The Magic Flute by polutropos

---

The Magic Flute

Translations in chapter end notes. 

---

“One of the Iathrim? Singing? By the river?” Caranthir didn’t turn away from the plans in front of him–designs for the reconstruction of Amon Ereb’s gates. 

“Ah, yes,” Amras said, “something like singing. Hard to say amid all the weeping.”

Caranthir grunted. “Sounds pathetic.”

“It is. Should we bring him in? At least offer him some food?”

“Fine,” he said, pushing aside the papers before him. “But take his weapons away. Just in case.”

“He doesn’t have any weapons. Just a flute.”

“You are telling me some elf of Elwë’s is running around these parts with nothing but a flute to protect himself?” 

“So it would seem.”

Caranthir shoved his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, and stood. “By the stars of Varda, they are stupider than I thought. You see, that’s what becomes of a people who close themselves off from danger and hardship for centuries.”

~ ~ ~

The cook set a bowl of soup and a glass of wine down in front of the minstrel (at least Caranthir guessed he was a minstrel, based on the flute he carried and his melancholic demeanour). He watched him from the end of the table, sitting there staring dejectedly into the bowl, steam rising over his face. The image of his tragic and delicate profile clouded in a fine mist was so damned pretty that Caranthir wanted to spit. He settled for a loud scoff. 

“Are you going to eat that?” he said pointedly through gritted teeth. “I will be displeased if you waste our stores. You have already wasted enough of my time.” It was true that Caranthir had not needed to attend to the traveller himself, but he let his curiosity get the better of him and now he was stuck here watching steam weave itself through his long silver hair while his soup went cold. 

“I’m sorry,” the minstrel muttered. “I haven’t eaten in so long… I am not sure if it will settle in my stomach.”

Caranthir looked back at him and was struck by a slight pang of pity at the wretched sight. It was not so long ago that he’d shown up at Amon Ereb in a state nearly as bad as his. 

“A few spoonfuls won’t make you retch,” he said. “Blow on it first, to cool it down.”

The minstrel gingerly lifted his spoon and dipped it in the soup, blowing soft puffs of air over it. He slid the spoon into his mouth with a trembling hand and swallowed. The sense of relief that washed over him was almost immediate. 

“Who are you?” Caranthir asked. The minstrel turned towards him, a strange and distant look in his eyes.

“Will you swear not to hurt me? I am afraid our people do not have great love for each other, Caranthir Fëanorion.” 

How did this elf know who he was? Yes, the Star embroidered on his surcoat gave him away as a Fëanorian, but that he knew exactly who he was? And declined to use a proper title! (Though, what was he any more? Delegate to the Laiquendi?) But first to the minstrel’s identity–he would address the issue of his manners later.

“I already know you are one of Thingol’s people. Your clothing gave you away. A man of his court, apparently; though, given the state we found you in, it seems you’ve fallen out of favour. Do I guess at the truth?” 

The pathetic elf smiled thinly and returned for another spoonful of soup. “Close,” he said, with a mysterious twitch of his mouth. “I am Daeron. I was minstrel and loremaster of Doriath.”

“You were?” Caranthir leaned forward on his elbows. “What did you do to earn the disapproval of old Greycloak?” 

“I didn’t,” Daeron said, “I chose to leave. King Thingol has lost his daughter.”

“Lost his daughter? Hah!” That was funny, Caranthir thought, leaning back and grinning to himself. The King of Doriath could keep everyone out but he couldn’t keep his own daughter in. 

“Yes, I went looking for her and… got lost.”

Caranthir raised his eyebrows, still smiling over the thought of the wayward daughter. “You… got lost?”

“I’d rather not talk about it any further, if that is alright with you, lord.” Daeron took a sip of his wine.

“Very well. Perhaps another time.” Caranthir sat back, satisfied that his guest had decided to start addressing him with some respect. “Tell me, how did you know who I am?”

“I met your brothers once. At a feast, a very long time ago.”

“Oh yes, that thing.” To which he had not been invited, Caranthir recalled. So Daeron had met his two oldest brothers at Mereth Aderthad, but even if he did resemble them–which he didn’t think he did, not that closely–how did this Daeron know which brother he was talking to? His mind raced back to a story his eldest brother had once drunkenly narrated after Maglor, himself several cups in, had made Maedhros the butt of one too many swordplay puns–and he realised Daeron had probably had opportunity to learn more than he needed to know about him and his brothers.

