I COULD NEVER SEE TOMORROW

Olórin paused when he had come to the top of a ridge overlooking a shallow valley that fell away to the south of the road. The travelers’ path, such as it was, was not well-traversed and had become littered with fallen pieces of rock from the nearby southern arm of the Blue Mountains that overlooked the pass to the east. It was treacherous walking for the horses, and the riders dismounted in order to lead the animals through uncluttered trails. Walking over the many rocks and stones made the travelers’ feet bruised and sore, and necessitated that they make frequent stops. The Maia stopped to catch his breath, inwardly regretting the decision, not his own, to take the form of an elderly man, feeling at this time that it might be preventing him from summoning the stamina that he felt he would need for his upcoming journey and ensuing tasks.

Presently Maglor caught up with the old wizard, walking more slowly than usual, constantly turning to look over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tinumír and Glorfindel, who had fallen behind. His persistent worry that Tinumír’s attention had been diverted from him by the attractive Glorfindel had been torturing him ever since the small party had left Tol Galen.

“….in this beautiful spot,” Olórin was saying, speaking to himself while Maglor trudged up the hill to stand beside him.

“I am sorry,” Maglor mumbled, distracted by his thoughts and disturbed that he had lost sight of Tinumír and his companion, the golden-haired Elf. He planted a booted foot on top of a flat rock, anchoring himself, and swept his voluminous cloak back over one shoulder. He gazed out over the lowlands spread out before them in a patchwork of colors: green grass, pale yellow dried grasses, red-and-grey-twigged shrubbery. In the bottom of the valley, a ribbon of a stream of twinkling blue-grey water meandered its way through stands of golden-leafed willows and white-flowered wild rose bushes.

Olórin cleared his throat and studied Maglor carefully before he continued.

“I was just saying that I think we should wander down into this valley and rest for a few hours. Perhaps eat lunch here. It is such a beautiful spot.”

“Yes, it is,” said Maglor absent-mindedly.

“We can ask Glorfindel and Fëanor—I am sorry—I meant Tinumír—if they would agree to doing so, when they catch up.”

“Hmm,” said Maglor, casting an anxious glance behind him again.

“They are slow,” remarked Olórin. “Where are they?”


Many paces behind, after Maglor had walked ahead out of sight, Glorfindel grasped Fëanor’s hand and pulled him into a copse of evergreen trees, whose thick branches hid the two truant Elves from view.

They had been lagging behind for most of the way the last few miles, during which time Glorfindel had been regaling Fëanor with tales of his short stay inside the Halls of Mandos. Fëanor found Glorfindel’s impressions and mimicking of some of the denizens of the Halls to be quite amusing; in particular, Glorfindel’s impression of Mandos himself.

Glorfindel had caused Fëanor to become doubled-over with laughter many times, while he effected Mandos’ stern countenance and formal manner of speech.

“Open fornication is disallowed in my Halls!” spoken in a mock-serious voice, accompanied by Glorfindel’s knitting of his brows and sticking out of his lower lip, caused Fëanor to prop himself against a tree and throw his head back, emitting gales of musical laughter.

Glorfindel seized the opportunity to sidle up next to Fëanor and place his hand upon the side of the exposed neck of the resurrected Elf, caressing his smooth, ivory skin.

A shock passed through Fëanor at Glorfindel’s touch, and his body jerked forward in a sudden spasm of pleasure. His apprehensive glance became locked upon Glorfindel’s devilishly handsome countenance. The resurrected warrior’s blue eyes glinted with a disturbing expression of lust. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a knowing whisper.

“I—I—I’m not sure I understand you,” said Fëanor, his breathing becoming more rapid.

“I think you do,” said Glorfindel, frowning slightly as he scrutinized Fëanor’s face. He smoothed back some errant strands of the dark Elf’s glossy black hair, reaching behind his head to pull loose the tie that bound the luxurious mane, letting it fall unfettered around his shoulders. “What do you think of this?” Glorfindel asked, and leaned towards Fëanor, cupping his chin in one hand while encircling his waist with the other, and drawing the slighter Elf towards him, pressing Fëanor’s body against the heated muscle of his hip.

