Whatever Darkness Comes

Title: Whatever Darkness Comes
Author: Orchyd Constyne and Ashek Thordin
Contact: ashekandorchyd@gmail.com
Website: http://www.hithanaur.net/
Update List: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/nairn_orchyd/
Fandom: LOTR
Archive: OEAM
Feedback: Yes! Always!
Disclaimer: We do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Rating: NC-17
Beta: None
Cast: Maglor/Daeron
Summary: During the Mereth Aderthad, Daeron and Maglor meet and a promise is extracted.

---

Daeron had been sent as an emissary, one of only two from the great, woodland realm of Doriath. Why Thingol had decided not to come to the feast of Fingolfin himself, the ancient bard could only guess. To learn tidings of his brother, Olwë, from the returned Noldor himself would have been easy enough. Then again, his title of King Greymantle could indeed have proved intimidating to a host with a kingship of their own, a kingship that had already fallen from the hands of Fëanor's sons to Finwë's second born. There had also been the issue of Tinúviel. If Thingol had accepted the invitation to the festivities, there would have been no chance of keeping Lúthien safely tucked away in the caves of Menegroth, save by the force of Melian alone. In the end, Daeron could sympathise with his king's decision. Even after such an expanse of time beneath the stars and twenty cycles of the newly risen sun, they were all still protective of their beautiful nightingale. Better to send two with well-trained eyes and ears to learn all that could be learned. He and Mablung had been the perfect choices.

In the short time he had been among the Elves by the pools of Ivrin, he had heard verses and refrains among the Noldor that he had easily catalogued. There were benefits to being a talented minstrel, and among them were his exceptional auditory memory and his extensive knowledge of languages. That the Noldor thought to mask their more private words in the Old Tongue and remain completely undetected seemed laughable. What he learned as he mingled inconspicuously with the forces of Fingolfin and the Sons of Fëanor made him raise his eyebrows more than once.

The descendents of the House of Finwë had arrived in Beleriand at the hour of their greatest need, and had proven a powerful and deadly foe of Morgoth. Words flew about in the shadows of Beleriand that the Noldor had returned as messengers of the Valar, but Daeron only smiled and shook his head when he heard such things. The Valar needed no messengers, and it had been made abundantly clear over the expanse of time he had lived beneath the eaves of Doriath that the Valar would leave the Elves who remained beyond the light of the Two Trees to their own devices. Nevertheless, if the Valar had wished to send a message to the Sindar, they could have easily used the power of their Song to reach Melian, for was she not of their kin? But if the Noldor were not messengers, as they so heartily wished to portray themselves, then the alternatives became much darker and varied.

A deep wrong had been committed between the two branches of Finwë's line. Of that, Daeron could make no mistake. The warriors of the eastern March, led by Maedhros and Maglor, were regarded with strained civility by many of the other Noldor. The Sons of Fëanor, in counterpoint to the songs already sung of their valour and talents, were subdued and respectful, their gazes filled with deep shadows. If Daeron had not known better, he would have assumed the two fair Elves were given an invitation to witness the slaughter of a glamhoth rather than partake of a celebration. It seemed, by their manner and expressions, that the only point of interest to them was the opportunity to reunite with their cousins, whom they greeted warmly and spoke to using shortened versions of their father-names.

There were mysteries in that family line that Daeron longed to unravel, and he acknowledged the intensity of his interest with amusement. The minstrels gossiped too much, but how could he ignore the awed statements that painted Fëanor's second eldest to be among the greatest bards of all time? There was only one way to test the validity of those rumours, and Daeron wondered if it would even be possible to spark some life into the Noldo's grey eyes. One with such skill did not leave it all behind for a warrior's life by choice, and Maglor looked as if fate had put a great burden upon his shoulders that he refused to share with any other.

With such musings in his head, he took a seat around the large bonfire where the opening ceremony for the festivities was to take place. He watched with keen eyes as welcomes and introductions were spoken, thankful that he was not called upon to draw attention to the risibly small delegation from Doriath. His name had already been circulated through the crowd of Sindar and the Green-elves of Ossiriand, where he was well known, and he figured the time he could spend watching and listening uninhibited would be over rather quickly.

The ceremony shifted to a formal display of musical skill from their Noldor hosts, and Daeron had to repress a grin as he listened to various performers play their best pieces. Some of the Noldor attempted to translate their lyrics into the dialect they had only recently learned from the Sindar, a gesture that was greatly appreciated by most in the crowd, but caused Daeron to reach for his mug of wine to mask his amusement. That amusement faded quite suddenly, however, when a young musician, the most talented of the group by his placement as the last to perform, stood before the crowd and made his introduction.

"'The deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda.'" It was not so much the quote that caught his attention, or the words following that identified the words as Fëanor's; it was the reactions of those given the seats of honour before the bonfire that made his eyebrows raise. A palpable tension immediately simmered through Fingolfin and his sons, and it seemed that all eyes suddenly turned to Maedhros and Maglor. Daeron followed the pointed gazes and had to commend the two lords for their composure.

The music began, and Daeron was forced to nod his head in approval. The young bard was indeed talented, the movements of his fingers upon his harp precise and close to effortless. Themes rose and fell within the song, patterns soon emerged to his ears, and he took the opportunity to dissect the structure of the music and read the emotions set behind the composition. It was clearly a tribute to their fallen leader, and Daeron felt his brow furrow slightly as the notes spelled out treachery, misunderstanding, and drive unique to the fiery spirit that had been housed in Fëanor. What followed was a lament that ebbed and flowed like stormy waves of the Great Sea, slowly frozen solid into the stillness of ice. There was an apology in the music, though he was uncertain many could hear it within the notes, and he let his eyes drift back across the line of Elves from the House of Finwë. He was told much through the form of the music, but he learned even more by studying the reactions of their hosts, which ranged from carefully controlled disapproval to indignant animosity to heart-rending regret and sadness.

Looking about the large gathering, Daeron was astounded to see so few looks of true recognition. It seemed to him that the story of Fëanor was clearly told through the bars, but to those of no musical background, the message was lost. All the average Elves heard was a wonderfully constructed piece of music with a theme of hardship that had led the force of Noldor back to the shores they had once forsaken for the light of the Two Trees and the blessed realm of Valinor.

The music finally ended, and Daeron watched as many breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. As applause broke out among the gathered Elves, it was nearly comical the way Fingolfin and Fingon forced themselves to smile and clap like they appreciated the slap in the face. Turgon applauded as well, but there was such sadness in his features that Finrod was soon comforting him in a quiet, understated way. The Sons of Fëanor, in stark contrast, wore emotionless masks, a sure sign of internal turmoil. The bard, who named himself as Lendon before quickly retreating from the crowd, had quite some gall to play a composition that undermined the very reason other realms were invited to the celebration. While Daeron appreciated honesty through music, it was insubordinate behaviour that he would not allow to go unpunished.

Excusing himself from Mablung, who heaved a knowing sigh and warned him of propriety, Daeron quickly tracked down Lendon, following the young musician into a secluded section of the forest a small way from the main gathering on the field beside Eithel Ivrin. He had to repress his smirk as he crossed his arms and leaned against the smooth bark of a tree. "You do know that I understood every bar of that song, do you not?" Lendon whirled about, not having sensed his approach thanks to the silence that Daeron could summon to cloak his steps when he wished. There was a look of recognition in the grey eyes, and Daeron allowed his ice-blue gaze to pierce the Noldo. Apparently, no one had told Lendon he would be attending the Mereth Aderthad, and the vein of fear in the Elf's eyes made Daeron inwardly laugh. "My silence has a price..." He scoffed at the shocked look the bard gave him. "Not that kind of price! By the Valar, I don't have *that* sort of reputation."

***

Maglor stood near the fire, a mug of warm wine in his hand. He tried to be as unassuming as possible, wanting to draw as little attention to himself as he could. Such celebration was not suited to him, as he did not like celebrating a lie. This reunion was nothing but a way to soothe frayed nerves and calm uncertain fears, and Maglor refused to allow his nerves to be soothed or his fears to be calmed. To do so would be deadly; he knew as soon as someone stopped being vigilant, something terrible would befall them all. So, he stood aside, in the shadows, nursing a mug of watered wine, and waited until he could politely retreat to his tent and fall into the restless reverie he had grown accustomed to since Alqualondë.

Daeron smiled as he left the clearing and an awestruck Lenden behind. He had given the whelp a music lesson he would not readily forget. It was almost perverse, the satisfaction he gained from teaching talented minstrels more than they would ever discern of the Song by their own inspection, and he knew from experience that Lendon would not be entertaining the crowds again that night. Emerging from the trees near one of the smaller fires, he went in search of the second eldest Son of Fëanor. He could not deny his interest had been piqued, for Maglor was rather intriguing, with a commanding voice that was kept silent and a reputation that preceded him. Silence would not do, Daeron decided. It was supposed to be a celebration, after all.

