Bury Me to Release Your Splendor by annarobots  

| | |

Chapter 1: Strange Fruits from Lands Unknown

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!

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment