The Land Was Fair by polutropos  

Maglor arches his back. The long stalks of sun-warmed grasses give way beneath him. His whole body prickles with want. He is not above begging for it. He has never been above begging with Maedhros, who responds by driving him back against the hillock with a forceful ramming of his head and shoulders. Distantly, Maglor is aware of the pain, the deep bruises that will bloom at the base of his back — but then all sensation bundles between his thighs, as the blunt end of Maedhros’ wrist fills his dripping hole. Maglor whines, unspooling into a wail, for Maedhros’ broad hand spans his chest, encompassing both tits in its clutch. The pull upon his nipples runs like a tremor to his cock, sucked full by Maedhros’ lips, its buried root stretched wide by his wrist, and Maglor dissolves into his pleasure. His heart gallops and stumbles, gallops and stumbles, and at last he clenches his thighs around Maedhros’ head and falls.

He is granted but a moment’s respite. Elbows hooked beneath his knees, Maedhros drags him across the ground. Maglor would protest if he had breath to speak, but he can do nothing but lie splayed upon the earth, blearily taking in the shape of his brother kneeling over him. His vision need not be sharp to make out the fleshy length of his cock as he frees it from his breeches and descends over Maglor.

Maglor recovers under the repeated pounding of Maedhros’ hips, blood gathering, pulling him tight around the place where their bodies meet. His voice returns, chanting Nelyo Nelyo Nelyo like a invocation, and without a single break in his rhythm, without a single thought of Maglor’s pleasure, Maedhros bursts inside him. Easy as turning a tap, Maglor comes with him, milking each tremor of his release; and, at last, a sweet moan drips from his brother’s lips.

When he is curled, limp with bliss and warm with affection, around his brother’s body, an unformed thought slips aloud from Maglor’s mouth: “Let us make a child.”

Maedhros stirs, shifting his weight, and for a moment opens a cold space between them. But he has only moved to bring himself closer, to meet Maglor’s eyes before he answers: “Would that we could.”

“What is to stop us?” Maglor smiles, giddy at the future rolling out before him, expansive as the plains in which they lay couched in tall flowers. A child! The purest expression of their love; permanent, enduring, a scion of hope—

“Káno,” Maedhros says, gently as a little bronze cup snuffs out a candle. “What future do you imagine for such a child?”

Against the visions Maglor conjured, of a joyful child running across the plains, wine-red curls bouncing upon her shoulders, darkness descends, and from its blanket spills a legion of clamouring orcs, brandishing hooked spears that catch the sickly light of wildfire.

“Then let us make a future that would welcome our child. It is time, surely, to muster our strength against the Enemy. We can win. I know it.”

He plants a kiss on Maedhros’ closed lips, pausing, waiting for them to open for him. They do, but only long enough for Maglor to feel his resistance. He pulls back.

Maedhros hums, brief, from somewhere deep in his throat. “One would think you were in league with our uncle the High King.”

“What?” says Maglor. It has been long years since they have heard anything from Fingolfin; missives between Barad Eithel and Himring have become sparse over the years of peace, and when they come it is from the seat of Prince Fingon rather than his father. Maglor has wondered, indulgently, if the remove Fingolfin keeps between himself and Fëanor’s sons has a touch of the personal behind it.

“What has Nolofinwë to do with it?” Maglor asks. How, after all these years, does his uncle’s name weigh upon his tongue like the memory of guilty kisses?

“He sent messengers summoning the sons of Fëanor to war.”

“How long since they were here?” Maglor pulls himself onto his elbows, indignant. “Why did you say nothing of this to me?”

“They came some months ago,” Maedhros says, and releases a heavy sigh. “I feared you would be of the same mind. Curufinwë and Tyelkormo were, but I have much practice and little trouble denying them. You know how much it pains me to deny you.”

Now Maglor sits fully upright, defiant even while clothed in nothing but his unbound hair. “You spoke of this to them?”

“No.” Maedhros remains unruffled by Maglor’s mounting irritation. “Our uncle’s messengers stopped at the Pass on their way here.”

That was ill-advised, Maglor thinks privately, but restrains himself from saying so aloud; it would do nothing but stoke his brother’s resentment.

“I see,” he says instead. Still, he is troubled that his brother did not call upon his counsel, and they spend the rest of the day riding alone, back towards Himring. But the flatness of the land makes it impossible to lose sight of one another, and by nightfall they wend a path back to each other and tumble together in wordless passion.

“Why did you not send a rider to tell me?” Maedhros barks at his long-suffering seneschal. Lostir steals a glance at Maglor, who cannot keep his lips from quirking into a reassuring smile.

Lostir’s expression remains grave. “We would have, my lord, but the King and his guard only arrived yestereve.”

“Where is he now?” Maedhros demands, handing his cloak off to an aide who is presently helping Maglor with his own garb. Maglor takes it, waving her off as she scrambles, midway through removing his gambeson.

