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“I Will Lead And Thou Shalt Follow ”

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Fëanor and Fingolfin, and all the characters are referred to by their Quenya names (Fëanáro and Nolofinwë, et) in  this prologue. 

Please note, although it is tagged: Incest. 







~ Tirion. Valinor. The Years of the Trees. 



~ Before the Sun and Moon, there was another Light: two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, and from them radiated the Light which blessed all of that land, the land furthest west upon Arda - Aman, the Land of the Valar; Valinórë.

But there was another light, a greater fire, and from it sprang three jewels.

Once, many saw those jewels which captured and gave back all other light, all colour, in a paean of glory. They were worn by the greatest of a race called the Noldor, the Deep Elves, a people of wisdom and knowledge, fire and tragedy. In those days they dwelt in Aman, the Blessed Realm, in Tirion, a city of white and silver, of marble and crystal. Their High King was Finwë, and his eldest son created the jewels, the Silmarilli. Curufinwë, his father named him. His mother called him Fëanáro, which means Spirit of Fire.

And he burned.

The first of the Elves, the Unbegotten, (for they knew no father or mother) awoke under the shadow of war. Looking west, beyond the clouds of tumult they saw stars and loved them, and thence came their name, the Eldar, the People of the Stars. Yet although they were the Firstborn Children of Eru, and the most beautiful of His creations, something of that shadow touched them. Even in so-called bliss of Aman not all were content, Fëanaro least of all. His was a mind which hungered after knowledge, and his fire did not always burn white. There was the capacity in him for great love, and implacable hatred, an arrogance which was so indivisible from his very soul that one could not imagine him without it.

In Ages long after these events, a saying came to be, which might have been perfectly fitted to Fëanáro and the Noldor: Those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make proud.

Lies have become woven with legend through the sundering ages. But the truth, which some yet know, is that the greatest Powers did indeed wish to destroy that which they could not control.






Macalaurë was playing, accompanying some-one on a flute, and the two instruments wove a melody. Fëanáro allowed the balm of it to caress his restless soul. He glanced past Maitimo beside him, his mane of copper hair which had come through Nerdanel, shining with green gems.

Nerdanel...Fëanáro's thoughts paused a moment to consider his wife, whom had departed from his house, dwelling now with Indis, his father's second wife. Once, Fëanaro had been fond enough of her, though he had never loved her. Now, her name was not spoken; indeed she did not often cross his mind.

He had been very young when he went to Mahtan, he whom had been tutored in metal-work by Aulë himself, and asked to learn all he would teach. Long after, Mahtan would say that the tall prince with the light-filled eyes had troubled him, and he sought to put Fëanáro off, saying that he was too young, that in his intemperance he might break more than he made. Even as he roused himself to argue, Fëanáro had seen a young woman staring at him from further within the forge.

He learned that Mahtan's daughter often wandered far from Tirion and it was not difficult to meet with her (as by chance) and talk. It was not difficult either, to win her heart for she was already smitten, and Fëanáro had a lethal charm when he chose to use it. 

Mahtan could hardly refuse to teach his daughter's husband.

Calculation had instigated his courtship, but he found her calm temperament tolerable for a while, and was come to the age where his bodily hungers needed an outlet. That, and his dream of sons. No, not dream. Foresight. He had taken her willing body, and she got with child. So they had wed, and then came his dreamed-of sons. All of them he loved with a fierce passion; all of them he considered  his son's.

Nerdanel's initial eagerness in the bedchamber had quickly faded, in accordance with the Laws. She wanted children and, until the birth of the twins, delighted in them. But by then she was a shadow of the smiling girl he had married, mouth gone thin with disapproval, eyes heavy with shadows. There would be no more children, she said. 






Fëanáro's eyes matched the Silmarilli on his brow, capturing their light (or did the Jewels capture the light in his eyes?) casting it back in a wild flash. His gaze moved over the gathering and lit upon Artanis, daughter of Arafinwë. Her hair glowed in the mingling of the Lights, as she turned to speak to Findaráto, her elder brother, another beauty.