Accepting his own mug of wine as it was offered to him by an Elf with a tankard slung over his shoulder, Daeron found Maglor by another secluded fire and stood a small distance away. He made his presence known by simply staring intently at Maglor, occasionally sipping from his mug. The Noldo had strong features, weighed down by those conflicts he had gleaned through the notes of Lendon's song, and it was clear by his posture and wary tension in his lips that he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Of course, that made Daeron's gaze all the more interested. He said nothing, though, deeming words unnecessary.

The Noldo glanced at Daeron, a slight frown on his lips. "Do I happen to have something upon my face that has garnered your attention, Elf?"

A small smile curved Daeron's lips, the slight annoyance in Maglor's smooth voice making his eyes glimmer with something akin to mirth. "You frown at a Festival of Reuniting." There were different depths to the statement, and he was intent on Maglor's reaction.

Maglor scoffed, finishing off his wine. "A reunion that will last but a handful of years, I am certain."

Daeron raised an eyebrow. He was silent a moment, but nodded once, his small smile still in place. "Many of the Noldor hide behind a mask of omission this night. It is good to see someone isn't hiding their true feelings."

Smirking darkly, Maglor said, "My father hid behind lies, and Nelyo holds onto them to ease his heartache and our cousin's. I have no use for those lies." He looked Daeron over, sensing an ancient spirit behind the pale eyes that watched him. "Who are you, since I am certain you already know who I am?"

Daeron thought to be coy, saying he was simply one sent to watch, sent to see and perhaps play a song or two. Maglor had no use for lies, however, so why stand on pretence? The Noldo probably appreciated truth just as much as he did. "Lëonwë." It had been quite a long time since he had introduced himself as such, now that Sindarin had morphed his name from the old dialect to the new. He felt compelled to give his name in the Old Tongue, however, for reasons he did not quite understand.

Maglor raised an eyebrow. "Lëonwë? A name in the Old Tongue here in Beleriand? I do not recall you coming with us from Aman." He could only assume anyone with a name still in Quenya would have come from Aman with either his father's group or his uncle's.

Daeron smiled with a small chuckle, the sound undeniably musical. "Of course you do not. I did not follow your grandsire and his kin from these shores, much less return to them through fire and ice."

Looking back to the blazing fire, Maglor was unable to deny how Lëonwë's voice made his heart speed some and spoke to something tattered and forgotten in his spirit. "Such a strange name you have. 'Shadow'?" He shook his head. "You waste your time speaking with me, old shadow. Why not return to your kin and leave me to my brooding?"

"Because I think it a shame for one so celebrated to abstain from the festivities." Something inside Daeron twisted to see Maglor so lost in his dark thoughts, and while the darkness of Morgoth had not passed, like most deluded themselves into thinking, he did not see the harm in taking a moment to indulge in the pleasures to be had. "If you play... I shall join you, Makalaurë."

Maglor looked up sharply at the Elf. "No one calls me that any longer." He had not picked up an instrument since... it had been too, too long, if he were truthful.

"Perhaps someone should." Daeron knew he took a chance being so informal with one who had, for a time, held the title of High King of the Noldor. His eyes held a knowing gleam to them. "An Elf does not receive an amilessë without reason."

Jaw tightening, scathing words ready to leave his lips, Maglor felt a hand on his upper arm. He turned to see Maedhros standing close to him, a concerned expression on the proud features. He smiled up at his brother, relieved to see the flushed, happy expression on the usually grim face. "Nelyo."

Maedhros kissed Maglor's cheek. "Cáno... Fingon and I--"

Maglor patted his brother's hand. "Go, Nelyo. Enjoy your peace." He watched Maedhros' eyes look towards Lëonwë. "Do not worry about him. Go." Maglor kissed his brother on the lips, and then watched Maedhros disappear with their cousin, his heart warmed by the love the pair shared.

Daeron watched with keen eyes, hearing more in Maedhros' voice than he thought either Elf would approve of. Such a tangled web that had been woven in the family of Finwë. He kept his silence, allowing Maglor his moment of levity. The soft expression on the Elf's face made his own spirit warm in turn, and he gathered the thick braid of his dark hair over his shoulder, fiddling at the tip absently with calloused fingers.

The Noldo turned away from the path his brother and cousin had taken, and his eyes landed on Lëonwë. A spark of defiance lit his eyes. "Shall you judge them as many have?"

Noting the gleam in Maglor's eyes, the challenge there, Daeron kept his own expression serene. "What is there to judge? They looked quite happy." It explained a bit of recent history as well, though he did not point such a thing out.

"Many do not care about happiness. They only care about gender and the blood shared," Maglor said sourly.

"I care about happiness." Daeron had occasional lovers, but had found little lasting happiness with them. He chose instead to wait. For whom, he was not sure, but his very spirit waited.

Troubled grey eyes turned to the blaze. "Happiness is all that matters, no matter how fleeting it might be." Maglor handed his mug off to a passing Elf, and then turned to Lëonwë. "Let us play, though the only instrument I have with me is my voice. I had not intended on playing."

Daeron was openly thrilled, a bright smile removing many years from his face. He handed his nearly empty mug to another passing Elf and offered his hand to Maglor. "You may borrow one of mine if you wish. I must confess that I came prepared." Thingol couldn't possibly have expected him to go to such a large celebration and remain silent on the sidelines.

Maglor eyed the hand. He had not touched anyone other than his brothers and cousins unless to kill, preferring to keep his taint to himself. The desire to be *touched* was almost overwhelming, as was the need *to* touch, and so he slipped his hand into Daeron's. "Pick an instrument, Lëonwë, and I shall play it."

Grasping Maglor's hand, Daeron instantly studied it, the placement of calluses and the structure of the hand. For a few moments, he was nearly like a child receiving a new toy he may play with. He unceremoniously grabbed Maglor's other hand, drawing his own fingers along the lines and muscles of fingers, palm, and wrist.

The Noldo could not repress the shiver that travelled through his body or stop the gasp from passing between his lips at the contact. His eyes were wide as he stared at Lëonwë, not liking the way his body was drawn to the other minstrel. "They... are simply the hands... of a soldier..."

"Nonsense," Daeron said curtly with a quick glance upward. "A soldier by trade you may be... but these hands..." He shook his head with excitement, a few dark locks falling into his face. Maglor's hands were worn by many trials, but he saw past them. Daeron could see the potential for so many instruments to be mastered by those hands. "The instrument chooses the player, not the other way around." He looked up, taking in the build of Maglor's arms and the curve of his shoulder and neck. He met the grey eyes with a vibrant smile, his heart pounding with more than his usual anticipation. "Harp and violin... you were born to play those instruments."

Maglor could not deny that Lëonwë's excitement was infectious. For too long now he had felt he had been made only for misery, his guilt carried around his neck and weighing down his entire life. The way Lëonwë looked at him, however, the way he touched his hands-- "Which shall I play tonight, Lëonwë?"

Daeron did not hesitate with his answer, having already decided. "Violin. Come, some of your Noldor were kind enough to set up my instruments for me..." He trailed off as he clasped one of Maglor's hands securely in his own and led them briskly to the tent that had been erected to house all the minstrels' supplies. His instruments stood out, displayed next to the others. Most of them were his creations, masterfully crafted out of the finest wood and metals available in all of Beleriand. The energy about him as he took up his violin was one of reverence, as if he were welcoming back a part of himself that had been severed. Ice-blue eyes gazed warmly at Maglor, and he held out the instrument to the Noldo.

Accepting the instrument with gentle care, Maglor knew from how he treated his own instruments how special, how important such things were to ones like them. He settled the violin under his chin and closed his eyes, plucking at the strings. A faint smile curved his lips. Of course it was in perfect tune. Something told him Lëonwë never allowed his instruments to be out of tune, unused, or ill-treated. "A beautiful instrument."

"You wear it well," Daeron said approvingly, looking Maglor up and down. A smirk came over his countenance. "I expect you to play something worthy of it." Thousands of trials and he had finally managed to succeed. Of all the instruments he had crafted in the old days of the starlight, the violin was his most treasured, a source of pride and accomplishment. He reached down to the table again, picking up a harness that he strapped effortlessly about his waist. Into the various holders, he slipped a few different pipes and flutes, the leather hugging the instruments perfectly.

"I do poorly with expectations, old shadow." Maglor picked up the bow and tightened the hair, checking the rosin and choosing to add a little more to the hair. When he felt he was ready, he drew the bow over the strings, testing the instrument, feeling it out with a small, quick ditty that his body swayed ever so slightly with.

Daeron grinned broadly as he listened, watching the wonderful way arms and fingers manipulated the bow and strings, producing sounds that, thankfully, did not grate on his attuned ears. He spoke only after Maglor had completed his small warm-up. "We shall see, Makalaurë." Bringing his favourite flute up to his lips, he copied Maglor's song, adding stylistic flourishes that loosened his fingers for more vigorous playing. He could not help the movement of his body, feeling even the simplest tune with his entire being, and he stepped and swayed with the music until the last note faded.

"You move too much," Maglor said with a frown after watching Daeron's small performance.

