Title: Of the Sense of Tears (Series) Author: Linderith of Lórien (Linderith@seznam.cz) Pairing: Fingon/Cídan this chapter, hopefully a few more later on Rating: R for this, but NC-17 for most of the chapters Disclaimer: Nothing but this brain (and those few poor characters I created, Tharanar, Maradan, etc.) is of my possession. Everything else belongs to Professor Tolkien and his genius. For the copyrights see Comments. Summary: Fingon finds out he has certain feelings toward the Falathrim Lord... Hey, that would be no surprise! Notes: Based on The Silmarillion. Inner monologues in //. To argue about settings and canon, Elvish and whatever, email me. Feedback: Yes, please! I must know if I´m doing this right... PART 1 – Mereth Aderthad "First I need your hand Then forever can begin" (R. Kelly, You Are Not Alone) /End of Spring, Year 20 of the First Age of Middle-earth, the fair land at the springs of the river Narog/ „My dearest friends, newcomers from distant lands, kin of old and kin of new! Let us celebrate this reunion, let the following days be as joyful as Mereth Aderthad of today. May none of shadows of the past trouble your hearts. May we never be separated from each other by lies and misunderstandings. Let our deeds of good flow with the passage of time, as the springs of silvery Narog merge and flow towards the Sea. May we no longer fear our own kin, nor even the Enemy. Against him we are nothing more than a little stone when divided, but together the stones build a strong rock. May we never forget this day which brought great joy to my heart. To Mereth Aderthad!" Fingolfin raised the crystal goblet to his lips and sipped a few drops of strong, aromatic wine, rocked it delicately on his tongue for a while and swallowed it then, a smile of pure joy upon his lips. Today, he had no reason to be worried. Many Elves arrived today to rejoin their long-lost brothers and sisters, many Noldor and many Sindar were sitting at the long tables under giant trees, candles were lit as the last rays of Anar bid their majestic farewell to Middle-earth, and goblets of wine were emptied and refilled many times. Captains of his own and also Finrod´s household were there, Maedhros and Maglor came from the East, Mablung and Daeron arrived from Doriath as messengers of Elwë... Fingolfin gave himself a mental shake and a wintry frown conquered his features. There was no longer a reason to call King Thingol Elwë. He lived a different life now, no matter of aged friendship... He smiled again. A lot of Laiquendi covered great distance to be there, at the feet of the Mountains of Shadow, and Lord Círdan came from Falas. Fingolfin glared at his son sitting at the opposite side of the table. Fingon was listening politely to one of the warriors of Maedhros´ company, but his gaze travelled over the next table. Fingolfin´s mind turned back to the oaths of alliance and friendship he had heard the previous day. He was hopeful and felt safe: no Evil can creep among the Eldar again, no Evil at all. Fingon was carefully observing the table next to where he was sitting, he wished to learn all the faces and the names belonging to them. There were the Elves of Falas, who lived at the coast of Beleriand, there where the river Sirion meets the Sea and many a mile further, in the Havens. And sitting next to dark-haired Finrod, his close kin, Fingon noticed an Elf he had never seen before. The figure had his back to him, unbraided waist-long silvery hair adorned hundreds of tiny pearls. He was clad in a few layers of heavy robes of grey changing to blue or green with the light. Fingon felt his heart bouncing madly inside his too-tight chest, instantly he found himself obsessed with this stranger, and he wanted the object of his fascination to move so he would see his face. Then the foreign Elf turned around and looked towards the stars, still talking to Finrod and waving his arm in south-west direction. The future High King of Noldor in the Middle-earth completely lost his composure for that while. The moonlight was dancing in the silver silk of the stranger´s hair and spreading milky shadows over his fair face, yet the light seemed to be his own, not only a simple reflection of the moonlight or those little fires of candles flickering around him. As the stranger smiled at some Finrod´s comment, Fingon saw joyful sparks in the depths of the sea-hued eyes. He was mesmerized by such an ethereal beauty. He was distracted from his thoughts a few hours later. Eastern sky grew pale, but the night was still bright and carried forth the chill of pre-dawn time. The youngest of the Falathrim left the tables and moved to a distant and still-dark part of the huge clearing, folded in mist, and they took small drums and harps and began to play and sing. Many tales were told in Beleriand about the music of Sea-Elves, and with the arriving day all the tales came to living. Their music was vivid and joyful and soon many Elves were dancing on the green grass of the clearing. Faces of the dancers were soon flushed with wine and rhythm, and some of them retreated into the forests around. Fingon was well aware when the object of his adoration joined the rest of the Falathrim and there was a great cheer when he sat down near the fire they had made, dew-covered grass sparkling around him. The horizon turned pale first and then rosy, and the first blessing fingers of Anar caressed the treetops to finally burst out into red fire in the East. Some of the Noldor, leaving the table, blocked Fingon´s view, and when they moved aside, he saw that someone pulled *his* stranger to his feet and drew him into the dancing. The Elf moved like a cat, his regal robes, carefully embroidered by deft Elfin fingers, clung to his lithe body; every move seemed seductive to Fingon. His silver hair shone like fire in the morning sun. "Come, we shall have some fun when even Círdan can," came a smooth voice at Fingon´s ear. It was Finrod, bending down and pulling at his hands. Reluctantly, Fingon allowed himself to be led to the dancers. "Which one is Círdan? I have heard great amount of stories about him already," Fingon said softly, as they sat upon the dewy grass. Finrod turned to him, amusement apparent on his face. "I thought everyone knows Lord Círdan. It´s that one, dancing right now, dressed in grey." Finrod said, pointing directly at the silver-haired Elf. For the second time of that long night, Fingon found himself completely lost and enchanted by the spell of the stranger´s godlike beauty. Whole palette of emotions danced across his noble features openly. Finrod´s puzzled expression quickly returned his feet to the ground and he buried his face in his hands. "Is anything the matter with you?" Finrod asked, laying his hand on his friend´s shoulder, his concerning eyes searching Fingon´s face. "No... I am tired. I think I will go now and have some rest." Fingon said, his voice strange, choked. The certainty crushed him like a rock would crush a spring flower: The one he was secretly admiring was Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of the Falathrim! He may never have the chance to share his eternity with such a mighty lord of a part of the Sindarin folk. He may never have the chance to tell him about the single, explicit emotion rising from his heart, as if by coming to know he was indeed in love with someone he was complete, an empty space filled where he hadn´t thought there had been one before for all those long years. And then, he remembered what was told of the Falathrim Lord – that he and Lord Osse were – very close, to round it politely. And suddenly, he felt sorry, sorry for everything that would be possible if he could begin to pursue Círdan in earnest. "I don´t think you are tired," Finrod chuckled and pushed Fingon forward, forcing him to brace his hands ungracefully on someone´s back. The very breath from his lungs was stolen, as silver strands of hair tickled his arms. "Someone had too much wine, hadn´t he, Prince Fingon?" the long, lithe, familiar frame spun around and buried his gaze deep in the stormy grey depths of the Noldo´s eyes, mischievous twinkle in his own. Fingon froze and babbled an awkward apologize, but Círdan didn´t step away, he continued to dance, still remaining close to Fingon, who could not deny the effect that the wine had on him, together with physical closeness of the only one he wished to be with. His whole being was suddenly turned upside down. He felt there was something