Bury Me to Release Your Splendor by annarobots  

When the traveling party from Himring arrived, it was the lady of the castle, and not High Prince Fingon, who greeted the guests.

Often did Alphangil represent her lord husband when he was indisposed—though it was rare indeed that Fingon would fail to greet his favorite cousin in his own person after a time of long separation.    

The company was small: only Lord Maedhros, his armed guard, and a few attendants.  Alphangil knew their faces.  Weary from the journey, they arrived near sundown, their light summer cloaks grimy with road dust.  Likely they rode long and hard on this last day of travel, pressed forward by their lord’s eagerness to reach their destination before nightfall. 

Though equally filthy as the folk of his retinue, Lord Maedhros stood straight and tall, showing little outward sign of fatigue.  He pushed back his dark hood, revealing copper hair in a careless half-tail, damp and messy from long weeks on the back of a horse.  Alphangil knew Lord Maedhros far vainer than he would care to admit, but in his impatience, he had not even bothered to tidy up before presenting himself.  He searched the hall with a swivel of his elegant neck and lifted an eyebrow when forced to acknowledge that the one he sought was not present. 

A man and a Lord of his stature could appear however he chose, of course.  This might have infuriated Alphangil in times past.

Now, she felt only an echo of that ancient resentment, which had long ago faded into, if not true friendship, a strange sort of intimacy.  Their mutual love for Fingon knotted Alphangil and Maedhros to one another, whether they willed it or not.

Ever gracious, Alphangil repaid Lord Maedhros’s perfunctory bow with a warm embrace.  After an awkward pause, he wrapped his arms about her shoulders, the smell of horse and his own sweat surrounding them.  She knew, now, that this man posed no threat.  There had been enough uncomfortable meetings, breaches of courtesy, stiff negotiations behind closed doors that resulted in someone storming off in seething rage.  And always, always, after the tears were dried, it was to Alphangil’s soft bed that Fingon would return. 

And so Alphangil feared Maedhros not, tall and imposing a figure as he was.  It was said that his enemies fled from him in terror.  With powerful arms, he could have squeezed the very breath from her, if he so chose.

“Come, Maedhros,” she said, taking his hand in hers with an easy familiarity he did not quite match.  “First, a bath.  Then, while your men dine, your cousin requests your company in private audience.”  She lowered her voice such that Maedhros had to stoop down and lean close to hear her whisper, her breath puffing against the shell of his ear.  “That is, if your journey has not sapped you of all vigor.  Your cousin and I will require your full strength.  You might prefer to rest in solitude for a night before your reunion, your bedchamber should be well—”

“The bath will suffice,” Maedhros interrupted, a clipped urgency in his tone.  Alphangil smiled with satisfaction to herself at the perceptible cracks in his composure, his careful façade of control. 

Alphangil was a generous Lady and would receive her honored guest with the utmost courtesy, bestowing upon him many little luxuries that must surely be hard to come by in the remote reaches of bleak Himring.  He would find no fault in her hospitality. 

Her pulse quickened to think of the particular welcome gift she had prepared.

The castle was built to retain warmth over the long grey winters of Dor-lómin, but in summer, even the nights sweltered.  In the privacy of her own chambers, Alphangil wore only a soft cotton gown, cut low between her breasts and high up the sides of her outer thighs.  She paced the drawing room.  A long-stemmed glass of pearly wine was cool in her hand, sweet on her tongue, smooth in her throat as she swallowed it down.  The hearth lay dark, for it was far too hot to light a fire.  Dancing candlelight alone illuminated the room.

Anticipation warmed Alphangil’s cheeks, or perhaps it was the lingering heat. 

She waited alone; the servants had been dismissed for the night.  And, preserving the element of surprise, the door to the bedchamber was shut tight.  She wanted so badly to peek within, to cast eyes upon what she knew awaited—and perhaps her lips—and perhaps her hands and her hips—oh, but she knew herself too well!  If she began to unwrap the gift too early, she would become wholly unable to douse her own fires.  She would spoil the evening by blazing too bright, too fast.  So she would wait.

Soon enough.

Three sharp knocks broke the silence.

Maedhros stood politely in the hall.  He only entered her space upon her explicit invitation, as she stepped aside just enough to allow him within.  His large bulk brushed against her as he shouldered past, grazing her dress, its fabric swishing around her thighs in his wake.

He was clean, skin flushed from the bath.  Now he smelled of soap and the pink sweetpea petals that infused the bathwater.  She had been unable to banish from her mind the image of Maedhros in her bathing chamber, unclothed in the porcelain tub, water and steam all about, hair scarlet-dark with moisture, unbound and dripping. 

Per her instructions, the servants had tended him well.  He wore the fresh clothing she chose: a plain linen tunic and drawstring trousers, a grey over-robe trimmed in the signature white feather embroidery of the house of her birth, soft grey slippers to match.  His copper hair had been washed and tied back in a simple tail with neither braid nor ornament.  Indeed, he wore few adornments of any kind; his ears and neck were bare.  Alphangil knew this to be a rare show of trust from a Noldo, especially one such as he, who strove to maintain an impression of formidable invulnerability.

She was touched.

She showed him to the chaise and offered him a glass of the pearly wine.  As expected, he merely pretended to sip; the herbs he smoked to ease his aches did not mix well with wine, and after such a long, hard ride, he must have been in no small measure of pain.  He did not show it but instead lounged as one comfortable, one arm stretched over the back of the chaise, one leg bent at the knee.  His hand, too, had been tended, nails cleaned and trimmed.  Two gold rings with glittering white jewels shone on his long fingers and caught the candlelight.

As was typical, he maintained almost total composure.  Only his fingers tapping on the glass betrayed his nerves. 

“I trust your journey was safe and without disruption,” said Alphangil.

“Yes, quite uneventful,” said Maedhros.  “The Long Peace stands.”

“Your company brightens our dreary castle so,” said Alphangil.  “The years between each visit grow longer and lonelier, it seems.  Himring must need you very much.”  She was dancing dangerously near to a subject of which they no longer spoke: that Maedhros’s visits were scarce because of her.  Or, rather, because her husband’s love and lust for her had only deepened with time, not faded into quiet companionship as Maedhros might have hoped, when first they wed. 

Maedhros hummed in acknowledgement, perceiving the peril.  “Surely the lord and lady of Dor-lómin cannot be so very lonely.  It is known across all Beleriand that you rule your domain with equal mercy and justice.  Your humble beginnings serve you well in understanding the cares of your people.”

Pride swelled in Alphangil’s breast at the compliment.  “Can one not miss one’s dearest friends even—nay, especially—when surrounded by a crowd?  Petitioners for the lord’s attention do not fill the void left by true intimates.  And as you know, my lord husband’s heart seeks ever for new adventure and finds little gratification in the dull tasks of routine governance.”

“And true adventure has been in short supply, these peaceful years.”  Maedhros nodded.  He knew Fingon as well as anyone else alive.  “Is that why he has not yet shown his face?  Occupied, is he, with adventure elsewhere?  But you did say he requested my company.  Is this how he rules?  The lady of Dor-lómin steps into his role in all matters that do not stir his blood with the promise of danger?”

She leaned forward and caught Maedhros’s gaze.  His grey eyes were guarded, cool as usual, though in the flickering candlelight, she saw flecks of warm green and hazel.  “You will always stir his blood,” she said with no small tenderness, “and you pose no danger to my lord husband.  We know your heart is true.”

Maedhros’s eyes softened, then.  He took a tiny sip of wine. 

“There are many ways to chase adventure,” said Alphangil.  “A novel sensation can be just as thrilling as a dragon breathing down one’s back, can it not?  One might enjoy an unknown fruit imported from distant lands, a strand of Song that one has never before heard plucked, a new lover in one’s bed,” Alphangil paused for dramatic effect, then continued blithely, as though mention of a new lover was naught unusual, “or a high-stakes game of chance.” 

A copper eyebrow lifted.  Maedhros was many things, a diplomat not least among them.  He would not be so vulgar as to address such a disclosure directly.  “An unknown fruit, did you say?”

Alphangil smiled and with her tongue she wet her parted lips, swallowing hard against a sudden rush of sensory memory that flooded her mouth.  “Do you know what grows on the shores of the southern isles?  A trading-merchant might bring many strange specimens to our lands, like nothing I have ever seen.  In recent days, I have tasted a ripe fruit with firm flesh that parted beneath my tongue in a burst of liquid sweetness.  So moist, so yielding, its juices dripped down my chin like fragrant honey.  Have you ever known such succulence?”