Daeron offered Maglor an amused look. Was the young Noldo actually lecturing him on technique? "Perhaps you do not move enough."

"Movement is distracting." Had Maglor known who Lëonwë was, he might not have criticized. "It is an unnecessary exertion during the playing." He had been taught by some of the greatest Noldor, structured until he felt stifled, and in the privacy of his room or Nelyo's, he would play how he wanted to. But, in front of an audience, he performed as he had been taught.

Daeron had to repress his laughter, though he couldn't hold back a small chuckle. "Do the trees not sway when the wind makes them sing?"

Maglor pointed at Lëonwë with the bow. "That was not swaying."

The bard raised an eyebrow. "If you were to ask the trees, I think they would tell you that they would dance in the wind if they were able."

"The Sindar are strange creatures, speaking to the trees and listening to the wind." Maglor nodded to the entrance of the tent. "Do you wish to play?"

Taking Maglor's words as a compliment, Daeron brushed a few strands of his black hair out of his face. "Aye, the celebration awaits." Walking to the entrance, he courteously held back the flap, allowing Maglor to pass before him. Waiting for the current song to end, he smiled at Maglor, his face glowing as he could not wait to step before the players and perform. The song ended, and he stepped out amid the applause offered to the musicians.

Maglor stood to the side, and a new frown graced his lips as he heard the gathered Elves refer to Lëonwë as 'Daeron'. He had heard of Daeron, and his eyes jumped from the crowd to the bard, displeasure in his gaze.

Daeron smiled humbly at the audience before him, giving them a gracious bow of his head in thanks. His smile faltered, however, when he turned to Maglor and noticed the Noldo's expression. Taking a step closer to the warrior-bard, he asked, "Is something wrong? Surely you have played in front of an audience before." He knew better than to think that was the reason for Maglor's displeasure, but he asked anyway.

"You were not honest in who you were, Daeron. That is poor form," Maglor murmured.

Maglor's displeasure affected Daeron more than he would have expected. "I did not lie, and I did not mean to mislead you. Lëonwë is my given name, and I thought only to speak my name in your native tongue." His expression was one of sincerity. He had only tried to be polite and accommodating of Maglor's culture. There had been no ulterior motive; that much was clear in his pale eyes.

Holding that gaze for a long time, Maglor eventually nodded once. It had been a kind gesture, when he did not allow paranoia to govern his thoughts. He had spent many years looking over his back and worrying about every motive of those around him not family, and he realised he had unjustly judged Daeron's motives. Just like his brothers and father, Maglor disliked being wrong. "Forgive me." He looked out at the gathering of Elves. "Your audience awaits."

"*Our* audience," Daeron corrected with a smile. "No harm done, meldir. Your caution is understandable." There was a certain innocence in his eyes as he placed a hand on Maglor's shoulder and led him out before the crowd, commanding silence with a single gesture of his hand. "My friends! Since the elder days before the moon rose, I have never seen such a gathering! I welcome back our kindred from the House of Finwë. Their valour is great, and in times of adversity, it is reassuring to be reunited with those who have seen the glory of the Trees of Valinor. In the spirit of these festivities, Maglor, second son of Fëanor, has agreed to entertain with the rest of the musicians. May the Valar look down with pleasure upon this gathering and the music that flows through us." The crowd cheered, and Daeron stepped back with another grateful tilt of his head. "Would you care to choose the first song?"

Maglor stepped forward and smiled, a rare expression for the troubled Noldo. "I have a song in mind." His eyes swept over the gathered Elves, seeing so many he knew or called kin, and then closed his eyes, placing the violin under his chin and bringing the bow to the strings. His fingers flew as he began a fast-paced, cheerful tune meant for dancing and revelry. They all deserved such joy, dancing under the stars and around the fire pits, laughing and shouting with pleasure. He played the old tune flawlessly, fingers moving with practiced ease over the strings and his hand working the bow with perfect precision. He swayed and moved with the music the longer he played and was soon lost in the sounds, so much like the festivals he used to play at long before the days grew dark in Aman.

Daeron could not help the small gasp of pleasure that escaped him. For a brief moment, he allowed his eyes to flutter shut, his instrument played with skill he has never heard from any of his own pupils. There was no doubt in his heart that Maglor was worthy of every accolade that he had heard whispered among the musical circles. The song was one he had not heard before, but he quickly picked up the form of Maglor's tune. With a few quick instructions to the musicians behind them, the drums picked up the rhythm and carried it, enhancing Maglor's brilliant playing of the violin. After a couple repetitions, he joined in the revelry, his fingers moving swiftly over the holes of his best wooden flute. He kept Maglor's pace effortlessly, the music welling up in him until he could no longer contain it. Moving about, he began to dance with all the joy his spirit held, channelling his emotions through his instrument in a nearly magical way.

Maglor would have followed Daeron with his eyes if he could have, and he did not dance about as he played. He was aware, however, of where Daeron was in relation to him, finding it strange that Daeron's joy made what little joy he still possessed flare to life, ignited the latent talent inside him. He shifted the song effortlessly from one to the next, his hands moving tirelessly, and he added powerful vocalizations to the beauty of the instruments.

The shivers that ran down Daeron's spine simply did not cease as his ears were assailed with the beauty and strength of Maglor's voice. Like his partner, he played tirelessly, even with the added exertion of his dancing, only pausing to switch instruments and to remove his shirt when it became soaked with his sweat. Though his heart pounded in time with the beating drums, his voice rang clearly through the glade beside the pools of Ivrin. Maglor and he worked in tandem, their styles complete contrasts, but perfect compliments to one another. Only Lúthien had ever meshed so well with his playing, and there was no greater thrill to him than to become an extension of the Song with another.

Playing became more furious as he matched Daeron in speed and skill, though Maglor did not try to outdo the bard. He stopped only once to remove his shirt as Daeron had done, casting it aside, and his singing never ceased. He fitted the violin under his chin once more and lost himself, beginning to dance as he sang and played. It was something he'd only ever done with his mother, elder brother, and the two youngest brothers. He knew his father would be terribly embarrassed by his movements, the music he revelled in and offered up to the assembled Elves, but as his voice twined with Daeron's, he found he wasn't all that bothered by what his selfish, dead father would or would not have approved of.

It seemed like a small eternity that they played together, the musicians behind them struggling to keep up at times and even taking short breaks as they continue ceaselessly. There was no competition made between them, merely a beautiful uniting of styles developed on opposite sides of the world. It was a celebration the crowd relished, an absolute feast for the auditory sense, and the culmination of their efforts came in a final joyous display, a boisterous clamour that left their audience in an uproar of cheers. The final note of his voice fading into the raucous applause, Daeron held out his arms in surrender, the high of being one with his music incomparable.

Panting, his eyes bright, Maglor bowed several times, covered in sweat and feeling better than he had in decades. He bowed a final time, leaving Daeron the place of honour in the centre of the group, and slipped into the tent. Still trying to catch his breath, he tended to bow and violin with great care and respect. It was a beautiful instrument, and it played true. Maglor could still feel the weight of it in his hands, the taught strings and the smooth wood. How he loved music! He did not know how he had denied himself the joys of music for so many years, caught as he was in his father's web of revenge, but he did not think he could continue that denial now that he had tasted the intoxication of his talents once more.

Daeron took a few heaving breaths as he gave his last few bows before the crowd, his whole body alive and pounding with his pulse. Stepping to the side, he motioned to the other players, disappearing back to the tent as they received their own round of applause. He smiled to see Maglor caring for his instrument and joined him at the table, undoing the leather harness that had graced his hips throughout their performance. He cleaned the wooden and metal flutes, basking in the glow of such a wonderful set.

As he loosened the bow, Maglor's eyes darted to Daeron. "Your reputation is well-earned." He was suitably impressed, and he knew Daeron had held himself back. What he did not know was if he appreciated the gesture or resented it.

Daeron smiled with a humble nod of his head. "As is yours. I have never played with a more worthy Elf by my side... and you dance beautifully; I do not care what your Noldor tutors told you." The words fell from his lips, and he grinned to himself. While Lúthien was by far the greatest lyrical dancer he had laid eyes upon, and her voice was filled with the magic of the Ainur, she had never wished to explore the instrumental side of music. The compliments he gave Maglor were the highest he had ever spoken to another Elf in all his long years.

Maglor flushed lightly as he set the violin back into its place. "You flatter me, Daeron." His eyes travelled over Daeron's body, weighing the other Elf with interest. Daeron would make a poor warrior; he was far better suited for the music, and Maglor vaguely hoped war never forced the bard to pick up a weapon. His eyes moved to Daeron's right hand, seeking evidence of a marriage. He did not know what drew his gaze down, why he wanted proof Daeron was free to give and receive favours, but he sought it anyway.

"I do not flatter. And I do not knowingly lie," Daeron stated with a joyful smile, setting aside the last two of his flutes and checking the other instruments to make sure they are cleaned and tuned to perfection. He felt Maglor's gaze upon him as if it was a palpable touch, and he allowed the Noldo to look his fill. Eventually, he glanced back, taking in Maglor's sweaty form and his blushing features appreciatively. His laughing eyes gradually rose until they meet with stormy grey. "Looking for something?"