special about the Sea-Elf – something unique, hidden behind his serene majestic face, something deep and enthralling, and he had no explicit name for that shiver that Círdan´s simple look caused in him. The Noldo was standing among the dancers, his eyes studying the safe side – the green grass underneath his feet. His heart was overflowing with emotions. Finrod rolled his eyes skywards: "Come on, cousin! Don´t sleep there!" "I wish to sing," Fingon whispered and made his way to the singers, joyful at the thought. "You really had too much, Fingon," Finrod tried to stop him, yet the effort was useless. Fingon sat on a fallen tree trunk where the singers were sitting, and he took silver harp from someone and sang a gentle song which came right out of his heart. Never dreamt that I could fall But something's come over me Now I see me staring at your walls Afraid for my sanity The sound of your voice, the touch of your skin is haunting me I am still trying to come to my senses But I cannot turn back so I am taking my chances I want to give you my heart, give you my soul I want to lie in your arms and never let go Do not want to live my life without you, but I know when you are gone Like a fire needs a spark, like a fool in the dark My love I'll cry for you The crowd fell silent. Many pairs of eyes were now fixed on Fingon, many pairs of lips made an amazed "o" at this performance. Then the first of the Noldorin women came among the dancers, raven-hair framed smile, sultry and seductive, curled the corners of her mouth upward: "Come and dance with me, my lord," she whispered right into the pointed ear, letting the warm stream of her breath tickle the sensitive tip purposefully. Vibrant music hushed through the veins of the dancers like a drug once again, and Fingon found himself being drawn back into the dancing. A lot of inquisitives waited how the Noldorin Prince reacts to that discreet offer. But Fingon gently losened her grip on his wrists, excused himself and disappeared into the forest. His eyes were burning – goddamn if he was going to shed tears in front of someone. He ran like a deer through the wood, passing little clearings and impassable bushes, rushing relentlessly forward, heedless of the beauty around him. His heart kept shreaking as he ran, terror of a cornered beast kept on spurring him on. Finally, he collapsed at the foot of an aged willow and crawled on his knees to the tiny pool of silvery water, as he could no longer bear the burning in his lungs. He felt like he´s being torn apart. His entire life, all those long years, he never felt this way. It was like... he had no name to call it. Love seemed to be such a simple word – he felt sharp sting inside his chest every time he saw the stars mirrored in Shipwright´s eyes or the delicate moving of his lips as he spoke. /Does this always happen this fast? Won´t it be over equally fast? Fingon close his eyes weakly. This won´t ever be over, it feels too "forever" to deny it./ The ache inside was profound. "Why did you run away?" a voice like thousands silver bells filled Fingon´s ears. His breath caught painfully in his throat. Círdan came after him. In fact, Círdan was watching him by the pools of Ivrin with equal interest; and the Noldo himself drew him deeper into the woods like Siren´s song. Fingon braced his hands on the stones around the pool, watching the unfamiliar reflection on the surface. For a while, Círdan´s head appeared above his shoulder and gentle hands helped him up. "You do not need to be ashamed. Your song was beautiful," the Shipwright said, his hands staying on Fingon´s arms. They were almost of the same height and build, one dark and one fair, grey eyes locked together with grey eyes. Tentatively, Círdan raised his hand and brushed the back of it over Fingon´s pale cheek. The flames of pandemonium itself paled in comparison to the inner explosion the Noldo experienced at that moment. He had to close his eyes to hide the nakedness of his heart. "No words are necessary, Prince Fingon... I could see everything quite well in your eyes." a voice gone deep with anticipation broke the heavy silence again. "I can give you naught but my arms... and that song," Fingon hesitantly offered and repeated the gesture, surprised at the harshness of Círdan´s skin. It had to be apparent on his face, because the Shipwright halted the travel of Fingon´s fingers over his face and pressed them harder into his skin. "These are the days spent at the Sea," he explained and let the gentle exploration of his face continue. His eyelids fluttered slightly under Fingon´s ministrations. "What can you see in my eyes, Lord Círdan?" Fingon whispered, no longer trusting his voice. Without further words, Círdan pulled him close, his arms encircling Fingon´s shoulders, and a faint echo of breath caressed his lips briefly before Shipwright´s mouth sealed over his. Fingon´s eyes fell shut as he felt the soft moan that escaped Círdan´s lips at the sensation of that tender kiss. Lips on lips slightly parted, either of them breathing the air of his partner´s very lungs, feather-soft touches driving both Elves to complete and utter distraction. "Well... Wouldn´t it be better this way? Talking can wait..." Círdan whispered, claiming Fingon´s mouth once again, letting out a low moan as the soft tip of Fingon´s tongue encircled the barrier of his lips, urging them open, and then the sweet tongue slipped inside, teasing and caressing. As their kiss grew more heated, Fingon was no longer able to stop himself and let his hands wander across the broad back to finally tangle his fists in the thick silver mane, pressing Círdan´s pliant lips harder against his. When they finally broke off, both similarly transfixed, their chests rising and falling in the same tempo, Fingon lifted his trembling fingers and pressed them to his swollen lips, sore and aching for more, and refused to open his eyes. Círdan rested his burning brow against his cheek, nuzzling his mouth close to Fingon´s neck, planting a row of butterfly-soft kisses with gentle tongue-laps alongside the sensitive skin, forcing an involuntary gasp immediately followed by a low, hungry moan from the prince. It felt like fire explosion inside him, spreading like lava stream through his veins, his breathing hardened. Círdan smiled against the flawless marble of his lover´s skin and wishing nothing more than hear that impassionate sound again, he continued to lick that sweet spot right under Fingon´s ear, enticing more whimpers and a shaky sound of his name. "Someone may approach, Círdan... We should-" stop, he wanted to say, but the rest of his words collapsed into a helpless moan as Círdan laved his tongue hotly around his jawline and to his earlobe. "You may be right..." Círdan purred directly into Fingon´s ear. The Noldo shuddered and bucked his hips unconsciously forward, forcing the Shipwright to take a step back to regain his balance. Moaned protest tore out from Fingon´s throat and he could no longer hold back. He slammed Círdan into the scabrous trunk of the willow, pressed the whole length of his body hard agaist him and renewed the assault on his mouth, plundering the sweetness inside. Again and again he ground his hips into Círdan´s, making him moan and writhe within his encircling arms. "We can take the horses and get to my home before the sun is too high." Fingon said, his arms still enveloping the distracted Falathrim lord. A shudder ran through his body at the sensation of holding the silver-haired Elf so close, of tasting him, as he studied the attractive pink flush adorning his future lover´s cheeks, quickened heartbeat and ragged breath, and that all made him wish to cry out in joy at the knowledge that he was the sole cause of Shipwright´s aroused state. But he wanted more, more of Círdan to taste, to feel, to hear – the sounds that the Shipwright made were driving Fingon insane with lust. Círdan shut his eyes weakly, as his partner´s hand left his hair and continued its agonizing way down. Fingon slightly brushed his nails over the hardened nipple, Círdan drawing in a sharp breath, and gripped the slim hip, caressing it with open palm. Círdan fought back a cry of pleasure. There was something unbelievably erotic about the two of them. Using all the strength he could collect, the Sea-Elf put an end to the mocking battle of tongues and pushed Fingon gently back. "You are right, prince Fingon. We should not do this here." He said and adjusted his robe to its