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phynckeTitle: Spirit of Fire
Author: Phyncke
Character(s): Fëanor/Manwë
Rating: NC-17
Beta: Khylea
Warnings: Slash, AU elements, character death (canon)
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the property of JRR Tolkien and his estate, and I have borrowed them for my own amusement and for yours I hope.
For: nuinzelen and the Slashy Valentine 2012 Swap.
Summary: An “elf” arrives to work at Fëanor’s forge, Vala intervention in the life of the famous artisan.
Prologue
For the son to live, the mother had to die, had to give all of her strength to the fire of her child’s spirit. Inherent in Fëanáro’s birth lay tragedy and sorrow for so great a sacrifice. Miriel, mother of the strongest of the Elda ever born, held on long enough to see her son to full age and then went to rest, her body and mind weary of living, and the burdens of the world. She lay in the gardens of the Valar and so slumbered, her fëa,in keeping with Mandos.
Her kin bore this for a time, her husband Finwë visited while there yet was hope that she might be restored, but after a time, when hope was gone, he came no longer to the gardens. Miriel faded away and the Valar let her die, as she willed. One could not be forced to live when one would not. Manwë grieved this choice and the effect it would have on the boy, the resentments that might fester and grow in the mind of one so young.
He wondered if there was something he could do and so thought a while on his mountain looking out through the clouds, pondering and deliberating present, past, and the future yet to come.
Spirit of Fire
Work and more work, it was all he lived to do, testing the precious metals, learning their ways and everything about them. Singular focus and intensive study. He was skilled as his mother had been, gifted of hand, with strength and the ability to perform delicate work. She had used the needle, creating intricate embroidery, while Fëanáro created fine metalwork and gems. Tutored by Mahtan and self-guided, he spent many a day at his forge, thinking, designing and experimenting. This was his vocation, his expression.
One day, there happened to be a visitor to his workshop. A tall elf entered to wait by the door as Fëanor bent over his workbench not noticing that anyone was there. Looking around the newcomer could see little attention was paid to maintenance and cleaning in the shop. Metal shards littered the floor, tools were scattered about. It was evident that the craftsman could use aid in the daily managing of his shop.
The intruder, named Menelon, patiently waited to gain the other elf’s attention. He did not want to disturb Fëanor’s work or concentration. Luckily, the Noldorin elf looked up and caught on that someone was waiting.
“How long have you been standing there? I was not expecting anyone today.”
“Just a few moments, my lord.”
“Well, what do you want? I am busy here.” Fëanor did not disguise the annoyance in his tone. He had little enough time as it was and this person had not been invited.
Rather than persuade with flowery speeches, Menelon got directly to the point. He surmised that Finwë’s son would appreciate plain speech.
“I wonder if you need an assistant here to help around your shop. I am handy with the broom, a quick learner and very strong. It does look as though you could use someone here to aid you.” He waved his hand around at the disarray in the main room of the workspace.
Fëanor rubbed his chin, thinking this an interesting development and certainly a surprise. He had thought the person required a jewelry commission or some such but to work here, now that was something to consider. He paused to take stock of the chaos in the shop; shavings all over the floor, tools on most surfaces, dirty cloths littering the tables.
“And how would you be paid?”
“Food and lodging and I would learn from you.”
“Really.”
The visitor nodded and Fëanor noted the extreme blue shade of his eyes, the almost painful clarity of them, like the sky above Valinor on a cloudless day. He wondered if this was too good to be true but did not allow that thought to take hold. This arrangement would benefit him greatly.
“I don’t like to be talked to in the morning before tea.”
“Right.”
That was as close to a deal as they got.
/---/
Having arrived in the morning, Menelon got right to work, tying back his dark tresses into a very practical braid. He rolled up his sleeves to begin to organize and clean Fëanor’s forge. He stowed his belongings in the back room which held two small beds and did a quick survey of tools and implements that might assist him in his work; broom, mop, soap, all in evidence in a storage closet. There, but gathering dust through non-use.
As Fëanor worked, Menelon swept through the shop room, picking up tools where they lay and hanging them up in their place on the wall. He gathered up all the dirty rags and cloths into a basket for washing and then ran the broom across the floor from end to end, gathering up the shards of metal that had fallen. These could be used again in some way. He expected the master craftsman did not like to waste the precious metal but would have him sift it and apply it to other projects.
This all took him the better part of morning and early afternoon and he noticed that Fëanor had not stopped for lunch.
“Are you hungry, my Lord?”
“I could eat.” Fëanor leaned over an emerald gem, examining, but made no move to go to the pantry. He might stop for quickly eaten food but would rarely make a meal. The forge was well stocked with all manner of provisions, at the order of his father, who worried for his well being. He took it for granted that there was sustenance but had nary a thought for where it came from. He became so consumed in his work after Miriel’s passing that he thought of little else but that.
Mene, or thus he had become, with the expedient shortening of his name, hastened to the pantry to fix something for them both. His idea was small fare that would be easy to eat; hearty bread and meat and vegetables cut in bite sized pieces. He could also cook larger meals but thought this would suffice for now. He set it on the patio where they could enjoy it in the afternoon light of the Trees. At this time of day, their light mingled and it was especially beautiful, a sort of dusk and hallowed illumination lending a soft hue to the evening.
As they sat at the table, Fëanor broke the bread and cut a portion of the hard cheese to eat. He was hungrier than he thought as he had been working for hours without pause.
“Thank you Mene for this food, and I appreciate all you have done today. The work room looks much improved.”
Menelon smiled and ate a piece of cucumber after pouring them both some cool water, “Tomorrow, I will tackle the windows. They are quite dirty. It is a wonder that you can see anything at all in there, my Lord.” His tone was light, almost teasing and this made Fëanor smile. It pleased him to have someone care for the place so he did not have to.
“And I thank you. The lighting will improve greatly, I expect.”
“That it will.”
“Be careful not to be overly ambitious and pace yourself, Mene. There are quite a lot of windows and they are very large.” Indeed at the front of the building they ran floor to ceiling across the exterior.
“I will do one or two each day, and have at it that way.”
“Good. Now eat some. You will need your strength.”
It did not occur to the eldest son of Finwë, that this elf had settled in very quickly and become part of his life in just a few short hours. He was here and it seemed he had always been part of the fabric here, indispensable and essential to his days and work. He did not remember how he had been without Menelon, nor could he imagine life without him. Heaven sent, as his name indicated. They finished eating in companionable silence and each returned to their previous tasks.