“We put him in Lord Makalaurë’s quarters, lord.”

“What? You knew my brother would be with me. Where do you propose to lodge him?”

“Enough, Nelyo,” says Maglor, and earns a reproachful but affectionate glance for the informal address. “You know I will be content to lodge elsewhere. Your own chambers are more than enough to accommodate us both.”

That earns a more demonstrative sign of displeasure, summoning Maedhros’ full regard. But when he sees Maglor standing, half-divested with his cloak draped over his folded arms, his expression animates with amusement.

“Tell the High King we will meet him in the council chamber in one hour’s time.”

“In the council chamber?” Maglor says. “Should we not first show him a familial welcome? Let us have food and wine brought to his rooms.”

“In the council chamber.”

“Have food and wine brought to the council chamber,” Maglor says directly to the seneschal.

It is not the first time Maglor has seen his uncle since their parting at Mithrim, though it is the first in more than a long-year, and the edges of his mind chafe somewhat at the prospect. Maedhros finds him seated at the vanity, rearranging the pins in his hair.

“It is a war council, brother, not a midsummer festival.” He locks eyes with Maglor’s reflection in the mirror. “Cover your shoulders. And remove those pearls.”

Maglor sucks his cheeks between his teeth and pouts. He replaces the draping pearls with a pendant that sits high on his chest, resting in the dip between his collarbones; though he had previously intended to, he does not change out of the silk tunic that falls off one shoulder.

Maedhros sighs when he arrives at their council thus arrayed. Fingolfin stares, delaying his greeting a moment too long.

“Makalaurë,” he says. Maglor does not miss how he takes the opportunity to rapidly scan the length of his body. “I am glad you could join us.”

And he does seem genuinely glad; but then, so are most, when an audience with the Lord of Himring is made sweeter by his presence.

“You must be the one I am to thank for the refreshments.” Fingolfin gestures at the spread of cheeses, breads, dried meats, even fresh apples brought up from the South. He punctuates this with a conspiratorial smirk at Maglor across the board.

“I am,” says Maglor. Then, to the visible shock of both Fingolfin and his brother, he sweeps around the table and takes Fingolfin’s hand, inviting him to rise from his seat. “It is very good to see you, uncle,” Maglor effuses, and swiftly pulls Fingolfin into an embrace— a warrior’s embrace, mind, the sort he would give to one of his captains after a successful skirmish— though with his face pressed to Fingolfin’s shoulder, he inhales a little more deeply, perhaps, than he ought, for the silk of Fingolfin’s hair against his cheek and the sweet scent of his shirt dizzies him. The stirring of the air between them as Maglor withdraws does not emanate from him alone.

The council goes ill, despite Maglor’s efforts to find accord between his two kinsmen’s stances on the war. It is soon confirmed, as he suspected from the outset, that the contest between them has little to do with tactics and more to do with pride. He ought to have insisted upon a meeting in comfort and privacy!

When Fingolfin waves off Maglor’s offer to fill his cup, he instead fills his own a third time. The wine slides down his throat warm and heavy and he realises he is rather flush with it.

“Was it mere pomp then when you knelt before me at Mithrim?” Fingolfin asks.

“I gave over my claim to kingship over all the Noldor. I did not give over the rule of my own House, nor did I submit myself to yours. I swore no oath to follow you.”

Maglor knows his brother has chosen his words with intent, and by the fierce set of his jaw, the echo of Fingolfin’s own oath to a king long-dead is not lost on him.

“No, you were not so foolish.” Fingolfin has tamed his voice to a whisper. “Yet an oath you swore. Will you deny its fulfilment now?”

Maedhros is a pillar of defiance, but beneath he trembles with scarce restrained anger.

The wine has loosened Maglor’s tongue. “My, my,” he drawls at Fingolfin. “I did not expect you to stoop to such subtle manoeuvres, to such peevish plucking at the very heart of our woes.” Familiarity closer than kinship guides him in interpreting the downward dart of Fingolfin’s eyes. His uncle takes no pride in having played this trick — but neither was it spontaneous. There is craftiness in all of Finwë’s children.

If it is an apology taking shape between Fingolfin’s twitching lips, Maglor is not in any mood to hear it; and Maedhros, doubtless, even less. Maglor rises from his seat. “Come now,” he says, grinning winsomely. “Let us resume this converse in better spirits. This is not a matter to be discussed in anger; not a decision to be made in haste. Come, come: let us retire to our rooms and rest, ere we reopen the rift you, uncle, and you, brother, so bravely healed between our peoples.”

The stones of Himring groan in the silence.

“Very well,” Maedhros concedes at last. “We will reconvene by light of day.”

“You misjudged him,” Maglor says frankly, leaning back against the settee, gesturing with his wine-cup.

