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A Far Distant Shore Rating: NC-17 Hawthorne the Guinea Pig played by himself. |
Elrond heard Brennon shout that Fingon had just given birth, and immediately headed in the opposite direction. He had no idea what Fingon and his lover were up to, but he was not getting involved. He strolled over to the fire pit to see what Mauburz was roasting. “Do you think this is the child Aulë accidentally created?” asked Gandalf. Elrond shook his head. “I do not think there is a child at all. At worse Brennon is mistaken. Fingon was not pregnant, and I examined him myself. The only thing inside that Elf is ten pounds of chocolate covered coffee beans and a colon suing for succor. Besides, it was but mere days ago that Aulë replaced the thread. That is not time enough for Fingon to create a baby. No, I have no idea what those two are up to, but I would wager a great deal that Fingon did not just bear a child. I believe it is Legolas who will bring forth one. But even to that I will not swear. His symptoms put me in mind of infection rather than pregnancy.” “But as you said,” Gandalf reminded him, “this is a unique situation.” Elrond nodded. “Aye, and I must be utterly certain in my diagnosis. I did not wish to do this, but I think I have no alternative but to open him up.” “Well that will please Thranduil, to be sure.” “Aye and Gimli and Glóin, not to mention Legolas’ sisters, who are not known for their demure nature. But I have done all I can. It is a necessary step. Once I have seen what is inside him, I can care for him.” “If you can fit your hand inside that tiny little body. I have images of you offering directions to Bramble.” Elrond paused and let his head fall back, sighing. “Rabbit! I must go sedate Rabbit.” He linked his arm through Gandalf’s, and they changed direction, heading for the stone cottage that Haldir and Rabbit called home. “Tell me at least you will favour us with some fireworks?” “Of course! I made one of a Balrog just for this party.” Elrond groaned aloud. “I hope for your sake you are joking. There are many here who will not appreciate the gag.” Gandalf smiled. “I am joking. But I confess to thinking it.” Elrond laughed quietly. They reached the cottage, entering it. They made their way to the bedroom, finding Frost and Elrohir there. Bramble and Rivil were in their own room, playing with Nocturne and Moonshadow. Fang was in there as well, bouncing about the room, causing disaster and chaos in her wake. Rabbit was almost awake, curled up and in pain, growling quietly, but still too drugged to react. Elrond seated himself on the bed and reached out to stroke Rabbit’s black hair, eyes soft with compassion as he watched the large Elf stare blankly, frothing at the jaws. He cursed whoever had done this to him and to his family as he prepared to sedate him once again. “I’ve asked Orophin to organize patrols,” said Elrond quietly. “I have promoted him to Marchwarden during his brother’s recovery. I do not know who is behind this, but he will be caught.” Elrohir nodded, stroking Rabbit’s hair, watching his father prepare a needle and slip it into his patient’s neck. “Did you know Brennon came back?” Elrond smiled. “Yes, I just saw him announce that Fingon had a baby.” Elrohir squeaked. “Fingon had a baby?! But you said..!” “Fingon did not have a baby. I examined him myself. He was not pregnant and there was no opening necessary for getting pregnant. I suspect he and Maedhros are up to some mischief. Tell me of Brennon. How goes life with his aunt?” “There was no aunt,” said Elrohir. “Seems he was afraid Elladan and Orophin would grow weary of him. So he made up the tale about an aunt and fled. He has been staying with Valaríamrûn.” Elrond smiled as Rabbit made a series of irritated noises. He cleaned up the froth dripping from his lips, then checked the hole the spine made, finding it was healing nicely. He prepared a second needle. “So will he be staying with Elladan and Orophin from now on?” Elrohir nodded. “Elladan is so happy about it. It’s not quite what he wanted, but he seems not to mind. Which reminds me – have you learned which one of our fine brave ellons has a passenger?” Elrond gave Rabbit the second needle. Rabbit griped and slobbered, but began to calm down as the agony became a dull ache. “I am not entirely certain, but I believe it is Legolas.” Elrohir winced. “Not much room for a baby in that little body.” “No,” said Elrond. “I will look after him personally. As I said, I am not entirely convinced it is he who is the receiver of this questionable blessing, but he is certainly not well. I wish to make certain he recovers.” Rabbit tracked the movement of some invisible animal. Frost smiled, but his eyes were filled with sadness. “Poor Sia. Why would anyone do such a thing to you?” Rabbit growled, but was far too heavily drugged to react to anything occurring around him. “He will be fine,” said Elrond. “The effects are already wearing off. In four more days he will be fine. But for now, this will keep him from hurting himself or anyone else. Let’s get some food into him before I administer the final needle and he’s out for the night.” Frost and Elrohir undertook the task of persuading the heavily drugged and dazed Elf to eat. Then, once Rabbit was fed and settled, Elrond gave him the last needle, sending him into a dreamless sleep. Elrohir and Frost had decide to stay in the cottage while Rabbit recovered, so that Bramble and Rivil could be close to their Sia as well as in their own home, and now they set about getting the children ready for bed. Elrond, his work at last done for the evening, locked away the drugs for Rabbit. “Now to enjoy the final night of my party,” said Elrond. “Providing nothing else exciting occurs!” He opened the door to depart, and stopped dead, eyes growing large, as a female Elf pounced on him with a joyful squeak. “Elrond, my darling, how I have missed you!” “Celebrían?” he asked, astonished. “Yes, my love, it is I, returned to you at last, my injuries and heart finally whole.” “NANA!” exclaimed Elrohir, who jumped and fell silent as something that sounded like a demon raised a hellish snarling in the next room. All those gathered in the kitchen froze, and waited for Rabbit to stop growling and collapse once more into nothingness. “What in all Arda was that?” asked Celebrían. “A patient,” said Elrond. “So let us keep our voices down.” “I did not know you treated beasts,” said Celebrían, and turned to look at Elrohir, while Frost narrowed his eyes in displeasure. Elrohir pounced on his nana, throwing his arms around her. “Nana, I have missed you so!” “Oh I have missed you too, my little…” She gently pushed him back and looked at him. “Great Aulë. Elrohir is that you?” Elrohir nodded. His hair was a long brown waterfall, reaching his thighs, loose and silky. He was wearing a khiton of pale grey silk, edged with silver and blue, and about his neck was a silver knot amulet, much like Frost’s. His eyes were underlined with delicate sweeping lines, forming his ‘fox’ mask, the tattoo he had chosen for himself when he became part of the clan. Celebrían looked him up and down, while Elrond stood back and smiled. Finally she grabbed a hankie and proceeded to try and wipe off the tattoo, glaring at Elrond. “I can’t believe you let him go out in public like that!” “Nana! Leave it alone, it doesn’t come off!” “Of course it will come off!” “No, it won’t! It’s a tattoo, it’s imbedded permanently into my flesh!” Celebrían scrubbed a little while longer to make sure, then looked at Elrond again. “And why did you let our baby mutilate himself?” Elrond cleared his throat. “Perhaps Frost can answer that. Frost, may I introduce you to Celebrían? She is Elrohir’s…” He had to force himself to get the next word out. “…mother. Celebrían, this is Frost, Elrohir’s husband, shaman of the Fox Clan, Sia of his children.” Celebrían turned and came nose to chest with Frost. She stared at his chest, thinking it was a very nice chest. Then she looked up into the luminous yellow-green eyes. “Oh you’re one of those barking Elves! How quaint. DO… YOU… UN-DER-STAND… ME?” Elrond slapped his hand over his face and shook his head. Elrohir looked indignant. “Of course he understands you, Nana, don’t be silly.” “Well he’s very pretty. Next time he goes into heat you can breed him, the offspring should be lovely.” Celebrían turned to face Elrond, not noticing Elrohir had to restrain Frost from launching a killing bite at the back of her head. Suddenly a tin pitcher came flying out of the loft bedroom that was Bramble’s, landing with a terrific crash. Rabbit raised his voice in a hellish scream that Elrohir had never heard a Plains Elf make before. Frost went to his Sia, while Elrohir caught the pitcher and went upstairs to close the door and prevent a repeat performance. He returned moments later with his two beautiful midnight-coloured children. “Nana? These are my children, Nocturne and Moonshadow.” Celebrían turned and looked down at the two. They stared back at her with baleful gold eyes. She cleared her throat delicately. “Well. Aren’t they beautiful. Ah…. Are they supposed to look like that?” Elrohir rolled his eyes. “Yes, they are.” He began to feel hurt and insulted. “And if you had bothered to read any of the letters I sent you, then you would know that.” Gandalf suddenly decided that now was a good time to announce he was getting the fireworks underway, and leave. He was followed out the door by Bramble, Moonshadow and Nocturne, as well as Fang. Rivil was in his crib, asleep. Celebrían looked surprised. “Well Elrohir I was ill, you cannot have expected me to have read every little thing you sent me.” Elrond prudently went to help Frost with Rabbit. He had seen Elrohir get angry in the past; he had no urge to watch the kid face off with his mother. He instead closed the bedroom door and put pillows over Rabbit’s head. Rabbit muttered and griped, but remained more or less peaceful. “EVERY LITTLE THING?!” Elrohir exploded. Celebrían looked shocked and backed up a step. “EVERY LITTLE THING?! My husband DIED, leaving me alone with two infants and a clan to look after, and THAT is EVERY LITTLE THING?! Arwen got married, did you know that? Did you know she had a baby boy? Elladan