Our Bodies Are Our Gardens by annarobots

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Our Bodies Are Our Gardens

Aunt Findis would later be distressed to learn that the after-party of her Begetting Day Feast served as the setting for several of the eldest grandchildren of Finwë, princes all, to discover something that shook their entire concept of the universe. Or at least, their entire concept of acceptable sex practices for unmarried Eldar.

The party had gotten quite out of hand well before Findaráto and his cousins stumbled into this discovery. The elder generations, having called it a night not long after the Mingling, retired to their private homes and family quarters, leaving the lower floor for the young and unmarried. The partygoers, male and female alike, had long abandoned over-robes and uncomfortable court shoes, and were now clad only in light spring gowns made translucent with the sweat of wild dancing, jewels dripping from ears and necks. Someone had repurposed the decorative entryway fountain, filling it with a mixture of miruvórë, lemonade, herbs, and an unexpectedly potent sparkling grape drink. The combination was called “punch.” Aunt Findis’s sedate lyre quartet had long ago adjourned, replaced by a raucous band of Teleri youth on fiddle and pipe, the bass drum throbbing out a rhythm that Findaráto could feel in his teeth.

Findekáno and Maitimo were engaged in a competitive gavotte duel on the parquet floor, Maitimo executing the traditional twists and turns with all the expertise of a long-practiced student of classical dance; Findekáno, performing a less conventional variation, drew yet the eye of onlookers with daring leaps and lively prances. A crowd of Elf-maidens (and no small number of Elf-men) had gathered to watch, fawning and giggling over the two princes in action, the most eligible of young, unattached men in Tirion.

Makalaurë had removed to a side salon, strumming his lute and singing to himself, trying not to look like he was awaiting someone to ask him to take the stage in place of the vulgar Teleri band. He had not, so far, had much luck.

Turukáno and Findaráto were promenading around the ballroom, side by side, arm-in-arm with the Vanya maidens of their choice. Elenwë, dressed to match her golden hair, fairly glowed, eyes only on Turukáno. Amarië, equally stunning in cream and sky blue, held her head high, attracting the envy of many onlookers, as she clutched Findaráto’s arm.

“I’m getting a bit warm,” Elenwë murmured to Turukáno. “Can we find somewhere quiet to sit and talk?”

He led her partway down a corridor, Findaráto and Amarië following a few paces behind. At least, following until they nearly crashed into a suddenly opened broom closet door.

Cousin Laurefindelë, tall, blond, and athletic as ever, emerged, retying his evening gown at the waist. He looked dazed and happy as a man awakened from a dream in which the Lord of Birds Himself had told him he was a good Elf and a pretty Elf and an Elf that would do great deeds that would become renowned through all the land.

He grinned at Findaráto, eyes sparkling, if a bit dopey.

A girl, whose name Findaráto had drunk just a little too much to remember at this particular moment, followed Laurefindelë out of the closet. Her hair and makeup were in a state of impressive disarray, braids frizzing, escaped from their elaborate updo, eye paint streaming down her cheeks. Her lip paint was smeared all over the lower half of her face.

She must have thoroughly enjoyed the evening’s vigorous dancing, Findaráto decided.

“Punch,” she said, smacking her lips. “I need punch.”

She looked expectantly at Laurefindelë for a moment. So did Findaráto.

When he failed to respond, the girl hmphed and flounced away. Findaráto watched as a gaggle of her friends gathered around her, their volume rising, as they looked back at Laurefindelë and then again at the girl, who was trying to hide a smug smile.

At that moment, Ehtelion appeared, slung an arm around Laurefindelë’s shoulders, and jabbed him in the ribs. “So? Did she play the pipe?”

Laurefindelë, who was already flushed, reddened further, and nodded.

Ehtelion cheered.

Findaráto was baffled. “She what?” He didn’t see her leave with an instrument in hand.

“Visited the summit of Taniquetil? Tamed the pants serpent? Slobbed on his knob like it was corn on the cob?”

“Oh, no,” Amarië said, hand covering her mouth.

“Ah, didn’t see you there, Amarië! How do you do,” Ehtelion bowed.

“I’m going to get some air,” Amarië said, and departed.

“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Findaráto said, as Ehtelion and Laurefindelë grinned at each other and clapped each other on the back as though someone had triumphed in a great sporting event.

“She got on her knees, gave him a mouth hug, smoked the pink cigar!”

“All right, don’t tell me, then,” Findaráto said, pouting. Where had Turukáno and Elenwë gotten off to, anyway?

“My word, you are a proper little princeling, aren’t you? She gave him a blowjob, Findaráto.”

“I still don’t know what that is. She gave it to you? Where is it?” Findaráto looked him up and down. It didn’t look like he was carrying anything.

“She sucked my dick, Ingo!” Laurefindelë finally said. A little too loudly.

She what?

Findaráto involuntarily looked towards Laurefindelë’s groin, which was, of course, by that point, well-covered-up beneath his gown.

Blood rushed to Findaráto’s head, and other places, as he tried to make sense of this new information. He had never heard of such a thing.

The girl, who had dashed away looking for punch—something to wash out the taste of—of---

Because she had—done that—to Laurefindelë—

At the party! Just on the other side of the door!

With her mouth!

A heat crept up Findaráto’s body and reached his face until he was blushing just as red as Laurefindelë.

What else existed in this world that he had never before imagined, let alone heard decent people speak of?

“And yet you aren’t—that doesn’t make you—did you wed her?” Findaráto finally asked.

Ehtelion and Laurefindelë laughed. “Look at him, does he look wed?” Ehtelion cackled.

Laurefindelë obligingly widened his eyes and stared at Findaráto until he was satisfied that indeed, he remained unmarried.

“But I always thought, I mean, my parents said, touching each other below the waist, that was only for married Elves. Or maybe engaged Elves, but only on really, really special occasions,” Findaráto said.

“Aww, and did your parents also tell you that if you’re very good, and eat all your vegetables, maybe you’ll grow up big and strong and be a king of your own land one day?”

Well. So what if they did?

“Oh, be nice to poor old Ingo,” Laurefindelë said. “Look, I’ll help you out. I’m going to tell you something important. This comes down from the halls of Ilmarin, atop Taniquetil, from the Elder King himself, on behalf of the One. Are you listening?”

Findaráto had never listened harder in his life.

“It is the opinion of Eru Ilúvatar, on the matter of bodily union between the Eldar, that mouth stuff doesn’t count.”

“You’re joking,” Makalaurë immediately said.

“No, I’ve never heard that before,” was Findekáno’s response.

“I haven’t either,” Turukáno said thoughtfully, “But—it has the ring of truth to it. Laurefindelë’s family is well loved by Lord Manwë. And why would he make up something like that, anyway?”

The others looked at each other. “To get his dick sucked, I think?” Findaráto offered.

“But you said yourself,” Turukáno argued reasonably, “He remained unwed. So, if the question is whether the act either requires, or automatically leads to, marriage, I think we can safely say the answer is no.”

The four friends had gathered in the Nolofinwëan household common rooms, for the after-party’s after-party. The Mingling was well underway, and the light of Laurelin was beginning to overtake the silver of Telperion streaming through the windows. The boys had stopped by the kitchens and begged for a tray of breakfast pastries, which now sat half-eaten between them. Makalaurë yet strummed his lute, Findaráto paced the room in nervous excitement, forgotten éclair still in his hand. Turukáno sat, fingers steepled, as he thought through the implications of his cousin’s revelation.

Findekáno, who had danced till he dropped, had been sprawled, nearly snoring, on the settee, but began to perk up as the content of the conversation seeped through to his awareness.

“And you’re sure that—the blowjob thing—” (The word was quite as new to Makalaurë as it was to Findaráto, though he tried to play it cool.) “—That’s what actually happened? The girl—she actually did that?”

Findaráto nodded and shrugged. “I didn’t watch it myself, if that’s what you’re saying. But all evidence suggests that indeed she did.” He pointed his cream-filled éclair toward Makalaurë to punctuate his words.

The four of them pondered that for a while in silence.

“How deep, do you think, would it need to go, in order to work?” Findekáno wondered. He looked at his own fingers and seemed to consider sticking them inside his own mouth for testing.

Nobody knew.

“What does it taste like?” Findaráto asked.

“Haven’t you ever…” Makalaurë began, then trailed off. He wasn’t about to suggest self-abuse if Findaráto hadn’t already discovered it on his own.

“You don’t suppose,” said Turukáno, “if it’s possible for a maiden to pleasure a man in such a way, with her mouth… then perhaps, the reverse might also be true?”

Makalaurë stopped strumming. Findaráto stopped pacing. (No changed was observed in Findekáno’s movement.)

“By the Stars of Varda,” Makalaurë swore, imagining it himself.

“I need to sit down,” Findaráto said.

“But how… what would you even do?” Findekáno wondered, scrunching up his face. He looked toward the floral arrangement of pink lady’s slipper orchids, drooping pendulously over the sides of their vase. He wrinkled his nose.

None of them knew.

“Maybe you could ask your older brother?” Findaráto suggested to Makalaurë, who burst into laughter.

“Maitimo hardly has time for us anymore, ever since he got his royal clerkship appointment. He’s too busy alphabetizing files and transcribing notes. Besides,” he flicked his eyes cautiously around the room. “I just don’t think that’s the type of thing he’d be interested in.”

The doors burst violently open, and a whirlwind of silver hair and the faint odor of dog entered the room. “There you are, Káno!” Tyelkormo said. “What’s going on?”

Reluctantly, Findaráto filled him in.

Tyelkormo’s mouth hung open.

“Well,” he finally said. “Let’s go find a maiden aunt to tell us the truth.”

In retrospect, it was a bad idea to start with Aunt Findis. They had stopped by her first, as her rooms were closest, and thinking perhaps she might be kindly inclined to them, after their presence helped her accomplish such a successful begetting-day party.

Not only was Findis horribly scandalized that they asked, she also threatened to tell their parents.

“Okay, but will they answer us?” Findaráto asked as they were hurried out of her rooms.

Luckily, Findis did not hear him.

“We went to the wrong aunt,” Makalaurë said.

“What, you think Faniel will tell us?” Findekáno asked.

“Who the fuck is Faniel?” Tyelkormo wanted to know.

Findekáno shrugged, it was just a name he had read somewhere. You couldn’t be expected to keep up with all the relatives.