Fingolfin sighs and tilts his head back against his chair. “I know. I did not anticipate he would be so resistant.”

“You are too imperial. He may have ceded the crown, but here he is a king and is accustomed to being treated as one.”

“Is that so?” Fingolfin quirks an eyebrow.

“Yes. Nonetheless, I do not think your errand here has failed yet. Let us spend some time together, alone.”

“You and I?” Fingolfin looks positively charming in his unguarded alarm.

“No.” Maglor chuckles. “The three of us. On a journey. To mutual understanding.”

“We will take our uncle riding,” Maglor tells Maedhros, naked in his bed with the hearthfire crackling behind him. He knows he looks beautiful in the dancing red-gold light.

“What? We just returned from the plains.”

“And? Have you pressing business that Lostir cannot attend to for a fortnight? We will go westwards, along the hills. We have not gone westwards in many years.”

“A fortnight!” Maedhros exclaims.

“At least,” says Maglor.

It is nearly vexing how well Maglor orchestrates concord. Fingolfin might be tempted to envy him; might be tempted, even, after the previous evening’s diplomatic blundering, to compare himself to his nephew and royal predecessor— if it were not for the little birds swooping and swaying upon tall stalks of wildflowers; if it were not for the murmur of bees supping on their nectar, the contented swish of Rochallor’s tail, and the warm, unfiltered rays of sun spreading across his back while his face is kept cool by a crisp breeze borne over the mountains spanning the eastward horizon, their blankets of snow shrinking towards their peaks. If it were not for the sensation of peace shimmering around him, he might, in fact and not in theory only, be irritated by Maglor’s cleverness and charm. For was he not once ensnared by them? Did he not once love him (more than a man ought to love his brother’s son) for them?

How is it those memories wash up now, fresh and green, as though it were but three changings of the moon since he had last murmured Maglor to sleep with gentle endearments, limp from lovemaking, and not well over four hundred years of the sun?

But, well: it is remembered feeling, excited after so long an absence. For that Fingolfin has only himself to blame, who might have troubled himself to be present for more of his nephews’ visits; might have made the effort to travel east himself, rather than relying so heavily on his son. It was not avoidance; it was never intended as a slight. Fingolfin could have treated with Fëanor’s sons himself; it was only that Fingon was so much better at it.

A stray gust lifts Maglor’s hair, and carries with it a peal of laughter to where Fingolfin rides a short distance behind them. It winds together with Maedhros’ low chuckle, and both heads turn to look at him.

“What is it that makes you laugh so?” Fingolfin shouts, already caught up in the mirth of it. He brings Rochallor to a trot and slows between them.

“We were remembering,” says Maedhros, “when Prince Ingwion mistook my brother for you—” he breaks to laugh, shaking his head at Maglor, “and Makalaurë—”

“—to save the Prince from humiliation!” Maglor interjects.

“Yes, of course,” says Maedhros, and resumes: “—embraced his mistaken identity, graciously accepting a tour of the palace at Valmar, following Ingwion even to an audience with Manwë who, being all-seeing, had no trouble seeing that it was no child of Finwë whom the crown Prince had brought to meet him, but a grandchild.”

“The Elder King did congratulate me on a convincing performance!”

“Yes, Káno,” Maedhros says, rolling his eyes in Fingolfin’s direction, “we have all heard.”

Fingolfin cannot keep his smile from climbing to his ears. “In fairness, I was a child the last time the Prince had met me.”

“In fairness,” says Maglor, “we did look awfully alike, when you were yet a gentle and scholarly prince.” He winks at Fingolfin.

They carry on at an easy walk, the conversation skipping pleasantly from memories untouched by later sorrows, to news of their kinsmen to the west and east and south, to the varieties of plants and birds they encountered on their way. They turn west, following the arc of the sun, and now its light pinkens the clouds lying low along the horizon. To their left, near the hills, a glassy lake mirrors the changing colours of the sky. They make their way towards it and set up camp.

“I have not slept in the wild without guard or retinue for too long,” Fingolfin says, enjoying the simple labour of fixing his tent poles in the soft soil.

Maedhros scoffs, but Maglor quips, “But you have a guard, uncle. The most feared warriors of the eastern marches accompany you.”

For all their boasting, they light no fire and speak in hushed tones. There have been no incursions this far south for many years: cause for vigilance rather than comfort, and the reason for Fingolfin’s errand. Their siege is strong, but the Enemy is not idle. They do not have long before he turns the tables in his favour.

Still: a few days’ rest will not alter the tune of the Song. Fingolfin takes first watch. The distant peaks of Thangorodrim, which his gaze has avoided through the day, are masked by the darkness. The moon hides tonight. There is only the blanket of Varda’s stars draped over the earth; the song of the frogs, waking from their muddy beds to call to one another.