It took every shred of power that Fëanor possessed to keep himself from swooning. An electric current passed between the two Elves, rendering Fëanor helpless in Glorfindel’s arms. He lay limp, his head and arms thrown back against the bark of the tree, and let Glorfindel ply his lips with a kiss so deep and involving that it sucked the breath from his body.

His lips melted against Glorfindel’s until they felt a part of his aggressor’s body. When Glorfindel’s tongue pressed avidly against Fëanor’s soft, yielding one, a current shot directly to Fëanor’s groin, and his instant arousal sprang forward as if it were an arrow released from a bow, threatening to pierce Glorfindel’s leg with the sharpness of its tip.

“N—n—no—“ Fëanor gave a throaty moan.

Glorfindel let go of him and stood back. The golden Elf , panting with desire, began to tear off his clothing. “By Mandos, but I have never before felt such desire as I do for you!” he cried. When he had stripped, and was standing naked before Fëanor, he reached out and placed a hand on the side of his intended lover’s face, causing Fëanor to look down.

“What do you think of me?” Glorfindel asked.

Fëanor’s ardent gaze traveled over the warrior’s unfathomably glorious body: from his long, thick golden hair, his huge blue eyes and full lips, to his broad shoulders, glistening golden-hued skin and muscular chest and arms.

His hands were huge but gentle in their touches, his waist and hips narrow, his belly taut. And below a fine covering of downy golden hairs was the most erotic-looking male organ that Fëanor had ever seen. Glorfindel’s erection was astounding in its length and girth, proudly displayed for Fëanor to claim as his prize. And without being touched, it responded to Fëanor’s gaze alone and moved, pointing toward him, dripping a few pearly beads of moisture from its glistening tip to land at his feet. The warrior stood tall before Fëanor, his full lips parted, waiting expectantly.

Fëanor sighed and trembled, the desire in his loins for this flagrant creature overwhelming him.

“Come and disrobe yourself,” said Glorfindel in a breathless voice. “I am sure beyond the breadth of Varda’s stars that we were meant to be naked together and enjoying each other, not trussed-up like a pair of fowl waiting to be killed, regarding each other longingly across a farmyard.”

Before Fëanor could react, Glorfindel grasped the neck of the other Elf’s shirt and ripped it open all the way down the front. He moved forward swiftly, pressing his erect penis against the lacings of Fëanor’s leggings, and pulled the torn shirt down over his shoulders. Fëanor’s body was tanned from months of walking outside naked, and Glorfindel paused to admire its gleaming perfection before bending to lick and suck greedily upon one of Fëanor’s exposed nipples.

“Ai-ee!” cried Fëanor, and bucked his hips, his turgid member emitting a bubble of wetness that soaked his trouser-front.

One of Glorfindel’s large hands grasped the waistband of Fëanor’s leggings and pulled them down to his ankles in one great sweep. With a gentleness belying his strong appearance, Glorfindel took hold of Fëanor’s member, cupping and stroking it, feeling it with probing fingers, causing electric sensations to pulse through Fëanor’s body. He wanted to scream but daren’t in case Maglor came back and discovered them.

“Get down and lie on your back,” said Glorfindel. “On the ground. Now!” And without waiting, he knelt, and pulling Fëanor down to his knees as well, he tore the leggings all the way off and flung them away. “You should never have to wear clothes,” he said. “Now let me enjoy your beautiful, perfect body.”


Olórin helped Maglor set out the blankets and cookware that they pulled from their horses’ saddlebags. Once they had taken out everything that they thought they would need, Maglor walked down to the stream to look for fish. He was rewarded, for it was full of smallish perch with bright silver scales that looked small-boned and easy to clean.

While he was holding a line in the water and catching fish, Maglor noticed a group of pheasant nearby and managed to catch and slaughter one of them. He carried his catch back to the camp, where Olórin had started a fire, and a pot of water boiling. While they waited for Fëanor and Glorfindel to arrive, they discussed Olórin’s plans.