“Look, I’ll go talk to Lalwendë myself. She’s always been partial to our House,” Turukáno said importantly.

When Turukáno reported back, he looked a little green, but pleased with himself.

“It’s true,” he confirmed.

“All of it?” Findaráto asked.

“All of it. Mouth stuff doesn’t count, whether it’s man-on-woman or woman-on-man.”

Findekáno looked as though he was about to ask a question, but Turukáno continued.

“She also suggested that, if we were to seek out such favors from the young ladies of Tirion, we would be well advised to offer reciprocal gratification.”

“What?” Tyelkormo asked.

“She wants us to go cave-diving,” Makalaurë said.

“Ugh, really?” Tyelkormo was unimpressed.

“It seems a reasonable suggestion,” Turukáno said.

“Only fair,” Findaráto agreed, drifting into a reverie, imagining himself facedown between Amarie’s soft thighs. He wasn’t entirely certain what he would find there. But surely it would be pleasant. “I have a confession to make,” he said, suddenly feeling very close to his friends, willing to risk the exposure of a vulnerability he had only recently become aware of. “I’ve never even touched a girl before. Not there.”

“That’s not so bad,” Turukáno said. “I haven’t either. Well, kind of by accident, once.”

“Me neither,” Findekáno chimed in brightly.

They looked at the Fëanárions.

“Not me,” Tyelkormo said.

“Fine, I haven’t either, are you happy?” admitted Makalaurë, after a long and expectant pause. “But I’ve kissed loads!”

“I think we should make a pact,” Turukáno began.

“A pact, or a bet?” Findekáno asked.

“No, it should be an Oath,” Tyelkormo said with authority.

“I’m not sure that Oaths are such a great idea—” Makalaurë started, but he was interrupted.

“Yes, an Oath, I agree!” Findaráto chimed in. “An Oath will bind us to follow through. We will carry the solemn weight of the Oath until we fulfill it, or be doomed to the Everlasting Darkness if our deed faileth.”

There was a silence.

“Well,” Findekáno said, “I was thinking, personally, more along the lines of, anyone who doesn’t fulfill the conditions of the Oath by Midsummer must eat a giant spider, or steal something from Uncle Fëanáro, or confess their deepest secrets to an unsuspecting cousin. Something like that.”

“Oh, yes, those are better ideas,” Findaráto agreed.

“Losers must wear a twenty-pound carcanet around their necks for a week,” Turukáno suggested. Findaráto cocked his head to the side, considering. That really didn’t sound so bad.

“Walk barefoot across the beaches of Alqualondë,” Makalaurë offered. “The ones with all the pointy gems everywhere.”

“Or how about, walk barefoot across the Grinding Ice,” Tyelkormo said. Everyone groaned.

“Ugh, what’s wrong with you?” Makalaurë asked. “It’s not meant to be a deadly Oath. Let’s just say that anyone who doesn’t fulfill the Oath has to adopt, as his personal device, a big stupid red heart.” The other boys nodded. That seemed fair.

“No problem,” Findaráto said smoothly.

“You’re very confident,” Findekáno noted.

Findaráto smiled broadly. “Amarië and I are soulmates.”

The exact provisions of the Oath had to be hammered out.

“Wait, so to fulfill the Oath, we have to receive a blowjob?”

“Findekáno, what the hell kind of question is that? Yes, you have to receive a blowjob. To completion.”

“Does it have to be from an Elf?” Tyelkormo asked.

“Who else is there?” Findaráto asked curiously.

Tyelkormo looked awkwardly around. “Um, I dunno, one of Aulë’s creations? Or…”

“No dogs,” Makalaurë cut in.

“Or Maiar,” Turukáno added, before Tyelkormo argued a technicality.

“And I don’t think any of us need this reminder,” Findaráto cut a sharp look towards Tyelkormo, who very much did need this reminder, “But coercion is instantly disqualifying. It has to be of everyone’s free will and enthusiastic consent. I read a pamphlet.”

Everyone nodded.

“I’m not asking for myself, but just so everyone else is aware—what exactly counts as coercion?” Tyelkormo pressed.

“Don’t be disgusting,” Makalaurë said, “Or you’re out.”

Tyelkormo still looked as though he might require further clarification, but that would need to wait for another time.

Makalaurë had found a quill and parchment and scratched out a rough draft of the Oath, as all were in accord that it was important to get the wording precisely right.

“You wouldn’t want to end up confused about what exactly happened if you died before fulfilling the Oath, would you?” Tyelkormo said, and everyone agreed it was a wise consideration.

And thus, once settled on the exact wording, the five of them swore the Oath, and red as blood shone the cherry filling from the breakfast pastries they raised, by the name even of Ilúvatar, and Manwë they named in witness, but not Varda, for they felt too embarrassed to call upon the Star-queen in this matter, and the hallowed mountain of Taniquetil, they vowed to pursue blowjobs with single-minded carnality, libidos unrestrained. Thus spake Makalaurë and Tyelkormo, and Findekáno and Turukáno, and Findaráto, five of the six eldest Princes of the Noldor, as the eldest had something much more important to do with his time that day, being gainfully employed and not, like his little brothers and cousins, free to swear foolish sex Oaths whilst still hungover from the night before.

It was surprising, though perhaps it should not have been, to anyone who knew Nerdanel well, that she agreed so readily when Makalaurë, red-faced and stammering, asked for an in-depth tutorial on the technique of pleasuring by mouth. She was so proud of him! What a thoughtful, generous boy he was. Nerdanel was ready to dive into Lesson One right away, and was halfway through drawing a very embarrassing diagram, when Makalaurë stopped her.

“Oh, wow, no, that’s helpful, thanks, but actually—I meant—can we wait until my friends get here?” Makalaurë said, thinking frantically on his feet. Surely it would be less awkward to have some reinforcements at his side, instead of facing his mother one-on-one while she instructed him in the particulars of oral sex.

The footman was sent off to the Nolofinwëan estate, with instructions to bring back Findekáno, Turukáno, and Findaráto, if he was there (and that was always a safe bet, as he was rarely within Tirion limits and yet apart from Turukáno’s side).

“And Tyelkormo, be a dear and run to the gardens for some things, will you?” She scribbled down a list of items on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.

Tyelkormo scanned the list and furrowed his silver brow. “What, are you cooking or something?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Now, off with you!”

Within an hour, all of the boys had been rounded up, and Tyelkormo had returned with a brown paper sack full of the requested groceries.

“Is this about the Oath?” Turukáno asked. He was quite visibly uncomfortable to be standing in the family home of the Crown Prince, and loomed stiffly in the foyer until Makalaurë ushered them all toward the kitchen.

Nerdanel stood at the butcher-block-topped island, a bountiful harvest of fresh fruits and vegetables from Yavanna’s Convenience Gardens scattered about.

They boys all took their seats on the walnut barstools circling the island, and wondered.

Nerdanel had never been one to waste time on preliminaries.

“So, I understand the five of you would like to learn the art of cunnilingus,” she began.

Tyelkormo shrieked “MOTHER,” and Findekáno stood up so quickly he knocked over his stool, but Turukáno and Findaráto both leaned in. (They had always been excellent in lessons.)

Nerdanel ignored the protests and held up a head of red leaf lettuce. “This is a vulva,” she said.

“That is a vulva,” Turukáno echoed dutifully.

“You cannot simply tear off the tough outer leaves to reach the tender inner petals,” Nerdanel said. “Gentle and slow is the way to approach. Massage the outside. Use your fingers, tongue, lips. Don’t be afraid to really salivate on it. Most importantly, use your imagination, and watch how the leaves respond to your touch. Here, you try.” She handed each pupil a head of something green and leafy.

Findekáno stared at his iceberg lettuce. “Do they, the real thing I mean, do they really have leaves?” Findekáno whispered to Makalaurë.

Makalaurë shook his head no. At least, he didn’t think so.

“Gently, Tyelkormo. Your cabbage is wilting. Here, if it’s too dry, try using dressing.” She handed Tyelkormo a bottle of strawberry vinaigrette.

“Do we have any ranch?” Tyelkormo asked.

“Use your non-dominant hand to spread the leaves when they feel ready. Very good, Findaráto. Now, once you get to the inner leaves, you must use a very light touch. Watch your nails, Tyelko! Stroke and lick, stroke and lick, and watch as the leaves unfold like a flower.”

Findekáno was having difficulty, as his leaves tended to snap off, no matter how gently he stroked them. “I think mine is defective,” he muttered. Tyelkormo passed him the vinaigrette, which he slopped over his workspace.

Makalaurë was getting somewhat better results with his lettuce, as was Findaráto. Poor Tyelko’s cabbage was nearly shredded.

But it was Turukáno who seemed the true prodigy in this exercise. He had caressed his bok choy with all the tenderness of a lover, dipping his tongue in between each fold, moistening and licking, then retreating to use his fingers, before diving back in again with the heat of his mouth. Slowly, his vegetable opened, revealing its innermost, softest parts.

He didn’t even need to use the dressing.

When Fëanáro entered the kitchen and leaned casually against the countertop, arms folded, observing the ongoing lesson, Findekáno and Turukáno, both loyalists to the house of Nolofinwë, straightened awkwardly. A string of saliva stretched from Turukáno’s mouth to his bok choy, then snapped.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Fëanáro said, handing Turukáno a hankie. He looked over the greens in varying states of mise-en-place. “My dear wife, what are you teaching them? How to make coleslaw?”

“I should think you would recognize the art of salad-tossing,” Nerdanel said, an eyebrow raised.

“Indeed,” Fëanáro said, surveying the scene with a critical eye.

His attitude did not escape his wife.

“I’m sorry, would you care to take over?” Nerdanel asked. “I wasn’t aware you had grown the relevant parts, unless that was the result of another one of your experiments.”

“Ownership of equipment confers little default skill in its use! On whom would you bet, the jockey who has spent countless years astride a horse, or the master who keeps the prize stallion in the stall, only paying him mind when standing at stud?”

“A negligent master indeed! A true horse mistress knows her every nook and cranny of her stable. Whether brood mare or stallion, from nose to hoof—"

“Oh, cease this tortured metaphor. Of the two of us, who has spent more time nose-deep, suffocating in pussy?”

“Gross,” Tyelkormo muttered.

Nerdanel pursed her lips, but she could not counter Fëanáro's argument. She held up her hands in defeat, ceding the lesson to her masterful husband.

