to smooth much of the hard feelings. It was a cautious friendship, however, and they did not discuss the past.

“Maedhros! I thought you would be here, and beside the wine no less. Where else should I find thee?”

Maedhros embraced him, laughing. “It has been so long, when did you arrive?”

“Not more than a few moments ago, just in time to see you get growled at by a blond beauty holding a baby.”

“Aye, Lord Rúmil, husband to our esteemed young Lord Elrond there.”

“Is he mad?”

“No, he’s… partly of the blood of the Plains Elves.”

Turgon curled his lip slightly in disapproval. “I disapprove of Elrond’s taste in lovers.”

“In all fairness he did not know Rúmil was of mixed blood when he bound with him.”

“Then he should have unbound himself when he found out. Bad enough I see Noldor mixing freely with Sindar here.”

Maedhros sighed heavily. “Turgon, whatever your opinion of the Plains Elves and the Sindar, please keep them to yourself. I should hate to have to explain to anyone how you came to be eaten by another Elf. And it is Elrond’s birthday, and they are his friends.”

Turgon smiled at Maedhros, his demeanor softening. “You are right, of course, and I am being a terrible guest.”

Maedhros eyed his father as Fëanor approached, shifting away slightly as Fëanor reached for a bottle of wine on the table behind him. His gaze drifted to Fingon, and his eyes flicked up and down his body. Fingon was not the most fair of Elves, nor the most graceful. He moved like what he was – a warrior. But Maedhros loved him with a passion that made all others irrelevant and uninteresting; dulling whatever beauty they may have to grey. Fingon alone shone in his eyes.

“Handsome lad, your cousin,” said Fëanor. “Always thought so. Not as pretty as your brother Maglor, mind, but I supposed I am biased.”

Maedhros looked at his father with ill-disguised loathing. The rift between father and son had not closed over the years, despite cautious attempts on Fëanor’s part.

“I suppose one’s own children always seem fairest,” said Maedhros. He watched as Turgon quietly walked away, not wishing conflict with Fëanor at what was supposed to be a merry event.

“Oh indeed!” said Fëanor, ignoring Turgon and his departure. Then, to Maedhros’ utter horror, he pulled out a small book crammed with lightning-fast sketches that Fëanor had used to capture the baby and childhood of his children. “No one had more lovely and clever children than I and your Nana.” He showed a sketch to the Elf next to them, who looked like an Orc caught in the path of an Elven army. “Here he is weeing in the garden...

Maedhros rolled his eyes and groaned. “Father…”

Fëanor remained oblivious to his son’s embarrassment. “He had the cutest little bottom.”

Fingon, who had wandered into range of hearing, snorted and covered his mouth with his hand, turning aside to avoid spitting his wine. The strange Elf looked as though he would very much like to crawl away. Fëanor turned a page.

“Here he is using the potty by himself the first time. Such an intelligent boy.”

Fingon stepped closer and looked over Fëanor’s shoulder at the pictures. Fëanor turned slightly to let him look, and the strange Elf beat a hasty retreat. Fingon turned a page.

“Oh who is that?”

Fëanor squinted. “Oh! Maglor, still in diapers.”

Maglor froze as he heard his name, his eyes meeting Maedhros’ in mutual horror.

Fingon cocked his head. “What is he doing?”

“Picking his nose while inspecting his diaper for art supplies. I always worried about him...”

A string on Maglor’s harp twanged as it snapped. “Atar!!!”

“Oh those boys were a handful,” said Fëanor. “I remember the time Maglor shoved a Silmaril up his nose, and your Nana and I had to sit in the Healing House for nine hours with you screaming yourself silly while some Sindar was having a foreign object removed... Look, here's Celebrimbor discovering why you don’t hit your own pee-pee with a blacksmith's hammer. That was another trip to Healer....”

Fingon’s shoulders were shaking as he tried to stifle his laughter. Maglor and Maedhros stared daggers at their father. Fingon looked at the tall, red-haired Elf, eyes sparkling.

“So our former High-King was a mischief-maker.”

“Oh you have NO idea,” said Fëanor. “Then there was the time he put Maglor into a box and posted him to the main letter office in Túna after his grampy told him that babies came by mail…”

Fingon howled with laughter. Maedhros rolled his eyes, putting his hands on Fingon’s shoulders and speaking into his ear. “Would you give my father and I a moment alone, please? I’m going to kill him.”