/---/
Some days later, the changes to the forge were noticeable and plentiful. Tools were no longer strewn about haphazardly, but hung in an orderly manner on their appointed hooks in a logical order,within easy reach of the smith. It made so much sense that Fëanor even got in the habit of hanging up his tools. He liked to see them there adorning the wall. Rags no longer decorated the room. Those had been tidied up and washed out at the waterfall. They were hung to dry and folded neatly away in the closet. Some were stacked on the work table should they be needed at hand but most of them were stored for later use. The floor was immaculate at the end of each work session, swept and mopped by Menelon at regular intervals during the day. Jewel making was arduous taxing work and Fëanor should spend his time creating, not performing mundane cleaning tasks.
The windows were washed over time, though the front windows were done the very next day. Armed with bucket, soap and water and numerous clean cloths, Menelon scrubbed, and scoured each pane until the light shone through and the dim interior lightened a great deal. Fëanor did not have to lean quite so far over his bench and smiled as he could see that much better. The dust and debris must have caked up the glass. Looking out was a pleasure as well. One could see the trees and grass and the small pool and waterfall that functioned as a bath and rudimentary shower for their cleanliness. When need be, Fëanor would wash out there with a bar of elven made soap, lathering up and rinsing under the cool water of the natural waterfall. He gathered water there for the house and they had all they needed in this compound just north of Tirion. Now that Menelon saw to that task, Fëanor could really focus on his tasks at hand.
/---/
Fëanor grew accustomed quite easily to being cared for. He began to expect there to be a pitcher of water where before there had been none, a plate of fruit when before he might have gone hungry. These small niceties increased his productivity and his energy level, and he found his concentration level intensified. He could pour himself into his work with no impediments and annoyances. It was remarkable. Menelon seemed keen to observe and did not require direct tutelage, it was enough for him to watch and absorb knowledge that way and he made no demands on the craftsman’s time.
At night, they slept in the same small room which contained two small beds with simple linens, functional yes, but not opulent. Menelon noticed that the artisan was plagued by disquieting dreams and at times would soothe him with a kind hand to his brow and face. The touch seemed to calm him and he would return to sleep on through the night untroubled. The passing of his mother weighed heavily on the elf and she was present in his nocturnal life. The blue eyed elf sat on the edge of his cot, murmuring words of comfort and waiting until the nightmares had passed through Fëanáro’s mind. Then he would go back to his own bed, rest for the night or watch the other sleep.
In the morning the jeweler renewed his creative work with vigor, none the wiser about what had transpired during the night.
/---/
One morning, Fëanor got his own tea. He liked it a certain way, very strong, dark and bracing. He packed the tea leaves tightly, boiled his own water and let it steep awhile as he gazed out the pantry window toward the waterfall. He might ponder his projects or design something to be made later that day. The mindless activity of making tea was a ritual he took comfort in. He always made a large pot of black tea and drank most of it.
This morning, as he waited for the water to boil, he noticed that Menelon was heading out to the waterfall, carrying soap and towel. Most likely his assistant was going to bathe and rinse off under the falls. The elf arrived at the water’s edge and took off his shirt in the early morning light, dropping it to the grass beside the pool. With keen elvish eyes, Fëanor drank in the comeliness of his form, well shaped shoulders, long back down to toned legs now visible as he shucked off his leggings to lay them beside the shirt. Menelon unbraided his hair and let it fall over his shoulders. Fëanor appreciated beauty in all forms and certainly got an eyeful under the growing light of the morning.
The elf dove shallowly into the water, submerging completely and swimming back to shore to grab the bar of soap he had left near the water line. He began to lather his body all over and rub himself down, wet hair clinging to his neck as he stood in the water. The pool was sourced by the waterfall and then had an outlet where the stream flowed out and south creating rapids below.
Fëanor could hardly turn to pour the tea water in the pot for fear of missing anything of the wondrous sight out the window. He was ogling but found no harm in it. Who would know anything of it? He was alone here and no one was the wiser. He had to wait for his tea to steep anyway and so could continue watching as he waited for the brew. He gazed outside, grey eyes honing in on the visual display framed by the nature of Valinor.
His assistant had by now stepped into the falls, letting them wash the suds off of his muscled skin. He faced into it and then turned towards the forge building. Menelon let the whole of his body be cleansed by the clear water cascading down, relaxing under the forceful stream. He seemed oblivious to being observed and took a nice long time in finishing his ablutions.
Once clean, the elf waded through the pool to the grassy bank and climbed up. He reached for his cloth and dried off. He blotted his hair and then laid out the material so he could rest a while enjoying the peace of the morning under Laurelin’s growing light. The radiance of the bough’s glows cast his skin to iridescence, a contrast to the darkness of his hair. He lounged some time there, knowing that his duties could wait.
Fëanor took a long sip of the hot, strong, black tea, unblinking and unswerving in his gaze. He felt the stirrings of desire for this elf, a tightness in his loins that was unmistakable. He imagined touching him, the way he might smooth his fingers over a smooth piece of gold or silver. His skin would be hot and alive, radiating the warmth of the elf possessing it. He watched as Menelon combed his freshly washed hair, working out any tangles, and then braiding his wet hair into a simple style. He seemed to linger in the open air and the artisan did not begrudge him his free time. He felt he would never tire of watching him thus and so continued on until he dressed and headed back into the forge. At that point, Curufinwë picked up his teapot and went into the workroom to begin his day, trying to dispel his lustful thoughts.
/---/
In his dream one night, Miriel walked away in a long, blue gown. Fëanor called to her but she would not turn around. She continued down a brightly lit path and into the distance.
“Mother! Mother!”
He awoke to the sound of his own voice and a touch on his face. Looking up into the dimness, he could see Menelon sitting there, close, to comfort, their thighs touching on the small bed.
“You miss her very much.” The elf murmured.
He did, so much it was painful, a wound that would never be healed. Elves were not supposed to die and yet his mother had, or more specifically, she refused to live. It seemed unnatural to him and incorrect. He blamed the Valar for this. Could they not have done something, given her the will to live? Healed her from her sorrows? Such powerful beings surely could do so small a thing for an elven woman.
He nodded there in the dark, unwilling to articulate his feelings on the matter. Menelon understood and leaned down in the dark to softly kiss Fëanor on the forehead.
“I wish you comfort, and that she may find peace and rest from the cares of the world.”
“I would have a kiss from your lips to mine, if you were willing. That is my desire tonight.”
Fëanor had whispered his longing, up to the shadowed outline of the elf above. He could see his dark hair haloing pale skin, and reached his hand up to pull Menelon close for their first embrace. Their lips met lightly, breath mingling, the sweet taste a hint of calming flavor on the tongue. The softness of his mouth belied strength beneath and he was lost in their kiss as it deepened in passion. He thought of wind and clouds and the sky as he let his tongue penetrate to dance within.