Crossing his arms as he leaned against a table, Maglor flicked his sweaty hair out of his face. "I merely wondered if such a talented musician had a wife and family waiting for his return from frolicking among the fires."

"Is that what you call my dancing?" Daeron laughed, knowing it was probably an apt description. "No. I do not have a wife or children." He merely had a Lady who was his closest female friend and seemed to have no interest in becoming more, despite his hopes. Lúthien had long ago captured his heart through their music, but he sometimes doubted anything would come of his affection. In those bouts of uncertainty, he took comfort in others. They were few and far between, and they were often his most beloved friends, but they did exist.

"A shame. One with such talents, who sits in such high esteem of the king, should have a lady and a handful of children learning to play the harp and flute." It was a dream of his own, one Maglor knew instinctively he would never be allowed to enjoy.

"I teach the children of others when they show natural potential... and that can be more than enough to make my head ache," Daeron chuckled. "With my luck, any children I would have would despise music." He licked his lips, choosing his next words tactfully. "It is a bit of a relief that my tastes do not lie solely with the female sex."

Maglor watched the pink tongue wet the sculpted lips and slowly met Daeron's eyes, his own words carefully chosen. "Is it? I must admit to the same. Long nights in a rough camp leads to comfort in a fellow soldier's arms." Such encounters left much to be desired, but they served their purpose, slaking the sexual need that could distract a warrior in a time when concentration was most important.

Daeron felt his heart beat a bit faster, and the slight arousal that had developed with all the adrenaline from their performance tingled back to life. There was an inexplicable pull Maglor exuded on him. It was incredibly rare for him to take a lover he did not know well prior to the mingling of lips and the coupling of bodies. He was an impulsive Elf, however, and at the risk of being overly bold, he let a distinctly sensual edge enter his voice. "Do you have a fellow soldier to return to this night? One to provide you with the comfort you speak of?"

The tone caused something hot and heady to pool in his groin, and Maglor couldn't believe he was even entertaining the idea of spending a night with the musical nymph. "No. There is none who can claim my favour." There hadn't been a sharing of his body in many years, in fact. He had chosen not to give of himself in the mindless, often uncomfortable, rutting in the dirt after the fire had been raked down to glowing coals. "Do you tend to proposition traitorous murderers in your music tent, Daeron?"

Daeron's laugh was small, amused and slightly embarrassed by the setting of their conversation. "No. I do not even tend to proposition *musicians* in my music tent," Daeron admitted, though there was cold fire in the depths of his eyes. "Do you tend to accept such blatant overtures?"

A half-smile graced Maglor's face. "I have never received one." It was not lost on him how Daeron chose to refer to him, and he stalked across the tent, his eyes always on Daeron's, the fire of those born in the glory of Aman lighting his own gaze. "Perhaps it is a sign of future opportunities to be scandalized by the Sindarin barbarism."

A small shiver ran the length of Daeron's spine. "If you ask me," he said, walking towards Maglor and meeting him half-way. "A little bit of barbarism has done you quite a bit of good." He could see the light in Maglor's eyes, a brightness that had been dulled before the music had reawakened in him. Raising a hand between them, he drew a single finger from the hollow between Maglor's collarbones down the centre of his torso, drawing attention to the fact that the Noldo had taken his shirt off and danced, which was much more than most of the other Noldor had done.

His breathing increased a fraction, and Maglor's skin tingled where that finger had touched him as his groin tightened with arousal. "Nelyo would scold me for such wild behaviour." He leaned in, his lips hovering over Daeron's, but not yet kissing him, and he whispered, "Are we to rut upon the floor of your instrument tent?"

Daeron's body tightened with Maglor's proximity, the Noldo's scent filling his senses along with the radiating heat of the lightly bronzed skin. "No, we are to share comfort and music of a more intimate sort on my bedroll if I have my way." He would not call what he desired mere rutting, despite the need that spiked through him.

A true smile curved Maglor's lips, and his eyes darted between Daeron's mouth and his eyes. "Do you usually have your way?"

Daeron found Maglor's smile entrancing, and he returned the expression with one of his own. "Frequently." He allowed the single word to roll from his lips. "Shall you indulge me once again this night?" he asked, darting out his tongue to lightly trace Maglor's lower lip and drawing back before the contact became substantial.

Maglor moaned softly, the arousal that had been whispering in his body becoming a full-blown rage. All he wanted was to know the pleasures Daeron's body could offer him. He had been alone for too long, suffering from misdeeds he could not undo. His voice was rough as he tried not to wrap his arms around Daeron and take his mouth in a searing kiss. "I... suppose." He brought his lips within a breath of Daeron's, teasing with breath and heat. "Lead the way, Master Bard."

Daeron's limbs tingled at the sound of Maglor's pleasure. The bait was there before his lips, and he couldn't help but take it. Closing the smallest distance between their lips, his kiss was one of invitation, light and superficial, a silent promise of more to come. Dipping his tongue between Maglor's parted lips, he hummed before pulling away.

Unaccustomed to being at the disadvantage, Maglor found Daeron pulling away before he was even able to slide his tongue against the bard's frustrating and strange. His cheeks flushed with want, and he growled. "If you do not wish for me to take liberties with your body right *now*..."

Eyes sparkling with desire and the slightest challenge, Daeron asks, "What?" He wanted to hear more of that rough voice, wanted to see what role Maglor preferred to take before leading them out of the tent.

Hands reached out, grasping Daeron roughly by the hips and bringing their groins into full contact, showing the bard the insistence of Maglor's desire as he ran his tongue up the side of Daeron's neck, whispering in that same guttural voice. "I shall have to bend you over the table and take your body until my need is satisfied."

Daeron's body tensed, twitching and shuddering with the pleasure of the movement. The feeling of Maglor's arousal against his own made him moan, the sound lilting from his lips like a sustained note from a softly sung melody. "Such a temptation..." he whispered, but he grasped Maglor's hands, pushing briefly into the Noldo's caresses before pulling back and hastily leading the way out of the tent. Instead of heading toward the area where most of the travellers had set up their tents, Daeron took them across the clearing and into the forests that surrounded Eithel Ivrin. At a quick pace, they easily reached a small clearing a short distance away, within sight of the festivities, but removed from them enough to provide privacy. It was there that he had set up his sleeping roll and fire pit. "I wanted to see the stars instead of sleeping beneath some tarp," he said with a smile in explanation, unwinding his hair from its thick plait. He had spent too many nights within the caves of Menegroth to not take advantage of the beautiful scenery at the pools of Ivrin.

Maglor smirked, pulling Daeron into his arms. That moan, lyrical and sweet, had set his blood to boil. "Tell me, Daeron, are you a quiet lover, or shall all of those gathered know your pleasure at my hands?"

His breath quickening, Daeron mirrored Maglor's expression, affecting a knowing smile. "Even at this distance, they shall hear my cries. If you command my silence, I will do my best to obey." He had never tried to be silent in his passion, but he wanted Maglor to know he would understand if the Noldo did not wish to draw attention, just as he had seen beside the fire when they first spoke.

"Silence your beautiful voice?" Maglor dipped his head, covering the protrusion at the front of Daeron's throat with his mouth, suckling and licking at what housed Daeron's instrument. "Such a terrible crime that would be."

Daeron melted in Maglor's arms, his head falling back as another musical moan drifted from his lips, caught on the light breeze that made his damp skin tingle. "I am... glad you think so..."

His lips continuing their exploration of Daeron's throat, Maglor felt himself pulled along by the tide of arousal. "Tell me what you like, Daeron," he murmured against sweaty, musky skin, his teeth nipping at the pulse under his lover's jaw. "Tell me how to pleasure you."

The gentle command made Daeron's body shudder, and he wove his fingers into the dishevelled, dark locks that brushed against his overheated skin. He could not ignore the seductive dominance that Maglor exuded in every word, and he licked his lips before forcing himself to form a response, his voice vibrating against lips and teeth. "I like to feel my lovers deep within me. I like to mark... and be marked with intoxicating slowness to the point where pain enhances pleasure. My ears are sensitive, but my lower abdomen is even more so." His breath hitched when Maglor's teeth nipped a bit harder at his pulse, and he smiled as he slid one hand down to pinch sharply at one of the Elf's nipples in playful retaliation. "More than anything," he breathed, revealing more than he usually did with his lovers, "I want to hear you. I want to hear the Song sing through you, Makalaurë."

Maglor hissed as Daeron's hand teased his chest, and he returned the favour of the stinging pleasure by biting harder at the throat bared before him. He was not usually a vocal lover, but he could not deny Daeron's request. His hands moved over the bard's chest and stomach, stopping at the tie of Daeron's trousers. "Tell me you have oil," he said hotly against the shell of Daeron's ear. "You are too beautiful to be in pain." He pulled at the tie, and felt the whisper of the fabric as it fell to the ground. Maglor did not pull back to look at Daeron's sex, choosing instead to encircle the flesh with his hand. His touch was light, exploring the organ while his lips and teeth continued to torment the pale column of Daeron's throat.

