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Tirion, Y.T. 1270 

Kanafinwë’s only cousin’s hair was as black as his, but he was shorter and wider (almost plump, in fact, with round cheeks and deep-set dimples). His skin was darker, and his eyes were bright blue, like lightning splitting the sky.

(Kanafinwë made a note to himself to write down that last metaphor. It would work very well for his next song. He was sure that Nelyo would smile and ruffle his hair and call him “clever Káno” and “my sweet prodigy of a brother.”)

Alas for Kanafinwë’s burst of creativity, the boy, who was only younger than him by a hundred days or so, spoke up. 

“How do you do, dear cousin? I am Findekáno!” he announced, holding out his chubby hand with unwarranted pride. His high-pitched voice was thin and cracked, and it made Kanafinwë want to cover his ears. Worse, his tone was arrogant, as was his presumption to introduce himself, without asking Uncle Ñolo, who was talking to Nelyo as though he were a full grown nér, or Haru Finwë, who was talking to Atar, to do it for him.

But worst of all was the boy’s name. 

“You cannot be Findekáno! I am Kanafinwë!” he snapped with all the depth that he could muster at his age. (But he unlike this presumptuous brat, he was prodigy, so his voice did not crack.) 

The boy’s fat cheeks swelled and darkened, and his eyes smoldered as though Uinen herself had stirred him.

“But I am Findekáno!” he squeaked. “My father gave me that name. He is Arakáno, and his father is Finwë, and…”

“But I am older!” Kanafinwë protested. “I received my ataressë first. Just because your father stole it—”

“My father is no thief!” the boy shouted. He was so loud that every eye turned to look at them. 

No—worse. Every eye turned to gaze upon the sniveling, broken-voiced brat, that unrepentant name thief. Not a single eye rested upon Kanafinwë. He was the older cousin, his father was the older brother, but no one looked at him.

Kanafinwë sought Nelyo’s gaze in vain, but even his dear older brother’s focus was split. Bright silver eyes darted from Kanafinwë to the name-thief so rapidly that he might as well have been ignoring his brother.

“Káno! Findekáno! Surely you two are misunderstanding the situation,” Nelyo soothed. Every eye turned to rest on him instead, but Kanafinwë looked first. He was the first one to notice Nelyo coming to stand between him and the name-thief.

His chest swelled when Nelyo looked at him, laying a hand on his shoulder and addressing him before any other. He was so proud to have captured his brother’s attentions that he peered around Nelyo’s lanky hröa and smiled smugly at the name-thief. 

“Káno! Your names are different,” Nelyo explained. “The ‘kána’ element is first in your name, and the ‘findë’ elements are rendered so differently that our dear cousin’s name is not too close to yours. You can still be Káno, and he— And you, dear cousin—”

Kanafinwë’s smile slipped into a frown when Nelyo released his shoulder and looked at the fat, squeaking brat. 

“You can be Finno, can you not?” 

The boy laughed in delight. The sound was alarmingly musical, unlike his speaking voice. Kanafinwë’s stomach soured at the idea of him becoming a passable falsetto singer in the Tirion children’s choir. 

“Aye! Finno! I like that!” the boy said, clapping his hands in delight. All the lightning in his eyes fizzled out. His gaze was now as pleasant as a cloudless sky. “Cousin Kanafinwë, you can be Káno.”

“Or Makalaurë, and Laurë or Lauro for short,” Nelyo added with a casual shrug. “You like your amilessë just as much, do you not, Káno?”

I will not surrender my name to a chubby, squeaky, talentless brat, no matter how pretty his eyes are! Kanafinwë wanted to protest.

But Nelyo looked back at him and looked at nobody else, not even “Finno.” His silver eyes turned soft and fond, and Kanafinwë’s stomach stopped curdling.

Laurë or Lauro, he thought. It would mean that I got a shortened version of my name from Nelyo too. If I don’t take it like Finno did, Nelyo might think me ungrateful. 

“I like Lauro too,” he announced, looking only at his brother and not at the grown néri and níssi, and especially not at Finno. Even Nelyo’s proud, easy smile was just for him. 

Later, when they were home alone again in their shared bedroom, Nelyo gave him a tight hug that was all his own, too.

“I am very proud of you, Káno,” he said. He ruffled Kanafinwë’s black locks, filling him with warmth, then added, “I am sorry too, if it felt as though I sided too much with Finno. The truth is, it is neither his fault nor ours that our father and Uncle Ñolo had this dispute over your names. From what I heard from the servants, Uncle Ñolo actually chose Finno’s name first and Atar chose yours second.”

Kanafinwë frowned and huffed into Nelyo’s stomach, but he let his brother continue. He knew about his father’s rivalry with Uncle Ñolo, and he knew that it distressed Nelyo and Amil. This was the first time that the quarrel had personally impacted him, and he found that he misliked it immensely.

Nelyo ruffled his hair again and continued. 

“It did not matter when we were in Formenos or traveling through the Pelóri, but now…” He sighed. “Well, now I understand why it made you feel slighted at first. I would have too, at your age and in your boots. What I am trying to say, hánya, is thank you for agreeing to my solution.”

“You mean that I helped you?” Kanafinwë asked. A warm burst of glee washed over him when Nelyo nodded and kissed the crown of his head affectionately.

I helped him. I can help him! Kanafinwë snuggled deeper into his brother’s embrace, pride and delight filling his heart. I’ll always help you, Nelyo. Forever and ever!

Tirion, Y.T. 1310

Makalaurë hung his head in shame and held the sack of ice over his swollen left eye. He’d been able to heal his bruised ribs with song, and Maitimo closed his split lip with a gentle touch. But there was no balm nor song nor healing hand that could erase the ache in his heart or the tinge of humiliation from his face.

As he nursed the wounds of his hröa and fëa, he refused to look at Maitimo. Instead, he fixed his stare at the ornate red and gold coverlet that his older brother had tucked around his feet, and tried to pretend that his dear Nelyo was not reading the passionate verses that he had written for Nórimo. 

I should have told him not to read them, Makalaurë thought miserably. But ai! What good would that have done? He already heard…ai, he already saw…

Makalaurë’s whole hröa shook and trembled from crown to soles, and a sob escaped his throat when he remembered how cruel his fellow pupils had been when they snatched the love poem from his hand and read his juvenile, half-finished rhymes that were still all too revealing. It was painfully apparent that the object of his affections was a nér and not a nís, and his companions had made their feelings on that even more painfully apparent. 

And now Maitimo knows my shameful secrets…ai! He may have rescued me and whipped them for their violence, but that was before he knew how deep my corruption ran. 

“Lauro,” Maitimo murmured in deep, soothing tones that never failed to warm Makalaurë to his core. “Lauro, Lauro, Lauro.” His brother was no great singer, but his voice was low and pleasing, and his silver eyes softened sadly as he spoke the little name that he had given him all those years ago at their grandfather’s garden party. When Makalaurë looked at him, he saw only pity and—dare he hope for it—understanding in his brother’s expression. 

“I am sorry that they were so cruel to you over this,” Maitimo said, shaking the pages in his large, elegant, finely-boned hand. (His amilessë was terribly fitting, Makalaurë thought once again. He swallowed roughly, shoving those thoughts aside, for he was injured and shamed and wrong, and now was not the time for whatever it was that his brother stirred within him.) 

“They should not have been,” Maitimo continued. “It was wrong. Even if Nórimo did not return your feelings…”

“It goes against the dictates of Manwë and Varda!” Makalaurë cried. A fresh sob wrung itself free from his aching throat. Worse, Maitimo’s pale, freckled face turned even paler, and pain replaced pity on those defined, symmetrical, elegant features. 

“And you think that they should have spat upon you and beaten you for that?” The color rushed back into his face, leaving him looking as red and angry as baby Moryo. Yet on Maitimo’s lovely, well-shaped face, framed by hair as red as dark embers, it looked intimidating rather than piteous. Makalaurë shivered despite the fire in the room and the blanket over his legs. 

“I am sorry,” he said, his strong voice quaking and breaking. 

“Lauro, you should not be sorry! They should be sorry!” Maitimo cried. “There is nothing wrong or shameful about your passions, and there is certainly nothing worthy of punishment in it! I know what Manwë and Varda have decreed, but just because you cannot marry or have children with a nér does not mean that you should loathe your loves or let yourself be beaten.”

“I did not let myself be beaten,” Makalaurë mumbled. “They overpowered me.” And Maitimo had fought the three of them off single-handedly, for he was uncommonly tall and fearsomely strong already, though he was only seventy-five. 

Maitimo’s eyes softened. “I know. I am sorry. I did not mean…ai, Lauro, I was only angry to see you being so harsh towards yourself. I do not wish…” His voice caught unexpectedly, and Makalaurë’s heart thudded in his throat as he watched him nibble his full lower lip and wind a coppery red strand of hair around his finger. 

Russandol. Findekáno named him Russandol, Makalaurë remembered. Something dark and ugly reared up inside of him as he recalled that their cousin called Maitimo “Russo” now, as though the only brilliant and beautiful thing about him were his hair. 

“You do not wish...what?” Makalaurë asked. He willed the darkness away and reached out for his brother’s right hand instead. Somehow, he sensed fear in Maitimo, which seemed impossible in someone so brilliant, beautiful, and powerful. Maitimo had always been his protector, for he was the larger and stronger of the two by far.

Makalaurë shivered again and placed his ice on the marble table beside the lounge. 

“I do not wish for you to make yourself suffer for your passions as I made myself suffer for mine, when I first realized…” Maitimo’s eyes dropped to his lap and his left hand. His breath hitched visibly, drawing Makalaurë’s eyes inexorably towards the column of his long, slender neck. 

“When you first realized what?” he asked breathlessly, something akin to hope flaring within his fëa. It seemed impossible that Maitimo should be like him, that he should have Maitimo not just as an ally and a protector but as a true comrade who could understand his struggles in ways that no one else could. 

“When I first realized that I yearned only for other néri and not for níssi,” Maitimo confessed, looking up at Makalaurë at last. 

