I COULD NEVER SEE TOMORROW

Maglor awoke with a jolt out of a terrifying dream. Flames were trying to consume him. He looked down from a high place, suspended from a dark pinnacle of jagged rock, from which he could do nothing but stare at the stricken faces of the doomed Elves below him, reaching up for him out of the conflagration. Their ghastly voices echoed in his ears as he awoke, panicked, his heart a loud, pulsating thrumming in his chest. He was sweating. His shirt was stuck to his body and he ripped it off, sick of the smell and the feel of it. He cast it aside and glanced about the campsite but did not see Fëanor. Without further hesitation, the minstrel stalked through the trees to the stream and waded into the cool water.

The water refreshed and relaxed him, and he swam a fair distance downstream, flexing his newly-strengthened muscles. He let the rippling water stream through his hair, cleansing it with fresh bubbles and foamy spray.

Maglor did not see Fëanor in the vicinity of the stream, though he looked about at every opportunity. He was confident that the reincarnated Elf had not left him alone and had vanished into the wilds, either on his own or by the force of others who may have come upon them in the night. The vestiges of his nightmare still troubled him and he tried to shake them off as if they were droplets of water clinging to his skin. He wondered if they were still being followed, and where Fëanor might be.

But when Maglor finished bathing and returned to their campsite, he was much relieved to see Fëanor. The reincarnated Elf was leaning against a tree, half-lying, half-sitting, propped against the trunk, his head lolling backward, his hair pulled to one side and trailing over his shoulder and arm, hiding his face from Maglor’s view. One knee was bent, his foot planted on the ground, and the other leg was stretched out in front of him.

Maglor, alarmed, started to approach him thinking that he was hurt in some way, but he stopped when he saw what it was that Fëanor was doing. The resurrected Elf was examining himself, palpating the skin of his new body, his hands sensually exploring the expanse of his chest, belly and legs, one hand giving sole attention to the arousal that poked insistently forward from between his thighs. Maglor watched, agape, as Fëanor fondled himself, carefully stroking his sac and breathing heavily from his mouth as his hand transferred back and forth from the soft pouch to the hard thrust of his erection. Maglor gasped as he watched the sinuous Elf, his attention riveted on Fëanor’s actions. He stared as the dark-haired Elf’s fingers examined the head of his shaft, palpating its ridges and moaning every time he stroked the tip with his sensitive fingers.

Backing around the bole of the tree he leaned against in an attempt to hide himself so that Fëanor would not discover his presence, Maglor’s hands flew to his own growing erection, grasping it desperately, his mind inflamed by yearning lust. He wanted to howl his pleasure, but dared not utter a sound lest Fëanor hear him. His fingers clutched the bark of the tree. He willed himself not to turn around and watch the passionate Elf relieve himself, but he could not help it and he quietly emerged from his hiding place and stood and gave in to his voyeuristic curiosity.

Fëanor’s surprise upon first examining his new flesh and form quickly gave way to rampant desire. He squirmed and moaned under his own hand, stroking his shaft until he trembled, onrushing waves of ecstasy claiming his body. He writhed and thrashed in complete abandon. His hips rose off the ground, his fisted hand rising and falling on his sleek, rigid length.

Maglor stood in the open, continuing to stare. He was on Fëanor’s right-hand side and watched the reincarnated Elf take care of himself with talented hands, one set of fingers roaming over his chest, pulling at his nipples, the other manipulating his engorged shaft. Panting feverishly, Maglor stroked himself to completion, one arm outstretched and pressed against the tree’s trunk. He was flushed with longing, and spilled his lonely seed onto the forest floor, muffling his groans.

Fëanor gave a loud moan when he climaxed, shuddering, his creamy jets of virgin emission raining down upon his exquisite, newly-formed body.

Maglor stood and stared at Fëanor for a moment, examining him closely. ‘He is my father,’ he thought, gasping for breath, his emotions in turmoil, horrified yet with anxious longing. He turned and retreated to the stream, plunging into its cooling depths once again, trying to wash away the traces of his lust for his father.

When he had finished bathing for the second time, Maglor lay upon the bank to dry himself and collect his thoughts. He was disturbed by Fëanor coming to sit beside him. “Ah, here you are,” said the reincarnated Elf. He sat close, his arm brushing Maglor’s arm, the electric shock from the contact causing Maglor to jump. He looked at Fëanor in horror, but the resurrected Elf smiled back at him in all innocence, his face flushed from his recent exercise in relieving himself of his pent-up lust. His eyes were wide open and projected an innocent glow. He smiled sweetly at Maglor, then walked into the water, his smooth, muscular body aglow with vitality.

Maglor sat studying Fëanor as he swam. ‘He is not my father. I do not know him. It is as if I have gone backward to a time when he was young—and we are friends, not son and father. But we are not friends. We share much in common but I have grown old. We are more like old familiars, yet I am not comfortable in his company.’

