A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Ten

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, Attempted rape (implied)
Summary: Turgon meets strange justice, Elladan and Elrohir play doctor, Bilbo plays hero, Maeglin plays with ice and gets burned, Glorfindel and Erestor share gossip, and Lindir finally understands.
Notes: Meadbunny Rating 5
I promised Tiel, Silvarbelle and Maldy a cameo in this chapter. Dwarfy I just tossed in against his will. I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but he has a big crush on Ilinuil, and I suspect Ilinuil has a soft spot for his stout Dwarven champion as well. But shhhhh…. That’s a secret. Mwahahahahaha…. Other special guest appearances include my long time friends Barry and Mikhail. I can’t recall how it came up in conversation, but basically they dared me to slash them, so I did. Or rather, their faithful D&D characters; Balnor Kegbreaker, Algon, Stone, Hawthorne, and Perry. Brysis and Malice are from my OF ‘A Strange Place in Time’, but they adventure with Algon and company. So don’t worry about a sudden influx of new characters! They’re just there until the ship is mended – or until I get sick of abusing them.

Take twenty points of damage and don’t mess with the Dungeon Master, guys.

Special thanks to Mirien for her help with Fëanor and his history, and to Druidladyrn & Kittenkatdjinn for medical pointers.

Beta’d by Mirien.

Go, little coal-black foal, little mole-black foal,
I know your clop-clop! I hear it a lot-lot!
- folk song

Faramir brought Fëanor into the healing room, looking up as Elrohir and Elladan materialized by his side. Fëanor coughed blood and gasped, refusing to release his death grip on Faramir’s hand. His blue eyes were frightened, and he could not seem to draw a breath. Faramir wept and closed his eyes as Elrohir cut a hole in Fëanor’s throat, inserting a tube into the opening to allow him to breathe. Elladan began working on extracting the dagger, but took a moment to place a comforting hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

“Courage, my friend. It shall be a long night.”

***---***

Outside, all Mordor was breaking loose. As Turgon fled, Glorfindel, Ecthelion, and Maedhros stared after him, momentarily rooted to the spot with horror and disbelief. Fingon, too, stood his ground, but had gone a sickly white, and placed his hand over his stomach, as though he was going to be ill.

Suddenly Glorfindel screamed, a raging shriek of pain and betrayal and outrage. He exploded with a white light and pulled his sword. Bilbo shot to his feet, and did the most courageous thing of his life. He leapt on Glorfindel, getting his old Hobbit hands into the white hair and pulling for all he was worth. Frodo stared in utter disbelief, as did Boromir, and the two exchanged a glance that needed no explanation. Both thought the old Hobbit had cracked.

But Bilbo had lived long among the Elves he loved, and knew things about them Frodo and Boromir did not. He knew they could be moved to great rages and very dark deeds, and his one thought was to keep Glorfindel from heading after Turgon and committing the darkest act an Elf could.

Bilbo was trying to stop a kinslaying.

The weight of the Hobbit threw the large Elf off-balance, and Glorfindel came over like a horse that had reared too high, landing on him. Frodo cried out in horror, and Boromir lunged off his seat, grabbing Glorfindel as he came up. The Elf blazed white and roared at him in a killing fury. Then Erestor was there, as well as several others. They managed to get Glorfindel wrestled to the ground, but no one had managed to stop Ecthelion and Maedhros in their heated pursuit of Turgon.

Boromir sank down to the ground, and heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Bilbo slowly, carefully, sit up.

“I think I broke a rib!” said Bilbo.

“I think I wet myself,” said Boromir. He gathered his bearings, then helped Bilbo up. “Come along, let’s get you to a healer. That was very brave, Bilbo. But don’t do it again.” Boromir was suddenly forced to the ground as Fingon fell on him. The Man groaned in pain and cursed, certain his chances of becoming a father had just been greatly reduced.

“Bloody Elves,” he muttered.

Frodo was there suddenly, his hand on Boromir’s shoulder. “Please, Boromir, get him up, I’ll get Uncle Bilbo. We have to get them to a healer.”

“I’m fine,” grumbled Bilbo, plainly in pain.

Boromir nodded, and slowly got up. He lifted Fingon’s limp body, surprised at how light the Elf was. Frodo helped up Bilbo, and the four made their slow way to the healing rooms.

Boromir carried Fingon into the healing room, and stopped dead at the sight of Elladan with his hand inside Fëanor’s chest, the entire room awash in blood. Bilbo turned green, and Frodo slowly walked the old Hobbit out of the room.

“This no place for you,” said Mauburz as she came up to Boromir. She closed the door, then looked down at the noodle-limp Elf in his arms. “What wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Boromir. “Do you think he’s dead?”

Mauburz shook her head. “Me doubt it. That Fingon. Him old Elf, very strong. Maybe he just drunk.”

Boromir passed her the Elf, and she carefully took him, carrying him off.

***---***

Lindir had seen Faramir scoop up Fëanor and hurry off with him, looking around with wide eyes as chaos ensued. Some of the Elves tore after Turgon, others held back, shocked and dismayed at the news that had come forth.

He clutched Miss Goose tightly, then edged out of the crowd. He paused to watch as Bilbo did his level best to bring down Glorfindel. The old Hobbit succeeded, though Lindir was pretty certain the horrible ‘pop!’ noise he heard as Glorfindel fell on him was the sound of a bone breaking. Maedhros tore after Turgon, Ecthelion at his side. Fingon turned white, then green, then dropped like dead meat sliding off a hook, right onto Boromir. He winced as Faramir’s older brother yelped in pain, then muttered something about bloody Elves. Lindir looked around, but didn’t see any blood, save for the ghastly pool that had drained out of Fëanor. He stood, worried and afraid, then quietly made his way to the House, unsure what he could do. He made his way to a sitting room, and waited.

***---***

“Hmph,” said Glóin.

“Hrumpf,” agreed Gimli.

“Hm,” snorted Perry.

“Rmpf,” said Balnor disdainfully, stuffing tobacco into his pipe.

Dwarfy crossed his arms and nodded. All five Dwarfs were in perfect agreement. Elves were idiots.

Balnor and Perry were old friends of Glóin and his clan, and had been most distraught to see him depart. Their current visit, however, was unplanned, and was largely due to the antics of a Halfling in their small adventuring party by the name of Stone. Somehow he had managed to get into the magic items of the mage Hawthorne, and before anyone could stop him, conjured a wind that had landed the party and their ship on the shores of Valinor. The party was fine. The ship was being repaired.

“Said I was sorry!” said Stone. He held out a plate of something raw to Algon. Algon liked to insist that he was just the party cook, but his prowess with knives and fire-magic tended to indicate he was a bit more. Algon stared at the contents of the plate.

“It’s raw,” he stated.

“Yeah but the really big Elves over there are eating it and they say it’s good so it must be good and I have been eating it and I think it’s good and did you know they have coffee here I really really like coffee!”

Malice took the plate. “I’ll eat it.”

Brysis Rainwalker knew that Algon was just at the point of turning Stone into either a goat or a smoldering black grease spot on the ground. He rose to his feet and held his hand out to the Halfling. “Stone, show me around, I don’t think Algon is hungry right now.”

Stone reached out and took Brysis’ black-gloved hand. The small man stood up slowly and allowed the Halfling to yank him into the crowd.

“STONE! A bit slower if you please!”

“Yeah but they got food and wine and lots of other things and musicians and OHH LOOKIT THAT sorry I forgot you can’t see BUT LOOKIT THAT!”

Tiel adjusted her sword hilt. “I am not supposed to be here.”

“NONE of us are supposed to be here,” said Silvar. “So put your big-girl panties on and deal with it.”

Tiel fixed her traveling companion with a look that could wither a troll. Maldy meanwhile was having another attack of the dread Parrot Rabids, and was busy drawing odd, pornographic pictures in the dirt, which she called ‘Naruto Yaoi’.

“Just let her be,” advised Tiel. Silvar shifted away from Maldy.

Dwarfy stroked his long, heavy blue beard; a colour unusual for Dwarf-kind, but one that suited him none-the-less. His traveling companions were all good folk, but he did not know them well, and the woman they called Malice smelled of old blood and rotted meat. Small wonder the Elves of this land were giving her a wide berth, though Tiel’s wolf had on a few occasions attempted to roll on her, as was the wont of dogs and wolves when they found something suitably stinky.

Dwarfy stood and stretched, and made up his mind to go for a short walk. He was not certain for whom the party was being thrown, but the locals had been kind enough to invite them to join in the merriment until their ship was fixed, and they could be on their way. But there were gemstones all along the beach, and Dwarfy doubted a few would be missed.

He made his way down the cliff-path to the beach, and began walking along the white sand. He picked up the odd gem, examining them, and either keeping or discarding them. But as he walked, his attention was drawn by the muffled sound of voices. Dwarfy paused, and listened.