got married as well, to an archer of the Golden Wood. We ALL came to YOUR tower to tell you these things, in fact when my husband died, Ada went personally to get you and you STILL wouldn’t come! And now you finally DO show up and you talk about my husband as if he is a dog and you ask me if my children are SUPPOSED to look like that.” “Well I didn’t mean any harm,” she said. Elrond winced, and awaited the explosion. He was not disappointed. “DIDN’T MEAN ANY HARM?! WHAT IF SOMEONE HAD WALKED UP TO ADA WHILE YOU TWO WERE MARRIED AND SAID ABOUT YOU ‘WELL WHEN NEXT SHE GOES INTO HEAT YOU CAN BREED HER’?” “Well clearly he would have defended me because I am a Lady and not some barking Neanderthal Elf.” “YOU’RE A SELF-INVOLVED SMUG SELF RIGHTEOUS BITCH IS WHAT YOU ARE!” Elrond rolled his eyes. Frost asked softly; “Were they always this volatile together?” Elrond nodded. “Elrohir has ever had a fire within him, and he cares not to control it when angered. I pray you forgive her, Frost. Celebrían may be self-absorbed and a ninny, but she is a dear heart. It is just most unfortunate that, when the wind blows it, whistles betwixt her ears.” “I thought as much,” said Frost. “You would not have grieved so deeply for her had she not much goodness in her.” “Her heart is purest Mithril,” said Elrond. “Sadly her brain is oatmeal.” He smiled. “And that battle out there is music to my heart.” Frost laughed. “And yet you stay in here with me. If you were to go into the kitchen, you could hear the music much better.” “Nay, I can hear it well enough in here. Seems to me a good time to check Rabbit’s mouth for any sign of infection from the splinters.” “I already did. He’s good.” Elrond nodded. He looked towards the door, then sighed. “That’s it, I’ve had it.” Elrond walked over to the window and opened it. With as much dignity as he could muster, he stepped through it and into the garden. Frost laughed. “Enjoy your party.” Elrond smiled, arranged his robes, and strolled towards his pavilion. It was his party, and he meant to take pleasure in it. ***---*** Maedhros cleared the steps to the bedchamber two at a time, hitting the door and throwing it open, entering the room in a swirl of cape and hair, striding directly towards Fingon. “YOU, sir, are a pain in the ass. We were just supposed to scare Atar, not throw all Valinor into a frenzy.” He paused and looked his lover over. “By Eru, you’re a mess. Who did your make-up?” Fingon stared back at him. “Val. And any joke worth doing is worth doing well.” Maedhros walked over to the bed, slowly. Fingon closed his eyes and let his head fall back to the pillow, breathing hard. He was gleaming with sweat, and the room stank of some indescribable odor – blood, mixed with other things. The sheets were destroyed. Maedhros suddenly felt terribly nervous. He seated himself on the bed and took Fingon’s hand. “My love you did not… really… just…” “No, don’t be silly. Val helped with the look of the room, and I ran up and down the stairs to the high tower six or seven times.” “You’re mad.” “Thank you. I believe the ravening hoards have arrived.” Fingolfin burst in like a vision of past glory, blazing with the silver-blue light that touched the recently Reborn, swooping down to seat himself by his son. “My baby! What has that son of a bitch done to you?” Maedhros opened his mouth, but did not get a chance to say anything before Finarfin was flying in after him. “Fingolfin! What monsters have you lain with to produce such a creature? I DEMAND you explain yourself! What have you done to our bloodline?” “I have done NOTHING you deadly dull self-righteous lump!” Fingolfin snapped back. Fingon opened his mouth, but his father gently hushed him. “Quiet my child. Just lie back. You’ve suffered a terrible strain.” Finarfin loomed over his brother, outraged. “I demand he be examined by a worthy healer!” Both Fingon and Fingolfin exclaimed "NO!", though it was possible that Fingon's voice held a note of horror. Maedhros interposed himself between his lover and his uncles, and added his own voice to the debate, quietly and with finality. "No. Findekano has been through enough. He has just given birth, now with all due respect to my esteemed uncles… please leave." Maedhros reached down and squeezed Fingon’s hand, feeling the stickiness of drying blood. Val had certainly outdone himself – Fingon looked like he had just been through the most traumatic birth ever. Meanwhile, Fingolfin and Finarfin blinked at Maedhros, almost in unison, then looked at each other. "This has to be Fëanor’s fault, somehow it just has to be," said Finarfin. Fingolfin resumed fussing over his baby, while in the hall, Anairë’s voice could be heard screeching. Fingon rolled his eyes as his Nana burst into the room in an absolute state, several high-ranking Noldo right behind her, and more were beginning to assemble in the hall. Fingon glanced at Maedhros with a look that read; 'I really did it this time, didn't I?' The look Maedhros gave him back roughly translated as; ‘Yes, darling, and if I get out of this without another kinslaying, you are on the couch for a month!’ He looked at his family, then at the door, and sighed. "It was not Atar's fault. Not every traumatic event in this family is his doing. Hello, Auntie Anairë," he said, the last three words said in that dry, slightly bored tone of one who is less than delighted to see a relative. Anairë was a beautiful and noble-looking Elf-woman, who did not know the meaning of the word 'fear.' Come to think of it, there were a lot of words she didn't know the meaning to. Like 'tact'. She turned and faced down her nephew, who was at least two feet taller than she. "You bastard. How did you get my baby in this state? I demand to know what sorcery you used. Surely this did not come through OUR side of the family. And you're a mess." Anairë, despite all, did love her nephews deeply. She just was not entirely certain what to DO with them, especially Fëanor’s lot. She grabbed Red's face in one hand, licked a hankie, and wiped a smudge off his cheek. Maedhros squirmed and grimaced. It didn't help that Fingon couldn't quite smother a snort of laughter. "Auntie Anairë!" he sputtered. To Anairë, all the bloody deeds of Maedhros' past paled next to a smudge on his face, Ai! He wriggled free and gave Fingon another filthy look. Then he looked in growing irritation at the rest of the family. He crossed the floor to slam the door to the bedchamber faces of the nobles and gawkers gathered. "And you lot can piss off, too,” he muttered to them from behind the closed door. Then he turned back to Anairë and took a deep breath, smiling sweetly. "If you get me parchment and ink I will gladly illustrate how I got your baby in this state.” Finarfin shrugged and went for the paper and ink. Finarfin was a lovely Elf but he was NOT the intellectual giant of the family. Anairë exclaimed; "Finarfin! Don't be crude. You either," she snapped at Maedhros. "Where is my grand baby?" Maedhros stared right back, then relented and gently took their daughter from Fingon's arms. "Her name is Annaiel," he said, carefully passing her the baby. Anairë tenderly took the tiny baby from him, noting sourly the red hair that seemed proof of her parentage. Fingolfin rose up from behind her to look over her shoulder, still shimmering eerily with the bluish-silver light. "Well," Anairë admitted, "you make lovely babies, Maedhros." She smiled and walked over to a large chair, seating herself with the infant, cooing to the tiny sleeping bundle. The muted noise of soft speech in the hall suddenly went oddly silent. The door opened, and Faramir stepped inside, carrying a large leather bag, his brown eyes nervous. He bowed formally to the Elves gathered, and then held the door open for one who came behind him. Maglor walked in, carrying a wasted and pale little form, wrapped in a light grey silk quilt. Maglor paused, and said, almost apologetically; "He insisted. I relented because I feared he would strain himself.” Maedhros winced. Whose stupid idea had this been? He walked quickly over to his brother, and carefully took his father from his arms. He noted with a pain in his heart just how little Fëanor weighed. He gently chastised him as he placed him on the bed. "Atarinya, you should be in bed, not here with the lunatic hoards. They all think this is your fault anyway, and I was just explaining how it was." Fëanor was scarcely a shell of an Elf. He was covered in sores, and the venom of the Ungoliath had wasted him to bones in astonishingly little time. But he was still Fëanor, and he was not about to be daunted by the presence of his half-brothers. "Seems to me," he whispered, having to struggle to pull in every breath, "if it is the fault of any, it would have to be Finwë." The room went utterly, deathly silent. Then Fingolfin’s light went from silver-blue to blazing blue-white. Finarfin, who was less volatile than his two brothers, simply stepped aside to think this situation over. Maedhros found himself grinning, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Perhaps it is!” he said. “In which case, all of us might bear children!" He slanted a wicked look at his enraged Uncle, while a part of his mind ran around shrieking, wondering how the hell they were going to get out of this one. "Explain yourself!" demanded Fingolfin. If he had been a hound, his hackles would have been positively vertical. Fëanor glanced wearily at Faramir, who clearly would rather be back in Pelennor, or perhaps burning on the pyre with his mad father, anywhere but stuck in a room with Fëanor and his outraged kin. He cleared his throat, and felt oddly cold as Fingolfin’s eyes, blazing with a silver-blue light, cut into his flesh "If I may explain for Fëanor, my Lord?” “Announce yourself first!” “Faramir, son of Denethor, liaison between New Imladris and Elessar, High King of Gondor.” Fingolfin nodded. “Go on then.” “Well, according to the studies made by Lord Elrond, Plains Elf fathers Plains Elf, my Lord. If the father is, for example, a Noldorian, then the child is a Noldorian, regardless of what the blood of the mother may be mixed with. But, if the father’s blood is mixed with the blood of the Plains Elves, then the child takes after the sire. Ergo, the... bloodline