formal and lordly shape. Fingon froze, suddenly feling as if someone splashed a bucket of cold water on him. "Why do you call me that?" he asked in a hurt tone. Círdan turned to face him again, that erotic flush still adorning his tanned skin, and took the desperate Noldo´s hand, pulling him back the direction they came from. "Because you are the Prince Fingon, that is all." "All?" Fingon cried out, feeling childish and stupid in instant. "All." Círdan answered simply, but then he noticed the sheer horror in the Noldo´s eyes and panicked himself. "Fingon... oh please, do not be like that... I don´t want to hurt you – causing you pain is the last thing in the Eä I can think of... you are so young, you know..." he babbled. Fingon´s jaws tightened. He tore his hand out of the Shipwright´s grip and turned to run away again. He felt like if his life was nothing more than a little bread crumb and someone suddenly stepped on it. Why this sudden change, this turn? First those eyes and kisses, and then kick-a-puppy? Things have a habit of going wrong, Fingon thought miserably. "Fingon –" the Sea-Elf caught his fingers and held tight, "I am terribly sorry – this is quite a –" "Yes, quite a misunderstanding, eh? Don´t try to see the world in different way, this is what you wanted to say, isn´t it? I had no chance to receive more than just an one-night invitation from you, am I right?" the deeply hurt Noldo, on the verge of tears, cast those furious words in Círdan´s face, then sharply turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving the Falathrim Lord to his confused self. Fingon didn´t want to see anyone else that day, so he mounted his steed and disappeared, leaving the wonderful pools of Ivrin for his Dor-lómin strongold, where he could close all the doors and cry until there were no tears left. And as he was lying there, in the safe and warm sanctuary of his bedchamber, utterly exhausted, Fingon came to a decision: he hated Círdan. He had to hate Círdan, as he hated all such deceivers. Who has only cold and unconcern under such a beautiful husk, does certainly not deserve to be loved. Yet Fingon wished he could harden his heart, because he knew if the Sea-Elf looked at him now, he would be drowned in the grey depths of his eyes again. Comments to Part 1: 1) According to me, Círdan has no beard, but (among Elves) extraordinary ability to get suntanned and that his skin is weather – beaten. 2) Fingon´s song lyrics written by Joey Tempest, Europe. 3) Don´t be mistaken – the Havens (2nd paragraph) stand for Brithombar and Eglarest, not for Mithlond (which comes to another Age). Title: Of the Sense of Tears (Series) Author: Linderith of Lórien (Linderith@seznam.cz) Pairing: Fingon/Círdan this chapter, hopefully a few more later on Rating: R Disclaimer: Nothing but this brain (and those few poor characters I created, Tharanar, Maradan, etc.) is of my possession. Everything else belongs to Professor Tolkien and his genius. For the copyrights see Comments. Summary: See Part 1 Notes: Based on The Silmarillion. Inner monologues in //. To argue about settings and canon, Elvish and whatever, email me. Feedback: Yes, please! I must know if I´m doing this right... PART 2 – In the Warmth of Fears I may have wasted all those years They are not worth their time in tears I may have spent too long in the darkness In the warmth of my fears (John Myung, Dream Theater) /Indian Summer, Year 30 of the First Age of Middle-earth, Hithlum/ The glimmering late afternoon sunlight was trembling in the thick air, heavy and perfumed, stirring with the coming chill of the evening and still closer arrival of evening dew. Aged trees were about to shed their season-embroidered leaves before long and succumb to the awaited embrace of winter. The High King of Noldor in Middle-earth took a deep, luxurious breath and sighed, closing the window and turning his back to it, looking at his oldest son. He could see something is disturbing him, yet could not say what or why he was so sad. Fingon was sitting by the large table in the feast hall, looking utterly alone and small in the huge room, his gaze clouded and lost somewhere in the distance. “My son?” Fingolfin laid his hand on Fingon´s shoulder, “What is the matter with you?” he inquired gently. Fingon took his turn in sighing and his eyes travelled over the room. “It is so empty here,” he said, almost palpable sorrow in his voice. “Soon it won´t be. The sentries of Lord Círdan arrived yesterday.” “Círdan´s sentries,” parroted Fingon softly, feeling suddenly dizzy. “Yes, and Círdan himself arrived today, about noon, quite unexpected.” Fingon was left literally dumbstruck. That damned sentence made his heart skip a beat and his lungs contracted painfully before he regained conscious use of his brain and body. “Why?” he asked. “Why what? Why is he here?” Fingolfin´s eyes widened, confusion written clearly across his noble features. After Fingon´s short nod, the elder Elf briefly explained the troubles that the Falathrim have with orcs, and how many battles took place there upon the fair coast of Beleriand. Fingolfin´s words came to his son´s ears muffled. “...now, they turned the orcs back. They came only to warn us.” Clear call of dinner bells filled the air, calling the rest of Fingolfin´s household to the feast hall. Fingon panicked: meeting Círdan eye to eye again would be the beginning of his undoing. All he knew was that he must put as much distance between himself and Círdan as possible. “Pardon me, Father. I am tired.” He announced, trying to sound emotionless and neutral. Fingolfin let him go, for he had not the heart to force his son to do otherwise, feeling the sorrow he carried inside. “If you wish to return to Dor-lómin, don´t go now, stay here ovenight,” Fingolfin said, hugging his son tightly. Fingon was lying on the bed in one of the bedchambers for guests in his father´s stronghold. He knew he must leave in the morning if he didn´t want to meet the Falathrim Lord. And he certainly did *not*. He was listening to the distant voices of all the Elves who were attending his father´s feast. As the night went on, the laughter, singing and music grew more heated and then more and more silent to finally cease. He could not sleep, no dreams were about to come, and the room felt suddenly claustrophobic to him. He needed to breathe. A brief moment of indecision flashed through his mind before he finally stepped out on the terrace and into the garden, following the moon-kissed pathways into the very heart of the garden, where the tombstones of his fallen and departed kin were. Sitting down on a marble bench, he rested his burning forehead in his palms. “Why, Círdan? Why do you torment me like this?” he asked the surrounding darkness, pretty sure that he´s alone. Varda´s handiwork shone brightly down on the garden, caressing and soothing, as a sign of hope and dreams fulfilled. “I have never wanted to torment you, Fingon,” a voice, heavy with sadness, met Fingon´s ears like if coming from a great distance. The Noldo shook his head, the movement making him that more dizzy. /Am I going crazy?/ “Go away from my head, now and for good!” he cried out, covering his ears. “I am here and not in your head,” the voice went on. When Fingon opened his eyes, the very personification of moonlight was standing before him. “Why are you here? To mock me again?” he asked, his tone cold and hurt. The Shipwright sank to his knees, gripping Fingon´s bloodless fingers and pressing them to his chest, right above his heart. “Forgive me. I was stupid.” he said miserably, his eyes never leaving Fingon´s face. “And now?” the Noldo asked bitterly. “I never stopped dreaming of you,” the Shipwright sighed in a rushed exhale. “And what if I do not believe you?” “I have naught but words to convince you. Tell me your heart had never been haunted by the same fantasies as mine had and I will say no more.” The Noldo raised his head, locking his eyes together with the other´s, forcing them to face each other on the battlefield of emotions both those offered and those hidden. “Your face has been haunting my dreams since that day every night!” the Noldo whispered huskily. There was nothing to lose and he had already gone way past the point where he had the power to stop his confession. “I know I´ve done something quite unforgivable... I thought it would be better for you, for both of us then. I thought... we were too different in age and in rank, my Noldorin prince...” As Círdan