“Let me go. I warn you, I have never raised a hand to one of my own kind, but I WILL harm you if you do not open the door and release me!”

“I will not! Can you not see how much I desire you?” There was a pause. “Give yourself to me, then I shall release you.”

“I MOST CERTAINLY WILL NOT!”

“Then starve in here. Once you are too weak to resist, then I shall have you anyway.”

Dwarfy did not like the sound of this one bit. Dropping the large gem he was examining, he began examining the cliff wall for fine cracks that would indicate a hidden door. Meanwhile, the voices continued to argue.

“You are bound! I have a lover! Does your commitment mean so very little to you?”

The second voice laughed. “Maglor? He serves me well, I suppose. He keeps me safe, gives me a warm bed, and wealth enough. But I do not want him as I want you.”

“Aye, as you wanted Idril! They hurled you from the Caragdûr for your antics, would you have it happen again?”

“It will not happen because you will not tell! You will be my lover, and all shall be right in the world. We will have our love, and treasure enough.”

“I do not suppose it has occurred to you that is MY treasure?!”

Dwarfy heard a struggle, and the sounds of violence. He hastened his search, feeling for anything that could be a hidden door. He heard a voice cry out.

“If I let you have me, will you let me go?”

“Will you love me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Dwarfy paused. He was not certain, but it seemed the captive had a plan. He heard the sound of cloth shredding, and a brief struggle. Then for a few moments, he heard nothing at all.

He suddenly jumped back as the rock before him crackled and snapped, like watching the centuries do their work within a few seconds. He heard the hellish shriek of a Nazgûl, followed by the equally hellish shriek of someone in unimaginable agony. The door flung open, and a horribly maimed Elf staggered out, bits of his flesh and body literally frozen off. He staggered off down the beach in mindless agony. Dwarfy watched him go, uncertain what had happened or what he could do. Finally he darted into the hidden room, and paused.

The Elf before him was naked, and frozen. His perfect body was encrusted in ice, and he was back-lit by a strange, ice-blue illumination. At first, Dwarfy was afraid he was dead. But then, the ice-beauty looked at him with cold, glowing eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Dwarfy cleared his throat, and opened his mouth, but could not speak for a moment. Finally he said “My name…is long and complex. My friends call me Dwarfy.”

The Ice-Beauty smiled. “’Dwarfy’. I like that.”

“Are you well? I mean, I heard… and now…”

“I am well. Please, could you build up the fire?”

Dwarfy bowed, and did, piling wood onto the fire, casting glances at the creature of living ice in the room with him. Then, as the flames grew hotter, the Ice-Beauty stepped into the center of the fire.

“Warm me.”

The flames rushed upwards into a huge pyre of blazing light and heat, crackling and snapping as the Elf stood in their center, his silver hair blowing loose and wild. Slowly, the fire died down, and he stepped out of the flames. He picked up a damp cloak, and wrapped it about himself, then exited the chamber. The Dwarf followed after him, and when the Ice-Beauty seated himself on the sand, Dwarfy went to join him. The beautiful silver Elf was shaking, and beginning to weep.

Dwarfy cleared his throat and rolled his eyes. He was not good with Elves and how emotional they could be. In fact he had spent very little time around them. Landing on the shores of Valinor was rather like his worst nightmare come true: Elves as far as the eye could see. But his heart was good, and he at last seated himself beside the Elf. A bad situation became worse when the Elf collapsed on him and began sobbing. Glancing about to see if anyone was looking, he put an arm around him.

“There, there laddie. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you anymore.” Dwarfy patted his shoulder, wondering who he was trying to reassure. Certainly this Elf was upset, but then, this Elf was not the one currently limping down the beach, missing a hand, large portions of skin, and a penis. He looked nervously down at the pretty being weeping against his broad Dwarfy chest.

Suddenly three Elves ran up. Two stopped by Dwarfy and his companion, the third ran down the beach to the injured Elf. Dwarfy sighed heavily, unimpressed with being caught hugging an Elf by two other Elves.

The two Elves knelt down, the one with dark hair gently reaching out to touch the silver Elf’s face.

“Ilinuil? Ilinuil where have you been?”

Ilinuil looked up, but retained his grip on the Dwarf, even though Dwarfy would not have minded being released. Ilinuil shivered and wept as he told his tale, but at no point relinquished the Dwarf. Dwarfy felt bad for the pretty beauty, but did not much relish being used as a hankie.

He suddenly became aware of the two new Elves looking at him. They were big Elves, he noted. Very big, though an axe to the knees would make them easier to deal with. Then the dark-haired Elf bowed to him.

“I am Amaris. This is my friend, Gaelemir. We owe you a debt of gratitude, my friend.”

“I did nothing,” grumbled Dwarfy.

Ilinuil sat up, his silver hair stuck to his wet face. “No, you did. You offered me kindness, and did not look upon me as a monster.”

Dwarfy gaped at him. “Who could look at you and think you a monster?!” he asked, his tone astonished. Then he remembered. The fire, and the cold-burns. He cleared his throat and composed himself.

“You’re nae a monster,” he said softly.

Ilinuil smiled, then leaned forward and placed a kiss upon Dwarfy’s brow. “My most stalwart champion. Thank you. Will I see you again?”

Dwarfy shook his head. “Nay. My ship leaves at dawn.”

Ilinuil smiled, a little sadly. “Then may it bring you back one day. And may this keep you safe on the road.”

Ilinuil leaned forward, and pressed his lips against the Dwarf’s for a brief moment. Then Amaris picked Ilinuil up, and the trio of Elves departed. Dwarfy watched them go, then sat on the beach for a time, smiling.

Eventually, he made his way back up to the cliff top, where Stone was standing on a table, regaling party-goers with absurd tales, eating with one hand, drinking with another. All of his tales seemed to end with the phrase “And then I killed it!” So now when the tale seemed to reach its end, all listening would roar the phrase with him.

Dwarfy sat between Balnor and Perry, a huge smile on his face. Balnor and Perry looked at him, then at each other.

“Hmph,” said Perry.

“Rmph,” said Balnor. Both Dwarfs were in perfect agreement. They didn’t want to know what Dwarfy had been up to.

***---***

Fëanor had told the truth when he said he was nothing, if not a craftsman. When he set out to create something, he would put all of himself into the project, often losing track of whole centuries in his quest to perfect something. He had done no less with his horses, though in truth he did not understand how well he had succeeded. He knew the powerful black steeds were intelligent, but had underestimated the level of intellect the beasts had.

Fëanor’s favorite steed was named Fireblood. He was a playful, mischievous beast, with a gracefully arched neck, huge, hairy hooves, and a prancing gait, well-suited for his master, to whom he was deeply devoted. The horse now stood outside the window to the healing room, ears perked, head held high, listening to the chaos within the room. He snorted, not understanding what the crisis was, but knowing he smelled blood, and that his master was injured. At one point the great horse rose onto his hind legs, bracing his front hooves against the wall and thrusting his head in through the window. He could not hold the pose for long, but the horse had seen enough.

His attention was drawn by the sound of running feet, and he turned his head in the direction of the noise. His ears went back, and his eyes narrowed with an un-horsy intelligence as he picked up a faint scent: the vague smell of his master’s blood.

Fireblood shifted, adjusting his back end and moving his weight forward, watching, waiting. Then as the Elf came into range, he lashed out with both hooves, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone and the tearing of flesh. Turgon fell back, his skull crushed, his throat torn out. Fireblood turned to look at the Elf, lowering his head and watching as he writhed on the ground, clutching his gushing throat, then dying, his brains and blood soaking the earth.

He raised his head as Ecthelion and Maedhros walked up, slowing their pace as they approached the horse and body, sheathing their swords.

“That horse did that intentionally!” said Ecthelion.

“Nonsense,” said Maedhros softly. “It is a horse. It was frightened and so kicked.”

Ecthelion stroked the arched neck, his hand finding a charm woven into the beast’s mane. He looked at the talisman of black feathers, woven with thread of red-gold, and hung with three white diamonds. “This is your father’s horse. Does that not smack of vengeance to you?”

“It is a horse,” said Maedhros. “Horses do not commit acts of vengeance. Still, we owe him our thanks, for Turgon has met a fitting end, and his blood is not on our hands.”

Ecthelion gasped, as though a thought came to him that had been blocked out by rage. He grasped Maedhros’ hand. “Kinslayers,” he whispered. “We would have been Kinslayers.”

Maedhros stroked the neck of the horse. “Well done, my friend. We owe you a debt of gratitude for saving one of us from committing the worst crime an Elf can, and for saving another from doing it again.” He looked towards Ecthelion. “We should throw him off the cliff and be done with him.” He was about to reach for the body, when, through the window, he heard voices.