Fingon giggled helplessly, snorting into the sleeves of his robe as he tried to contain himself. Finally he reached out and took Maglor’s hand. “Come, let’s you and I go get some of Mauburz’s pasties before they are all gone.” Then he winked at Fëanor and took the book with him.

Maglor set his harp aside. “Anything to get away from Atar’s baby book.”

The two departed, Fëanor watching Maedhros gaze after Fingon.

“He’s a fine Elf,” said Fëanor softly.

Maedhros shot Fëanor a look. “He is.”

“You two have lived together a very long time.

Maedhros did not think he liked where this conversation was going. “Yes, we have.”

Fëanor gazed back at his son. “You love him,” he said softly. “You have for centuries. I dare say you have been lovers for longer than many of the Elves here have lived.”

Maedhros definitely did not like the turn this conversion was taking. He swallowed nervously. “You're assuming a lot, where's your proof?”

“You're absolutely right, those screams of ecstasy I hear coming from your house must be over chocolate.”

Maedhros grabbed Fëanor’s shoulders hard. “If you do one thing to harm Fingon…”

“So it’s true, then,” said Fëanor.

Maedhros yanked Fëanor aside roughly, staring at him, eyes raging. Fëanor’s son was larger than he, and heavier; it would be nothing for him to break his Atar’s neck.

“Yes, it is true, you drunken murderer. I’m sleeping with my cousin, which, according to our law, makes me only slightly less despicable than you. And I will not stop and I will not apologize, because I love him.”

“You should know that your affair with your cousin is the worst kept secret in Valinor.”

Maedhros blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Fëanor touched his son’s face. “Oh Maedhros, my poor thick baby. Everyone knows.”

“Everyone?”

“Well I think there are some Orcs in the Iron Mountains who aren’t quite sure, but other than that…”

“You must be mistaken, it’s forbidden… why has no one said anything?”

Fëanor smiled boozily, then stood on his toes to kiss Maedhros’ cheek before turning and weaving his drunken way over to a table. With some difficulty, he managed to get onto it, rising unsteadily to his feet. Suddenly Celebrimbor was behind Maedhros, speaking into his ear.

“Why are you letting Anyatar make a speech, do you recall the LAST speech he made?!”

Fëanor waved for quiet, then spoke aloud.

“Lord Elrond! I beg your indulgence for a few moments, if you will permit me to address your guests. But first, allow me to congratulate you on your birthday, your long life of wisdom, and the birth of your beautiful children. A toast to you. May you and your family live a life of blessedness and peace. To achieve that end, I should like to announce that I’m not moving in with you.”

A few Elves giggled helplessly. Elrond smiled and toasted Fëanor, and drank to his words. The guests at the party clapped their approval, and drank to Elrond. Glorfindel and Ecthelion stared coldly at Fëanor, wondering what havoc he was going to wreak.

“Now,” Fëanor said, “I would like to make an announcement on behalf of my beautiful son, Maedhros...” Fëanor turned to look at his son, and for a brief moment the full depth of Fëanor’s emotional agony slammed into Maedhros so hard it nearly took his breath away.

“…who despises me, to no one’s surprise, but that is neither here nor there. He is my baby, and you may ask our handsome Fingon, he’s got the baby pictures to prove it.”

Fingon waved the book of drawings. “Burn it!” yelled Maglor.

A few Elves laughed, but more waited to hear what Fëanor had to say. Fëanor had a drink, then continued speaking.

“What I have to say is in regards to Maedhros, and Fingon, and the worst-kept secret in all Valinor.”

There was a huge cheer from the crowd. Maedhros felt the blood run out of his face. “Oh by the Valar.”

Fëanor seemed to be enjoying himself. “Now, none of us here knows that Maedhros, referred to lovingly by a certain son of the House of Fingolfin as ‘Big Red’…”

There were a few screams of approval. Frodo looked at Bilbo. “Well he’s got your birthday party speech beat.”

“Oh shut up,” grumped Bilbo, and grinned.

Fëanor waved for silence. “None of us here knows that Red is sleeping with his cousin. Certainly none of us know that those shrieking utterances heard echoing nightly from his keep in the hills means they are doing anything more than enjoying an exceptionally fine wine.”

