Bury Me to Release Your Splendor by annarobots  

---

Chapter 2: To Thread with Gold

---

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.”