“I don’t know. Do you think he’s dead?”

“Me doubt it. That Fingon. Him old Elf, very strong. Maybe he just drunk.”

“Fingon!” said Maedhros, and ran in the direction of the healing rooms.

Ecthelion sighed heavily, then looked towards Fireblood. The great black horse was trying to peer through the window of the healing room.

“I do not care what Maedhros says,” he muttered. “That blow was aimed and calculated.”

***---***

Maedhros charged into the room, knocking Boromir aside, scattering the two Hobbits. Bilbo raised his cane with every intention of giving Maedhros a good whack for his disrespect, but Boromir and Frodo managed to get it away from the vengeful old Hobbit. They escorted him into another room, leaving Maedhros alone with Fingon.

The large Elf seated himself on a chair near his lover’s bed. Fingon was sheet white, and cold, his heavy black hair spilling across the pillow. Maedhros gently kissed him, then touched his face.

“Fingon,” he said softly, and felt a rush of relief as the green eyes opened, blinking wearily. Fingon’s eyes were different from others of his kind, more the colour of jade than the soft grey-green, and speckled with tiny dots of yellow. Odd for an Elf of his type, but fitting for one who had always stood out from his brethren.

“Are you ill?” asked Maedhros.

Fingon blinked. “I… do not think so.” He shivered, and pulled the blankets closer. Maedhros fetched him another blanket, covering him with it, kissing him again, then taking Fingon’s hand. He was startled by the coldness of it.

“Your hand is like ice!”

“What did you do?” asked Fingon softly. “Maedhros, what has become of my brother?”

“He is dead,” said Maedhros softly.

“Did you do it? Whose hand bears the blood of this deed?”

“No one,” said Maedhros, stroking Fingon’s hair. “T’was an accident, nothing more. In his haste he rushed up to a horse, and the beast kicked him. No one killed him.”

“Would you have?” asked Fingon, his voice cold.

Maedhros sighed and lowered his head. It was a long moment before he answered. “Yes, I think I would have. And I do not think I would have been wrong to do so. I know he is your brother and you love him, but he needs to go to Mandos and seek redemption for what he has done.”

“And so he has,” said Fingon. “But what would have been the good in you adding another murder to the blood that already stains you?”

Maedhros narrowed his eyes. “My beloved, I had not noticed your hands were especially clean either. And it was my father who has carried the brunt of his crime for centuries.”

“I am not implying such, and yes, your father has been greatly wronged. Turgon could have done much to ease hurt by admitting what he had done.”

“He could,” said Maedhros. “But he may have been ashamed to do so. I do not believe the potion drove my father mad because it was meant for me. I believe it would have affected any who drank it thusly. He committed a great evil to gain my affection, and in doing so caused a yet greater evil.”

Fingon nodded. “Aye, I believe he was ashamed, though I believe his chief regret was that his plan did not work to his best interest.” He shook his head. “So much evil. But why would Morgoth desire women for experiments?”

“Haldir explained to me that Plains Elves become fertile if they are fed the blood of women. Likely Morgoth wished…”

“Enough,” said Fingon, waving a hand. “Enough, I wish to know no more. My guts are fair writhing with the poison of all I have learned tonight. I am ill, and though my brother has done great wrong he is still my brother. At least I am spared from hearing the killing blow; that my beloved had slain him.”

“Would you have forsaken me?” asked Maedhros softly.

“No,” said Fingon. “Though it would have been a bitter pill to swallow.”

Maedhros sighed, then drew the covers back and slipped into bed with Fingon, holding him close. He stared into his green eyes, touching his face, softly kissing him. “Turgon will go to Námo and atone for his crimes. And his death was no more than a twist of fate, none slew him, though Ecthelion insists the horse acted with intent.”

“Which horse was it?”

“Fireblood, my father’s horse.”

“Fireblood is not vicious. I suspect his action was no more than being startled at being rushed up on.”

“So I said to Ecthelion.”

Fingon snuggled up to Maedhros. “Ecthelion is mistaken. How is Fëanor?”

“Shit!” said Maedhros. He kissed Fingon and got out of bed, leaving the room hastily to see how his father was.

Fingon blinked wearily, watching Maedhros depart. His body was cold, and he shivered. His stomach felt sickly and over-filled, threatening to spill, and he felt emotionally gutted. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes, then quietly lapsed into unconsciousness.

***---***

Erestor had seen Glorfindel angry before. He had even seen him in a rage. But there was no comparing those moods to this wild, animalistic bloodlust. He was foaming with wrath, his body nearly obscured by the violent white light surrounding him. He was screaming in rage, but Erestor could not understand the language he was speaking.

Orophin had him in a headlock, and it was mostly through his strength that Glorfindel was being contained, but he could not hope to hold him for long. Then Elentar arrived and took matters in his own hands. The huge Elf had not been around much, preferring for the most part to travel on his own, but Elrond’s birthday had brought him back, to spend time with his friends and family. Now he helped Orophin to restrain Glorfindel.

Erestor was genuinely afraid of his husband for the first time in his life; he did not think anything could quiet him save blood, and he would not let that happen to one he loved. He took hold of the long white hair, pushing it back. He felt ill at the sight of the blood-tinted saliva staining Glorfindel’s lips as he screamed, and the wild, indescribable look in his eyes.

“Fin,” he said quietly, “stop it, please. You are scaring me.”

Glorfindel was screaming so hard he could barely get a word out. “WE FOUGHT FOR THAT BASTARD! SERVED HIM! LOVED HIM! DIED FOR HIM!”

Erestor felt his eyes grow wet. “I know, I was there, remember?”

Glorfindel seemed to quiet a little, and Erestor stroked his hair, stepping close, kissing him. “Fin he hurt a lot of people, but if you kill him then you will have let him destroy our family as well. Do not give him that. Stay here with me, we’ll talk.”

Glorfindel’s light dimmed, and he seemed to stop fighting. He exhaled, and Orophin and Elentar slowly released him. They waited, fearing that Glorfindel may yet lunge his way out of the room and after Turgon, and though the thought did seem to be on his mind, he at last relented fully, exhaling heavily as he took Erestor into his arms. Orophin and Elentar quietly left the two alone, holding each other. Erestor stroked Fin’s white hair, and kissed him.

Glorfindel held Erestor hard, burying his face into his black hair, breathing in his scent. Then he broke down and began to weep. Erestor held him tightly, then kissed his face, saying nothing, letting Fin sob out his tangle of emotions. Finally Glorfindel raised his head, and emitted a short laugh, pushing his hair out of his tear-streaked face.

“Sorry darling, I think I snotted up your hair.”

“Hair is washable. Come here, there’s a whole patch on the other side you can snot up.”

“Oh such a romantic!” Glorfindel stepped away to wash his face in a glass basin of cool water and get himself under control. He dried his face, then turned to kiss Erestor.

“Snuggle into bed, I’ll be back very soon.”

“Fin…”

“I am not going after Turgon, have no fear. I will not disgrace my family with his blood. But I have an apology to make. Many of us have apologies to make. Whatever blood Fëanor spilled, it is clear Turgon bears the blame. Though that does not make Fëanor’s hands stainless, it does wash away a great deal of the blood. And it seems though he suspected he had been poisoned, he said nothing. But then, who among us would have listened?” Glorfindel kissed Erestor again. “I shall return soon.”

Erestor watched him leave the room, then turned and made his way to the bathing chamber.

***---***

Elrohir bent over Fëanor’s cold, limp body. He lay in the middle of a bed, saturated with blood. All the room was painted with great chaotic swaths of red, and Fëanor was little more than cold meat in the middle of it. Faramir stood nearby, worried, quiet, stained also with sprays of crimson.

“Come along, Elrohir,” said Elladan softly. “He is gone.”

Elrohir did not seem to hear. He seated himself on the bed, reaching out to take Fëanor’s hand, and smooth back the tangled black hair. The dagger had punctured the artery above his heart, and the blood had drained from him with ghastly swiftness.

“Come,” Elladan urged quietly. “We must see to Fingon.”

Elrohir could feel his eyes growing hot with tears. “I did everything I could…”

“I know. But it was in his heart.”

“The Valar forbade Mandos to him! How can he be dead?! He can’t be dead! They can’t have been so cruel as to let him die and give him no place to go!”

Faramir stepped forward, standing behind Elrohir and resting his hands on his shoulders. “You did all you could.”

“But it’s not fair!” sobbed Elrohir, his body shaking with emotion. “It’s not fair! He was trying so hard to be good and win back his graces, how can they condemn him to nothingness?”

“It is not for us to question,” said Elladan.

Elrohir stood up, fists clenched, eyes wet. “It IS up to us! How can they do that to him? How can they make him a promise and discard it like so much old trash? How dare they cast his fëa out into the void to an eternity of solitude!” Elrohir sucked in a lungful of air and bellowed at the top of his lungs; “Námo!”