He had asked for one thread of her hair. She had refused; more she had refused with a look in her eyes of fear and even repugnance. She had stepped away from him, turned on her heel.

I should have asked Laurëfindë, he thought with an irrepressible gleam of mirth.


He had been passing through the Court of Waters that day, so named for the many musical fountains that played there, and he had turned, his glance captured by the shimmer of a fair head.

As one who loved beauty in all its forms, as a craftsman and creator, he had stood perfectly still for a moment as an idea uncurled in his mind.

Fëanáro, it was well-known, dislike his half-brothers. At times now, he could barely repress a laugh when he heard yet another rumour of their mutual enmity. It had been true once, for a while, and was still true of Arafinwë, who made no secret of his loathing for the Fëanorions. 

When Finwë married, Fëanáro had indeed been furious, believing he was supplanted, that Indis would steal his father's love. He burned with jealousy, though it had not taken him long to realise that no-one and nothing could come between he and Finwë. Nevertheless, he dwelt well apart from Nolofinwë and Arafinwë in the palace, and his restless mind took him often away. He was simply uninterested in his half-brothers as children, just as he was not interested in their own offspring, or not until they grew. Nolofinwë's children shared the raven traits of his own line, Arafinwë's were called the 'Golden House' for he and his get bore Vanyarin hair.

Artanis' mother-name was Nerwen, 'Man-Maiden'. She was taller than most of the elf-women, strong, regal of carriage. As she stood close to the pluming spray of a fountain, she appeared as a statue crowned by gold and silver. Yet such metal would cool and harden, Artanis' hair lived.

That light... His thoughts leaped with a creator's sudden and fierce intensity.

He moved then, his presence causing those in the court to look up as if his spirit touched each one with heat. He was oblivious to them.

"Artanis." His voice rang like a bell struck on a low, intimate note, sounding both as a question and a discovery. " Artanis. I will make a jewel to hold the light of thy hair," he declared. The thick sweep of his own jet-black locks brushed her gown as he raised his hand.
"One strand is all I need," he smiled.

He was obsessed, all his thoughts focused on one thing, and when his mind was bent thus, its sheer will was enough to have things seemingly form under his hands as if driven to reality by their desire to appease his vision. He was not however, obtuse, and he felt the moment that the horror, the antipathy flared up within Artanis. So violent was the rebuttal, that for a heartbeat it gave him pause.

Well, she is my niece, he thought with a wry inner smile. Their consanguinity, and his desire was surely at the root of her reaction, and because there was nothing he feared to look upon, even those depths within him where the fire burned dark, he studied the implications again, and again discarded them. He was Fëanáro. Few had ever refused him anything, he expected obedience even, obliquely, from his own father. Besides, he did not desire Artanis in the way she obviously feared and wondered why she would imagine such a thing?  He simply desired a strand of her hair, and had little experience in being denied anything. Only Nerdanel had ever said 'No.' to him. But the lovely eyes of Artanis held revulsion. Her voice was cool as she suggested he might use Nerdanel's hair, or his sons.

Only one thing prevented him from reaching out and taking what he wanted: Pride. And at her words that pride, woven with anger, caused Artanis to take a swift step back. 

Even as he stared at her, the gleam of red hair caught his eye and his eyes flicked briefly from Artanis to see Nerdanel approaching. Not far away his two eldest sons stood, held back by his will, or by the tension that had fallen on the place so that even the fountains murmur was muted. But Nerdanel walked on with the air of one whom has nothing left to lose.

"Curufinwë." Her voice was soft as she interposed herself between Artanis and Fëanáro. "Please."

His anger, like a beam of light focused through crystal, shifted itself and smashed upon her. The impact showed in the stiffening of her shoulders, but she did not move nor drop her eyes and in her own were shattered memories, a final acceptance that whatever had brought them together in their youth was gone beyond recall.

For a moment, watching, Macalaurë wondered if she essayed this to save Fëanáro's dignity, before he realized how nonsensical was that thought. His father would not care how he appeared before others.
Fëanáro's eyes glittered over Nerdanel.

Thou art no part of me now, and what I do is no concern of thine any longer.