spoke, tears misted his eyes and turned his view into a cruel water-painting. Fingon was too overwhelmed to react. “Please... just forgive me, say something...” the Shipwright pleaded, unable to force some remnants of his dignity into his voice. Fingon didn´t understand the words, he was just watching the other´s lips move. He could see the sorrow-dripping gaze, the desperation in those Sea-hued eyes, the deep crease of a single worry-line running down the center of the suntanned forehead. Then he caught the soft glimmer of starlight in the Shipwright´s hair and couldn´t help but imprison a few silky strands in his hand, once again adorned by tiny pearls, like if million little stars fell down from the sky to tangle in Círdan´s hair. The motion of the lips stopped and a single tear appeared in the corner of Círdan´s eye, but the spell enchanting both of the Elves lasted, holding them in its thrall and bending Fingon´s resolves aside. With his hand pulling at the back of Círdan´s head, Fingon forced the Shipwright to raise his head and claimed his lips as his own, tasting the sweet mouth again, feasting on it, silently restoring the Shipwright´s statue on the moonlit shrine secreted in his very dreams. Fingon´s eyes flew open as he felt stunning wetness on his cheek. He sat back on his heels and hugged Círdan closely and tightly to his chest. “Why tears in a while like this one? I cannot see you cry, meleth-nin, it´s hurting me...” the Noldo tried to soothe him, kissing away the wet paths of tears still welling in those pools of liquid sorrow, the Shipwright´s expressive eyes. “It is just... I have wasted all those long years in my fears and darkness of the heart, I was hollow, empty as a shell... How could I ever think I´ve been alive? From now on, I will call today the first day of my life... But even the time that is given to us is not endless. I found you and I´m scared to death I may lose you in instant... I´ll rather take my own life before losing you, Fingon...” “Nothing within the boundaries of this world can separate us. Until this world stands, until *I* stand – I wish nothing more than to be with you, my love. Forever. And never forget that forever is the rest of eternity...” And with that, the teary waterfall ceased. The river of emotions was back in its banks and seized both Elves with her down her stream. “We should find some place more private, Círdan...” was all that Fingon managed to say between gasps and tiny moans which the Shipwright´s mouth on him caused. And it was also enough to lead them to a swift decision: leaving Hithlum for Dor-lómin. Title: Of the Sense of Tears (Series) Author: Linderith of Lórien (Linderith@seznam.cz) Pairing: Fingon/Cídan Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: Nothing but this brain (and those few poor characters I created, Tharanar, Maradan, etc.) is of my possession. Everything else belongs to Professor Tolkien and his genius. For the copyrights see Comments. Summary: See Part 1 Notes: Based on the Old Testament – I mean The Silmarillion. Inner monologues in //. To argue about settings and canon, Elvish and whatever, email me. Feedback: Yes, please! I must know if I´m doing this right... PART 3 – Close Encounters Once the stone you´re crawling under Is lifted off your shoulders Once the cloud that´s raining over your head disappear The noise that you´ll hear Is the crashing down of the hollow years (John Petrucci, Dream Theater) /Indian Summer, Year 30 of the First Age of Middle-earth, Dor-lómin/ Pushing the horses to their limits, the two Elves flew over the rich grass of Beleriand, their hair flying with the wind, their hearts full of joy and anticipation. The day was getting old, Isil appeared low in the eastern sky, shades grew long and the night was slowly creeping in to cover the landscape. Círdan leant forward in the saddle to hide his face behind the curtain of his hair. He was smiling to himself. What he saw in the Noldo´s eyes was as clear and pure as Elbereth´s glorious handiwork, making him happy in the most blissful of ways, this feeling, this *certainty* - that Fingon wished to belong to him, he *longed* to be his. Círdan himself was surprised at first, surprised by the way his heart bounced madly within his chest as he felt the Noldo´s gaze upon him again, as he remembered the sensation of those trembling hands on his shoulders back there by the pools of Ivrin, the rain of sparks that burst out behind his tightly closed eyelids when their lips first met in the tentative kiss, how Fingon´s body responded – how he *drove* Fingon´s body to respond... “There it is,” Fingon cried out to shout the wind down, “´Tis my stronghold.” When Círdan raised his gaze and followed the direction the Noldo pointed, he saw a fortress enclosed in high walls, mighty wooden gate in the center of the frontal wall. The lookouts blew their silver trumpets and opened the gate, letting their captain and his guest in. Fingon called for the sentry to look for their horses and quickly led Círdan through the hallway and the candlelit corridors to his private chambers, as if he was afraid that the passage of time will separate them again. When he finally slammed the door shut behind them, Fingon allowed himself to slip out of the official guise he adopted in front of his servants. He took the Shipwright´s hands in his and laid them on his chest, close to his heart. “Círdan... I wish to tell you something,” he said, desperation in his voice mixed with urgency and fear, “everything I sang there ten years ago was true. I love you, and forever I will, even out of the borders of this world.” The Shipwright swayed, feeling suddenly dizzy, and slipped into those ever-so-wonderfully fitting arms. Fingon sank to his knees, pulling the Sea-Elf down with him, hungry for further contact. Gentle fingers unbraided the practical, single midnight-coloured plait falling down Fingon´s back and their eyes met in instant. And it was in that moment when time seemed to stop, or at least reach its liquid quality, when the Noldo recognized the reciprocation of his most inward feelings. Círdan let out a tiny sound of protest when his to-be lover´s eyes filled with tears. “There is no need to cry, meleth-nin,” he whispered and caressed Fingon´s hair, “now when we finally found each other... And you are still young compared to me, I had seen the waters of Cuivién as well as many rounds of the stars before Anar´s first rays broke into the shadows of Arda, and although our bodies do not show any signs of the passage of time, I cannot deny the lines that trace my skin.” “I love your lines, Círdan,” Fingon whispered and pressed his lips against the single soft line running over the Shipwright´s brow, and caressed the tiny wrinkles around his eyes caused by screwing his eyes up against the sunlight. “And I will love yours when they come,” Círdan swore and rocked Fingon gently in his arms. Then they kissed again, softly and deliberately, building slowly the fire within, entwining their tongues as well as their limbs in a graceful and well-choreographed ballet. They were still on their knees, facing each other and kissing with bruising ferocity, until the flames inside were nearly unbearable and Fingon frantically started to undo the row of tiny buttons running down the center of his burgundy robe. The Shipwright held him helplessly, their mouths still locked together, and once the Noldo was done with his robe, he began with Cídan´s silver hooks and eyes. With each hook set loose, a coarse thrill rushed through the slender body of the Sea-Elf, his anticipation rising with each stroke of Fingon´s thumbs over his chest, still enclosed in fine silk undershirt. But the Noldo was too impatient. He yanked Círdan´s robe roughly back over his shoulders and upper arms, leaving his elbows and forearms trapped in the material. Beautiful rosy flush blossomed on Círdan´s cheeks, as he tried his would-be bindings, but to his surprise all the might he could collect in his dizziness was of no use. Seeing his ineffectual effort, Fingon grinned evilly and torn the front of Círdan´s grey undershirt with one mighty yank. The Shipwright jumped, startled and painfully aroused, and watched his younger lover in amazement. “Is this how you want me to have you? Helpless and completely at my mercy?” Fingon purred maliciously, licking the tender spot in the hollow of Círdan´s throat. The Elf groaned, the sound a maddening mixture of lust, rage and frustration. Fingon