“I was sent to ensure that your father reaches Eregion as was set forward in the instructions I received for my part in this mission,” said the wizard. “However, I have business to which I must attend near a settlement called Tharbad, and when we reach that place, I must leave you to continue on your own.”

At the mention of the word ‘father’, Maglor bristled and looked displeased, a frown creasing his brow. “He is no longer my father!” he interjected, and turned back to cooking the fish.

A few minutes later Maglor turned around to look at Olórin again. “According to you, everyone in this group has a specific role to play in this mission, except for me,” he said. “But I have promised Tinumír that I shall stay with him to the end.”

“You need not do so,” said Olórin in a quiet voice. “You are free to go where you please. You are not bound to this quest.”

“Nevertheless, I do feel bound to him,” said Maglor, glaring at the elderly man. “And I shall keep my word to him, as I have always done. It is a familial duty, and one that I am glad to perform, no matter what uncertainties we face. You know what is in my past that I have to deal with and what I have come through in order to remain living. I now fear nothing that may lie ahead.”

“That may be, but do you feel a sense of family with him still?” asked Olórin.

“Yes, I do. After all, he was my fa—“. The words stuck in Maglor’s throat and he stopped speaking abruptly. Feeling disturbed and angry with Olórin, he got up from the fire and strode off towards the stream. He did not wish to have unpleasant words with the wizard, and elected to end the conversation.


“I find I am being driven mad with lust for you,” said Glorfindel into Fëanor’s ear, alternately licking it and kissing the side of his face. “I have never felt this way before.” The two Elves lay beside each other, their bodies pressed together, Glorfindel stroking Fëanor’s hair, his blue eyes gazing at Fëanor’s beautiful face, drinking in every smooth plane of the finely-structured visage, and staring into his deep, black-fringed, blue-grey eyes.

One of Fëanor’s hands held the golden Elf’s wrist in a relaxed grip and he moved it to languidly stroke the well-muscled arm. “I feel powerless to stop either you or myself from indulging in this behavior,” he whispered. “Though I fear I am doing wrong.”

“Turn this way,” said Glorfindel, and pulled Fëanor around so that they were positioned with their heads toward each others’ feet. Nestling his fair head against Fëanor’s thigh, Glorfindel moaned, nuzzling the side of the dark Elf’s erect member with both his fingers and his cheek.

Fëanor cupped Glorfindel’s sac in both hands and began to kiss it. It was smooth, not covered by the downy hair that appeared elsewhere on his exquisite body. He sucked with sensuous lips, drawing each side of Glorfindel’s flesh into his mouth, sucking slowly and gently. He stopped and let go while uttering a mewling cry as Glorfindel moaned loudly against Fëanor’s sensitive shaft, causing a delicious vibration that almost sent the dark-haired Elf over the brink. He could feel himself beginning to come from that simple touch alone, and lifted one leg to wrap around Glorfindel’s massive shoulders. With a delicate touch of his fingers, he took Glorfindel’s arousal in hand and began to palpate the throbbing organ while thrusting his member into Glorfindel’s eager mouth at the same time.

Glorfindel devoured the juices that flowed freely from the tip of Fëanor’s twitching member, so sensitive that it moved and arched forward of its own accord whenever Glorfindel put his lips to the shaft and hummed or moaned against it.

When the golden-haired Elf felt Fëanor’s fingers first touch upon his own shaft, he rolled his head back and cried out. “I cannot hold back!” and came in a generous gushing of his essence onto his own stomach, spilling some onto Fëanor’s chest beside it.

At the sight of Glorfindel’s climax, Fëanor gave a deep groan and came also, spilling his fluids into Glorfindel’s hands and mouth.

The golden Elf stared in wonder at the pearly drops cupped in his hands. “Look, my beautiful Fëanor,” he said. “I hold your perfect essence in my hands,” and he lifted them to his sensuous lips and licked them clean.

Rather than waiting any longer for the other two Elves to join them, Maglor and Olórin ate the fish, along with a few berries and some greens that Maglor had picked on the banks of the stream. The pheasant continued to roast over the hot fire.