“I have,” said Maedhros, after a startled pause, “for every fruit and flower that ever lived grew in the Blessed Land of my youth, and in experimentation, we sampled them all.  Those were long years of bliss and boredom.  But I did not find such fruits to be to my taste, not in the usual way.  It comes as news to me that they are to yours.  Or that your lord husband would allow you to take such liberties with… strange fruits from beyond his orchards.”

Allow her!

Fingon had, in fact, been the one to suggest, long ago, that Alphangil might take a lady lover from whatever orchard she liked.  The offer had come after she had confessed to him, her head upon his bare chest, still hazy with pleasure, that her fires had ever burned for women as well as men.  But never in her youth had she the chance to truly pursue this inclination. 

“My wife should have all she ever desires,” Fingon had said.  He would not mind if she took a woman into her bed.  Was there a girlish sweetheart she thought of, an opportunity missed, young lips unkissed?  Or perhaps a lady-in-waiting from the court of the Noldor, a maiden with Tree-light still in her eyes?  Perhaps, he teased, poking at Alphangil in the thigh with renewing interest, she might fancy a certain famously free-spirited daughter of a minor vassal, her breasts twin moons, now immortalized in bawdy song? 

It had been early days of their union, before Fingon and his two loves had arrived at harmonious balance.  At the time, Alphangil was convinced Fingon had only suggested she stray out of guilt, some kind of misguided attempt at extramarital equity.  To think that he could so easily let another have her!  She had begun to cry.  To Fingon’s credit, he did not repeat the offer.

The truth was, Alphangil did not desire to take any lady-in-waiting into her bed, neither Sinda nor Noldo nor kindred as yet undiscovered.  Since first she laid eyes on Fingon, dancing to harp-music in the sunlight by the Pools of Ivrin, her heart had been bound.  There would never be another.  Not for Alphangil.  She was not like Fingon, who so overflowed with passion he could pour from himself into two lovers and still have much left over. 

“My husband likes much that is strange,” Alphangil breathed, the beat of her heart picking up speed.

“Of what do we speak, my lady?”  Maedhros set down his glass.  “You have aroused my curiosity, this I will admit.  What strangeness have you planned for this reunion?  In what part have you cast me without my knowledge?”  And here, the confidence in Maedhros’s rough voice seemed to falter, and he sounded for just a moment like the man he was: orphaned, or just as well like, dispossessed, and very far from home.  “Where, I pray, is Findekáno?”

The anticipation in the room had coalesced to a heady cloud of smoldering desire that nearly choked Alphangil, filling her with need. 

Enough. 

There was no need for further flirtation, she had Maedhros here in her chambers, precisely where she wanted him.  Besides, he was not hers to woo.

Her husband had accomplished that task long ago.

She had other uses for Lord Maedhros.

And she had made him wait long enough.

She turned toward the closed door that led to the bedchamber and called out.  “My love, come forth and show yourself.  We’re ready for you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Maedhros lean forward.  She heard his breathing quicken.

The door opened.

A rush of perfumed air wafted from the darkened bedchamber.  Alphangil breathed of it deeply.  Not Fingon’s usual scent, frankincense and hair oil, but a soft blend of white florals, like the gardens in summer on a steamy evening, delicate clusters of honeysuckle, pale jasmine, and lily of the valley.  A warm, demure, and altogether feminine fragrance.

A beautiful lady peeked out from the bedchamber with long-lashed eyes of the deepest blue-grey, the Light within them sparkling in playfulness.

“Come, come,” said Alphangil, beckoning.  “Do not be shy, now!  Your lovers would see you, my treasure, we would see you in the fullness of your splendor.”

The lady padded into the parlor on small bare feet. 

A fine dress of dark indigo embroidered throughout with gold and silver whispered against the cool stone floor; its tight-laced bodice cinched a narrow waist above flared hips and a full, swishing skirt, the lacy edge of an underskirt just peeking beneath the hem.  Above, the body curved into a high, round bosom, the flesh of the breasts nearly bursting the gown’s seams beneath a sweetheart neckline.  A silver medallion polished to mirror-like shine on a chain bobbed just above the impressive cleavage, and sapphire earrings edged by saltwater pearls framed the elegant ears like crescent moons. 

The face was familiar, tall, narrow, high-cheekboned, with a sharp, proud nose and a dimple on the right cheek, even as the mouth fought to hold back a knowing smile.  The skin, familiar as well, luminous in the flickering candlelight.  The hair—

Alphangil swallowed hard.

The sleek dark hair had been carefully arranged, as ever, with great attention to detail: long, thick plaits twined with honey-golden ribbons that streamed down and fluttered behind their wearer like butterflies in a summer breeze.

Yet that was not all.

Secured among the braids and the ribbons, Alphangil saw her own bridal jewelry: the small agate disks that once belonged to her mother, which she had worn at the Mereth Aderthad upon meeting her eventual husband for the very first time.  And affixed to the crown of the head: a long, sheer veil draped over the hair and trailing behind like silver mist over Mithrim at dusk.

Alphangil had never seen any woman so beautiful, so desirable.  Her face went hot, her mouth went dry, her breath went still.  She felt her heartbeat in her very core.  And she was grateful, in that moment, that unlike a man’s boasting member, her own arousal remained tucked sweetly away between her thighs.  Here, here, her body sang, reaching out in swelling strains that chimed in perfect harmony with the echoing Music of Creation: here was her fair wife.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to Elrond's Library for reading the story and sharing feedback. 💜

Chapters 2 and 3 should be posted later this week (Silm Smut Week 2026 WOOO!!!).

You can find me on Tumblr as AnnaRobots. If you enjoyed the story, please consider reblogging my Tumblr promo post and dropping a kudos or comment. Thank you for reading!

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Some weeks prior

“Well, this is quite a makeover,” said Fingon, gazing upon his new form in the mirror.  He was naked but for the mirrored medallion that hung from the chain round his neck.  He cupped his breasts in his hands and plucked at his own pink nipples, sighing in pleasure.

Alphangil was terribly proud of herself.  The glamour had worked far better than she had ever hoped!  A spell she had sung, of changing and of shifting shape, that Fingon’s form shall fair raiment make.  It worked just as her cousin, whose skill in the magical arts was said to rival even that of the sorceress Queen in Doriath, had said it would.

“Look at yourself,” said Alphangil.  She ran one hand down Fingon’s back, marveling at the softness of his skin, before resting her palm upon the newly plush ass.  She squeezed.  Fingon squeaked.  “What a lady you make.”

“Do I please you?  I know a lady should not be so forward,” said Fingon, turning to face Alphangil, ducking his head as though shy.  “Yet I find myself very badly in need of compliments.  I should simply perish if you were to find me unsatisfactory, after going to such trouble.”

A flush had begun to spread across Fingon’s cheeks.

“You are prettier than I, and you know it,” breathed Alphangil.  “You delight me more than I could have possibly imagined.”  She could not stop running her hands all over Fingon’s changed shape, noting every tremble, every sigh.  It seemed to Alphangil that this body was more sensitive than Fingon’s usual masculine form, his skin pricking up in gooseflesh everywhere she touched him.  Or perhaps the novelty of the form itself was what set Fingon’s nerves alight.  “Do you please yourself?”

“Yes,” Fingon said in a whisper that became a groan when Alphangil brushed her hands over his hard, darkening nipples. 

Later, still panting, all aglow with sweat and pleasure, Alphangil kept on idly playing with Fingon’s breasts, even after the waves of climax had given way to satisfied languor.  So soft they were, and yet the nipples stiffened so easily beneath her attention.  More generous than Alphangil’s own modest bosom, Fingon’s breasts overflowed a handful and then some, and they jiggled delightfully with every quake of Fingon’s body.  When he lay on his back, they spread outward and flattened, and when he sat up and pressed his arms together, they collided to create impressive cleavage.  The silver medallion on its chain nearly disappeared between them.

“And you say, while I wear this,” said Fingon, now fingering the medallion, “the form persists?  I wonder how long it would last, truly.  Surely not for ever.  I will need to resume my usual shape, of course, I do not intend to live as a woman in perpetuity.  I’ve got that hunt upon the morrow, and I would not dare appear like this before court.  If my vassals saw me, well, I would not care to give them reason to doubt my manhood.  But here, in private, in these peaceful times, when the years drag on with little else to break the monotony… I wonder.”