“Oh," he said. "Oh. You– you are the minstrel… the one my brother Maglor…”

Daeron kept his face down as his mouth contorted into something that was half-grin, half-sneer. 

“Took like a buck in rut? Yes, that was me.” He slurped up a spoonful of soup.

Caranthir slammed a fist down on the table. “You insolent sack of Orc shit! I should have let you die down there by the river.”

The miserable minstrel looked away sheepishly. He was a quirky little elf; what could possibly have led his brother to–? Nevermind, he thought, as possible scenarios sprung to mind. He placed a palm against his forehead and inhaled to dispel the images.

“I do apologise, my lord Caranthir,” Daeron said. “I’m somewhat out of my mind, you see.”

Caranthir snorted. “Evidently.” He paused, rapping the table with his fingers. “So what did my amorous brother say about me all that time ago that made you so certain which son of Fëanor you are speaking with?”

“He said you were irritable and easily-provoked. And, well, your name doesn’t lie.” He eyed Caranthir over the rim of his goblet, taking a gulp of the wine. Damn Maglor and damn the name his mother gave him, Caranthir thought, all too aware of the heat rising in his cheeks. 

He was struck then by an alarming notion.

“You didn’t come here looking for him, did you?”

Daeron choked on a laugh and sputtered wine across the table. “No! Elbereth, no! I really did get lost, like I said.”

Caranthir huffed. “Well, I suppose we can spare someone to escort you back home.”

“That’s very generous of you, but I don’t plan to go home.” Daeron pushed his empty bowl forward on the table and gestured for his attendant, Eithoril, to refill his goblet. How irritating, Caranthir thought, this bedraggled minstrel behaving like royalty in his private dining chamber. What had possessed him to invite him in? He could have just left him with a servant and never had to exchange a word with him. 

Eithoril looked over at Caranthir as she went to refill the cup. He waved a hand permissively. 

“You’re not staying here, that’s for certain.” Caranthir clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward, attempting to appear authoritative. He supposed he couldn’t very well decide who got to stay on Amon Ereb and who didn’t, given he was not lord of anything here, but he hoped his hollow command would at least make it clear to Daeron that he was not welcome. 

“Not to worry, I have no intention of staying. I’m going to go east.”

“Where?”

“Just east.”

“Just east?” Caranthir twisted his face into equal parts confusion and derision. “What does that mean? You don’t have a plan beyond east?” 

“No.” He sipped the wine. 

“You’re mad.”

“I know.” He smiled impishly and downed the rest of his drink. “Thank you, lord Caranthir, for your hospitality. I had better get going if I’m to find somewhere to sleep tonight.” He stood to leave, grabbing his flute from the table. 

Running a finger contemplatively over his lips, Caranthir watched him as he made his way towards the door. “You can’t go off looking like that, no one will take you in.”

“Hm?” Daeron turned. 

“You might be mad, but you would be better off not looking mad. Eithoril,” he waved down the attendant, “get him some clothes.”

“Thank you,” Daeron said, and he almost sounded sincere.

“Hrm,” Caranthir grunted, glaring at Daeron in the doorway. He held his lean arms at his sides, hands balled into fists, one wrapped protectively around his stupid flute; his deep, dark eyes were rimmed with red, his brows knit in an expression of slightly confused misery–that is to say, looking every bit the portrait of someone who needed rescuing. 

He turned to Eithoril. “And you might as well give him a room at the north end. No one else is using them.”

Daeron’s eyes slid to her, then back to him, then to her, wide with surprise. 

~ ~ ~

Úrewilin soared off over the rolling hills. Caranthir shielded his eyes from the rising sun and watched his hunting falcon circling overhead, doing her daily survey of the lands around Amon Ereb. “May the winds bear you swiftly back to me,” he said under his breath, as he always did when he parted from the bird who had been by his side since Valinor. She screeched her acknowledgement, shrinking until she was no more than a narrow line in the distance. 

Turning to continue on his way, Caranthir heard the soft notes of a flute rising from behind a rocky outcrop. Unusual, he thought. He hardly ever encountered anyone else here–the reason he chose it for his essential daily dose of solitude. Well, he would obviously have to seek out some other path for this morning's stroll, but he took a moment to appreciate the music before doing so. He had to admit it was a beautiful melody.