Long strands of red hair whispered from the comb, settled over the house-robe. Nerdanel set it aside, head bent, back stiff, as her husband entered the room, unloosing the ties of his shirt. She stared at him in the mirror. He was not looking at her, but after a moment, he did, and raised his brows ironically.

"Once thou didst run to me, now thou art cold. Thy statues have more life."

A pulse fluttered under her creamy skin.
"We were young then," she responded. "We are past the age for such desires."

"Past the age of such desires," he repeated softly, and then threw back his head and laughed. It was a mocking, hard sound, which brought the blood up into Nerdanel's cheeks.

"Dost thou remember what my mother named me?" He strode toward her. The darkness of his hair brushed her robes.
"I am not past the age of such desires," he said through his teeth, and dragged his shirt over his head, ripping the fabric. He looked dangerous, wild and rich. Dishevelled hair rippled to his knees, jet over alabaster skin, perfectly formed sinew and bone, as if his spirit would settle for nothing less than to be clothed in perfection.

And Nerdanel felt a leap of pure revulsion.

"Curufinwë, no." She heard the panic in her cry. "I cannot lie with thee. It is enough!"

There was a strange scent of dusty ice, such as Fëanor knew from white Taniquetil, although the room was warm.

Fëanor stared at her. "I am merely going to take a bath," he said. "Manwë's hairless balls, woman!" (And that was blasphemy in itself). What is wrong with thee?"

The breath went out of her. She felt suddenly embarrassed. "Didst thou ever love me at all?" she whispered. "Is love only ever bound up with desire in thee?"

His black brows rose. "Thou wert eager enough once. What has happened to thee? Thou didst look as if I meant to take thee by force. Did I ever?"

She could not answer. She did not know, only that the thought of his inside her made her flesh shrink on her bones. All Elves came to this time, when bodily hungers faded. And had she not done enough? Once she had wanted him, yes, despite her father's warnings that she would not be happy, despite her own doubts and yes, despite the fact Fëanáro had told her plainly he was not in love with her. 

Still, she had been dazzled, had ached for him, even knowing (as all did) that marriage was for the begetting of children, not the tinsel pleasures of sex, so brief and so unimportant. In that, her husband had never disappointed her. In fact, he had grown to alarm her with his furious intensity. He controlled himself, she became aware, shut the door on all but a few tendrils of his furnace. She was a woman, and she knew this, and that it frustrated him, but he could alarm her in the bedroom, and even his gentlest lovemaking left her limp.

He was watching her. There was a distant curiosity in his eyes but nothing else. No real interest, and certainly no desire. She had jumped at shadows that were not even there. Then he was gone from their shared dressing-room into his own bed-chamber. She knew then that was the end, though in truth their marriage had fallen apart long before. They held its fragility together for the sake of the sons she could not seem to stop producing, a byword and a cause for raised eyebrows. If not for them, who had little of her in them but the gleaming copper heads of Maitimo and Ambarussa, the marriage would not have lasted a year.






"Leave me," he said, and turned his back.

Macalaurë moved then, his heart aching. He felt the force of his father's eyes move to him, and met them with love and with sorrow. He sensed Maitimo close by, joining with him, and in the end, it was Fëanaro's sons who enabled the moment to pass. Yet, like the aftermath of the tolling of a bell; danger still reverberated in the air.

"Take her away, Nelyafinwë, Canafinwe," Fëanáro said quietly, then deliberately, he looked back at Artanis. "I think thou wilt regret, for a very long time, that thou didst not accede to such a simple, innocent request, for it was nothing else. Thou doth hold thyself too high, to think I would look on thee with desire." Red suffused her features as he turned with a lilt of raven hair, dismissing her, a force that passed through the court like a wave.

Macalaurë took his mother by one arm and lead her toward the steps. The sound of water and birdsong returned. All was as it had been yet changed, something in his father, in the air, in Fate itself.

And Fëanáro strode to Ezellohar, and the Trees, whose mingled Lights in Artanis' hair, had enthralled him.

And so...and so perhaps it began there.

He stood in a light like water. It limned his hands as he lifted one, delineating each slim finger. The mingling of the Lights; a gift, a blessing to all Aman.
But only to Aman.

Thus the beginning — of the end. 

Or the end of the beginning. 








The Noldor had long ago discovered the raw gems of the earth and worked them. And then Fëanáro was born and created gems in the hot and cold forges of the Smiths' Halls. As with gems, so with metals, and it came to pass that the Noldor outstripped the Valar their teachers, just as children may sometimes surpass those who tutor them.

This light... His eyes turned to look toward the gleaming spires and white-needle towers of Tirion and a sensuous smile curved his mouth. Artanis' hair, as she stood in the court, reminded him of one who needed no light to make his golden head more brilliant. And that one was not so unlike him, just as others were not.

He laughed under his breath, thinking. All knew that there was no love between he and his half-brothers. What fools people could be, so easy to deceive, seeing only what they wished.

Ah, Nolofinwë... And the arc of fire runs on, to my eldest son and thine.








He bathed and stepped out onto the great balcony, hearing the clash of hooves on cobbles which signified the return of his sons.

Lead by Nelyafinwë, the riders entered the inner ward. Glancing down and to the left, Fëanáro saw his half-brother come out of his own doors. His hand held a very small one, that of his firstborn son, who was watching the Fëanárions arrival with wide eyes.

"Whom is that, father?" the child had asked as he watched a tall rider dismount. His copper hair swirled like a cloak of fire.

"That is thy cousin Maitimo, eldest son of my half-brother," Nolofinwë had replied, his voice audible to Fëanáro. There was some repression in the tone, as if he did not wish to encourage his son toward any familiarity. He was, after all, perfectly aware that Fëanáro had no interest whatsoever in him or his family. But before he could say more, Findekáno had slipped from his side, his feet twinkling as he ran toward the red haired Maitimo, straight in, fearlessly, among the stamping horses.


Nelyafinwë had picked the child up and carried him back to Nolofinwë, asking if he might take Findekáno to the gardens. Agreeing, the Prince had watched, thinking what charismatic force burned in Fëanáro and which in some measure, all of his sons had inherited. Suddenly, feeling a touch as of flame, he had looked up along the mighty frontage of the palace to see Fëanáro standing at the balcony of his chambers. Perhaps he had lately come in from smith-work or hunting, for he was naked to the waist, his mane of obsidian hair still wet. Fëanaro observed his eldest son for a moment, then those unearthly eyes moved back to Nolofinwë. A brief look, like so many his half-brothers seemed to garner; the High Prince would stare through them as if they were clear crystal. Nolofinwë felt a heat sweep through him but held the gaze unflinchingly. It lingered a moment before Fëanáro turned and stepped back into his rooms.






Now was the time of softer light. The gold and silver beams of the trees were faint and mingled. In this time many of the Eldar slept before Laurelin waxed into golden glory.

Leaving his father's chambers, Fëanáro almost walked into Nolofinwë, who stepped aside, inclining his head. Neither spoke. The courtesies were observed between them, most especially before their father, but they would make no greater effort. An perceptible pause ensued as Fëanáro's eyes lingered on his half-brother's face for a perfectly calculated moment. Then he walked on and there were none to note the faint smile on his mouth. None but Nolofinwë, who most certainly had seen it. It had been for his benefit, after all. 


The wide halls and steps were deserted. Fëanáro's stride was soundless, yet the very air held aftershocks of energy as he walked. Halting beside a door, he pushed it open and entered his father's library.

It was Fëanáro whom had bettered the runes devised by Rumil, and now most scrolls and books were written in what was known as the Fëanárian script. His skills were not limited to one thing alone and ever he sought to learn more.

He picked up a book, cast himself upon a padded settle and tipped back his head. The book dropped to the floor, and he waited in feigned sleep for the one he knew would come.






It was so rare to see him thus that Nolofinwë froze. Fëanáro had set a distance between them from the beginning. When Nolofinwë was very young he had been awed and entranced by the impossible, burning beauty which was Curufinwë. In much the same way, Findekáno had been drawn to Maitimo. But when the famous eyes had looked at Nolofinwë and through him, the child he had been had wept.