“Do stay, wife, you may learn yet,” he said with a smirk, then turned to the boys. Findekáno was still refusing to meet his gaze. Turukáno, however, seemed convinced by the jockey analogy, or at least, was curious enough about the subject matter to keep an open mind.

“Let us begin with core principles. What part of your body is most essential in performing this act?” Fëanáro asked.

Everyone feared to answer the great Fëanáro Curufinwë. Hesitantly, Findaráto pointed to his crotch, then quickly lowered his hand when he saw Turukáno’s quick shake of his head.

“Come now, don’t be shy. Are you princes or mice?”

“Teeth!” Tyelkormo blurted out.

“Lips?” Makalaurë guessed.

“Tongue,” Turukáno said.

“All wrong!” Fëanáro cried. “Eyes. The eye is the window to the fëa. To meld two fëar and hröar into a single, unified, throbbing connection, you must use your eyes. This will improve and lengthen the female orgasm.”

“Well, that is true,” Nerdanel admitted. She held Fëanáro's eyes, a glint in her own.

When Fëanáro halved a muskmelon, and began to demonstrate his technique, slow and teasing, he looked not away from her for a moment.

He lifted the melon to his lips.

He flicked the tip of his tongue out to touch the flesh.

Nerdanel maintained eye contact.

Then Fëanáro dove in with full abandon. He licked, he sucked, he buried his face into the fruit. He shook his head back and forth, dragging his tongue and teeth across, pressing the melon against himself so hard that the juices began to run down his chin. When he withdrew for breath, he was glistening. He plunged back in, penetrating deeper, sounds of squelching and sucking and slick, sweet, slurping emanating from the melon’s exposed core. All the while, he kept his eyes locked on Nerdanel’s.

Makalaurë was horrified to realize, the technique looked effective.

Extremely effective.

Like, uncomfortably effective. Makalaurë began to feel like he shouldn’t be watching his father, of all people, doing this. But he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Nerdanel wordlessly conceded the ground to Fëanáro, excusing herself from the kitchen, but not before giving her husband a smoldering, I’ll-see-you-later kind of look that Makalaurë desperately pretended not to see.

Fëanáro finally removed himself from the melon. Juice, seeds, and bits of flesh dripped down his front, onto the vee of his chest and into his robe.

“If you’re not making a mess, you’re not doing it right,” Fëanáro proclaimed. “Now. Who wants to practice on the other half of this melon?”

Findaráto boldly claimed the half melon. Turukáno and Findekáno shared a beefsteak tomato. That left an avocado for Tyelkormo and Makalaurë.

“What am I supposed to do with the pit?” Makalaurë complained.

“Use your creativity,” Fëanáro advised. “Every woman is different. Just play with it, however feels right to you.”

“It feels like it’s meant for table tennis,” he said, and popped the pit out to toss it high into the air.

Fëanáro ignored him. “Everyone, begin!”

Again, Turukáno proved to be a natural. It was hardly fair. Tomato seeds were flying in the air.

“Findaráto, you’re thinking too much,” Fëanáro coached. “Findekáno, you’re not thinking enough. Makalaurë, you don’t have to do anything fancy. Just feel it.”

Tyelkormo ate his avocado half in two bites.

After the lesson, Fëanáro applauded their persistence, and gave them homework, to practice on another fruit or vegetable of their choice.

Findekáno, normally a fierce competitor, especially in contests of physical skill, was disappointed by his own lukewarm performance with vegetables. He picked up a piece of fruit from the countertop. He gave it a long, considering look, stroking the fruit with the palm of his hand. Seemingly without conscious thought, he brought its tip nearly to his lips before he caught hold of his senses. Then he asked:

“Hey, Uncle Fëanáro, how would you do it to this banana?”

Findaráto, fairest of the young princes, was also kind and true, and had no room in his heart for any form of manipulation or deceit. So certain was he that honesty and openness were the key to happiness in any relationship, he knew that the right way forward with Amarië would be to tell her all about the Oath and humbly request her aid.

Knowing that she, a Vanya, held the Valar most dear in her heart, he intended to stress the theological validity of Eru’s mouth exception, and he also planned on offering to mutually satisfy one another, having practiced on a bushel of peaches until his lips were sore.

He decided to take her out for a walk through the royal menagerie while he raised the subject. Amarië did so love the monkeys.

“My beautiful Amarië,” Findaráto said as they began on the pathway through the enclosures, “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?” Amarië replied.

“As you recall, the other night, at Aunt Findis’s party, we ran across Laurefindelë, just after he had received, well, an unusual sort of gift.”

“Yes, I certainly recall.” She sniffed. Findaráto thought she was bothered by the odor of the penguin enclosure, which was quite pungent with fish, and hurried past.

“I discussed the matter with my cousins,” he continued, “As I found myself quite bewildered at what I had seen. Though a prince of the Noldor, I’ve found my education has been sorely lacking in some respects. I’m sure you have no more experience in this kind of activity than I. Er, do you?”

“Are you asking me if I’ve. Done. What that girl did. To Laurefindelë.” Amarië said blankly.

“Well. Of course you haven’t!” Findaráto felt himself growing flustered, and looked away, gathering himself. He wished the zebras weren’t staring at him. “Although, if you had, you should feel free to tell me. Or if you’ve received. Er. Similar attentions on your own. Lady garden. I would not be upset.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?”

“I would be delighted to learn that you had been at the receiving end of such ministrations, yes. You see, I recently found the opportunity to look through Grandfather’s private library, and I was able to read through some quite useful personal accounts of the matter. Written by Grandfather’s first wife. Apparently, she was a bit of a fiend for it. I’ve come to understand the sensation of pleasure can be quite intense, especially for the female.”

Amarië stopped, right in front of the hippopotamus pond. “You found Queen Míriel’s private diaries about King Finwë going down on her?”

“Ah, what a delightful turn of phrase! ‘Going down,’ that sounds quite a bit more mysterious than clam diving or pearl hunting, doesn’t it? Going down where? Going down to do what? It leaves much to the imagination.” Findaráto trailed off. He had lost track of his conversational plan at some point.

Amarië noticed. “Do you need me for this part, or…?”

“Oh, of course, darling. As I was saying. I have a proposition for you, and I think you might enjoy it very much. I want us to go down on each other, like King Finwë and Queen Míriel did, long before they ever made the great crossing.”

The moment he said it, Findaráto realized he probably should not have brought up his own grandfather’s sex life into the discussion. He rushed on ahead.

“You see, my cousins and I have sworn an Oath, which requires fulfillment before Midsummer’s Day, and well. I’d hate to go back and be the only one not to keep to my Oath. For honor, you see,” he finished.

“An Oath.”

“That’s right.”

“And you want me to put my mouth on your—member—so you can maintain your honor in the eyes of your princely cousins.”

Amarië’s voice had grown prickly with something that Findaráto was not used to hearing from her. And that was when he began to worry.

He had been so confident that sweet Amarië, who surely wished for his pleasure, well-being, and self-actualization, just as passionately as he did hers, would be an eager participant in helping him fulfill his Oath.

He was wrong.

Amarië, to her credit, waited until Findaráto gave her the full details on the specific provisions of the Oath, how he intended to fulfill it, and who, exactly had sworn, before she reared back and slapped him in the face.

Scandalized and humiliated, Amarië then burst into tears, and she ran to the public library, where she knew she could find Elenwë at this hour. She told her exactly what happened.

Elenwë looked up from her note-taking, but did not close her books. “You’re saying that Findaráto and Turukáno swore an Oath…”

“And the others, too! Those Noldor princes. Like animals, all of them. No better than the monkeys at the zoo.”

“And the object of the Oath is to receive pleasure orally on themselves? On their… male parts?” Elenwë toyed with her pencil.

“He even offered to perform the act on me first, so that it would be a ‘fully reciprocal and mutual pursuit of pleasure!’ Can you believe it? He wanted to put his mouth… there!” Amarië said in disbelief, gesturing in the general direction of her vagina.

“Oh, my word,” Elenwë said faintly.

“And apparently the whole pack of those Finwëan cousins swore to achieve this act by Midsummer, lest there be dire consequences. Including Turukáno, I’m afraid. He’s just as bad as all the rest of them. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I thought you deserved to know. Tell me you’re not angry with me?”

“Of course I’m not angry,” Elenwë said, crossing and recrossing her legs.

“Those absolute dogs,” Amarië said ruefully.

“Yes, dogs,” Elenwë repeated, drifting into a wild daydream, the likes of which she had never before imagined.

Turukáno was working on his homework, practicing on ripe figs he had just picked fresh from the palace orchards, when Elenwë showed up and sat down so close beside him, he could feel the fine hairs of her arm brushing against his.

“I heard about your Oath,” she said. Her cheeks were flaming, but her eyes did not falter. Seeing the pink of her skin against the gold of her hair, Turukáno thought she had never looked more beautiful.

“Um,” he began. “I can explain,” he said, setting down the basket of figs and wiping his mouth.

“I’m not mad,” she breathed.

She wasn’t?

Elenwë turned to face Turukáno, leaned in closer, and whispered in his ear: “Show me.”

Turukáno couldn’t believe his luck. He would surely get extra credit for practicing on a real woman.

He kissed Elenwë first. This act, they had shared before on many occasions, though never before with such anticipation, such clarity of intent. His pulse was already racing, and he struggled to breathe normally in the face of his suddenly dizzying arousal. He began the kiss sweetly, as he had always done, closed-mouthed, gentle, as the gleaming light of Laurelin shone upon them where they sat on the grass.

Trying not to think of leafy greens, he flicked his tongue to her lips for just a moment, then retreated, and delighted in the slight hitch in Elenwë’s breath. Turukáno pressed on, opening her mouth with his lips and tongue, coaxing her to let him inside. She yielded to him hungrily, responding with her own kisses and nibbles, even taking his lower lip between her teeth.

Turukáno was always conscious of his size, was reluctant to wrestle or spar because of it, for even in play, it was all too easy for him to accidentally overpower and hurt someone, twist an ankle, wrench a wrist, a lesson he had learned too many times playing with younger cousins. So, he was shocked when she pulled him down on top of her, hard and forceful. Elenwë seemed not concerned that he might crush her smaller frame, in fact, she seemed to welcome it, wrapping her arms and legs around him and pulling him in close. She even groaned, feeling his stiff length pressing down on her body. “You won’t hurt me,” she said, and he believed her.