Shifting back on the bed, he bid Menelon lie beside him and share the space under the covers. They continued light touches of their mouths and Fëanor snuck his hands underneath the soft fabric of his assistant’s night shirt to touch the warm skin. It was almost hot, as he had imagined. He let his fingers explore the smoothness of his body, feeling his muscled rib cage and then up to his shoulders and arms. He heard a lusty sigh indicating that desire was reciprocated. He felt glad and was sure his interest would not be rebuffed.
Fëanor, as a habit, slept lightly clothed in sleeping pants only, preferring not to wear other garments that might hinder free movement. He tended to be active while dreaming and very often kicked off the blankets and sheets. He lifted Menelon’s shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.
“You don’t need this.”
“No, my lord.”
He let his mouth trail where his hands led, kissing and licking the heated flesh, touching a nipple and teasing it into arousal. He heard the gasp above and smiled as he bit lightly. Menelon liked that, he could feel his partner become erect, pressing against him, rubbing their heat together through fabric. He created an erotic friction between them. This was delicious as their desire mingled, like two flames combining to expand. Their hips gyrated and Fëanor let his knee pry Menelon’s legs apart so he could slip between and get closer still. They were aligned, chest and stomach and pelvis, completely in tune. He let his teeth scrape the underside of his chin, and nipped playfully there.
“I would taste you if you would allow it.”
He could feel the pulse of his lover’s cock in response and his nod against his face. He had agreed. Fëanor would not proceed without permission but it had been granted. He slid down the other elf’s body, untying his pants and moving them lower on his hips. He pressed his lips to the flat of his pelvis and let his hand caress, stroking Menelon’s arousal, urging him into a desperate state that only he could sate. Moans floated on the air, like music to his ears and he knew he gave the elf pleasure.
Fëanor ran his tongue over the erect penis, finding the taste salty and savory. He could feel Menelon arch under his attentions and pressed his hips down to still his movements. A light breeze wafted over them through the window and the night air stirred as their arousal grew. He pressed lips and tongue over the heated flesh, tasting and enjoying the muskiness of his lover’s cock. He could feel his own body respond to the passion between them as he further hardened against the mattress.
Moving over the tip of Menelon’s erection, he began to swallow him into his throat, snaking his tongue around the bulbous head and pumping up and down to enhance the sensation for him. He wished to bring him to a peak and taste his semen expelled, taste his essence. He wanted his assistant to lose control and fall over the edge of pleasure. Fëanor worked and worked him, relentless in the pursuit of this end, with the intensity of his attention and nature, which was formidable.
Before too long, he could feel the body beneath him tense in ecstasy and with pleasured gasps, Menelon found his release into the waiting mouth. Drinking him down in expansions of his throat, Fëanor tasted the salty liquid, savoring each drop. He continued gentle suckling until he had milked his partner dry and then let his cock drop from his mouth, moving up his body to kiss him passionately. He let their tongues entwine and shared with him the flavor of his discharge. His own arousal was still erect and lay stiff between them.
Menelon reached a hand down to explore the hard column, running fingers over the veined flesh.
“You have brought me pleasure, let me return the favor, my Lord.”
“I will deny you nothing, Mene. I am yours to play with.”
And so Menelon provided Fëanor with as much pleasure as he had received, in the same manner, and then both slept close together on the narrow bed. The rest of that night his dreams were void of trouble and the craftsman slept contentedly until morning’s light peeked through the window.
/---/
The very next day, Fëanor embarked on a labor, a new project of an unusual nature. He would make a gift for Menelon that would capture his own spirit of fire in bracelet form. He wished him to know some of what he felt in gratitude for all the elf had given him, by the fruits of his labor and the mark of his affection. The artisan was not so expressive in language for his feelings and so poured his emotion and sentiment into the making of the jewelry that would adorn his lover’s wrist. It was a band of gold, plainly made and yet wreathed with flames that would shimmer and move, as did the one who wore it, giving the aspect of fire at dance. It was unique to all his creations and he never made another of its likeness. He worked unceasing for three days, shaping the item and then etching the flames into the gold with painstaking clarity and precision.
Menelon observed the intensity of his concentration and reminded him to eat and drink when necessary and oft to go to bed when he needed rest. They lay together finding mutual pleasure in each other’s bodies with hand and mouth, to culmination and would then sleep together through the nights. Fëanor found bliss and peace in his dreams or no dreams at all which in itself was peaceful and restful. Whereas before he might wake up more tired than when he went to sleep, now he felt refreshed and full of vigor. He owed it all to Menelon and his gentle nature, a balm to his troubled spirit.
/---/
Menelon cleansed himself at the falls and when he finished he found Fëanor waiting on the shore by his soap and drying cloth.
“My lord, I will be done shortly and can get luncheon ready.”
“Not to worry, Mene. I have finished my labor and wish to show you something.”
The assistant did not disguise his eagerness, as he knew that his lord was making something for him and it was sure to be remarkable. He dried off in haste, slipping on his leggings and sat down on the grass beside the artisan. Fëanor held a small packet of paper tied with string.
“Is that what you have been working on all these days?”
“Yes, it is a gift for you.” He handed the parcel to Menelon and reached a hand to touch his wet hair. “A small token of my esteem.”
“You did not have to.”
“But I wanted to,” Fëanor said, a stubborn set to his face.
Menelon pulled one end of the roughly tied bow, unraveling it, dropping the string on the ground. He carefully unfolded the paper so he would not drop the precious item. He had not been allowed to see the bracelet. Fëanor wanted it to be an absolute surprise to his lover. His eyes widened as the gold caught the mid-day light of Laurelin, glinting and shimmering as the flames illuminated. It was a living piece of jewelry that seemed to move when it did not. He lifted it up and turned it, one way, and then another, as the flames seemed to dance and lift, shifting and altering as the bracelet changed position.
“This is remarkable.”
“As are you, my love, as are you. One of a kind. I will only make one of these…”
“I don’t know what to say.” He whispered those words as Fëanor slid the bracelet over his wrist. It was just the right size as his measure had been taken while he slept some nights past.
“Words are not necessary.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Fëanor leaned across the grass to steal a simple kiss, which deepened and grew as their passion caught hold. He reached a hand to caress and stroke his face, feeling the softness of his freshly washed skin. His calluses were rough against the smoothness of Menelon’s cheek. He wanted to make love today and so had spirited a small vial of oil into the pocket of his work apron. They had explored each other, pleasured each other and now he felt they could join their bodies. He pulled the liquid out of his pocket and showed it to his lover. Hoping he would agree, and allow him this pleasure.