Fingolfin hears his nephews stirring. Maglor chuckles and Maedhros murmurs low. Something clatters against the ground, followed by amused shushing from Maglor. Fingolfin smiles: no gloom can wholly quench the mirth of the Eldar. There will always be laughter; there will always be music. There will always be the bonds of kinship, stronger than any Doom.

It takes longer than it should for Fingolfin’s ears to catch on to the nature of the sounds coming from his nephews’ tent. Rapid breathing; a moan abruptly cut short; a whispered curse. And as he listens more intently, the rhythmic brush of cloth, becoming faster as the breath becomes less controlled, less careful.

“Ai, Nelyo,” Maglor moans.

“Quiet,” says Maedhros, no less quiet himself, with evident strain in his voice, “he will hear us.”

Maglor only repeats himself with increased passion.

That they are lovers is no surprise. Maglor made little secret of his longing for his brother; it was his return that put an end to their affair. And Fingolfin, who in Aman would have found such desire repulsive and crooked, had heard rumour enough upon the Helcaraxë to reconcile himself to the idea that there were some for whom pleasure could only be found with those who knew them, heart and body, in the most intimate way possible. What else had it been, after all, that drove Maglor and him together?

It is a surprise to find himself uncomfortably warm beneath the too-tight lacings of his breeches; his throat tight, his breaths laboured. It does nothing to alleviate his condition that his nephews’ lovemaking seems to skirt around its resolution for what must be nearly an hour: a sensual ebb and flow. Fingolfin resolutely ignores the throbbing of his cock, but that does not keep it from leaking until a damp stain has bloomed on the fabric of his breeches.

When Maglor finally emerges to take over the watch, it takes but a few swift strokes in his tent to relieve himself. The spurt of his seed is far more forceful than he was prepared for, having gone so long servicing himself as a matter of practical care, and he prays the whimper that leaps from his throat did not escape the hand he has stuffed between his teeth.

The knowing glances Maglor slants his way over their morning repast suggest his prayers were not answered. More than that, Maglor seems to enjoy fostering Fingolfin’s discomfort, batting his eyelashes as he looks slyly over the rim of his bowl, swiping a drop of water from Fingolfin’s chin with a caressing thumb, then brushing his knuckles over his chest as he withdraws his hand in a manner that can only be deliberate. He keeps Fingolfin perfectly suspended between irritation and arousal.

“Shall we go swimming at the falls today?” Maglor suggests, as they are saddling their horses.

“It will be cold still,” says Maedhros.

“Invigorating,” says Maglor.

“He says that now,” Maedhros says for Fingolfin’s benefit, “but then he will be shivering upon a rock begging to be held for warmth.”

Fingolfin’s staccato laugh betrays his fraught nerves. “It does seem a little brisk yet for swimming.”

“We shall see,” Maglor chimes, throwing a merry grin at Fingolfin before he swings lightly atop his horse.

They hug the hills on their ride that morning,“ just in case we decide to stop at the falls,” according to Maglor — but the clouds over the Ered Luin are building tall crowns of white, even as their underbellies darken and spread beneath the weight. By midday, a heavy spring rain drives them to take shelter in a grove of sturdy old juniper trees. Afterwards, beneath the dripping leaves, Maglor tends to the horses, humming as he brushes and towels the moisture from their coats and manes.

This leaves Fingolfin and Maedhros sitting alone, and Fingolfin is grateful for the loud drone of crickets celebrating the rainfall. Not that Fingolfin feels much compulsion to speak, for he fears he would interrupt the contemplative affection with which Maedhros watches his brother.

It is Maedhros who breaks the silence between them. “Do you know what it is, Nolofinwë?” he says without looking at him. “I cannot bring myself to call my brothers to war. I fear to lose them. They would take it as an unforgivable affront if I said as much to them. Yes, even that one.” He nods at Maglor. “Especially him. And they would be right to do so — I would respond in like manner if any of them, if you, if Findekáno were to be so precious about my life, about putting me in the line of danger. Any one of them can defend himself as well as I or better. But they are precious to me. If the Moringotto sets his mind upon your death or torment, nothing will stop him. Nothing.” He turns to Fingolfin, eyes sharp with bitterness. “He hates me for resisting. He hates me even more for surviving, though that was no fault of mine.”

His mouth twists into an ironic smile, but it only unmasks the lines of sorrow etched in his face. What would Fëanor think, to see the faultless beauty of his son so marred by troubles, like one aged among men? No, Fingolfin amends his thought, not marred. Engraved. Sorrow has made a canvas of his flesh — but the spirit within is too strong to let those lines be anything but beautiful, intricate; they tell a story of courage and resilience.

“He knows that nothing would make me suffer more than to see my dearest kin killed, or worse. He is only waiting for the opportunity. That is why I cannot accept your proposal.”

What can Fingolfin answer to that? A sense of shame bundles around his own heart for the ease with which he puts his kinsmen and vassals at risk. But no— it is not easy. Fingolfin does it because he must. Because a king who tries to take all upon himself is no king but a corpse.