"Of course I... have oil," Daeron laughed, his voice broken by occasional moans. "You do not think I... would leave the camp... without thinking ahead, do you?" A soft cry was forced from him as he was exposed fully to the cool air, his arousal instantly curving upward into Maglor's maddeningly soft caresses. "Besides being within me... what desires do you keep hidden in... that shroud of darkness? Tell me what can I do to make you cry out with me." He punctuated the demand with a twist to Maglor's nipple and a teasingly light drag of his nails along the skin of the Noldo's shoulder blades.

A shudder rushed through Maglor, and he moaned softly, but he did not increase the pressure on Daeron's sex. He lifted his head and stared into the Sinda's eyes. "My hands hard on your hips, leaving bruises behind as I press my face between your backside," he said, his voice low and dark. He dragged his tongue along Daeron's lower lip. "Your mouth around the root of me, your teeth dragging lightly up my shaft as I fist your hair." Just speaking the desires made his body painfully hard, and he stifled an almost pleading groan by taking Daeron's mouth in a deep, sweeping kiss that left no portion of the sweet mouth untouched.

Daeron partook of the kiss with submissive voracity, exploring Maglor's mouth only when he was allowed entrance. The warrior-bard tasted of deep spices, softened by the lightest tang of sweet, sun-ripened berries. It was a flavour that perfectly suited the guarded Elf, and he savoured each swipe inside the wonderful mouth that he was granted. Hearing of Maglor's desires made his pulse pound throughout his body, and he raked his nails tantalizingly down Maglor's torso until his fingers were able to deftly pull apart the lacings to the Elf's trousers. Peeling the damp fabric from Maglor's hips, he slowly descended, his mouth pressing kisses and wet licks upon the skin as it was revealed, from hip to knee. He helped Maglor step out of the pooling cloth before looking up, the moonlight of the clearing reflecting brightly in his ice-blue eyes while he knelt before his lover.

Maglor's breath caught in his throat as he stared down at Daeron. Only two lovers had ever knelt before him, and those had been in the rose-hued youth he'd almost forgotten. His hand cupped Daeron's face, thumb rubbing over the apple of the bard's cheek, and then moved around to cup the back of his head. His eyes were intense, dark as he gazed into Daeron's eyes, and he urged the tempting mouth towards his groin. It was surreal in a way, for Maglor had thought this night would end with him tossing restlessly in his bedroll, left alone as his brother bedded their cousin and the fires burned down. Instead, he was pulled downward into the web of Daeron's sensuality, almost desperate to see the depths of the Sindarin bard's spirit.

It was that desire that shocked him the most, and Maglor breathed, "Open for me."

Lips parting in invitation, Daeron shivered as he was drawn forward, and a lyrical moan vibrated along the heated flesh that was eased into his mouth. He had always given his lovers as much as he received, and using his mouth upon the male organ was an act he had honed to an art long ago by the shores of Cuiviénen. With one hand to balance himself at Maglor's hip, he wrapped his slender fingers around the column of flesh that did not pass between his lips. He sucked upon the head of Maglor's sex, his tongue teasing with swirling flicks across the sensitive slit that seeped viscous fluid with Maglor's pleasure. All else was stroked languidly as he took the time to enjoy the girth of his lover, along with the singular scent and flavour. His eyes never left Maglor as he continued his ministrations, and it was clear from his frequent, humming moans that he took great pleasure in all that he did.

It had been years since he'd enjoyed such foreplay, and Maglor was not about to abuse or pass up the opportunity. He sighed softly, so accustomed to silence in the worn camps that it did not occur to him yet to give full voice to his enjoyment. He allowed his eyes to speak for him, the unfocused manner in which they stared down at Daeron. Maglor's hand massaged Daeron's neck, and his breathing became more laboured the longer that wicked tongue pleasured him. "You are accomplished with... your oral skills... minstrel," he panted, his other hand stroking Daeron's throat. "Do you still perform your... throat exercises?" Maglor gave Daeron a breathless smile while his fingers moved over the damp flesh.

A purr of a moan was Daeron's response, and his lips curved slightly while he drew his teeth gently over the flesh in his mouth. Not waiting for any encouragement, he relaxed his throat and slid smoothly forward, closing his eyes when his nose and lips were finally pressed against the base of Maglor's desire. He could not easily moan in such a position, but his fingers shivered as they moved beneath his chin to massage the sac below the length that was embedded in his throat. Engrossed in the intimacy of the act, he playfully went through a routine of exercises he had used throughout the years to improve the dexterity of the finer muscles in his throat, clenching in rhythmic patterns that he doubted any other lover could appreciate.

Maglor threw back his head and cried out, the sound ringing in the small clearing Daeron had claimed. Oh, he knew those movements of the throat. He did them himself quite often, even if he sang only for himself or his brothers. His hands immediately grasped Daeron's head, nails scratching lightly while his legs parted to give him a firmer stance. The new position also allowed Daeron's hands greater access to his groin, but he told himself that had not been his primary reason for splaying his legs as he had. "The Valar... you are... good!"

Daeron shuddered with pleasure at the compliment, and his hands took advantage of Maglor's position, caressing inner thighs and massaging the space just beyond the downy sac. He worked his throat relentlessly about Maglor, and his fingers widened their range, brushing against the Noldo's entrance. From Maglor's tastes, he knew better than to enter the guarded territory, and he sought only to bring dizzying pleasure to his partner through circling and teasing the sensitive skin. Eventually, he had to pull back, gasping for air as motes of light streaked across his vision, but a few breaths was all it took to clear his head a bit, and he began to bob his head forward and back, drawing Maglor deep into his throat with each passionate movement.

No one had ever touched him between the cleft of his backside, and Maglor shivered violently, his hands pulling on Daeron's hair. He began to thrust into the talented throat, his face upturned to the night sky, and he savoured the intimacy of this pleasure. Rarely had they used mouths on the road. It was far easier to grasp one another in calloused hands while brow rested against brow, and bring each other a quick end. This was sinful, an indulgence he'd not been permitted. "Daeron," he moaned, the name a song lilting from between parted lips.

That song harmonized with something deep inside Daeron's spirit, and he answered with his own muffled sounds of pleasure. On his knees before Maglor, he surrendered to the joys of lust and passion, giving all that he was able, knowing it would be returned and shared. Icy eyes occasionally flickered upward, sacrificing depth and speed in favour of slowly scraping his teeth along the slick flesh, just as Maglor had said he desired. What he saw in the moonlight was a breathtaking vision of beauty and sorrows muted by ecstasy and sensuality, and his heart nearly stopped, though the rhythm of his mouth did not falter.

When Maglor felt those teeth scrape along sensitive, needy flesh, he gave another drawn-out shout. His sounds became more frequent as his mind forgot they weren't alone. The space Daeron had chosen had been perfect, for he felt they were secluded, that no other heard his pleasure but Daeron. With great reluctance, Maglor pulled on Daeron's hair, disengaging the gloriously talent mouth from his pulsing shaft. Panting, he leaned down and took the slightly swollen lips in a rough, consuming kiss, tasting the slight tang of himself on the slick tongue. With hesitant grace, Maglor fell to his knees and pressed Daeron back, not relinquishing his hold on the bard's delicious mouth.

Daeron could barely breathe as his lips were assaulted, an ache spreading out in small tendrils from his well-used lips. His ears filled with the echoes of Maglor's pleasure, Daeron moaned deliriously into his lover's mouth. His hands wound around the warrior-bard's sculpted body, gripping at skin that already bore the scars of battle. Pulling back from the younger Elf's devouring kiss, his chest heaved to bring in more air to his lungs. "Valar, Maglor!" he gasped, though his lips twitched into a smile as he panted, his eyes slightly dilated and a hue darker with the blaze of arousal.

Maglor took in great gulps of air, his eyes intense and burning as he met Daeron's gaze. "Have you never been bedded with such abandon?" he asked, his hand slipping between their bodies to grasp at Daeron once more.

"Not since -- ah! -- my childhood," Daeron laughed breathlessly.

"Such a shame. It is high time you were." Maglor's mouth descended to Daeron's throat, finding the speeding pulse and covering it with his lips. With ever increasing suction, he begins to raise a deep mark while his hand moved smoothly over the hot shaft between Daeron's legs. He raked his teeth over the reddening flesh, and then licked broadly before pressing his mouth once more over the spot and sucking fiercely, moaning against the pounding pulse.

It had been whispered throughout the camp that Fëanor's spirit had burned with an all-consuming fire. Daeron was now convinced that the same fire flowed through Maglor's veins, and he was hopelessly caught within the raging blaze. The intensity of Maglor's touch caused him to cry out, his voice carrying far through the trees, which seemed to shiver as they leaned in to listen more closely. His hips moved of their own accord, and he whimpered as pain slowly built at his neck, melding deliciously with his pleasure. He had never felt such fierce passion, and the more he was exposed to it, the more he craved. "Maglor!"