He and Arafinwë grew, Arafinwë calm, with the golden head of his mother, Nolofinwë prouder, more stern, who inherited his father's raven hair. He was more like to Fëanáro in looks than his full brother.

Despite the antipathy, (Many people were all-too eager to denigrate Fëanáro's arrogance to Nolofinwë) Fëanáro fascinated, drawing Nolofinwë's eyes like a fire, and when he was in a calmer mood, perhaps having completed some work, charm glowed from him like heat. For some his fire was too much; they drew back, scorched. Others plunged into its ambit. Nolofinwë would willingly have joined their ranks.

I have never seen him asleep, he thought as he took a noiseless step toward the couch. It did not make Fëanáro seem vulnerable. He lay like a panther might, deadly even at rest, skin white as chiselled quartz. The long lashes were half-lowered over the eyes, casting a double fan of shadow across high cheekbones, the perfect, fierce face was framed by a scroll-work of hair which cascaded over the cushions. One long-fingered hand rested on his chest, one knee was half bent. Grace and power, for the moment, quiescent, the fire slumbering.

Breath indrawn, Nolofinwë let his eyes absorb the startling perfection, which when awake, housed such a force that even their own father could not withstand it. The column of the white throat was arched back in seductive offering.

What drives thee Fëanáro, that thou art so fierce and so fell, spurning the love and loyalty I would give thee. 

A long tress of his hair moved, slipped over his shoulder as he leaned forward. He pushed it back, not before it brushed Fëanáro's hand, but the sleeper did not stir.

I hoped the friendship betwixt both our eldest sons might bring us closer together. Wilt thou let none but thine own sons come close to thy heart? 

With a soundless exhalation he straightened, turned away — and a grip like a vise closed around his wrist. The rich-timbered voice said, "Close to my heart? That is a perilous place, half-brother."


Fëanáro had been awake and aware, Nolofinwë thought with a flush of chagrin. Those lucent eyes captured his effortlessly, too intelligent, far too knowing...

But they were talking, and it was so very rare, and alone, and that was yet more rare, and Nolofinwë would not waste this opportunity.
"Nevertheless," he said, heat in his cheeks.

"Thou art not without fire, Nolofinwë, nor bravery. It takes a courageous heart to follow where I tread. Wouldst thou do that?"

"I would."  Anywhere. To the ends of the Earth. 

"And cleave to me no matter where that path might lead us?" The steely fingers drew him closer, then loosed to run up his arm. They rested on his shoulder. "So strong, so very fair. I have seen thee wrestling, running...yes..perhaps thou doth have strength and courage enough."

"How can I prove it to thee?" Nolofinwë demanded, his heart in his throat at the thought of walking beside that fire.

"I am thine elder Nolofinwë, and thou must do all I ask of thee." But there was the hint of teasing in the words, a bend to the beautiful mouth. 

"Dost thou not know I would? Dost thou see only the works of thy hands and thy sons?"

The rill of lashes swept down. Fëanáro drew him nearer, long fingers slipping through his hair to the nape of his neck. "I always see beauty."

The magnetism impacted upon Nolofinwë brutally. He burned under the touch that lazily traced his jaw, outlined his parted mouth.

"And dost thou truly love thy brother, Nolofinwë?"

Nolofinwë managed a "Yes..." through lips suddenly, comprehensively covered by Fëanáro's. His gasp of shock was swallowed by the kiss. The world, his blood stopped, began to revolve wholly around this moment, as if nothing else existed, had ever existed, as if his life had been pointed to this since his birth. 

Fire exploded through him. His hands ran deep into into that glorious mane of hair. He dived like a swallow into sea of fire, and groaned at the wonderful sin of it.

He is my half-brother, fruit of my father's loins, and oh, blessed Eru!

"This is wrong." He wrenched his head back.

"Truly? Dost thou tremble with disgust, Nolofinwë?" Fëanáro's amused voice made his name a caress. "Thy conscience tells thee this is wrong, yet thy body tells me a different tale." A soft laugh.