As the song progressed, he recalled the previous evening’s unpleasant encounter with Daeron. Could it be…? He could not imagine that such a sweet sound could come from the lips of such an impudent, piteous elf. But he was rumoured to be one of the greatest, even Maedhros had admitted it (Maglor’s opinion, when some naive fool dared to ask for it, alternated unpredictably between utter disdain and effusive admiration). The music stopped. Fires of Utumno! Caranthir had stood by too long–the elf (whom he was now quite certain was Daeron) had sensed him.

“Lord Caranthir?” His lyrical voice carried through the air, and he came around the side of the outcropping, dusting the dry grass from his tunic. He looked altogether different than the previous evening. Eithoril had found him a deep-green, crushed velvet surcoat that shimmered in the morning light, as did his silver hair, now brushed smooth and straight. He had even lost his drawn expression.

“Was that your bird?” he asked, pointing towards the sky with the end of his flute.

“She is mine, yes. What of it?”

“She’s beautiful. I have never seen a bird like her.”

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t have in that dark wooded realm you called home.”

He smiled innocently. “I have left Doriath before, you know.”

“Then you have even less excuse for getting yourself lost so close to home.”

“You’re quite right. I suppose what I should have said is that I lost my mind.”

"Oh? Have you already recovered it?”

“I am not sure, though I am sure of one thing–I was mad to ever love that woman.”

“Excuse me?”

“Thingol’s daughter. Lúthien, that infested birch.”

“You loved her?”

“Since first I could desire anyone, it was her. And she, may Elbereth blind her, dragged me along for her sport all that time. First it was, ‘yes! yes please’; then, ‘no, I can’t, you know I want to, but I can’t’; and, ‘yes, but not that’; ‘maybe tomorrow, maybe soon, in a few years, no, not yet.’ I was a fool.” He fell to his knees and gestured towards the sky, talking now to no one in particular. “It just had to be her, Daeron, didn’t it? You could have had anyone!” He paused, considering. “Well… I suppose I did, on occasion–but she drove me to it!”

Caranthir avoided again the thought of his brother. 

“Why did she leave?” he asked.

“To go after that foul, hairy, stunted mortal!” He dramatically clutched at his throat and gagged.

Caranthir narrowed his eyes. He'd begun to feel sympathetic to Daeron’s plight, but his intolerant attitude towards Men reminded Caranthir of the complete distrust those haughty Iathrim had of anyone besides themselves.

“Men are a doughty folk and worthy allies,” he said, remembering how Haleth’s stern gaze alone had been enough to wither his heart into submission. What he wouldn’t give to fall to his knees before her once more, to worship her with his… he cleared the lump from his throat and continued, “You would do well to befriend them.”

“Absolutely not. It is wholly unnatural that we should mix with the Aftercomers. And to do so in love-” he bent over, pretending to retch on the ground. 

“By Oromë’s balls, would you shut your pretty pink mouth!” Caranthir shouted, lifting a fist into the air and letting it hover there impotently. 

Daeron rose slowly and stared at him, long eyelashes fluttering as he blinked several times, before he said (as if he’d solved a great riddle), “It would seem you have special affection for these humans.”

Infuriating. How could he read him so easily? “So what if I did? Do.”

“What happened to her?”

“Her?”

“Or him.” Daeron shrugged. “I don’t discriminate. As you know.”

Caranthir sighed. “She had greater ambitions than to be the vassal of some elf lord and I had too much pride to follow her. Now she has died and I will never find another like her. Perhaps your Lúthien has made the better choice.”

“Mm, I think not. Would you have followed your mortal lady if her deranged father had sent her on a quest to the very pits of Angband to retrieve a Silmaril–”

“What!” Caranthir staggered backwards, saliva flying from his mouth as he shouted in shock. “A Silmaril?! For Thingol’s daughter? For Thingol!” 

“Oh,” Daeron said. “Right. I forgot to mention that earlier, didn’t I?”

“The gall of that self-righteous, covetous, craven pet of that meddling Maia conjurer!”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Thingol expected the mortal to agree to it. It was, er, it was my idea, actually… a bit of a joke.” Daeron giggled nervously.

“Your idea?” Caranthir lunged at him and he already had him by the shoulders halfway to the ground when a flute struck him hard on the side, eliciting a shout of pain and causing him to momentarily loosen his grasp while the nimble little minstrel seized the opportunity to wriggle himself out from beneath him. Caranthir hit the rocky ground face first. When he raised himself up, his wrists throbbing from the pain of attempting (and failing) to break his fall, Daeron had already clambered up on top of the rocky outcrop and was wielding his flute over him like a sword. 