He slid down the span of her body, laying open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, her neck. He remembered what Fëanáro had said, and kept his eyes locked on Elenwë’s as he traveled his way down. He had the momentary thought to pause at her breasts, to devote his mouth to the soft flesh and hard nipples peaking under her sheer gown, but both the swelling urgency in his own cock and Elenwë’s hands pushing down insistently on his head kept him moving. He kissed her belly, the curve of her hip, the tops of her thighs, and then, after only a moment’s hesitation, the place where they met, through the fabric of her skirts.

Elenwë let out a throaty moan and pressed his head down harder. Encouraged, he repeated the action, kissing her there again, and again, and letting out his tongue to lick and thrust against her. He wasn’t quite clear on what part of her body he was reaching, exactly, but based on the pressure of her hands on his skull, and the sounds she was making, he felt he had to be somewhere in the right direction. The wetness from his mouth was spreading on her gown, making the fabric translucent over the joining of her legs, and he could feel the heat of her on his tongue as he pressed in.

Unable to hold back any longer, he reached down and pulled the gossamer skirts up to her waist, where she helpfully grabbed onto the fabric and held it up, clearing his way.

He ducked back down.

And stopped.

And stared.

No kitchen-counter lesson, no illustration from a book, no faraway glimpses while bathing in the sea, could have prepared him for the sight of Elenwë’s pink and eager cunt before him.

It wasn’t anything like a head of lettuce.

She spread her legs wider. “Please,” she said, “please touch me here, I’m aching.”

“No,” Turukáno said firmly, “Not yet. I’m not done looking.”

Yet he immediately obeyed, reaching out to her, spreading the lips with the fingers of his non-dominant hand like Nerdanel had taught them. He looked some more, marveling at how much darker her hair was down here, coarser and curly, too, framing the opening of her cunt, which was pink, perfect, and glistening. It was just as beautiful as the rest of her, and his brain was short-circuiting with desire. He could just stay there and look for the rest of his life, he thought fuzzily.

That was when Elenwë began to beg in earnest.

“Please, please, Turno, touch me,” she pleaded, “I need you, you must do something, please move, your fingers, your tongue, I don’t care, just do it! By Manwë and Varda, by all the Valar queens and their kings—"

He leaned in and licked before she could say anything too blasphemous.

Her pleas dissolved into an unbelievably erotic growl.

Turukáno became utterly lost. He sucked and kissed, thrusting and tasting with his tongue, and the smell and sight of her wholly overwhelmed him. He had forgotten all the guidelines and suggestions from the lesson and was working on pure instinct. And Elenwë was so delicious, tangy and salty under his tongue, her wetness spilling forth from somewhere deep inside that he couldn’t get enough of. He worked her with his lips, his mouth, even his nose, rubbing it against the bud at the top of her cunt in a way that made her gasp, and thrust her hips up, again and again, setting a rhythm that he, no mean dancer himself, could easily follow.

Turukáno remembered belatedly that he had two hands, sucked his index finger into his own mouth quickly to moisten it, and then brought it to her open and throbbing pink cunt. He looked up, a question in his gaze, and she nodded.

He knew his hands, too, were large, so hesitated to simply stick it in. Instead, he teased around her entrance with just the tip of his finger, while his mouth returned to her clit, first sucking, then fluttering side-to-side licks, and then delivering long, dragging strokes with his tongue. She seemed to like those the best, grabbing hold of his hair so hard it hurt, sending a bolt of lightning down to his cock. With his other hand, he pressed down on her mound, spreading her further apart with his finger and thumb, making her wetter and more open. She could not seem to decide which way to thrust her hips harder, up into his mouth, or down against his index finger, and wiggled this way and that as she flung her head about in rapture.

It was all too much. Turukáno had never known that touching another person could feel so intense within his own body. It was so much better than taking himself in hand had ever been. He could feel the edges of their consciousnesses loosening, Elenwë’s pangs of pleasure echoing through her feelings and into his own spirit. He could feel the shuddering of her cunt from the outside, with his mouth and hands, and also from the inside, where their spirits touched each other.

Turukáno was on the verge of losing control. He moaned, heedless of how he sounded, rolled his own hips against the ground, and in that moment, he forgot himself, and slid his finger inside Elenwë in one sharp thrust, up to the second knuckle.

Elenwë clutched at his scalp even harder, ground her cunt up into his face, cried out his name, and clenched, and clenched around his finger as she shook out a breathless, quivering climax.

After a few moments, she pushed his head away, still shaking a little. “It’s too much, after,” she murmured.

Obediently, Turukáno withdrew, and sat back on his heels. He could not even bother feeling too embarrassed about how he must look, face wet, hair mussed, penis standing at attention. He was harder than he could ever remember being in his entire life, but at that moment, he was too elated, too shocked with the thrill and bliss of what had just happened to think about what he had meant to do next.

Elenwë looked up at him with her blue eyes bright and open, like the sky after a storm, still breathing hard, her breasts bouncing with each inhalation.

He felt a sweet, tender tightening in his chest that was completely unrelated to his throbbing, nearly painful erection.

Unfortunately, just at that very moment, they were interrupted by the gardener before Elenwë had the chance to return the favor. She pushed down her skirts, jumped up from the grass, and ran off the palace grounds in embarrassment.

Turukáno would have chased after her.

But that would have to wait until he was capable of walking again.

Unlike Turukáno and Findaráto, Makalaurë had no current girlfriend he could turn to for help fulfilling the Oath. He thought about his ex, Alaconis, who had such lovely long legs. Her voice was immature, which had contributed to their breakup, but he was pretty sure she still had feelings for him. Where could he find her?

Ah, that was right. She had joined up with Nessa’s singing and dancing girls, hadn’t she?

Well, surely Nessa wouldn’t turn down a young man from trying out for her show choir. He could reach the same high notes as any elf-maiden, and he could play any instrument they gave him.

“Your dancing needs work,” was all Nessa said at the end of his audition, “But I’ll give you a chance. Just be sure not to miss a single practice before the Midsummer’s Eve Concert.”

Perfect. That gave him plenty of time.

Even if Allie didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, he could use his voice and talent to win over one of the other girls. There were twelve of them, after all.

At the first practice, Lisselírë was unimpressed when Makalaurë mentioned he had once played backup lute onstage with Manwë’s Eagles. He even repeated himself three or four times to make sure she heard him properly, but at the end of practice, she grabbed her sistrum case and dashed off without even saying good-bye.

At the second practice, Sandakyermë did not seem interested when Makalaurë pointed out that the arrangements of the music they were performing were just popular simplifications of great and difficult works. “I played the original at Conservatory, it’s in quite a more challenging key than this,” he said. “Sandy, where are you going?”

Calarustë, Carniriel, and Cecetie were chatting during break about whether they planned to stay in Tirion or move out to Valimar or Lorien for advanced studies. None of them cared to listen when Makalaurë explained that the Conservatory at Alqualondë was the only place one could properly study the Music of the Waters.

Makalaurë realized he was approaching this the wrong way. They didn’t need proof that he was knowledgeable and gifted in music. Everyone already knew that. No, he would probably get more points with the girls if he devoted his energies to really helping them improve. Everyone liked learning from a generational talent.

After the next practice, he was really generous. Elsúrië was clearly the member of the group who needed the most help. He spent one entire Mingling listening to her practice her psaltery solo. He helped her improve her grip and stroked her hands seductively while he explained proper finger placement. He even improvised a throat-singing harmony to accompany her while she played. Afterward, he told her, encouragingly, that she had gotten a lot better. “Ellie, you’ve almost got it,” he said. “Do you want to come back to my place and practice some more?”

She declined the offer.

Findekáno was a very competitive Elf. He excelled at footraces, archery, and climbing contests, regularly placing among the top three all-around at the annual Tulkas Outdoor Games. He would have placed even higher, were it not for wrestling; nude and covered in olive oil, he found the activity too slippery and distracting, and he struggled to grapple effectively under such conditions. And any time he was out hunting or swimming with his friends, he was always the one to turn it into a contest of some kind. He just couldn’t help himself. He knew he would usually win, and he liked winning. A lot.

It wasn’t just physical contests, either. Findekáno was well-liked and widely considered quite handsome. He had been voted Best Hair in Tirion for several years running. And he excelled in elocution and extemporaneous speaking just as much as athletics. He was a fair enough harpist and singer. He didn’t do those things only to win contests. But it sure made them more fun.

So, it was rather uncharacteristic of Findekáno that he felt only lukewarm interest in fulfilling the Oath. Normally, such an endeavor, though not framed as inherently competitive, would have set off in him a desire to become the first to carry out the mission, therefore “winning” against his cousins and brother.

It wouldn’t have even been terribly difficult, he didn’t think. There were always girls trailing after him.

Even more so lately. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but word had begun to get around, that there was some kind of racy challenge involving the eldest princes of the Noldor (aside from Maitimo, who was well beyond such adolescent games, and who, besides, the girls of Tirion had long since written off as a lost cause). The rumor scared off the most prim and pious young ladies, but there were no small number of Noldorin maidens who would have been delighted to help Findekáno fulfill his Oath.

The problem was, he simply felt nothing for these maidens, no matter how pretty they were, no matter how finely and intricately they had done up their hair, no matter the beauty of the ribbons and ornaments they weaved into their braids, nor the number of glittering jewels cascading across necks and into bodices.

If a girl asked him to promenade with her, he inevitably ended up spending the whole time looking around to see if one of his friends, Maitimo perhaps, was out as well. If he was invited to tea, he would gladly stop by, enjoy a sip and conversation, as it was always wise to keep up with the most current gossip. If a girl wanted to dance at a ball, certainly, he would take a turn, as he was well known as an excellent dancer and enjoyed the vigorous exercise of the popular current dance crazes, such as the Irmo Shuffle.

But at the end of the ball, he always found himself enjoying himself the most at the after-after-parties, when he was with his friends, teasing one another, pilfering snacks from the kitchens, just trying to fend off the hangovers. Maybe falling asleep, carefree and unaware, on the shoulder of an older cousin as the light of Telperion faded into the Mingling.

Findekáno wasn’t worried. He figured he was just one of those Elves who would never feel desire until he met the maiden he was meant to marry. And until then, he was perfectly happy spending time with friends and cousins, hunting, playing games. Trying on each other’s robes. Braiding each other’s hair. Giving each other massages so they didn’t get too sore after strenuous sporting events.