Menelon’s blue eyes turned a deeper shade, one that Fëanor took to mean a higher state of arousal. It was like a storm, the advent of his passion, like lightning. His assistant began to undress him there at the pool, first taking off his leather apron, and then his shirt. He ran warm hands over the Noldorin’s torso and shoulders, pausing to caress his nipples and lightly tease his navel. The artisan could feel his cock stiffen in his leggings, the stirrings of arousal evident as he responded to his lover’s touches. He slipped his own pants off and laid them on the grass, exposing the evidence of his desire. Menelon did likewise so that they were both naked at the water’s edge.
“I would like to make love to you Mene, and prove to you my true passion.” He reached to stroke his partner’s erect phallus, feeling its heat and hardness. He wanted to bury his own length deep within this elf and feel the spray as they made love. He wished to spend deep inside him, mark him forever as his.
“I would like that, my lord. I will it to be so.”
“On your knees then, Mene.”
Menelon moved into position, bracing himself on the ground with his hands extended. He could feel the blades of grass against his palms. Fëanor poured the oil over his fingers and parted the cheeks of his lover’s arse so he could lubricate his passage, and ease the way for their lovemaking. He worked the oil in carefully, massaging him to give him pleasure, inserting two, then three fingers. He found the sensitive nerve bundle inside him and stimulated him with his fingertips, feeling Menelon writhe in response. He mimicked their pending love making by pistoning his fingers in and out, leaning over his lover’s back to plant soft kisses along his shoulder blades.
“It will feel like this, only better. We will be one...”
The prone elf arched and gasped with the sensation, pushing back against his hand and moaning with abject longing. It was time. Fëanor withdrew his palm and applied more oil to his hand, a generous amount to stroke over his cock as a lubricant. He did not want to hurt Menelon and carefully prepared himself. The sensation of stroking his own erection made him moan but he only allowed himself a small bit of that pleasure. He wanted to culminate inside his love and not to spend on the grass of Valinor. He placed his hand on his assistant’s shoulder and the other he used to guide his arousal through the muscled ring of his lover. He advanced slowly and evenly, pausing when he heard Menelon gasp from his girth.
“I am well, my lord. I would feel all of you now...” The elf pushed back to take more of him in and Fëanor pressed forward, feeling his penis surrounded by the welcoming heat of his lover’s body. The oil had slickened the way and he went in smoothly, gliding in to the hilt. Soon he was seated deep within his lover, all the way to the root of his passion. He gripped Menelon’s shoulders and flexed his buttocks, not daring to move, yet wanting to. He waited until his lover adjusted to the intrusion before beginning to thrust with slow motions of his hips.
Menelon held firm with arms and knees planted on the ground, the act of receiving Fëanor’s passion igniting flames in his desire. The bracelet on his wrist moved and shimmered with their motions and the fire on the gold seemed to dance in Laurelin’s light as they made love by the waterfall. Their bodies became slick and wet as the water’s spray mingled with the sweat of their exertion, the frenzy of their lust increased to a crescendo. The artisan tried to hold back the force of his desire and maintain a slow motion but soon he found he was fairly pounding inside Menelon, inspired by their combined passion. He held his climax back and rode him full force, leaning down to mark and bite his skin. Their rhythm was both carnal and beautiful as they arched and parted, pelvis to buttock, again and again.
Soon would be the end, and the orgasm long denied would not be stayed. Fëanor could feel it building in every muscle fiber of his body; every tendon and nerve ending tensed as he pistoned his hips, slamming against Menelon. He thrust one last time as deep as he could and released his seed into his lover’s passage, anointing him and gifting him with love. He collapsed forward to rest on his assistant’s back, panting, running his hands over the wet, hot skin. Withdrawing immediately from Menelon’s body, he turned his lover onto his back and lay between his legs. His assistant had not come yet and Fëanor brought him to a quick climax with hand and mouth, swallowing his ejaculate and tasting his fluid. Once done, they lay there for some time, Fëanor resting on Menelon’s muscled stomach. He could hear the sound of his breathing as it calmed and he rose and fell with the movement of his abdomen.
Fëanor laughed as one sated and Menelon smiled up into the calm light of the Valinorian sky.
/---/
Days passed to weeks and it was time for Fëanor to go and continue his studies with Mahtan, student of Aulë. As he lay with Menelon one night, he told him that this would come to pass and he would be gone some weeks in visiting the other elf’s forge. He did not wish them to be parted but it must be so.
“And so it will be that you do not need me any more for you will meet your wife, my lord and all will be well.”
“My wife?!”
“Yes, my lord. This is as it should be. And you will have many children with her and know great love.”
“Hmmph.” Fëanor was not sure he liked it when Menelon made such pronouncements. It made him feel odd and he felt foreboding.
“I expect you to be here when I get back.”
“As I said, my lord. You will not need me anymore. Our time will have passed.”
Fëanor frowned at the elf in the dark and tugged him close, kissing away his prediction as they made love long into the night.
/---/
Not two days later, Fëanor packed a ruck sack in preparation for his travels. Had he chanced to look out the window, he might have seen, a great eagle alighted to a branch behind the forge. It was not usual to see one of Manwë’s birds there, but this one seemed to linger and it held something shiny in its talons. It was the bracelet the artisan had made for Menelon. The bird of prey stretched its wings and took flight, carrying the bangle away to off to the top of Mount Taniquetil.
/---/
Years later, there was strife, and when Fëanor rebelled at the rule of the Valar, seeking exile in the lands of Middle Earth, the greatest of the Valar gave him a chance to repent, to turn back from the course he had chosen. The proud elf refused and Manwë wept at his words, at his choice and the past they had shared and the time at the forge by Tirion. He always wore the bracelet made for him by his beloved artisan. He had carried it away in his eagle’s form and cherished it always.
They would meet again when Fëanor’s spirit was at rest in the Halls of Mandos and the Vala could reveal to him his love and the yearnings of his heart. For now, he had to let him go, to do as he would and to tragic end. Fëanor would die wreathed in flames and his spirit would consume his body. A lone eagle circled overhead, waiting to accompany his spirit as it traveled beyond the boundaries of Middle Earth.
/---/
“Menelon, get me some water, if you will.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Fëanor had been working for some time, shaping metal, and his throat was parched. His assistant handed him the glass of cold fresh water and watched as the artisan drank it down, his adam’s apple working as he drank. He wiped his mouth and said gruffly,
“Thank you, Mene. You are too good to me.”
“It is all deserved, my lord. Assuredly.” Menelon smiled, looking down at his wrist, at the gold bracelet circled in flames. He yet wore it and always would.
The craftsman laughed at that and continued on with the detailed shape work, bending back down over his bench. Eternity was not so bad when spent in the company of one you loved and who cared for you so well. He could do worse, far worse.