Alphangil shrugged.  She did not speak, because her mouth was full of Fingon’s nipple.

“I can’t believe how good that feels,” sighed Fingon.  “Breasts!  Who knew?  Do yours feel so wonderful to you as mine to me?  I have neglected you very badly indeed, if that is the case.  I shall devote myself to making restitution.  When I regain the will to move.”

Alphangil looked up, releasing the nipple with a wet pop, and smiled.  “I could never say you neglect me, my love.  Look at you.  Look at all you have done to make me happy.”  She swept her gaze up and down Fingon’s curves, and settled herself lower, between Fingon’s thighs.

“Not only for you,” admitted Fingon.  “I would not have known the words to describe such a thing, and even had I realized I wanted it, I might have let shame restrain me from asking on my own behalf.  But the moment you made the request, with your cousin’s spellcraft in mind, I knew in my heart that I might enjoy the result far more than I should.  Than any man should.”

“Then you might let me sing you into this shape again?”  Alphangil exhaled warm breath upon the dark triangle of curls.

“Let you!  I might demand it, if you did not offer.  Can you make my tits even bigger?”

“I could try,” said Alphangil, doubtful.  “I am not entirely certain of the spell’s mechanics, to tell the truth, it is more art than science.  I nudged the strands of Music that give your body its shape, and in so doing made suggestion in reforming incarnate flesh, but I chose not your exact form.  It is illusion, a glamour, my cousin called it.  Besides,” she reached up and squeezed, “I like your breasts very much, just like this.”

“It certainly feels more real than any mere illusion,” said Fingon, and wiggled, inching his way closer to Alphangil’s face.  “Perhaps the form is the shape that I might have had, were I born this way.  No matter, oh, fuck, I have another idea.  Do you think if we pierce my nipples while I’m a woman, and thread them with golden rings, would the rings stay put when I switch back to a man?”

“Only one way to find out.  Shall I get a needle?”  Alphangil was only teasing.  She intended not to remove herself from the folds between Fingon’s legs until sleep or the Black Foe took her.

“Oh, don’t you dare move,” Fingon groaned, already desperate beneath Alphangil’s touch.  “Fuck the needle, do that again!”

“The Lord of Himring has written,” said Alphangil.  She held the letter out to Fingon, who sat before a silver mirror, hair-comb and hairpins strewn about the dressing table.  He shook his head and held up two hands shiny with hair oil.  With one, he shooed away the hair-attendant, who obediently trotted into the hall.  With the other, he gestured for Alphangil to convey the letter’s contents.  He trusted her with his correspondence, even the most intimate in nature.

“So, he shall arrive before summer’s end,” said Fingon, after Alphangil had summarized the main points.  He continued working on his own hair, twisting and pinning up one section at a time.  She watched him in the mirror, enjoying the flex of his muscular arms just as much as she enjoyed the dexterity of his long fingers.  “Shall we welcome his arrival in grand pageantry—feasting and a tourney, perhaps, as might befit a vassal of his stature?”

“Perhaps.  There shall be time enough for celebration, and the fields have been ever more bountiful these happy years.  I am sure we will feast Lord Maedhros in style.  But I had a different kind of welcome in mind.  He is practically a part of our household, after all.  I believe we should introduce him to the newest member of the family.”

In the mirror, Fingon went pale.  He began to stammer.  “Oh, my love, are you saying—but we didn’t even—this is wonderful, of course—oh, I must write my father at once—what news!  When?  How?”  He stared at Alphangil’s belly. 

Alphangil realized at once what her dear foolish husband had assumed.  “Oh, no!  I’m not pregnant!”

To Alphangil’s mild irritation, Fingon let out a huge sigh of palpable relief. 

Now, it was true that the time was not yet right, and in this, they were in firm agreement.  Times were peaceful, and the High King ruled from Barad Eithel.  On occasion, someone or another would try and subtly hint about the need for an heir.  And one day, when they were ready, they would make one.  The line of succession for the House of Fingolfin should be uncontestable, if the unthinkable were ever to happen.  There were too many Finwëan cousins scattered across Beleriand to rest easily at the prospect of Fingon ascending to the throne heirless.

But it was not yet that day.

Still, Fingon’s obvious dismay (and flimsy effort to hide it) rankled Alphangil. 

“Let me tell you, before you dream up some other wild misunderstanding.”  Alphangil sat next to Fingon on the bench and looked at the reflections of their faces, side by side.  “Late summer would be a fine time to introduce Lord Maedhros to Fingwen.”

She saw a thrill in Fingon’s deep blue-grey eyes.  “Fingwen would be enchanted to meet him, I’m sure,” said he.  “I have it on good authority that she has dreamed of making intimate acquaintance with our cousin, and she aches to feel the touch of his hand.”

Alphangil had known it.  There was no pleasure she could take with her husband that she would not be forced to share with Maedhros, whether or not he were physically present.  “Then what is your hesitation?”  For she could also see a hint of doubt in her husband’s sparkling eyes.

“I am not so sure that Maedhros would return Fingwen’s interest,” he confessed. 

“What could he possibly mislike?  Fingwen is the most beautiful woman in all of Arda, and delightful company.  I should be proud to make the introduction, and to show Lord Maedhros all of Fingwen’s finest virtues.”

“I doubt it is her virtue you intend to show him,” said Fingon.  He shifted on the bench, squirming as though thinking about precisely what parts of Fingwen should be put on display.  “I admit the idea gives me a thrill.  I am simply uncertain how he may take it.”

“Oh, husband.  Isn’t the uncertainty the entire point?  What fun it will be, to convince him!” 

“Yes,” said Fingon, voice gone rough.  “Very well.”  He secured the last braid into place on his crown with a pin and a nod.  “Now, let’s talk costuming.  I’ve already commissioned a jeweler to craft two nipple rings, to be made from a set of melted-down cufflinks of the finest Valinorean gold.”

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“I am honored to receive you,” purred Fingwen, curtsying deeply before Lord Maedhros in the drawing room.  Alphangil stared shamelessly at her cleavage. 

Maedhros’s face was unreadable as he took Fingwen’s outstretched hand and kissed it with closed lips.  “The honor is surely mine.  Though,” he added, flicking a glance Alphangil’s way, “I did not expect to meet such a lady, a stranger to me.  And in such finery!” 

Pleased, Fingwen twirled, the indigo dress flaring to reveal the silky underskirt, and below, her bare ankles. 

“What an ensemble!  I am reminded of a play I once saw in Tirion of old, The Plum and the Knife.  A dear friend played the role of the plum, do you know, and had I not been in on the secret, I would never have known him from my seat in the mezzanine.  A beautiful lady he made onstage, ripe and ready to be consumed.” 

Fingwen giggled.  Alphangil frowned.  She did not like when they slipped into discussion of Amanyarin culture of old; she felt helplessly provincial every time she caught a whisper of the libertine comedy, lurid romance, and high melodrama the Calaquendi seemed to enjoy.  Their cosmopolitan tastes did not travel the Ice well.  Better suited for the Hither Lands were the simpler tales on which Alphangil had grown up, stories of heroes and monsters, damsels in distress, and true love conquering all. 

“I fear I came unprepared for this audience,” said Maedhros.  “Had I known who awaited, I might have arrayed myself more suitably for the occasion.  I feel terribly underdressed in the company of a lady of such elegance.” 

“That is easy to resolve,” said Alphangil.  She placed her fingertips upon the ends of the cords that laced Fingwen’s gown.  “May I?” 

Fingwen nodded eagerly, leaning back against Alphangil. 

Alphangil loosened the bodice with little urgency, letting her hands drift all over Fingwen’s body under the pretense of smoothing the fabric.  Fingwen’s belly relaxed upon the loosening, then trembled and tightened under Alphangil’s fingers.  Alphangil crept her hand downward at agonizingly slow pace, inching toward Fingwen’s center.  Fingwen let out a little moan that sent sparks through Alphangil’s core.  Then she grabbed her hand and pulled it roughly lower. 

Alphangil pulled away, with no small regret.  “Not yet, sweet.  You must meet our guest properly, first.  Look how he stares!” 

