I COULD NEVER SEE TOMORROW

Maglor was fearful lest Lithír hear and be offended by Fëanor’s name. He was quick to reply, “I am Maglor and this is Tinumír, and we come from the shores of Balar.” He cast a quick glance at Fëanor to stop him from possibly repudiating what Maglor had said, for he knew that his father of old did not know of the mistrust and dislike the Green-elves had developed long ago for the Noldor. And he was afraid that if Lithír heard the name ‘Fëanor’, it might stir up old resentment that may have been rankling within him.

Maglor had once before been to Ossiriand, but it was to the far northern region after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. At that time the sons of Fëanor, defeated and dispossessed, had been accepted by the Green-elves, who took them into their lands and gave them sanctuary. Because Maglor was a minstrel they accepted him warmly. Their love of music was known throughout Beleriand, and as they traveled closer to the River Gelion, he hoped that they would again hear the voices of the Laiquendi raised in their legendary song.

“I hope that it is not too much for us to ask for shelter and food—and clothing—if you would be kind enough to help us”, said Maglor. “We will give you the boar we have slain as payment for your assistance and not claim any part of it for ourselves.”

Lithír looked them up and down, but his countenance was inscrutable and Maglor could not tell if he bore any suspicion toward them. It seemed not, for the Green-elf said, “Come with me. I can see that you are badly in need of clothing and a bath. My wife and I can feed and shelter you. And although we are not meat-eaters, parts of the boar would be of some use to us. Please come this way.”

With relief, Maglor and Fëanor followed Lithír to his home nearby. It was constructed so artfully among the trees that Maglor and Fëanor may never have noticed it, passing it by, if Lithír had not taken them there. It was constructed of fallen limbs and branches of various trees in their natural state, with the bark scraped off on the inside only, leaving the outside to appear as natural and blending into its forested surroundings.

Lithír bade the two Elves wait outside while he went in to get them some clothing. “While my wife has certainly seen a number of naked Eldrim in her time, because often the Green-elves like to run free and wild, I would not like to bring such strangers as yourselves into our home to sit about and converse with her in your state.” He said this matter-of-factly but then he laughed, wishing them not to be offended by his brusqueness.

Maglor looked at Fëanor and his posture relaxed. He turned back to Lithír. “Oh, no,” he replied. “We agree with you. We have come a long way. We are filthy and have lost our—er—clothing upon our journey. We would be much more comfortable clad in any kind of clothing that you could give us.”

“I will be glad to give some to you then,” said Lithír. “If you would like to wash first,” and he indicated the well to the left of the house, “I shall try to find something to fit you.” He peered at the two Noldor intently. “You are quite large—are you of Noldorin descent, if I may ask without seeming rude or prying?”

“Yes, we are Noldor” said Maglor firmly. “I hope that is not unacceptable to you.”

“No, not at all,” replied Lithír, his pale brows raised in surprise. “The days of enmity among the different factions of Elves are over, I would hope. Please excuse me. I shall return anon. Please avail yourselves of our water.” He smiled at them in a friendly manner and retreated into his house.

When he had gone inside, Maglor turned to Fëanor. “I am sorry that I felt I must lie to Lithír about your name, but I thought it wise not to let him know your true identity lest it upset him. He would surely have known of your death. I have named you the Sindarin words for “star jewel”, which seemed appropriate,” the minstrel said with a wry smile. “And please do not speak to me in our old tongue at all while we are here, out of politeness to our hosts.”

Fëanor smiled indulgently at Maglor’s authoritative tone. “Very well, MAGLOR,” he said, emphasizing the name, “but I do know the Sindarin language. It was taught to me by the Valar while I waited in the Halls. It was expected that I would need it on my mission.”

Maglor looked at him sharply, but detected no hint of sarcasm in his voice. Fëanor merely smiled at him sweetly, and it seemed genuine. “’Tinumír’ I shall therefore be while in these lands,” he said demurely.

The two Elves walked to the well, where they used a large bucket to retrieve water from the depths of the ground, and they took turns splashing it over each other. There was soap and brushes hanging from a rack next to the well, and these they used to scrub each other’s backs and apply suds to their own bodies. They washed and rinsed each other’s hair.

Presently Lithír reappeared carrying a pile of towels and Maglor and Fëanor took these, wrapping large towels around their torsos and drying their wet hair and skin with the others. Maglor was glad to cover up, for he could not help but notice that Fëanor had become unashamedly aroused while Maglor was washing his raven tresses, and the minstrel had begun to respond in kind.