The End
Key:
menel = heaven
Author: Phyncke
Character(s): Fëanor/Manwë
Rating: NC-17
Beta: Khylea
Warnings: Slash, AU elements, character death (canon)
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the property of JRR Tolkien and his estate, and I have borrowed them for my own amusement and for yours I hope.
For: nuinzelen and the Slashy Valentine 2012 Swap.
Summary: An “elf” arrives to work at Fëanor’s forge, Vala intervention in the life of the famous artisan.
Prologue
For the son to live, the mother had to die, had to give all of her strength to the fire of her child’s spirit. Inherent in Fëanáro’s birth lay tragedy and sorrow for so great a sacrifice. Miriel, mother of the strongest of the Elda ever born, held on long enough to see her son to full age and then went to rest, her body and mind weary of living, and the burdens of the world. She lay in the gardens of the Valar and so slumbered, her fëa,in keeping with Mandos.
Her kin bore this for a time, her husband Finwë visited while there yet was hope that she might be restored, but after a time, when hope was gone, he came no longer to the gardens. Miriel faded away and the Valar let her die, as she willed. One could not be forced to live when one would not. Manwë grieved this choice and the effect it would have on the boy, the resentments that might fester and grow in the mind of one so young.
He wondered if there was something he could do and so thought a while on his mountain looking out through the clouds, pondering and deliberating present, past, and the future yet to come.
Spirit of Fire
Work and more work, it was all he lived to do, testing the precious metals, learning their ways and everything about them. Singular focus and intensive study. He was skilled as his mother had been, gifted of hand, with strength and the ability to perform delicate work. She had used the needle, creating intricate embroidery, while Fëanáro created fine metalwork and gems. Tutored by Mahtan and self-guided, he spent many a day at his forge, thinking, designing and experimenting. This was his vocation, his expression.
One day, there happened to be a visitor to his workshop. A tall elf entered to wait by the door as Fëanor bent over his workbench not noticing that anyone was there. Looking around the newcomer could see little attention was paid to maintenance and cleaning in the shop. Metal shards littered the floor, tools were scattered about. It was evident that the craftsman could use aid in the daily managing of his shop.
The intruder, named Menelon, patiently waited to gain the other elf’s attention. He did not want to disturb Fëanor’s work or concentration. Luckily, the Noldorin elf looked up and caught on that someone was waiting.
“How long have you been standing there? I was not expecting anyone today.”
“Just a few moments, my lord.”
“Well, what do you want? I am busy here.” Fëanor did not disguise the annoyance in his tone. He had little enough time as it was and this person had not been invited.
Rather than persuade with flowery speeches, Menelon got directly to the point. He surmised that Finwë’s son would appreciate plain speech.
“I wonder if you need an assistant here to help around your shop. I am handy with the broom, a quick learner and very strong. It does look as though you could use someone here to aid you.” He waved his hand around at the disarray in the main room of the workspace.
Fëanor rubbed his chin, thinking this an interesting development and certainly a surprise. He had thought the person required a jewelry commission or some such but to work here, now that was something to consider. He paused to take stock of the chaos in the shop; shavings all over the floor, tools on most surfaces, dirty cloths littering the tables.
“And how would you be paid?”
“Food and lodging and I would learn from you.”
“Really.”
The visitor nodded and Fëanor noted the extreme blue shade of his eyes, the almost painful clarity of them, like the sky above Valinor on a cloudless day. He wondered if this was too good to be true but did not allow that thought to take hold. This arrangement would benefit him greatly.
“I don’t like to be talked to in the morning before tea.”
“Right.”
That was as close to a deal as they got.
Having arrived in the morning, Menelon got right to work, tying back his dark tresses into a very practical braid. He rolled up his sleeves to begin to organize and clean Fëanor’s forge. He stowed his belongings in the back room which held two small beds and did a quick survey of tools and implements that might assist him in his work; broom, mop, soap, all in evidence in a storage closet. There, but gathering dust through non-use.
As Fëanor worked, Menelon swept through the shop room, picking up tools where they lay and hanging them up in their place on the wall. He gathered up all the dirty rags and cloths into a basket for washing and then ran the broom across the floor from end to end, gathering up the shards of metal that had fallen. These could be used again in some way. He expected the master craftsman did not like to waste the precious metal but would have him sift it and apply it to other projects.
This all took him the better part of morning and early afternoon and he noticed that Fëanor had not stopped for lunch.
“Are you hungry, my Lord?”
“I could eat.” Fëanor leaned over an emerald gem, examining, but made no move to go to the pantry. He might stop for quickly eaten food but would rarely make a meal. The forge was well stocked with all manner of provisions, at the order of his father, who worried for his well being. He took it for granted that there was sustenance but had nary a thought for where it came from. He became so consumed in his work after Miriel’s passing that he thought of little else but that.
Mene, or thus he had become, with the expedient shortening of his name, hastened to the pantry to fix something for them both. His idea was small fare that would be easy to eat; hearty bread and meat and vegetables cut in bite sized pieces. He could also cook larger meals but thought this would suffice for now. He set it on the patio where they could enjoy it in the afternoon light of the Trees. At this time of day, their light mingled and it was especially beautiful, a sort of dusk and hallowed illumination lending a soft hue to the evening.
As they sat at the table, Fëanor broke the bread and cut a portion of the hard cheese to eat. He was hungrier than he thought as he had been working for hours without pause.
“Thank you Mene for this food, and I appreciate all you have done today. The work room looks much improved.”
Menelon smiled and ate a piece of cucumber after pouring them both some cool water, “Tomorrow, I will tackle the windows. They are quite dirty. It is a wonder that you can see anything at all in there, my Lord.” His tone was light, almost teasing and this made Fëanor smile. It pleased him to have someone care for the place so he did not have to.
“And I thank you. The lighting will improve greatly, I expect.”
“That it will.”
“Be careful not to be overly ambitious and pace yourself, Mene. There are quite a lot of windows and they are very large.” Indeed at the front of the building they ran floor to ceiling across the exterior.
“I will do one or two each day, and have at it that way.”
“Good. Now eat some. You will need your strength.”
It did not occur to the eldest son of Finwë, that this elf had settled in very quickly and become part of his life in just a few short hours. He was here and it seemed he had always been part of the fabric here, indispensable and essential to his days and work. He did not remember how he had been without Menelon, nor could he imagine life without him. Heaven sent, as his name indicated. They finished eating in companionable silence and each returned to their previous tasks.