The golden bubble of hope swelled so much that it should have burst within him, yet it did not. 

“You are like me, then?” he asked, scarcely daring to believe that one as perfect as Maitimo could share his secret shame.

Maitimo nodded, holding his gaze steady. Makalaurë’s heart sang in response. 

“Then...how did you stop yourself from feeling ashamed?” he asked with a smile he could not hide. It was the first of many questions that he asked Maitimo that afternoon, and with each careful, considerate answer, his hopes climbed higher and higher. 

Perhaps, Makalaurë thought, he might one day even find love. How could he fail to do so with one so bright and brilliant as his protector and guide? 

Formenos, Y.T. 1330

Makalaurë shut himself up in his chambers, locked the door, and flung himself onto his bed. Shame and fear cut him to the quick, but his arousal was stronger and far more urgent. His skin was hot and sticky with sweat. His breaths came out in short, shallow gasps. Heat pool pooled in his belly, and the tension in his groin was nigh unbearable. His leggings constricted cruelly around his cock, already fully hard and pulsing angrily, accusingly… 

But the heavy weight of that accusation could not prevent from undoing the laces and sliding his leggings down over his hips. He took his erection firmly in his right hand, spread his legs, and let his left hand trail lightly up his tunic.

The way that Maitimo’s larger hand had trailed up Alarco’s tunic, until he made the nér beneath him gasp and buck against him, thrusting desperately into his fist and sliding against his cock…

Makalaurë let out a choked gasp and did the same thing. His eyes were sealed shut so that nothing could stop him from seeing what he wished to see. 

Alarco still had his tunic, but Maitimo had shed his, and his leggings were pulled down as he lay atop the other nér and rutted against him. Maitimo’s back was broad and beautiful, all lean muscles and skin pale as cream and freckles that looked like little stars. His shoulders were even broader and stronger, and they made his waist look so slender. His hips were narrow, too, but his buttocks were round and strong and so shapely. Makalaurë could all too easily imagine himself lying beneath his beautiful Nelyo, wrapping his short legs around that slim waist and holding onto those beautiful buttocks and feeling it thrust powerfully as he moved over him, his long red hair spilling like a waterfall over their entwined hröar. 

His hands are so big. His grip must be much more powerful. He could hold my cock and his, or…

His thoughts grew headier and far more dangerous as he thought of Maitimo’s cock, which had been even bigger than he’d ever imagined—and he could not deny that he had imagined it before, whenever Maitimo hugged him tightly to comfort him or congratulate him on a new song—and would surely feel so sweet and hot against his. 

Or better yet—inside of me, Makalaurë thoughts, his eyes filled with visions of Maitimo’s thick, flushed tip and long, girthy shaft, his thoughts spinning with memories of the erotic poetry that he had stolen from Maitimo’s room. He would split me open, and I would happily let him. I would let him claim me and ruin me for others. I would surrender to him, hröa and fëa...let him pin me to the ground and cover me with marks from his teeth and bruises from his hands... I would let him strike me and choke me and call me his harlot, if only to please him. I want to live only to please him. He stroked himself harder and daringly shoved a single, spit-soaked finger into his tight, virginal hole as he recalled every filthy fantasy that the anonymous poet had written at the back of the book.

The shame only hit him after he had spilled his seed all over himself and soiled his fine clothes and his even finer bedding. Everything that he wore and slept on was the work of Moryo’s hands.

I have stained the works of one’s brother’s hands with my vile lusts for another, he realized as he stomach rebelled against him and he raced to his latrine to empty his guts.

Formenos, Y.T. 1360

Makalaurë tried to banish his lust for Maitimo into the deepest, most fiery pits of which his mind could conceive, but he never quite managed it. He tried to remind himself to be ashamed, but had it not been Maitimo who told him that he did not need to be ashamed of where his passions lay? 

He said that he was like me, Makalaurë thought whenever he and Maitimo were alone together, with neither father nor mother nor brothers nor Findekáno to interrupt them. Perhaps he meant that he was like me in more ways than I realize. Perhaps…

Makalaurë considered many different “perhapses” whenever he and Maitimo went riding. He thought of far more than coupling when Maitimo spoke to him of his private worries and his deepest secrets. His heart soared with longing for much more than his beloved brother’s cock when Maitimo told him that he feared that he was falling in love with one who would never return his feelings.

What if it is me? Makalaurë dared to think.

It could be me, he told himself when he broke into Maitimo’s writing desk and found a verse and a half describing his beloved’s “raven-black hair” and smaller stature.

There is a chance that it is me! he sometimes thought whenever Maitimo gave him a soft, easy smile that was just for him and praised his latest song, which was inevitably about Maitimo. All of Makalaurë’s songs were about Maitimo.

It must be me! Makalaurë thought when Maitimo gifted him a secret collection of old poems from Cuiviénen for his one-hundredth begetting day.

“These are the oldest poems that I could find, written from one nér to another. There were only two remaining copies of these scrolls left in Tirion’s library, hidden in boxes on the highest shelves. I do not think that anyone else could reach them,” Maitimo confessed with a bright laugh.

Makalaurë did not ask what happened to the other copy. He knew in his heart that Maitimo must have kept it for himself, and so he began to work. He would rearrange the poems to make them more personal. He would update and perfect the Quenya. He would set them to music, to be played on the lute and not the harp, for the harp was Findekáno’s instrument. And when he was ready, he would play the song before their people and pray to Nienna, Lady of Mercy, that Maitimo would understand that his music was, as it always was, about him.

Tirion and Alqualondë, Y.T. 1362

At the beginning of the thirteen hundredth and sixty second year since Laurelin and Telperion first flowered, Anairë bore a daughter to Ñolofinwë, who named the girl Írissë. Finwë Ñoldóran already had ten grandsons—five of them from Fëanáro alone—so the birth of a little nettë into the family was cause enough for celebration. At the end of the year, Eärwen also bore a daughter, whom Arafinwë named Artanis.

Moryo, who had only reached his majority a few years earlier, and Curvo, who was barely thirty, both pestered Nerdanel incessantly about providing them with a sister too. Tyelko called them both fools for wishing for something that was so clearly an impossibility. Maitimo gently shushed their youngest brothers and told them not to bother their mother, who had already borne five sons, more than either Anairë’s three or Eärwen and Indis’ four each. Meanwhile, Makalaurë watched Maitimo with a song in his heart and lyrics flowing through his mind.

He had resolved to perform his song before Olwë’s court in Alqualondë, with Finwë and all his kin in attendance also, and hope that Maitimo understood his message and accepted that their love was not wrong, even if they could not display it openly.

To be sure, though, he raced back to his room to add in a verse about his beloved’s paternal qualities, for he was as gifted with children as he was in all other areas. Makalaurë was confident enough that none of his other listeners would guess that his muse was his own brother, but Maitimo—who knew his mind and fëa so well, who had first shared the songs of Cuiviénen with him, and who knew that he was rearranging and editing one of those songs for his secret love, who would be in attendance—surely would. He had to. 

Makalaurë nearly lost his nerve when they first arrived. Findekáno was, as ever, at fault. He had little Írissë balanced on one hip when he caught sight of Maitimo and Makalaurë, and he cried out for them immediately.

“Russo! Lauro! Come, you must see how Rissi has grown!” their half-cousin called out in a voice thathad  dropped into a deeper register than Makalaurë’s own rich and rare tenor. Gone was the squeaking boy who had stolen his ataressë. Makalaurë loathed him for that, as well as his insistence on calling tall, beautiful, well-shaped Maitimo “Russandol” or—even more intolerably—“Russo.” As for his decision to use Maitimo’s special nickname for Makalaurë—that was simply beyond bearing.

But Maitimo strode confidently and quickly to Findekáno’s side—a less keen observer might have said that he rushed, but Makalaurë knew his proud, commanding brother better—so Makalaurë had to follow him. Had he not, he would have been left alone, and he could not endure being parted from Maitimo’s side when he was so close to baring his heart to his beloved. 

’Tis just as well that I allow this, he told himself as he smiled and endured the chatterings of his Ñolofinwion half-cousin. Maitimo cannot expose himself and his longings publicly. Of course he must pretend to regard Findekáno more highly than me.

Once, Makalaurë had feared that Maitimo really did favor Findekáno over him, but in the last decade or so, he had seen the truth. Maitimo surely enjoyed Findekáno’s company and his easy, free manner—but that was not the same as his bond with Makalaurë, his brother, to whom he bared his deepest secrets.

Findekáno talks too much anyway, Makalaurë thought yet again, as he watched his brother smile and nod politely as “Finno” and “Rissi” engaged him in some inane story. How could Maitimo ever find a spare moment to confide in him?

Yet somehow, a flicker of doubt sparked inside of him when he saw how fondly Maitimo smiled at Findekáno and how he twirled a thick, silky, scarlet lock around a long, elegant finger as though he wanted to draw Findekáno’s attention to his hair and hands. 

Findekáno’s adoring smile was positively sickening as well, but Makalaurë had become accustomed to that. He had long since determined that Findekáno nursed non-familial passions for his lovely brother, and he had endeavored to protect Maitimo from knowledge that would certainly distress him if he knew of it. After all, how could someone as brilliant and diligent as Maitimo desire someone as flighty and flashy as Findekáno? Makalaurë knew that such a thing could not be.

And surely as the lights of Laurelin and Telperion would mingle each day for all of time, Maitimo chased away Makalaurë’s doubts. He turned from Findekáno and smiled at Makalaurë with blazing pride.

“I am afraid that we must leave you two, Finno and Rissi,” he announced with an elegant sweep of his big hand. “Lauro has a song to perform. He has let me know very little about it, but I am confident that it will be a masterpiece the likes of which the Ñoldor and the Falmari have never heard before on these shores. And it will finally sate my curiosity.”

Findekáno laughed gleefully and made some reply that was undoubtedly inane, but Makalaurë heard him not. He was too captivated by the beauty of Maitimo’s smile and the sweet, seductive slide of the word “sate” over his long, quick tongue.

