I COULD NEVER SEE TOMORROW

The two Elves’ lips fastened together in a wild kiss, their passion displayed in the frenzied groping of their hands desperately trying to remove each other’s clothing in the dark. His breath hot and his lips pressed feverishly against Fëanor’s chest, Maglor pushed aside the flaps of Fëanor’s opened leggings and plunged his hand inside. He lifted the raven-haired beauty’s engorged member from its fabric trappings, moaning at the feel of the flesh—like the most exquisite silk—and caressed it with his sensitive fingers.

Fëanor groaned softly and writhed against Maglor’s body, greatly aroused by the new sensations undulating through his flesh. Maglor’s hand upon his aching arousal nearly caused him to lose himself completely to the heady pleasure of a quick orgasm. Impatiently, he wriggled his hips and kicked his legs, trying to free them from the tight-fitting trousers, and to keep his passion in check.

“M-Maglor,” he gasped, pulling his leggings from his feet. “S-Stop. I wish us to both be naked and make love together, but I feel fettered—controlled by this accursed Nandorin clothing—I must free myself—“ He reared his body back and felt his member slip from the minstrel’s grasp.

Maglor groaned at the loss of contact, reluctantly loosening his grip around the satiny shaft.

“Be quick,” moaned Fëanor. “With your clothing. Strip it off and come back into my arms where I can feel you.”

The two sat and tore off their borrowed clothes, casting them aside and then fell back, clutching and caressing each other upon the soft, warm wool of their blankets. Fëanor’s hand sought the taut abdomen of the minstrel’s lean body, and swept down its smooth expanse to linger upon the turgid shaft of the erection that sprang up to meet his eager, searching fingers. He thrust his lithe hips forward to meet Maglor’s, and brought their erections to touch and slide together as their lips met in another loving kiss.

Maglor gave in to his passion, his abandon claiming him as a conqueror does his spoils. He clutched the desirable Elf around his narrow waist, grinding his loins into Fëanor’s, and licked the dark-haired beauty’s tender lips with a hot tongue, requesting entry into the depths of the dark Elf’s ravishing mouth. His other hand gripped Fëanor’s head through the silken waves of his hair, and pulled him back just enough to allow their lips to brush each others’ softly before Maglor plunged his tongue into the beautiful mouth, seeking to explore its desirable warmth.

Fëanor’s groans became fierce, his hips bucking against Maglor’s, his own strength more than that of the leaner, smaller minstrel, and pushed him back onto the blanket, his strong hands finding Maglor’s wrists and pinning them to the ground.

Maglor let Fëanor dominate him, and when the dark Elf broke the kiss, he cried: “Ada—Ada—please,” losing himself to his forbidden desire. “I want you so much,” he moaned, throwing back his head and entreating the beautiful reincarnation in a piteous voice to take him. He pleaded with Fëanor to take his tortured soul along with his passionately aching body and fill him completely, and make the pain go away.

Fëanor lifted his head, his luxurious length of hair falling onto Maglor’s chest. The night was dark, with no moon in the sky, and the lovers could only hear the sound of their own heavy breathing, smell the heady musk emanating from their lithe, squirming bodies, and feel their satiny-smooth skin sliding against each other’s. Fëanor raised his upper torso, balancing upon his hands on either side of Maglor’s waist. His hips were still pressed against Maglor’s, their hard shafts poking into each other’s thighs. He sighed and stroked the side of his lover’s face. “I am not your Ada,” he said once again. “My name is Tinumír and I love you. Let me show you,” he whispered, and moved his body down the length of Maglor’s until his face met the minstrel’s groin. He kissed the smooth crease between abdomen and hip while cupping the minstrel’s sac in a gentle hand and squeezing it lightly. Maglor moaned with desire, writhing beneath Fëanor’s touches. When the beautiful Elf took his member tenderly into his mouth, the minstrel wailed with delight.

“Oh Tinumír, you shall be my death!”

Fëanor licked and sucked his lover’s member with exploring caresses, sending Maglor into a frenzy while he let his tongue wander experimentally over every ridge, fold and crease, and licked the smooth tip of Maglor’s swollen shaft, committing his creamy taste to memory so that he might think on it later. His hands wandered over the curves of the minstrel’s thighs, caressing the smooth skin and causing them to part. He ducked his head further and used his tongue to caress every hidden crevice and fold, while Maglor cried out in sweet anguish for more.

“Ai, what you do to me!” he screamed, his body writhing under Fëanor’s touches, his member shamelessly leaking its juices.

The dark-haired Elf lifted his head, and cupped a long-fingered hand over the twitching length of Maglor’s shaft, massaging it lightly with palm and fingers, spreading its sweet essence up and down the satiny flesh. “Hush. Hush, my sweet,” he crooned. “I want to take you, and make you mine. Will you let me, my darling?”