He is grateful for Maglor’s timely return, smiling and uselessly brushing at the silver horse hairs clinging to his sleeves. The sunlight creeping across the plains will be on them soon.

“Well,” says Maglor, wringing out his braid, “I for one need to dry these garments. And they will dry far more quickly lain across warm stones than clinging to my skin. The falls are not far off.”

Maedhros sighs. “One would think you are able to control the weather, brother, for how conveniently it moves us towards your ambitions.”

“Not so,” Fingolfin says, brushing the dirt from his palms as he comes to stand. “Makalaurë simply knows how to turn the weather to his benefit. And I think he has the right of it. Let us make for the falls.”

The rains seem to have cleansed Fingolfin of his lustfulness, for he is mercifully unbothered when Maglor strips himself bare and leaps into the pool with a shout. Confident then in exposing himself, he jumps in after him. The initial shock of cold soon wears off, and he drifts contentedly through the water.

Maedhros, though, has only removed his boots and upper garments. Well, Fingolfin thinks rather improprietously, perhaps Maedhros has not fared so fortunately in remaining unaroused by the nakedness of his brother.

Maglor is not so understanding. As Maedhros stoops to splash his face and arms, Maglor ducks beneath the water and, propelling himself seal-like across the pool, bursts from the surface and yanks forcefully on Maedhros’ arm. Maedhros tumbles gracelessly into the water, and Fingolfin cannot hold back the laughter that spills from his throat. The most feared warriors of the eastern marches, indeed! Yet in their hearts, as playful as children.

After sputtering and cursing through his shock, Maedhros too laughs, and pushes his brother’s head beneath the water. A moment later he loses the upper hand, for by the flailing of his arms it is evident that Maglor has renewed his assault from beneath. He emerges with Maedhros’ breeches and underclothes clutched in one hand.

Impressive.

“Now look how soaked these are, Nelyo!” Maglor cries. “They will still be wet by nightfall.”

Nonetheless, he climbs out to lay them on the rocks, then rejoins them in the water.

Maedhros stays in much longer than they, seemingly impervious to the cold. Maglor, as predicted, complains of it. “I am shivering to my bones!” he whines. “Nolo, come, we can warm each other.”

Fingolfin dresses himself first, but relents — for which Maedhros gives him much grief. But with a dry blanket and Fingolfin’s arms around him, head upon his shoulder, Maglor is entirely chaste. Whatever mischievous spirit moved him earlier in the day has been quelled. Fingolfin, too, feels no more than the usual warmth that builds between bodies, and, while the previous evening’s unexpected pleasure was admittedly enjoyable, he is relieved that it has passed.

Until Maedhros emerges at last from the water, and Fingolfin quite idiotically gasps in amazement. He is — it can be put no other way — huge. And this after an hour swimming in cold water. But as the blood rushes from the centre of his body, reddening his skin, his cock blushes also, and droops to hang yet fuller between his legs. Fingolfin is glad that Maglor sits beside him, and that the blanket is draped over them both, for the sight has launched him into a state of dizzying arousal. Fingolfin has always prided himself on being able to control his urges, sexual and otherwise, but never before has he been possessed of such an animal need.

Maedhros wraps a towel around his waist and Fingolfin cannot but bark a laugh as his breath releases and the tension in his gut uncoils.

The rush of blood in his ears takes some time to settle, so he cannot be sure he has heard correctly, but he thinks he hears Maglor whisper, “Impressive, isn’t he?” before scrambling to his feet and dressing himself.

The clouds reassemble towards evening, signalling the rain will return that night. They take shelter beneath a great, lone pine, ringed with layers of fanning branches.

“There is little need to pitch our tents here,” says Maglor.

“No, indeed,” Fingolfin agrees, glad not to have to trouble with planting stakes and making knots after a long day’s journey in changeable weather.

They decide it is worth the risk of starting a small fire to keep the damp from settling in their bones. Moreover, Maedhros still wears breeches heavy with water.

“You see,” Maglor says, “you know Nelyo is in good spirits when he allows something as insignificant as a wet pair of breeches to irritate him. Normally, he is so weighed down with cares that he will not even notice if he is barefoot in the snow.”

“That was once only,” Maedhros says.

Fingolfin decides to let his curiosity on the matter rest.

“Oh, sod it!” Maglor curses, and casts aside the flintstone after a third failed attempt at catching the flame on the wet needles and branches.

“If you would let me try—” Maedhros begins, but is cut short by a chanted invocation, and the crackle of fire and orange tongues of flame leaping above Maglor’s stooped shoulders. He stands and sits between them, looking terribly pleased with himself.

“That was bold,” Maedhros says. “You might as well throw up a banner announcing that Kanafinwë Makalaurë sleeps beneath this tree.”