Maedhros watched with keen interest, though Alphangil would not describe the glint in his eyes as desire.  He watched closely as Alphangil teased Fingwen out of the outer-gown, let it fall to the floor, and helped her step out of it, followed by the silky underskirt.  His eyes did not stray from Fingwen clad in only her chemise and jewels.  And he remained locked onto Fingwen as she swayed back to him, nipples visibly peaking in the thin undergarment.  Even more notable, the now-evident lack— 

No bulge to be found between Fingwen’s thighs.  No vulgar, conspicuous male desire making itself known like a banner waving in the field, but only a faint, dark shadow at the joining of her thighs, the very absence demanding attention in itself. 

And oh, yes, Maedhros noticed.  His fine copper eyebrows lifted.  Not so very much.  But enough that one close to him would see, were they watching. 

With Fingwen now standing between his knees, Maedhros put a hand on her narrow waist, long fingers on the rise of her ass.  “I suppose this is a fair turn, and now we are equally underdressed,” said he.  “Hello, lady.  A pleasure.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” said Fingwen.  “Why, I have looked forward to this day for ages, and now that I meet you at last, I hope I do not make of myself a fool.  Oh, but I feel so light-headed.  That heavy gown!  This heat!  Oh, I fear I shall faint right now!”  She half-stumbled, half-threw herself onto Maedhros’s lap. 

Maedhros caught Fingwen with equanimous grace and settled her upon his thick thighs.  He wrapped one arm about Fingwen’s waist, holding her steady.  “Be at peace, lady,” he murmured.  And Fingwen sighed in pleasure as his hand wandered over her legs stretched across his lap, then back up the side of her hip, then climbed her chest.  He splayed his big hand there, the span of his fingers nearly encompassing the width of her torso.  Fingwen’s breasts rose and fell beneath Maedhros’s hand.  His gaze traveled across her body with an air of deliberate assessment, measuring with his eyes the same luscious curves that Alphangil so delighted in caressing. 

Then he pinched her on the breast.  Not gently.   

Fingwen yelped, delighted.  “Brute!” 

“This is no mere costume,” said Maedhros.  “What have you done?” 

Alphangil smiled serenely.  “Why, I have brought to you Fingwen, my lady wife.  She has so longed to meet you.” 

“Lady Fingwen,” said Maedhros.  He studied the woman in his lap.  Then with a swift, sudden movement, he yanked up Fingwen’s chemise, revealing the full length of her legs, the shapely calves, the soft thighs, and the inviting cleft where her legs met. 

“Oh, you beast!  Is that how they greet a lady in the East?  What an indecent custom!”  Fingwen wriggled and squirmed on Maedhros’s lap in mock dismay.  She smacked him lightly.  Her breasts bounced prettily.  Her legs fell open. 

“We see many strange travelers in my hills, where I have long stood watch over the vast northern plains in defiance of our enemy.  I have known queer pilgrims who possessed powers of transformation,” said Maedhros conversationally, “who could mask their form to appear in the guise of another—a beggar, a troubadour, an errant knight.  We have learned through harsh betrayal to take caution even with the fairest of forms.  One might imagine such a power harnessed to counterfeit the mask of a loved one.  Such a trick could be used for ill intent indeed.  And I did not come all this way to be deceived.”  He slid his hand up the insides of Fingwen’s trembling thighs and dug his fingertips into the tender flesh.  

Alphangil felt the touch against her own skin as an echo, shared through the bond with her wife.  Maedhros was not being gentle.  She could feel the sharp edges of his fingernails prick at the softness of Fingwen’s thigh.  She swallowed hard.  “You think I have brought out this sweet, pretty lady to trick you?  To harm you?  That is a strange thought, a suspicion that could only have been born from too-long vigil over evil places.  What could she ever do to one such as you, weak and soft as she is?”   

Helpfully, Fingwen kicked her feet and pretended to struggle in vain beneath the grip of Maedhros’s strong arms. 

“See?  She can be no threat.  You could throw her back to me one-handed, if you find her not to your liking.” 

Maedhros barked out a laugh, but his wariness did not soften. 

It was then that Fingwen laid her hand over Maedhros’s own where it lay against her inner thigh, neither urging him higher nor teasing.  She stopped wriggling in his lap.  And when she spoke at last, her voice was no longer playful, but soft with compassion.  “My Lord’s mistrust is of neither me nor you.  To his mind, I could be a trick of the Enemy himself.  Russandol,” she said, so low, Alphangil could scarcely hear.  “You have seen ghosts in strange shape before, I take it?  Oh, my love.”   

Fingwen nestled closer against Maedhros, breathing slow and deeply.  Maedhros allowed her, and after a long moment, the tension in his shoulders began to slacken.  

“There are ghosts in these lands,” said Alphangil, “but I assure you, none have crossed the gates of this castle.  We are safe here.”  Alphangil stepped closer to where Fingwen and Maedhros sat entwined.  “It is a simple glamour, nothing more.  Meant for amusement, a diversion in these days of peace.  She is above all a creature of pleasure.  And you do please me so, sweetling.  Have we your trust, Lord Maedhros?  We can dismiss the lady at once, of course, if the very sight of her darkens the shadow over your heart.” 

This was the moment of uncertainty for Alphangil.  Maedhros had made no secret of his disinterest in the sweet curves of a woman’s body; when he joined Fingon and Alphangil in the bedchamber, never did he touch Alphangil with any intent or purpose toward her pleasure.  They both agreed that it was a great honor to make Fingon happy, and that had sufficed.  Indeed, in acts of love, long had Alphangil observed that Maedhros seemed to hold himself entirely apart.  Achieving release was difficult for Maedhros, and he seemed to find it near impossible in the presence of company.  Alphangil could count on one hand the occasions in which she had seen Maedhros lost in ecstasy; so rare were they, the memories burned bright in her mind’s eye.  Yet he seemed to find great satisfaction in their play regardless. 

Fingon had assured Alphangil that this shortcoming was not unique to her attendance.  “He has long behaved as though he were made of stone and not flesh, even before,” Fingon had tried to explain.  “Angband... stripped away some of the artifice, and I, in the maiming, took from him any hope of returning to a form of incarnate perfection.  But he remains fundamentally himself.”    

Alphangil did not pretend to understand.  She found no fault in Maedhros’s incarnate form.  But then again, she had not known him before.  And she would never know him as Fingon did, he would never allow her to.   

What would Maedhros do next?  She did not know. 

Would he shove Fingwen back into Alphangil’s arms, admit that he had no taste for her as she was, and depart in a storm of petulance?   

Would he prove that the love in his heart was, deep down, conditional, and thus pale in comparison to Alphangil’s? 

Maedhros looked deep and long into Fingwen’s eyes, which were the exact shade and shape as Fingon’s, that same grey-blue beneath long, dark, curling lashes, Tree-light shining from deep within.  With hands clasped, Fingwen lay draped across Maedhros’s lap like a cloth doll.   

“Do not dismiss her,” he said at last, and the smile that illuminated Fingwen’s face could have rivaled the first sunrise.  “It would be unspeakably rude of me to turn away a lady of such uncommon beauty and sweetness.  I was merely surprised.”  He lowered his head in a polite bow.  “Lord Maedhros of Himring, at your service.” 

Ever the faithful vassal, in the end. 

“Wouldn’t you kiss her?”  Alphangil asked, all innocence. 

Maedhros did not hesitate; he kissed Fingwen on each cheek, mouth dry and closed, and then once on her lovely mouth.  Fingwen sighed with pleasure. 

Then, carefully, Maedhros stood up from the chaise, lifting Fingwen in his arms.  With a nod toward Alphangil, he carried her into the bedchamber with all deliberate purpose. 

Well, there was one question answered. 

What could Alphangil do but follow? 

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But in Faërian drama you are in a dream that some other mind is weaving, and the knowledge of that alarming fact may slip from your grasp. To experience directly a Secondary World: the potion is too strong, and you give to it Primary Belief, however marvellous the events. You are deluded—whether that is the intention of the elves (always or at any time) is another question. They at any rate are not themselves deluded.

- J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories, 1947

<blockquote>

The White Lilies

As a man and woman make
a garden between them like
a bed of stars, here
they linger in the summer evening
and the evening turns
cold with their terror: it
could all end, it is capable
of devastation. All, all
can be lost, through scented air
the narrow columns 
uselessly rising, and beyond,
a churning sea of poppies--

Hush, beloved. It doesn’t matter to me
how many summers I live to return:
this one summer we have entered eternity.
I felt your two hands
bury me to release its splendor.