Nolofinwë was indeed painfully aroused.

"They are right, who say thou hast no conscience, that nothing is beyond thee," he flashed.

"Do they also say that I never tell a falsehood, brother? That I have the courage to know what I desire?" Fëanáro tipped back his head, a smile on his lips. "Ah, brother, the Laws were not made by me, and by the One, they were not made for me." He lowered his eyes. "Long hast thou watched me. Deny it not. Long hast thou desired to be watched by me." He reached out a hand to the heat-flushed cheek. "And when I offer thee what thou hast craved all these years, thou wouldst turn from it? That is not courage, my beauty."

He is right. Long have I watched him. He burns, and there are so few who do...

"And thou doth burn also." Lacing their fingers together, Fëanáro jerked him to his feet. They stood breast to breast. The air between them was a living thing, and Nolofinwë crashed headlong back into that sinful kiss. And then...then he was falling headlong into the first passion he had ever known. 

"What dost thou desire? Tell me." They almost tore the clothes from one another and the frenzy of it was pure freedom. 

"Thee, Fëanáro, I want thee!" He plunged to his knees. Shameless and amazed by his lack of guilt, he enclosed Fëanáro's erect cock with his mouth, gripping the narrow hips. He heard his half-brother make a sound, like a growl, like a gasp, then he pulled himself away. Nolofinwë looked up, aching with disappointment. The eyes boring down into his were as diamonds set before a forge-fire, windows to the spirit that burned within him. He smiled, a blaze of ice-white teeth. Nolofinwë felt drunk.

"On thy knees, my beauty." But his voice was so warm. "I am going to take thee now, and bind thee to me forever."

Nolofinwë did not think of disobeying. He went down, felt a cascade of heavy hair pour over his back, and then he hissed as a long finger slid into his passage. It was slick with scented oil, but it did not occur to him then to wonder that Fëanáro was so prepared. It was a shocking invasion, but he  wanted this, had wanted it for so long. A cry broke from him, but more of need than pain.

And then Fëanáro himself pushed in, and Nolofinwë's hands dug hard into the rug. So thick, so heavy, so desperately wanted. Oh, Eru, he was inside Nolofinwë, and had it been a thousand times more agonising, he would have welcomed it. It was ownership to him, possession, and not Fëanáro's over him, whatever his half-brother might say or think, but his own over Fëanáro. 

Fëanáro withdrew and pushed again, and a completely unanticipated pleasure broke a mist of perspiration out over Nolofinwë's skin, curled like a predator into his groin. Oh Eru, he had never imagined, never dreamed...He swore in disbelief: "Yes!" and slammed back, taking the pain with the rapture as both grew and entwined like some savage wildflower. He threw back his head.

Fëanáro was not gentle. Nolofinwë did not want gentleness; he was soaring now, the pressure growing in him. He felt the structured sanity of his days and nights break, and now he was in a place he had never known existed, insane, begging for more, and rising, rising...

He found release again and again with a violence that reeled him almost out of consciousness.

A hand swept aside his damp hair, ran down his spine. Lips teased the nape of his neck as Nolofinwë's orgasm worked itself out in throbbing waves. He felt himself clench hard about Fëanáro, still buried deep within, heard his half-brother's gasps. Then there was a husky, shaken laugh as he withdrew. Warm breath stirred his hair. He felt the imprint of lips on his shoulder, a soft bite.

"Finally we understand one another — and know one another — at last. How could we ever have denied this, my beauty?"

Nolofinwë shook his head. He could not yet speak. He was reborn.

He heard the rustle of clothing as Fëanor donned his clothes, laughing that they were ruined.
"Soon," he said, and then the door opened and shut.

Nolofinwë turned on his back with a stifled groan, stared up at the ceiling above. He could have lain there for hours, processing the experience, but dared not risk it. He took a long breath, was very careful as he slipped into his own clothes. (And Fëanor was right, they were ruined). His mind and body burned like a star. When he reached his rooms and looked in the mirror his face seemed entirely different. His eyes were blazing.