“Ah, but he does not sleep — and therefore is the proclamation of my presence a warning to any who might consider disturbing us tonight.”

Maedhros grunts and extends his legs towards the fire.

“I will take first watch,” Maglor offers, “for you both show signs of weariness, while my own spirit is quite awake. Come, come, lie down.” He pats the earth to either side of him. “I will sing for you. Quietly,” he amends, when Maedhros turns a sharp eye on him. “Only a simple tri-li-li-lolly” he sing-songs, “to ease your rest.”

Fingolfin needs little coaxing to accept the invitation; reclining on his back, he shuts his eyes. Within moments, he is wandering the paths of dreams, guided by Maglor’s lilting voice.

In his dream, he is back at the falls lying upon the rock and listening to the crash of the water and… Maedhros’ copper head bobs between his thighs, his mouth suctioned around Fingolfin’s cock. Fingolfin jerks in his sleep, trying to remove himself from the dream (pleasant though it is). He is trapped. When he endeavours to jerk himself awake a second time, his hips rise and buck into Maedhros’ throat. Maedhros gags and withdraws, but he smiles and tongues the wetness from Fingolfin’s slit; Fingolfin shudders, limbs relenting to his pleasure, and Maedhros stoops to take him again.

It is in the very moment of cresting towards his peak that Fingolfin drops out of the dream, gasping awake with a start, bereft and wanting. He freezes, determining if his agitated state has been marked by his nephews.

But they are well-distracted — by each other. Maglor, lying on his side, drags his hip over the bare ground, grinding slowly back and forth. His next backwards pull brings the curve of his ass flush with Fingolfin’s thigh. Fingolfin need only pivot his wrist to cup it in his palm. He bites his lip, struggling to formulate a phrase that might tactfully remind his nephews of his presence, when Maglor flings an arm behind him and clutches Fingolfin’s hand in his.

A wet smack signals the breaking of a kiss, and Maglor says, “He is awake,” then his hand drifts between Fingolfin’s legs; he cups him, fingertips curving around his sack, and Fingolfin’s cock jumps in answer.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, even as his own body betrays him and his hips roll into Maglor’s hand. Hardly the artful exit from the situation he’d been imagining.

“Helping you two to reconcile your differences,” Maglor answers, and spins his body round to give his full attention to Fingolfin. He pushes a lock of Fingolfin’s hair off his face. “Did you have a pleasant dream?”

“I think,” says Fingolfin, not so lust-addled that he cannot put the pieces together, “that you know very well of what I dreamed.”

Maglor is unapologetic. “And was it pleasant?”

Overcome by irritation of both mind and body, Fingolfin grunts and drags himself over the dirt to close the distance between them. He does not think; he covers that impish smile with a firm, commanding kiss, biting and sucking at Maglor’s already kiss-bruised lips as he rolls atop him.

Maglor moans, decadent and wanton, as he has always been, and Fingolfin grinds himself hard where his hipbones come together. Maglor will come from this alone, he knows, and does not relax his pace.

“Your Song is not a trifle to be played with, Laurelindo,” Fingolfin grunts against the shell of his ear, even as the tremors of Maglor’s peak seize him and he clutches at Fingolfin’s shoulders, pins him with his legs flung round his hips, and Fingolfin is surprised by the strength of his hold, more powerful than he remembers. They have all grown stronger and haler in the years since they wasted away in despair and indecision on the shores of Mithrim.

Maglor collapses limp beneath him, breathing raggedly, and Fingolfin pulls back. Though he has not finished, he’s gone cold with alarm at his own rashness. He braces himself, recalling that Maedhros has lain beside them all this time.

But Maedhros laughs. An unsettling sort of laughter, from deep in his throat.

Sitting back on his heels and smoothing out his clothing, Fingolfin attempts, absurdly, to recover the situation. “I am sorry. I was entrapped. In a dream.”

“A dream of his conjuring,” says Maedhros. “Though, of course, he is no Vala to plant visions in our minds that we have not already imagined. You seemed very awake just now.”

Fingolfin flushes to the tips of his ears. “Yes,” he agrees, “I was,” and a litany of excuses remain lodged in his throat. He cannot in good faith deny he wanted this.

“Well,” says Maedhros, “what was it you dreamed?”

Fingolfin blusters past the question. “He has orchestrated this for his own pleasure”

“I know,” says Maedhros. “He is very clever. But we are not fools, are we, uncle? We could refuse to indulge him, if we wanted. Or, we could play into his fantasies. I have found the latter is most often the more rewarding.”

“You’re mad,” Fingolfin says, but even as he does he climbs atop Maedhros and feels the full length of his shaft press against his abdomen.

“Yes,” Maedhros says. “I am besotted. I am madly in love with my brother. I think you, dear uncle, know my madness better than any.”

