I COULD NEVER SEE TOMORROW

Maglor sat up abruptly, his sleepiness dropping away from his consciousness like bits of dust from his clothing. “What did you say?” he asked. Alarm caused his eyes to widen and grooves to appear in his forehead.

“I hesitated to tell you the entire story at once,” said Fëanor, turning over to look Maglor in the eyes, “for fear that you would refuse to accompany me, or think that I might be insane and thus delusional.”

Maglor stared hard at Fëanor. “You do not know of whom you speak,” he murmured. “There is much I need discuss with you. But there is much history to relate and I had wished to impart this information over time.”

Fëanor shifted himself until he was in a sitting position. Folding the top sheet that covered him over his lap, and pushing back long strands of silken hair from his face, he regarded Maglor with a look of intense interest sparkling from his grey eyes. “Tell me of whom you speak. I would be most interested to hear your tales of our people, Maglor. I have been taught a scant history, but the experience I have not lived. The sense of this I could glean from you.”

“I will tell you over time about us, Fëanor. But you are saying that you think the Valar intended to send you into Eregion to remove a certain silversmith or to prevent him from making certain artifacts. Who is this smith? Were you given his name?”

“No,” said Fëanor. “I left the Halls before I was told that information.”

“Because you left when you did, there is much that we do not know,” said Maglor. “I am exasperated by the lack of details you are able to provide. I do not even know if I can trust—“he broke off abruptly, looking pained with himself for speaking too honestly without forethought.

“You do not know if you can trust me?” asked Fëanor. “You could not trust your own father?”

“First you are my father, and then you say you are not,” said Maglor, running a hand in an agitated manner through his brown locks. “You said you were not my Ada earlier today when we—when we—came close and almost—“

Fëanor leaned forward, folding his arms around his bent knees. “This new body of mine is not the same one as that which made you, Maglor,” he said, “but my mind still retains its memories of old. You are my last remaining child—you are everything to me—I love you with that part of my mind that still loves you as a son. Yet I am conflicted, because there is another part of me that loves you differently. I speak to you honestly.”

Maglor stared hard at him. “There are many conflicts present between us,” he said. “Not the least of which is the situation regarding your mission, in which you have involved me. First, I do not believe that the Valar would resurrect you and intend for you to kill someone. Do the Valar not abhor the killing of Elf by Elf? You met your original cruel fate because of it. If they wished you to put to death this silversmith of whom you speak, then they may be asking you to murder your own grandson. I do not believe this is what they meant for you to do.”

“My grandson? How is this possible?” Fëanor cried, his expression one of anguish.

Maglor sighed. “Kurufinwë’s son, Tyelperinquar—or ‘Celebrimbor’ in Sindarin. He fell out with Kurvo and stayed in Nargothrond after his father departed, eventually going from there himself and traveling east. The last Nelyafinwë and I heard of Celebrimbor, he had settled in Eregion with other smiths and has become friendly with the Naugrim of that area.”

Fëanor was astounded. “I agree with you, Maglor. The Valar cannot have meant to send me to do harm to my own grandson. It does not make sense. As you say, the Valar would never condone, let alone demand, such a kinslaying. However, killing is not unknown to them, nor do they abhor it completely. They recognize that it is sometimes necessary. They have come to condone war under certain conditions, where once they abhorred it.”

Maglor regarded him carefully. “I wish that you had stayed in the Halls longer, to find out more details of your mission—but now I am ever more eager to go with you to Eregion. Once there we may join with the Elves of Celebrimbor’s realm and try to discover the meaning behind this mission. Another thing that puzzles me is that the two Elves who followed us and presented us with horses have not tried to contact us directly. I wonder why not. It is as if they are waiting for us to do something. Or perhaps they are giving us time to reach certain conclusions on our own. Perhaps we should try to find them.”

“I do not want to find them,” said Fëanor. “They are not two Elves—one of them is Eldar, the other is Maiar—I told you that before.”

“But you said you did not know who they were,” said Maglor.

“I do not know exactly who they are,” said the dark-haired Elf, “but the Maia’s presence disturbs me. He may have been sent to capture me and take me back to Aman—to the Halls. I do not wish to go back.”

Maglor looked at him with compassion. “I am sure that you will not be sent back,” he said. “Why would you be sent back when you have a mission to fulfill? That does not make sense to me. And if the Maia was to capture you, he would have done so by now. They are toying with us. First they were well behind us, then they managed to get ahead of us without our knowledge and have even left horses for us to ride to quicken our journey. They are showing us that they are capable of doing anything that they want.”
He yawned and shivered. “Ahh. A chill has just run through me,” he cried. “I fear I need sleep, yet my mind is in turmoil and will not allow it.”

“Maglor, please climb up on the bed with me,” said Fëanor. “You will be more comfortable and you will sleep more soundly. I promise I will not touch you. You seem to be fearful of me, so I promise that I will not do anything to you that you do not wish me to do. That should enable you to start building trust in me. If it is truly what you desire, then I will just be your Ada, and nothing more.”

The look on his face and the expression in his voice were so sincere that Maglor’s resolve disappeared like a dream upon awakening, and he stood up and crawled into bed beside Fëanor.