“Elrohir!” snapped Elladan in horror. “If your friendship with Fëanor taught you anything, do not renounce the Valar!”

“I ain’t renouncing them, I’m giving them a piece of my mind! Námo I know you’re out there!”

Elladan and Faramir exchanged nervous glances. Elf and Man moved closer, glancing about the room with fear. A heavy, tense silence filled the room, and the air seemed to grow dark, and thick. Though they saw nothing, something was there, a mighty presence, formidable and ancient. The room became as still as a crypt, and the very fire seemed to cower.

Then Fëanor sat up, and all three screamed in horror.

“Oh fine,” muttered Fëanor, “see if I ever pass up a chance to beat Námo at Tablero again. He was going to give me back, I was just stopping off for a drink.”

“You’re alive!” said Elrohir, hand over his pounding heart.

“No, actually, I’m not.” Fëanor lay back down on the bed. “But I am not dead. The Valar keep their promises, child, and do not shout at them. They are forgiving, but they will have their vengeance should you abuse them.”

Elrohir felt ashamed, and slowly lowered his head, nodding. “I am sorry I was just….”

“Angry,” said Fëanor. “Mind that, child, do mind that. No good can come of it.” He reached out his cold hand and placed it upon Elrohir’s. “Go look to Fingon. I shall be here when you return.”

***---***

Elladan and Elrohir entered Fingon’s room, making their quiet way over to where the warrior lay. He was white and cold, shivering under his blankets. Elladan reached out to place a hand upon his brow.

“He’s burning up,” said Elladan. He knelt beside him, carefully lifting one eyelid. “He is not in reverie, he is unconscious. Do you think he has been poisoned?”

Elrohir shook his head. “No, I do not think so, but let us examine him, and see what we find.”

Elladan nodded, then stood back as Elrohir drew back the covers, finding him already undressed. Fingon’s body was a road map of old injuries and battles. “Was he reborn?” asked Elrohir.

“I should imagine,” said Elladan. “You remember the illustrations in Ada’s history books. The blue standard?”

“Oh, right. Yech.” Elrohir shook his head. “So that means all this is recent. Bloody First-Age Noldor, they’ll pick a fight with their own grandmothers. And Fingon is one of the sane ones. Who were his rebirth parents?”

“I do not know. Why do you ask?”

Elrohir indicated the traits his eye had picked out. “Long rangy frame, black hair, big green eyes…” He pulled open Fingon’s mouth and looked inside. “Teeth are not unusual, but Rúmil does not have the cutting teeth, either. Elladan, give him a poke, see if he’s pregnant.”

Elladan’s jaw dropped. “You are not telling me he is part Plains Elf!!”

“I am not saying he is, but we have to check all possibilities.”

“You do realize that if he finds out you said that, he’ll dance with your guts.”

“And Rabbit will be happy to return the favour, I am sure. Look, Elladan, we are healers. We have a patient. We are also in the fortunate position of having worked with Plains Elves. YOU prod the abdomen, and I will look for head injuries, he fell pretty hard.”

Elladan made a worried noise, then began carefully palpating Fingon’s flat stomach. “Elrohir, there is nothing in here.”

“What, nothing at all?”

“Well, standard-issue guts, and a colon the size of a tree branch. A bit of fiber would not do him ill, but I don’t feel anything Plains Elvish.”

“Well, give him a pelvic.”

Elladan stepped back. “I certainly will NOT! First off, we don’t know his parentage, secondly, that’s a Noldo, thirdly, that’s FINGON, and fourthly, if he IS half Plains Elvish, then the LAST thing I need is for him to wake up and find me with my finger up his…”

“Oh very well. You look for his head wound, and I’ll check… what’s that out in the hall?” Elrohir pulled the covers over Fingon. “Sit with him, would you? I’ll check out the noise in the hall. AI! We’ll never be able to talk Ada into another party again.”

Elladan began grinding a concoction to aid Fingon’s fever, watching as Elrohir left the room.

***---***

“I’m dead,” said Fëanor.

Faramir smiled, reaching out to take his hand. “You cannot be dead if you are speaking.”

Fëanor wanted to disagree with that. He knew he was dead, or rather, knew there was no reason he was still breathing other than the Valar had refused Mandos to him. In fact, he was not even breathing. Every drop of blood he had was staining the room. He was not sure what the dagger had struck, but he gathered from the bits of conversation that he caught it had torn open something important over his heart. He could still see the arches of liquid scarlet pumping out of his chest.

He was cold, and his heart was now still, but he was not dead. Elladan and Elrohir had sewn up his wounds, given him potions to soothe the acid burns in his throat and mouth, then connected him to some damnable torture device that dripped fluid back into his empty veins. His body was still, waiting for the fluid to raise in his veins to a sufficient level that his undead heart would beat again.

There was, however, an up side to being dead – currently nothing hurt.

“You’re cold,” said Faramir.

“I told you, I’m dead.”

Faramir gave him an amused look. “I have seen dead men. They do not tell you they are dead. I shall get you another blanket.”

“I want a clean room, some fool’s gone and bled all over this one.”

“You rest, I’ll clean.”

“Be sure to do so at attention and while saluting, that is ROYAL blood after all.”

Faramir rolled his eyes, then kissed Fëanor. “I’ll just nip back to Gondor and get my royal livery.”

“Ugh,” said Fëanor. “Don’t say ‘liver’.”

Faramir went to get a new blanket, then found a mop and a bucket and began cleaning up the blood. He mopped the red fluid up, then sat down with a basin of hot soapy water and a wash cloth to clean off Fëanor.

“Can’t have you looking a mess,” said Faramir.

Fëanor heard a loud scraping noise, and slowly turned his head to see a pair of black nostrils, barely able to reach inside the window. The nostrils flared and snuffled, and Fëanor grinned weakly.

“Silly horse,” he said softly. “Come give Atar a kiss.”

The nostrils disappeared, then, after much scraping and banging, the entire head poked into the room. Fëanor grinned.

“Fireblood! Come to Atar! Come along!”

Faramir looked up at the worried equine face poking in through the window. “Fëanor, is that a good idea…?”

The head withdrew, and Faramir could hear hooves prancing on the soft earth. The hooves retreated into the distance, then returned, very faintly at first, growing louder, and moving at full gallop. Faramir leapt back as suddenly a full-sized horse exploded in through the window, hooves skidding on the wet wooden floor, the animal’s right flank catching a chair and sending it crashing into the wall, shattering it. Pleased with himself, Fireblood stamped over to his master.

“Good horsie,” said Fëanor.

“YOU’RE MAD!” screamed Faramir, clutching his heart, having nearly been run over by a horse in a hospital.

“I am not!” said Fëanor. “Some favour cats, some dogs, and I favour horses. Come sit with papa, baby.”

Faramir watched as the huge beast stepped onto the bed, snapping the frame and sending the mattress crashing to the floor. The horse circled once, like a dog, then thumped down onto the ruined bed, careful to miss Fëanor.

The door flew open, and Maedhros appeared, looking at the bloody sheets, smashed furniture, and horse. He closed the door behind himself, and shook his head.

“No wonder Mother left you.”

“A sense of humour would not have killed her,” Fëanor said. He murmured nonsense at Fireblood, as the great animal sniffed his lips.

“Atar do not kiss that thing, you’ll give it an ailment.” Maedhros walked over to the ruined bed and sat on it. “How are you?”

Faramir was getting used to the way the ancient First Age Elves seemed to dismiss him, though he did not care for it. He would have left, but Fëanor held his hand out to him, looking at him with washed-out, glazed-over eyes, and he relented. He tossed a cushion onto the floor and seated himself on it, taking Fëanor’s hand.

Fëanor smiled at Faramir, then turned his gaze to Maedhros, plainly a little puzzled at his presence. “I am… I mean… I shall recover. I warn you, however, young Elrohir has poured any number of concoctions into me to ease my pain, I may suddenly confuse you for Lórien."

Maedhros smiled slightly, a weary, sad smile. His vision began to blur, and he lowered his head. "Ai Atar. I am sorry for what I said to you. Will you forgive me?"

Feanor looked confused. "What did you say to me? Was I drunk? Child, you have no need to cry."

Maedhros raised his head, his face wet, "No, you were not drunk. Though, by the way you looked when I told you at Losgar that you had made murderers of us all, and I would hate you from that moment on, I think you wished you were. There is much to forgive, I think. I should have seen your pain and I saw and felt only my own. You knew I loved Fingon and so you said nothing. And all I gave you was hate. For that I wish to make amends. Atar, why did you say nothing of the poison? You knew you had been fed a potion, why did you not speak up?”