He was shocked and unbelieving for days after that, expecting the Valar to mete out punishment. Incest was a sin, sex with one's own gender likewise, and Nolofinwë knew he should feel horror. He did feel some lagging shame, but overriding it was hunger. Having tasted the cup of sin, he wanted more. Its draught was as wine.

Their next encounter was as unexpected as the first. Nolofinwë had been with his lords for several hours, spent some time with his father and, leaving Finwë's chambers, had turned to go to his own wing of the palace. That familiar sense of fire on his skin caused him to look back sharply.

Where the hallway angled, Fëanáro leaned against the tapestry-hung wall. He smiled faintly. His eyes, in the shadow, cast a light all their own. He tilted his head infinitesimally in a gesture of beckoning.


Nolofinwë's flesh burned up; his heart beat swift and hard, echoing in his ears as he walked along the empty hallway, following the long stride of his half-brother as he entered his chambers.

The door closed behind them. Nolofinwë felt a hand on his back, guiding him through the outer rooms to the bedchamber. There was a tear of velvet as his tunic ripped under Fëanáro's hands. He hooked one foot behind Nolofinwë's, and tumbled him back on the great bed.

"Fëanáro!" Subsequent words died unspoken. Fëanáro's mouth melted them away, and heard himself gasping, into the kiss: "Too long!"

"Much too long," Fëanáro agreed. "Art thou ready for me?"


Although he knew what to expect, it shocked him anew as Fëanáro entered him in one long, hard thrust. But ah, so good! He raised his long legs, his fingers tangling in the masses of jet hair.


"Beautiful..." The voice was wine-red velvet over his skin. Their moans and words mingled more savagely. Nolofinwë had never known those words were within him, never suspected he could be so abandoned, so fierce. He felt as if he had not lived until Fëanáro took him. 

When they broke together, in curses and ecstasy, he felt as if he had swallowed the world. 

Fëanáro lay back smiling, raised himself on one arm. His eyes sparkled over Nolofinwë's face.
"We are not so unalike, are we?"

A flood of cool hair lapped Nolofinwë's hot loins. His hands clutching the sheets, his back arching as the beautiful mouth closed over him and Oh, Eru! roused him again. Wickedly, skillfully, Fëanaro brought him to another racking release, and then moved to bring him wine, smiling, triumphant. They drank and Fëanáro drew him back. The great mirror showed them intertwined, black hair, white skin, gemstone eyes.

"I need thee. Findekáno needs Maitimo." Nolofinwë flung one leg over Fëanáro's slim hips, resting his head on the hard shoulder. He felt the stroke of a hand down his hair and closed his eyes in surprise and pleasure. This closeness and tenderness was an unlooked-for boon.

"Is that not strange, both of us?"

"It is how it is meant to be," Fëanáro smiled. "And thou must know I have never been against their relationship. It is Nelyafinwë who keeps thy son at arms length. I must speak to him or..."


"Or it will drive him mad," Fëanáro ended. "As thou wert driving me mad."

Nolofinwë raised his brows. "Eru, thou hast driven me mad for years," he retorted. "But thine eldest holds back for thy sake. He knows thou hast no love for me." Dryly spoken that, and with amusement. His half- brother laughed.
"My sons should know me better than that. And if Nelyo feels the same hunger for Findekáno as I feel for thee, which he does, then he has my blessing."

"Tell him so. Findekáno loves Maitimo. It is more than lust." Nolofinwë lifted his head. As it was more than lust for him. 

"Ah, Nolofinwëya, there is a great deal of lust, also. I know my son; there will be desire like flame."

"And in Findekáno, also. Is he not mine eldest?"
The words were arrogant, and Fëanáro smiled with appreciation as Nolofinwë straddled him, slid onto him with a gasp. And then there was nothing but Fëanáro, so fell, so beautiful...nothing but fire and light and glory.

"This is so wrong," he murmured after, languorous and glowing.

"Truly?" He felt the slim fingers glide down his back, a kiss on the crown of his hair. Felt the smile. "Is that why it feels so magnificent, my beautiful brother?" ~