Findekáno did not sit with Maitimo during Makalaurë’s performance. Makalaurë only spared him half a moment’s glance and scoffed to himself when he saw his eldest half-cousin pass Írissë off to Turukáno—clear proof that he had only been minding the girl to better engage Maitimo’s attentions.

But as the lamps dimmed and the lights mingled above them in the open sky of Olwë’s wide, white courtyard, Makalaurë had eyes only for Maitimo, who sat with their brothers and a few of Olwë’s sons and grandsons.

He let himself fall under the spell of his brother’s glimmering red radiance, and then he lifted his head, strummed his lute, and raised his voice and sang.

He sang with all the power of the passion that he had kept contained deep with him himself for over thirty years—perhaps longer, perhaps since he was half a babe—and let it flow through every note, every lyric, and every pause. He sang until he could no longer see Maitimo as he was before his eyes. He sang until he instead saw the two of them, newly-awoken and perhaps unrelated, on the shore of Cuiviénen, falling in love under the stars and coming together without neither guilt nor shame nor the dictates of the Valar plaguing them. 

When his song at last ended and applause rang out in all directions, his heart soared with triumph, but his eyes sought only Maitimo.

Where are you, háno, vanimelda? he asked. The fear was back and nipping at his heels. It made his gaze more frantic and furtive, until at last he caught sight of Maitimo slipping away, rendered all but invisible by the enchantment that Makalaurë had woven with only his voice and a single instrument.

The fear vanished, and hope flared within him. His fëa leapt towards his brother’s white-hot flame as soon as he understood.

He must have meant for me to see him, for I alone am onstage. He must have meant for me to follow him. He must have understood. He must have accepted.

Makalaurë felt hot and heady from the crown of his head to the soles of his soft-slippered feat. His robes were light and flimsy and just a little seductive, but even they were too heavy against his skin when he imagined the sensation of Maitimo’s firm touch, soft mouth, and powerful heat all turned on him.

He must want to make love in the baths! Makalaurë thought as his mind flew to the lewd stories that Findaráto had shared with him and his eldest brother only a year prior. Maitimo had blushed and coughed then with uncharacteristic anxiousness that did not quite become him, but Makalaurë had not missed the way that his eyes glinted or his breath hitched.

It took an unacceptably long time for Makalaurë to slip away, but he did so at last. He was sure that Maitimo would wait for him. He was sure that his beautiful beloved would understand that he had needed to wait until the attention had shifted from him at last.

Makalaurë was already shaking with arousal by the time he reached the walls surrounding the great baths near Olwë’s palace. They were set in gardens overlooking the harbor where the swanships swam, and the air was so heavy with perfume that Makalaurë could have choked on it, but nothing compared to the hot, heady feeling raging within him that left his fingers twitching, his knees weak, and his cock aching. Already, his mind swam with hazy fantasies of Maitimo sweeping him off of his feet, stripping him naked, and carrying him to the water. 

He is so strong—he could lift me with only one arm and open me up with his spare hand. Ai! He could…

A frantic, gasping cry echoed through the air and pierced through Makalaurë’s fantasies, which were so close to becoming a reality.

“Kánya!” Maitimo’s voice was low and throaty. He sounded overwhelmed already. Makalaurë certainly was. His brother’s cry—there it came again!—nearly undid him on the spot. (Not that that mattered—he did not need to be hard when his brother took him, and he was sure that he would return to full arousal soon enough.)

Me! He means me! Makalaurë realized, his heart thundering loudly in his chest as he stepped towards the doorway. He does not call me Káno often, but sometimes he does. And of course he would call me that when we made love—it would be different than what he usually calls me, which would make it all the more special. That must be what he calls me in his head when he thinks of me so. He must have gotten so desperate with need that he began before me. He must be touching himself. He must…

Makalaurë panted with longing, but he kept his steps light and wrapped his form in a secret song so that he would stay hidden. He wanted to catch Maitimo unawares and see him pleasuring himself, perhaps with his head thrown back, baring his long, white throat and parting his full, rosy lips. It had been so long since Makalaurë had been able to spy on him when in the throes of ecstasy.

The illusion shattered all at once. As soon as Makalaurë peered around the wall, another voice joined Maitimo’s. It was deep and harsh—a savage growl, really—and he knew to whom it belonged. He ought to have stopped and turned back the moment that he heard it, but—ai!—it was too late for him. His eyes had already seen. 

“You are tighter than I remember, Russo.” Findekáno’s voice snapped along with his hips as he drove himself into Maitimo—Makalaurë’s own dear Nelyo—and made him cry out in either pleasure or pain.

Makalaurë could not tell: his own pain was too overwhelming. His shattered heart burned in his chest with every stuttering beat. His lungs strained for air, and every breath was agony. He felt as though his ribs would crack, as if his skin would burst. His mouth fell open on its own accord, and he would have revealed himself without thought, except his voice would not come. He would have fled, but his feet were rooted to the spot. He would have shut his eyes and turned his head, but his hröa would not cooperate.

No matter how unbearable the sight was, it was still Maitimo, who was gloriously naked with his pale skin wet and shimmering like gold under Laurelin’s fading light and his long red hair tumbling down his back and caught obscenely by Findekáno’s fist. It was still Maitimo, whose long, powerful, leanly muscled hröa was bent in half so that his stomach was flush against the snow-white marble tiles and his broad chest was raised halfway out of the water. It was still Maitimo, whose mighty arms strained against the silken red chords that someone—not Makalaurë, never Makalaurë, for Makalaurë would have never dared to do such a thing to one like his darling Nelyo, would have never even dreamed of debasing him so—had used to bind his wrists and elbows together behind his lovely, freckled back.

It was wrong, so wrong. Makalaurë’s eyes bulged in their sockets as he failed to look away. His hands curled into his fists and his cock throbbed with thwarted fury as he tried to deny what he saw.

Me, me, it was supposed to be me, but not like this! he lamented. He was supposed to love me—I was sure that he did, that he wanted me, there were so many signs—and I was supposed to be in his position, and he in…in…nay, I must not think that name. But this cannot be right. This cannot be what he desires! When I saw him with Alarco, he was atop the other. He took the lead, he seized control. And his cock is so long and thick and lovely—how could any lover waste such a thing? And he was made for leadership—nay, for kingship—and yet…and yet…

The sight of his brother, kneeling and bent, spread and writhing on another nér’s cock—on the cock of one of their kinsmen, a kinsman who was not Makalaurë—was all too beautifully terrible and cruelly beautiful to describe. And then Findekáno made it worse. He tugged viciously at Maitimo’s hair—those beautiful, unique locks for which Findekáno himself had named him—and forced him to bend back like a bow, until his long, slender neck was bared to be bitten.

“Tell me, vanimelda,” Findekáno growled, so confidently and cruelly that Makalaurë yearned to throttle him, “how long has it been since I fucked you last?”

“Too long, Kánya, too long,” Maitimo breathed, his eyes rolling back and his tongue darting desperately between his well-bitten, kiss-swollen lips. The sight was both exquisite and obscene, and Makalaurë knew that he should have looked away, if not for the sake of his own wretched heart, then for the sake of Maitimo and his privacy. 

But Findekáno is being cruel. Findekáno is using him, a knowing little voice whispered in his ear. Do you really believe that your Nelyo would enjoy such things? You must stay. You must watch. You must make certain that he is not hurt.

So Makalaurë stayed until the end. It was the first time, but it would not be the last time. And if his hand drifted down to his own aching erection, just to take the edge off the pain, it was only because he could not help himself, not when Maitimo was still so very beautiful, even when another nér was touching him.

Lake Mithrim, Y.T. 1497

The skies were lit with only stars, and the fog around the lake obscured even those. The endless night dragged on, and the Ñoldor knew that the darkness hid creeping, crawling things. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the boundaries of their camp, orcs screeched and wargs howled. Somewhere closer in the darkness, Moringotto’s herald and his escort slouched away, back towards the towering, fire-spewing mountains beneath which their father had fallen, bestowing the kingship and the Greenstone on Maitimo and an unbreakable, unachievable oath onto all his sons.

And Maitimo meant to venture out into that darkness. Maitimo meant to abandon the kingship which suited him so well, and set the burden of their shared oath on his broad shoulders alone. 

Makalaurë could not endure it, but somehow their brothers could. Ambarussa was too preoccupied with Ambarto’s recovery to object, and Ambarto still too addled by healer’s draughts to even understand the situation. But Tyelkormo, Morifinwë, and Curufinwë were all willing to allow it—happy even, as sickening and cowardly as that was. 

“Someone has to do it,” Moryo had said, and Curvo had nodded. Tyelko alone had offered to go in Maitimo’s place, but Maitimo had refused him immediately.

“I am king now,” he had declared. “The task must fall to me. And Moringotto requested my presence, not yours, Tyelko.” He spoke with such terrible, heart-shaking finality that Makalaurë’s golden voice had failed him.

He did not mean to let it fail him again. He strapped his sword to his hip and his harp to his back, and made his way into Maitimo’s tent.

His beloved brother looked up as soon as he entered. His heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught when Maitimo stood. His squires had already armed and armored him, and he looked every inch the warrior king with his dark red hair tied and pinned into thick war braids. 

“Lauro,” his brother croaked, cruelly stealing his breath. It was not fair that Maitimo could still affect him so, after all this time, so long after hope had passed.

“Nelyo,” he said, his voice trembling with half a hundred barely suppressed emotions. 

It has been one hundred and thirty-five years, Makalaurë told his foolish and fey heart as longing flowed through him once again. Can I still not master my feelings? Am I yet a child, a youth whose love was spurned?

It was not fair that Maitimo’s beautiful silver eyes looked dull and gray behind their inner light, he thought, grief tainting his longing. It was not fair that his eyes had burned brighter than ever before, as though the last of Telperion’s rays had been caught in his irises, until the swanships burned, he thought, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. It was cruel and unjust that Findekáno still held such a mighty sway over his big brother’s heart, after Formenos, Alqualondë, and the long march through Araman. 