Maglor’s cries became whimpers, his heart beating like a drummer’s rapid staccato within his chest. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, Tinumír. Take me. Please. I love you.”

“And I love you too, my dear,” said Fëanor, sliding up beside the minstrel. He kissed the side of his lover’s face and along the pointed ridge of his sensitive ear, before whispering into it, “Now please turn over onto your stomach.”

Maglor did so and Fëanor, using his sense of touch in the darkness, slid his long legs over Maglor’s and straddled him, his length resting atop Maglor’s buttocks. He adjusted his position, inserting a hand between Maglor’s thighs and pushing them gently apart. His stiff member dropped down into the cleft, causing Maglor to sigh and raise his backside slightly into the air to receive the welcome penetration.

“We have no salve or oil to ease the pain when I breach you,” said Fëanor quietly.

“It is no matter,” said Maglor, panting. “I want you so much, I am aching. I shall not mind the breach, but you may use your saliva to wet your fingers. That is what warriors sometimes do when they have nothing else.”

Fëanor did as instructed, and when his fingers were wetted, he inserted two into the opening and spread the flesh apart as much as he could before grasping his rigid length and inserting its tip into the fleshy passage, using his long fingers as a guide.

Maglor grunted and pushed back with his hips against Fëanor to sheathe himself more fully. “Ahh—“ he groaned.

Fëanor’s breath came heavily as he began to thrust his hips forward, plunging his hard, hot shaft deeper into Maglor’s warm depths. He thrust with wild abandon, pushing his length deeper into Maglor’s opening, the minstrel shuddering and moaning beneath him. Soon the two slender Elves were covered in sweat, their breathing ragged and rapid.

Maglor felt his pleasure spot being touched and cried out, “Ai! I am going to come!” and he let himself release, spurting his fluids onto the blanket in front of him.

At the same time, Fëanor emitted a low moan and ejaculated in a great, shuddering climax, spending his seed and then dropping onto his son’s back, entangling his fingers in the minstrel’s damp hair.

They lay together, happily sated, and in a few minutes they rose to turn the blankets over. They lay down on one of them and pulled the other blanket over themselves, snuggling beneath it, happy to be in each others’ arms. Soon they were asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~


Many days later, Maglor and Fëanor emerged from the forest. Soon after they reached the joining of the Adurant and Gelion Rivers. They had come out of Taur im Duinath a couple of days after their first tryst. Since then they had been traveling non-stop throughout the day on horseback and stopping at night to eat and bathe if they could find a body of water, and every night they made love to each other.

They camped beside the Adurant, watching the river waters flow down into the Gelion, and after a soothing bathe in its swift-running, refreshing waters, they lay upon the bank and admired the view of the open lands before them, gazing upstream to the east toward the Ered Luin, the setting sun’s last rays casting shadows of blue and purple upon the craggy mountaintops.

From afar they could hear the sound of singing, the voices of the Green-elves held aloft by the soft breezes that brought the far-carrying sound like that of resonant bells across the open lands to the ears of the two companions.

Maglor smiled wistfully when he heard the far-off songs and turned to Fëanor. “Ah—the singers of Lindon,” he said. “That is what we Noldor called this part of the country when we came here after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Lindon—the land of music.”

Fëanor squeezed Maglor’s arm in sympathy, his beautiful face bearing an expression of sadness, his blue-grey eyes shining with tears. “That must have been a terrible time for you,” he murmured, and stroked his lover’s bare arm.

“The worst came later,” said Maglor, moving his naked body so that it reposed against Fëanor’s side. He wrapped an arm around the dark beauty’s waist and snuggled his face into the crook between his neck and shoulder. “But I do not wish to dwell upon those times. You have come back to me and I am no longer alone. I should be thankful for that, and I am. I love you, Tinumír,” he said, reverting to the name he had given Fëanor back in the forest. “I would do anything for you if it means we will never be parted again.”

“Shh, my love,” said Fëanor, stroking the minstrel’s golden-brown hair. He kissed the top of Maglor’s head. “Do not worry, for I would never leave you.”

Maglor sighed, dropping his head onto Fëanor’s chest. His mouth rested next to a pink nipple, and he kissed it. Fëanor gasped at the feel of the minstrel’s tongue upon his sensitive nub. His member began to respond to the touches, swelling and growing hard. “Maglor,” he whispered. “It is not yet dark. You shall break your rule to wait until darkness descends before we enjoy each other this way. Let us just lie here and listen to the singing until the sun sets.”

Maglor gave a reluctant moan and stopped his caresses. “You are irresistible,” he said. “You are a wonder to me. I cannot keep my eyes or my hands from you, although I shall try when we are bathed in light. You are a marvel of such beauty I love to gaze upon you, but I cannot help but think my feelings are depraved and I cannot face the brightness of day.”

“Hush, my sweet minstrel. Have I not told you that I am new—different—not the same Fëanor as of old—I am Tinumír now. You must not consider yourself depraved—there is a reason we have been brought together as we are.”