“Please come in when you are ready,” said Lithír, and I shall introduce you to my wife. We will show you to a room where you may sleep. I trust you do not mind sharing one?” Lithír had originally assumed Maglor and Fëanor were related, because they resembled each other facially, but when he saw that they had become aroused while washing, he assumed them to be a couple. In any case, he and his wife had only one extra room in which to let them stay.

When the two Elves entered the house, they could see that it was very small inside, composed of tiny rooms, but it smelled warmly of hickory and oak, and it was clean and airy, having many windows In the middle of the main room was a long wooden table, hand-hewn, with benches for seating. A small female Elf was in the process of spreading a white cloth over it.

“This is my wife, Bienian,” said Lithír by way of introduction. “My dear, these travelers are Maglor and Tinumír, from the coast of Balar.”

Bienian was a petite, pretty Elf-woman with golden hair. “I am pleased to meet you,” she said. “Come with me and I will show you to your room where you will find some clothing laid out on the bed. Once you have dressed, would you care to join us for supper?”

Maglor bowed. “Thank you, my lady, we will,” he said, nodding. Fëanor also bowed and nodded, and thanked her. She beamed at them and turned toward a door on her right. They followed her to their room, which was only a few steps away.

It was very small. There was only enough space for a washstand and beside it a tall, narrow dresser with many drawers. Bienian had placed a ceramic vase filled with fresh-scented flowers of lilac on top of it by way of meager decoration. There were two wall sconces holding candles that could be lit to provide light at night. On the bed were two shirts and two pairs of leggings. While Lithír and his wife wore only green-colored clothing, the garments on the bed were curiously brown and white.

Fëanor removed his towel and sat down. He yawned and stretched. “I believe I am more tired than hungry,” he said. He moaned softly and threw himself back against the pillows.

Maglor averted his eyes from Fëanor’s unclothed beauty and passed a hand over his face. Fëanor was still aroused and Maglor had a fleeting thought that he would like nothing more but to take the beautiful resurrected Elf into his arms and make love to him. With difficulty he banished this thought from his mind and emitted a deep sigh. “While I do not deny that I, too, am tired,” he said, “I feel the opposite—I would like to eat first and then go to sleep afterward.”

Fëanor regarded Maglor closely. “Will you come and sit beside me for a moment?” he asked. He felt that he must try to help the minstrel to relax.

Maglor picked up one of the pair of brown leggings from the bed, studiously averting his eyes from Fëanor. “I think we should get dressed and go into the next room to join our kind hosts for dinner,” he said between tight lips as he shook out the leggings and assessed their size, holding them up in front of him.

“Come here, Maglor,” said Fëanor, holding out a hand toward the minstrel. “I want to brush your hair,” he said simply. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and retrieved the hairbrush.

Maglor signed with relief and smiled. He did not know what to expect from this new Fëanor. It was becoming more and more apparent to him through the course of their journey that this reincarnated Elf was truly not much like his father, although he did retain some of Fëanor’s old memory. And he looked disturbingly similar to his father, but was younger and more innocent. However, this innocence seemed to lead him to commit wanton behavior, such as that which occurred at the stream where they camped a fortnight before. Maglor did not wish for that behavior to be repeated. He was ashamed of himself for feeling those emotions toward Fëanor, and for the reaction they had caused in him.

However, he acquiesced and sat down on the bed next to Fëanor. The dark-haired Elf had not yet dressed and was still fully naked. His skin was dry. It was clean and glowing, with a fresh scent of violets, a residue of Bienian’s soap, clinging to it. “Very well,” Maglor sighed quietly in defeat, “you may brush my hair.”

Fëanor knelt behind him, his buttocks resting back upon his heels, as he applied long, sensuous strokes of the brush to Maglor’s golden-brown tresses. He brushed slowly, languorously, and after a few moments, exclaimed, “Your hair is beginning to regain some of its luster. It has such beautiful golden strands within the brown. They should be allowed to shine so that everyone can see them.”

“Ahh… do you remember my hair, Ada?” Maglor asked in a soft voice. He felt as if he had fallen into a dream.

Fëanor set down the hairbrush. “Oh no, Maglor,” he whispered. “I am not your Ada,” and one hand slid from Maglor’s shoulder down his arm, brushing against his chest with tender fingers all down the side of his torso, the touch causing every one of the brown-haired Elf’s nerve endings to tingle. Fëanor leaned against the minstrel’s back, bending his head forward, and his lips brushed the sensitive tip and ridge of Maglor’s ear.