Some days later, the changes to the forge were noticeable and plentiful. Tools were no longer strewn about haphazardly, but hung in an orderly manner on their appointed hooks in a logical order,within easy reach of the smith. It made so much sense that Fëanor even got in the habit of hanging up his tools. He liked to see them there adorning the wall. Rags no longer decorated the room. Those had been tidied up and washed out at the waterfall. They were hung to dry and folded neatly away in the closet. Some were stacked on the work table should they be needed at hand but most of them were stored for later use. The floor was immaculate at the end of each work session, swept and mopped by Menelon at regular intervals during the day. Jewel making was arduous taxing work and Fëanor should spend his time creating, not performing mundane cleaning tasks.
The windows were washed over time, though the front windows were done the very next day. Armed with bucket, soap and water and numerous clean cloths, Menelon scrubbed, and scoured each pane until the light shone through and the dim interior lightened a great deal. Fëanor did not have to lean quite so far over his bench and smiled as he could see that much better. The dust and debris must have caked up the glass. Looking out was a pleasure as well. One could see the trees and grass and the small pool and waterfall that functioned as a bath and rudimentary shower for their cleanliness. When need be, Fëanor would wash out there with a bar of elven made soap, lathering up and rinsing under the cool water of the natural waterfall. He gathered water there for the house and they had all they needed in this compound just north of Tirion. Now that Menelon saw to that task, Fëanor could really focus on his tasks at hand.
Fëanor grew accustomed quite easily to being cared for. He began to expect there to be a pitcher of water where before there had been none, a plate of fruit when before he might have gone hungry. These small niceties increased his productivity and his energy level, and he found his concentration level intensified. He could pour himself into his work with no impediments and annoyances. It was remarkable. Menelon seemed keen to observe and did not require direct tutelage, it was enough for him to watch and absorb knowledge that way and he made no demands on the craftsman’s time.
At night, they slept in the same small room which contained two small beds with simple linens, functional yes, but not opulent. Menelon noticed that the artisan was plagued by disquieting dreams and at times would soothe him with a kind hand to his brow and face. The touch seemed to calm him and he would return to sleep on through the night untroubled. The passing of his mother weighed heavily on the elf and she was present in his nocturnal life. The blue eyed elf sat on the edge of his cot, murmuring words of comfort and waiting until the nightmares had passed through Fëanáro’s mind. Then he would go back to his own bed, rest for the night or watch the other sleep.
In the morning the jeweler renewed his creative work with vigor, none the wiser about what had transpired during the night.
One morning, Fëanor got his own tea. He liked it a certain way, very strong, dark and bracing. He packed the tea leaves tightly, boiled his own water and let it steep awhile as he gazed out the pantry window toward the waterfall. He might ponder his projects or design something to be made later that day. The mindless activity of making tea was a ritual he took comfort in. He always made a large pot of black tea and drank most of it.
This morning, as he waited for the water to boil, he noticed that Menelon was heading out to the waterfall, carrying soap and towel. Most likely his assistant was going to bathe and rinse off under the falls. The elf arrived at the water’s edge and took off his shirt in the early morning light, dropping it to the grass beside the pool. With keen elvish eyes, Fëanor drank in the comeliness of his form, well shaped shoulders, long back down to toned legs now visible as he shucked off his leggings to lay them beside the shirt. Menelon unbraided his hair and let it fall over his shoulders. Fëanor appreciated beauty in all forms and certainly got an eyeful under the growing light of the morning.
The elf dove shallowly into the water, submerging completely and swimming back to shore to grab the bar of soap he had left near the water line. He began to lather his body all over and rub himself down, wet hair clinging to his neck as he stood in the water. The pool was sourced by the waterfall and then had an outlet where the stream flowed out and south creating rapids below.
Fëanor could hardly turn to pour the tea water in the pot for fear of missing anything of the wondrous sight out the window. He was ogling but found no harm in it. Who would know anything of it? He was alone here and no one was the wiser. He had to wait for his tea to steep anyway and so could continue watching as he waited for the brew. He gazed outside, grey eyes honing in on the visual display framed by the nature of Valinor.
His assistant had by now stepped into the falls, letting them wash the suds off of his muscled skin. He faced into it and then turned towards the forge building. Menelon let the whole of his body be cleansed by the clear water cascading down, relaxing under the forceful stream. He seemed oblivious to being observed and took a nice long time in finishing his ablutions.
Once clean, the elf waded through the pool to the grassy bank and climbed up. He reached for his cloth and dried off. He blotted his hair and then laid out the material so he could rest a while enjoying the peace of the morning under Laurelin’s growing light. The radiance of the bough’s glows cast his skin to iridescence, a contrast to the darkness of his hair. He lounged some time there, knowing that his duties could wait.
Fëanor took a long sip of the hot, strong, black tea, unblinking and unswerving in his gaze. He felt the stirrings of desire for this elf, a tightness in his loins that was unmistakable. He imagined touching him, the way he might smooth his fingers over a smooth piece of gold or silver. His skin would be hot and alive, radiating the warmth of the elf possessing it. He watched as Menelon combed his freshly washed hair, working out any tangles, and then braiding his wet hair into a simple style. He seemed to linger in the open air and the artisan did not begrudge him his free time. He felt he would never tire of watching him thus and so continued on until he dressed and headed back into the forge. At that point, Curufinwë picked up his teapot and went into the workroom to begin his day, trying to dispel his lustful thoughts.
In his dream one night, Miriel walked away in a long, blue gown. Fëanor called to her but she would not turn around. She continued down a brightly lit path and into the distance.
“Mother! Mother!”
He awoke to the sound of his own voice and a touch on his face. Looking up into the dimness, he could see Menelon sitting there, close, to comfort, their thighs touching on the small bed.
“You miss her very much.” The elf murmured.
He did, so much it was painful, a wound that would never be healed. Elves were not supposed to die and yet his mother had, or more specifically, she refused to live. It seemed unnatural to him and incorrect. He blamed the Valar for this. Could they not have done something, given her the will to live? Healed her from her sorrows? Such powerful beings surely could do so small a thing for an elven woman.
He nodded there in the dark, unwilling to articulate his feelings on the matter. Menelon understood and leaned down in the dark to softly kiss Fëanor on the forehead.
“I wish you comfort, and that she may find peace and rest from the cares of the world.”
“I would have a kiss from your lips to mine, if you were willing. That is my desire tonight.”
Fëanor had whispered his longing, up to the shadowed outline of the elf above. He could see his dark hair haloing pale skin, and reached his hand up to pull Menelon close for their first embrace. Their lips met lightly, breath mingling, the sweet taste a hint of calming flavor on the tongue. The softness of his mouth belied strength beneath and he was lost in their kiss as it deepened in passion. He thought of wind and clouds and the sky as he let his tongue penetrate to dance within.