“Many reasons,” said Fëanor softly, toying with Maedhros’ long red hair. “I knew none would believe me, and, I suspected the poisoner was Turgon. To cast accusations at the House of Fingolfin upon all else would do no good, and I had no proof. And… of course, as you said, I knew you had feelings for Fingon.” He smiled softly, sadly, recalling the past, when all the world was not soaked in blood. “I knew. Your mother did as well. She and I discussed it at length, and both decided to keep your secret, not even admitting to you what we knew. I recall the two of you, little more than children, sneaking kisses behind the lilac trees. You were both so innocent. And I confess, we both thought the two of you would grow out of it.”

Maedhros shook his head, his eyes becoming hot and wet. “I told you I hated you! I saw only the evil, I did not know you were in pain! I should have seen! Atar, can you ever forgive me?”

Fëanor closed his eyes, squeezing Maedhros’ hand. “There is nothing to forgive, child. There never was.” He looked up as Elrohir and Elladan stepped into the room, followed by Glorfindel and Ecthelion. Fëanor was far too weak to rise from the bed, and he could not tell who had entered with the twins at such a distance. Maedhros stood up, large and imposing, drawing his weapon as he stood over his father protectively.

“What was that great crash?” asked Elrohir. He stopped, then raised an eyebrow at the sight of the ruined bed, and the great black horse lying on the foot of it. He looked towards Fëanor, crossing his arms.

“It was there when I arrived, honestly,” Fëanor said.

“Oh I am sure it was, and my brother and I simply did not notice. You had best pray he does not wet the bed. ‘T would be the most bizarre case of drowning I ever saw.”

Fëanor made a face. “Detestable thought. Who stands with you?”

Glorfindel and Maedhros eyed each other like stray dogs, each waiting for the other to make a false move. Then Ecthelion stepped forward. Faramir did not know what was happening, but he stood up as well, uncertain and nervous.

“We come unarmed,” said Glorfindel.

Fëanor sighed heavily, weary and in no mood for more posturing and battle. “What brings you here, Glorfindel? Who is with you? Is that your charming husband?”

“No, ‘tis Ecthelion.”

Fëanor coughed, his throat raw and painful. “I see. Well, what may I do for you? I should hope you are not going to make me depart for my own bed, I assure you I have not the strength for it.”

“No my Lord,” said Glorfindel softly, causing both Fëanor and Maedhros to look surprised. “We…came to apologize.

Fëanor shook his head, as though he did not believe his ears. “Apologize? For what? You have not wronged me.”

“No,” said Glorfindel. “But there is much...”

Faramir’s patience seemed to expire at the sound of the word ‘much’. He sighed audibly, and when he opened his mouth, the words seemed to come out of their own volition.

“Yes there is much to be said, much to be reconciled, much to be hashed over, and you all have more than time enough to lock yourselves in a room and discuss it for two thousand years, but Fëanor is badly injured and very ill and right now he needs sleep, so will the bunch of you kindly go get drunk or play Tablero or make a cuckoo clock or SOMETHING that does NOT involve hovering about in this room and bothering Fëanor?”

The Elves stared at him, struck silent with utter astonishment. Maedhros was the first to speak, his voice laced with outrage and shock.

“Did that mortal just tell us to get lost???”

“My NAME, good sir, is FARAMIR, and YES, THE MORTAL JUST TOLD YOU TO GET LOST.”

Maedhros stared at him a while longer, then stepped off the bed, prowling slowly up to him, until Elf and Man stood nose-to-lower chest. Maedhros’ breath ruffled Faramir’s hair, and his voice was cold and angry.

“Do you know who I AM, little Man?”

Faramir did not flinch. He stared into Maedhros’ eyes, then pointed to the door. “No,” he stated. “I don’t. I do not know who you are, where you have been, or what you have done. You can tell me all about it in the hall.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged glances, jaws hanging. Glorfindel just stared, and Ecthelion let out a short laugh of utter shock. There was a long, tense silence. Then Maedhros sheathed his sword.

“Very well. In the hall it is.”

“Be gentle with him, Faramir,” said Fëanor. “He’s a bit slow.”

“ATAR!”

“Just do what the nice man says, child. I really am very tired. Faramir, stay here with me, no one wants to pick your bits out of the carpeting.”

Faramir stopped, secretly glad he did not have to face this Elf in the hall. Maedhros was highly displeased, but bowed to his father’s wishes. “Very well, Atar.” He looked at Faramir once more. “We will continue this discussion later.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” said Faramir.

Maedhros, Ecthelion and Glorfindel left, as did Elladan and Elrohir. Then Faramir exhaled heavily, and seated himself on the bed with Fëanor. He gently took his hand, then leaned forward to kiss his brow.

“Peace at last,” he said.

Fëanor smiled weakly, eyes closing. “Lie beside me,” he said softly.

Faramir did, careful not to aggravate any of Fëanor’s injuries. He rescued a blanket from Fireblood, and covered them both with it. Peace settled over the darkened room.

***---***

Elladan and Elrohir filed into the hall with the rest. The small group of Elves stood gathered in silence, each with his own thoughts and emotions. Then Elladan raised his head and looked around.

“I have a request.”

Heads raised, and all looked at him. “What would that request be?” asked Ecthelion quietly.

Elladan wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, becoming shaky and tearful with the stress of the night. Then he drew a deep breath.

“NOBODY tells Ada ANYTHING about this mess until AFTER the final night of celebration for his party! The Valar alone know he’s had surprises aplenty already!”

There were a few weary chuckles. “Agreed,” said Glorfindel. “Not a word from any of us. Let Lord Elrond enjoy the party. We shall spread the word.”

“As shall I,” said Maedhros. He looked to the twins. “I raised your Ada for a time.”

“I know,” said Elrohir. “He speaks fondly of you, and Maglor.”

Maedhros snorted and shook his head. “Oh I am sure he does. Ask him what lengths we had to go through to get him to eat his vegetables.”

“Probably the same trick he used on us,” muttered Elladan.

Maedhros smiled, then looked to the closed door of Fingon’s sick room. “I must ask you what is wrong with my beloved. I am most worried about him.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged glances. Glorfindel and Ecthelion lurked close at hand, near enough to watch over the twins, but not so close as to be intrusive. Elladan backed up a step, leaving his brother to explain what they suspected.

“Gee thanks,” muttered Elrohir. He looked to the huge Elf with the long, heavy red hair, now standing before him. Maedhros. Son of Fëanor. Former High-King of the Noldor.

Kinslayer.

“Has Fingon fainted before?”

“Not fainted per se, but yes, this is not the first time he collapsed.”

Elrohir nodded. “Dizzy? Nauseous? Eating strange things?”

“Yes.”

“Gaining weight?”

Maedhros waffled a bit on that question, then finally admitted: “He is not as slender as he was.”

“My Lord, are you familiar with my husband and his people?”

“The Plains Elves? Not so much, but I see them by my father’s keep. Why?”

“Well… we think Fingon may be pregnant.”

The hall went deathly silent. Maedhros blinked, then stepped back in surprise. “Fingon? MY Fingon? You think…?”

“I think he’s pregnant, yes.”

Maedhros blinked again, then the very air around them seemed to grow cold, and the former King stepped forward, looming over Elrohir. “You think WHAT?!”

***---***

Glorfindel did not stay to speak with Maedhros. He had come to address Fëanor, not to deal with his rather tense and perpetually bristling eldest son, and one Fëanorian at a time was quite enough, thank you. He remained long enough to ensure that Elrohir and Elladan were in no danger, and returned to his chambers, locking the door behind himself and padding softly across the main sitting area to the master bedroom. The door was not quite shut, and he nudged it open silently, smiling as he spied Erestor.

Lord Elrond’s Chief Advisor was in bed, naked, the candlelight shining softly on his fair skin. He was reclining against the pillows, reading. And for once the children were nowhere in sight. Fair Erestor was his alone.

He watched him, studied him, taking pleasure in just being able to gaze at his husband. He loved him, and thought him utterly, flawlessly beautiful. Childbirth had altered his body a little; he was no longer as slender as before, and he did have a bit of a belly. The black hair was touched with fine threads of silver, but Glorfindel did not care. Erestor was as he had ever been to him. Beautiful.

He pushed the door opened, the grin on his face needing no interpretation, nor did the suggestively waggling eyebrows. Erestor smiled, turning a page of his book.

“And what do you wish, you rogue? I should warn you, my husband will be home any moment.”

Glorfindel stepped into the room and closed the door behind himself, removing his white shirt and tossing it carelessly onto a chair. “Then I had best ravish you quickly.”

He pounced onto Erestor, sending the book to the floor with a thud, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him passionately.

“And how did your meeting with Fëanor go?” asked Erestor as Glorfindel chewed his neck.

“Terrible. Maedhros was there, in full fluff, as is his wont. Bloody Fëanorians, you’d think they invented the pissy attitude.”

“I thought they did,” said Erestor.

“Just as well, Fëanor is in no shape to talk. He looks like death warmed over. I’m shocked he’s alive. Hello, belly.” Glorfindel began kissing and chewing Erestor’s soft stomach.

“ACK! TICKLES!”

Glorfindel laughed, then kissed Erestor’s stomach again. He placed the side of his face against it, listening. Erestor stroked the long, white hair.

“There is nothing in there.”

“I know. I kind of wish there was, I love it when you’re pregnant. Something… terribly wonderful and sacred about it.”

Erestor played with his husband’s hair. “We have two lovely children, both very small. That is handful enough for me right now. And Rúmil just bore twins. Elrohir has twins, Rabbit is fretting over Rivil… this house has babies enough right now, Fin. Too many and someone gets neglected.”

Glorfindel kissed his stomach once more. “I know. But, I look forward to once more listening to our future child hold conversations with your crayfish and egg salad sandwich.” Glorfindel looked up, and said: “Care to hear a choice bit of gossip? Just between you and I?”

“Of course!”

Glorfindel got off the bed and went to the door, opening it to check the hall. Then he went to the window, peering outside. He closed the shutters and drew the curtains, then settled himself beside Erestor once more. He whispered; “Elrohir suspects Fingon is pregnant.”

Erestor gasped loudly, his eyes growing huge. “What?! Suspects? Does he know?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “They were checking him out when they were called away from their duties. Then Maedhros wouldn’t let them near Fingon. When Elrohir told him what he suspected, Maedhros had a full-fledged dyed-in-the-wool Son of Fëanor fit. Said a lot of stuff about how dare Elrohir question the former High King’s parentage and such.”

“Well I can’t see any Noldo taking that sort of question well, let alone Maedhros. No one was hurt, were they?”

Glorfindel waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. Maedhros never even reached for his blade, though I swear he gained five feet in height and breathed fire. But Elrohir knows his business, especially when it comes to Plains Elves and their half-brothers. Seems this is not the first fainting spell our esteemed Fingon has had. The long black hair means nothing, of course, many Noldor have black hair. But his eyes are an odd shade of yellow-green, and even Big Red himself admitted Fingon has been off. Sick in the morning, eating odd things… can’t get his ass into his breeches…”

“And Maedhros would not let them examine Fingon?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “No way. Big Red has some very powerful reasons for not wanting it known if Fingon is. First off, that calls the lineages of both houses into question. At the very least, it makes Fingon’s mother an adulteress. Secondly, they are still cousins. Elves willing to forgive them their love on the grounds of what they have been through may not be so quick to love a child born of blood relatives. If Fingon is with child, there could be a lot of outrage. Not to mention the First Age Noldor still lurking about, who would think having a half-breed king was a jolly excuse for a kinslaying. Those boys do not play nicely, and they are not known for a sense of humour.”

Erestor ran his hand over his face. “Ai! I thought Valinor was a place of rest!”

“No no no darling, that’s the far side of the island, where the dead dwell. This is the living side of the island, with all the colourful history.”

“Well if Fingon is pregnant, we are moving.”

“Indeed, right back to Middle Earth. I’ll not have my family anywhere near the commotion that shall surely ensue!” Glorfindel settled against Erestor, kissing him, stroking his hand over his fair skin. Erestor smiled and set his book aside.

“Plainly I shall get no sleep tonight.”

“You deserve none if you deny me your beauty.” Glorfindel kissed him, then rolled onto his back to skin out of his close-fitting breeches. Then he slid under the covers and moved close to his lover.

Erestor smiled and put his arms around Glorfindel, stroking his hands over his broad shoulders, and the two moved into an embrace. Glorfindel moved partly onto Erestor, the room quiet save for the crackle of the fire, and the soft sighes as they kissed, exploring each other. Erestor uttered a short giggle as he felt one of Glorfindel’s broad hands slip between his thighs, slowly, gently moving up to touch him. Glorfindel uttered a playful growl, and kissed him, then moved slowly down Erestor’s body, nibbling, kissing and licking him. He made his way between his thighs, and ran his tongue over the thin, sensitive skin. Erestor closed his eyes, tilting his head back and making soft sounds of pleasure as Glorfindel’s seeking tongue explored him, finding its way into his depths, his tongue leaving silvery smears of wetness.

He moved up a little higher, shifting his attention from between Erestor’s thighs to his hardened penis, taking it into his mouth, smiling to himself as Erestor cried out with pleasure, squirming beneath him. Erestor brought up one long leg, draping it over Glorfindel’s shoulders, reaching down to stroke his white hair, smiling as he felt Glorfindel’s hand move up to gently caress him between his thighs once more.

Erestor remembered vividly the night he and Glorfindel discovered his female half had, as Rabbit put it, “awakened”. The opening was very small, and tucked away: not in a place where it was easy to locate, and neither of them were aware of it. That is, until one silly night, when a few of Elrond’s Men-friends popped in for a visit, unannounced.

Elrond greeted the pair with great delight, and was nearly moved to tears to see them. Just who they were, Erestor could not really recall, save they were of such an age as to fall to dust at any moment, and about as interesting. His relationship with Glorfindel was new and exciting, and Fin was finally recovered enough from his battle with the Warg to really show him his paces. Instead, the lovers found themselves waiting on their Lord as he traded stories about incidents they had never heard off with a pair of antique mortals.

Glorfindel poured the first drink.

By the time Elladan, Elrohir, and a few others began to show up, the Advisor and Seneschal were both more than a little tipsy, and up for a little adventure of their own. They slipped away to the library across the hall, locked the door, and were on each other like animals, removing their robes, kissing, biting and touching each other. Glorfindel shoved Erestor up against the wall, the thud plainly audible, as was the smash of a small and terribly ugly vase falling off the bookshelf. It was a gift from Galadriel. Erestor wondered briefly how a woman so wise and kind could have such horrendous taste in home décor.

Erestor felt Glorfindel’s hard cock shoving insistently between his thighs. “Take me,” said Erestor. “Standing up.”

“We don’t have any oil.”

“”Forget the oil. Take me!”

Glorfindel was not a cruel and abusive lover. Indeed, despite his formidable talents as a warrior, there was truly no meanness in him. But he was drunk, and in an awkward position. He put his hands on Erestor’s hips, pulled him forward, and, with far more force than he intended to, shoved into him.

Erestor did not know that he screamed, or how he got on the floor. He only knew this was more pain than he had ever felt. He vaguely recalled Glorfindel throwing his own clothes on, then helping him to stand and dress before putting him on a couch. There was blood everywhere, and the pain was like something out of the torture chambers of Sauron. Then he passed out. To this day he had no idea what Fin said to Elrond, but Elladan and Elrohir said it was the most afraid they had ever seen Glorfindel. However, it did give Erestor some insight into why most Elves, especially female Elves, died when violated. The Valar had not designed the Elven uterus to take a lot of abuse.

Glorfindel still occasionally looked at Erestor and began spewing apologies.

But, despite the blood and chaos, they still did not quite understand what they had found, and Glorfindel was long suspected of using some sort of sharp instrument on Erestor by those who did not know him well. They did not fully comprehend the meaning of the small opening until Erestor became pregnant. Now, years later, both were comfortable with his slightly unusual anatomy, and the dread bayonet legend was more or less laid to rest. But there was one small problem; and as Erestor felt Glorfindel move on top of him and about to enter, he neatly flipped him onto his back.

“Hey!” Glorfindel protested.

Erestor straddled him, pinning him down. “Why is it I hardly ever get to be the one on top?”

“Well you never complained before, darling.”

“I’m not complaining, but you are a MOST attractive and tasty treat, laid out on the bed, and I think I should like to take you, slowly.”

Glorfindel shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. “I shall try to endure.”

“Oh how very brave of you.”

Glorfindel lay, splayed out like a deceased toad, and said, his voice filled with melodrama worthy of a bad play; “Take me, violate me, ravish me… do whatsoever you wish! You cannot break me!”

“Are you done?”

“No. For though you may take this body…”

“Thank you.”

“YEAGH! Darling not so rough!”

Erestor settled over Glorfindel, moving slowly and carefully within him. He kissed his nose. “Sorry. Better?”

It took Glorfindel a few minutes to relax and adjust. Then his eyes rolled back, and he closed them. He moaned quietly, moving in rhythm with Erestor’s thrusts. “You’re right, I don’t let you do this often enough. But not so rough next time.”

Erestor kissed him, and smiled. “Not so rough,” he whispered in agreement.

***---***

Lindir sat in the waiting area for a long time.