grazed himself on the beauty so generously offered. “Tell me what you wish,” the Noldo hissed, sending fireballs of freezing flames down his lover´s spine. “Tell me or you won´t get it,” he continued to torment the trembling Elf. “Take me, Fingon, do whatever pleases you, just do not torture me any more...” Círdan whispered, slightly breathless. Fingon slipped his tongue teasingly between the Shipwright´s lips, drew their pelvises together, rubbing against the robe-veiled flesh of his lover, and rocked his hips again and again in search of a greater contact. Círdan´s breathing hardened, if that was even possible, as the Noldo´s hands followed the round line of his buttocks and thighs, caressing and teasing. Círdan´s fist flew to his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle a cry of pleasure. Fingon pulled them both up, their clothes somehow piling at their feet, and drank in the beautiful sight of each other, naked as the day they were born, nothing but the very air separating them. A few blinks later Círdan found himself pushed onto the bed and turned on his belly. “What are you-“ he cried out, as Fingon´s somehow oiled fingers caressed the cleft between his rear cheeks, single finger excruciatingly encircling the tight opening, and experimentally slipped inside. “You told me to do whatever pleases me,” Fingon purred delightfully, preparing his lover for the spike of pain. Círdan lifted on all fours, offering his partner better access to his most private areas. His knees felt weak, like if his legs were of water, his whole body felt like nothing more than a hypersensitive bundle of nerves. Now three fingers were working magic, preparing his tight insides. Círdan was thrashing wildly, moaning and whimpering. Fingon was skillfully tormenting him, withdrawing his fingers while running the thumb of the other hand over Círdan´s belly and lower. The Shipwright rolled his hips back to impale himself fully upon those teasing fingers. “Take me, Fingon, do not tease me like this, I beg of you...” Círdan whispered, his voice gone husky with lust. The sheer power of unbridled passion seeming to be bound inside that plea was almost the undoing of the Noldo. Fingon entwined his hands with Círdan's and raised them to lay beside his head. Slowly, he pushed himself into the tight heat, joining their bodies at last. A mutual gasp passed their lips at the completion of a journey that had begun the day they met. For a long moment, the lovers held still, their eyes closed, the feeling of their union so exquisite that it was almost more than they could handle. It was as if, with the merging of their bodies, their souls had fused as well. And they knew, without a doubt, that this was meant to be. Panting, trying to regain control of himself, Fingon focused on the sensations coursing through him, the feeling of his body, his soul, inside Círdan's. Fingon was afire – he had to move, so he withdrew a little and then pushed back inward, burning skin slapping burning skin, and soon they crushed madly against each other, the air filled with moans, cries of passion and Fingon mixing Sindarin with Quenya, until nothing else of this world existed around them. Without leaving the newly-found home within his lover´s body, Fingon turned the lithe frame on his belly. Círdan supported his weight on his elbows, his hips high in the air, his lover´s hand wrapped around his erection and stroking in time with thrusts. With each thrust Círdan´s body shuddered and he cried out, spurring Fingon on to infernal tempo, until both of them couldn´t step back and simultaneously fell over the edge, beast-like sounds ripping out of their throats as they came. Fingon collapsed onto the Shipwright´s back and then into his arms as Círdan turned on his back and let his lover nest his dark-haired head on his chest, encircling him with his arms. “Didn´t I hurt you?” Fingon asked, rubbing the tender skin of the Shipwright´s chest. “No, it was... perfect... You are evil, you know?” Círdan smiled, an exhausted smile, his eyelids suddenly went too heavy to keep his eyes open. “You would have me no other way,” Fingon smiled in answer and covered them both with his blanket, never leaving the Shipwright´s ever-fitting embrace, growing torpid as he awaited the arrival of the blessed realms of Elvish dreams. Morning had no mercy and without an apologize interrupted the blissful reverie. Fingon was the first to wake up, the first sight awaiting him made his heart skip a beat: Círdan was lying on his back, arms folded under his head, silver mane unbraided and spread on the pillow, glowing like aureole in the morning sun, soft smile gracing his lips. The Noldo leant over him and gently brushed his lips over Círdan´s. Closed eyelids slightly fluttered, soothed body writhed and then slackened again as Círdan shifted back and forth between the exquisite reverie and the conscious world. Fingon collected him in his arms and held until he finally awoke. It took a minute to Círdan to focus his eyes before smiling in recognition. “Good mornig, love,” Fingon whispered, “Did we sleep well, my lord...” And he kissed his lover again, deeply this time, and soon he rolled on top of him and they started to rub against each other. “Do not call me lord, meleth-nin... I´ve been waiting for too long for this, for you, for my soulmate...” Círdan sighed between gasps, utterly enraptured in the bliss of the entire situation. With the first moan escaping the Noldo´s lips he was breached, and Círdan sat on the bed and pulled Fingon in his lap without breaking the contact. Fingon gasped as he was utterly fullfilled. Círdan threw his head back and let his lover ride him, guiding his hips up and down upon his lenght, and when Fingon slammed his hips down, Círdan simultaneously thrust up, dashing sharp cries out of him. Harder and faster they moved in tandem, until the great wave of passion overflooded them, leaving them lost in each other´s embrace, sharing the sweet, quiet peace of release. “This is the best way to start a day,” Fingon murmured into the perfect skin of Círdan´s shoulder, gently stroking his beloved´s hair. “Agree...” the Shipwright sighed, reaching for endless kisses. They shared their quiet, intimate first breakfast on the terrace, bathing in the sunlight and each other´s physical closeness. Instantly, Fingon saw a shade of discomfort on his lover´s face, but then he winked and whatever it was, it was away, yet still he could feel that something is disturbing Círdan. He gently touched his hand lying on the table. Círdan involuntarily jumped, torn out of his deep thoughts. “What is wrong, Gilmfindel?” he asked softly, his eyes full of concern. Círdan smiled. “Gilmfingel? Is that how you see me?” he asked. Fingon captured his fingers in his hand and brought them to his lips, placing a kiss upon each fingertip, looking deeply in his eyes. “No, I see you as the greatest gift the Valar sent me. I see you as a half of my very being.” Fingon leant into the touch of those beloved fingers on his cheek. “You still haven´t answered my question, Gilmfindel,” the Noldo reminded him gently. “Nothing,” was everything Círdan uttered. Fingon frowned: ”Why do you lie to me? Do I really deserve deceit from you?” The Shipwright writhed uncomfortably: “It really isn´t anything, meleth-nin. Never would I lie to you, it´s just that I... I mean...” “I know you must leave. You have a duty to your people. But please do not leave until tomorrow´s morning...” the silent, desperate plea, together with support and understanding, fetched tears to Círdan´s eyes. “I will not leave until the end of Eä,” he swore huskily, pushing the small wooden table aside and throwing himself in Fingon´s arms. “I am happy... I cannot remember being this happy ever before. I just want you to know.” Fingon said, caressing the glowing Telperion-hued silk, watching as it flows among his fingers, playing with the tiny pearls that somehow still remained in Círdan´s hair, the rest of them was scattered somewhere in the grass of Beleriand and in Fingon´s bed. “I am equally happy, meleth-nin. For too long had my arms been empty and my heart cold.” In the evening, the rest of the warriors of Fingon´s house returned from the pools of Ivrin. Fingon had to slip back into his official face as well as into his robes, leaving the warmth of his bed and his lover´s arms to come out and greet them. Fortunately were they too weary to keep their eyes open when listening to long speeches