“Do not try that again, son of Fëanor, or I will use this!”

Caranthir laughed hoarsely, still winded from his fall. “You will, will you? You will take me down with your little instrument?” 

Daeron smirked. “What makes you so sure it’s little?”

Caranthir leapt to his feet, wincing and waving a finger up at Daeron. “You’re as filthy as a Balrog’s asshole!”

His smirk turned into a grin. “And how would you know the relative cleanliness of a Balrog’s asshole?”

Eönwë’s feathered armpits, this elf was insufferable! Seething, Caranthir looked out into the distance for his falcon. She had already spotted his distress and was swooping towards them, silently diving through the air straight over Daeron’s head. Caranthir shot a malicious smile at Daeron, still brandishing his flute, an expression of confusion spreading over his face, and at that moment Úrewilin’s strong talons struck him in the back with all the forceful momentum of her descent behind them and sent Daeron toppling off the rock with a shriek.

Caranthir laughed so hard his stomach cramped. Úrewilin landed obediently on his bent arm and screeched at Daeron as he struggled to get himself up, spitting grass and dirt from his bloodied mouth.

“Still think she’s a beautiful bird, master minstrel?” Caranthir taunted.

Daeron scowled darkly, his eyes narrow and smouldering with rage. Slowly, his stare unflinching, he lifted his flute to his bruised lips and blew. Three piercing notes and Caranthir was thrown to his knees. Three more and he was gripping his head in pain, made worse by Úrewilin flapping and screeching helplessly on his shoulder. She took off, abandoning him.

“All right, stop! I see your point!” he whimpered.

“What was that? I cannot hear you.” Three more notes and he was doubled over clutching his stomach.

“Please!” Caranthir gasped, bracing himself against the ground with his still-throbbing wrists. “I am begging you!”

“Good,” Daeron lowered the instrument. “I told you I would use it.”

Caranthir stared up at him, anger replaced with awe. “How do you do that?”

Daeron shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Practice.”

“I feel badly for your sparring partners, then.” Caranthir rose unsteadily, dusting himself off. “Though it’s a formidable weapon. Can my brother do that?”

“He has some talent for it, yes. I sparred a bit with him, to refine his skill. Shame we didn’t have more time.”

“You did that to him?” Poor Maglor, Caranthir thought.

“It doesn’t have to hurt quite that much. Unless you want it to. In fact, it can feel quite good, if you follow me.”

Caranthir thought he did follow him and did not want to follow any further. Although… no, he definitely was not interested in finding out. He sat down on a rock and clutched at his knees. Daeron sidled up next to him, dabbing the blood from his mouth with his sleeve.

“Stop that,” Caranthir snapped. “You’re ruining that fine linen and it’s not even yours.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m just rather bloody and I don’t have anything else.”

Caranthir grunted and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here,” he said, holding it out and looking away.

“Thank you.” Daeron wiped away the blood and spat some up into the cloth before attempting to hand it back to Caranthir.

“Please, no, I do not want that. Keep it.”

“A memento? How sweet.” He crumpled it up and stuffed it up his sleeve, further staining the garment. Caranthir looked at him with a snarl of disgust. Daeron just smiled, opening up a cut in his cracked lip that caused him to wince.

“You’re pathetic,” Caranthir said.

“No less than you are, in your way.”

Caranthir opened his mouth to disagree, realised he was not so wrong, and closed it again with a huff.

“I would like to get to know you better,” Daeron said in an obnoxiously cheerful tone. “I think we could have a lot to complain about.” 

Admittedly Caranthir did enjoy the company of anyone who was willing to indulge in a lengthy session of mutual griping and few of his people had his endurance for it. Perhaps Daeron would. “Fine,” he said. “There is a tavern on the western side of the hill. I’ll be there tonight just after sundown, a table in the corner. Don’t bring your damned flute.”

~ ~ ~

“You’re late,” Daeron said as Caranthir plunked himself in the chair and struck the table with both fists, sending a spray of foam up from his untouched mug of ale. “And very angry. Excellent.”

Caranthir bared his teeth and, without a second thought, grabbed Daeron’s mug, poured half the drink back, and nearly choked, tears coming to his eyes as he coughed to clear the liquid from his lungs.

“Have the rest,” Daeron said when Caranthir had collected himself. “I don’t even like that stuff.” He waved over a server and asked for wine and another ale. “Now, Fëanorion, tell me what has raised the blood in your cheeks. You are positively crimson with rage.”