He watched Maedhros arrive, eyeing the tall, mythic figure with the long red hair with interest. Then Glorfindel and Ecthelion arrived, also going into the room. He heard discussion, then all five, Elladan, Elrohir, Maedhros, Fin and Ecthelion came out. There was a quiet, intense conversation in the hall. Lindir was not sure what they said, but Maedhros was plainly not amused. He forbade the twins from looking at Fingon, then stormed off. Finally, all went on their way, and the hall fell silent.

Lindir continued to wait, but eventually it occurred to him that Faramir was not coming out. Lindir’s stomach clenched in a knot, and he was not certain what he felt. A profound anxiety, merging with worry and hurt, and possibly a touch of self-denial, churning into a stew of emotion. Finally he could take it no more. He rose from his chair, and glanced about to be sure he was alone in the healing room. He was not quite alone; Mauburz and Rhimlan were in another room down the hall playing ‘Healer’, but they were not paying attention to him. He made his way stealthily to Fëanor’s room.

He carefully pushed the door open, and stepped inside, silently closing the door behind him. He turned, and was brought up short by the sight of a horse lying on the bed like a great dog, head up, ears erect, watching him. Lindir held out his hand and let the beast sniff him, then moved closer to stroke the silky mane. Lindir adored horses. He hoped to have one of his own someday.

He glanced about the room, but did not see Faramir. A frown briefly crossed Lindir’s pretty face. Had Faramir left, and he not noticed?

Lindir abruptly turned towards the bed in terror as Fëanor raised his head, looking around. He was connected to some sort of horrible device that slowly dripped fluid, making him seem all the more frightening. Lindir froze in the darkness, hardly daring to breathe as Fëanor searched the room, listening. Lindir knew Fëanor could not see him in this light, not with his eyesight. But he was still an Elf, and he could hear. Beyond that, this was Fëanor, and Lindir was certain the old Elf probably had some terrible powers, like smelling fear or blood or something. Either way, Miss Goose was scared of him, even if Elrohir loved him.

Fëanor could not smell blood, or fear. But he could smell other things. He lift his head and sniffed, and caught a faint, but undeniable, combination of scents; ginger cookies, musty music books, and, most tellingly, old goose down.

“Hello, Lindir,” said Fëanor dryly.

Lindir nearly wet his robes. He felt the great black horse nose him, wishing to be patted. He resumed stroking the long mane, and cleared his throat.

“Hi Mr. Fëanor,” he said weakly, ashamed to be caught sneaking about.

“’Fëanor’ will do, please, Lindir.” He settled back, closing his eyes. “Child, why are you in my room? The truth now.”

Lindir shuffled his feet, and muttered; “I was looking for Mr. Faramir.”

“And you thought he may be here?”

“Well I saw him come in, but…”

“He is here, child,” said Fëanor. “Keeping me company. He is safe.”

Lindir glanced around, then went cold as he realized Faramir was in bed with Fëanor. The Man was deep in sleep, and did not hear the soft voices of the Elves.

“Why… is he in your bed?”

Fëanor sighed, and swallowed, his throat raw and oozing. He pointed to a bottle on the side table. “Pass me that, would you Lindir?”

Lindir did, handing Fëanor the bottle, then seating himself on a cushion on the floor. Fëanor sipped the liquid, feeling his throat calm. He set the bottle down, and fell silent for a time, thinking. He was quiet so long Lindir wondered if he had fallen asleep.

“Mr. Fëanor?”

Fëanor had no idea what to say, so he decided to go for the simple truth. “Where do you expect him to sleep, on the floor?”

“He could sleep on the couch,” said Lindir testily.

Fëanor sighed, annoyed, exhausted, weak, and in great pain. He dragged his body into a seated position, and decided it was time someone slapped Lindir with the truth.

“Lindir, why do you think people have sex?”

Lindir’s eyes bugged and his jaw dropped. “Mr. Fëanor!”

Fëanor smiled coldly, and fluttered his eyelashes. “Don’t shit me, little one. Yes, I do believe you feel better behaving as an Elfling. I believe it makes you feel safe, and it shields you from much that is ugly in the world. It is, I admit, a most admirable suit of armor. But the problem with that is you are not an Elfling, for all your insistence. You know where babies come from. Indeed I believe you even understand the mechanics of love and love-making. And I believe that you wish Faramir to be your very own. I cannot say I blame you. But now you have a problem, for he cannot love a child. So what to do? Do you grow up, or do you stay a child and let me have him?”

Lindir shivered, afraid and upset, his eyes becoming wet. He had been confronted before about his refusal to grow up, but never so coldly. Never had he been confronted with the consequences of what he had done. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not seem to think of a reply. Fëanor kept speaking.

“You see, Lindir, sex is a complex thing, and there are any number of reasons people lay together. Perhaps they wish a child. Sometimes they do it out of fear, or to reaffirm bonds of love. Sometimes they do it just because it’s fun. And, sometimes, friends sleep together to comfort one another, because they understand each other. It is not an act of love, but distraction, done for fun, the way people might play cards, or darts. For my part, I am dreadful at darts.”

Lindir didn’t want to hear this, but he could not seem to make himself move. Fëanor stared dead at him, mad blue eyes glittering in the dark, pinning him like a moth to a collector’s display.

“Lindir, I know you love Faramir. And I do think he loves you in return. But he cannot love a child. You have two choices. Grow up, or forget him. There is no middle ground. There is no century to think it over. He is Mortal, and in his late twenties. To us, that is a small child. But he is Mortal. If he is very lucky, he has another fifty years.” The blue eyes narrowed icily. “So what is it going to be? Do we keep the Nana Goose routine, or do we grow up? I’m giving you a year. Then I’m going to ask him to marry me.”

Lindir shot to his feet and lunged for the door, shaking with emotion, his body tingling with feelings he could not even name, let alone comprehend. He grasped the handle to the door, then paused, looking at Fëanor.

“I used to call Feronil the nasty Elf,” he said, his voice quavering. “But he’s not nasty. You are. You’re a mean, nasty, NASTY Elf.”

Lindir fled the room, heading for his own. Once there, he grabbed a pack, and changed into the clothes he wore when hunting. He began packing, but suddenly realized he had no clue how to actually pack for a journey: someone had always done it for him. He threw the pack aside, frustrated, and began crying bitterly. He was not aware of someone coming into the room until he felt a gentle hand on his wrist. Lindir looked up, and saw Feronil, his eyes full of concern.

“Lindir what happened?” he asked softly.

Lindir sobbed out his tale, crying as though his heart had broken. Feronil gently pulled him into his arms, rubbing his back.

“There, there, Lindir. It’s hard, and I do not approve of the way he said it, but you know he’s right.”

“I KNOW HE’S RIGHT BUT WHY DID HE HAVE TO BE SO MEAN ABOUT IT?!”

Feronil gently pushed Lindir back, and looked into the clear blue eyes. He laughed softly, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a hankie. He dried Lindir’s cheeks. “Two reasons. One, we did try the nice way,” he said, his tone gently teasing. Lindir smiled slightly, briefly, and rolled his eyes.

“Yes I suppose you did. What’s two?”

“Two is; he’s Fëanor.”

“Well he doesn’t have to be so good at it.”

Feronil dried Lindir’s eyes, then pushed back the wispy, silver-blond hair. “And third; running away never solves anything.”

“I wasn’t running away. I wanted to find my Nana and ask her why she did this to me!”

“Because she was scared,” said Feronil. “She was scared that her baby would grow up and leave her. But it was a cruel and selfish thing to do, and it was not fair to you.”

Lindir shook his head and began to cry. “I want Faramir to love me! Fëanor said he did but why would he..?” Lindir could not finish the sentence.

“Sleep with Fëanor?”

Lindir looked sick. Feronil put an arm around him. “Lindir, what did Fëanor say about why people have sex?”

“That… sometimes they do it for a baby, or because they love each other, or are afraid, or sometimes friends do it for fun. I don’t do that with MY friends.”

“Well, you’d have more friends,” teased Feronil gently.

“FERONIL!” Lindir was appalled, but could not help but laugh. Feronil laughed as well, and the two looked at each other. Lindir pushed his hair back and shook his head.

“So you think… they are just comforting each other.”

“Yes. I do.”

“But WHY?”

Feronil sighed, then asked softly; “Why do you think?”

Lindir looked away, gazing at the floor. “Because… Fëanor is old, and lonely…and ugly…”

“Lindir…”

“And they have both been to war?”

“Yes, they have a lot in common.”

“Faramir is nothing like that… like Fëanor.”

“No, he’s not, Lindir. But they have many similar experiences, and they connect on that level. But it’s either too painful to talk about, or, perhaps they just do not need to discuss it. They understand. So… laying together for them is communication.”

Lindir’s blue eyes began to spill tears once more. “I do not understand,” he whispered, his eyes searching Feronil’s for answers.