“Yes, Tinumír,” whispered Maglor. “I want to believe you. But I fear it will take a long time for me to become comfortable with that vision, though it may be less difficult for you.”

Many days later, the two Elves, following the River Adurant, came to the division in the stream in which lay Tol Galen, the Green Isle. They stopped when they noticed several encampments spread along the riverbank, and a huge bridge spanning the water to the island. They stopped to gaze upon the structure, admiring the finely-wrought architecture and marveling at the skill of the Green-elves in constructing it.

During their journey they had not seen or met up with any other Elves, so clever were the Green-elves at hiding themselves and their dwellings. But in the encampment by the Isle, many lived in the open, in small cabins or in tents, and communicated openly, socializing with each other like any other large settlement of people.

Maglor and Fëanor dismounted and led their horses into the outskirts of the community, which was like a small village, and approached two Green-elves who were sitting outside a small cabin by a wide-open door. They were both strumming harps and singing soft songs of accompaniment.

“Hail to you,” said Fëanor to these Elves.

“Mae govannen, Golodhrim,” replied one of them. “Le gwain sí.” (You are new here.)

“We have come from the great forest,” said Fëanor. “We are traveling into the east, where we seek a friend.”

“Ah,” said the Elf. “You are not alone in your quest. Two others have come here, who also plan to continue east to seek a friend. They have just recently arrived in our village.”

Fëanor and Maglor exchanged startled glances. “They are here,” Maglor whispered. While he knew that they had decided it would be for the best if they could manage to overtake their two pursuers, it seemed rather sudden to find that that time had now come and the minstrel felt unprepared for the inevitable confrontation with these two mysterious strangers.

“Can you tell us if there is an inn or hostel where we would be able to stay, that has a stable with accommodation for our horses?” asked Fëanor.

The Green-elves gave them directions to such an establishment nearby. Fëanor and Maglor thanked them and made their way to a group of buildings at the river’s edge, nestled between two small wooded areas. They took the horses to the stables, where they left them to be groomed and fed, and made their way to a two-storey cabin that had a sign above the door.

‘Golv a Golas’ (Branch and Leaf), it said, and Fëanor and Maglor entered. Set in the front yard were several tables and benches where a few Elves were sitting or reclining, some holding glasses of wine or cordial, and munching upon morsels of fried fish and battered vegetables, which were local delicacies.

The two visitors enquired inside about lodgings, and were taken to a room on the upper floor, where they washed and then went below stairs again to find some food and drink. Maglor negotiated with the innkeeper and sold the Green-elf his sword, which Fëanor had made for him many years ago, fetching a good price for the well-crafted Noldorin weapon. The proprietor of the inn then hung it for display on his wall. Fëanor looked chagrined that the minstrel-warrior had felt the need to give up his old sword, but Maglor had insisted on letting go of this part of his past, and besides, he told Fëanor, they needed the money.

After enjoying a meal of fried fish, potatoes and carrots, all cut into tiny morsels and deep-fried in vegetable oil, Fëanor enquired of the innkeeper where they might find fresh clothing. The proprietor told them where to find a tailor who sold ready-made clothes and would also fit them for new garments if they desired if they planned to stay for awhile. Maglor and Fëanor made their way to the tailor’s shop and purchased some new leggings and tunics that fit better than the too-small clothes that Lithír and Bienian had given them.

After they had changed into fresh clothing and bought another set of new clothes to take with them, they asked the tailor if he could have their borrowed clothes washed and delivered back to Lithír in the forest. After eliciting his promise to do so, Fëanor and Maglor made their way back to the inn, where they ordered some wine and sat outside to listen to the Green-elves singing. Maglor fetched his harp from their room and set it beside him in case he felt like joining in, if the mood struck him to play and sing. But for now he was content to merely sit and listen.

“They sing of Lúthien and Beren still,” he said to Fëanor, and a look of sadness crossed his face.

“I have been told their story,” whispered Fëanor, “and of our own family’s part in it. Such regret I feel. It is no wonder you are filled with sorrow.”

“Let us not speak here of the folly of our past,” Maglor whispered back. “There are still things I wish to discuss with you, but in the privacy of our room.”

“Very well,” said Fëanor, “but try not to let the past misdeeds overshadow the plans we must make for the future—“

Fëanor was cut off by the sudden approach of two people, one of whom laid a hand on Maglor’s shoulder. Two shadows fell across their table, casting long grey streaks in the twilight. Fëanor looked up to see an elderly man dressed in a grey robe, his hair and beard a matching color of stone, standing behind Maglor with his hand upon the minstrel’s shoulder. Beside the old man stood his companion, a tall, beautiful Elf of splendid stature and radiant skin, unmistakably Noldorin, but with golden hair flowing free, standing before them.

“We meet at last,” said the old man.