“That is much better,” said the raven-haired Elf, giving him a brilliant smile. “Try to get some sleep.”

“I do not think I will be able to sleep,” whispered Maglor. “My thoughts are wandering and troublesome and shall keep me awake.” He yawned and tried to relax his body, stretching out his legs and pulling at his too-tight leggings.

“Those clothes are uncomfortable for you,” said Fëanor. “Why don’t you take them off? You will sleep better.”

“No,” said Maglor, shaking his head.

“Maglor,” said Fëanor. “We have just come naked together through the forest. I will not see anything of yours that I have not seen many times over the past several weeks.”

“Every time we become naked and are in close proximity, something happens—an—an—attraction,” said Maglor, blushing in the semi-darkness of the waning candlelight. “I do not wish to further complicate our present relationship by committing some act that I shall later regret.”

“I promised you that I will not touch you, but you may stay clothed if those are your feelings,” said Fëanor. “I am too preoccupied by my thoughts and worries at the present time. And I, too, am tired. My body is weary and needs to sleep. I am now thinking that what you have suggested would perhaps be the best thing that we could do—to try to catch up with the Elf and Maia who ‘follow’ us, for the purpose of gaining more information from them. I do not know where they might be, but on the morrow we should ask Lithír if he knows where they may have gone. If he gave them directions similar to the ones he will give us, then perhaps we shall be able to find them by following that particular route. We will have horses, and presumably they will be traveling on foot, from what Lithír told us. I suppose it should be easy then—“ Fëanor broke off as he felt a weight fall against his shoulder. Maglor had given in to his body’s need for sleep and had dropped off into slumber, his head coming to rest on Fëanor’s shoulder.

Fëanor looked down at Maglor’s face in its peaceful repose, and smiled benevolently. He reached over and stroked the brown hair away from the minstrel’s forehead. “Sleep well, my love,” he said. He sighed and closed his eyes.

Eventually Fëanor, too, fell asleep and when he awoke with a start in the morning, the sun was just starting to rise, sending a bright shaft of light through the open window to fall upon his face. He grimaced and turned away from the light toward Maglor, whose head slid from where it was resting on Fëanor’s chest. It lay back against Fëanor’s right arm, and with his hair spread out behind him, falling away from his face to reveal dark lashes fanned against alabaster cheeks. Maglor’s lips parted and he murmured something unintelligible.

Fëanor could not resist and bent his head to place his lips against Maglor’s, pressing a tender kiss upon them. He savored the sensation of the minstrel’s cool skin, and the softness of his lips, like petals.

With a start, Maglor awoke. “What are you doing?” he asked when he found Fëanor’s face so close to his own.

“I am merely welcoming you to the new day with a kiss,” said Fëanor, smiling sweetly. Brushing a finger across Maglor’s cheek, he then let it trace the curve of his upper lip.

“You kissed me,” said Maglor, holding his fingers to his lips where his father’s had been.

“I did,” said Fëanor. “I wanted to. Did you not like it?”

“No, I did not,” said Maglor, wiping his mouth. But his eyes betrayed his true feelings, looking longingly at the beautiful Elf lying beside him.

Fëanor, looking the other way and shading his eyes against the sunlight, did not notice the change in Maglor’s expression, and he sighed sadly. “Very well. Let us rise and be going while the day is new. We must seek Lithír and find out if he has prepared our route for us.” He threw back his sheet, jumped out of bed, and began pulling on his clothes without another glance at Maglor.

Maglor watched Fëanor dress, regarding with awe the splendid form of the resurrected Elf struggling into his borrowed clothes. Conflicted feelings coursed within the minstrel. Fëanor seemed attracted to him in such a way as if he wished to complete a bond. Maglor felt a great attraction to him as well but wondered about Fëanor’s motivation. Was it to keep Maglor on his side so that he would not waver from his loyalty and thus Maglor would be sure to go along with his plans? Maglor knew that Fëanor was clever, despite the naiveté that he currently displayed in his new form. His new, exquisitely beautiful and desirable form. The fact that Fëanor had once been his father but was ‘different’ now attracted him greatly, more so than it repelled him. In fact, he was not at all repulsed. It excited him. His loins ached at the thought of making love to Fëanor. But in the next moment he felt depraved and was disturbed by his desire. He would rather Fëanor be convinced that he was repulsed by the thought of making love to his father. He preferred for now to let the raven-haired Elf think that was how he felt. But while he watched Fëanor get dressed, he lusted after him, noting with lascivious interest the intriguing slope of Fëanor’s backside and the curve of his long thigh as he thrust it into the tight pants leg he held before him.

Maglor rose out of bed with a groan and bent over the washbasin to rinse his face with water, relishing the cold sting of it against his skin. After brushing his teeth and hair he felt somewhat refreshed and turned to Fëanor. “We can be on our way quickly if you are ready,” he said.

“As soon as I wash, I shall join you,” said Fëanor with an innocent smile.

Just then there was a knock on their door. “Breakfast is ready if you desire to eat before you go,” came the gentle tones of Bienian’s voice through the thickness of the oak.