Maedhros reaches with his neck and kisses him. Fingolfin does not resist, but nor does he commit fully to it. The sensation is strange: Maedhros kisses open-mouthed, but uses his teeth more than his tongue to taste Fingolfin’s lips. Erotic, but not intimate. It is, Fingolfin decides, alluring in a way altogether unlike Maglor’s allure, which is dazzling and artful and irresistible. Maedhros’ appeal is… well, more like his father’s was to Fingolfin, though Fingolfin would never have imagined his admiration of Fëanor in these terms at the time. Maedhros is a scrambled set of equations to be solved, no two alike, each requiring a new approach and a fresh perspective.

Many are put off by such adamantly unsolvable people. But Fingolfin has never been able to walk away from a difficult problem.

He kisses Maedhros back in earnest, squeezing a hand between them to work his laces open. As he works, he waits for the moment when Maedhros will decide to resist, to shove him off with sudden violence. Rather than deterring Fingolfin, this edge of uncertainty exhilarates him. But Maedhros does not resist. Fingolfin can scarcely believe when his hand finds Maedhros’ bare, hard shaft. Whereas before, at the falls, he had been possessed by a sort of beastly ardour at the sight of such an impressive organ, he loses himself now in curiosity. Fingolfin, who has had only two lovers, both endowed alike, has never had the desire to be taken. He does not think he has it now, either. But he does wish to know how such a thing is accomplished when there is… so very much to take.

Fingolfin pushes himself back and down and, yet surprised by his own boldness, licks up the length of Maedhros’ shaft. It tastes like the clear water in which they swam, with a hint of salt, and a sweetness at the head. “This is not what I dreamed,” says Maedhros.

“No, nor I,” Fingolfin says. “But we are not bound to live out our visions, are we?”

Beside them, Maglor makes himself known with a trill of delight. “No, no. You are not.”

“Hm, good,” says Fingolfin, and pats Maedhros’ thigh. “Then I think I would like to be the spectator.” He looks at Maglor: one hand is cupped over his breast, the other shoved beneath the unlaced waistband of his undergarments. “I would like to see how you take him.”

“You would?” says Maglor, eyes wide with lust but gleaming with schemes: Fingolfin’s desires will be fulfilled, but not without something given in return.

For now, Maglor keeps the specific terms of the exchange to himself. Scrambling out of his clothing, he straddles Maedhros’ hips and grinds against the shaft laying heavy on his belly.

Maedhros’ face creases with concern. “Are you certain you do not want me to prepare you?”

Maglor nods, eagerly, and shudders when Maedhros slides a finger inside him. “You are still tight. Let me…”

But Maglor grabs him by both wrists and pins them to the ground above his head. “Help me,” he says to Fingolfin. “Do not let him reach for me. Please,” he begs when Fingolfin does not move, “Aranya.”

The name was an endearment spoken in moments of stolen intimacy, once; a subversion of their right titles; it is no less provocative now that it is true.

He shuffles closer, kneeling above Maedhros’ head. He pins his arms to the ground with both knees and hands; Maedhros does not so much as wince at the pressure, though the bones of his forearms are hard against Fingolfin’s shins.

Maglor’s expression, as he strokes his slit up and down the length of his brother’s cock, is uncharacteristically serious — and not the sort of performative gravitas Fingolfin has seen him put on, but a sincere and unguarded concentration. All his attention is rapt on Maedhros, chin dipped low to watch every twitch and pulse as Maglor teases him. Fingolfin’s as yet untouched arousal throbs sympathetically.

Maglor builds himself to a climax so gently that one who did not know him better might not have marked it at all. For the first time, Maedhros’ arms flex against Fingolfin’s hold, and he groans at being denied the satisfaction of touching Maglor’s quivering thighs and buttocks. At least, it is those Fingolfin would grasp, were his hands not occupied in keeping Maedhros down.

Maglor licks the pearly fluid that has leaked onto Maedhros’ stomach, then crawls over him — Maedhros’ lips part expectantly, but Maglor passes over him to kiss Fingolfin. There, again, is that sweetness and Fingolfin cannot but suck it from Maglor’s tongue. On his way back, Maglor grants his brother a kiss, also, but does not linger long before he is perched above his cock. Standing upon his knees, Maglor barely has to lower himself for his cunt to kiss the tip; several times he dips down and rises again, sighing his pleasure each time he is breached. The final time, Maedhros sighs with him, and Maglor begins to sink down.

Fingolfin forgets to breathe. Slowly but without once pulling away, the full length of Maedhros disappears between Maglor’s legs. Maglor devours him. There is something primordial in the joining of their bodies; something botanical, like a thick stalk breaking the soil— nay, a taproot, gloved by the earth. Fingolfin pants, bucks uselessly, seeking friction against his clothing. Fully seated, Maglor braces himself with his palms on Maedhros’ chest; his hair hangs disordered around a wicked smile.