“I’m going to die,” said Maedhros.

“Have courage,” said Celebrimbor.

“But we do know one thing!” said Fëanor, raising his glass. “That their love was forged of dark times, and dark deeds, and is worthy of song and tale. It should be sung to the stars, and celebrated, not locked away like some foul secret. I see naught about it I would call evil. And so, since they have already bound their souls together in love, I see that, as the father of one of these two, it is my duty to do what I should have done centuries ago. So to you, good people, I extend an invitation, and bid you come join me in my house on the night of the full moon in two month’s time, to come celebrate the union of my son Maedhros, and Fingon of the House of Fingolfin.” Fëanor turned to look at Maedhros, weaving drunkenly. “And I expect grandchildren.”

Maedhros just shook his head, utterly mortified by his father. Fingon seemed delighted, and laughing, called across the crowd to his lover; “I’m not carrying them!”

Fëanor hopped off the table, slipping into the crowd, seeking Elrohir. He smiled as he felt the young Elf hug him.

“That was a lovely thing you did,” he said to Fëanor. “But why do you not go to Maedhros?”

Fëanor looked towards his son, standing amidst a crowd of well-wishers, an arm about Fingon. Then he looked back towards Elrohir.

“Let him be with his friends, child. He doesn’t need an old drunk who has utterly destroyed everything he loved.”

Elrohir touched his face. “Oh Fëanor. The Valar have forgiven you, why can you not forgive yourself?”

Fëanor stroked Elrohir’s hair, then kissed his brow. “When your child looks you square in the eye, and tells you that he despises you, and you see he means it, you will know the answer to that.” He looked down at his glass. “I need a drink.”

Elrohir watched him go, seeing for a brief moment a sad, broken Elf, nearly limping with the pain of his own inner torment. Then he straightened, giving himself a shake, once more wrapping himself in the cloak of his own outer image. Fëanor looked around, then spied Erestor walking past. He deftly caught him, and said something into his ear, then led him off to dance. Elrohir looked to Glorfindel, and saw the Seneschal’s jaw working with wrath.

“Do not get yourself hurt, my friend,” said Elrohir softly. “I do not think my father could mend what damage Glorfindel could inflict.”

***---***

“Fëanor,” said Erestor, “there are other Elves to dance with.”

“Yes but none so lovely as you.”

Erestor smiled wryly. “Did I not hear a rumour that you cannot see four feet in front of your face?”

“Very true,” said Fëanor. He drew Erestor close, fixing him with cold blue eyes that were intense and held a dangerous gleam. “But beauty such as yours could never be hidden by mere blindness.”

“I’m married,” said Erestor.

“Then it is MOST fortunate I have no plans upon your virtue. Lord Glorfindel is not one I should care to challenge.”

“You know him!”

“I know enough to know that he shall not kill me so long as I mind my manners, which I intend to do.”

Erestor danced with Fëanor, staring into his eyes, unable to look away. It was not so hard to believe this Elf had led thousands to their death: he held him in his gaze as a serpent did a mouse. There was something almost hypnotic about him, and Erestor suddenly felt afraid. He froze, and looked for Glorfindel, disturbed by the power of this Elf who was shrouded in so much dark history.

“Master Erestor, are you quite all right?”

Erestor glanced at him, and realized he was trembling. His voice shook as he spoke. “I…I just need to go check my children.”

Fëanor gazed at him, and Erestor nearly bolted. He did not know it is was truly some dark spell Fëanor was casting, or whether it was simply fear of what he had done, but Erestor did not wish to be with him a moment longer. Then the blue eyes looked away, scanning the crowd for a tall figure in pale blue and dark green.

“There is your husband. I shall escort you back to him.”

Erestor permitted Fëanor to walk him over to Glorfindel. Once safely delivered, Fëanor bowed to Erestor, then departed, making his way by scent and memory to the roasting pit, where Mauburz was slicing meat. Erestor clutched Glorfindel and pressed his face against his throat.

Glorfindel gently held his husband. “Darling you’re shaking. What did that bastard do?”