Caranthir glared at him, clenching his fist so tightly that his nails nearly broke the skin of his palm. Then he slammed the table with the same palm, causing a shock of pain up his arm. He winced.

“A messenger,” he grumbled, “from Himring.” He leaned back into his chair and waved his hands helplessly. “Driven forth by their own people. And that sparkly, golden-haired dolt of a cousin… Those heedless, arrogant, belligerent sacks of worthless rock! Over a woman!” He gesticulated forcefully, nearly knocking the drinks out of the hands of the returning server.  

Daeron blinked. “I am going to need full sentences."

Inhaling deeply and taking a large swig of his ale, Caranthir began again: “A messenger came from my brother Maedhros today. Celegorm and Curufin usurped the throne of our half-cousin in Nargothrond–though that much is deserved. Finrod joined with Beren on his ludicrous quest, the audacity. Not satisfied with half the glittering treasures of Arda, he has to get a Silmaril for himself. Well, he’s dead. Meanwhile, the walking calamities that I am forced to call brothers (may Irmo rob them of all rest and fill their sleep with horrors) found your Lúthien, brought her to Nargothrond, and sent a suit to Thingol proposing marriage to Celegorm.”

“What!” Daeron cried.

“Oh, it gets better!” Caranthir shouted. Daeron downed his wine and held the goblet out for a passing server to refill. “You might as well bring the bottle,” Caranthir called after him, before carrying on, “As your King prepared for war against my brothers, she escaped. With Celegorm’s dog.”

Daeron struck the table. “Of course she did, the wily pixie.”

“Celegorm and Curufin arrived at Himring with one horse, no dog, and no explanations. But Maedhros got out of them that they’d managed to get themselves thrown out of Nargothrond in disgrace, then they were waylaid by Beren and Lúthien on the road. Those love-besotted fools made off with the dog, a horse, and the last shreds of my family’s dignity.” 

Caranthir took a swig of his beer and Daeron sipped from the bottle of wine that had now appeared on the table. Caranthir wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Can you believe those infatuated fools survived the Isle of Werewolves! What next? The gates of Angband? A Silmaril? And Maedhros wants me to repair relations with Nargothrond. I will not. They forged that crooked blade, let them fight with it!”*

“This has gone worse than I ever imagined,” Daeron murmured darkly. Caranthir started to laugh. 

Daeron glared at him, his eyes narrow and menacing. “You are incorrigible. You think this is funny? They are going to succeed. Well, she will. Let us hope that oaf, Beren, makes enough of a mess that they fail. But if they don’t, a Silmaril goes back to Doriath, Thingol gets his shiny bauble, and they live happily ever after.” He spat on the floor. "And you are at war with Doriath!"

“Well, maybe,” Caranthir said, rising from his chair, “if you had not been so utterly useless in your search for her–going looking in the least likely direction–she wouldn’t have ended up in the keeping of my rash and careless brothers. I daresay you let this happen. You said yourself that the quest was your idea.”

Daeron rose to meet him. “It was a joke. It is not my fault that bumbling excuse for a king took it up.”

"You have a terrible sense of humour," Caranthir shot back, leaning in towards him. 

"Better than having none!" Daeron responded in like manner, their faces now inches apart. "Caretya lusta ná!"*

Caranthir drew back in shock. "You speak Quenya?"

"Of course I do!" Daeron was still shouting, in Quenya now, and several other guests seated nearby turned to look. "I'm a linguist, I'm very skilled with tongues!"

Caranthir smirked, in disbelief that Daeron could have missed that he'd made such an obvious pun. Noting the smug look on Caranthir's face, he growled and grabbed him by collar. "I am not amused!"

The severely rankled Sinda, inches from his face, nearly frothing at the mouth and cursing him in perfect Quenya, struck Caranthir with a very strong, very puzzling urge to… he could not place what. To hit him? No, close, but that wasn't quite it. 

At that moment a servant bustled over. "Uh, lord," he bowed, "I'm very sorry, but, uh, I don't want any trouble and there are Sindar here and, uh, I'm going to have to ask you and your… friend to… go elsewhere if you wish to speak that tongue." He looked at Daeron, who was very obviously not Noldo, with incredulity.

"Morikotto's* bleeding feet," Daeron said. "Fine," he grabbed the bottle of wine and traipsed unsteadily out the door. Caranthir glanced around the room and followed after him. Because he couldn't let him cause more trouble, he told himself, still trying to place the compulsion burning hotly in his breast to do… something.