“You may release him now,” he says, and Fingolfin does. Maedhros, who has remained remarkably quiet, leaps like a lion from a cage, in one motion sitting up and flipping Maglor onto his back.

“Ow,” says Maglor, as the back of his head bangs Fingolfin’s knee. Then he laughs. “Excellent. Just as I wanted you.”

With one deft hand extended above his head, Maglor unlaces Fingolfin’s breeches and frees him; the other rummages through a satchel on the ground. Fingolfin is too preoccupied with the fingers fluttering over his shaft to take much note of it, but next he sees that hand it is glistening with oil and prying apart Maedhros’ cheeks.

Maedhros’ head snaps up from suckling at Maglor’s throat. “What are you doing?”

“Would you rather the King take you unprepared?” Maglor quips. When Maedhros slaps him, Fingolfin rises to his knees defensively; but Maglor laughs and does not seem hurt.

Maglor cranes his neck to look at him. “You will need to come around this way.”

“Oh,” says Fingolfin. Somehow it has taken him this long to understand what is being asked of him. Or offered to him? “I do not think—”

“Oh, fuck me and have it done with, uncle,” Maedhros says with a thrust that draws a yelp from Maglor. “It is what you want, is it not?”

Fingolfin cannot decide if Maedhros’ ire is genuine, or part of an act, or simply how bodily pleasure expresses itself in him. Nonetheless, going through a series of motions with awareness of little besides his pent desire, Fingolfin finds himself kneeling between Maedhros’ legs, looking at a ring of taut, puckered skin.

He expects the entry to be painful, resistant, but Maedhros receives him with remarkable ease; he draws him in with the flex and release of muscles that seem well-attuned to such intrusions. Fingolfin pulls back an inch, thrusts; an awkward moment passes as Maedhros adjusts his motions so his upward stroke meets Fingolfin’s forward thrust — but it is immediately clear from Maglor’s wail of pleasure and enthusiastic Yes, there! when they have achieved harmony. A moment later, Maglor’s Yes is echoed, with nearly as much enthusiasm, by Maedhros, and Fingolfin is wracked by a spasm of profound satisfaction both spiritual and physical. He grunts, pounds with the full weight of his hips, and wraps his arm around both bodies beneath him. Fingolfin groans; Maedhros groans; Maglor cries out, strained by the crushing weight of the bodies atop him, but there is only ecstasy in his cry. Fingolfin coils tight, all the frayed ends of his cares bundled in an instant of bright bliss.

There is a clap of thunder; the patter of rain closes in around them.

Fingolfin unravels.

The morning is quiet. Maedhros has risen first, leaving his brother draped around his uncle. In his underclothes, he starts the fire (in the traditional manner) and hangs his garments nearby to remove the last of the dampness.

By the time he hears his companions stirring, he has already boiled tea and has fresh-picked greens and wild onion simmering on the fire.

“Good morning,” Maglor says cheerily, and yawns. Watching him, Maedhros thinks his heart might burst. There is a tiny spirit, created of their blended souls, nested within him.

Fingolfin stirs and rises. Escaped hairs form a cloud around his regal braids, glistening with the humidity.

“I have considered your proposal,” says Maedhros. “I regret that the sons of Fëanor cannot commit to an assault on our Enemy. Later, perhaps. But there are other matters more pressing to which we must attend.”

Fingolfin rubs his eyes and scratches his forehead. “Oh,” he says. “That is a pity.”

“I have, however,” says Maedhros, “much enjoyed our negotiations.”

Now Fingolfin, King of the North, and High King of the Noldor, seeing that his people were become numerous and strong, and that the Men allied to them were many and valiant, pondered once more an assault upon Angband; for he knew that they lived in danger while the circle of the siege was incomplete, and Morgoth was free to labour in his deep mines, devising what evils none could foretell ere he should reveal them. This counsel was wise according to the measure of his knowledge; for the Noldor did not yet comprehend the fullness of the power of Morgoth, nor understand that their unaided war upon him was without final hope, whether they hasted or delayed. But because the land was fair and their kingdoms wide, most of the Noldor were content with things as they were, trusting them to last, and slow to begin an assault in which many must surely perish were it in victory or in defeat. Therefore they were little disposed to hearken to Fingolfin, and the sons of Feanor at that time least of all.

• The Silmarillion, 'Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin'

Chapter End Notes

Laurelindo - Something-gold something-song. Sounds cute. Don’t check my linguistics work on this one, I didn’t do any.
Aranya - King + “suffix of endearment”

Thank you to outofangband’s environmental worldbuilding posts for landscape inspiration. Thank you to Chestnut_pod’s Elvish name list for the name Lostir. Both amazing resources!!

Shout out to this insightful and influential (to me) fic by HewerOfCaves on the reasons the sons of Fëanor were “least of all” willing to hearken to Fingolfin when he was raring to assault Angband. Give it a read.

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