and so their lord could return to the “great wisdom the Lord of the Falas offered to share”. “I´m leaving in the morning,” Círdan said, palpable sorrow in his voice and those Sea-coloured eyes matching that of his soul. Fingon hugged him tightly, kissing the soft skin of his lover´s neck, the huge wave of Círdan´s sadness washed over him; and he felt like he´s drowning in the silky luxury of his beloved´s embrace. Círdan sighed and stole for himself another taste of the Blessed Lands from the Noldo´s lips. “You taste like honey,” Círdan teased, claiming those sulking lips again. “Liar,” Fingon snapped, turning the Sea-Elf on his stomach roughly and curling his wrists behind his back. Círdan cried out, performing a few sounds of pain, which startled his captor and he let go. Círdan started to laugh. “Liar and deceiver,” the Noldo barked again, laughter peeking from behind the forced frown. Soon they were rolling over the whole bed, laughing and struggling like puppies. Yes, they were happy. Yet the light of their happiness shone so brightly that none of them noticed the footsteps of shadow creeping silently from the North. With the finest words imaginable, Fingon offered a group of his warriors to accompany the Lord of the Falathrim back to Eglarest; and with equally graceful word ballet Círdan accepted and thanked him. Everything that was left unsaid were their awkward goodbyes, leaving their hearts naked and raw and their arms empty in the violent morning sunlight streaming cruelly through the windows. As he then watched Círdan and the company depart, Fingon got this terrible feeling that he may never see him again. Comments to Part 3: 1) Gilmfindel means the one whose hair is the colour of moonlight (gilm – sindarin word for moonlight, -findel = suffix; similar is the name Glorfindel – Golden-haired). 2) Meleth-nin is Sindarin for my love, but you do all know. 3) Still looking for Círdan´s beard? Later! He is relatively young in this part... Title: Of the Sense of Tears (Series) Author: Linderith of Lórien (Linderith@seznam.cz) Pairing: Fingon/Cídan Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: Nothing but this brain (and those few poor characters I created, Tharanar, Maradan, etc.) is of my possession. Everything else belongs to Professor Tolkien and his genius. For the copyrights see Comments. Summary: See Part 1 Notes: Based on the Old Testament – I mean The Silmarillion. Inner monologues in //. To argue about settings and canon, Elvish and whatever, email me. Feedback: Yes, please! I must know if I´m doing this right... PART 4 – Of the Merry Years "Remember nothing is constant... except change." /High Summer, Year 144 of the First Age of Middle-earth, Eglarest/ Evening was falling swiftly over Middle-earth, darkness creeped out of the forests and deep valleys, covering the landscape in a graceful cloak of the sunset and night then. The streets of Eglarest were empty, only the lookouts were sitting unseen in the watchtowers. The Sea-Elves were all on the plain overlooking the coastal side of Falas, celebrating the feast of summer solstice. Through the whole night they will dance upon the grey grass and white sand under the starry sky and in the morning they will sing to the rising sun, watching the majesty of orange and red sunrise on the eastern side of the horizon. Three riders emerged from the dark shades of forest and continued across the large plains of Falas. They were all dark-haired, clad in silver chain-mail and long grey cloaks, and their horses were of strong build, dancing on long and swift legs, greyish with shining, milky manes and tails, silver-shod. Soon they reached the strong walls of the Elven Haven. The lookouts halted them, and after a while were two of the riders escorted into the city and the third urged his horse towards the hills. Fingon dismounted his horse and searched the host of silver-haired Elves for Círdan. "Lord Círdan... My road has led me to your fair haven for the very first time. I hope that I and my two companions do not invade your privacy, or that of your people." He said, seeing his beloved´s broad shoulders and shining halo of hair from behind, and bowed lightly. That soft melody of the voice, the fresh scent of forest lingering in the air filled Círdan´s nostrils, and he spun around to meet the most desired and long-awaited sight. "Fingon," he whispered in a rushed exhale of breath he was not aware he had held. He almost forgot the passionate flame burning in his lover´s eyes, the privilege of his Noldorin origin, of the fact he was born in the blessed light of the Trees, this flame most refering to the boldness of Fingon´s heart; the noble ivory features of his beautiful face, the fairness of his skin a rival of the white snowy cap of Manwë´s Taniquetil itself, the mane of dark hair, the broad expanse of his shoulders... Círdan licked his lips. He knew he must stop or he would beg to be ravished in front of his people. After a pregnant pause, he regained at least something of his manners. "You must be weary after such a long journey, Lord Fingon. Let me show you your chambers, so you can have all the rest you require. Welcome to Eglarest," the Shipwright said and gestured for his folk to continue the celebration and for Fingon to follow. Thanking the sentry and sending him away, Círdan shoved his beloved Noldo into one of the guests´ bedchambers and shut the large door. Fingon was standing in the center of the chamber, still fully armed and clad, waiting for whatever may ensue. Deft fingers unlaced the straps holding Fingon´s shield on his back, the buckle of the sword-holding belt was set loose, leather bindings protecting the warrior´s wrists were removed and let to fall to the floor together with the grey mantle. And that was when Círdan´s patience was spent. With a low growl, he locked their lips together and stepping forth, he backed his lover to the bed. When the back side of Fingon´s knees connected with the edge of the bed, Círdan pushed him onto the mattress. "Why do I think that you are in a hurry?" he asked, laughter ruining the mocking effect immediately. And a few seconds later, all laughter was forgotten and his mouth fell open in a silent cry of pleasure, as his leggings were impatiently yanked down and hot mouth closed around his straining flesh. The wetness and heat dispossessed him of his senses and Fingon took the Shipwright by hair and pulled the silver head in his lap, forcing himself deep into his throat. Within a short while the Noldo´s passion reached almost unbearable levels and he pushed Círdan roughly aside. "Stop, just stop... I can take no more now." he panted, his chest heaving. Devilish grin conquered Círdan´s features: "We will see about that." And once again the Noldo´s nails dug painfully into the robe-protected skin of his beloved´s shoulders. Impossibly tight heat together with talented swirls of an insistent tongue made his vision go white and he screamed his lover´s name, heedless to any possible intruders or by-passers. Círdan´s palm pressed against his mouth: "Be quiet," he hissed, "or you will get no more." "Are you frightening me, Círdan?" Fingon asked, laughter in his voice again. "No, I am serious. If you wish to be tied up to the bed and gagged, so be it that way." The Sea-Elf stood up from the bed and glared fiercely down at his lover. Fingon´s eyes widened: "You forget your place, Shipwright! I am of the line of Kings!" "If I knew not that you are jesting, who knows what may happen... Besides, I don´t care about your origin as long as you are in my bed." "Nor do I," admitted Fingon and got himself rid of the chain-mail he wore and a few layers of fabric underneath it. Then, without warning, he launched himself at the Shipwright and slammed him into the nearby wall behind them. The Elf moaned in pain of the impact as well as in pleasure coming from the glorious friction that the material of his robes against the naked flesh on the both sides of it created. Fingon forced him to open his thighs, and lifted his lover´s knee to his waist, pressing harder against him, guiding his hips up and down against Círdan´s, until the Shipwright submitted to the sweet violation and encircled Fingon´s waist with his legs, moaning into the ever-present mouth covering his. "Círdan... Stop making such sounds, or I will seriously hurt you..." Fingon growled. "Go ahead then," panted the Shipwright. He was way behind the point where he cared about pain. All he craved now was