Feronil gazed back at Lindir, and said softly, “No. I know.” He gazed back at him for a time longer, then seemed to come to a decision. He moved a little closer, his black velvet advisor’s robes rustling softly. He gently drew Lindir against his chest, and softly, carefully, kissed him.

Lindir’s initial response to the kiss was once of astonishment and confusion. But… it was nice. It was very nice, to be held, to be wrapped in Feronil’s long, heavy sleeves, to feel his arms around him, and his heart beating in his chest. He felt safe, protected, and the enveloping velvet seemed to make all the bad, painful thoughts go away. Lindir wondered if Fëanor hugged and kissed Faramir while wearing his imposing velvet robes, and if the velvet made them feel safe, too.

He was not quite certain how to respond as he felt Feronil’s tongue slip between his lips, but Feronil was in no hurry, and did not mind Lindir’s inexperience in the least. At the slightest push, he backed off, and he and Lindir looked into each other’s eyes. There was a silence, and then Lindir cleared his throat.

“I think… I understand a bit better.”

“I thought you might.”

Lindir looked at the Elf before him. He and Feronil were close in age, and he felt safe with him, instinctively understanding that Feronil would never hurt him. Torture Miss Goose, most certainly, but this was serious, and Lindir understood that all the choices made this night would be his own. He snuggled close to Feronil, smelling the faint scent of the great library, and of roses. Lindir moved his hand over Feronil’s shoulder, feeling the bone and muscle. It was so nice to be held like this.

He raised his head and kissed him again, inhaling sharply as their lips met, feeling both nervous and excited as Feronil’s hand moved up his side, stroking him. The hand moved to the front of his tunic, and, with disconcerting ease, pulled out the leather string holding it closed. Lindir jumped and yanked the garment shut.

“Too fast?” inquired Feronil dryly.

Lindir nodded, holding his tunic closed with one hand, pushing his hair back with the other. Feronil moved back, wondering if maybe it was better if he left. He waited for Lindir to make his decision. Finally Lindir moved onto the bed, lying back on the pillows and permitting the tunic to open. He looked stiff and ill at ease, and Feronil could not help but chuckle.

“Behold the fair temptress.”

Lindir stared back at him sourly. “Don’t make me scream for Mr. Fin.”

“Oh! Now who is a nasty Elf?” Feronil moved to lay beside Lindir, and touched his face, then kissed his nose. “Say the word, and I will leave you alone. I promise.”

“I don’t know what I want. Part of me wishes you would go, part of me wants you to stay… and a really, really BIG part of me wants to go down the hall, rip out Fëanor’s tubes, burn him alive and steal his horse.”

Feronil laughed. “And after his sons hunt you down and eat your brains and mount your skull on a stick?”

“Come back from Mandos, pull out his tubes, burn him alive and steal his horse.” He looked at Feronil, and touched his face. “Feronil I know we fight, but you’re my friend, and you always tell me the truth. Is… what we’re doing now, the same as what Faramir is doing with…?”

Feronil nodded. “Yes.”

“Then I have to do it too.”

Feronil shook his head. “No. Lindir, you do not ever have to do it with anyone if you do not want to. It is your choice alone. And this is not all that is stopping you from having Faramir. There is much more to growing up than giving your body to someone. When Fëanor told you to grow up, he was not commanding you to go out and give yourself to someone. He was telling you to learn what it means to be an adult. To accept responsibility for yourself, and your actions and choices. To do your duties, and what is needed and expected of you, to be a part of this household.”

“Like doing my studies and not fighting about it, even though I hate it.”

“Yes, that is part of it. Remember when Master Erestor had to do the accounts? He hated it, but he did it. Because it needed to be done. And when Glorfindel had to meet with Maedhros when we first came here? He was polite and efficient and professional, even though he did not want to be there, and he would have happily beheaded Maedhros. But he did it, because it was his duty, and he did not want to make Lord Elrond look bad.”

Lindir nodded. “You’re right.” He smiled at Feronil, his eyes becoming damp again. “But I’m afraid.”

“It’s not so bad. There are good things to being an adult.”

“Is this one of them?”

“It certainly can be.”

Lindir looked uncertain. He was tired, and life had become terribly complicated. He just wanted to feel safe again, and to have everything the way it used to be, before Faramir made friends with Fëanor. But wishing would not make it better, nor would harming Fëanor. Faramir had been furious when he hurt Ilinuil, and that really was an accident. And Faramir had only liked to look at Ilinuil; Fëanor was his friend.

Lindir looked at Feronil. He squirmed a bit uncomfortably, and lowered his eyes. “I’m not ready for this, but… would you stay and keep me company?”

Feronil kissed his brow. “Of course.”

Lindir rose to change into his nightshirt. Feronil simply sat up and removed the velvet outer robes, then settled himself under the covers. A short while later, Lindir arrived, and slid under the covers with Feronil. They moved into a comforting embrace, Lindir with his head on Feronil’s chest, listening to his heart, an arm slung across his middle.

“Night Feronil.”

“Good night Lindir. Sleep well.”

Lindir did not think he would get any sleep with all that was swirling through his head, but the events of the last while had exhausted him. His eyes slid closed, and he reached out to draw the black velvet robes across himself like a blanket. He pressed a bit closer to Feronil, feeling warm and safe. Very soon he was deep in soothing sleep.

***---***

Maedhros went for a walk, needing to think, his mind filled and tortured with a thousand thoughts and questions. He moved away from the light and merriment of the party, repeating over and over in his mind the bloodlines of his house, and ending with one name; Finwë. He was the father of his own father, Fëanor, husband of Míriel Serindë, who went to Lórien’s gardens where her spirit left her body after bearing Fëanor. Small wonder, Fëanor could exhaust anyone to the point of fading. Then he remarried his second wife, Indis the Fair, who bore Fingolfin and Finarfin. So if Fingon was pregnant, the Plains Elf blood had not come from Míriel. It had to flow through Finwë, and his parents were unknown. True Firstborn seldom concerned themselves with such things as records, and Finwë was not among the living to tell him their names.

He paused, thinking upon the tale of the wild Elf who had bitten Ilúvatar. Was he their common ancestor?

“No wonder the bloody Valar have it in for us,” he muttered.

He resumed wandering, his feet taking him of their own volition to Maglor’s house. His brother was outside currently, doing something or other. Maedhros was not certain what, but Maglor had always been a bit of an odd bird, even for a Fëanorian. Currently he seemed to be piling firewood around the base of his house. Maglor spied his brother, and passed him a large can.

“Hold this.”

Maedhros did, cocking his head as he stared at what his brother was doing, not really registering what he was seeing.

“It has been a most long and tedious night.”

“Tell me about it,” muttered Maglor. He finished piling the wood then took the can from Maedhros. “How is Fingon?”

“Elrohir thinks he may be with child.”

Maglor ceased splashing liquid on the wood to spin around and face his brother. “WHAT? How in all Arda did THAT happen?! He’s got to be wrong, that’s just not how Yavanna works.” He resumed splashing.

“I have asked myself the same question many times, little brother. I wonder now if we cannot claim as an ancestor the wild Elf who bit Ilúvatar.”

“It would explain why the Valar hate us. How is Atar?”

“Dead, but he’ll recover.”

“Would not surprise me in the least. Have thee a flint?”

Maedhros searched his pockets, and found a flint and tinder. “Maglor, what are you doing?”

“Burning my house down, why do you ask?”

“Well, it just seems a bit odd, even coming from you. Why, may I ask?”

Maglor struck a shower of sparks off the flint, watching as the oil-soaked wood caught. Both Elves stood back from the quickly rising blaze. Maglor returned the flint, and wiped his hands on the back of his breeches. He stared at the flames.

“After you went after Turgon, Gaelemir, Amaris and I went in search of Ilinuil and Maeglin. Seems our little Maeglin has not forsaken his old ways. He had taken Ilinuil away and locked him up in one of the little caves in the cliff wall by the beach. He kept him there for a day, and when that did not win fair Ilinuil’s heart, he decided to try to force himself on him. Ilinuil apparently went along with this to a point, then turned into a creature of dead ice. Maeglin is alive, but currently is missing a certain percentage of skin, as well as the required equipment to rape anyone ever again.”

Maedhros felt his heart break for his brother, and his own woes became small and insignificant. “Oh Maglor, I am so very sorry. But… perhaps it was not entirely Maeglin’s fault? Ilinuil does possess a certain unholy aspect to his beauty.”

“I thought of that, but no. When I came upon him on the beach, he cursed me. He does not love me. He never did. He stayed with me to keep his own cursed hide safe, and because I could provide him comforts. He is as he always was, spoiled and traitorous. I wash my hands of him. Let him roam, cold and maimed upon the beach, as he should have when I found him.”

Maglor turned to his brother, and the two embraced, weeping on each other, their bodies turned to black shadows by the great fire roaring behind them.