Maglor was intent on his task, though he could not miss what he heard in the sounds Daeron made. There was something deeper than mere sound, and he wasn't certain many heard it. If they did hear it, he doubted they recognized it. There was magic in the voice, and Maglor felt the entire forest around them shiver with the arousal the bard in his arms shook with. When he feared the flesh between his lips would break the next time he dragged his teeth across it, he pulled back with a gasping moan, staring into Daeron's eyes as he stroked his lover's sex. "Daeron," he replied, smirking arrogantly as he stared into the flushed face.

His pulse pounding painfully at his neck, Daeron looked up at Maglor with wide eyes, his dark lashes fluttering wildly for long moments. He licked his lips and groaned as he tried to swallow, the action sending shooting pains down his neck, intensifying the heat in his groin that Maglor easily stoked to a blaze. The expression on Maglor's face, coupled with the timbre of his voice as it purred his name, brought a breathless laugh of delight to his lips. "Don't... look so... smug," he breathed, and, with a quick movement, his own hand was gripping tightly at Maglor's length.

A sharp, crack of cry left Maglor's lips, and he released Daeron's shaft, batting the bard's hand away from his own. "As much as I would like to tease one another until we're mad, I have plans for you." He gave Daeron a gentle shove, forcing the bard onto his back, and parted the long, sleek legs. His hands stroked the strong thighs as he inched closer, and his eyes glittered in the moonlight. "I think it is only fair I taste you, for you have tasted me, don't you agree?"

Maglor's expression looked feral and, in its own way, utterly free, and Daeron's heart sped at the foreboding words. With a small whimper, he shifted into a comfortable position on the forest floor, making a small show out of his squirming. "Aye," he said, though his agreement was given with a note of playful wariness.

A cruel smile curved Maglor's lips. "Not where you expect me to, old shadow. Lift your legs high and show me your secrets," he ordered firmly.

Hooking his hands beneath his knees, Daeron smirked at his lover. "What makes you think I did not expect where?" He slowly drew his legs back to his chest, exposing himself wantonly before Maglor's hungry gaze.

"Be truthful," Maglor purred, spreading himself along the ground so that his breath and lips teased sensitive flesh. "Did you expect it?" Without waiting for an answer, Maglor lapped broadly at the musky flesh, moaning loudly as he repeated the action.

Daeron's gasp was followed by a long, drawn out moan, his muscles fluttering against Maglor's tongue. "You... said you wished to." He had suspected.

Maglor decided to answer without words, using his hands to spread his lover wide and stab his tongue into the clenching heat of Daeron's body. The mere scent of the bard enflamed his own desire, which he rubbed against the rough cloth of Daeron's bedroll as he moved in and out of the Sinda with his tongue. It was a prelude to their coupling, and Maglor tried his damnedest to translate how he rutted through the use of his tongue.

The erotic sensation made Daeron want to writhe beneath Maglor, but he forced himself to stay still, to limit his movements to a small thrusting of his hips to meet that wicked tongue. He attempted to look down at Maglor between his legs, but, unable to see his lover's face, he quickly gave up and let his head fall back to the fallen leaves beside his bedroll. It took his body a couple minutes to relax into the intoxicating sensation, but when he felt the quivering muscles of his entrance unwind, the small sounds of encouragement he had given to Maglor became loud calls of the Noldo's name, entreating for more.

Never had he heard his name spoken in such beautiful notes. Dulcet and passionate, the sounds wrapped around Maglor and pulled him in; he was determined to bring Daeron to heights of pleasure the bard had never experienced. He drew his tongue up along the line of flesh between opening and sac, over the tight pouch, and then along the gentle arc of Daeron's sex. As he took the shaft between his lips, devouring the length with the same fire he had consumed Daeron's mouth, he pressed gently against the slippery opening with a finger, dipping just the tip inside his lover.

A violent shudder sent shivers through Daeron's limbs, and his hands flew to Maglor's head, tangling in the Noldo's dark, mussed hair. It had been far too long since he had felt such glorious, moist heat on his flesh. He tensed slightly when he felt the probing touch within him, but with a steadying breath and a few urgent moans, he felt all resistance melt away. "I have... oil..." he breathed, one hand reaching blindly to his side, where his pack lay just out of reach.

Pulling wetly off of Daeron, Maglor panted, "Then *find* it!"

"If you would... stop *distracting* me..." Daeron reprimanded half-heartedly, fwapping Maglor's shoulder with an expression of pure desire. He had to scoot to the side in order to reach his pack, but when the leather strap finally came in contact with his fingers, he urgently pulled it close and instantly found the case he was looking for. He always kept a practice flute in his pack to practice with when the fancy struck him. In the pocket within the small, silk-lined case was a bottle of oil to maintain the beautiful finish of the wood. "Never thought I would... use it for this," he chuckled with a wry smile, extracting the vial before swiftly replacing the case and tossing the pack aside.

Maglor snatched the oil from Daeron's hand, coating his fingers impatiently. "Would you prefer we simply use spit?" He bent over once more, taking Daeron back into his mouth, and his fingers gently pushed at the opening, smearing the oil generously while he bobbed his head upon Daeron's shaft.

Daeron thought to give some witty retort, but such thoughts were obliterated as Maglor's mouth worked his length. His thighs parted wide, he reached down to tease and pinch at Maglor's ears, tracing the outer curves and flicking the points when conscious thought allowed. "The Sindar... rumoured to be... barbaric," he panted between lilting moans, "but your passion... your *eyes* are... feral and..." His voice trailed off into a series of moans that resembled notes of a primal song.

The sounds that caressed his ears were more arousing than the touches themselves. Maglor wanted nothing more than to plunge himself into Daeron's body and be surrounded by music that contained the magic of the Firstborn and the heavenly tightness of the physical. However, he forced himself to move with some level of restraint. Using more pressure, one of his fingers slipped slowly into Daeron's passage, and Maglor moaned around the slick flesh in his mouth, feeling the strength of those muscles around his finger

With a gasp, Daeron whimpered at the initial penetration as his body instinctively tensed. It was certainly not the first time he had submitted to a male lover, but after two centuries of celibacy, it was almost like he had never experienced the joy of such an intimate touch. He forced himself to make his exhales longer than his sharp inhales, the tension in his backside abating enough so he could press into the slow thrusts Maglor began to make into him, spreading oil along the tight walls of his channel.

Maglor sucked fiercely on the tip of Daeron's sex while he gradually added the second finger. He marvelled at the tightness, and he exerted more self-control in those minutes than he had in decades. Allowing the length to slip from his lips, he panted harshly, staring up at Daeron spread out before him as he thrust the fingers in and out. "You are... absolutely stunning," he whispered. He wasn't given to idle flattery, and he rarely voiced compliments, and so it was a bit of a surprise for him when he did so now. "Like Ithil in the heavens, pale surrounded by inky blackness."

Daeron had received many compliments in his long years, but it was incredibly rare for him to blush after such an extensive lifetime that began in the starlight near the pools of Cuiviénen. It came as a shock, therefore, when he felt his cheeks grow hot, burning with more than the flush of desire. His gratitude was given in a vibrant smile, and his words were breathless as he spoke, his hands running through Maglor's hair, which had dried partially in the cool breeze to soft waves of dark maple. "You move with such... powerful grace... a great cat with gleaming eyes. Your voice is like the Sea... deep and sonorous, soothing... consuming." It was a voice that sang the Song so beautifully that Daeron knew Maglor's potential, much like his own, knew no limits.

Bracing himself over Daeron's body, his fingers still working to prepare the way for him, Maglor brought their lips together in a deep, suffocating kiss. As his tongue slid along Daeron's, inviting the bard to taste of him, he curved his fingers and rubbed over the raised gland within the passage he stretched. The words were taken to heart; compliments had been hard-won in Fëanor's house, and to be so graciously complimented by Daeron, the greatest minstrel of their race, was a high honour he cherished.

Daeron cried out as streaks of white lightning flashed through him, causing his back to arch against his bedroll for a moment. A blissful laugh fell from his lips, and he pushed back against Maglor's fingers. "Gods! Too long since I... last felt that!" He kissed Maglor passionately, his tongue dancing behind his lover's lips. "Again," he requested, his breath teasing against damp lips.

Maglor opened his eyes, gazed down into the sweaty, perfect face, and watched the expressions play across the fine features as he, again, rubbed against that spot. With a smile that made his face look youthful and free, he added the third finger, immediately stroking the gland to alleviate the initial discomfort of his fingers. "I love the music you make," he whispered. Daeron was like the grandest, most sublime instrument he'd ever played. "I could be tempted to play you until time ended."