to be the extension of his lover´s body – nay, to be *part* of it, to melt in each other... Neither of them knew how they got back onto the bed. Fingon kneeled behind his very own silver sea-god, his hot palms never leaving those soft cushions of flesh, he opened them slightly and positioned the head of his arousal against the tender entrance. Círdan impatiently thrust backwards and to the surprise of both of them, Fingon´s steel-hard need slid smoothly inside to the hilt, fitting perfectly into his lover´s velvety body, and they screamed in unisono at the bliss of the entire moment, which defined the very essence of love and trust itself, and this passion, this pleasure of filling and being filled, ripped the last conscious thought out of their brains. Not only the following morning, but also considerable part of the day spent the Falathrim Lord hidden behind the closed door of his private chambers, keeping the significant guest from Beleriand company. Elbereth only knows what exactly that meant. "I´d like to show you a very special place, love," Círdan informed the messy figure lying sprawled on his bed, once he untangled himself from the sweet trap of arms, hair, warmth and kisses. A face appeared above the rim of the blanket and the figure made only a small, incoherent sound – probably of protest. "Get your lazy bones up, Fingon!" the Shipwright growled. Dark head disappeared under the covers again. Círdan rolled his eyes. "Fine, lay here then, I´m going alone," he said, as he put on his clothes and brushed his hair. Once he started braiding it, Fingon – all his dignity forgotten – was out of the bed. He stretched his back, making terrible sounds by the way, then yawned. "You are the most sluggish Elf I´ve ever seen," Círdan remarked. The Noldo gently replaced the braiding fingers with his own: "You are so cruel, Círdan – I´m working on your hair and what are you doing? Scolding me!" His face grew more serious, as he met no humour in his lover´s eyes. "Well, what do you want to show me?" "The Sea." "Círdan, I have seen the Sea." Fingon objected, having nothing more than the swiftest possible return to their bed in mind. "Sure, but not *my* Sea." Fingon was convinced. Overpowered. Defeated. They left the city´s gates and continued towards the beach. "Leave this on." Círdan said simply, as he fastened a blindfold around his lover´s head. At first, Fingon was taken aback. Darkness surrounded him – but more the darkness of the Outer World than night´s. But Círdan led him safely on. He wondered at the way his senses sharpened – the touch, the smell, the... "Círdan, kiss me," he said suddenly, turning in the general direction the beloved voice came from the last. Moist breath ghosted over his cheek and then soft lips touched his, the familiar shudder running down his body – the Noldo cupped his lover´s face, caressing the silky strands of hair, and laying his fingers at the prominent cheekbones, brow, bridge of the nose, all over that artistic face, and he could see Círdan´s face with the silver aureole of hair clearly in his mind. Stirred from his thoughts by an insistent tongue slipping inside his mouth, Fingon moaned into the continual onslaught. He shoved the blindfold aside and buried his midnight-coloured gaze in Círdan´s stormy grey. "Cheater," Círdan smiled tenderly, "I told you to leave it on. Put it back on, and hurry. I want to show you the Sea before Anor goes to sleep." First Fingon heard a crashing noise, and a salty scent hit his nose, and when a gull cried high in the sky, his chest tightened. "It is said that our kind cannot resist calling of the Sea, for it is in our blood," Círdan stated calmly, watching the sorrow-dripping gaze of his lover. The Noldo uneasily surveyed the horizon. "I have seen the Sea before, yet in its very worst mood," Fingon said, sadness in his voice. "Why? Was it stormy or what happened?" Círdan inquired gently and hugged him from behind, drinking in the delicious perfume of the forest in his lover´s hair. Fingon turned in his arms, clutching desperately the fabric of Círdan´s tunic, storm of emotions revealed deep in his eyes. "Do not ask me, meleth-nin. The horror is still too vivid in my memory." Not knowing what to say, the Shipwright simply hugged the Noldorin prince closer to him and kissed him again. "Does it not call to you?" he asked, and Círdan smiled: "I´ve been living here for too long, even now. We are allies, me and the Sea... And I do know for sure that still many centuries in Middle-earth are lying in front of me." "Aye, it is said about you." "Said? What is said?" the Shipwright writhed uncomfortably. "That you are a great seer, a prophet of your people." Círdan left the Noldo´s arms and paced a few steps further down the beach. "No," he whispered, as he turned back to face Fingon, "I cannot see into the future." "Was that a lie I heard?" "Fingon... I can foresay only that what is revealed to me." "Revealed? I don´t understand." "Revealed by the Lord of the Waters... We can talk later – come now!" Círdan placed a tiny kiss upon each of his beloved´s eyelids and untied the tiny knot on Fingon´s blindfold, which was no longer necassary, for the fabric was hanging loowely around the Noldo´s neck. And then the Sea spread before them, reaching the horizon and entwining with the skies there. Anar was on its way to the midnight side of the world and the view was embroidered with golden light by the blessed hands of the Valar and everything was engulfed in orange colour of the dusk. Fantastic arcs and towers of coastal rocks grew dark against the sunset. The sky was rosy and then red, white sand of the beach underneath their feet like if the Sea was bleeding. "This part of day loves Celebdir the best," sighed Círdan. Fingon spun around: "Who is Celebdir?" The Shipwright´s face grew tender and unconscious smile lit up his features, which made Fingon that more jealous of that mysterious Celebdir. "Have you seen the figures on the main gate of the haven?" "Aye, yet why are you changing the subject?" the Noldo growled. "Celebdir made them. He´s a sculptor, a very talented one. And also very young. I have a very personal relationship with him – I took care of him when both his parents were slain during the Dagor-nuin-Giliath." "Dagor-nuin-Giliath – but that´s when we returned to Middle-earth!" Fingon cried out, most reminiscent of a child. But he calmed then, content with this explanation, and Círdan went on. "This we call Mindon o galad, tower of light. You know they are Noldorin idea?" he said, pointing out a dark shape of a building with fire lit on the top of it. As the last sunlight finally vanished, a few more lights appeared along the shoreline, little islands of day in the sea of thick darkness of the night enveloping them, holding them enchanted within its grasp. It was soon about to rain, heavy clouds were hanging low above the horizon, covering the stars. "Noldorin? How so?" "Finrod and his people helped us. Together, we rebuilt and strenghtened the Havens, both of them. It was after the first of the Wars of Beleriand. The Orcs came and drove us almost into the Sea. Lord Finrod is a good friend of mine." "I didn´t know." Fingon frowned and hoped it went unnoticed. He was wondering what else he didn´t know of Círdan, of the Sea-lore, and of the Middle-earth itself by the time they were in Aman... Finrod was more Fingon´s brother than cousin, closer than his siblings by blood, yet now he was far away and there was no one to ask. Círdan kept watching the waters he will sail one day, departing Middle-earth on the last white ship. He sighed, deeply and sadly, and Fingon´s silhouette covered his veiw. "Is anything wrong?" he asked, collecting the lean, long-limbed body into embrace. Círdan just shook his silver head and remained silent. He wished he could see into the future – and dreaded it at once. He felt dark times ahead them – yet without shape, without a clue. "I love you, Gilmfindel," Fingon whispered into the ivory skin of his lover´s neck, a slow, hedonistic caress, Círdan´s head instinctively falling back to grant him better access. The Noldo *felt* - rather than *heard* - Círdan purring his name, and gently bit the skin he was just licking. Soft lips parted in a silent moan of pleasure, pale fingers tangled in dark hair. "Stop, Fingon," Círdan wanted to say, but the order turned to a defeated mewl when his lover began licking the rim of his ear. "You don´t want me to, love," Fingon whispered into