Findekáno did not follow you to Formenos! he wanted to shout, though he knew that Maitimo would have never asked his lover for such a boon. He must have known, deep down inside, that “Finno” was too selfish to grant him that.

“You cannot leave us!” he cried instead. “You are our king. You are the Ñoldóran now. We need you.” I need you. “You have done so well already. You have opened relations with the Falathrim and sent envoys to the Iathrim through them. The Mithrim are trading with us now. We have houses and walls thanks to your leadership. Our numbers are growing. Moringotto must be growing fearful—that must be why he sent the envoy. He wants to hobble us by drawing you out!”

Maitimo sighed deeply and ran one large hand through his hair. His fingers caught on careless knots, and Makalaurë winced in sympathy. 

“One of us needs to go,” he said tiredly. “You know this, Káno. Surely you feel the oath compelling us. It will not sleep—it will not let any of us sleep, not when a Silmaril is within reach.”

Makalaurë shook as anger and desire warred within and melded into one. “It is not within reach, and you know that full well!” he snapped. “It is a trap, and you are walking right into it when you should be staying here and leading us and caring for us and growing our strength until we can launch a proper offensive against Angamando!”

You are going to your death because you are too afraid to live without your precious Findekáno, he wanted to say. You have all of your brothers and your people, but you want the little brat of that usurping “Finwë Ñolofinwë” more than us. You could have anyone among us that you wanted—you could choose a lover who would wed you and treat you like a king. You could have me. I could help you…I could…I could...

But Maitimo’s eyes had snapped into focus, blazing with a deadly white heat that made Makalaurë’s blood run hot and his knees go weak. 

You are cruel to tempt me so, he almost said, despite everything.

But Maitimo spoke too quickly.

“I am not a fool, Makalaurë,” he rumbled. “I know that we cannot trust Moringotto. Think you truly that I am blindly leading myself and my best warriors to certain death? That is why I am taking a greater force than we agreed to. That is why I sent out scouts. Whatever trap the Enemy has prepared, I am more than ready to counter it.”

Maitimo’s shoulders shook beneath his armor, and his teeth were still bared into a feral snarl by the time he was finished speaking. Gone was Makalaurë’s big brother and gentle protector. In his place stood the ruthless lieutenant who had led their father’s forces at Alqualondë, who had taken control of Tyelko’s blind rage when the Falmari toppled the first few Ñoldor into the sea and channeled it into something far more efficient and no less deadly.

Makalaurë quaked in the face of such ferocity. The sight left him reeling. He was dizzy and helpless, and he wanted Maitimo to stay all the more, for where would he and his brothers be without their lord and general? He wanted Maitimo all the more too, no matter how sick and mean it made him, so he offered one last argument.

“But what if you are not prepared?” he asked softly. “What if he has spies too and they have anticipated your counter-measures?” What if your heartbreak has made you reckless? What if you are lying to yourself about your chances of success? Please, Nelyo, go not willingly to your death.

Had he been less of a coward, he would have asked the question directly, but he and Maitimo had never spoken of Maitimo’s misguided lust and affection for Findekáno. Makalaurë had never asked his older brother for the truth, because he was too afraid of what the other might say. He had kept silent for one hundred and thirty-five years, and he would not break that silence now, not even with Findekáno on the other side of the world, sundered from them forever. He could not bear to hear Maitimo confess that he still valued his lost, faithless lover over the brother who was here, who was faithful and loyal and true and willing—so very, hopelessly willing—to serve. 

So many words hung unspoken in the space between them. The silence lingered as their eyes met at last, and the void inside Makalaurë grew wider and louder as Maitimo closed the distance between them. When they were so close that Makalaurë could hear his brother’s ragged breathing and smell the last drops of their miruvórë on his breath, cruel hope sparked anew within him.

“I am prepared, Lauro, I swear it,” Maitimo breathed. His rage had cooled, and his gentleness returned. His arms were heavy and warm as they pulled Makalaurë into one last embrace. Tears welled up in his eyes as he pressed his face into the cold steel breastplate and pretended that he could hear Maitimo’s heart beating.

“Swear that you’ll come back to me, Maitimo. I cannot—we cannot endure this darkness without you.” He was begging now instead of demanding. Perhaps that was what he should have done from the beginning. Perhaps Maitimo would have welcomed the humility and submission, two gifts that he surely never received from Findekáno. Perhaps…

“I will, hánya. I promise.” Maitimo’s last lie was sweet and lovely. His warm, dry lips brushed against Makalaurë’s forehead as they had a thousand times before in the days of their youth.

Sad, mad fool that he was, Makalaurë closed his eyes and allowed himself to pretend that it was the kiss of a lover rather than a brother...or worse, a brother who had taken on the role of a surrogate father.

Chapter Text

Lake Mithrim, F.A. 5

Hope flew into camp on eagle’s wings
And yet my broken heart in sorrow sings
For he who stole my love from jaws of death,
The very reason that my love takes breath,
Has stolen also all his love for me
And any hope that we might lovers be...

Maglor could not banish those pathetic verses from his mind. Never could he set them to song: his love was doomed, even now that Maitimo lived and grew stronger each day. Nay, his beautiful brother had eyes only for Findekáno, his savior, and never once had looked upon Maglor with the same adoration Maglor held for him.

Once he had fooled himself into believing he did, and still in his dreams he let himself hope. He let himself remember what Maitimo sounded like in in the throes of passion, those times long ago in Valinórë he had spied on his trysts with Findekáno; he let himself imagine Maitimo happy and reborn, for he was the best of them all and surely would be granted the Valar’s pardon.

Yet all these years of his regency—and he had insisted on ruling in Maitimo’s stead, rather than declaring himself king—Maglor had not allowed himself to imagine Maitimo alive. He had almost hoped Maitimo was dead, for the alternative, that he lived in torment, was too terrible a thought to bear.

But Maitimo was alive, and returned to them through valiant Findekáno’s pure heart and faith in the Valar, and Maglor found himself in the position of needing to be grateful.

And of course he was! To have Maitimo returned to him was a miracle beyond belief, a blessing unlooked-for and unearned. Maglor knew in his heart he ought to bury any grievances he once had with Findekáno and take this chance to rebuild his relationship with Maitimo, and yet—and yet...

Findekáno was always with him. Maglor remembered how as a child, Findekáno had monopolized Maitimo’s attention, and how as a youth he had captured Maitimo’s attraction. Maitimo always wanted to spend time with Findekáno, and young Kanafinwë had only ever been in their way, no matter how Maitimo indulged him. Perhaps Maitimo loved him, aye, but only as his brother.

But Maglor could be so much more, if Maitimo would let him. Kind, beautiful Nelyo deserved only the best, and Maglor knew Findekáno could not give him everything. For who could know Maitimo better than his closest brother? Who could care for him and please him as much as the one who shared so much of his life?

But Maglor had failed Maitimo: he had left him for dead, wished he was dead, and in his languishing sorrow Findekáno had swooped in and stolen him away once more.

Life flew into camp in hero’s arms
As if to now redress my father’s harms
Love shall heal and bring us all to peace
And yet forgiveness cannot my heart reach...

Maglor grimaced. The lines were crude and shallow even to his own ear. He had used “love” four times in four lines, and now reached for a slant rhyme?  How juvenile. And who in all of Arda would want to hear such a pitiful tune? Even he could not stomach it, and it was the expression of his own envious fëa!

He took a deep breath, shouldering his resolve. He would visit Maitimo—and, inevitably, Findekáno—and face his troubles head-on. He was king-regent, after all, and though he did not relish the power of his position, it fell to him to be a responsible leader in Maitimo’s absence.

(Ai, how he looked forward to Maitimo’s recovery, so that he might once again take up the burden of kingship that so well suited him...!)

As expected, he heard Findekáno before anything else as he approached the healer’s quarters. He spoke quietly enough Maglor could not make out the words, yet the soothing, saccharine quality of his voice was enough to tell anyone who listened exactly what he spoke.

“...dear Russo,” he murmured softly, once Maglor was close enough to hear. “I swear it. And your brothers also.”

Maglor took a breath, composing himself, then cleared his throat. Findekáno’s voice cut off abruptly, and a moment later there were footsteps.

Findekáno stepped outside, his blue eyes clouded over with weariness. “Makalaurë,” he said tiredly. “I think...aye. I think it would do Maitimo good to hear your music, if you would.”

“Of course,” Maglor murmured, not meeting Findekáno’s gaze. Music! The one realm where he was, unquestionably, better than Findekáno. And yet Findekáno had won Maitimo’s freedom with a harp and a song, usurping him even there.

But nevertheless he entered the room, and felt his heart lurch as it did each time he saw Maitimo. Before it had been in response to his utter beauty; now, he felt sick beholding how frail and lifeless his dearest brother appeared.

“Nelyo,” he whispered, kneeling at Maitimo’s bedside. Carefully, he touched his brother’s hand, and Maitimo stirred, looking up with silvery grey eyes drained of their Light. Yet he smiled hesitantly, and whispered in return: “Lauro.”

Maglor fought back tears, answering with a smile of his own. “Would you like to hear a song, hánya?”

Maitimo’s gaze flitted back to Findekáno, who hovered anxiously by the entrance. Findekáno nodded encouragingly, and Maglor bit his lip in frustration. Did Maitimo truly not trust anyone but his dear Finno? Had Maglor betrayed him too utterly to regain any intimacy with him, even brotherly?

Hope flew into camp on eagle’s wings
And yet my broken heart in sorrow sings...

He shoved the lilting tune from his mind. Maitimo did want a song, from him. He would not fail his brother again.

“Something sweet, I think,” he mused. “Not too jolly, but not sorrowful, either.”

“A love song?” Findekáno prompted.

Maglor grimaced, glad his back was to his cousin. “No,” he said. “Something from our childhood. You would not know this one.”

He took a breath, centering himself. He had brought no instrument save his voice, but that had always been his best talent.

“Clouds are white and sky is blue
When Trees shine in golden hue.
Clouds are grey and sky is night
When Trees shine with silver light.