Another cry made the trees quiver around them, and Daeron took in the face above him when his eyes fluttered open again. The sight alone eased the small pains that came with Maglor's careful stretching. Throughout the afternoon and evening, Daeron had seen Maglor being as one caged, kept from the passions of his heart and silenced by the sorrows that fate had forced upon him. To view him now, as he had been in the heat of their performance, carefree and full of life, sent an indescribable warmth to the core of his spirit. Licking along Maglor's lower lip, he grinned. "You would not hear me -- ah! -- complain. I live to be a vessel for the Song..."

"Mmm, an eternity with you by my side?" Maglor splayed his fingers within the confines of Daeron's body. "An alluring prospect."

Alluring indeed, Daeron thought to himself as the warmth within his spirit intensified. Stretched and prepared, he grabbed the vial of oil and coated one of his hands, slipping it between their bodies to stroke Maglor's heavy sex. Another stroke to that spot within him sent his whole body shivering with need, and he twisted his wrist expertly, allowing his thumb to slide along the leaking tip. "I want you deep inside me," he panted.

"I am happy to oblige," Maglor moaned, grasping Daeron's wrists in his large hand and pressing them to the ground above the bard's head. Positioning himself at the oiled opening, he pushed himself into Daeron, crying out loudly as he sank to the hilt into the clutching warmth. He clenched his teeth, his breathing quick and ragged, and he tried to remain still, allowing Daeron time to adjust to the length and girth of him. "By the Valar... I have never felt anything... so sweet!"

Daeron's cry harmonized perfectly with Maglor's as they rang through the trees, and his eyes stared unseeing up through the boughs and branches framing the starlit sky. Pain flared in his backside and along the deep bruise at his throat, where his pulse thundered harshly beneath the skin, but beneath the current of crimson was overwhelming pleasure. His ears positively tingled at the sound of their joining, and his toes curled as pain gradually gave way to fullness and deeply fulfilling connection. Having his hands bound above him made the experience all the more intense and erotic, and he swivelled his hips, eager and wanton. "Move, Makalaurë... Make our bodies sing," he crooned.

More erotic words Maglor had never heard. He began withdrawing and thrusting back into the body, his weight born mostly by his left hand while his right continued to hold Daeron's wrists. He started slowly, and gradually added depth and speed, until their bodies were surging with the force of his thrusts. Maglor never took his eyes from Daeron's face, the intensity of his pleasure there to be seen in his gaze. Quiet sounds of enjoyment grew quickly into loud moans and eager cries. His voice did not carry the magic Daeron's did, but it did hold a myriad of nuances not found in the average Elf's. It was primal, coupling with the Sinda in a clearing near a festival still raging nearby, his pleasure given ample voice as he took the willing, sensual body that seemed to be nothing more than melody given physical form. In a moment of profound clarity, Maglor realised he never wanted to give up what he'd found in Daeron this night.

Their vocalizations melded and intertwined, a symphony composed in celebration and performed for any who cared to listen. It was joyous, but there was so much more within the straining notes and pounding percussion. Longing and sorrow gave depth to the chords; anger and courage lent power that was tempered by playfulness and hope. It was truly a uniting of two themes, made all the more complex and glorious for the way they wove around one another, opposing and complimenting in the same instant. Never before had Daeron experienced such a deep connection, his Song aligning with another's. As the tempo increased and their bodies reached the peak of a great crescendo, Daeron could do little more than scream at the perfection of their passion.

Maglor threw his head back, his shout joining Daeron's. Body tight, he spent himself in a blissful, ideal moment of pleasure and brilliance. He was certain he heard the trees tremble with their shared climax. The sharpness of completion faded, and his body relaxed. Maglor blanketed Daeron, releasing the bard's wrists so he could wrap his arms around the pliant body. Breath short and his flesh still hot, he pressed gentle kisses to lips, cheeks, and eyes, savouring the intimacy that always followed such couplings. "Beautiful," he whispered against plump lips. "You... are so beautiful... sound so... beautiful..." The dizzying heights of orgasm stole any sense of coherency and eloquence he would otherwise have possessed.

Shaking hands gripped weakly at Maglor's neck and shoulders, and Daeron revelled in the throbbing pleasure and ache that lingered in the shimmering afterglow as his chest heaved for sufficient air. He spoke without checking his words, letting them slip cryptically from his lips between gasping breaths and tender kisses. "You glimmer... golden... don't tarnish... shine..." His mind was a swirling jumble of notes and disconnected phrases, remnants of the Song that began to slowly fade as their heartbeats calmed.

Maglor nuzzled the vibrant, large mark on Daeron's throat. "Oh, magical shadow," he said, his words slightly slurred. "I was tarnished the moment my sword pierced Alcaro's breast and spilled his blood over my hands."

Daeron combed his fingers through Maglor's hair. His heart ached for the suffering of the Noldor and those that he knew intuitively had been slain across the Sea. "The sword is part of your name... part of who you are. Do you not wipe the blade clean so it gleams? Do you not see? The darkness in you... the darkness that surrounds you... only makes you shine more brilliantly. The stars of Varda shine their brightest in the darkest of nights..."

"I will do terrible things before my time here is done," Maglor said with resigned certainty. "My brilliance will be drowned in a sea of blood." Carefully, he extracted himself from Daeron's passage, shivering as sensitive flesh met cool night air.

A gasp was followed by a warm hum when Daeron felt Maglor's seed seeping from his aching body. He was granted knowledge now that he had not expected, and he knew what a large risk it was for Maglor to whisper of his past to an advisor sent by Thingol to learn the secrets of the returned Noldor. Moving them both to their sides, Daeron let one of his hands trail along Maglor's side. "You will only drown if you allow the darkness to swallow you whole without a fight. Perhaps it is through that sea of blood that you are destined to shine... as you did tonight."

Maglor smiled faintly, brushing Daeron's cheek with his thumb. "Then I can assume you were satisfied with my bedroom prowess?" he teased. Valar, he could grow accustomed to this, the quiet talks following explosive lovemaking.

Daeron's laugh was quiet, a sound that hearkened back to the play of water upon stone near the shores of Cuiviénen. "I am more than satisfied... I am inspired. The music that rose from us," he shook his head gently. "I have never heard or felt anything like that before. You are so... overwhelmingly erotic and passionate."

"Is that so?" Maglor's hand skated down Daeron's chest to his stomach, and he began to rub the bard's seed into the flesh of his lower abdomen with a smouldering smile. "I must agree, though. Never have I felt such a connection or heard my song complimented so perfectly. The magic in your voice is a wonder to behold."

The soft, massaging touch on Daeron's hypersensitive skin made him squirm lightly, a pleased purr of a sigh pulled from his lips. "The forests and streams were my first tutors... the glimmer of the stars and the soft roar and hiss of the waves falling on the shores of the Inner Sea. I learned the songs of the early generations, learned to join in the music I could feel all around me."

Maglor listened raptly as he stroked Daeron's body, his hand unable to remain still, choosing instead to explore the expanse before him. "I wish I had been given such freedom. To hear the Sea, to know the trees..." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Your barbarism is contagious, meldir."

"Were we all not barbarous in the beginning?" Daeron asked with a bright smile, humming as he was so gently touched by calloused fingers. "Your grandfather revelled in the starlight with the rest of us."

A flush crept across his features as Maglor thought of his grandfather engaging in such things. "He would be so ashamed of how his line has betrayed his race." Maglor furrowed his brow. "Why is it I speak so freely with you? Why is it I cannot cease touching you?" His stormy eyes met Daeron's, so like vibrant waters of Lake Mithrim. "Why does my chest ache to think of parting ways when this celebration ends?"

"I cannot answer all those questions," Daeron admitted, sadness softening his voice, "but the ache you speak of is shared. While we have, in our own way, celebrated this Mereth Aderthad, we both are perceptive enough to see how tenuous this peace is." He swallowed, the movement causing a shiver of pain to shoot down his throat and spine, making him smile slightly. His fingers brushed along the lines of Maglor's jaw and throat, and he thought of returning to Menegroth, giving his report to Thingol. His expression became thoughtful, his brow creasing slightly with concentration. "There are forces working in Beleriand that are out of our control. The threat in the north will rise again, and the Elves will need to unite to defend themselves." He truly doubted that any Elven force could defeat Melkor; the dark lord was the greatest of the Ainur. "Whatever news reaches Thingol's ears of the Kinslaying you have alluded to... it will not be spoken by me." Maglor's confessions had been made in confidence.

Maglor's skin warmed where Daeron caressed, and he grasped the Sinda's hand and kissed the palm. "Thank you," he murmured, his eyes reflecting deep sincerity.

Daeron smiled softly. "You do not need to thank me, Makalaurë. Someone is going to have to tell him... one of your kin. He deserves to know whether his brother Olwë was harmed. I have only delayed the inevitable. Best you prepare for the consequences..."

Running his fingers over the bruise at Daeron's throat, Maglor sighed. "We already bear the consequences, Daeron," he said, his voice full of melancholy notes and regret. "Through life and into death, we bear the consequences for our actions. More than you, or Elu Thingol, can possibly imagine."

Craning his neck, Daeron pressed a soft kiss to Maglor's lips, wanting to give the Noldo some sort of comfort, however fleeting. "That is why I hope my silence does not make things worse."