Shifting back on the bed, he bid Menelon lie beside him and share the space under the covers. They continued light touches of their mouths and Fëanor snuck his hands underneath the soft fabric of his assistant’s night shirt to touch the warm skin. It was almost hot, as he had imagined. He let his fingers explore the smoothness of his body, feeling his muscled rib cage and then up to his shoulders and arms. He heard a lusty sigh indicating that desire was reciprocated. He felt glad and was sure his interest would not be rebuffed.
Fëanor, as a habit, slept lightly clothed in sleeping pants only, preferring not to wear other garments that might hinder free movement. He tended to be active while dreaming and very often kicked off the blankets and sheets. He lifted Menelon’s shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.
“You don’t need this.”
“No, my lord.”
He let his mouth trail where his hands led, kissing and licking the heated flesh, touching a nipple and teasing it into arousal. He heard the gasp above and smiled as he bit lightly. Menelon liked that, he could feel his partner become erect, pressing against him, rubbing their heat together through fabric. He created an erotic friction between them. This was delicious as their desire mingled, like two flames combining to expand. Their hips gyrated and Fëanor let his knee pry Menelon’s legs apart so he could slip between and get closer still. They were aligned, chest and stomach and pelvis, completely in tune. He let his teeth scrape the underside of his chin, and nipped playfully there.
“I would taste you if you would allow it.”
He could feel the pulse of his lover’s cock in response and his nod against his face. He had agreed. Fëanor would not proceed without permission but it had been granted. He slid down the other elf’s body, untying his pants and moving them lower on his hips. He pressed his lips to the flat of his pelvis and let his hand caress, stroking Menelon’s arousal, urging him into a desperate state that only he could sate. Moans floated on the air, like music to his ears and he knew he gave the elf pleasure.
Fëanor ran his tongue over the erect penis, finding the taste salty and savory. He could feel Menelon arch under his attentions and pressed his hips down to still his movements. A light breeze wafted over them through the window and the night air stirred as their arousal grew. He pressed lips and tongue over the heated flesh, tasting and enjoying the muskiness of his lover’s cock. He could feel his own body respond to the passion between them as he further hardened against the mattress.
Moving over the tip of Menelon’s erection, he began to swallow him into his throat, snaking his tongue around the bulbous head and pumping up and down to enhance the sensation for him. He wished to bring him to a peak and taste his semen expelled, taste his essence. He wanted his assistant to lose control and fall over the edge of pleasure. Fëanor worked and worked him, relentless in the pursuit of this end, with the intensity of his attention and nature, which was formidable.
Before too long, he could feel the body beneath him tense in ecstasy and with pleasured gasps, Menelon found his release into the waiting mouth. Drinking him down in expansions of his throat, Fëanor tasted the salty liquid, savoring each drop. He continued gentle suckling until he had milked his partner dry and then let his cock drop from his mouth, moving up his body to kiss him passionately. He let their tongues entwine and shared with him the flavor of his discharge. His own arousal was still erect and lay stiff between them.
Menelon reached a hand down to explore the hard column, running fingers over the veined flesh.
“You have brought me pleasure, let me return the favor, my Lord.”
“I will deny you nothing, Mene. I am yours to play with.”
And so Menelon provided Fëanor with as much pleasure as he had received, in the same manner, and then both slept close together on the narrow bed. The rest of that night his dreams were void of trouble and the craftsman slept contentedly until morning’s light peeked through the window.
The very next day, Fëanor embarked on a labor, a new project of an unusual nature. He would make a gift for Menelon that would capture his own spirit of fire in bracelet form. He wished him to know some of what he felt in gratitude for all the elf had given him, by the fruits of his labor and the mark of his affection. The artisan was not so expressive in language for his feelings and so poured his emotion and sentiment into the making of the jewelry that would adorn his lover’s wrist. It was a band of gold, plainly made and yet wreathed with flames that would shimmer and move, as did the one who wore it, giving the aspect of fire at dance. It was unique to all his creations and he never made another of its likeness. He worked unceasing for three days, shaping the item and then etching the flames into the gold with painstaking clarity and precision.
Menelon observed the intensity of his concentration and reminded him to eat and drink when necessary and oft to go to bed when he needed rest. They lay together finding mutual pleasure in each other’s bodies with hand and mouth, to culmination and would then sleep together through the nights. Fëanor found bliss and peace in his dreams or no dreams at all which in itself was peaceful and restful. Whereas before he might wake up more tired than when he went to sleep, now he felt refreshed and full of vigor. He owed it all to Menelon and his gentle nature, a balm to his troubled spirit.
Menelon cleansed himself at the falls and when he finished he found Fëanor waiting on the shore by his soap and drying cloth.
“My lord, I will be done shortly and can get luncheon ready.”
“Not to worry, Mene. I have finished my labor and wish to show you something.”
The assistant did not disguise his eagerness, as he knew that his lord was making something for him and it was sure to be remarkable. He dried off in haste, slipping on his leggings and sat down on the grass beside the artisan. Fëanor held a small packet of paper tied with string.
“Is that what you have been working on all these days?”
“Yes, it is a gift for you.” He handed the parcel to Menelon and reached a hand to touch his wet hair. “A small token of my esteem.”
“You did not have to.”
“But I wanted to,” Fëanor said, a stubborn set to his face.
Menelon pulled one end of the roughly tied bow, unraveling it, dropping the string on the ground. He carefully unfolded the paper so he would not drop the precious item. He had not been allowed to see the bracelet. Fëanor wanted it to be an absolute surprise to his lover. His eyes widened as the gold caught the mid-day light of Laurelin, glinting and shimmering as the flames illuminated. It was a living piece of jewelry that seemed to move when it did not. He lifted it up and turned it, one way, and then another, as the flames seemed to dance and lift, shifting and altering as the bracelet changed position.
“This is remarkable.”
“As are you, my love, as are you. One of a kind. I will only make one of these…”
“I don’t know what to say.” He whispered those words as Fëanor slid the bracelet over his wrist. It was just the right size as his measure had been taken while he slept some nights past.
“Words are not necessary.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Fëanor leaned across the grass to steal a simple kiss, which deepened and grew as their passion caught hold. He reached a hand to caress and stroke his face, feeling the softness of his freshly washed skin. His calluses were rough against the smoothness of Menelon’s cheek. He wanted to make love today and so had spirited a small vial of oil into the pocket of his work apron. They had explored each other, pleasured each other and now he felt they could join their bodies. He pulled the liquid out of his pocket and showed it to his lover. Hoping he would agree, and allow him this pleasure.