The brown-haired Elf emitted a small whimper and his hand flew to his lap, but his thighs parted reflexively. He could feel Fëanor’s hardness pressing against his back and the silken weight of his black hair falling over his shoulder. He sighed and relaxed his body, letting his back lean against Fëanor’s chest. He removed his hand from between his legs, revealing his need to this beautiful being who held him a willing prisoner in his strong yet tender arms.

The two Elves began to reach a state of blissful arousal, but just then a knock upon their door interrupted them as they were locked in an embrace. “Supper is ready!” Bienian called to them in a merry voice.

Maglor and Fëanor, their faces flushed with desire and frustration, flew apart and scrambled for their clothing. They hurriedly dressed and went out to join their hosts. Relief and disappointment both raged strongly in Maglor’s heart. He stopped to wipe his eyes before opening the door to go and join Lithír and Bienian. Fëanor gave him a regretful smile, but he caught Maglor’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze in the doorway. Maglor turned abruptly to glance at Fëanor, his grey eyes wide with despair, and Fëanor bent down to place a light kiss to the side of the minstrel’s face. The sensation of the soft lips stayed with Maglor throughout the meal, and his hand flew to touch the same spot several times.

Bienian and Lithír had set the table with many colorful, delicious-looking foods and two bottles of wine. Atop the linen tablecloth sat a large bowl of fruit in the centre. It was full of apples, pears, plums and peaches, and topped with bunches of red grapes. On one side of the table was a large tureen which held a rich soup made from butternut squash. There was also a dish of green beans, broccoli and peas, sprinkled with almonds and drizzled with butter. A large bowl of potatoes creamed with butter and garlic and liberally sprinkled with salt, pepper and parsley graced the other end, along with a large plate of bread and a dish of butter. The Green-elves did not eat meat of any kind, but while the food was fresh and simple, Maglor and Fëanor found that it filled them in a short time, since they were used to a diet of berries and nuts and a little fish when they could find it during their travels through the forest.

“You are probably wondering what I have done with the boar,” said Lithír. “Since we do not eat meat, we thought we could use the tusks for tools and some of the hair to make brushes. Then we shall butcher the animal in order to render it for making soaps, candles, and different types of oil and salves. Do you wish us to dry some meat for you to take when you resume your journey?”

“Yes, please. If you could do that, we would be very grateful,” said Maglor, devouring his potatoes and bread. Fëanor smiled enigmatically and continued to eat his soup with delicate grace.

When Maglor had eaten enough to make him feel comfortably sated, he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and asked Lithír, “You mentioned that we were the third and fourth strange Elves that you had seen in a fortnight. Can you tell us who the two others were?”

Lithír looked at him quizzically. “The old one said that you would come along in a fortnight, and that you would ask for him. I had assumed that you were his friends. But from what you say it would seem that you do not know him. How can this be?” While Lithír did not seem to fear them, he sounded concerned and frowned at his two guests.

Maglor shot Fëanor a look of alarm. Fëanor cast him a reassuring glance. “We are on a mission,” he said. “We were told that we would meet two other people who would join us, but we have not yet met them. And as far as we were aware, they were behind us. I wonder how it is that they have now arrived here ahead of us? And by a fortnight? That is strange.”

“The old one said you were making very slow progress through the forest and that you would be following them,” Lithír repeated.

Maglor and Fëanor exchanged worried glances, but said no more on that subject. “You refer to one of them as an ‘old’ one. What was his name? And do you know the other’s?” asked Fëanor.

“They did not tell us their names. The old one had a long grey beard and wore a large, pointed hat. He carried a staff like an old gnarled branch. The other Elf was tall, like you,” Lithír nodded toward Fëanor, “but his hair was very thick and of a rich gold, more yellow even than Bienian’s, and he was young, and very fair of countenance.”

Fëanor shrugged. “I do not know these people,” he murmured, looking reassuringly at Maglor, “yet it would seem they know of us. Did they tell you where they were going?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Lithír. “They said that if I met you I was to tell you to go to a place called Eregion. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” replied Maglor. “I know it. It is very far from here.”

“Yes, it is far to the east,” said Lithír. “But you may catch up with the two others before you reach there. I can mark you a route on parchment that you can follow. It will show you the fastest way to get there.”

“How long will it be before we come out of the forest if we keep walking directly east?” asked Maglor.

“Not long,” said Lithír, looking puzzled. “But you need not walk. Your predecessors left you horses.”

Maglor and Fëanor exchanged alarmed glances. “Horses?” asked Maglor. His dark eyebrows rose in surprise. “We thought these Elves arrived on foot, as we have.”