Erestor was a bit surprised to find he was crying. He wiped at one eye with a trembling hand. “Nothing, he did nothing at all. He danced well, he behaved like a gentleman, he was charming, he flirted a bit, but… nothing. Nothing to warrant this. Glorfindel he scared the LIFE out of me. I mean you can almost smell how crazy he is. I just…could not stop thinking about what he’s done in the past.”

Glorfindel kissed Erestor’s brow, then glanced over at Ecthelion, who shrugged.

“We can’t kill him for being scary.”

“I’d like to,” muttered Glorfindel. “You are sure he did nothing?”

“He said I was lovely, and beauty such as mine could not be hidden by mere blindness.”

“The bastard,” said Ecthelion. “We shall slay him for that insult.”

Glorfindel whacked him with a glove, and Erestor laughed quietly. “And when I said I wished to go back, he brought me to you. He did nothing to make me afraid, yet I was.”

Glorfindel nuzzled at Erestor, kissing him. “Well, all is well then. Fëanor has frightened many, and I have heard from those who knew him that he was not an easy commander to defy. But so long as he behaves, I will not spill his blood.”

Erestor held Glorfindel close. “So it is not merely a case of me being a coward.”

Both Glorfindel and Ecthelion laughed, and Glorfindel kissed him. “Darling he once told the Valar to piss off, truth be told he scares ME.”

“He said the same thing about you. Not in so many words. He said you were an Elf he should not care to challenge.”

“And if you repeat that he’ll kill you,” said Ecthelion.

Glorfindel laughed, and kissed Erestor again, stroking his black hair. He held him close, looking up as Amaris and Gaelemir approached. “Greetings my lords! What great quest has you two walking side by side?”

“Ilinuil,” said Gaelemir.

“He’s not here.”

“He’s not anywhere,” said Amaris. “He did not come to his room last night. Gaelemir and I have been looking since this morning, and he’s not to be found.”

Erestor thought hard. “I saw him last night, he was standing with Rabbit, Fëanor and I, just before the Auroch came through… Maeglin was there. Then after I took Fëanor to lend him some clean clothes. That was the last I saw of him.”

“Well he cannot have gone far,” said Ecthelion. Ithilian walked up to him just then, and the tall warrior pulled his little smith close to him.

“Have you seen Ilinuil, my little peanut?”

Ithilian thought. “I believe I did, last night. He was walking towards the cliff-path to the beach with Maeglin.”

“I don’t like the sound of that at all,” said Glorfindel. “Oh bloody hell, what’s going on over there?”

The group looked in the direction of what seemed to be a minor disturbance, and saw Maedhros facing off with Turgon, and it was plain both were very displeased. Glorfindel gently kissed his husband, and left Erestor to stand with Ithilian, while he, Ecthelion, Gaelemir and Amaris walked in the direction of the disagreement.

“There’s a fight I would not interfere with for all the Mithril in Arda,” said Ithilian.

***---***

Maedhros was watching his father dance with Erestor, feeling touched and joyful at what he had done, and ashamed that for so long he had let anger separate them. Fëanor loved him, he knew that, no matter what their differences. He wondered if they would ever be able to behave as father and son again.

He turned his gaze to Fingon, and smiled, reaching up with his Mithril hand to touch his face. “Of all the gifts my father ever gave me, the finest is this moment. Being able to love you openly.”

“He does love you, no matter what his failings. But something strikes me as odd. Fëanor was ever unbalanced, yet I never saw him as dangerous. I shall never understand what unhinged him so, to make him…”

Fingon’s words ended. He and Maedhros did not like to speak of that dark time, and the death that followed. Maedhros shook his head.

“I do not know, my beloved one. Likely Atar does not know himself. But he fights now for his redemption. Perhaps… I can forgive him just a little.”

Both Maedhros and Fingon were startled as Turgon ran up to grasp Maedhros’ arm. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” asked Maedhros.

“Is it true you intend to bind to Fingon in two month’s time?”

Maedhros and Fingon exchanged glances. “We are already bound, cousin, the ceremony is but a long overdue celebration of the binding.”

Turgon stared at Maedhros, his expression intense, unreadable. “No,” he whispered. “Then it will all have been in vain.”

“In vain? Turgon what do you speak of?”

“You cannot love Fingon! How can you love him when it is I who love you? I who would have done anything for you? I who…” Turgon stopped himself. He breathed deeply, then resumed speaking. “I love you, do you not see that?”