Menelon’s blue eyes turned a deeper shade, one that Fëanor took to mean a higher state of arousal. It was like a storm, the advent of his passion, like lightning. His assistant began to undress him there at the pool, first taking off his leather apron, and then his shirt. He ran warm hands over the Noldorin’s torso and shoulders, pausing to caress his nipples and lightly tease his navel. The artisan could feel his cock stiffen in his leggings, the stirrings of arousal evident as he responded to his lover’s touches. He slipped his own pants off and laid them on the grass, exposing the evidence of his desire. Menelon did likewise so that they were both naked at the water’s edge.
“I would like to make love to you Mene, and prove to you my true passion.” He reached to stroke his partner’s erect phallus, feeling its heat and hardness. He wanted to bury his own length deep within this elf and feel the spray as they made love. He wished to spend deep inside him, mark him forever as his.
“I would like that, my lord. I will it to be so.”
“On your knees then, Mene.”
Menelon moved into position, bracing himself on the ground with his hands extended. He could feel the blades of grass against his palms. Fëanor poured the oil over his fingers and parted the cheeks of his lover’s arse so he could lubricate his passage, and ease the way for their lovemaking. He worked the oil in carefully, massaging him to give him pleasure, inserting two, then three fingers. He found the sensitive nerve bundle inside him and stimulated him with his fingertips, feeling Menelon writhe in response. He mimicked their pending love making by pistoning his fingers in and out, leaning over his lover’s back to plant soft kisses along his shoulder blades.
“It will feel like this, only better. We will be one...”
The prone elf arched and gasped with the sensation, pushing back against his hand and moaning with abject longing. It was time. Fëanor withdrew his palm and applied more oil to his hand, a generous amount to stroke over his cock as a lubricant. He did not want to hurt Menelon and carefully prepared himself. The sensation of stroking his own erection made him moan but he only allowed himself a small bit of that pleasure. He wanted to culminate inside his love and not to spend on the grass of Valinor. He placed his hand on his assistant’s shoulder and the other he used to guide his arousal through the muscled ring of his lover. He advanced slowly and evenly, pausing when he heard Menelon gasp from his girth.
“I am well, my lord. I would feel all of you now...” The elf pushed back to take more of him in and Fëanor pressed forward, feeling his penis surrounded by the welcoming heat of his lover’s body. The oil had slickened the way and he went in smoothly, gliding in to the hilt. Soon he was seated deep within his lover, all the way to the root of his passion. He gripped Menelon’s shoulders and flexed his buttocks, not daring to move, yet wanting to. He waited until his lover adjusted to the intrusion before beginning to thrust with slow motions of his hips.
Menelon held firm with arms and knees planted on the ground, the act of receiving Fëanor’s passion igniting flames in his desire. The bracelet on his wrist moved and shimmered with their motions and the fire on the gold seemed to dance in Laurelin’s light as they made love by the waterfall. Their bodies became slick and wet as the water’s spray mingled with the sweat of their exertion, the frenzy of their lust increased to a crescendo. The artisan tried to hold back the force of his desire and maintain a slow motion but soon he found he was fairly pounding inside Menelon, inspired by their combined passion. He held his climax back and rode him full force, leaning down to mark and bite his skin. Their rhythm was both carnal and beautiful as they arched and parted, pelvis to buttock, again and again.
Soon would be the end, and the orgasm long denied would not be stayed. Fëanor could feel it building in every muscle fiber of his body; every tendon and nerve ending tensed as he pistoned his hips, slamming against Menelon. He thrust one last time as deep as he could and released his seed into his lover’s passage, anointing him and gifting him with love. He collapsed forward to rest on his assistant’s back, panting, running his hands over the wet, hot skin. Withdrawing immediately from Menelon’s body, he turned his lover onto his back and lay between his legs. His assistant had not come yet and Fëanor brought him to a quick climax with hand and mouth, swallowing his ejaculate and tasting his fluid. Once done, they lay there for some time, Fëanor resting on Menelon’s muscled stomach. He could hear the sound of his breathing as it calmed and he rose and fell with the movement of his abdomen.
Fëanor laughed as one sated and Menelon smiled up into the calm light of the Valinorian sky.
Days passed to weeks and it was time for Fëanor to go and continue his studies with Mahtan, student of Aulë. As he lay with Menelon one night, he told him that this would come to pass and he would be gone some weeks in visiting the other elf’s forge. He did not wish them to be parted but it must be so.
“And so it will be that you do not need me any more for you will meet your wife, my lord and all will be well.”
“My wife?!”
“Yes, my lord. This is as it should be. And you will have many children with her and know great love.”
“Hmmph.” Fëanor was not sure he liked it when Menelon made such pronouncements. It made him feel odd and he felt foreboding.
“I expect you to be here when I get back.”
“As I said, my lord. You will not need me anymore. Our time will have passed.”
Fëanor frowned at the elf in the dark and tugged him close, kissing away his prediction as they made love long into the night.
Not two days later, Fëanor packed a ruck sack in preparation for his travels. Had he chanced to look out the window, he might have seen, a great eagle alighted to a branch behind the forge. It was not usual to see one of Manwë’s birds there, but this one seemed to linger and it held something shiny in its talons. It was the bracelet the artisan had made for Menelon. The bird of prey stretched its wings and took flight, carrying the bangle away to off to the top of Mount Taniquetil.
Years later, there was strife, and when Fëanor rebelled at the rule of the Valar, seeking exile in the lands of Middle Earth, the greatest of the Valar gave him a chance to repent, to turn back from the course he had chosen. The proud elf refused and Manwë wept at his words, at his choice and the past they had shared and the time at the forge by Tirion. He always wore the bracelet made for him by his beloved artisan. He had carried it away in his eagle’s form and cherished it always.
They would meet again when Fëanor’s spirit was at rest in the Halls of Mandos and the Vala could reveal to him his love and the yearnings of his heart. For now, he had to let him go, to do as he would and to tragic end. Fëanor would die wreathed in flames and his spirit would consume his body. A lone eagle circled overhead, waiting to accompany his spirit as it traveled beyond the boundaries of Middle Earth.
/---/
“Menelon, get me some water, if you will.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Fëanor had been working for some time, shaping metal, and his throat was parched. His assistant handed him the glass of cold fresh water and watched as the artisan drank it down, his adam’s apple working as he drank. He wiped his mouth and said gruffly,
“Thank you, Mene. You are too good to me.”
“It is all deserved, my lord. Assuredly.” Menelon smiled, looking down at his wrist, at the gold bracelet circled in flames. He yet wore it and always would.
The craftsman laughed at that and continued on with the detailed shape work, bending back down over his bench. Eternity was not so bad when spent in the company of one you loved and who cared for you so well. He could do worse, far worse.
The End
Key:
menel = heaven