has to come through the grandsire." Maedhros blinked innocently. "See, uncle Fingolfin? Any of us can bear, if that is the case. Wouldn't that be fun?" He gave Fingon a; ‘What the bloody hell are we going to do?’ look while his relations were still taking in this information. Fingon's eyes were enormous, but he had no answers. He knew the joke would spark great outrage, but he had clearly underestimated the level of over-reaction his family was capable of. Which was a most unacceptable oversight, given just who his family was. Fingon did the only thing an Elf could do in the current situation - he pulled a bag of beans out from under the covers and began to munch. Fingolfin sat down heavily on the bed, taking a handful of the offered beans, chewing them idly as his mind raced. Anairë gently rocked the tiny, red-haired babe, and cleared her throat. "Well. How... interesting. Lord Faramir, have you any... thought as to whom this ancestor may be?" Faramir looked like he would like to vanish down a convenient drain as he turned to face Anairë. "Well, given the age of your esteemed family, my Lady, that would have to be..." He paused, and swallowed. "Fadai." Anairë nodded. “I see,” she said. “Well. How… interesting.” Maedhros rolled his eyes. This was ridiculous. He had to put an end to this joke before things went too far, if they had not already. He stood and cleared his throat, waiting until they all turned to look at him. "Alright," he said resignedly. "Enough. Fingon and I have something to tell you. But I wish to tell Atar first, so if the rest of you would please excuse us?" Finarfin walked to the door, shaking his head, while Maglor raised up Anairë from the chair. She refused to be parted from the baby, and breezed into the hall to proudly show her off, followed by Fingolfin, who was munching beans. They departed, leaving Fëanor on the bed. Faramir hesitated, not wishing to leave Fëanor alone. Maedhros made a quiet sound of amusement, and walked over to the Mortal, leading him to the bed to sit by his father. Faramir sat on the bed and gently placed Fëanor’s head on his lap, stroking the black hair. "Fingon did not bear the child," Maedhros said, without preamble. "Val found her mother dead on the beach after a ship foundered on the rocks. Fingon was never pregnant; she is our daughter by adoption only, nothing more. We wished only to play a joke." Fëanor closed his eyes, and smiled. He said softly; "Was worth it to see old Fingolfin have a fit." He reached out to gently take Fingon's hand and squeezed it. "But I for one would have been honoured to have a child from both of you." He seemed to consider saying something, but instead just shook his head, as if in response to some unheard question. Then Fëanor said; "Did you say Val? As in Valaríamrûn?" Maedhros could have kicked himself for mentioning Val to his father, remembering how Val had abruptly left so long ago. "Yes," he said softly. Fëanor nodded, and seemed to somehow become a little smaller, as if some part of him had just departed. "How is he?" he asked, trying to sound casual, and not succeeding. "He is well. He still lives in the old cottage." Maedhros was beginning to wish he had learned to think before he spoke. "Glorfindel and Erestor just took him on to assist them with their brood, now that Erestor is pregnant again. As you did, when Nana was pregnant with Curufin." Fëanor nodded, his blue eyes dimmed and glazed. He closed his eyes, and said softly; "I fear I will not make it back to Lord Elrond's house. Would you suffer my presence in the upstairs chambers, along with the company of my dear companion?" Maedhros sensed something in his father. Of all Fëanor’s sons, Maedhros had been closest to his father, and still could discern when he was holding back, or hiding something. He picked Fëanor up. "I will settle you, Atar. Faramir, would you give me a moment with my father please?" Faramir nodded. “Of course,” he said. Maedhros nodded in return, and left the room. He carried Fëanor past the group, wondering how difficult it was going to be to get his baby back from his auntie. Feanor hung like a dead thing in Maedhros' arms as he carried him up the flight of steps to the grand guest chamber. It was rarely used, but was a very fair room, especially at night, when the open arched windows on all sides gave one a view of all Valinor. Maedhros would have happily used the room himself, but Fingon did not care for such an open chamber, saying he always felt like their lovemaking was on display for all the world to see. Maedhros carried his father over to the bed, noting that being placed down on the soft mattress was clearly an enormous relief to him. As Maedhros arranged Fëanor’s covers, he noticed that Elrond had carefully bundled up all the bottles and tubes that fed medicine into Fëanor’s veins in the quilt. Clearly Elrond had not intended for Fëanor to be gone the night, and Maedhros began looking for something to hang the bottles from. "Tell me, Atar," he said softly as he searched. "I know something happened between you and Val, is it not time you told someone what it was?" Fëanor’s voice was dry whisper. "Maedhros, you and I have a strange relationship Never have a father and son loved and loathed one another as much as thee and I. Perhaps... since you have seen fit to offer me some measure of forgiveness, I will share this with you. But first I need a few things from the bag Faramir brought with him, then my child I shall ask an oath of you. I shall not demand, and I promise it will not be so dark and dreadful as the last." Maedhros had stiffened visibly at the sound of the word, ‘oath’. He looked down at Fëanor searchingly, stomach roiling, then nodded shortly, not trusting himself to speak. He left the chamber to collect the bag, returning in moments. He carried it over to Fëanor, seating himself on the bed beside him. Fëanor did not reach for the bag. Instead he reached for Maedhros, placing his small white hand over his son's broad, strong one. "Swear to me, Maedhros, that you will repeat none of what I tell you. This is painful enough for me. I could not live with the pain should it become common knowledge." Maedhros frowned, troubled in a way he could not name. "I made a promise to myself never to swear to anything ever again, and most especially not to you, but..." He shook himself and said warily, "I will not harm any for you again. If this is anything but that, then I swear." "I demand harm of another from no living being created by Ilúvatar or Titania," said Fëanor. "I am content with my horses and my wine, and if ever I do beg you to harm another, you must not do it. Instead you must lock me up and send for an expert on poisons." Maedhros flinched visibly. "Atar, please!" He took a breath. "Tell me," he said again, bracing himself. Fëanor watched his child. "Calm yourself, Maedhros, I am not summoning a Balrog, I am but a very ill and weary Elf about to impart a secret to his child. A secret I never should have kept, but... well..." Fëanor seemed to think about how best to proceed, wondering if Maedhros even really wished to hear this, or if he wished to speak of it. "Tell me, do you know of the music room? The one which I keep locked?" Nodding, Maedhros thought back. "Aye, I asked you about it once, it was the one time I thought you would strike me. What of it?" Feanor was rapidly running out of strength. He was ill and exhausted, and his wasted little body seemed to almost be melting. "The key is on a chain about my neck. All the answers are in the music room. But tell no one Maedhros, I beg. Not even your pretty Fingon." Maedhros stared down at his father, eyes troubled; then he carefully and gently took the key from around Fëanor’s neck. "Do you want me to send Faramir to you while I look?" Fëanor nodded, then seemed to think. "Take your brother Maglor. But share none of this with any other. This is for my sons to know alone." Maedhros kissed his brow. "Yes my Lord," he murmured, and left the room. He returned to his own room, and sent Faramir upstairs. He collected his brother from where he stood among the milling hoards in the corridor. "Ask nothing yet," he told him as he took his arm and led him away from the gathering. "There is something Atar wants us alone to see." He held up the key to the music room. Maglor gazed at the key. He had also wondered about the secret contained in that small chamber. It seemed they were about to learn what that secret was. He nodded, eyes nervous. Together they left the hall and set out for their father’s keep. ***---*** Rúmil sat on the bed for a time, gathering his thoughts, getting his emotions under control. Celebrían had returned. There was nothing he could do about that. But that did not mean he had to let her waltz in and take his husband. He dried his face, then used some of the cosmetics he had left over from his catamite days to hide the signs of weeping. He thought upon Lady Celebrían as he cleaned himself up and made himself presentable. She was not a bad person. Spoiled, yes, a drama queen, most definitely, but not evil. It was quite likely she honestly did not understand that Elrond had finally moved on with his life, despite the fact she claimed to have unbound herself from him and was fading. Fading. Rúmil snorted with derision. He had seen Elves fade of despair. It was a horrid thing to witness, but it usually took little time. Some Elves took a few days, perhaps even an entire month. Some Elves died on their feet within moments. But Celebrían had been at it for a few years now. What was she waiting for, was Námo building her a hall of her own? He doubted it. And the more Rúmil thought about this, the angrier he became. He had loved and served the Lady many long years, watched her grow from a delightful and charming, albeit spoiled, child, to a delightful and charming, albeit VERY spoiled, woman. She was done weeping over what she had suffered at the hands of the Orcs. She was well and whole again, and had come home to claim what was hers. And in the manner of those who were accustomed to taking what they wanted, she did not expect Elrond to refuse her, nor for Rúmil to stand up to her. Clearly she had underestimated Rúmil. And apparently she had never heard the expression; “All is fair in love