Maglor opened the door and went through into the main room. Bienian had set the table with their usual breakfast foods—fruit, a bowl of cold potatoes, plenty of bread and butter, and fruit preserves. There was also water to drink, and a small glass of fruit juice for each of them. Bienian smiled warmly at Maglor. “Please be seated and have something to eat before you go,” she said. “Lithír is outside readying the horses for you.”

“Thank you,” said Maglor, “but it is not necessary to saddle them—we will ride bareback.”

“Oh,” said Bienian. “I believe they came with saddles and saddlebags. Those will be handy for carrying items like your harp and extra clothing, waterskins and these,” she said, and handed him two good-sized parcels.

“What are these?” asked Maglor with surprise.

“We butchered your boar last night,” said Bienian, “and Lithír cut you some nice bits of meat for your journey today.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Maglor, greatly surprised that these two Green-elves would have stayed up late to do such a thing for them. “You have been very kind to us.”

“It is nothing,” said Bienian. “As you travel through Ossiriand you will become used to the hospitality of the Green-elves.” She gave the minstrel a sweet smile and then turned to her food, buttering a slice of bread and taking a large bite of it.

Fëanor emerged from the bedroom and greeted Bienian, then sat across from Maglor and tucked into the potatoes. “I am hungry this morning,” he remarked.

Presently Lithír came in and joined the others for breakfast. “I hope you slept well,” he said, and gave Fëanor a piece of parchment marked with lines and names written in the Fëanorian letters. Fëanor smiled to see this but said nothing. He cast his glance over the crude map, then handed it to Maglor.

“Will it be easy to follow this?” he asked.

Maglor looked it over and nodded. “It looks very straightforward,” he said. “Lithír, we cannot thank you enough for helping us. The two of us discussed last night the matter of finding our benefactors—those you met who left us the horses. Can you tell us where they have gone?”

“They should be taking the same route that I have mapped out for you,” said Lithír. “You should likely overtake them by the time you reach Tol Galen, if not before.”

After they had eaten and thanked their hosts profusely once again, Fëanor and Maglor made their farewells, and headed off in an easterly direction to continue their journey astride the two white stallions that had been given them. Since they had eaten their fill at breakfast, the two travelers did not stop again until nightfall. The strong and magnificent stallions did not tire, and so they kept going until it began to get dark. Then they dismounted in a clearing and Maglor began to build a fire so that he could cook the meat that Bienian had provided for their supper. Lithír had also backed blankets into the saddlebags with Maglor’s harp. After they had eaten, he took these out and spread the blankets side by side upon the ground close together, then took his harp and sat down. He began to strum and sing, his melodic voice permeating the small clearing with its resonant tones.

Fëanor smiled to hear Maglor’s singing. He was pleased by the minstrel’s actions in placing the blankets side-by-side when he could have easily spread them farther apart. The dark-haired Elf came to sit beside Maglor and listen to the minstrel’s beautiful voice.

“I shall never tire of hearing your voice raised in song,” Fëanor sighed, when Maglor finished and put the harp down.

“Would you not?” asked the minstrel, smiling at Fëanor and laying back on his blanket.

Fëanor reached over to stroke Maglor’s arm. “Never,” he said. “I do love you, you know.”

Maglor sighed. “I love you, too,” he said, and turned to look toward the dark-haired beauty, his face a shadow in the disappearing light.

“Good night,” said Fëanor softly, and lay down beside him.

They both lay still for many minutes without sleeping, and then moving very gracefully as if it were the most natural overture, Fëanor leaned against Maglor and sought the minstrel’s hair with his hand in the darkness. His fingers entwined themselves in the strands of Maglor’s tresses and he pulled his head down closer to his own. His lips fell first upon Maglor’s chin, leaving a kiss there, and then reached up a little further in search of his mouth. This kiss was more urgent than the one he gave his son that morning, and Maglor responded by placing both of his hands beneath Fëanor’s chin and cupping his face. By holding his elbows tight against his chest, he managed to keep their two bodies apart a few inches, but Fëanor’s hand quickly slid to Maglor’s lower back and pulled him closer, so that their hips met.

Maglor moved his hands from Fëanor’s chin down the expanse of his throat to his chest, and began to undo the clasps on his shirt. His breathing grew heavy and his hands slid over the satiny skin of Fëanor’s breast. The minstrel was first to break the kiss and he groaned, and dropped his head to Fëanor’s shoulder, leaving a series of kisses there on the smooth skin. His hands moved lower, frantically groping in the dark for the ties of the raven-haired Elf’s leggings.

Fëanor emitted a series of small whimpers, his lips seeking Maglor’s again, brushing against his cheeks and chin as they did so. He sighed and moaned. “Maglor—your feelings for me have changed from this morning.” He gasped as Maglor’s searching fingers successfully opened his leggings and began to slide them down his hips and thighs. The minstrel’s feverish, groping hand found what he was seeking, and Fëanor’s warm shaft throbbed under his touch.

Maglor’s own loins ached with desire and he moaned and sighed, giving in to his most wanton emotions. “I don’t mind what we do in the dark,” said the minstrel. “In the dark we cannot see. It is as if it is not really happening, and is only a dream.”