Bury Me to Release Your Splendor by annarobots  

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Chapter 3: A Man More Stone Than Flesh

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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?