He found Daeron on the gently sloping hill behind the tavern pacing and sipping wine from the bottle. 

"I wish you had not told me this," he said, glowering, before whipping around to the west and yelling, "You should have killed him when you had the chance, you coward!" He groaned loudly and resumed pacing. "I hate her, that parasite! I hate her and that decaying mortal but I hate Elwë Þingollo* most!" He kicked at the ground, shouted, and slumped down onto a rock with his head in one hand, the wine bottle dangling from the other. 

Caranthir could not believe it. Was he really watching Thingol's minstrel drunkenly cursing the King of Doriath in Quenya? Using correct pronunciation? He walked over to sit beside him and took the wine from his grasp, taking a large swig. "Fuck Þingollo," he said, raising the bottle.

"Fuck Þingollo!" Daeron repeated more loudly. 

"Fuck Þingollo to the bowels of Angband!" Caranthir agreed even more emphatically.

"FUCK ELWË FUCKING ÞINGOLLO!" Daeron screamed. 

He reached over blindly for the bottle again, and his long fingers wrapped right around Caranthir's hand. He turned to look at him, and his eyes were so intent that Caranthir thought for a moment he might hit him. But then he grabbed his face between both hands and planted a firm, wet, wine-soaked kiss on his mouth. It was only the sound of the bottle clattering over rocks that made Caranthir aware that both his hands were tangled in Daeron's hair and he was himself largely responsible for how deeply his tongue was driven down his throat. 

He pulled back, coughing, and started to laugh, but Daeron went pale and doubled over, a hand clasped over his mouth. Caranthir pulled his hair back from his face just in time. When he was done expelling the (mostly liquid) contents of his stomach he lifted himself up shakily. 

"I am pathetic," he said, shoulders hunched and arms hanging limply between his thighs.

"You are," Caranthir agreed, slinging an arm over his shoulders. "If you wanted to stay… you know, to recover your strength.." 

"No, no," Daeron said, waving his hands emphatically. "After what you've told me, I want to get as far from Beleriand as possible, as quickly as possible." He paused, hiccuping. "You could come." He smiled at him crookedly, his lips a deep purple from a combination of wine, bruises, and the aggressive meeting of their mouths. 

Tempting, Caranthir thought. Run away from his disastrous family and their cursed oath?  Follow an utterly mad rebel Sinda with a magic flute into unknown territory? No-– that was the drink thinking for him. 

"A generous invitation, minstrel, but not one I'm able to accept.” He raked his eyes over Daeron’s slender torso, his long legs splayed out before him, lean fingers resting on his thighs–how was it possible for anyone to look so delicious moments after ejecting most of a bottle of wine? In the fog of his brain, the meaning of that urge was suddenly very plain and very overpowering. 

Caranthir cleared his throat. “You know, you're going to need a weapon if you're venturing off on your own.”

"Mm, yes," Daeron said, licking his lips and turning towards him. "A dagger before I set out would be helpful." 

"Of course, I'm sure we could spare one-" 

"I'd prefer yours, if that's alright with you." Daeron stroked the knife sheathed at his side before sliding the hand over his thigh and between his legs. “Cendan i tiuyas i lúmen,”* he mouthed, and Caranthir inhaled sharply. 

"You insolent dark elf," he said hoarsely, "you would demand the dagger of a son of Fëanáro?" 

"Not for the first time." Daeron scraped his teeth over his neck. 

"Damn you, you lustful Þinda vagrant, remind me once more and you'll dull my weapon." Daeron bit down harder and slid his hand upwards to prove the emptiness of Caranthir's threat.  

"If you are to take my dagger," Caranthir swallowed, his tongue thick in his throat, "you will also need a sheath for it." 

"Not to worry, I have one already."

Caranthir widened his eyes, doubt flickering through his mind. “Lóme sina nauva anda,”* came the whisper of Daeron’s breath in his ear, and he relented as his mouth was engulfed by warm lips that tasted of wine with a hint of salt and iron. He was, inarguably, skilled with tongues.

---

Chapter End Notes

Caretya lusta ná! = Your head is empty!

Morikotto = Quenya derivative of Morgoth. 

Þingollo = Singollo, Quenya form of Thingol.

Cendan i tiuyas i lúmen = I see it swells for the occasion.

Lóme sina nauva anda = You're in for a long night.

Úrewilin (Quenya) = fire-bird. Caranthir’s immortal hunting falcon is the brilliant invention of cuarthol in this fic.