Rain falls gently on the flow’rs
When the clouds let loose their show’rs.
Treelight glimmers in the haze
Colors all caught in its rays.

Every color of the sky
Sparkling bright in child’s eyes;
Every color of the rain
In an arc above the lane...”

The tension in Maitimo’s shoulders loosened as Maglor sang, their mother’s teaching-rhyme soothing his distress. Lines smoothed over in his face and his eyelids lowered in contentment, and as Maglor gazed upon those beloved features it seemed almost as if they could have been in Valinórë again, before everything went wrong.

Behind them there was the soft strum of a harp. Maglor’s voice died off, but Findekáno’s accompaniment continued.

“I do know this song,” Findekáno murmured. “Russandol taught it to me, long ago, before...”

Maglor could not help the grunt that escaped his lips. Maitimo’s eyes flew open again, the tension returning, and once more he looked anxiously at Findekáno.

Ai! Maglor thought. Is nothing sacred? Is nothing simply ours? Must Findekáno take everything from me?

“Findekáno,” he said, mastering his emotions. “Could I have a moment alone with my brother?”

Findekáno’s strumming ceased. “Russo?” he asked.

Maitimo glanced between them. “If—if you think it is alright,” he rasped.

“Do you not need rest yourself, cousin?” Maglor said, letting his voice fill with the rich tones of persuasion. “You have scarce left Maitimo’s bedside. How can you care for him if you neglect yourself?”

“Yes...” Findekáno frowned. “Russo, will you be alright without me?”

Maitimo gave a little shiver. “If you need me to be,” he whispered.

Findekáno bit his lip, eyeing Maglor with concern. “Káno will take good care of you,” he said slowly.

“Aye, I will,” Maglor assured. Better than you ever could.

At last Findekáno nodded decisively. “I will return soon,” he said, bending to press a kiss to Maitimo’s brow. “I promise.”

Then, at last, he left. Maglor sighed, a tension in his heart that he had not known he carried easing the moment he and Maitimo were alone.

“Nelyo...” he began, but he found his voice caught with emotion. This was not the first time since Maitimo’s rescue that he had been in conversation with him, but it was the first time they had been alone while Maitimo was fully conscious. There was so much welling up inside him that he wanted to confess, but he could barely sort out what was only the torments of a guilty mind and what would actually benefit Maitimo to hear.

“Lauro,” Maitimo said, and reached out an open hand. Instinctively, Maglor grasped it, clinging to his big brother the way he always had.

But surely it should not be Maitimo offering him comfort? Surely now, it was Maglor’s turn to give him strength.

“I am sorry,” he blurted out. “Nelyo, I—I should not have believed you dead. I should have done more for you, I should have—have gone with you, or come after you, or—”

“Lauro, no,” Maitimo said, his voice more stern and strong than it had been since his return. “You did...exactly what I asked. You...led our people. You kept our brothers safe. You...you did everything right...”

Maglor let out a choked sob. “Ai, Nelyo, do not attempt to comfort me!” he exclaimed. “After all you endured, for your bravery and valour, I do not deserve—”

“Shh,” Maitimo hushed. “Lauro. Káno. Come here.”

Weeping openly, Maglor climbed into bed beside him, and let Maitimo’s long arms wrap around him. They were frail and weak compared to the strong embraces he remembered, but it was Maitimo, and so it was more than enough.

What use, in that moment, he thought, were sorrowful verses of impossible love? Maitimo was here; Maitimo was alive. Maitimo did love him, and though Maglor knew he did not deserve such kind and gentle treatment, he could never deny himself what Maitimo was willing to give.

Lake Mithrim, F.A. 6

Maglor took to visiting Maitimo more often after that. Even if it meant dealing with Findekáno, it was worth it to be near his beloved brother once more. And for all Findekáno’s faults (or frustrating lack thereof), he was utterly devoted to caring for Maitimo, and with both their aid, Maitimo grew stronger every day. His voice grew stronger, his mind sharper, and he even managed to take a few stumbling steps by the end of the winter.

Yet still there were days where a shadow seemed to lay over Maitimo. Sometimes, he would sit very still and silent in his sickbed, spurning the soups and breads the healers had decided were fit enough for him to eat. Other times, he pushed himself far beyond his limits, dragging himself to the armory across camp and nearly collapsing when he tried to lift a sword.

But worst of all were the times when Maitimo appeared present and aware of his surroundings, but in truth was not. On such days, it was impossible to notice his mood until it was already too late.

Curufinwë visited him, once, and returned pale and trembling. “Do not accept his thanks,” was all he said when Maglor pressed. The warning was far too vague to be of good use, but it hung in the back of Maglor’s mind until he saw no other choice but to ask Findekáno what it could possibly mean.

Findekáno’s bright blue eyes turned stormy when Maglor asked. “I had not thought,” he began, then frowned. “He is—the things they did to him, in Angband...”

“You can tell me,” Maglor insisted. It rankled him that Maitimo trusted Findekáno enough to confide in him, but not Maglor. Still, if Maitimo would not tell him himself, he must learn from Findekáno instead. 

“In Angband,” Findekáno said, his voice low, “he had to—become someone else, to survive. I do not know all the details—” (and at this, Maglor stifled a scoff) “—but he learned that every favor comes with a...a price. And if he offered repayment before it was demanded, he could control it.”

Maglor shivered. He tried hard not to think about what Maitimo had endured, what had left him so shadowed and severe, but now his mind conjured up a thousand horrific scenarios.

“And sometimes, even now, he will lapse back into that...other person,” Findekáno continued. “Often...usually...he will offer sex.”

This time, Maglor did not bother to hide his reaction. How dare they lay a hand on Maitimo? How dare they defile him so? How dare they take something so precious, so beautiful, so intimate and turn it into a foul currency of survival?

“I know,” Findekáno said, and for once Maglor felt as if they were of one thought together. “It makes me furious. When we defeat Morgoth, I will make him pay for every time one of them touched him—every time he felt he had to give them what they wanted, lest they take even more...”

“I will be there with you,” Maglor growled.

Findekáno clasped his shoulder briefly in solidarity. Then he sighed, and looked away. “This is what Curvo meant, I suppose. I had not thought...well, I did not think to warn you, since you are his brother, but I suppose even that bond has been corrupted in his mind. If he offers...whatever he offers…do not show your alarm. Only comfort him, and remind him gently that he is not there any longer, and he doesn’t have to do those things.” He grimaced, forcing cheer into his voice. “But hopefully you will not have to. He gets better every day, and it has been some time since his last...lapse.”

Maglor bit his lip. “Of course,” he rasped, and turned away so Findekáno could not see the jealous anger on his face. He did not want Maitimo to turn to him only out of a warped sense of obligation—he did not want Maitimo to feel that way at all, for anyone! But was it truly so impossible for Maitimo to ever desire him? Was it truly so unthinkable that Maitimo could return his feelings? Even at his lowest, even then—

Am I truly so hideous to his eyes? he lamented. Or is it only Findekáno who sees me so?

Months passed. Maitimo’s bad days grew fewer and farther between, and soon he was talking politics with Maglor and Nolofinwë. (Maglor was glad that Findekáno was, usually, not included in that council, even if he found his half-uncle almost as grating to be around.)

Maglor almost forgot about Findekáno’s warning. Maitimo shared very little of what happened to him in Angband, and Maglor let himself think the worst of the shadow had passed over him.

But darkness yet lurked in his memory, which Maglor would soon learn all too well.

“Well done today, Nelyo,” Maglor murmured, helping Maitimo back into bed after a long day of exercise, including some very simple sword-work. “Soon you’ll be ready to face me again in the practice yards!”

Maitimo smiled, and ducked his head. “Thank you,” he rasped. “I could not do it without you, Lauro.” Then he quirked his head, eyes unusually bright. “You have done so much for me, háno.”

Maglor’s heart swelled with pride. “Anything for you,” he promised. Anything at all.

Maitimo’s mouth opened, then closed again. The strange brightness was still there in his gaze. Maglor found himself unable to look away.

“Nelyo?” he prompted.

“I thought I—” Maitimo swallowed. Maglor watched the apple of his throat bob, and his fingers twitched. He wanted to touch Maitimo there, touch him everywhere... But he had controlled his desires all his life. He could control himself now.

“Please, tell me,” Maglor urged, sitting down beside his brother on his bed.

Maitimo shuddered, then leaned against him. “Káno,” he whispered. “I should—you deserve more. A proper thanks. You all do. I can offer you so little in return...”

“Ai, Maitimo,” Maglor murmured, stroking his river of red hair. He was so beautiful. Not even Angband could take away his beauty, for all it had taken his hand.

But Findekáno took that, he remembered with a grimace. Ai! If I had been there...

But he had not been. Instead he had been here.

Yet—was he not here, now, when Maitimo needed him?

“You repay us all by getting better,” he said. “We need nothing else. It brings me joy simply to be with you, to know you live...” He hesitated. To love you. To hold you. Would those words betray him?

“I can only do...that,” Maitimo said, seeming genuinely distressed now. “That, and one other thing, that I am not allowed...”

Maglor swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Too late, he remembered Findekáno’s warning. Too late he realized Maitimo was acting odd. Had today not been a good day? Had Maitimo not laughed and smiled as he lifted his sword? Had he not embraced Maglor, had he not...

Maitimo slid off the bed and onto his knees. He hit the ground heavily—Maglor winced, thinking of how his still-fragile joints must ache—but made no sound.

“Lauro,” he whispered. “I—I am good at this. Please. Let me thank you. Let me...let me please you...”

Maglor sat, frozen, in astonishment and horror. No. No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. No, no... Those words were not meant to be threaded with guilt and fear. Maitimo was supposed to be strong, to be powerful, to sweep him off his feet...it should be Maglor on his knees, offering pleasure, offering gratitude...!

But he could not deny that he was suddenly, achingly hard. How long had he wanted this? How long had he yearned for Maitimo’s touch? And now it was offered to him, and he could not accept!