- Louise Glück, 1992

The bedchamber, dark and still, was thick with the fragrance of Fingwen: her jasmine and lily of the valley perfume, her sweat, her breath, and her desire.  Alphangil’s eyes, which had never known Tree-light, took a moment to adjust to the darkened room, lit only by stars through a high window.

And then she saw her wife, sprawled all alone in the center of the bed.  Alphangil rushed to join and smother her in kisses.

For his part, Maedhros had retreated to a chair next to the unlit fireplace.

His customary spot. 

This, now, was all familiar: the softness of her bed, the light cotton coverlet beneath her, the feel and smell of Fingwen.  And not so far away, Maedhros’s keen attention.  Once settled, he was utterly still.  But that did not mean Alphangil heeded not his presence.  Indeed, all her senses were attuned to Lord Maedhros, who could not help but command a room, even in play.

Fingwen was flushed a deep rose-pink.  Her chemise was all askew from Maedhros’s manhandling, and her veil twisted beneath her. The gold and jewels sparkled in her hair.

“Oh, what shall I do with you?” murmured Alphangil, placing a hand upon Fingwen’s knee.  When one had such a feast spread before her, how could one choose where to begin?

“Strip her,” said Maedhros from the chair.

A flutter of excitement stirred anew in Alphangil’s blood.  “May I, High Princess?” asked she, turning to Fingwen.

“It is not my leave you require,” breathed Fingwen.  “The words of my Lord Himring shall rule me.  Do as he wills.”

Annoyance—only mild—tempered Alphangil’s arousal.  But seeing as the order was in agreement with her own desire, she obeyed.  With the utmost delight she removed Fingwen’s chemise and gazed upon her wife in all her nude splendor.

Now Fingwen wore only the bridal veil, the jewels, the medallion round her neck.  And, of course, revealed at long last: through each nipple, hoops of the finest Valinorean gold. 

A waterfall of golden chains linked the two hoops, delicate as lacework, pure as the Sun.  The chains draped in a deep curve over her torso. The highest crossed just beneath her breast, and the last dipped below her navel.  Hung from the lowest chain, a single white gem in the shape of a teardrop pointed downward like an arrow.  Look below, it seemed to say, and you shall find your treasure!

Yes, they had learned the answer to Fingon’s question.  If pierced while in Fingwen form, his nipples would retain the golden rings.  The medallion could be removed, but the rings remained in place, threaded through his nipples.  Changing the outer shape did not wipe away the impressions that could be left upon it. 

All the better for Fingon, who was altogether thrilled with his new pierced nipples.  He went mad when Alphangil tugged at those rings, regardless of form.

Alphangil loved her so much.

“Shall I kiss her?” she asked Maedhros, and she hardly managed to wait for his approval before she dove in and pressed her lips to her wife’s.

What joy!  What sweetness!  She did not think there was any Elda in all Arda more blessed than she, who had this.  Who else could have in one soul all that she desired: respect, security, affection, a hard cock that would pound her rough and screaming, and now, in that very same person, a soft, warm, wet, wonderful woman who tasted like strawberries, and who fell to pieces at the touch of a hand.

Fingwen moaned into Alphangil’s mouth, opening like a flower.  Alphangil pressed into her with eager tongue.  Maedhros’s silver gaze washed over them both.  Fingwen wiggled, wrapped her arms around Alphangil, and pulled her closer.

“She stirs,” said Maedhros. “You kindle her fires.  What a wanton creature.  Who could have imagined that such lust hid beneath those fine skirts? A High Princess she may be.  Yet now her true nature is revealed.”

Alphangil broke away, breathing hard.  Fingwen whined.  “Would you like to see what else hid beneath her skirts?” Alphangil asked Maedhros.

A hum of assent. 

Alphangil shifted so that she sat behind Fingwen, chest to back.  Now Maedhros’s view was clear and unobstructed.  Then she grasped Fingwen’s thighs, the flesh soft and yielding beneath her hands, and she spread them wide, revealing what lay between: a perfect pink pussy, swathed in dark curls.

Fingwen, breasts heaving with each breath, gasped out loud.  “Oh, mercy!  Spare me!” She could not close her legs, not with Alphangil holding her so firm.  She moved instead to cover herself with her hands, folding them demurely over her sex. 

“Now, now,” chided Maedhros. “This is no time to be shy.  Show yourself to me.  Or shall your lady wife do it for you?”

Fingwen tossed her head in pretend defiance.  The veil swung about behind her.  She did not move her hands.

“I see.  Make her, then.”

Gleeful, Alphangil wrapped her own legs over Fingwen’s, pinning her.  Then she reached between her thighs.  She pulled Fingwen’s soft hands away.  And with the vee of her fingers, Alphangil spread open Fingwen’s lower lips for Maedhros, unveiling within the glistening, delicate skin that was already swollen thick, dark, and fragrant with arousal.  Alphangil’s mouth watered at the smell.  Fingwen whimpered.

“That’s some glamour,” said Maedhros, almost to himself.  He considered Fingwen’s exposed sex for a few moments, then met Alphangil’s gaze.  “Now, you tell me this lady is a creature made for pleasure, is she?  Whose pleasure, I wonder.  I think you have taken yours at great leisure, keeping her locked away in this room for your eyes only.  I think you have glutted yourself on her loveliness and let none else partake.”

Maedhros had, of course, the right of it.  It would not do to let anyone else see Fingwen.  She was Alphangil’s to use and share only as she pleased.  Alphangil moved ever so slightly, rubbing the palm of her hand against Fingwen’s mound.  Her fingers brushed against Fingwen’s soft, wet curls where they held her open below.

“Now she is for your pleasure, my Lord,” said Alphangil, magnanimously.

“For my pleasure,” echoed Maedhros.  “Ha! So it would seem.  Very well.  What would please me?  What would please me,” he repeated softly.  “I think I should like to see you bring her to the very precipice, until she is mindless with need.  I think I should like to hear the lady beg.”

Fingwen moaned out loud, thrusting her hips forth so that her sex rubbed against Alphangil’s hand. The very words Maedhros spoke seemed to inflame her ever more fiercely.  She dripped against Alphangil’s fingers though she had scarcely yet been touched. Alphangil’s own cunt throbbed with sympathetic need.

“Are you so close already, my love?” murmured Alphangil into her ear.

“Yes,” moaned Fingwen. “Ah, yes, I am.”  Her back was hot where it pressed into Alphangil’s front.

“Then will you beg, like our lord guest asks?  Will you give him what he wants?”

Fingwen swallowed her moans, closing her mouth in petulance at once at the suggestion.  Her hips moved faster, rocking herself into Alphangil’s hand.  She touched her own breasts, fingers on each gold ring.  The chains swung as she moved.  She would chase her pleasure, Alphangil well knew.

Oh, and how Alphangil wanted to see her climax!  She was halfway there herself, dizzy on desire and on Fingwen as the sensations echoed through their bond.  She wanted to let her catch that peak.  Fingwen lost in orgasm was a beautiful sight.

“Stop.”

Maedhros’s command was firm.

With sorrow, Alphangil removed her hand from Fingwen.  It came away wet.

Fingwen cried out in distress.  “My Lord!” She reached between her own legs, but Alphangil intercepted and caught her by the wrists.

“You know his wish,” admonished Alphangil.  “Won’t you beg?  I think he should let you come, if you only ask sweetly.”

Fingwen’s mouth clamped shut again.

“She is stubborn,” said Alphangil to Maedhros.  “She must be taught.  We must strike again, and strike harder.  What should I do with her, my Lord?”

Maedhros’s grin was full of teeth.

They three all knew it: he was as skilled a general in the bedroom as on the field of battle.

Alphangil launched an all-out assault at his direction.  She took Fingwen’s ears into her mouth one at a time to tug at the jewels with her teeth. Her hands groped at Fingwen’s plump tits (Maedhros’s word) and played with the chains that linked them together. She sucked on the soft skin of her neck while she fondled a nipple.  She pushed aside the cloudy layers of veil, she raked her fingers through Fingwen’s hair, she yanked at her braids.  The agate hair-jewels fell, jingling, upon the bedspread. 

All the while, Maedhros remained seated and still in his chair, long legs crossed at the knee, chin in hand.  He watched, he gave commands, he did not so much as twitch.

How did he take such pleasure with no touch upon his own flesh?  Alphangil did not understand it.  Once, before she had come to know Maedhros as she did now, Alphangil might have thought that they might both take her, Fingon and Maedhros; they shared so much else, why not a wife?  Perhaps one after the other might bury themselves within her, their seed mingling in her sex.  Or perhaps they might enjoy entering her from two ends, one sheathed between her legs, the other filling her mouth.  She knew not the taste of Maedhros’s seed and had oft wondered whether it might burn her tongue, if it would heat her from the inside when she swallowed it down. 

In her wildest imagination, she had even envisioned perhaps she might take them both jointly, Fingon and Maedhros in her cunt at once.  They might stuff her full with their two fat cocks pressed together.  Oh, they should like that!  Such tightness, such heat.

Yet Maedhros had shown little interest in her body.  Yes, even when she was naked and gasping before him, even spread wide and aching, he remained ever unmoved.

No matter. 

She had Fingwen. 

And all the while, as she worked her sweet body, Fingwen’s pleasure built ever higher.  She moaned, she gasped.  She panted with exertion and her skin took on a deep red flush; her hips thrust against empty air, as Alphangil continued to neglect that part of her that most demanded to be touched.

At Maedhros’s command, Alphangil flipped Fingwen onto her back and crawled on top of her.  She kissed her way down Fingwen’s neck to her breasts.  When she reached a perfect, pert nipple, she teased first around the edges.  Fingwen tossed her head from side to side. Alphangil’s own cunt was clenching around nothing.  She swirled her tongue closer and closer to the center until at last she reached the golden ring.  It was warm and hard beneath her mouth.

When Alphangil tugged on it with her teeth, Fingwen’s cry of pleasure was nearly a scream.

Oh, she knew that sound. A sharp bolt of arousal struck between her legs.  Could she—

She tugged again, and Fingwen cried even louder.

“Stop,” said Maedhros.

He, too, understood what that sound signified.

Alphangil tugged once more at the nipple ring.  Her breasts tingled.  Just another pull or two, and she was sure she could get Fingwen to--

“I said stop,” repeated Maedhros, more sternly.

With regret, Alphangil pulled away.

And then Fingwen cried even louder.

Maedhros had given no command against Alphangil touching herself.  She could not resist any longer, she rubbed her palm between her legs and moaned.  Her gown was in the way, and it was damp with sweat.  She lifted the gown up and over her head and tossed it aside.  Now she bared her body in full to Fingwen and Maedhros both.

Fingwen pushed herself up onto her elbows, to better watch Alphangil.  “Oh, you’re cruel,” she moaned, “you are both so cruel.  How can you be so heartless to an innocent, helpless girl?  I am at your disposal.  Look at you, oh, how you leave me wanting and yet you fondle yourself before me!”  She reached again for her own sex.

“Do not,” said Maedhros. “You know what I wish to hear.”

Fingwen’s mouth shut tight, her lips pressed together in a line.  Her eyes went wild enough that, for a moment, Alphangil feared the teasing had gone too far.  Then she winked.

Alphangil loved this game. She had loved playing it when it was Fingon desperate under her hands, and loved it even more with Fingwen, but now Alphangil, too, had begun to grow impatient.  Stroking her wife was a pleasure unlike any other, and she could sense Fingwen’s growing desperation through their bond.   

And Maedhros was not her lord.

“Shh, shh, do not cry, sweet one,” said Alphangil.  “I cannot bear to see you suffer so.  Be at peace. I will give you relief.”

When Alphangil bore Fingwen down onto the bed, there was little Maedhros could do.  When she kissed her wife deeply and slipped her tongue into her mouth just as she slipped her thigh between her legs and pressed it against her cunt, Maedhros’s calls of “stop, stop” rang out unanswered. Their combined slickness mingled and slid between them.  And when she drove Fingwen into a helpless, shuddering climax with nothing but the movement of her thigh, it was Alphangil, and not Maedhros, who got to share in the echoes of her pleasure through the bond of holy matrimony. 

Maedhros went still, a dark cloud looming in the bedchamber.  He spoke not.  He moved not. But it was of little consequence. Alphangil had risen above his darkness. She had brought Fingwen to the highest heavens of ecstasy and together they soared in bliss. 

After the waves of pleasure receded, Fingwen slumped back.  Her mouth opened and closed in silence, her eyes went hazy.  The medallion rose and fell between her breasts as she breathed.

Alphangil gave no quarter. She did not wait for Fingwen’s recovery but began to launch her assault anew, with lips and teeth and tongue. 

“Oh, you savage,” Fingwen groaned.  “You will eat me whole!”

What was Maedhros to Alphangil?  He mattered not at all.  He would never, he could never do this.  He could not take such joy in Fingwen’s soft curves.  And he knew it!  His silence was the proof.  When Alphangil began to lick her way down Fingwen’s body, the heady aroma of her arousal growing ever stronger the lower she went, Maedhros did not intervene.  She reached Fingwen’s sweet, hot cunt, and found her absolutely dripping.  And there was nothing on Arda that Maedhros could do to keep her from feasting upon her wife.

And what a feast! What sweetness, tartness, and salt all mingled together, pouring out of Fingwen like wine from a cask.  Did other women flow so freely?  Alphangil neither knew nor cared.  How could she, when she had such decadence before her?  She licked, she lapped, she drank deeply. She thrust her tongue into the source of all that wetness and found still more flowing forth, mixing now with her saliva and the sweat that dripped from her brow.  She sucked at Fingwen’s tenderest part, the bud of her pleasure, and delighted in the shrieks she drew.  From the shaking of Fingwen’s thighs and the spiraling, dizzying tremors that flew along their bond, Alphangil knew that she was approaching a second climax, and she was herself carried along its current.  Drunk on her wife, Alphangil lifted Fingwen’s hips ever so slightly with a thrust of her shoulders, and with one hand she pushed down on Fingwen’s mound, the angle and pressure that she knew would drive her to ecstasy.

But though Alphangil drove against her with all passionate intensity, though Fingwen was rolling with pleasure and glowing with sweat, desperate as ever to reach another peak, that peak would not come.  This was no hardship on Alphangil, who could dine on her fair wife for hours, she could gorge for days.  She could dwell within her folds and forget the world outside.  Nothing—and no one—else merited concern.

But when Fingwen began to beg out loud to be allowed to come, to please, please, make her come again, she needed it so badly—

“Finger her,” said Maedhros.

He had not spoken in a long while.  It took a moment for Alphangil to comprehend. 

Lord Maedhros grew impatient.  “I say, finger her!”  He spoke more sharply.

Alphangil pulled back, grudging.  She looked up, a question in her eyes for her wife. 

“Do not ask her leave!” Maedhros did not stir from his place, but his voice thundered throughout the bedchamber.  “She is for my pleasure, is she not?  That is what you said.  If you are no servant of the Enemy, then you must do what I tell you.”

Anger flooded Alphangil. 

Yet Fingwen nodded, ever eager.  Her cunt had gushed anew at the rumble of Maedhros’s voice.

Still Alphangil hesitated.

“Have you ears?  Put your fingers inside her.  That is what she needs, and that is my will and my command.”

Of course Alphangil heard. And of course she knew what Fingwen needed.  She was her wife!  She had the bond!  She had the same parts.  Maedhros could never understand what it was to ache with emptiness.  Alphangil felt Fingwen’s need as though it were her very own. She felt her longing in her own blood, she felt her cunt pulsing. 

“Of course, I will give you what you need, darling,” Alphangil soothed.  She gazed upon Fingwen’s cunt and spread her open so that she could better see the task at hand.

As a point of fact, they had not, in this manner, explored the inner depths of Fingwen’s body. Penetration had seemed so utterly irrelevant.  Instead Alphangil had feasted upon this shape’s many outward charms: her breasts, so soft, her ass, so plush, her pussy, so perfect.  The little bud, so sensitive and so sweet beneath Alphangil’s tongue.  Fingwen had not before asked to be breached.  Why should she, when Alphangil had showered her with such devotion?

Yet now, in the presence of Maedhros, Fingwen needed more. 

She needed to be filled. 

Alphangil swallowed hard and fought an overwhelming and sudden urge to flee.  But she could not fail her wife now.  She would do this. 