He would find the right elf-maiden eventually.

It would be nice if he could meet her before Midsummer. But if it didn’t happen, that wouldn’t be so bad. Findekáno could handle adopting a silly heart device as his standard.

It wasn’t as though he’d ever have to carry it on a banner into a real battle, after all.

It was supposed to be a hunting trip, a two-day excursion to the Woods of Oromë, led by Tyelkormo. Everyone who was anyone had come along, including every single of-age grandchild of Finwë, from Maitimo, the eldest, down to the youngest, Artanis and Irissë, who had celebrated their debuts just the year before. Cousin Laurefindelë was invited, and of course he brought Ehtelion and his other friends; Tyelkormo rounded up several other young followers of Oromë; even some of Nessa’s choirgirls came along. And Huan, of course.

Yes, it had started out optimistically as a hunt, but by the time they made camp for the evening, there was no chance of anyone actually catching any game. Every creature with legs or wings had long since been scared off by the pack of singing, jesting, joyful Noldor who had lost all sense of “stealth” when Ehtelion opened the first bottle of miruvórë.

That was all right with Tyelkormo. He had other intentions for the trip, anyway.

Turukáno even got Elenwë to agree to come.

And come, and come, and come.

They disappeared into a tent as soon as it was erected, and they didn’t emerge until well after the second Mingling, the full silver light of Telperion shining through the canopy of the woods.

“Did you fulfill the Oath?” Findaráto asked Turukáno urgently, the moment he was able to pull him aside.

Turukáno shook his head no. His entire face, from chin to eyebrows, shone with moisture (and Findaráto did not think it was sweat). As did several fingers on his right hand. He looked dazed and blissed out, though he retained the presence of mind to accept Findaráto’s handkerchief and use it to wipe off his face.

“What happened, then?”

Turukáno made a valiant effort to look embarrassed. “She uh, never got the chance. We were focused on her. Did you know girls can come more than once?”

Findaráto had begun to accept that there were many, many wonders of the Elven body that he was wildly under-educated about, but he had, as it happened, learned this particular fact from Míriel’s diaries, which he had not yet found the right moment to return to Grandfather’s private library.

“Anyway,” Turukáno continued, “By the time she wanted to try it on me, it was, er, too late. I was too excited.” He shifted, uncomfortable. “Could I borrow a clean robe?”

Midsummer was coming up soon, and Findaráto was eager to get progress reports from everyone. No, nobody had yet been able to fulfill the conditions of the Oath. For Findaráto’s own part, Amarië still wasn’t speaking with him, though at least she was accepting his gifts and apology cards without sending them back now, so that was progress. Findekáno reported that he was still waiting on finding the right person. Tyelkormo said no, not yet, but to ask him again tomorrow.

Well. That was intriguing.

Makalaurë simply reported that no, he hadn’t, and he refused to answer further questions. It wasn’t anyone else’s business.

Besides, there was still a week before Midsummer.

By the time that the second Mingling ended, the camping trip had long since devolved into a wild party in the woods. Undeterred by the lack of game, Tyelkormo and his friends had lit a great fire, and sent several parties into the woods to forage for mushrooms and berries. Ehtelion had brought along as many bottles of miruvórë as he could carry. Carnistir and Curufinwë had cleverly fashioned a kind of backpack that contained a full keg of ale each.

“This is a wonderful invention,” Maitimo praised, for, though he pretended to prefer the finer refinement of clear spirits, he was, at heart, an ale man.

Makalaurë had brought along his lute, and he began to play a sweet little melody by the fireside. Findaráto and Findekáno had their harps, and Ehtelion his flute, too. They joined in, building harmonies against what Makalaurë had begun, a tune that none of them had heard before, but that sounded a bit like lifelong friends enjoying themselves in the forest.

The music was so lovely, many of the other young Noldor men and maidens began to gather to the fireside as well, humming along, or pulling out their own instruments. Even proud and independent Artanis joined the group and sang. They were, after all, Elves, and none among them could resist the lure of well-played music under the trees of Yavanna, firelight and Telperion melding and dancing upon their faces.

They were so caught up in the music, nobody marked Tyelkormo and Irissë sneaking away into the woods.

One by one, the Elves began to succumb to the pull of sleep, or the haze of overindulgence. Findekáno grabbed Maitimo by the hand and urged him to stay up, but he only shook his head and smiled. “Unlike some people, I have to go to work tomorrow. I’ll be leaving early, at the start of the first Mingling. I need my beauty sleep,” Maitimo said.

Findekáno looked bereft. “No, you don’t,” he called feebly after, but Maitimo had already withdrawn into his tent.

Only a few remained around the campfire.

“Heard about your contest,” Laurefindelë said cheerfully. “Is it true that the losers will have to row the winners across the Sundering Sea in swan-ships?”

“No,” Makalaurë answered blankly, “Where on earth did you hear such a thing?”

Ehtelion jumped in. “So, how is it going? Has anyone gotten their arrow fletched yet?”

They all grumbled no, they hadn’t, and they suffered Ehtelion’s teasing for a while.

Findaráto had drunk enough miruvórë and ale to become bold.

“I just want to know. What does it feel like?” Findaráto asked.

Laurefindelë and Ehtelion looked at each other and shrugged.

“Like warm lembas bread,” Ehtelion finally said, and they got up and walked away, laughing at the princes of the Noldor.

Makalaurë looked at the leaf-wrapped package of lembas Tyelkormo had brought along for emergency provisions, in the event the hunt went poorly. He frowned. Lembas was quite hard and crumbly.

“Maybe if you put honey on it?” he asked.

“Your mom makes the best lembas,” Findekáno said.

Makalaurë contemplated the lembas some more, then realized that Tyelkormo’s pack had laid abandoned at his feet for several hours by now.

“Hey, where’s Tyelko gotten off to?” Makalaurë asked the group.

Turukáno looked around. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”

Findekáno, who was on the verge of drowsing by the fire, suddenly sat straight up. “Oh, no. Where’s Irissë?” he asked, with urgency.

His eyes met Turukáno’s. “Fuck,” said Turukáno.

Well, by the time Findekáno and Turukáno located Tyelkormo and Irissë in the woods, they were late, but not too late.

“Brothers!” Irissë exclaimed, pulling the top of her gown back up. “How kind of you to check on me.” She began to laugh.

Findekáno surveyed the scene. Tyelkormo still had on his pants, which, Findekáno considered, was the main reason not to kill him on the spot.

That, and Grandfather would be terribly irritated.

Turukáno was less reasonable and more drunk. So, when he leapt at Tyelkormo where he knelt, shirtless and red-faced, he was both a little bit slow and easy to topple over.

“Ow,” Turukáno said, face down on the ground.

“Tell me the truth, Turcafinwë,” Findekáno said. “I’m only going to ask you this once. Did you fulfill your Oath tonight?”

“What would you do if I said yes?” Tyelkormo taunted him.

“Of all the stupid—” Makalaurë had caught up. “Turko, don’t provoke them. You know how the House of Nolofinwë is.”

Now Irissë whirled on Makalaurë. “Oh, does he? How are we?”

“Sister, please tie up your gown,” Findekáno said, covering his own eyes with one hand, and reaching out to do the same to Tyelkormo with the other. Tyelkormo, fearing a sneak attack, reared back and overbalanced, landing half on top of Turukáno, who growled and pushed him off.

“Let me see if I can get the pertinent information. Everyone can see that Turko and Irissë aren’t married. So, we know for sure that one thing didn’t happen. As far as the rest, nobody put anything in anyone else’s mouth, is that right?” Makalaurë asked.

“Well—” Irissë looked down at her exposed breasts and grinned.

“TURKO! That’s it. You are BANNED FROM THE OATH,” Turukáno yelled. In his exertion, he failed to notice the robe he’d borrowed from Findaráto had hiked up scandalously high on his thighs.

“NO ONE EVER SAID NO SISTERS,” Tyelkormo shouted back.

“BANNED,” Turukáno repeated, and he stomped away, ass fully out.

The following morning, as the hungover and sleepy-eyed Elves began to break camp, Findaráto mused aloud, “Was Irissë consenting? If she was, I think it might have been worse for her sense of agency, as a developing, autonomous Elda, to be interrupted like that. Are you Irissë’s father, to tell her what she can and can’t do with her body?”

Turukáno steamed. “Oh, if you’re so okay with people violating sisters, I suppose I’ll just go and proposition Artanis, then, shall I?”

Findaráto laughed in his face. “Please do! Let me know when you intend to do it, I’d like to pop some corn and watch.”

Findekáno eyed the lembas.

Since they had grown out of childhood squabbles, Findekáno and Turukáno had gotten along reasonably well. They were brothers, after all. And not brothers in the mold of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë, but true brothers in heart as well as blood. But they had never really been close—not in the way that Makalaurë and Maitimo were, or Angaráto and Aikanáro, or even Nolofinwë and Arafinwë. Findekáno had his riding, hunting, athletics, and he was always the center of attention, the dashing and handsome prince, eldest son of the eldest son of the living wife of Finwë. Turukáno had Findaráto, and certainly his own partisans believed him just as, if not even more handsome than the elder, but too many years of being the younger, too-tall, awkward brother had taken their toll, and Turukáno had never quite managed to exude the kind of natural confidence that seemed to come so easily to Findekáno. He felt more comfortable in quiet libraries, his father’s study, the basement archives, than on the ballroom floor or at court; more at peace in deep conversations with one or two friends than in making grand speeches before assemblies of Noldor; happier in his own home, in his own rooms, than in the grandest mansions of the Valar.

So, it was unusual, but not unwelcome, for Findekáno to approach Turukáno’s chambers and hover at the door, asking if he could come in for a chat.

Turukáno invited his brother in, pouring them both glasses of wine. They talked about the weather and the latest gossip from Valimar, before Findekáno got to what seemed to be his purpose.

“You really care for Elenwë, don’t you,” Findekáno said.

Turukáno couldn’t help the broad smile that immediately split his face in two. “I’m sure I’m quite obvious about it. Yes, she’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever met in my life. I think I will marry her,” he found himself saying.

He had never said that out loud to anyone before, only in his own mind, right before falling into dreams, as though to protect himself from second-guessing immediately. But as he spoke the words, he knew they were true.

“Oh,” Findekáno said, and Turukáno thought, I guess I’ve finally impressed him with something. “Did you know, right away, when you first met?” Findekáno asked.

