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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