“Nelyo...háno...” he croaked out at last.

At once Maitimo’s face went blank. His full lips, parted seductively only a moment earlier, pressed together in a thin line. Even the odd brightness from his eyes vanished, leaving him as listless as when he had first returned.

“Forgive me,” Maitimo murmured. “I...I know it is forbidden...”

“Nelyo, no,” Maglor protested, his throbbing arousal and his bleeding heart warring with his good sense. “Was it not you, long ago, who told me such things were not wrong?”

Maitimo blinked, a bit of color returning to his cheeks. “You would let me...?” he whispered.

“Ai, Nelyo,” Maglor choked out. “You shouldn’t—not like this! If you had, before, if only you...if I had been...” He shuddered, holding back tears, wishing his cock would soften. “You owe me nothing, Maitimo. Beloved Maitimo.”

“I owe you nothing,” Maitimo repeated, frowning. “Yes. I owe you nothing. And yet you have been so kind...can I not be kind in return? Makalaurë?”

Maglor keened to hear his name spoken so softly, so reverently. “Maitimo,” he whined, and fell to his knees at his brother’s side. “Maitimo, Maitimo, Maitimo...”

When Maitimo kissed him, it was everything he had imagined, and yet nothing like it at all. It was not the world falling into place, but it was heady and sweet and electrifying. Maglor let go of everything he knew to be right and wrong and simply let himself feel, simply let himself love.

He kissed Maitimo back more fiercely than he meant to, but the way Maitimo gasped into his mouth was too tempting. His hands frantically found their way to his brother’s side, and he clutched him, clung to him, drank him in with the passion of one dying of thirst and at last given water.

Maitimo’s hand was moving also, fluttering over Maglor’s hröa. At last it found what it was looking for, and settled onto Maglor’s cock. Through his clothing Maitimo stroked him, his hand so big, so sure, so strong, as it had always been, and Maglor moaned and whimpered as all his dreams came true at once. He lasted barely a minute before he succumbed, spending in his leggings in response to Maitimo’s skillful touch.

“Maitimo,” he sighed, still leaning into his brother, his lips a breath away from Maitimo’s own, left so plush and red from kissing. 

“Ai...Nelyo...Maitimo, meldo...how long I have wanted this, wanted you...!”

Maitimo’s fingers danced over his skin, not settling, still exploring, still intent on making him sigh with pleasure.

“Lauro,” he rasped. “Do you feel good? Do you feel better now?”

Maglor lifted his eyes to stare at Maitimo in wonder. “I have never felt better,” he assured him.

Some of the tension eased out of Maitimo’s frame, and he smiled. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

Maglor kissed him, and Maitimo let himself be kissed, turning soft and languid in his embrace. After a moment, Maglor helped his brother back into his bed, and too awash with joy, he found he could not even feel embarrassed that he had soiled his clothes.

“Can I do more for you? Káno?” Maitimo asked, even as Maglor gently pushed him down against the sheets. His eyes were so wide, so bright. He looked so earnest. Maglor had not imagined him so soft in bed, so caring. Ai!

“Might I please you with my hröa?” Maitimo prompted, widening his legs.

All at once it hit Maglor, what was really happening. No. No, this wasn’t real—this was the person from Angband, the one who offered pleasure to forestall pain. Maitimo didn’t—he wouldn’t—

But Maitimo had done all of that and more for Findekáno, had he not? Had Maglor not seen his big brother spread his legs or crouch on his hands and knees as though he were a beast instead of a proud Ñoldo? Had Maglor not espied him doing just that in the baths of the Alqualondë, the woods around Túna, the side streets of Tirion, their bedchambers in their fathers’ houses in Tirion? Had he not seen Maitimo submit time and time again to cruel, rough usage, to bondage and beating and brutal claiming? And Maitimo had not loved all of it. Had he not? At least, he seemed to love it—

But, Maglor remembered, his heart quickening to anger, that was so very like Findekáno: to take, to demand, to deal out justice as he felt was right. Findekáno was ungentle, was selfish. Maglor was not. He would not, could not take that from Maitimo.

“Nelyo...” he whispered. He wanted, he wanted so much—he knew that Maitimo’s hröa was beautiful, was delectable, would bring him to ecstasy should he take what was offered. But it was not offered truly. Perhaps this part of Maitimo had been present long before Angband. Perhaps he had offered submission to Findekáno out of fear rather than true desire. Perhaps it had only taken a new shape in the Iron Hells.

“Nelyo...what do you want?” he asked at last.

Slowly, Maitimo closed his legs again, his brow furrowed. “I want...” He chewed the words, as if considering them for the first time. “I want to—to have peace.”

“You are working on that,” Maglor encouraged. “With Nolofinwë and me.”

“No. I mean—” Maitimo shook his head. “I want...to be at peace. I want things to—to make sense. The way they used to.”

Tears sprung to Maglor’s eyes. “Ai, Nelyo, I want that too,” he whispered. Could they not return to the golden days of their childhood, when they were all innocent? Before lusts, before trysts, before oaths and wars and bruises. And yet…how could they give up all they had gained, even if they had lost so much alongside it?

“I felt that,” Maitimo confessed. “A moment ago...with you... It made sense again.”

“It felt as if it should be this way.” Maglor swallowed back a sob. It was real. It had to be. If Nelyo felt it too—! “I want...”

“I want,” Maitimo echoed as though the words were a revelation.

Maglor kissed him. It was gentle and slow, and Maitimo was so receptive, so open to it, parting his full, soft lips and meeting Maglor’s tongue halfway. He felt dizzy with it all: why had he not done this earlier? Was this new within his beloved, his brother? Or had Maglor been wrong all those years ago when he learned the bitter lesson of betrayal taught by Findekáno in Alqualondë, long before the Kinslaying?

It hardly mattered now, he decided. He reached down to Maitimo’s belly, but a big hand stopped him before he could go any further.

“I want—you,” Maitimo whispered, and Maglor thought his heart could burst. “Can I...would you let me... Might I serve you? Lauro?”

And how could Maglor deny him? He nodded dumbly, already half-hard again. He was caught up in a haze of pleasure, of elation as Maitimo gently guided him onto his back, tugging down his leggings, bending down to lap at his cock with that long, nimble tongue that had so long haunted Maglor’s dreams and had so cleverly caressed his own only a minute before...

It was over too swiftly, almost from the moment Maitimo took him in that sweet, hot mouth. Maglor was simply too overwhelmed to last long. How could he when Maitimo looked so lovely, licking and sucking him with such skill and care? How could he resist when Maitimo’s beautiful lips were wrapped around his shaft and the flat of Maitimo’s tongue was caressing the exquisitely sensitive underside of his cockhead, when every bob of Maitimo’s head brought him to levels of ecstasy beyond his wildest imaginings? Yet every brief moment was bliss, and Maitimo’s bright, passionate looks and throaty moans of pleasure were too much to be endured. Maglor found that he could do nothing but lie back on the bed, fist his hands in the sheets as he scrambled for purchase, and cry aloud as he thrust and spilled into his big brother’s warm, willing mouth. 

“Maitimo,” he wept when he was finished. “Maitimo, I...” Tears rolled down his cheeks, and his limbs and belly still quivered as wave after wave of residual ecstasy crashed over him. His fingers trembled as he raised his hands to Maitimo’s face and loose fiery locks, seeking an anchor as he drowned in the lingering haze of his release. 

There was a sound outside. Maglor froze, and Maitimo went still between his legs.

“It is forbidden,” Maitimo croaked.

“I should...I should leave,” Maglor whispered. He trembled all over, unable to bear the thought of departing, and yet terrified of being caught. “But—I will return. I swear it. Maitimo.”

“Lauro.” Maitimo smiled, and licked the last remnant of Maglor’s seed from his lips. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Lake Mithrim, F.A. 7

Findekáno was leaving.

Maitimo knew not what to say, what to do: Ought he to beg for him to stay? Ought he apologize for whatever offense had driven him away? Ought he to ask Makalaurë to intercede on his behalf?

But no, he reminded himself, for Makalaurë flinched each time he mentioned Findekáno’s name. Some tension existed between Maitimo’s two masters, and he did not yet know enough about why to attempt to act upon it. Better to serve them each separately, lest he be punished.

Oh, they had not punished him. Not yet. And there were days when he was less sure they would, days he almost felt like himself again, from Before. Findekáno especially was upset each time Maitimo tried to thank him, to the point Maitimo almost believed him when he said he had no master but himself.

But he remembered that Place. Years went by, There, when he was treated well and given authority over other thralls. Years in which he planned futile escape, years in which he pulled together the scraps of his pride that yet remained. But then those years would end, and he would be reminded of his true place, and forced to serve Þauron and Moringotto and their thanes.

It was better to offer his service before then. Perhaps once, long ago, things had been different, and he had been a King in truth—but now he was changed. Marred. Lesser. Findekáno would see that eventually, and put him to better use. Perhaps when he was healed, he could better serve him...

But Makalaurë—ai, Makalaurë! His brother understood. The Ñoldor were not cruel masters, not the way Moringotto and his Úmaiar were, but masters they were: overlords of the Moriquendi, overlords of their own lesser followers. Makalaurë had taken up their Kingship when it was stripped from Maitimo, and led them now. Findekáno it was who had saved him and claimed him, but Makalaurë had equal claim over him, as his king and brother.

And Makalaurë knew this. When he was with Makalaurë, Maitimo could serve as he had been trained. Makalaurë delighted in his touch, and though once such intimacies with his brother would have disgusted him, now Maitimo barely counted as his kin. He brought great pleasure to Makalaurë. Findekáno would one day remember how good Maitimo could make him feel, and take from him what he deserved—but in the meantime, Maitimo would keep himself ready by serving Makalaurë.

Perhaps this was why Findekáno was leaving. Perhaps he knew of Maitimo’s service to Makalaurë, and disapproved.

“Finno,” Maitimo said, for that was what Findekáno liked to be called. He remembered this, from before. He had given Finno that name, when they were young, and it still brought a smile to Finno’s lips.