“I will be gentle,” promised Alphangil.  She would go slow as honey.  It would not do to hurt her.  Fingwen gazed upon her with fathomless trust.

Her fears, she found, were groundless.  Fingwen was so slick and so ready, Alphangil’s first finger met no resistance at all.  A wild, impossible thought: if Fingwen had had a maidenhead, Fingon must have broken it riding upon horseback with his men across the plains of Ard-galen. Alphangil laughed and gasped aloud as she slid all the way inside Fingwen’s perfect heat.  Oh, what a strange sensation: the wet pulse of her passage, Fingwen’s inner walls clenching around her finger. 

How deep did this glamour go?  Fingwen felt entirely real, entirely woman.  So much as Alphangil could perceive.

“All well, love?” Alphangil asked.

Fingwen rocked against her. Her thighs fanned outward and then snapped back in.  She tipped back her head.  “Oh, lovely. Oh, that’s gorgeous.  You feel—perfect, so good, but—can you give me more?  May I have more?”  She trembled.

“Greedy girl,” teased Alphangil.  She curled her finger within Fingwen.  She was breathless, herself.  “But seeing as you’ve asked so sweetly—”

“Give her another,” ordered Maedhros.

“I was going to!”

Both Fingwen and Alphangil groaned as Alphangil withdrew and then penetrated Fingwen again, this time with a second finger alongside the first.  Now there was friction; two fingers went less readily.  She needed to be stretched.  Alphangil wiggled and worked her way in and out slowly, breathing onto Fingwen’s cunt.  Fingwen in her eagerness did not make it easy.  She writhed, she squirmed about, she pushed herself down on Alphangil’s fingers in her haste to be speared through, even as Alphangil tried so hard to be gentle.

“You’re very tight, my darling, you must relax for me.  You know how to relax, don’t you?  You’ve opened up so well for me before.”  Between her own legs, Alphangil felt the same invading pressure that Fingwen felt. Slowly, she coaxed her open, that pressure giving way at last.

Fingwen laughed out loud. The feeling was glorious around Alphangil’s fingers.  “This is very different, and you well know it.”

Yes, she did. Alphangil had on many occasions fingered Fingon’s ass in preparation to take her carved cock.  She had not understood why he desired that, not at first; she had once thought the wooden cock in its harness, a gift from Fingon, was a sign that he saw her as only a pale substitute for the one he truly wanted. Fingon had assured her it was not so, and the tool had become a treasured possession, and the act of penetration a joyful one for them both.

Still.  An ass was not a cunt, and her fingers knew it.

Alphangil thrust in and out with her two fingers, and she devoted herself once more to the unparalleled pleasure of licking her wife’s cunt with firm, flat strokes.  She gave her everything she had, driving into and upon her with steady fingers and tongue.  The sounds Fingwen made were trills of delight.

And still she did not come.

“I need more, please, oh, please, love,” choked out Fingwen between gasps of pleasure.

“You heard her! More!”

“Of course I will give her more!”  Alphangil snapped.  She could only ever give her wife everything she wanted.  Her face was covered in Fingwen’s wetness.  “Another finger, love?  It will be tight.”

“No, no more fingers, it isn’t enough,” moaned Fingwen. 

There was a sharp inhale from Maedhros in his chair.  Alphangil refused to turn and look at him.  Whatever he was thinking was of no interest to her.

“Then what, love?”

“I need your cock! Please, my love, please get the cock from the cupboard.  I need you inside me.” 

And then Alphangil’s whole body seemed to go up in flames.  She was engulfed in a rush of explosive desire so shocking, so powerful, she could not breathe.  That heat burst forth from a place so deep within her, she had not even known she contained it: the hearth of the Flame Imperishable that sparked every Elda’s soul.

Fingwen spoke, of course, of her exquisite wooden cock.  It was a pretty thing, carved and polished and lacquered to a fine, dark sheen.  Too smooth and perfect to be quite realistic, but well-shaped, long and thick.  It fitted perfectly to the light brown suede harness that felt so soft against Alphangil’s skin.  And it fitted perfectly inside Fingon. 

“Are you sure, love?” Alphangil thrust her fingers as deep as they could go.  There seemed no end to Fingwen’s channel, at least none she could reach.

“Yes, yes!” 

“I will get it,” Alphangil promised.  She withdrew. “I will have you, I will take you as you wish to be taken.  Would you like to ride me, for your first time?  Or should you like to lie on your back?”

“Hands and knees,” said Fingwen, then rolled into place, presenting herself like an animal. Alphangil—and Maedhros—had a clear view of Fingwen’s pink cunt. 

The position was familiar, at least, even though the hole was not. 

Alphangil went to get the wooden cock from the armoire.  She was glad Maedhros could not see her hands shake.  The cock and its harness sat next to a little stoppered vial on the top shelf, but of course there was no need for the oil.  Fingwen’s river of desire flowed so freely, she could take a dozen wooden cocks.  And besides, if she did manage to run dry, Alphangil could always make her wet the cock with her mouth.  Or—Alphangil’s heart skipped at beat at this thought—Fingwen could take a turn wearing the harness.  She could fuck Alphangil, wetting the cock with her own overflowing need.  They could switch off and fuck each other again and again throughout the night.  How many times could they take pleasure in each other this way?  Until the Sun rose?  Until Maedhros grew weary of watching? 

She buckled the harness around herself, fixed the wooden cock in place, and dashed back to Fingwen, nearly stumbling on the stone floor.  She scrambled back onto the bed and knelt between Fingwen’s legs.  The air was thick with their mingled desire, with anticipation, with the sultriness of late summer. 

Fingwen hummed in pleasure at Alphangil’s return.  She arched her back and lifted her hips.  Alphangil swore and nearly plunged right in without another thought.  But she would not take her wife so recklessly.  She would not harm her.  Instead she positioned her cock with care, sliding it along Fingwen’s outer folds, thrilling at the sounds she made.  She rested her other hand on the small of Fingwen’s back.

“Please, please, please,” begged Fingwen.  She tried to push back onto the cock.  Yet Alphangil wished to linger in this moment.  She held Fingwen’s hips in place.  She wanted to savor this symmetry, the closing of a circle of profound love.  Alphangil had been a virgin when she met Fingon.  He was the first and only person who had ever taken Alphangil thusly, the only one who had ever been inside of her.  He had on their wedding night possessed her utterly, body and soul. 

And now she would take Fingwen.  Fingwen was hers.

She rubbed the head of the wooden cock against Fingwen’s entrance.  She hoped she could find the right angle.  Fingwen was braced on her knees and one hand, the other delving between her legs.  If Alphangil’s cock had been flesh, she would have felt Fingwen’s fingers brushing against her.  As it was, she could feel through their bond the echo of the cock’s head just about to slip inside.  Fingwen craned her neck, half-twisted about, her gaze searching.

Alphangil stared into her wife’s grey-blue eyes, heart in her throat, nearly bursting with happiness at this moment of consummation—

And Fingwen gazed back—

Well—

What was Fingwen gazing at, actually?

Her eyes did not meet Alphangil’s, in fact, but went past—

And before she understood what was happening, Alphangil found herself shoved aside, knocked off balance, and nearly rolled clean off the bed by the great bulk of a broad shoulder, clothed in grey.

Stunned, she looked up.

Maedhros, still fully dressed, took Alphangil’s place between Fingwen’s legs. 

“For my pleasure, you said. And now it is my turn.” 

He took only his cock out, red against the soft grey trousers she had chosen for him, hard in his big hand.  The head was fat and dark like a plum.

And—she swallowed—Maedhros’s cock was much, much thicker than Alphangil’s.

Fingwen moaned, near incoherence.  She arched her back in a curve as deep as a drawn bow ready to be loosed. “Russandol, please—”

Maedhros had had enough of teasing.  He did not linger.  He did not savor.  He planted his knees, pressed the thick bulb of his cockhead against Fingwen’s cunt, grasped her by the hip, and with one formidable thrust, pushed his way inside.

Fingwen sobbed. Maedhros groaned.  Alphangil was speechless.  The sensation of Maedhros’s great cock was at once overwhelming and devastating, and Alphangil felt only its reflection along her bond with Fingwen. She could feel him in her throat. She could not imagine what it was for Fingwen, to be so impaled.  Alphangil could not protest.  She could hardly move. 

What could she do but lie back and watch?