the pointed ear, his warm exhale tickling the moistened skin. "I do, and you should continue this once we are back in the bed." Many a sunny day Fingon spent in Falas, before his duty called him home. Desperately aching to have something reminding him of that time back at home, he invited Celebdir to come with him and work in Dor-lómin for some time. And seeing the naturally-grown silver of the young sculptor´s hair around him, he was soothed. For some time. /Winter´s arrival, Year 157 of the First Age of Middle-earth, Dor-lómin/ Many times the sun crossed the sky and bid its glorious farewell to Middle-earth, leaving wondrous patterns of the night sky bright and – somehow – sad. Fingon was standing by the western window of his bedroom, watching the evening fall, and was in heavy, dark mood. /Anar is nothing but poser,/ he thought, /every evening goes and gets herself drowned in the Sea, with great show and things like that, and each morning gets up as if nothing had happened./ Yes, drowned in the Sea... Fingon allowed himself to shift back into the safe cocoon of his dreams. Last time drowned in the Sea he was when he buried his face in Círdan´s hair that cursed morning. It´s been too long since he held his beloved, too long since those wonderful days... "My Lord?" a muffled voice came from behind the closed door. "Yes, I am here, come in, Tharanar," Fingon said and crashed the door open in a bit exaggerated manner, sending his sentry behind impacting with the other side of the corridor. The Noldo peered out of the door: "Do you wish anything?" "Yes," a broken answer came from the dark corner and a crouched figure emerged from the shade then, rubbing his forehead. "Your father´s messengers arrived. He wishes to speak with you." "Is he here?" "No, he wants you to come to his stronghold in Hithlum." Fingon sighed. He felt weary and the last thing upon Arda he wanted to do was talking to his father. "Tell Maradan to prepare his bowsmen. We´re leaving with the sunrise." The sentry bowed slightly and left, trying to hide the discomfort that walking caused to his sore backside. The Noldo returned to his bedchamber, thinking of whatever scenarios he could imagine – what could his father want? But as he wrapped himself in the bedclothes, he threw all his thoughts, except memories sweeter that the honey of Yavanna´s meadows, behind, and lost himself in the blissful surrender of dreams. Small company of dark-haired bowsmen on white horses left the gate of the main Noldorin fortress in Dor-lómin, still covered by the merciful cloak of darkness, lit only by Varda´s bright handiwork and the round face of Isil. With the whispering of wind in their hair and the horses´ manes they headed to the paling eastern horizon. Only one was different – although dressed in the garb of Fingon´s house, his hair shone under the waxing moon like living silver. "You wished to speak to me, Father," Fingon impatiently offered, when he and Fingolfin remained alone. "It is time to celebrate," the elder Elf said, handing a crystal goblet of wine to his son. "I fear I do not understand, my Lord," Fingon barked. His opposite raised his hand to silence him. "You should calm down first, Fingon," he said. "I *AM* calm!" he spat angrily. "No, you aren´t. You never call me Lord when you are calm. But to ocut a long story short, after all I found a well-pedigreed wife for you." Fingon froze in the midst of move, his eyes popped out and mouth dropped open: marriage? "My Lord? Lord Fingolfin!" came a urgent voice from behind the door. "Yea?" Fingolfin asked and gestured to his son to open the door. Two dark-haired Elves rushed in. "Morgoth´s host now reached the Firth of Drengist and is coming on us from west!" There was no time left for thinking or planning. The army of Hithlum was alerted and with Fingon, who took the lead, rushed to the Firth and fell upon the Orcs among the hills right when they left the head of the Firth. The battle was fast and short and most of the Orcs were driven back to the Sea. Fingon, rejoicing at the flawless victory, let a camp set up and then went to check up the battlefield, for he couldn´t find Celebdir, Círdan´s sculptor, who came with him from Eglarest to Dor-lómin and followed him to Hithlum and then to the battle. The prince was dreading the moment he will find the young, talented Elf lying dead on the ground, for he knew of Círdan´s fondness of Celebdir. Terrible stench rose in his nose, as he passed the heaps of dead Orcs, and suddenly he felt sick – he, the warrior of countless battles, both those small and those great battles of songs. He remembered well how terrible the battlefield after the Dagor Aglareb looked – and how everything reeked, even the Elves returning home. "Celebdir?" he tried, yet to no avail. His clear voice reverberated among the rocks and then the eerie stillness of death surrounded him again – him and those lying dead on the cold-growing ground. He saw two of his Elves, lying side to side as they fell upon the blood-stained grass. They were fair even in death, a beautiful and terrible way to stand against the darkness, a mocking daylight to night and void; and for a short while Fingon thought he had gone mad: he saw his lover´s face on one of the dead bodies. He covered his eyes with fists. /Was that a sign? Is something going on in Falas? I must-/ He spun around, hearing soft footsteps approaching, and backed into the shade behind. "Lord Fingon?" Maradan´s voice called out. Fingon, his heart nearly bursting in his chest, issued from his hiding place. "We found him, my Lord. He´s alive, only... sick. " Maradan went on. The Noldo sent a silent prayer of thanks to Elbereth. The young Elf was indeed sick: it was his first battle. And Celebdir decided against telling Fingon that with his first sight of an Orc he fainted and woke after the battle was over. ~~~ Círdan sat up on the bed, the lower half of his body still trapped and tangled in the bedcloths. He awoke from a horrible dream – a dream of long, endless war, where all of the Elvenkind fought and fell side by side, dying proud and standing tall against dark, nameless Power. Círdan refused to believe his dream – also he knew too well what it all meant. As he laid back against the cold satin of his pillow, he heard Ossë´s waves pounding against the shore like wild, living things imbued also with the Flame of Eä. The vision came back and struck him full force: the battlefield, trodden by countless thousands of foul creatures, line by line of Elves rushing against the evil army, and finally, when the dust settled and the daylight broke out, he saw fair faces, eyes fell open but holding nothing, empty eyes, and bodies – dead, cold bodies, lying on the ground; and in the midst of all the eerie stilness was a warrior, young yet mighty, the strong frame numb, unmoving on the grey grass, his hard and bold Noldorin face paler then ever, the eager light in his eyes dying out, thick dark braids soaked with blood. Single silver tear slid slowly down the Shipwright´s cheek. Lonely, so terribly lonely he felt, probably only one of the Elves of Eglarest, whose peaceful sleep was disturbed. ~~~ Once the rest of the army under his lead passed Cirith Ninniach again, Fingon regained his composure. He felt angry with himself for being so weak, so scared – and swore to himself it will never happen again. The sky from the East was swiftly darkening and Fingon heavily sighed: he didn´t have to be a prophet to know something ill is at hand. Comments to Part 4: 1) The line right under the name of the chapter probably comes from one of those long-dead philosophers, whose name I cannot remember, but the idea is wonderfully scary. 2) Fingon had seen the Sea before, for he was born in the Blessed Lands and journeyed with his father´s host over the ice of Forochel after the incident in Losgar... 3) Let´s suppose that Círdan is only slightly taller than Fingon, although Foster says "Círdan was very tall; at the end of the Third Age he had a long beard and looked old." To the beard-thing: Later. And I promise I´ll make up how he came to looking old... 4) The battle that saved Fingon from marriage for some time was not reckoned among the great battles of Beleriand. (See Silmarillion, Chap. 13 "Of the Return of the Noldor"). Cirith Ninniach – Rainbow-cleft, a pass at the Head of the Firth of Drengist. 5) In the meantime of this chapter, passed Dagor Aglareb (c. 60 of F.A.) and Nargothrond, Finrod´s dwelling, was built.