“Russo,” Findekáno murmured, and let Maitimo stroke his cheek. This, at least, he would accept from Maitimo, and it brought him great joy to be able to serve in this small way. He owed his life to Findekáno. He would gladly serve Finno all his days.

“Will you return?” he asked. Selfish, selfish—he had no power over Findekáno, to demand he stay. But Findekáno insisted they converse as if they were equals, and Maitimo would not disobey him.

“Of course,” Findekáno assured. “I am going out on patrol into the mountains. But I will return. I swear it.”

He made promises so easily. Maitimo still felt the ugly chains of the one promise he could not break tight around his fëa, and could not bring himself to return the oaths Findekáno so easily swore. But he felt precious, valued when Findekáno said such sweet words. Some days he almost believed Findekáno meant every word he spoke, even the ones declaring Maitimo free.

(But that was his pride talking, and he could not allow himself to be prideful. His old masters had taught him well that pride brought punishment.) 

“I will miss you,” he confessed. Surely that was a sufficiently humble admission. 

“As will I,” Findekáno said. “But worry not. I will return, with goods from the Sindar and game from the forests. And Makalaurë will take good care of you in my absence.”

Maitimo blinked up at him. “Makalaurë is good at that,” he agreed. For all he could not return Makalaurë’s passions with quite the same enthusiasm as Makalaurë showed him, he could not deny how calming it was for him to understand where he stood with his brother and king.

Findekáno’s smile turned bittersweet. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “I wonder...”

But then he sighed, and shook his head, and pressed a kiss to Maitimo’s brow. “When I return, I am sure you will be wielding a sword almost as well as you did before!” he said instead, forcing cheer into his voice.

“Lauro is a good partner to train with,” Maitimo agreed, and meant it in more ways than one. Soon he would be strong enough to properly fuck Makalaurë, and to disarm him in the training ring. He could show both those skills to Findekáno, when he returned.

And if Findekáno meant to entrust him entirely to Makalaurë’s care—well, that only meant he expected Maitimo to serve him, did it not? Perhaps his two masters were more aligned in purpose than he had thought.

Findekáno left, and soon thereafter Makalaurë came to his side. “Nelyo,” his brother sighed, and kissed him sweetly on the mouth. Maitimo let his mind retreat to the quiet place it went when he performed his services, and offered himself for Makalaurë’s use.

His mind rebelled each time Makalaurë touched him like this. Even hidden away where it could do no more harm, Maitimo still was reluctant to let Makalaurë take what he wanted. But after their first few encounters, Maitimo had regained his self-control, swallowed the last dregs of his pride, and let Makalaurë take his prick in hand.

Ai, it was difficult to rise to the occasion, even now. His brother’s caresses felt foreign and strange, but when Maitimo closed his eyes, he could remember before, when it was Findekáno who touched him like this. None of his masters in Angband had cared to suck his cock the way Makalaurë did, but Makalaurë was quite a different master: gentler, sweeter, if no less demanding.

Each time Maitimo spread his legs for his brother, he was baffled at Makalaurë’s refusal. “Am I not enough for you?” he asked once, and nearly brought tears to Makalaurë’s eyes.

“Ai, Maitimo, you have always been the one I wanted,” he protested. “You are enough, more than enough...”

And now, Maitimo realized what he had been doing wrong. Once, long ago, he had loved to be fucked, to be plundered and ravished. Once, Findekáno’s cock had made him sing with delight. Makalaurë must feel the same way—Makalaurë must derive his greatest pleasures from riding cock, not from fucking others.

Well. Maitimo had not often been put to that use in Angband—only when Þauron drugged him and forced him to couple with níssi, to beget more thralls—but he remembered well enough how to do it. And now he believed he was strong enough to give Makalaurë what he truly craved, to prove he was a good servant.

When Makalaurë came next to his bed, Maitimo pounced upon him with a smile. Purpose settled deep into his bones as he saw the delight spring forth brightly from his brother-master’s eyes, heard the eager, gleeful laugh spill from his lips. Quickly Maitimo captured that mouth in a kiss, pushing aside any lingering discomfort that yet made his mind rebel.

He is your brother no longer, he told himself sternly. He is your master, and Findekáno has turned you over to his use while he is gone. You must serve him as he desires.

“Nelyo,” Makalaurë sighed, gladly letting Maitimo push him into the mattress. Maitimo kissed him harder, until he felt Maglor’s arousal pressed against him, and he reached down to stroke him.

“Nelyo, Nelyo, your hands,” Maglor moaned.

Maitimo froze for a fraction of a second, for he had only the one hand with which to service his master. But Makalaurë did not seem to notice his slip, and so Maitimo resumed with twice the vigor, letting Makalaurë thrust into his grip and trying to will himself to harden.

It was more difficult than he expected. He had grown used to this requirement, but on this day the knowledge of what was to come seemed to remind him all the more sharply of what once had been. Makalaurë’s whines brought memories of his little brother’s complaining as a child, of his adolescent faith that Nelyo could make anything better; even of Makalaurë’s desperate pleas for him not to head into the battle that would forever cost him his freedom.

But then Maitimo forced himself to remember his training in Angband, all the times he was forced to give pleasure to master far crueler than the ones who ruled him now—and somehow, he managed. Somehow, his erection rose.

Maitimo undressed Makalaurë, then shed his own breeches, though he kept his shirt on. His flesh was fair no longer; he was a prize for his ability to please, not to look pleasing. “Maitimo” no longer meant “beautiful,” but “well-made”—reshaped to do this. Made to serve.

Makalaurë moaned, reaching for Maitimo’s hefty shaft with greedy hands. Maitimo closed his eyes, focusing all his will on remaining hard as his little brother eagerly groped and stroked him like he was an instrument to be played—and he was, he reminded himself. It was easier, after that, to remember he was not but a tool.

“Káno,” he growled, grinding against Makalaurë’s thigh. Makalaurë moaned again; he seemed to prefer that name in bed. Maitimo disliked it—it was far too close to “Kánya,” a name reserved only for his truest master, Findekáno—but it did not matter what he liked. (And it was not as if Findekáno, Kánya, needed to know.)

“Nelyo, please, you’re so big,” Makalaurë babbled. “Nelyo, I—I want—”

“Do you want to do something—new?” Maitimo asked, his mouth brushing against Makalaurë’s ear.

Makalaurë’s breath hitched. “Anything, anything with you,” he begged. “Nelyo—please—your cock, I want it, I need it in me—”

“Then—then I will give it to you,” Maitimo promised, unable to repress a full-body shudder. Let Makalaurë think it was in anticipation, not disgust—let it be anticipation. He could not afford to falter, not now.

“Nelyo, háno, hánya,” Makalaurë cried, spreading his legs eagerly. “Take me, take me—please—I want it, I need it—it’s all I’ve ever wanted—”

Ever? Maitimo wondered, but he pushed the thought aside. It was not helpful. He would need all his strength to serve this master, and never let his own doubts show.

Makalaurë made quick work of opening himself up as Maitimo held his legs spread wide. He babbled out his fantasies of Maitimo fingering him open—but thankfully, he seemed not to expect that now. “Next time,” he said, eyes rolling back into his head as he found his sweet spot. “But now—I cannot wait—”

And now the time had come. Maitimo grunted as he pushed inside his brother—Makalaurë, in his eagerness, had been a bit too hasty in his preparations—but he knew he could not break down now, or he would lose his resolve.

“Tight,” he grunted, and Makalaurë giggled, his eyes already hazy with pleasure. 

Like a naughty child, something inside Maitimo thought before he could stop himself. For one awful moment, his erection flagged, but Makalaurë was there, squeezing and clenching and acting—for better, Maitimo supposed distantly—in a very grown and experienced manner. That was something that Maitimo could focus on. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was only fucking some tight hole, and not—anything else. 

“Nelyo, Nelyo, oh, ai, more,” Makalaurë pleaded. Maitimo grunted in protest before he could stop himself, but fortunately, Makalaurë once again mistook the noise for a moan of pleasure. 

“Faster—harder—please—I need you—now, Nelyo—” Makalaurë commanded, as imperious as he was needy. 

Orders. Yes, Maitimo could follow orders. He bowed his head, and obeyed. 

Maitimo remembered little of the actual act. This had never been his favorite position, even Before; but he could do it, and do it well. Makalaurë was ecstatic with lust and bliss, and when he came, it was with a shout he could not repress despite his need for secrecy.

Relief washed over Maitimo when it was over, and he moved to remove himself from Makalaurë’s hröa, only for another command to be issued.

“Come in me, spill in me, please,” Makalaurë ordered. “Nelyo, fill me—make me yours—”

“But—I am yours,” Maitimo said, before he remembered not to question his master.

Yet Makalaurë’s eyes only filled with glad tears. “Mine,” he hiccuped. “Yes. Nelyo. Hánya. My brother!”

This was not the sort of dirty talk that encouraged Maitimo to climax—but this was not about his own pleasure. He closed his eyes and thought of times long ago, when he had enjoyed sex; when Finno had teased him and made him feel so precious, and with the name Kánya barely bitten back, he willed himself to come, giving Makalaurë what he demanded.

Yet as his cock finally softened, Maitimo could not bear to stay inside his brother as he might once have indulged his lover of old. He pulled out and collapsed, shaking, feeling ill. He wanted to vomit, to scrub himself clean, to punish himself for not being good enough—(for corrupting his brother!)—but he could not. Makalaurë was still there, lying in the afterglow of their first proper fuck...and now he turned over to embrace Maitimo.

It was too much. Despite himself, Maitimo flinched away. His master had never wanted intimacy, after using him—he couldn’t bear it—he—

“Nelyo?”

Makalaurë’s voice cut through him. He froze, but found he had not the words to respond.

“Nelyo, I...you are amazing,” Makalaurë whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You are everything I had dreamed of... I...”

Maitimo let out a quiet whine, hoping Makalaurë would take it as some sort of affirmation. In truth, he did not know what he meant by it.