Tears pricked at her eyes. The sting of her erstwhile jealousy had long ago faded.  Only she, not Maedhros, would ever be Fingon’s true spouse, no matter how much of his heart he held in his hand.  She had grown to enjoy watching Maedhros fuck Fingon, on the rare occasions he cared to involve himself directly.  The size and heft of him, the elegant movement of his hips, the brutality with which he could drive himself inside, a strength she could never match.  Fingon loved it.  Alphangil had accepted it.  She knew what this was.  She had touched herself and climaxed to the sight of Maedhros fucking her husband.

But this was her wife.

Maedhros fucked Fingwen as he did everything else: with deliberate, measured violence, no efforts wasted.  Fingwen had lost her balance almost at once and fallen to her face when one arm proved insufficient to hold her up against such an assault; as Maedhros drove into her, she kept working her own cunt with the other hand.  Almost at once, she reached her peak.  She shook and sobbed and fully collapsed, trembling. 

Maedhros pulled back. For a moment, as the aftershocks of shared orgasm rolled through her, Alphangil thought it might be over.  Then she saw Maedhros’s cock, still hard, bobbing between his legs, and knew he would not stop.  He flipped Fingwen, whose cries were broken like shattered glass, onto her back.  He pulled her hips to him. 

He reached up and ripped off her veil.  Fingwen did not seem to notice.  “Oh, Russo—oh, fuck,” she shouted as he settled himself within her to the hilt once more.

“Fuck, you feel—so good, so big and hard inside me, I love it.  I love you, I love how you fuck me, Russo.”

For his part, Maedhros was less verbal, but each precise thrust was punctuated by deep grunts that confessed his mounting pleasure.

“Fuck, yes, fuck me, do it harder, I can take it.  Russo, Russo, are you close?  I want you to spill inside me.  Will you do that?”

Maedhros’s grunts broke into a sound Alphangil had never before heard from him.  His broad shape was now covering Fingwen, her legs locked about his waist.  He could snap her in half if he liked.  Each thrust drove in with such force, Alphangil bounced on the bed.

“You like that?” Fingwen’s voice had gone low and hoarse. “You want to plant your seed within me? The High Princess of the Noldor must have an heir, my love.  I want it to be yours, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.  Do it, Russo.”

The filthier Fingwen’s talk got, the fiercer Maedhros became.  Alphangil was disgusted, horrified, and more aroused than she had ever been in her life.  Her body was hot with anger.  The suede harness of the little wooden cock now chafed her skin.  She tore it off and flung it away.  Then she regretted it, wishing she had kept the cock to stick inside herself, at least.

Because while she could sense through the bond Maedhros filling Fingwen to the brim and then some, it was not the deep satisfaction of being fucked.  Alphangil was empty.  She mourned. 

“Don’t you wish it, Russo? I believe you do.  You’re so fucking deep inside me.  I never knew, I never knew—I can feel my cunt pulling you in, do you feel it?  This body—it knows what it is made for.  I want you to fill it up, I want you to come in me, I am ripe, I am ready.  Get me with child.  Do it!  Do it, Maedhros!”

“Findekáno,” Maedhros groaned.  The stutter of his hips had grown erratic.

The air in the room became thick.  Power was gathering, swirling between Fingwen and Maedhros.  As they fucked and gazed into each other’s eyes with scorching intensity, it felt as though the rhythm of Maedhros’s hips had caught somehow the beat of the very Music of Creation.  Now their lovemaking plucked the strings that had always united the two of them in deep love and pulled forth from their harmony something greater still.  Their hands were intertwined: Fingwen’s small hand in Maedhros’s big one, fingers laced together. 

Could they—

Could it be possible?

Just how deep did this glamour go?

Alphangil regretted, now, not asking more questions of her cousin who had taught her the spell.  Yet how could she have known?   A madness had befallen her husband and Maedhros.  What could they be thinking?

Now they both moved wordlessly.  They were deep within each other’s thoughts, in that place within Fingon that Alphangil was not permitted inside.  The tension rose and rose and rose higher still.  There was a smell of rich seawater.  Fingwen’s heels were pressed into the small of Maedhros’s back.  She was about to come again, Alphangil perceived, without even touching herself, just from the feel of Maedhros within and against her and upon her.

The stutter of Maedhros’s hips approached a near finality that Alphangil knew from past encounters. They were both so near climax. There was a spirit of divine creation in the room.  The Valar had already blessed Fingon’s love for Maedhros, once.  They had sent him an Eagle.  What else might they send?   Perhaps he was so in their favor, despite his evil deeds, despite the very Doom itself, they might—

This could not be permitted.

Alphangil crawled across the bed.  Neither Fingwen nor Maedhros heeded her, so wrapped up were they in one another. Maedhros was pressed into Fingwen from thigh to belly to breast.  His face was buried into the crook of her neck.  His red hair was all over her face.  Fingwen’s eyes were closed.

The silver medallion hung round Fingwen’s neck.  Alphangil had sung her own desire into that medallion, her much longed for and never fulfilled desire: to lie with a woman.  Not just any woman, but her wife.  Her Fingwen. Desire was the power on which the spell drew.  Alphangil had been astonished to see that it had worked so very well, but then again, her desire had been very fierce indeed. 

Alphangil grabbed the silver chain round Fingwen’s neck, and with a sharp yank, she pulled so hard it broke.

The medallion slid off the chain onto the bed and from there to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” wept Alphangil. “I’m sorry, my love.”

Yet something very, very strange was happening.

Or rather—

Something was not happening.

Fingwen’s body did not change.  She did not reshape herself into the hard planes of Fingon’s muscular natural form. She remained soft, taking Maedhros’s cock as though she was made for it.

Neither had marked Alphangil’s action at all.  They rutted on, like beasts.  The medallion was nothing.  What was a glamour of a Grey-elf in comparison to the unyielding will of the Calaquendi?  There was a new Song to which all would hearken.

 “Stop it!”  Alphangil’s voice sounded ruined even to her own ears.  “Please,” she begged.  “Please, do not do this.”

It was Maedhros who seemed at last to hear her.

He raised his head only slightly.  He did not break his rhythm.  Alphangil shrank back.  She felt pierced by his gaze.  She could not withstand him.  She was helpless.

Maedhros consumed in ecstasy was terrible to behold.

And then Maedhros, at the last possible moment, at the brink of catastrophe, seemed at last to come back to himself.  He snarled. He sneered.  He pulled out.  And he ejaculated all over Fingwen’s belly and thighs.

Fingwen screamed in protest, arms and legs uselessly grasping at Maedhros in an attempt to pull him back in.  He withdrew farther, making no sound.  Fingwen’s fingers scrabbled at herself between her legs.  She wanted to wrest out one final orgasm from her body, but it was no use.

It was ruined.

As they three lay gasping on the bed, the shape of Fingon returned at last.  His shoulders broadened, his hips narrowed.  His breasts, to Alphangil’s great regret, disappeared.  His cock was soft, Alphangil could not bear to look upon it.  And his eyes were shut tight.

“You’ve come back to me,” whispered Alphangil, caressing Fingon’s brow.  She wiped the drops of sweat that had gathered there with her two hands.  She curled her soft body against Fingon’s solid form.

She was safe.  She was warm.  She was loved.

Fairy-stories were plainly not primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability. If they awakened desire, satisfying it while often whetting it unbearably, they succeeded. It is not necessary to be more explicit here. The dweller in the quiet and fertile plains may hear of the tormented hills and the unharvested sea and long for them in his heart. For the heart is hard though the body be soft.

- J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories, 1947

Chapter End Notes

You have no idea how hard it was not to put the words “whose pussy is this?” into Maedhros’s mouth. I’ll let you imagine it now, anyway.

Many thanks to the Leaf & Lore sprinters and writing marathoners for encouraging this work. I’d like to give a special shout-out to feyandferal for supporting the earliest version of this work when I was certain it was too iddy and specific to my own tastes to ever appeal to anyone else.  Thank you as well to cytryne, who wanted Fingwen to have nipple rings. Thank you to Elrond’s Library for the beta read and endless encouragement.

And thank you, Elleth, for being so generous with the idea and with Alphangil.  I return her to you now, with boundless gratitude.

You can find me on Tumblr as AnnaRobots. If you enjoyed the story, please consider reblogging my Tumblr promo post and leaving a comment. Thank you for reading!

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