Maglor’s thoughts broke apart in his tormented mind, becoming splintered, fragmented, floating about in his aching head. He grasped at them, trying to pull them together once more. ‘Why, Macalaurë?’ he asked himself. ‘I am discomfited being near him—because he is naked—he is beautiful—and I am drawn to him and I am weakened—I wonder what it would feel like to hold him?—stop, Macalaurë! Your fëa has become depraved—you have committed murder and the most heinous crimes—you do not deserve happiness—I wonder what he tastes like?—No! I must not give in to evil speculation—‘

He got up quickly and fled back to the campsite, where he busied himself building the fire, so that he could huddle beside it and warm his cold, naked flesh. He ate some of the nuts and berries that were left from the night before and drank some of the water they had carried up from the stream, and presently he felt better. He picked up his harp and began to strum it, his fingers gliding lightly over the strings. He was humming a quiet tune when Fëanor reappeared.

“I love to hear you sing, Macalaurë,” the dark-haired Elf said with fondness, and made himself breakfast out of the remnants of the previous evening’s meal: nuts, berries and some leftover fish. He sat and watched Maglor play, and when the minstrel stopped singing he said to him, “I see you have stopped wearing your shirt and have decided to join me in my nakedness.” His face was a clear visage of innocence.

Maglor looked startled for a moment and then he began to laugh. He put down his harp and stood. “I’d better find it,” he chuckled, “or I shall be very uncomfortable on today’s journey wearing my sword and dagger over only my bare skin.”

Fëanor joined him in laughter, the joyful sound reverberating through the trees. “I suppose we should be on our way,” he said, “and perhaps try to find some civilization. It is well enough to behave as we have been, pretending to be wood nymphs and forgetting about life and work as we get caught up in this wild kind of existence, but we cannot continue to do so when there are more serious matters to consider.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Maglor, astounded by the combination of Fëanor’s innocence and worldly awareness. “Ah. I see my shirt.” He bent to retrieve the torn scrap of fabric from the forest floor, and shook it out, bits of leaves and twigs tumbling from it and a small spider dangling from a strand of silk, startled out of its newfound home by a brisk brushing of Maglor’s hand to the crumpled linen fabric. “I am afraid it is naught but a rag now,” he said, and shrugged it on. “Do you know how old this garment is? It may have been made when you were alive—oh, I am sorry, that was stupid,” he said, blushing. He shrugged it on. It was ripped at one shoulder, with a few tears along the side seams, and was streaked with dirt. He strapped on his belt and handed the harp to Fëanor. “Right”, he said, feeling more like a warrior again. “Let us be on our way.”

Fëanor regarded him curiously, contemplating Maglor’s complicated persona. “You are never stupid, Maclaurë,” he said. They smiled at each other, Fëanor with understanding and Maglor with relief. Then they doused the fire and set off once more in an easterly direction.

For the best part of a mile, the way was clear, the trees were well-spaced and the ground was fairly even. But after a while, this gave way to a more densely-treed area, the path leading downward into a deep valley whose floor was damp and humusy, and soon became thick with plant growth. A heavy scent of sweet flowers assailed their nostrils as they walked through the underbrush. The chirping of birds could be heard above more abundantly here than back where they had made camp. Fëanor turned to Maglor. “This is a nice change,” he said with a smile. “The forest was becoming monotonous.”

“Well, it is a vast forest,” replied Maglor. “With a lot of sameness to it.”

Suddenly they heard an onrushing sound of branches breaking and twigs snapping, as something careened toward them through the thick underbrush. Fëanor dropped the harp and grabbed the dagger that Maglor handed him, eyes focused on the spot from which the sound emitted. Maglor moved ahead of Fëanor, toward the approaching noise, but also making a wide arc to the right-hand side of it.

They did not have to wait more than a few seconds when a boar came crashing through the undergrowth and charged toward Fëanor. Maglor moved quickly so that he would be able to strike from the animal’s side, being armed with a sword that would be useless to use on the boar from the front. He thought he would have only one chance to plunge the sword into the side of the animal’s belly as it charged past him, and try to kill it before it attacked Fëanor.

But Fëanor stood his ground, and fixing the animal with a calm, focused gaze, he threw the dagger with deadly precision, catching the boar between the eyes, and felled it in mid-lunge. It died instantly, its eyes remaining open, its legs twitching in its death throes. It was a large boar, with large, vicious-looking tusks and stiff black fur.

Maglor looked at Féanor in stunned admiration, and the reincarnated Elf appeared to be as surprised as the minstrel at his prowess with the dagger.

“You brought down that beast with superior skill, said Maglor, praise in his voice. “And you have provided us with our supper, I think,” he said. Fëanor and Maglor looked at each other and laughed, but were interrupted in their hilarity.

“I must dispute your claim,” said a voice from the thick undergrowth, and a strange Elf stepped into view. He was clad in green, and blended in with his surroundings so well that he would not have been noticeable at twenty paces in the thick forest. He was a small Elf, slight of stature, armed with a short bow. His flaxen hair was worn pulled back in one thick braid. “I am Lithír”, he said. “Who might you be?”

Lithír stood staring at the two remarkably strange Elves standing before him. He was not a little afraid. One of them was naked and was possibly the most beautiful being Lithír had ever seen. The other, who resembled the first was thin, not as tall, dressed in a ragged remnant of a shirt, and brandished a fearsome-looking sword.

“You are the third and fourth strange Elves I have seen in the past fortnight,” he said to them, and asked again: “Who are you?”