“I’m embarrassed to admit that no, I didn’t,” Turukáno said. “I thought she was very pretty, and sweet, of course. I was looking for a particular book in the library, becoming quite cross when I couldn’t find it, grumbling on about how it wasn’t where it was meant to be. She overheard me, calmly came down the aisle and found the book easily, because there it was, right in front of my eyes, of course. She was gracious and didn’t even make fun of me. But no, I didn’t go home that day dreaming about her, not right away.”

“How did you realize that you liked her so much?”

“Well, it wasn’t like a bolt of lightning. Not one single moment, except that it was every moment. I would rather spend time with her than anyone else. Findaráto noticed it first, I couldn’t stop talking about her. And any time something good happened to me, or even something bad, she was the person I wanted to tell first. I thought about her all the time. When I was with her, I kept thinking, what a special, smart, kind, sweet, lovely girl this is. Right here! With me! Of all people.”

Findekáno nodded, thoughtful. It looked like a bit of a strain on his easy, handsome features, his brow furrowed, mouth a straight line.

“And then, you know, she kissed me and suddenly I wasn’t thinking anything at all.”

“She kissed you?”

Turukáno nodded. “It came out of nowhere, and then I realized, oh, we could have been doing this all along!” His eyes grew distant, the smile dreamy with memory. “But as nice as the kissing is, I’m glad we were friends first.”

“Friends first,” Findekáno echoed.

The Midsummer’s Eve Concert was held in the great outdoor amphitheatre just outside Tirion. Two great sandstone monoliths flanked it, creating a natural, acoustically perfect venue for music. Many years before, Aulë and his people had carved out auditorium-style benches into the stone, and ever since, it was considered the preeminent space for performances among the Noldor.

It was while Findaráto, Findekáno, and Turukáno were walking toward the amphitheatre for the Concert that they were accosted by Tyelkormo. (Huan, diplomatically, lingered a few paces behind.)

“Look, I’m really sorry about everything with Irissë,” he said. “Am I really out of the Oath?”

They kept walking.

“I swear I didn’t coerce her or anything! I remember what we talked about. Irissë was just as into it as I was.”

“Stop talking,” Turukáno hissed through his teeth, refusing to look in Tyelkormo’s direction.

“You know you’d have to lock her up in a hidden city to keep her from doing exactly what she wanted to do,” said Tyelkormo.

He kept at it for a while, trying to get Findekáno and Turukáno to forgive him, but it was hopeless.

Findaráto felt a little bad for Tyelkormo. Inwardly, he thought that he had a good point. But you couldn’t argue reason into Turukáno when it came to his sister. Really, you couldn’t argue with Turukáno about much of anything, once he had his mind made up. It was one of the things Findaráto loved about him.

Unfortunately, Tyelkormo did not care to be ignored. The longer Findekáno and Turukáno walked on without acknowledging him, the more annoyed he became. Then he resorted to outright heckling.

“Oh, Findekáno! Lovely beads you’ve got there. Where did you get them? I think I’d like to do up Huan’s hair the same way. You two have the same look.”

“Don’t respond,” Turukáno warned his brother.

“Honestly, I can’t tell if he’s trying to insult me or Huan,” Findekáno said.

“Hey, Turno! I didn’t get the chance to ask after the camping trip. Did you manage to get anywhere with Elenwë? Or was it all give, give, give, nothing for Turno in return?”

Turukáno’s jaw worked as he threw a look at Findaráto, who had been Turukáno’s primary confidante after his amorous encounters. “Thanks a lot.”

“Like you said, don’t respond, it’ll just egg him on,” Findekáno said.

Turukáno’s teeth were grinding from the effort.

“Elenwë must be really gagging for it at this point. I wonder if she’s been disappointed too many times by Turno’s spilling the wine before the toast. Perhaps she might be interested in a lighter vintage?”

“All right, that’s it!” Turukáno whirled on Tyelkormo.

Tyelkormo might have been a fine hunter, but Turukáno had several inches and a weight advantage over him. And this time, he wasn’t drunk. Part of being a good hunter was knowing when to back away, so that you could return and take down your prey under better conditions.

Tyelkormo turned tail and ran, laughing. Huan let out a whine of apology and followed.

Without Tyelkormo around to fight, Turukáno got mad at Findaráto instead. “And you! You’re supposed to be my best friend, and here you are, telling everyone my girlfriend lets me eat her out but won’t return the favor? What’s wrong with you?”

Findaráto and Findekáno were so occupied trying to calm Turukáno down, they didn’t notice Amarië, quiet and intent, walking several paces behind, near enough to have heard the entire exchange. She narrowed her eyes and determined to find Elenwë as soon as possible. She really needed to know what they were saying about her.

It was just after the Concert, the night was warm and rich with the scent of jasmine in the air, and Makalaurë had played and sung beautifully.

(His dancing still left something to be desired, but he was, he thought, greatly improved. Certainly at least as good as Findekáno, if not quite as practiced as Maitimo, by this point.)

Still, his talents and practice did not seem to be getting him anywhere.

He had tried and failed with nearly every girl in Nessa’s choir. One by one, they had rejected him, some coldly, others kindly, but all quite definitive in their lack of interest.

Allie must have spread horrible rumors about Makalaurë, to poison them against him so.

In the end, he resorted to simply asking the last one, Niquirriel, if she would like to come to the after-party with him. He didn’t bother trying to impress her.

Oddly, she said yes, and walked arm-in-arm with him all the way back to the palace. He was relieved, he wouldn’t have to walk through the front doors alone.

Whoever made the party punch this time, they really outdid themselves. It was twice as pink, twice as sweet, and got you twice as drunk in half the time.

“How did you manage to get so fucked up so quickly?” Maitimo asked, laughing hysterically when he came across Findekáno challenging a marble statue in the gardens to a dance duel.

Findekáno’s eyes were glassy, and his skin flushed. He turned to Maitimo, attempted a deep bow, and nearly fell over.

“Whoa, I’ve got you,” Maitimo said, rushing to stabilize his friend.

Findekáno clung to Maitimo, petting his hair. “So pretty, so pretty,” he repeated.

“Maybe it’s time to call it a night and sleep it off, yeah?”

“I’m not sleepy,” Findekáno insisted. Then he turned green. “Oh, no.”

Maitimo held Findekáno’s braids back while he puked into the rhododendrons. He brushed back the tendrils from his forehead and wiped the sweat off his brow. “There, now,” Maitimo said soothingly. “Let’s get you somewhere safe and sound.”

Turukáno couldn’t find Elenwë anywhere. He had seen her at the concert earlier, with her parents, though they had been seated far enough apart, and the crowd was so thick, he hadn’t had occasion to speak with her. Still, just a few days before, they had exchanged a quick and heated kiss, and he’d told her about the after-party, which she promised to attend. She was supposed to be there. Turukáno had waited for her for hours.

Where was she?

He asked Amarië, who did not respond kindly to even being approached. She turned up her nose and said that Elenwë was a sweet and decent girl, who surely had better things to do than spend time with the degenerates at the House of Finwë.

(Well, if they were so degenerate, what was Amarië doing there, anyway? Turukáno resolved not to care.)

He and Findaráto removed themselves to the family quarters on the second floor, but not before grabbing a bottle of miruvórë each.

Together, they cried over their cups, despondent and sick that they would both fail to fulfill the Oath and be humiliated.

“Where is she?” Turukáno kept asking. “I miss her so much.”

“You saw her three days ago, and she’s completely in love with you,” Findaráto said. “You might fail at the Oath, but you are not alone in this world. I, on the other hand, am completely heartbroken. Amarië has utterly destroyed me with her cruelty and disdain. No one will ever compare.”

Turukáno did not entirely agree, as there was a whole wide world out there, and Findaráto was wonderful. Surely, he would find someone else worth his devotion. But he sensed that it wasn’t time to say this out loud.

“Well, I imagine Findekáno and Makalaurë are doing no better than we are,” he said, changing the subject. “Last I saw, Findekáno was puking into Grandmother’s flowers. Maitimo was trying to convince him to go inside and lie down. Maybe we’ll all fail.”

Findaráto was resistant to distraction. “I love her so much, Turno. I’m so sorry I blew it all up. She wouldn’t even talk to me tonight. Just kept walking around, looking so tall and gorgeous and sparkling. It was almost like she wanted me to see her, but I’m still not allowed to touch. What kind of game is that?”

Turukáno did not know.

“What am I supposed to do now? Find another girl at this late hour?”

“You probably could,” Turukáno said encouragingly. “Want me to go fetch a few options?”

“But then Amarië really would never talk to me again,” Findaráto moaned. “And besides, I can’t imagine doing that with just anyone. I couldn’t go through with it, not with a girl I didn’t really love.”

“No,” Turukáno agreed, “Neither could I.”

A moment of silence passed, as the two young princes sadly considered their erotic quandary.

“What if it isn’t a girl?” Turukáno asked. The gears were turning in his brain.

Findaráto stopped crying long enough to look up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“What if you find someone to do it with, but not another girl? You only want to fulfill the Oath with someone you love, right?” Turukáno said slowly.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, I love you. You’re my best friend. You’re the brother of my heart.”

Findaráto stared at him.

“Of course, I’m only joking—” Turukáno said hastily.

“No, no, you weren’t!” Findaráto interrupted. His eyes were still teary, but they now shone with gratitude and affection. “I love you too.”

“I love you, Ingo.”

“I love you, Turno. So are you suggesting…” Findaráto inched closer to Turukáno.

“I mean… only if you’re really all right with it….” Turukáno wisely set their cups aside on an occasional table.

Findaráto looked down at his lap, which was stirring with interest. “I think I’m very all right with it,” he acknowledged. “But I still don’t think Amarië or Elenwë would find it a good idea.”

Turukáno considered. “You’re probably right about that,” he admitted. “So, we can just keep it to ourselves. We just report back tomorrow that we met the conditions of the Oath. Makalaurë and Findekáno will be able to see in our eyes that we’re telling the truth. Nobody has to know how.”

“Agreed,” Findaráto said.

Turukáno’s body was beginning to catch up to the conversation. He had never looked at Findaráto like this before, but. Well. He was a beautiful Elf, after all. Hair like the light of Telperion and Laurelin together, long locks escaping his updo to frame his lovely face. Delicate, androgynous features, fine-boned hands and narrow shoulders. He wasn’t so different from a girl, when you really looked at him.