and war.” Rúmil walked to the door, pulling it open to find his own guards waiting patiently in the hall. They perked up at the sight of their Lord, standing tall, and Rúmil smiled with a certain level of self-vindication. The guards loved him, because Rúmil himself was a warrior, and understood well that soldiers responded best to fair command and rewards for a job well done. Celebrían’s method of dealing with her guards was to reduce them to scampering servants and to belittle them for not being able to meet her myriad demands. He had personally seen them refuse to answer her, and though Rúmil would never say as much, he suspected that was what had happened the dreadful day she had been abducted by the Orcs. He shuddered. Spoiled or not, she had not deserved such horror. Rúmil made a quiet request of them, and they hastened off to fulfill it. Then he returned to his room to make certain that his babies had all they needed. He glanced up at the portraits that hung in the room. Perhaps he was no Gil-galad, or his herald, but that did not mean he was helpless. He put his babies in their basket and lifted them, thinking he needed a more convenient way to pack them around. Then he left the room, head held high, making his way directly to the pavilion where Elrond would be waiting for him. Where Celebrían would certainly be making her first in a series of attempts to reclaim her husband. An attempt she would be confident would succeed. He narrowed his eyes as he saw her, right where he suspected she would be, standing before Elrond, fussing over him, flirting openly. Rúmil heard himself growl, but made himself behave as he walked up to the pair. Elrond saw him and smiled, his eyes warm, and Rúmil suddenly felt foolish he had ever despaired, even for a moment. Celebrían however did not release her hold on his arm as Elrond stepped forward to greet him, finally pulling his arm free in order to take the basket in which his babies lay. Elrond indicated the lavish daybed set up especially for his husband. “Rest,” he said softly. Rúmil smiled. “Not yet,” he said, his voice equally quiet. “I have not yet presented you with your birthday gift.” Elrond reached out to touch his long, pale hair. “What do you call what lies in yon basket, if not a birthday gift?” “I had another already selected before Ereinion and Eölthrim made their appearance. It is but a simple gift, but one I hope pleases you.” Celebrían stepped forward to stand beside Elrond again, once more taking his arm. “A gift, how quaint! I already presented him with my gift.” “And pray, what was it, my lady? A diamond crusted feather duster, or a black velvet painting of a Balrog?” “Neither!” she retorted. She stepped aside and pointed to something. It was a stained glass window, and Rúmil felt his heart sink. It was truly an exquisite piece of work, wrought of fine leaded glass, transformed into a fantastically detailed depiction of a healer’s garden and the herbs that grew there, complete with tiny insects perching on the leaves, an impudent mouse seated beneath the chamomile, washing its muzzle, and one of the beautiful velvet black Mirkwood butterflies seated on the blooming mandrake. It was stunning, utterly stunning. He was wondering how on Arda she had created such a thing, when he noticed a tiny white star in the lower right hand corner, a detail that Celebrían herself had likely missed. She had not made it. She had somehow convinced Fëanor to make it, and judging by the amount of detail, she must have approached him about it months ago. In all likelihood she had said, “Well just make him something,” and Fëanor had made something he thought both practical and lovely – a window for Elrond’s new study. “It is indeed a fair gift,” admitted Rúmil, for it was. Fair and useful, but not truly from her. He saw more of Fëanor’s heart in this than Celebrían’s. Possibly he had made it in hopes Elrond would continue to permit Elrohir to visit with him. The guard Rúmil had sent to pick up his own gift arrived, and passed him a small box, bedecked with silk paper. He took it, and passed it to Elrond. “And here is mine,” he said softly. Ecthelion edged closer to peer over Elrond’s shoulder. Elrond smiled, and lifted the lid off the box, laughing at what he saw. Five tiny chicks, barely a few days old, little more than puffs of black and yellow fluff, stared back at him. Celebrían and Ecthelion exchanged glances, one as puzzled as the other, but Elrond was clearly delighted. “Chickens! Rúmil how did you..?” “I recall how you would stand in the garden and toss feed to the chickens in Imladris, and speak to them, telling them what was in your heart, when you dared not speak it to another,” said Rúmil softly. “I sent word to the Rangers who dwell there now, and they sent these, the descendants of the ones you would speak to.” He smiled. “They too will hear your thoughts, and keep your secrets safe.” Elrond picked up one of the tiny balls of fluff, watching it as it sat, blinking sleepily, in his palm. His eyes were shining wetly. “My dearest Rúmil,” he said softly. “Always you are a delight and a comfort to me. Thank you for this.” Ecthelion picked up one of the chicks and stared at it. “Chickens. Well I confess this is not a birthday gift I would have thought of, lest it be covered in gravy.” Elrond glared at him and took back his chicken, replacing it in the box and covering it. He set them aside, and gently drew Rúmil into his arms, kissing him. “It is one of the finest gifts I had ever received,” he said, and held him tightly. Rúmil smiled, and placed his head on his husband’s shoulder, feeling his heart become lighter. “You are welcome,” he said. He closed his eyes, and neither moved as Celebrían walked away, knowing she was defeated, and her mother had spoken true. She had waited too long. ***---*** Lindir sat on a chair near one of the fire pits, tuning his mandolin. He kept turning to look for Miss Goose, and feeling distressed when he did not see her. He felt insecure with her gone, and he made up his mind to ask Maedhros to return her to him. At least if she was at home he would know she was safe and warm and in her proper nightie with her night cap and her slippers on; the nights really were rather chilly, and… Lindir stopped. He stopped tuning, stopped thinking about Miss Goose, stopped breathing. He simply froze where he was, and stared at the gloriously beautiful Elf who walked by. He was very tall, his long black hair flowing loose, held in place by a thin circlet. He was dressed in exceptionally fine garb of blue, and the other Elves bowed as he walked passed, but he seemed not to see them. He walked in light as did all Elves, but his light was not soft white, it was instead a silvery blue. He was followed by an entourage of other beautiful Elves, many of them bathed in silver light was well, clad in garb that Lindir knew he should recognize from his history lessons, and would have if he had been able to think right then. He was vaguely aware of the sound of Amrun speaking to Anna not far away. “Who is that?” she asked. Amrun answered, but his reply was muffled by loud shout of “To the Queen!” from those playing Tablero. “Why does he shine blue?” Amrun kissed her face. “That is the sign of a very old fëa, recently reborn, likely within the last one hundred years. It will turn white again eventually.” She nodded, her hand on her enormous belly, watching the Elves, asking questions of her husband. But Lindir had eyes only for the beautiful shimmering Elf strolling through the crowd. Then the Elf stopped, turning his head, and Lindir saw that his eyes were also silver-blue, shining with the light of Ilúvatar. Lindir slowly rose to his feet, feeling his heart do something strange in his breast as the beautiful Elf strolled towards him. Lindir bowed respectfully, not because he knew who the Elf was, but because he seemed deserving of such a gesture. The Elf was extremely tall, and when Lindir looked up into his eyes, he felt his throat go tight, and his heart pound in his breast like a hammer. “Well met,” said the tall Elf softly. Lindir swallowed, realizing he was blushing like a fool, and felt terribly flustered. “Well met,” he whispered. “You are a minstrel?” said the Elf. It was more of an observation than a question. “Training to be, my Lord,” said Lindir, willing his knees to stop shaking. “Perhaps you would favour us with a tune?” Lindir nodded, and seated himself. He was not unaware of the rolling of eyes from the group assembled around him, dreading the inevitable Nana Goose song, and normally that was indeed what they would get. But Lindir had also been spending quite a bit of time out near the saffron fields, which was usually tended by women. They were Elven women to be sure, but these were not frail maids or ladies of the court. These were, for want of a better description, peasant stock: women who had tended the fields since there were fields to tend, and who had a slightly less than perfect grasp of manners and decorum. They would sing to amuse each other as they worked, and some of the songs made his ears turn positively flaming red. But he had heard one song that he had secretly taken to heart, altering it just slightly to make it fit himself a bit better. For some strange reason, this was the one he chose to sing at that moment. He arranged his robes prettily, cleared his throat, and picked up his mandolin. He heard two of the Elves in the entourage making bets. “Two gold says ‘Three Blind Orcs.’” “Nay, ‘Mary Had a Little Ram’.” Lindir fixed them each with a look of pure ice. He cleared his throat and once more turned his attention to his mandolin. "I, a tender young lad, have been courted by many, My thing is my own and I’ll keep it so still, A sweet scented courtier did give me a kiss, My thing is my own and I’ll keep it so still, A master of music came with an intent My thing is my own and I’ll keep it so still, A fine dapper tailor with yard in his hand My thing is my own and I’ll keep it so still, Lindir smiled and blushed at the cheers and applause and laughter his song elicited, though he knew once he had a chance to think about what he had done he would be too mortified to show his face for a month. His eyes shone as the tall Elf walked up to him, laughing. He