“Do you think Tinumír and Glorfindel have run into trouble?” asked Maglor with an anxious twitch of his head while poking at the fowl to check for doneness.

“No,” replied Olórin. “I heard them talking about their experiences in the Halls. They are probably comparing stories and just taking their time getting to know each other before they join us. Why don’t you pull out your harp and sing a song while we wait?”

Maglor agreed and soon was strumming a melodic tune. “Do you remember this one?” he asked the wizard. “It is one of the songs about Beren and Lúthien that we heard when we were in Tol Galen.”

“Do you think about her often? You speak of her frequently,” said Olórin, his eyes widening with curiosity. “Did you know her at all?”

“No,” said the minstrel as he continued to play. “But I did meet her son and his children. And I knew their daughter Elwing briefly. And her sons I knew well.” He developed a far-away look and stopped playing.

“Ah, yes. Elrond, who is companion to Ereinion Gil-galad,” Olórin said thoughtfully. He took a draught of his pipe. “Please continue playing. I find your music soothing to the spirit.”

“Yes,” said Maglor. “I left them long ago and know not whither they now dwell. It is a beautiful story that is told about his great-grandmother Lúthien and her love for Beren,” he remarked, returning to the song. “It is my favorite story of all.”

“Do you ever wonder what Lúthien’s motives were for behaving the way she did?” Olórin asked.

Maglor looked startled and stopped playing. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“Only that I think you should examine her motives,” said Olórin. “You are quite interested in the love story, and it is a remarkable one to be sure. And you have fairly close ties to her family. I do believe that you can learn much about yourself by studying her story. Ask yourself what you think about the pursuit of power or riches, and what results this pursuit usually has for people,” said Olórin. “Examine your own life so far and then hers. Ask yourself, ‘Would most people see me as villain and her as heroine?’ And is that a fair judgment for them to make?”

“I do not understand,” said Maglor. He was shocked, and dropped his harp down on the ground beside him.

“No, please, Maglor, keep playing,” said Olórin. “But think upon what I have said whenever you find yourself alone. If you ever find yourself in such a situation when you are alone and have time to think, think upon that and examine every aspect of Lúthien’s story.”


Fëanor and Glorfindel lay together on the soft needles beneath the canopy of trees. Their breathing rapid and heavy, their bodies writhing against each other, they worked themselves into a frenzy, caressing and stroking each other over every part of their bodies, giving in completely to their lust for each other. They each worshipped the other’s body—Fëanor fondled, cupped and stroked Glorfindel’s penis, which had grown hard again within moments of his first climax. In turn, the golden Elf writhed against Fëanor, kissing and sucking his skin—his nipples, his navel and his length—with abandon, moving from nipple to thigh, penis to face, and back again. Their bodies glistening with a covering of sweat, they could not keep their hands, mouths, nor any part of their bodies off of each other.

Within minutes they both exploded again, covering each other’s stomachs with their semen. Finally, reason caught hold of Glorfindel and he sprang away from Fëanor with heroic effort.

“We must go back,” he gasped, panting in short breaths, his hair dripping sweat. “They must be wondering about us.”

Fëanor reluctantly relinquished his hold on Glorfindel’s hips, over which he had been bent, avidly sucking the golden Elf’s perpetually swollen cock.

“It is difficult to part from you,” he said. “You are intoxicating, and we each grow hard at the mere sight of each other.”

“I grow hard when I merely think of you,” said Glorfindel.

“I shall grow hard in my sleep if I dream of you,” whispered Fëanor.

“We must stop this,” said Glorfindel. “Where are our clothes? If we dress, it may help to allow us to leave each other alone. We must try to concentrate on things other than each other or we will make a show of ourselves, and then they will know about us.” He stood and began searching for their clothing.

“Ai, Maglor,” said Fëanor, averting his eyes from Glorfindel’s golden body. He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of guilt. “I must share his blanket tonight. I am afraid I have caused quite a dilemma, haven’t I?”