Lithír shrugged. “No,” he said. “They rode in on horses, and they have left them here for you. If you travel due east you should come out of the forest in only a few days on horseback. You would then cross the River Gelion where it intersects with the Adurant.”

Fëanor shifted in his chair. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “we are both very tired, and would like to sleep here for the night, but on the morrow we will ride out as soon as we wake. I am afraid that we will not have time to wait until the boar can be butchered and its meat can be dried. But it was kind of you to offer us that.” He looked apologetically at Bienian. “But thank you for your hospitality and for clothing us.”

“You are very welcome,” Bienian said to Fëanor, blushing a little at the intensity of his blue-grey gaze. “You are aptly named, Tinumír,” she said. “Your mother must have looked into your eyes and there saw the sparkle of both star and jewel.”

A shadow flitted across Fëanor’s face. “Yes,” he whispered, “I suppose she did.”

After a few more minutes of pleasant conversation, hosts and guests finished the wine, and Lithír produced Maglor’s harp. “You had left this outside by the well,” he said. “Does one of you play?”

Maglor nodded and took the instrument. “Would you like me to sing for you?” he asked.

The Elves spent an hour or two listening to Maglor’s beautiful voice accompanied by his lilting harp music, joining in once he had taught them a few simple songs. They enjoyed themselves immensely, and after a while, he and Fëanor thanked their hosts, excused themselves and retired to their bedroom.

Once inside the tiny space, Maglor turned to Fëanor, his cheeks slightly flushed from the wine and sleepiness, and he said, “It seems we shall have to share this bed, you and I.”

Fëanor nodded. “It will be the first bed I have slept in since my reincarnation.”

Maglor turned to him. “Yes. It still amazes me that you are here,” he said wearily, looking about the room. “I suppose we’d better sleep in our clothes.”

“Oh no, I could never sleep in clothes again,” said Fëanor, pulling off his shirt. “And these clothes would be far too uncomfortable because they are too tight. I am afraid I am much bigger than Lithír.” He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his leggings, then hung both shirt and pants neatly on a rack beside the washstand. He picked up the hairbrush, brushed his hair to a glossy sheen, and then stooped to wash his face in the basin of water that Bienian had provided. Maglor lit one of the two candles in their sconces to provide them with a little light. Once he had finished tidying himself, Fëanor turned down the bedcovers and crawled in. The bed was really only large enough for one of them, and Fëanor took up more than half of it.

“You are welcome to sleep in the bed alone,” said Maglor. “I shall sleep in my clothes on the floor.”

Fëanor looked surprised. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor!” he said. “There is room for both of us in the bed.”

“No,” said Maglor firmly. “I will sleep on the floor.” He settled himself, taking a pillow from the bed and the top blanket, folding it and placing it upon the floor, then he placed the pillow on top of it and lay down.

“Good night, then,” said Fëanor, spreading himself across the bed, on top of the sheets.

“Good night, Fëanor,” said Maglor.

“You know, you could call me Tinumír from now on if you like,” said Fëanor. “After all, you gave it to me. I was rather interested that Bienian explained how I may have come to acquire a name like that. Since you named me, it does not give the impression that you consider me to be your father still.”

“I don’t know why I chose that,” said Maglor grumpily. “I will think about using it.” He shifted restlessly.

After a pause of a few minutes, Fëanor said, “Maglor, you really need not sleep on the floor. I will feel guilty all night if you do. Come up here with me.”

“No. I am quite all right,” Maglor refused, moving onto his other hip. After several weeks of sleeping on soft leaves and bracken on the forest floor, the wooden planks of Lithír’s house felt very hard indeed, even covered as they were, with a folded blanket. To change the subject, he asked Fëanor, “Will you not tell me the purpose of your mission before we go to sleep?”

Fëanor turned so that he could look down upon Maglor. The minstrel’s hair and face had taken on a golden glow in the candlelight and Fëanor was struck by his handsome features. His memories of his son were of someone much younger, without the sad eyes that Maglor now possessed, nor the lines of sorrow and experience in his face.

“Very well,” he said. “I am to travel into an area of Middle-earth called Eregion to seek out a certain silversmith. I am to prevent him in some way from making certain artifacts and, if necessary, remove him from the land.” Fëanor spoke quickly.

“I don’t understand,” said Maglor, shocked. “What do you mean by that?”

“I think the Valar may have intended for me to kill him,” said Fëanor, his voice a whisper. “But I do not know if I want to do that. I did not stay for their full explanation and I escaped and came to find you.”