And he had a wide, red mouth.

Turukáno reached out and placed a fingertip on Findaráto’s lower lip.

“How do we decide who goes first?” Findaráto asked, a little breathless already. “Shouldn’t we talk about it a little more?” He sucked Turukáno’s finger into his mouth, moaning.

“Let’s just do what feels right,” Turukáno said, and dove in to kiss his cousin thoroughly.

Makalaurë strummed out the final chords on his lute, bringing his latest composition to a close.

“Anyway, I call that one ‘Fence Fascination.’ Would you like to hear it sung in counterpoint to—”

“Oh, wow, look at the time,” Niquirriel said. “Telperion’s nearly—well, still quite bright, isn’t it? I’d better get back home while, er, the streets are still wet.”

“Wet?” Makalaurë wondered.

He followed her to the door. Oh. It had begun to rain.

“You don’t have to go,” Makalaurë tried to say, but she had already dashed away.

Well. That was humiliating. Makalaurë was beginning to regret the whole strategy of joining Nessa’s show choir. Several weeks of practice, learning to dance, trying to get those girls to appreciate the finer points of musical composition and arrangement—and for what?

Sore feet and a bruised heart, that was what.

Makalaurë was on the verge of giving up and going to bed early, when the atmosphere began to shift in a strange, unnatural way. He felt something approaching. A presence—and a familiar one, he thought, backing up unconsciously to make room for—Her.

It was not unheard of for the Valar to make an appearance at a palace party, though usually, it was Lord Aulë, beloved as he was by the Noldor. And usually, he made a grand and splendid entrance with his wife and Maiar entourage.

But it was unusual for one to show up late, unaccompanied, and unheralded, sneaking in through the side door rather than the main entrance.

Nessa, when she arrived, was resplendent, luminous in a sheer gown, her shimmering, shifting aura pulsing all around her. Her head was crowned by summer florals, and she carried the air of the forest with her, smelling of crushed berries, warm, wet leaves, and the mushroomy underside of a fallen log.

“But Makalaurë, why are you so sad? You are so beautiful, so gifted. You should not look so mournful. Although you do make such lovely music from sorrow. Play something for me.”

Makalaurë could not argue with a Valië, had he even wished to.

He strummed a lonesome tune on his lute, putting into it all his feelings of rejection and sorrow. Nessa began to twirl, her diaphanous purple gown fluttering all around, transforming his music into movement with an impossible grace.

“Your voice is so lovely, son of Nerdanel,” she said.

He sang of the Oath, and his many efforts all fallen to nothing, hopeless pieces in the dust. He sang of his own humiliation, and regrets, and fears that his cousins would all mock him tremendously for being the oldest among them, the most talented and gifted of voice and Song, and yet still, here he was, all alone, unable to achieve this one, small thing.

And tomorrow was Midsummer’s Day.

“What does your Oath demand of you?” Nessa asked.

Makalaurë reddened to explain, so he sang it instead, tra-la-la-lally.

“Is that all? I’ll do it, then. Just keep singing. I revel at the sound of your voice.”

Makalaurë could not believe what was happening to him, as Nessa, the fleet-footed Valië of dance, shimmied her way towards him, dropped to her ethereal knees, and opened his robes.

But, as commanded, he kept singing.

Findekáno woke up, unsure where exactly he was, but too cozy to worry. His mind and tongue were still a little fuzzy from the miruvórë, but altogether, he was feeling much better. He was warm. Held. There was a sensation of comfort and deep satisfaction throughout his entire body, from his toes to his—oh.

Someone was pressed up behind him. That was why he was so warm.

Someone with a banana in his pocket.

He rolled partway over and was pleased to see that it was Maitimo. His best-loved cousin, if he was honest. His tall, copper-haired, well-formed, lightly snoring cousin Maitimo, whose arm was still wrapped partway around Findekáno, holding him even as he yet slept. Maitimo, whose big, warm hand was clutching Findekáno’s, fingers interlaced.

The heat in Findekáno’s belly flared into a full-blown fire. And he realized, all at once, the reason he could not bring himself to fulfill his Oath with any old Elf-maiden throwing herself at him—the reason, in fact, that he had never really looked twice at any girl in all of Valinor and Eldamar.

What was an Elf-maiden in comparison to Maitimo?

How could a lady’s smooth, narrow arms compete with Maitimo’s strong, muscled ones? How could he feign interest in the soft roundness of a woman’s breasts, when he had the broad expanse of Maitimo’s chest before him? Why would he care to kiss someone who would expect him to always take the lead, want him to dominate, demand that he always know what to do and how to do it and in what order? Maitimo was his friend, his equal if not his better in every respect, and Findekáno suddenly now knew, as he perhaps had always known, deep inside, that Maitimo was who he wanted.

Findekáno smiled to himself as he thought about every time he had come up with the most transparent of excuses to find Maitimo, to be near him. When he looked back, he could not remember his life without Maitimo. Nor could he pinpoint the moment when Maitimo had become the center of it, though it had surely been decades. He just had not fully understood why, not until this moment. He laughed aloud, regretting his own blindness yet knowing he would not be passive for much longer.

At the sound of Findekáno’s laughter, Maitimo woke up.

His grey eyes, framed with copper lashes, opened and met Findekáno’s.

Their faces were hardly a hand’s span apart. Findekáno lay on his back, head pillowed against Maitimo’s arm. Maitimo was on his side, pressed against him. Their legs were partly entwined.

They stared into each other’s eyes. Findekáno’s heart pounded, and he imagined he could feel Maitimo’s doing the same.

“Sorry I woke you,” Findekáno whispered. He didn’t dare move.

“It’s all right,” Maitimo whispered back, and smiled.

Slowly, with intent, Maitimo hitched a thigh over Findekáno’s legs and ran his toes along the inside of his calf.

Pleasure sparked through Findekáno’s body. He had never known how good his calf could feel. Yet of course it was good, it was Maitimo touching him, and he loved Maitimo. And he knew, just as he knew that the light of Telperion and Laurelin would always shine upon the Calaquendi, that Maitimo felt the same about him.

They inched closer to each other, puffs of breath meeting in the slowly closing space between their mouths until, finally, finally, feeling as right as anything in the world had ever felt, they were kissing.

Within moments after ejaculating into Turukáno’s mouth, Findaráto closed his eyes, rolled over on the chaise, and fell fast asleep.

“Hey,” Turukáno said, after he spat. “HEY!”

He tried shaking Findaráto. It was no use. Findaráto kept on snoring.

Turukáno couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Sure, there was a certain satisfaction to be found in bringing another Elf to such heights of pleasure, even if it was his friend and not his soft, pretty girlfriend. As it turned out, Findaráto was a decent kisser, and his hands were confident in stroking Turukáno’s sides and back. But when Turukáno had pushed him down and begun taking him inside his mouth, Findaráto had lost all capacity for reciprocity. He turned interesting shades of red and could only keep himself from screaming by clamping his hands over his own mouth.

As a result, Turukáno was still rock-hard, and humping the carpet had only made him chafe, not given any relief. His jaw was sore. His lips felt stretched. The back of his throat tickled.

And the taste. Well, the less said about that, the better.

He went to find some punch.

Elenwë, wherever she was, tasted a lot nicer.

Mid-act, Makalaurë was suddenly struck with a realization.

“Your husband,” he gasped.

Nessa looked up. Her mouth was full, so she spoke to him in his mind, with ósanwë. I told you to keep singing.

He sang: “What about your husband? Won’t he kill me when he finds out?”

Tulkas? Oh, he already knows. I told him before we began. He’s on his way now.

Makalaurë howled. It was beautiful.

Findekáno lost track of time as he and Maitimo progressed from kissing to groping, from groping to undressing, and thereafter, to rolling around on the carpet, pressing their naked bodies together, sweating, first this one on top, then the other, laughing, teasing, exchanging breaths and kisses and strangled moans as they came to realize, together, just how easy this was.

“I never knew,” Maitimo gasped, underneath Findekáno, yielding to his lips and hips and the press of Findekáno’s cock against his own.

“But now,” agreed Findekáno, flipping them over to feel the weight of Maitimo atop him and grinding up helplessly.

Findekáno began to tremble, the world seemed to blur around him, his awareness contracting to only his body and Maitimo’s and the hot delicious feel of their cocks rubbing together. He had nearly reached the point of no return when he suddenly remembered the Oath and, though every nerve in his skin was screaming against him, roughly shoved Maitimo away.

Maitimo, thinking it a game, groaned and tried to tackle him in return, but Findekáno rose up and fought Maitimo back, bearing him down to the ground with his full strength. Half-mad with desire, Findekáno said, “Just wait, you have to let me try this,” ducked down, and sucked Maitimo’s cock into his mouth in one hungry plunge.

Turukáno, red-faced and hot, had left the chamber where Findaráto was snoring happily away, and had wandered halfway down the stairs, in search of punch, when finally, Elenwë found him.

“There you are!” she said, fluttering in delight.

“There I am! Where have you been?” Turukáno asked, nervously touching his face and hair. Could she tell what he had been doing?

“Oh, I’m sorry, Turno,” Elenwë said. “At the concert, Amarië came and told me—well, something silly about you and your cousins verbally demeaning me. She was quite worked up on my behalf. I let her get into my head.”

“Oh, no,” Turukáno said, remembering.

He told her exactly what Tyelkormo had said, and what he had yelled at Findaráto in his anger.

“I’m sorry. It was demeaning. I shouldn’t have said that. I understand if you’re upset,” he said sadly.

Elenwë blinked twice. Turukáno loved her big blue eyes so much.

“Well,” she said, “I came here because I realized, I don’t care what anyone else said. And really, I forgive you for what you said, too. Because I still want you all the time, anyway.”

She stepped in closer and reached out her hands. Turukáno, hardly believing, took them.

“I was missing you so badly,” she said, dropping her voice and pressing in close. “Oh—I see you missed me, too.”

Turukáno dove down and kissed Elenwë fiercely, stumbling a bit on the stairs as he lifted her. He slid one hand inside her shimmering gown, wandering up her thigh, the other firmly pulling her against him. He let out a strangled cry as she wrapped her smooth legs around his waist, which aligned her center perfectly on his cock. Only a few layers of thin fabric lay between them. The thought had him rolling his hips involuntarily, desperate to sheathe himself inside Elenwë. He pressed her against the wall, fingers clutching her ass, and rocked, and rocked. She moaned with every thrust, spreading and then clenching her thighs around his hips again, as though she were equally desperate to have him.