felt the butterflies in his stomach do cartwheels, and his knees threatened to give, and he was utterly lost in those shining eyes. Someone passed him a glass of wine, and he sipped it, vaguely aware as the Elf waved his hand dismissively at his entourage. They bowed, and departed without a word, leaving them alone. The Elf reached up and tugged gently at a tendril of Lindir’s silver hair. “So, I take it from your song that I am standing in the presence of a virgin. That is no easy thing to find in this day and age. Young Elves are more free than I was raised to be. I confess there are times I feel as if all the world has gone marching forward and left me in a past age.” “Times and folk change,” said Lindir, looking into his eyes. He felt removed from his own body, as if he no longer knew himself. “Sometimes rather quickly. Until I spied you, I thought passion and desire were but words.” “They are, when said. They must be felt in the heart.” The tall Elf stepped closer. “Do you feel them?” “I do,” whispered Lindir. The beautiful Elf was directly before him. Lindir could smell the scent of his body, could feel his own heart threatening to break through his ribcage. This was it – this was why Fin seemed to completely lose track of what he was saying or doing when Erestor passed by. This was what all the songs and stories talked about. Lindir did not know if it was love but it certainly was wonderful. “Losing one’s virginity is not a matter to be taken lightly,” the luminous Elf chided gently. “I know,” said Lindir. “But it seems to me that how I lose it is my choice. That it should be magical and wonderful, and it is for me to determine when the moment is right, and with whom to share it.” The Elf smiled, his black hair falling long and thick passed his shoulders, his circlet bearing a device that looked very much like Fëanor’s, yet was different. “And do you wish to share it with me, little minstrel?” Lindir began to shiver uncontrollably, scared to death, yet every fiber of his being telling him this was right. “If my Lord will have me.” He smiled, and offered Lindir his arm. Lindir slung his mandolin and took it, and together he and this glorious vision of ages past walked up to his humble cottage. Though this Elf seemed high-born and of a noble house, he did not turn his nose up at Lindir’s quaint little home, though he did seem terribly amused at the lop-sided and bulging lumps of wax that passed as Lindir’s first attempts at candle-making. “’T is a good thing you are a minstrel and not a chandler!” he said, holding up something that looked like a pregnant worm with a two foot wick. Lindir blushed and grumbled, and almost blamed that one on Miss Goose, but did not want his new friend to think him a child. Fëanor had driven that lesson home to him – he could not be a child as well as a lover. And he wanted to be a lover. “I fear I have not lived long on my own and the duties of running a household are a bit beyond me,” he muttered, hiding another lump that looked for all the world like something that had come out the back end of a hound. The shimmering Elf picked up a candle that Lindir had wrought into a reasonable likeness of one of the seals that visited the shores of the island. “But you are not without talent. Perhaps you might try your hand at sculpture.” “Perhaps I shall,” said Lindir. The Elf set aside the seal and moved closer to Lindir, putting his strong hands on his slight shoulders. Lindir’s eyes fluttered, and he swayed slightly, overwhelmed by something he could not name, some sense of want and desire, and the way the centuries followed this Elf like cloud of dark perfume. It was heady and exhilarating, and Lindir, who for so long had denied himself any adult pleasures, found that the kiss Feronil had given him the other night had now opened up a floodgate of new feelings and desires. He almost swooned, and the Elf caught him, lifting him up with a swift graceful motion. “I’ve never done this before,” whispered Lindir. The Elf was amused. “Well, that rather goes without saying, doesn’t it?” Lindir smiled, then gasped as the Elf lowered his head and kissed him. He parted his lips and felt his tongue enter his mouth, and he made a gasp of surprise, desire and fear washing through him. But the fear was only a small part of this, and getting smaller as he kissed this gloriously beautiful ellon. He felt himself carried upstairs to his small loft room, where the Elf took him over to the bed and placed him gently upon it. He kissed Lindir’s brow, and artfully parted the front of his robe. “We really haven’t been properly introduced,” said Lindir sheepishly as his outer robe somehow ended up on the floor. “I’m Lindir.” “Pleased to meet you,” said the Elf. Lindir waited for a name, but did not get one. Perhaps the ellon assumed he knew who he was. Darn it, he should know who he was, he was clearly a First Age Elf, and one of a noble house as well. He’d figure it out later. For now there were other matters to attend to. Lindir by now was in his undergarments, which, in his case, was not the same thing as mostly undressed. Lindir was very meticulous about how he dressed, and always had on the proper layers. Beneath his robe he had on a second robe with a band, worn over light cotton tunic and leggings. Beneath that were an under-tunic, shorts and stockings, and finally under all that were his underpants and a thin sleeveless shirt. “I realize this is not a polite question,” said the ellon, “but how in the name of the Valar do you manage to use the chamber pot?” Lindir blushed. “I… don’t wait until matters become pressing.” “I should think not, I have not had to dig though this much underwear since my wedding night.” Lindir gasped. “You are not bound! Tell me you are not!” The black-haired Elf kissed him and gently quieted him. “I was, my gentle young friend, but no more. I am reborn, and she did not care to wait all the centuries I was gone. I am as free to love as you are.” He smiled, and touched Lindir’s face. “You are free, are you not?” Lindir thought about Faramir, and felt a sadness creep into the wonder of this moment. “No. I love him but I think he loves that nasty Mr. Fëanor.” “Nasty Mr. Fëanor,” said the Elf slowly, rolling the phrase across his tongue, then laughing. “Then the loss is his. And the gain mine, for you are a most charming companion.” Lindir said nothing to this. He did not want to think about Faramir. If anything he wanted to kick himself for having waited too long. No, not himself. He wanted to kick his Nana. Much as he loved her, he was beginning to realize there was a great deal of anger in his heart towards her. But she would not take this from him. He deserved this – he deserved to have his first lover to be beautiful and refined and graceful, to be an Elf who stirred his heart and made him feel safe and wonderful. This night was his – truly his. And no one was going to darken or taint it. The Elf rose to his feet, and Lindir, feeling suddenly shy about being naked before another, hastily scooted beneath the covers. The only light was that of a lantern turned low, resting on a trunk before a partly opened window, and it cast soft shadows about the loft. The ellon removed his blue velvet outer robe, and Lindir felt his breath catch at the sight of his friend in his shirt and breeches and thigh high boots, his black hair cascading down his back, almost down to his hips. The Elf tossed the robe onto a chair, and paused as something made small whistling noises at him from inside the room. “Well,” said the Elf, “as a royal I am accustomed to being applauded for doing useless things, but for what this time, pray tell?” Lindir laughed, and pointed to a small creature sitting in a shallow, herb-filled wooden box on top of a small table. “Hawthorne heard your coat touch his paper food-bag.” The Elf stared down at the small calico guinea pig. “Hmmm… so that is how things work, is it? I touched your sack and so must pay a tax.” He gave Hawthorne a small handful of pellets, then began undoing the front of his shirt, staring at the creature, which stared back. The Elf finished removing his white shirt, and draped it over the guinea pig’s box so it could not stare at them. “He will eat your shirt,” warned Lindir. “And what he doesn’t eat he’ll turn into bedding.” “Quite all right.” The Elf turned to smile at him. “I have other shirts.” Lindir gazed at the beautiful ellon in his room and felt his heart flutter, felt that strange sensation of losing himself. So much that had made no sense at all to him a mere hour ago was all now so very, very clear. The Elf stepped towards him, and he lay back on the bed, his silver-white hair spread out across the pillow. The Elf lay down beside him, the bed creaking beneath his weight. He was an extremely large ellon, as most of the ellons of royal lineage were. Fëanor seemed to be the exception to this rule, however he made up for it with presence. But Lindir’s new friend was a warrior of royal blood, and of a distant age, and his bones were large and strong, his muscles powerful and well defined, and his beauty nigh heart-stopping. Lindir had rarely permitted himself to envision what this night would look like, but it had, for the most part, involved himself and Faramir, and both of them only as naked as they needed to be. No looking, no touching. As for precisely what they were doing… well he was sure Faramir would know. But this was NOT Faramir. Lindir did not know himself this eve. But that did not matter. He would worry about it later. He closed his eyes and drew a quiet gasp as he felt the large Elf draw the covers aside, and felt his breath upon his skin moments before his lips touched his. “Do not be afraid, little bard,” whispered the Elf. “I shall not harm thee.” “Will it hurt?” Lindir asked, his voice also a whisper, opening his eyes as the Elf once more stood. “I suspect it will,” he replied, shedding his boots. “But it need not be cruel.” Lindir closed his eyes, too shy to watch him strip off the rest of his clothes. Then the bed creaked, weighed down by his large body, and Lindir felt himself drawn against the broad chest. He had not realized a body could be so warm, and he slipped his arms around him, holding him close, drawing comfort from his nearness. He felt a large hand stroke down his back, and he welcomed the gentle kiss, but tensed when he felt the hand come to rest on his backside. His friend whispered soft words to him… it was a form of Elvish he did not speak, Elvish Maedhros sometimes spoke… Quenya. He was speaking Quenya. Lindir felt his heart do something strange, and was shocked to realize he found this incredibly arousing. He was scared and aroused and the very world seemed upside down and out of control. He did not know himself. Who was he? Was he a child or a grown ellon? It was all so confusing. Who would he be in the morning? ‘I will be Lindir,’ he thought, finding an inner strength he had not realized was there. ‘I will be Lindir, only… slightly different.’ He exhaled a cleansing breath. ‘I will be Lindir.’ He found the courage to let his own hands start to roam, timidly touching the beautiful Elf in his bed. The ellon relaxed and lay back, his luminous eyes lidded, his black hair splayed out around him. All he was wearing was that damn circlet. Lindir blushed. “You’re so beautiful.” “As are you,” said the Elf. Lindir blushed more deeply. He knew his own beauty did not compare to that of this glorious warrior of old, but it was nice to hear. He braced himself, and drew back the blankets, looking down at the strikingly lovely form that was revealed before him. There was the strong neck, the graceful curve of the collarbone, the wide, powerful expanse of the chest, the flat, well-muscled stomach… the… oh. Well. So that was what an erection looked like. Was it supposed to be that large? Maybe it was proportional. After all the rest of him was pretty big as well. It was a darn good thing Miss Goose was not there right then. She was far too sensitive to be seeing such things. Then the ellon sat up and gently pushed Lindir to his back, kissing him. “Why do you not let me guide thee, little one?” he whispered. The Elf shifted onto his side, drawing Lindir down, one arm beneath Lindir’s neck. With his free hand he took hold of Lindir’s, and guided it beneath the covers. Lindir touched something hot and strong, covered in delicate silky skin. He closed his hand around it and softly stroked it, letting his fingers explore it. He could felt the delicate workings within the shaft, the firm yielding flesh of the head, the drop of warm slick liquid that formed in the opening. It was unnerving, yet fascinating. He closed his eyes as he felt the Elf move closer, kissing his throat, and just kept gently touching and stroking the stiff member in his hand. The ellon kissed him softly, his lips, his face, his fingers softly exploring the lines of his cheekbone and jaw. Lindir felt his body respond to the soft caresses, feeling shy and afraid, but joyful as well. He was safe with this Elf, he could trust him. He would not harm him. Lindir gasped as the lips moved down to his collarbone. The Elf altered his position slightly, and Lindir trailed his fingertips off of the stiff member. Large hands slowly explored his body, moving over his ribs, his hips, down his legs. Outside the window, he could hear the noisy laughter from the Tablero games, and the merry music from the party. He found it comforting, and he smiled as he recognized it as one of the songs a mere week ago he would have thought far too racy. He recognized the rough voice as Orophin’s. Elladan would likely have something to say about that. Ah, perhaps not, there he was taking up the chorus. A cool breeze blew through the window, caressing his flesh, causing his spirit to rise, freeing him from some inner bond. He heard himself laugh, and he reached up to tangle his hands into his lover’s black hair, then gasped as something hot and wet closed over his own shaft. His body jolted and his eyes became wide, but he did not pull away. He shivered, and drew one leg up, making quiet sounds of pleasure and nervousness. He said nothing, merely allowing the Elf to explore and caress him, feeling his body turn to fire and desire. He made another startled sound as he felt a finger softly move down between his buttocks and lightly touch him. Oh Arda that was where his friend was going to put his… um… well. So it was all true. Maybe he should stop. No. He would not stop. He would never have another night like this; he was not letting it go. He drew a steadying breath, then squeaked in surprise and the Elf’s tongue began finding its way into other places. The large Elf laughed softly. “Am I going too fast for you, little Lindir?” Lindir smiled. “I… really ought to tell you something about myself. My Ada was killed long ago. My… Nana, whom I love… “ He paused, this was not easy to say. “She wanted to keep me from any harm, and I suppose she wished to ensure I would never leave her. She took me to an isolated part of the Golden Wood and… for many, many years managed to convince me that I was an Elfling. In many ways I still am. I have to tell you that I still refer to the many of the Elves around me as “Mister So-and-so”, I only recently came to accept that babies do not fall from Mallorn trees, and yes I admit I still hold tea parties in private with Miss Goose, who is my best friend. I was telling the truth when I said I was a virgin, I just… might be more of a virgin than you realize.” He blushed. The large Elf was still a moment, then he asked in mild astonishment; “So… you are the Lindir they refer to as Arda’s Oldest Elfling?” Lindir blushed more and nodded, then looked distressed. “You’re not going to leave now, are you?” The Elf laughed softly, and kissed him softly. “My dear beautiful child, why would I do that? If you desire my company this eve, I am delighted to give it. Tomorrow you may introduce me to the esteemed Miss Goose. But it seems to me you have chosen your time to venture into adulthood in your own good fashion, and if you wish me here, then I have no intention of leaving.” “I did not choose it,” said Lindir. “It chose me. I saw you and… I knew it was time.” The ellon touched his face, then kissed him softly. “Seldom have I been so honoured,” he said quietly. “And I shall do my best to be worthy of it.” They kissed, Lindir wrapping his arms around his lover’s neck, holding him close, feeling his weight upon himself, and permitting him to slowly prepare him for what was to come. Then he felt the Elf shift his weight, and the large penis touched him, then slowly, gently pushed into him. Lindir made a small, frightened sound and squeezed his eyes shut, was grateful for the soft, reassuring kisses he felt. It did hurt – he had not been lied to about that either. He felt tears begin to slide down his cheeks, all softly kissed away, and again his friend’s low voice was speaking Quenya in his ear. He did not know the words, but he found the lyrical sound soothing, and he quieted, drawing a breath, holding his lover tightly as he felt him begin to slowly thrust. “Does it start to feel better at some point?” he asked through gritted teeth. The Elf softly kissed him, moving slowly, causing as little discomfort as he could. “Yes,” he whispered. “I promise. Just relax, and do not fear.” Lindir held him more tightly, willing himself to relax, smiling as he felt his friend softly nibble his neck, his jaw, his ears. Then he kissed him again, and Lindir began to feel his body unwind. He smiled, and felt the sensation in his body begin to change just slightly, going from painful and uncomfortable to… nice. Even pleasurable. He heard himself make a soft sound of enjoyment, his hands running over the ellon’s broad shoulders and powerful muscles. He drew his legs up, and uttered a small gasp as the change in position caused a change in sensation. His friend pressed deeper, and Lindir squeaked as the penis deep inside of him tapped something, making his body jump as a strange jolt of pleasure went through him. “What was that?” he asked, his tone slightly nervous. The ellon laughed quietly, and when he spoke, his voice was low and husky. “That, my little Lindir, is the whole reason babies get made.” Lindir squeaked nervously. He was not sure what his lover was doing, but he wanted more of these new sensations. He heard himself starting to pant, and his companion became a little less careful, his pace matching Lindir’s reaction. If he was afraid, it slowed, excited, it quickened. He was as skilled as he was gentle and considerate, and soon Lindir’s pain and fear and doubts had been replaced by… something. He had no name for it. A pleasure so overwhelming he thought he would lose his mind. It was delicious and wonderful, but he was wholly unprepared for the intensity of the orgasm that abruptly claimed him. He let out a short, sharp, shriek, throwing his arms around his lover’s neck, feeling the waves of ecstasy tear through him, and not sure what to do or how to handle it. He arched and cried out, feeling something hot splash across his own belly, not realizing what it was or what was happening, but his lover seemed to be going through it as well, so perhaps it was normal. He clutched his lover and shuddered, riding the feeling out, almost relieved when it stopped, and he collapsed to the bed, eyes closed, panting. His friend bit him on the shoulder as a massive shudder wracked his great body, and again Lindir felt fluid, but this time inside of himself. The Elf thrust hard into him and shuddered again, but after a time he too relaxed, and Lindir felt him become soft inside of him. Finally, he pulled out, and flopped heavily to the mattress, panting quietly beside him. Lindir rolled towards him, needing to be held, and was glad to feel the strong arms go about him. His lover nuzzled at him, and Lindir raised his head for a kiss. “So,” said Lindir quietly, shyly, “will you stay the night?” “It is very bad manners to walk out on a lover after his first time. Yes, I will stay, little Lindir. I have duties that need tending in the morning, but if you like, we could have dinner together tomorrow eve.” “I would,” said Lindir quietly. They kissed, and Lindir snuggled a little closer. The ellon pulled the covers up higher over him, then kissed him once more. Holding each other, they slipped into a peaceful reverie. ***---*** Maedhros returned to his home later that night. He walked slowly through the halls, pale and dazed, his boots scuffing on the