"Would you mind if I held you tonight?" Maglor desperately wanted closeness with someone, and he felt that with Daeron. "Would you please sleep in my arms?"

Daeron smiled, and it seemed the brightness of the stars were reflected in the depths of his ancient eyes. "I would be glad to. Just promise me one thing, Makalaurë."

"I do not give promises lightly," Maglor warned, brushing back Daeron's hair.

A small nod accompanied Daeron's understanding expression. "Whatever darkness comes... all that you see, all that you do, by force or by choice... Compose. For your father spoke the truth. The deeds you shall do *shall* be the matter of songs until the end of Arda, but it is *you* who must write the notes and lyrics, for no other can ever sing the Song as you can, and no other will."

For long minutes, Maglor stared into Daeron's eyes, weighing the promise asked of him. Compose? Centuries had passed since he'd last composed, though his fingers had often itched do so. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit he'd been filing away notes and chords, themes and melodies, since his father had raised arms against Fingolfin. Perhaps it was time he put a quill to parchment and began recording those deeds in the only manner he could. Maglor wet his lips and nodded. "I promise, Lëonwë."

Peaceful tranquillity washed over Daeron, and he pulled Maglor into a slow, deeply intimate kiss, saying, "I shall remember your promise, Makalaurë."

In the wake of such a powerful kiss, Maglor felt the world spin, and he wondered if he would ever again be content to be a lonely soldier buried under the weight of his misdeeds. "I... think we should sleep..." It had been a long day, an active night, and the celebration would be ending within the next few days. He intended on spending every moment he had with Daeron, committing to memory all moments shared, be they personal, mundane, musical, or sensual.

Daeron chuckled, his heart beating in a chest that seemed filled to the brim with warmth. "Aye. There is a brush in my pack." He managed to look sheepish. "Would you be willing to help me untangle my hair as I start a fire?"

"Of course," Maglor said with a smile. "I would love to..."

***

He was alone.

He'd known the moment Fingon fell, he would be the last of his brothers to walk the lands of the living. Outcast, dispossessed, alone, Kanafinwë, second eldest son of Feanáro, stood before the rushing sea that now covered the lands of Beleriand. Lands he, with his brothers, had helped to rip apart with blood, hatred, and revenge. Their actions had aided the Dark Lord's corruption; Melkor had not been the only sickness to take root in the Hither Lands.

Maglor had kept his promise. It had been a promise made after the most intimate coupling of his long life, and it had been a torch that lit his path for the last two centuries. He had shared only a handful of nights with that Elf, and the final night they'd shared had been anything but satisfactory except for the violent spending of seed. Maglor had said things he regretted now, and he wondered if the Sinda even remembered him.

If he did remember him, were they fond memories?

But, he had kept his promise. He had composed in times of light and laughter, of grief and tears, of sorrow and mourning, and of joy and pleasure. Maglor had spent centuries composing, and his masterpiece was now complete as the First Age ended and the Second Age dawned. No Elf had heard that great composition, though he knew the rumours of it spread even now. He was a ghost among people who only remembered the deeds of Fëanor's sons as kinslayings and greed.

Maedhros, Maglor thought, had been granted the greatest release.

He... had not been.

Unlike his elder brother, his beloved Nelyo, Maglor could not take his own life, and there were none who walked who would take it for him. Eternity spread out before him as an unending misty shore filled with only the rushing of the sea to ease the pains of silence.

Maglor opened his mouth and offered up the second refrain from his glorious composition, the Noldolantë, in which his father spoke rash words to their kin. On the precipice of change, Fëanor had demanded obedience and loyalty, and woe to any who did not swear fealty to a banished king. His only audience was that sea, now and forever his constant companion, hiding all the misdeeds he'd once committed, all the misdeeds history would vividly remember.

All the acts his masterpiece chronicled, composed by the very hand that had wielded the bloody sword that had carved out that history.

He hoped that magical shadow he'd once called lover now sang and danced in the lands he himself would never again see.

Daeron's footfalls were not as silent as they had once been, and the cadence of his slow steps faltered when he heard a single voice carry on the winds of the sea. Following the lonely pair of tracks in the sand, he listened as he always had to the music sung by the Firstborn. There was no mistaking the voice, that sonorous, oceanic timbre, and he felt the same pull grip his spirit just as it had centuries ago, guiding his steps to the source of the mournful, lilting notes. He was silent as he stood by, a small distance away, the wind causing his hair to float about him in silken, black tendrils, obscuring his vision as much as the tears that welled in his eyes.

Maglor sang through several of the verses, but the pain of it all was simply too much. His voice could no longer sustain the notes, and the final verse echoed out across the sea as he fell silent. He didn't feel the chill of the air or the dampness of salt-spray on his skin, soaking through his clothes. Desperately, not for the first time, and he knew it would not be the last, he wished he had told Daeron all he'd felt for him before they'd parted. The world had been remade, and so many of the Elves had returned to Aman, and he offered up a quiet prayer to the Valar. "Despite all the evil I have done, please... *please* let him find happiness..."

Daeron felt his already fragile heart tear open. Trying to keep the tears from his voice, he smiled sadly. "Who is this Elf you speak of?"

Spinning around, Maglor looked upon a face he hadn't seen since before Lúthien had fled Doriath. "Daeron?" His heart hammered in his chest as he took a tentative step forward. "I... I thought you would have returned to Aman with the others..."

Looking down to where his hands were clasped, Daeron shook his head. "Do you not read history, Makalaurë?" he teased half-heartedly. "I strayed to the East, not to the West... but the trees called me back here. They whispered of a lone singer's lament by the Sea. I had to be sure..."

Maglor continued to approach Daeron, almost afraid to reach out and touch him. "Be sure... of what?" he asked when he stood close enough to feel the heat of Daeron's body against his chilled one.

Ice-blue eyes lifted to meet stormy grey. "That you had kept your promise," Daeron said, and he tried to hide his grief behind a laugh as he brushed away a tear that fell from his dark lashes. "'Twas selfish, I know... but it was all I had left."

"Why do you weep?" Maglor reached out and cupped Daeron's cheek, his thumb stroking tenderly at the pale cheek. "I had hoped you would have found happiness, Daeron. Someone to sing with, to love, to be loved by." He knew Daeron had loved Lúthien, and she had not returned that love, but he had hoped... For so many years now, he had hoped Daeron would come to *him*.

Daeron all but grimaced at the painful ache that shot through him as Maglor touched him, but he raised his own hand to entwine their fingers. "I weep because I thought, perhaps..." His brow furrowed with grief. "My spirit has only truly sang with two others' in my long life. I loved Lúthien the moment she was placed in my arms, shrieking as a babe... and I loved you the moment I coaxed you into singing at the Mereth Aderthad. Only after my heart was broken with grief did I realise why we had harmonized so perfectly... but I am too late again..." He squeezed Maglor's hand, forcing a smile to curve his lips, though he could not meet the Noldo's gaze. "This Elf you pray for, does he dwell now in Valinor?"

Loved him... Daeron... *loved*... *him*! A smile, something that hadn't graced his face for decades, bloomed on his lips. "No. No, he did not sail, it seems. He has been wandering, lost, until the mournful song of his companion drew him back from those wanderings."

Maglor's tone forced Daeron's eyes upward in confusion, but the words made them widen to an unnatural size. The ancient bard was many things, but he was not daft. Still, as he brushed an errant lock of windswept hair back behind his ear, the only word he could manage was, "What?"

"I prayed for *you*, Daeron," Maglor said with a quiet laugh. "I prayed you had found your happiness, for I have loved you for so long now... "

Daeron, for the first time in his life, was absolutely speechless. No words, in the Old Tongue or the new would pass his lips. He simply stared and, after a few harsh breaths, all but flung himself into Maglor's arms, uncaring of the chill to the Elf's skin and the dampness of his garments.

Maglor wrapped his arms around Daeron instantly, holding him close to his body. "Forgive me my harsh, cruel words when we last spoke, and come live with me by the sea. Sing with me, love me, and I will love you. Stay with me, Daeron, be mine," he murmured near the delicately pointed ear. "Be *mine*."

The laugh that Daeron meant to vocalize came out as more of a sob, and he pulled back to regard Maglor tearfully. "An eternity with you at my side?" he asked with a smile, quoting Maglor's words from so long ago. "Quite an alluring prospect." His fingertips took in the contours of Maglor's face as if for the first time, brushing across the strong forehead, the lines of cheekbones and jaw, and finally tracing wind-chilled lips. "I would sing with you until the end of Eä... as your friend, your lover... your bonded mate."

"Mate?" Maglor laughed, the sound carrying easily on the cool, salty breeze, like effervescent notes of joy. "Yes, Daeron, friend, lover, mate, until Eä is no more." Without waiting for another word from the Sindarin bard, Maglor covered his lover's mouth with his own and kissed him with passionate abandon, in love and truly happy for the first time in his life.

It would seem he would need to add a new verse to the Noldolantë...

The End