Maedhros was speechless, and could do little more than stare. Fingon stepped before his husband to face his brother.

“Maedhros and I love each other, we have ever since we were but children, and the dark times we survived served only to deepen that love. I find your outburst distasteful and an insult to our host. Depart, Turukáno.”

Turgon curled his lip. “You self-righteous fool. Ever you claimed for yourself that which I found fair because you are the elder. If Maedhros had drunk the potion it would be he and I celebrating our love!”

“Potion?” said Maedhros. “What potion? With what did you try to poison me?”

“I did no such thing. T’was a love potion, nothing more. I put it in your wine, and your drunken Atar drank it.”

Maedhros’ jaw fell. “Turgon when did you do this? I need to know, when did you put the potion in my wine?”

Turgon stared coldly at Maedhros, and did not speak.

“Answer me!”

Again Turgon said nothing. By now Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Gaelemir and Amaris had arrived, and the other Elves gathered about had fallen silent. There was a long, cold silence. Then Turgon spoke.

“The love potion was crafted for you, and you alone.”

Maedhros felt horror wash over him, and he looked into the crowd, seeking his father. He did not have to look far; Fëanor was approaching, drawn by the disagreement, his failing eyes on Turgon.

“So it was you. Long I wondered how I came to drink that poison.”

“It was not poison!” shouted Turgon.

Maedhros tried to think back on the past, finally recalling a fair day on the balcony with Fingon and Maglor, playing Tablero. Turgon was there as well, watching, refilling the glasses as needed. Then he saw Fëanor walk into the room. They spoke, the words lost to him now. And he saw his father take a glass from Turgon’s hand and drain it, and the look of profound annoyance on Turgon’s face. Maedhros had long put it down to his cousin’s dislike of Fëanor and his bad manners, but no. That had been when Fëanor drank the potion. In less than twenty-four hours, Fëanor was a foaming mad man, and the worst tragedy of Elven history had begun.

An Elf-woman, unknown to them stepped out of the crowd and looked at Turgon, staring at him. Then she grabbed the hem of her skirt and raised it, showing where her leg had been burned off at the knee, and she now wore a wooden one.

“I remember the night this lunatic took our white ships,” she said softly. “I recall the night when I lost my father and all three brothers. I came here tonight with a poisoned dagger in my bodice for the sole purpose of awaiting a chance to put it in that madman’s back, and now I hear that tragedy occurred because YOU poisoned him?”

Turgon turned and snapped at her. “Yes! Yes I poisoned him! I wanted Maedhros for myself rather than see him waste himself on my brother. I paid a hefty sum of gold and Mithril and virgin daughters to Melkor for his experiments, and he gave me a poison made from the venom of the Ungoliath, and he swore it would make him love me, and, if not, then there was a geas on the potion, so that should the truth ever come out…”

Turgon slowly looked towards Fëanor, who had gone sheet white. He was sweating heavily, and was plainly ill. He coughed, and blood came from his mouth. Turgon smiled coldly.

“…it would kill whomsoever had drunk it. So the situation is not all lost.”

Fëanor gasped and tried to draw breath, and coughed again. Maedhros watched with horror as his father slobbered blood, unaware as Turgon quietly drew a throwing dagger.

“Goodbye, my love,” he said softly, and threw.

Fëanor lunged forward, his agony not forgotten, but ignored for a brief second, drawing his sword and moving with a swift, graceful motion. But Fëanor’s eyes were not keen enough to see the dagger to deflect it with his sword, as was his intent. The blade missed the quickly flying object, and it sank into his breast with an audible sound. Fëanor dropped like a sack of meat, and Turgon fled. Maedhros drew his blade and was about to take after him, when Fëanor grabbed his ankle.

“No. Let him go. Whatever his fate, it will not be dealt by us. We have spilled enough of our kin’s blood.”

Suddenly Faramir ran up, Elrohir close behind him. They gathered Fëanor up, and without a word bore him away to the Healing Rooms. Fëanor hung like a dead thing in Faramir’s arms, blood running from his mouth and breast. He stirred, and looked up at the man who held him.

“Faramir?”

“Yes Fëanor?”

Fëanor swallowed, then coughed. “Are you mad? The ladies’ bathing chamber is the other way.”