stone floor. He walked passed the room where Fingon laid, he and the bedding now cleaned, talking with Anairë and Maglor. Judging from the way she was bouncing the baby, Fingon had not told her the truth yet. The relations and nobles had departed, or been seen off, and the keep was silent. Maedhros made his way upstairs to the chambers where Fëanor now lay asleep with Faramir. He opened the door and stepped inside, then quietly closed it behind himself. He walked over to the bed and seated himself on the edge, reaching out to stroke his father’s long black hair, watching him sleep. His eyes began to shine with impending tears. “I am so sorry, Atar,” he whispered. “I shall never play such a trick upon you again.” Fëanor did not awaken, but remained still and quiet in his bed, huddled close to his mortal companion. Maedhros wished his father had chosen an Elf, but then what Elf would have him? He stoked the black hair a few moments longer, then removed the key from around his neck, placing the chain once more around Fëanor’s. He kissed his brow before finally returning to his own chambers. Anairë had finally departed, leaving only Maglor and Fingon, as well as their new daughter asleep in her cradle. Maglor had not remained long in the music room, departing mere minutes after their arrival, and Maedhros could see he was still shaken. He seated himself on the bed and kissed Fingon. “So, did you finally tell Anairë the truth?” Fingon pouted. “Yes,” he muttered. “She said she loves me anyway and if I scare her like that again she’ll have me locked in the tower for a month.” “And I shall help her,” said Maedhros. He glanced at Maglor, but his brother was staring into space, lost in his own thoughts. He reached out to touch his shoulder. “Maglor?” “Maeglin will be here in a few moments to claim me,” he said quietly. “I think… I’ll wait for him in the courtyard. Good night.” Maglor left the room, closing the door behind himself. Fingon said softly; “He already told me that your father asked both of you not to tell, so I will not ask. But it has affected Maglor deeply.” Maedhros nodded. “And I no less. But I swore to Atar I would keep his secret, and so I shall.” He shook his head and sighed. “The more I uncover, the better I understand that time of evil, Fingon. That was not my father who did all those foul things. It was an Elf so ill and tormented he had not the mind to understand his actions. I will see him redeemed if I can.” “Is Finwë reborn?” asked Fingon. “Perhaps if he is we could send for him to comfort Fëanor.” “I do not know. If he is, he has not contacted this branch of the family, which is hardly to be wondered at. Fingolfin only showed up because he thought I did something dreadful to you.” Fingon grinned. “You have, repeatedly. Would you like to do it again?” Maedhros gave him a sidelong look, a slow smile creeping across his beautiful face. “Yes, thank you, I think I would.” He undressed and turned down the lamps, then made his way over to the bed. He slid under the covers, drawing Fingon into his arms, kissing him, losing himself in his love for him, and willing the darkness of what lay in the music room be gone, at least for now. ***---*** Legolas opened his eyes, blinking, his expression puzzled. Slowly the room came into focus, revealing Elrond and Gandalf, standing behind a large chair. Seated directly before him in the chair was Gimli. Legolas smiled as he recognized his husband and reached for him, taking his hand and squeezing it. “I feel terrible,” he whispered. “I’m not surprised,” said Gimli. “I’ve seen your insides.” Legolas made a face. “Why would you wish to see that?” Gimli smiled, stroking his hair. “I did nae wish to see your guts. I wished to be with you. You look a bit better though. Your fever is down.” Legolas made a sleepy sound and settled into the pillows. “Tired.” “I will be here,” said Gimli softly. He pulled his chair closer. “I’ll not leave your side.” Legolas made a small noise and seemed to slip into sleep once more. Elrond quietly left the room, accompanied by Gandalf. He quietly shut the door behind himself, and the two walked away. “So what did you find?” asked Gandalf. “It was as I suspected,” said Elrond. “It was Legolas who was with child.” Gandalf shot him a surprised look. “‘Was’?” Elrond said nothing for a time. Finally he said; “I was forced to remove it. It had no place to develop, no means of sustenance, and the body believed it to be an infection rather than a child. It was not alive; it was little more than a source of contamination. I took it out and cleansed where it had been. Legolas will be well again soon.” Gandalf shook his head. “Such a shame. So very sad. Will you tell them?” “Nay,” said Elrond. “They did not even know Legolas was pregnant, why torture them? I told Gimli it was dead tissue that needed to be removed and that was the truth. If I could have made things right for them I would have, but even with a Ring of Power certain things must be in place. Legolas is no Plains Elf, yet he desires to provide Gimli with offspring, as would a dutiful Dwarven wife. If I tell him that he conceived and the child died due to a lack of proper environment it will only cause them great grief.” Gandalf shook his head. “So very sad. But you are right. No good could come of adding to their pain.” They reached a door and stepped into a garden, enjoying the warmth of the morning light. There the two watched as Anairë paraded proudly by, holding Fingon’s baby. “Maedhros and Fingon did admit that Fingon did not bear that child, did they not?” said Gandalf. “They did,” said Elrond. “Seems not to matter to Anairë.” “Well so long as she is pleased,” said Gandalf. He took out his pipe and began filling it, sighing and shaking his head. “Poor Legolas.” “Aye,” said Elrond. “But I cannot alter what has come to pass. Walk with me, while I tend to my other patients. I feel a need to be around those I was able to help.” ***---*** Glorfindel sat at the breakfast table, Silivren on his lap, eyes fixed on the beautiful Elf that held Estorel. “Ada your teeth are making noises,” said Silivren. “Hmm?” Glorfindel looked at the child, then realized he had been grinding his teeth. He stopped. “Sorry. Here, you eat a bit more breakfast, you need more than two bites of toast.” She made a face. “I don’t like toast.” She then took Glorfindel’s toast and began eating it. “Well if you don’t like toast why are you eating mine?” “Yours tastes better.” He rolled his eyes, then once more fixed his attention on Valaríamrûn. If Val was aware of the waves of viscous green jealousy pouring off his employer, he artfully pretended not to notice. “More tea, Lord Glorfindel?” “I want milk!” piped up Silivren. Milk and tea appeared within moments. Then the door to the small morning room opened, and in stepped Erestor, looking like he had been run over by a moose. Glorfindel set Silivren aside and went to his husband, gently taking him into his arms. “Oh Erestor, my poor beloved.” Erestor made a small, unhappy noise, letting Glorfindel hold him. “I hate you,” he whimpered. “I know you do, darling.” He kissed his brow. “Come sit at the table, let me look after you. What does your little heart desire?” “Eggs, soft boiled, on toast.” “Your wish is my command.” “I could prepare that for you if you like, Master Erestor,” said Val. Erestor nodded, and Val went to make the eggs. Glorfindel stared after him like a terrier watching a rat. “Ada your teeth are making noises again,” said Silivren. Erestor smiled. “Fin you’re not jealous of the nanny, are you?” “No, of course not, why should I be? Just because he’s tall and beautiful and sensitive and wants to deliver our baby.” “Well someone has to help.” “No one looks at your baby-bits but me.” Erestor sighed. “Then you had better start learning how to deliver babies now.” He touched Fin’s face. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous. All this huff over a used-up, worn out advisor.” Fin once more turned his attention to Erestor, touching his face, not seeing the lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes and the hints of silver in his black hair. “Hush, none of that. You are more beautiful every day. And I will see that you and our children have the finest house in Valinor.” Erestor smiled. “I can’t wait to see it. And you’ll be certain to make sure I have an arboretum?” “I will make certain you have an arboretum that Yavanna herself would wish to walk in.” Erestor smiled, touching his husband’s face. “And to think I used to think you were an arrogant air-head.” Glorfindel kissed him. “I am. You sit, I’ll get the horse liniment and brush your hair the way I used to.” Erestor chuckled. “I would love that. My hair is so dried out I swear I can hear it snapping at night.” Glorfindel left, returning ten minutes later with the brush and the liniment. He poured some of the clean-smelling liquid into his hand, and began to massage it into Erestor’s hair. “I just saw the strangest thing on my way back from the stables with the liniment.” “Indeed? What was it?” “Ilinuil, running across the lawn, clutching a Dwarf with an impressive blue beard, being chased by a crazy woman with red hair and a Labrador puppy.” “Oh pay that no heed, it has something to do with that rat we keep finding, the one with the pointy hat and notepad.” “Ah.” Fin massaged the liniment into his husband’s hair, then began to brush it, smiling as the dull, tangled mess became gleaming tresses, touched with blazing hints of silver. “Ah, there we are, see? I knew my beautiful husband was in there, he just needed a little attention.” “Do my hair next, Ada!” said Silivren. “After I do Sia’s, I’ll do yours, then I have to go teach a classful of talentless klutzes how to draw blade without castrating themselves.” “What’s castrating?” asked Silivren. Erestor looked at Fin, waiting to see how he would get out of this. Fin said smoothly; “It’s something Adas do to boys who get too friendly with their daughters, and it hurts.” “Oh. Okay.” She had finished Glorfindel’s toast, and was helping herself to his eggs. The child would never eat her own breakfast, but someone else’s was fair game. Erestor was happy just to see her eat. He glanced over his shoulder at Glorfindel. “Fin, you’re not really jealous of