“Turukáno,” she breathed, “I want you so badly.”

He moaned in response, unable to stop moving his hips.

“Take me somewhere,” Elenwë said.

“Take you, somewhere?” Turukáno couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I don’t care where, I just want your mouth,” Elenwë groaned.

“Oh, okay, got it,” he said, dropping down to his knees and pushing her thighs apart.

“I meant somewhere other than right—there, right there. Just. Don’t fucking stop!”

When Tulkas showed up, he didn’t bother to materialize clothing, just appeared next to Nessa on her knees as she was still sucking Makalaurë off.

“Oh, no,” Makalaurë said, forgetting to sing.

Nessa pulled off with a pop, looking perturbed. “You’re in a time out. I’m sick of reminding you.”

“Oh, cut the boy some slack,” Tulkas said. And then he did something Makalaurë would never have expected. He knelt—behind him.

Makalaurë could not bear the pleasure. He did not know which was better, the supernatural suck of Nessa on his cock, or the devastatingly powerful flick of Tulkas’s—tongue? Was that his tongue? It seemed improbably strong, but he was a Vala, after all—on his hole. Teasing, tasting, and then pressing inside, lengthening impossibly to touch Makalaurë in his deepest places.

“Oh, Valar,” Makalaurë swore-sung.

Yes? Nessa said in his mind, otherworldly twinkles in her eyes.

Maitimo was just as beautiful like this as he was on the dance floor, Findekáno thought, unable to tear his eyes away from Maitimo’s face engulfed in pleasure as he bobbed on his cock, sucking as hard as he could for as long as he could, while he played with his balls and rubbed his thighs. Findekáno hazily had the idea that there must be choreography to this kind of thing, moves they could coordinate, for a more elegant, correct progression to the conclusion. But he could not bring himself to care terribly much. Not when Maitimo looked like that and made those noises.

He felt Maitimo’s thighs tensing under his hands, and his hips began to convulse and stutter beneath him. And then Maitimo did a thing he would never have expected, and pushed his head off his cock before he could come.

“What? Why?” Findekáno sputtered, wiping his mouth.

“I have an idea,” Maitimo breathed.

Then he swung his body around and down, placed his mouth on Fingon’s cock, and thrust himself forward to sheathe his own cock back in Fingon’s throat.

Oh, but Maitimo always had the best ideas.

Their bodies arched toward each other like two curved Tengwar letters, moving in coordinated harmony, losing track of where one ended and the other began, an endless loop of perfect bliss.

Turukáno had made Elenwë come on his tongue and fingers twice, but this did little more to sate her hunger than a drop of honey would a hungry bear. She was inflamed, burning for him, and with pleasure now thrumming throughout her entire body, she was quite eager to finally return the favor.

Somewhere between her first and second orgasm, they had managed to stumble into a side chamber, this one fitted with the recent architectural innovation known as the conversation pit, a sunken cavity in the floor filled with overstuffed cushions.

Elenwë shoved Turukáno into the pit, then jumped on top of him.

She slid down his body, opening his robes and, hands shaking with far more lust than uncertainty, unlacing his trousers. Turukáno was too far gone to care that he had already come in his pants once, in fact almost immediately upon the moment his tongue first touched her clit upon the stairs, but by the time she pushed him into the pit, he had long since hardened again, and he was ready for her.

When Turukáno’s turgid member was released from the lacings of his trousers, Elenwë gasped, and not entirely from excitement.

She froze for too long a moment to ignore.

“What’s wrong,” Turukáno groaned, managing to pull himself up to his elbows to look at her.

“It’s so big,” she said breathlessly, a hint of fear coming out in her voice.

“Oh, thank you,” he said uncertainly. “Or, I’m sorry?”

She let out a little huff of a laugh. The length of him strained belief. She had never seen it out before. Certainly, she had felt it pressed against her, had stroked him through his pants, but so inexperienced was she, it was rather hard to tell under the cover of clothing whether the length was standard-issue Elfhood, or something truly extraordinary.

Well. She realized, looking at his freed cock, hard and leaking against his belly, that her dear Turno, said to be tallest of the Noldor, was truly proportionate in all of his parts.

Let it be said that Elenwë of the Vanyar lacked not courage, because despite her momentary hesitation, she leaned in, open wide, and took Turukáno into her mouth in valiant effort. So enthusiastic was she, in fact, she managed to immediately trigger her all-too-sensitive gag reflex and fell back, dry heaving. She collapsed next to him and rolled to her back, covering her face in shame.

Turukáno didn’t seem entirely sure what to do. He leaned over and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t be upset,” he said. “Please.”

He was entirely too sweet. She felt a swell of love for him. Well, a swell of something, for sure.

Her cunt was aching, and not from overuse. The orgasms he had given her had sent her into new heights of arousal, not diminishing but instead stacking ever higher, such that she was afraid her need might consume her. She felt warm all over her body, from the tips of her ears to her toes. Her nipples were hard, her thighs were tingling, and she knew, in that moment, that if she didn’t have him inside her, she would surely burst into a million tiny pieces.

“Just put it in!” she finally said.

Turukáno, who at that time in his life, was still one to readily follow commands, especially of such compelling nature, rose up and knee-walked towards her head.

“Not my mouth!” she said.

“Wait, what?”

“I’m too afraid I’ll puke! I hate throwing up so much! Just put it in me! Down there!”

Who was Turukáno to question a direct order?

He positioned himself between her legs, checking her openness with his fingers. She wanted him to get on with it. She had never been more ready for anything in her life. She knew she could take him. And from the feel of things, they wouldn’t need any dressing.

Still, at the first press of the head of his great cock to her entrance, Elenwë let out a noise, a shocking, guttural scream that scraped at her throat. The bright shock of his cock stretching her body was almost, for a brief moment, too much to take. With apparent great effort, Turukáno stopped himself from moving farther, and instead stroked her twitching thighs. “All right?” he whispered softly.

Elenwë heaved and breathed and looked up at Turukáno’s brow, furrowed in concern and love. She wanted nothing more than to feel him fully inside her. She could do it. She knew she could.

“Yes,” she cried out, “Keep going!”

Midsummer’s Day came with the dawning of Laurelin.

Makalaurë, Findaráto, and Findekáno, all in varying states of hungover, had gathered at their favorite spot for brunch, as previously agreed.

“Well, I fulfilled the Oath,” Findaráto announced, and widened his eyes to prove it. Indeed, the film of the unfulfilled Oath, which was until then, a visible shroud over each of the swearers’ eyes, had vanished. His eyes were as clear and bright with Tree-light as ever.

“Me too,” Makalaurë said.

“Me too,” Findekáno echoed.

There was a silence that was filled with the absence of the natural next statement any one of them could have made, which was the answer to the question, With whom did you fulfill it? Each young prince was just as eager to know the others’ answers as he was reluctant to reveal his own.

The awkward pause was thankfully broken by Turukáno’s late arrival.

Conspicuously, Turukáno had covered his own eyes with shaded spectacles. He settled in next to Findekáno and started helping himself to his brother’s plate. “Good sausages,” Turukáno said brightly.

“Well?” Makalaurë asked.

“Well, what?” Turukáno replied, too casually.

“You know what!” Findekáno cried. “Did you manage it?”

(Findaráto, who had awakened alone, penis soft and out, and mortified, wisely did not press Turukáno.)

Turukáno popped a cherry tomato into his mouth, and slowly, with more than a hint of dramatic flair, removed his spectacles.

Everyone’s mouth hung agape.

“I failed,” Turukáno said, smiling, a new and divine light ringing his eyes, the meaning of which every Elda of Aman knew very well.

“But I got married!” he added unnecessarily.

A shocked silence stretched, then Findaráto broke it with an enormous cheer, before tackling Turukáno. “Turno!” Findaráto said, voice thick with emotion.

When Findaráto released him, Findekáno took his turn, enveloping his brother into a crushing hug of his own. “Mom’s going to be so annoyed, you did it without any of her help!”

Makalaurë shook Turukáno’s hand in congratulations and did not let go. He waited, grasping tightly, until Turukáno met his eyes with a question.

“You still lose,” Makalaurë said.

Turukáno laughed. “And happily! I will adopt the red heart as my standard with pride.” He clapped Makalaurë on the back, his spirit full of hope and gladness.

How could he do otherwise? The Oath had been sworn in foolishness and haste, certainly, a hungover contrivance of five princes with little idea of what the wide world held in store for them. They believed, in the contradictory and unshakable way of the young, that their time of bliss would never end, and yet that they must race toward their desires in haste. But who could claim they were harmed by it? Turukáno, though he would have to answer to his own and Elenwë’s parents, would never regret marrying the Elf-maiden of his dreams. Findaráto and Turukáno would ever remain brothers of the heart, and Findaráto would find himself able to leave Amarië behind on the streets of Tirion when their Dooms required their parting. Makalaurë, having acquired a new patron of his arts, would spend many more years under the tutelage of the Fleet-footed Valië, whose lessons would serve him in ways he could have never imagined on the plains of the Gap. And Findekáno, believing he and Maitimo had inaugurated a stunning innovation to the practice of oral sex, would carry his pride and love all the way across the Helcaraxë, to Thangorodrim.

“Guys, I just thought of something,” said Findekáno suddenly.

Everyone looked at him, awaiting his revelation.

“What do you think Eru Ilúvatar thinks about butt stuff?”

Chapter End Notes

• Surprise pairings are: Aredhel/Celegorm, Finrod/Turgon, and Maglor/Nessa/Tulkas.

• About three months ago, I read the phrase "In other words, it was the opinion of Eru Illuvatar that mouth stuff didn't count" in Littlewhitemouse's "What's He Building in There?" and, I am not exaggerating, my life has never been the same. I hope you enjoyed this thing that came out of my brain as a direct result of (a) that line, and (b) my undying love for 90s teen sex comedies.

• Makalaurë’s choirgirls from Chestnut_pod’s Elvish Names List

• Title from Othello, Act I, Scene 3. No, there is nothing thematically in this story that intentionally echoes Othello. It’s just a little speech about vegetables.

• Many, many thanks to IdleLeaves, Dragonbornsandwaffles, and AtlantaBlack for their feedback, early reads, and enthusiastic support. And the rest of the TRSB25 writing sprints gang.

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Chapter End Notes