Val, are you?” Fin waffled a little, then finally said; “Yes.” “Oh Fin…” “Well I know he’s qualified and skilled, it’s just that he’s so… damn… gorgeous.” “He is not more beautiful than you.” “No? Then what about your reaction when he showed up? Orophin said you could not utter two coherent words.” ”Orophin is a fink. Fine, Val is beautiful. But he is not you. And I love you.” Fin smiled. “That is all I wished to hear, my love.” Fin brushed Erestor’s hair, then, as promised, Silivren’s, the liniment turning her white hair to mercury. He tied it back with a ribbon, then kissed both Erestor and Silivren goodbye before leaving the room. He stepped into the sunlight and stretched, enjoying the warmth of the bright day. He was a little sad to notice that all that had been set up for Lord Elrond’s party was being taken down, bur frankly one more night likely would have resulted in an explosion of some sorts; especially if Gandalf had launched another ‘Balrog’ fireworks display. Some things changed, but not, apparently, the old crank’s sense of humour. Glorfindel nearly had a heart attack when he saw the thing manifest in the sky. Bilbo, of course, had loved it. Glorfindel noticed the young Elves assembling on the practice field, and began walking towards them, pausing once to look towards the window where he could see Erestor eating breakfast. Val was pouring him some tea, and Fin once more felt that burn of jealously in his guts. Telling himself he was being foolish, he turned and walked towards the field, meeting with Ecthelion. “I’m hallucinating,” said Ecthelion, draping an arm around Fin as they strolled towards the field. “What makes you say that?” asked Glorfindel. “Because I swear to Aulë that I saw Fingolfin sneaking out of Lindir’s cottage this morning.” “You’re hallucinating,” said Fin. ***---*** Manwë gazed at the four gathered before him, and sighed. “And what brings you to my presence? Not that you are not welcome, but I sense this is no mere a social call.” Vairë stepped forward, nudging her husband Námo with her foot as she noticed him preening in the reflection of a silver pitcher. He stopped… after one last check of his mirror-black hair. Yavanna looked down at the toes of her shoes in an attempt to hide her smile, while Aulë simply stepped forward with Vairë to address Manwë. “My lord,” said Vairë, “we have discussed this matter, all of us, and come to voice our opinion that it is not fair.” Manwë raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” “Yes,” said Aulë. “And we call upon you to put it right.” Manwë sighed. “My children, what would you have me do?” Yavanna spoke up. “This fëa has been denied life twice, the first time when her mother died, and now. Legolas wished for a child, why not let him have her?” Manwë leaned forward. “Yavanna, it is not my fault the child died. Legolas is not an elleth and he is not a Plains Elf. He is simply an ellon. He was not meant to bear children and he has not the means to do so. What is it you would like me to do?” She pouted. “I did not say it was your fault, only unfair.” Manwë sighed. Yavanna increased the pout in hopes it would sway him. He had the feeling he was about to be ganged up on. “Unfair it may be, granted. But one thing you have not answered though I have already asked this question twice is – what would you have me do?” Námo checked his beauty in the pitcher once more before addressing his lord. “My concern is not so much for Legolas as the fëa. She has been promised and denied life twice. Let her be born to this Elf and his Dwarf.” “And let them do so twice,” said Yavanna. “Once for each life denied.” “Oh nice touch,” said Námo. “My Lord,” said Aulë, “grant this request, I pray. ‘T is my fault the child was called into being, and my fault she died, and my heart is heavy because of it.” “It is not for me to grant!” said Manwë. “He was born an ellon!” Vairë said; “My lord has granted in the past that Elves may use magic and alter their shape. The mother of Elrond became a seagull! How is it that one Elf may grow wings and feathers and fly, but another cannot be granted a child-bed for but a little while?” Manwë glanced to Varda for support, but she had suddenly become dreadfully interested in the workings of a tailor in Lake Town, a slight smile playing about her lips. Defeated, he sat back and sighed. “Done. Legolas may bring forth a child, but he may only do so twice! If the children come to some sad fate, then we must accept it as the will of Ilúvatar and say no more about it. And since Lórien is unwell, let Námo appear in a dream in his stead to bring the news.” Námo looked at Manwë, his artfully made up eyes surprised. “My Lord I am the Vala of Death, if I show up after days of illness he is not going to assume the news will be good.” “Then the surprise will be all the sweeter, will it not?” said Manwë. Námo tossed his head and pretended to be upset, and was rewarded for his cheek with a cuddle from his wife. Aulë and Yavanna bowed and departed, Manwë noticing there seemed to be no grief between them; indeed they seemed to be getting along better than they ever had. But Estë still refused to speak to any, or even depart from her garden, however briefly, leaving Lórien to his pain. Yavanna laughed at something Aulë said, and Manwë watched as he took hold of her hand. He pointed this out to Varda. “Seems the lady Yavanna has at last gained the attention of her husband.” “I would have used a frying pan,” said Varda. “But if he at last has learned his lesson and will give her the love she craves, then I am glad for them. But I wonder what we should do about Estë. This was no desperate ploy to at last gain the attention of a distracted husband.” Vairë departed the great chamber in which Manwë and Varda would meet with the other Valar to discuss matters. Once outside she hiked up her shirts and ran, laughing, making Námo chase her. Manwë spoke as he watched them play. “Estë said she did not need Lórien. Said he filled her rest with frivolous images and silly pictures. Dreams are an important part of rest. Everything, from the greatest of my eagles to the smallest mite that dares hide in their feathers, dreams. Since Lórien’s pain and illness comes from her dismissal of his presence, I say let her fulfill his duties as well as her own, until his heart has mended once more. Then we shall see what she says of his appointed task.” Varda smiled. “A most wise decision, my husband.” Manwë sat back, looking pleased. “Yes I rather thought so myself. Now let us bend our will to rearranging poor Master Legolas’ innards for him, shall we?” ***---*** Fëanor opened his eyes, blinking, feeling weak and sickly. It seemed so long since he had felt healthy, and even longer since he had awakened to anything other than Elrond feeding another needle into his veins. He made a small noise of misery, and felt Faramir stroke his hand over his hair. “I know, I know,” he said gently. “But it needs to be done to make you well.” Fëanor struggled weakly, fed up with the whole ordeal, but had no strength with which to fight. He huffed, then felt a second hand reach out to touch him. “A huff! Is the Spirit of Fire descended from the Thrayre-Iyre after all?” asked Elrohir, his tone gently teasing. Fëanor managed to raise his head. “Elrohir! And you brought a friend.” Elrohir smiled. “This is Frost, my husband. He has been sent back to me.” “As well he should be, he should never have left!” Frost smiled. “I did not wish to. Elrohir has told me a great deal about you.” “Lies, all of it! Most of it. Okay whatever it was, I probably did it.” He struggled. “Elrond you poke me once more and I swear… AHG! Watch it!” Elrond gave him the last shot, then reached into his bag for a pot of salve. “I am sorry, Fëanor, but it needs to be done. You have my sympathy, truly. Now let me treat your sores and I will leave you alone.” “Lies, you’ll just wait until I am asleep and attack me once more.” Elrond sighed. “Elrohir, help me get him onto his back so I can treat his sores.” Fëanor closed his eyes, dreading this. It always hurt. He felt Faramir take his hand as he was gently turned from his side to his back. Elrond made a soft noise of concern as he saw his stomach. This was where the largest of the sores was situated. It was huge and deep and badly infected, fighting the salves and medications. It was losing the battle, but it was determined to last as long as it was able. Faramir took the pot of salve and began gently dabbing cream into the wound, while Elrond inspected the hole left by the dagger. “I wished to thank you for the window,” said Elrond. “Window? Oh. The window with the herbs on it. That was not from me, it was from the Lady Celebrían.” “She gave it to me, but it was from you,” said Elrond. “It was from both of us,” said Fëanor. “I have to tell you, no one else has had the nerve to march into my keep and demand a commission. I thought she was dying?” “She changed her mind,” said Elrond dryly. “Ah. ENOUGH POKING!” he cried as Frost gently probed him. “Just looking,” said Frost. “You have an odd indentation in your abdomen.” “Yes well I’ve been a very bad boy in my life, I suspect I have many odd indentations here and there.” “What is it?” asked Elrond. Frost gently pressed, finally shrugging. “Nothing. Likely it has to do with how thin he is.” Elrohir took Fëanor’s hand. “Just rest, I promise we shall all leave you alone very soon. But you are terribly thin. Is there anything you would like to eat? Anything at all,” he said, and smiled. Fëanor squeezed his hand. “You know what I want.” Elrohir rolled his eyes, smiling. He kissed his face. “Right. One plate of blueberry waffles with whipped cream and extra syrup, coming up.” “Well that should cure how thin you are,” muttered Elrond. “But at least you are eating. Now Frost and I shall leave you with Faramir to rest, at least until Elrohir gets back with your waffles.” Fëanor nodded, allowing Faramir to help him back onto his side once again, where he would be more comfortable. Elrond and Frost left the room, closing the door behind themselves. Then Elrond looked at Frost. “What did you feel?” “Just what I said, nothing,” said Frost. He looked at Elrond. “As if something had been removed.” |
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