Makalaurë kissed his brow. “I know I shouldn’t linger,” he murmured. “I’ll let you rest, meldoháno. But I will return, and care for you. I...thank you, Nelyo. You have given me such a gift...”

“Thank you,” Maitimo echoed, his eyes closed against the satisfaction of his master’s smile, and waited for Makalaurë to leave before he fell apart entirely, crying himself into a fitful sleep.

Maitimo awoke from his nightmare with a lurch. His head pounded, every pulsation beating against his temple like a blow. How long had he been asleep? How had he allowed his mind to wander again to such dark places, where he forgot that he was free to such a degree that—

Nelyo, please, you’re so big! 

Maitimo shuddered and shook his head rapidly. His neck screamed in protest, and his vision blurred. It still hurt to move. It hurt so much to everything these days—another unwanted reminder of how low his captors had brought him—another sign that he was still not free, not really—doesn’t matter what Finno says—no, no, I will not, cannot reject his gift, his goodness—he saved me, I must remember that, must remember to show my gratitude by acting, nay, nay, being free—I—

He tried to quiet his mind. He tried to focus on nothing but the pain, which was real and grounding, a reminder that his fëa still inhabited his hröa, of what was true and what was false. He could not dwell on his Foes’ lies or the false visions that they planted in his mind. 

“So fine, so pretty—and now you know your purpose, Maitimo, do you not? Aye, you do. You know it so well that you would serve even your beloved brothers. You know your place so well that even they shall see you as you really are. A thrall. Not even a hröa, just a long and lovely thing to be used for pleasure.”

“No!” Maitimo rasped, digging his fingers into his left temple. “They would not! They would never! None of them would, but not Lauro, especially not him.” 

He let out a shaky laugh, which crackled over his dry lips, and scolded himself again. How could his treacherous mind have conjured a torment so foul, even after all that he had suffered in Angband? How could he have ever imagined that his kindest, gentlest brother, with his romantic songs and caring nature would have ever used and abused him in such a sickening manner? Makalaurë did not see him as a thrall. Of course he did not! Makalaurë would never dream of perverting their brotherly bond with such twisted lusts. After all, Makalaurë had found néri who would love him rightly and well, had he not? There had been Teleri in Aman. Surely there were Sindar in Endórë who did the same.

So why had Maitimo’s nightmares turned in that way?

Maitimo howled faintly but ferociously and dug his nails into his left temple again. His nails—ai, they’d grown too long again, with Finno gone—tore at his flesh, ripping into the skin and clawing rivulets of blood that streamed down his face like crimson tears. But he couldn’t dig deeply enough. He couldn’t get through the muscle or the bone. He couldn’t rip out those cursed thoughts. He couldn’t find those nightmares and tear them from his brain. He only had one hand, and his left was not strong enough on its own. He could not

Nelyo—please—your cock, I want it, I need it in me—

A wave of nausea swept over him at the memory—nay, not a memory, not a real one at least, he told himself. He lowered his hand to his bony thigh, seeking the soft, comforting fabric of the fine muslin breeches that his beloved had given him to keep him covered and cool in the summer. But it was not there. In place of cloth, there was bare skin. Cold, clammy skin, sticky with dried sweat and—and—

Maitimo’s eyes flew open and flickered downward before he could stop them. In addition to sweat, his thighs were stained with seed—white and musty, filling his nostrils with its sickening odor. His cock hung flaccid and shriveled between his legs, but it still bore the traces of the act that haunted his nightmares.

But it was not a nightmare, was it? He cock was stained with his own seed and other fluids. It was reddened too, wrung out from the effort of keeping himself erect, rubbed raw from the too-tight, too-dry scrape of Makalaurë’s ill-prepared hole. That he had forced his own cock to fuck because that—that—was the service that his brother required of him. And Maitimo had done it. He had initiated the act because his thrall self had sensed that Makalaurë craved it deeply. He had—his other self—nay, nay, his own broken mind had made his broken hröa—

I cannot, I cannot, I cannot! His bowels churned, and bile rose to his throat. Before he knew what was happening, before he could stop himself, his mouth was full of warm, thick, squelching liquid. 

No! was his last thought before he doubled over and retched. 

No, no, no! What would Finno think if he knew? What would Finno think? He’d be disgusted, seeing me bent over, stewing in my own filth and Makalaurë’s. He would hate me, revile me, reject me. I would have no one left. None of my other brothers would want me either, for fear of what I might impose on them next. I would be—

“Nelyo!” There was that voice again. Calling to him from outside of his tent. Sweet, clear, full, bright, and ringing with unbridled joy. 

“Have you awoken, hánya?” Happy. Makalaurë was happy. Because of Maitimo. Because Maitimo had let go of himself and served. Nobody else seemed happy when they were with Maitimo. His other brothers glanced at him sideways, shooting him looks of guilt and fear. Findekáno looked at him directly, with soft, careful eyes, always clouded with worry. Even his gentle smiles were slow and tinged with concern and doubt. Because Maitimo could not be trusted to act as he should.

No one but Makalaurë trusted him to act as he should. 

He took a deep breath, swallowing back down the bile that had risen in his throat. Makalaurë’s voice floated through the air, light and contented, and Maitimo made himself relax.

He was broken, but Makalaurë still found use for him. Others could not see him for what he was, but Makalaurë did. The least he could do was hide his mind’s agony from the only one who treated him as he deserved; the least he could do was continue to give Makalaurë happiness.

“I am awake,” he rasped, bowing his head as Makalaurë came in.

His brother gasped softly to see him. “Ai, Nelyo,” he fretted. “I should not have left you like that—here, here, let me care for you...”

And he did. As little as Maitimo deserved it, he knew Makalaurë loved to pamper and comfort him, and so he relaxed, and smiled hesitantly, and let himself be washed clean and redressed. Makalaurë gave him a soft kiss, and Maitimo responded in kind, for that was what Makalaurë wanted.

“Come with me to the practice yards,” Makalaurë directed. “You are so strong now, háno, surely you will do even better today than before!”

And Maitimo followed. Swordplay was a task he could devote himself to mindlessly, a skill he knew was useful to all his masters. With Makalaurë guiding him, he would improve, and be the best tool of all in the High King’s armory.

That was the last time Maitimo let himself slip. He couldn’t afford to keep having those moments of pride, when he forgot his place as Makalaurë’s servant. He devoted himself to his brother’s desires, be they on the practice fields or in his bed; he refused to let the creeping doubts and horrors of his past self gain control of him again.

He slept less, spoke less; indeed, he ceased seeking out his brothers, save Makalaurë, of course. He kept thoughts of Findekáno far from his mind, for his once-beloved was absent, and could not be served as he could serve Makalaurë.

And even when Findekáno returned, Maitimo found he could not even feign the honesty he once had offered to his rescuer. He smiled and greeted his cousin warmly, but near two months had passed since Findekáno left, and in that time he had devoted himself to Makalaurë. Should Makalaurë turn him over to Findekáno’s service, he would learn again what it was that Findekáno required, but now...

“You seem—different,” Findekáno said hesitantly one evening, after a long day of discussing politics with Makalaurë and Ñolofinwë. The question of the Kingship had arisen once more, and though tensions were high, Maitimo had refrained from commenting save when Makalaurë asked him to directly. Yes, he once had worn the crown of the Ñoldor, but it had been lost alongside his dignity in Angband. It was his no longer; he did not know why the others looked to him as if he still had any claim to it.

“Do I?” Maitimo asked carefully. Being alone with Findekáno was dangerous. It made him remember the times Before, the times when he had been himself. Since Findekáno’s return, he had avoided such situations, but Makalaurë and Ñolofinwë had left, and Finno had asked him to remain for a moment.

He wished he had declined. He wished he had gone with Makalaurë. But Findekáno was his master, still, and so he could not disobey.

“You seem...calmer,” Findekáno mused. His eyes were fixed on a point above Maitimo’s head. “Less—frantic. Less fractured. Is—” He swallowed. “Is Makalaurë...helping you? In a way I couldn’t?”

Maitimo blinked. Was this a way of asking if Makalaurë was a better master? He could not insult Findekáno, who had saved him. But neither could he answer for himself, and say—say that he hated what he had become; that he never wanted to touch Makalaurë the way he did now; that he was only calm because he lost himself in servitude, refused to give way to pride...

“...Yes,” he said at last, and his voice did not waver. “Finno,” for that was what his once-beloved insisted he call him, “you have saved me. You brought me back, away from That Place. I am ever grateful for that...”

Gratitude, he could express. It was true: the agony of the cliffside was unbearable, the torment of thralldom in Angband destructive. And Findekáno did not turn away his gratitude, even if he did not accept his penance.

“But Makalaurë knows me,” he said. His voice caught. He wanted to explain, to confess his faithlessness, to beg forgiveness, to plead for Finno to save him again, to make him a person again, to restore him to his former self—

But he could not. He was not that elf any longer. He was...only this.

“I understand,” Findekáno murmured, and kissed his wrist. “I—I am glad, then. That he can care for you.”

Finno, he wanted to say, helplessly. But he said nothing, and Findekáno walked away.

Findekáno meant it when he said that he understood, yet… 

I should not have walked away from him, he thought, plucking a stray stalk of grass and chewing it lightly. Perhaps it would help with his pondering. 

Aye, walking away from him was wrong, Findekáno decided as he made his way down to the lake. True, Russandol had said—or at least implied—that Makalaurë understood him better than any other, even Finno, but his eyes said otherwise. Ai, those lovely silver eyes, which had always been so calm and steady in Aman, only turning stormy when Russo was caught in the throes of their shared passion or when his temper took hold, looked dull, distant, and…lost. Sadness, Finno might have expected. Even fear would not have been surprising, after all the cruelties, tortures, and abuses that Russo had endured in Angband. Finno knew, of course, that that fear would not evaporate overnight, no matter how much he tried to show Russo that he was free, safe, and loved—above all else, loved, and still cherished, always adored—or how devoted the healers and the other Fëanárioni were. 

At least…no matter how devoted Makalaurë was. Finno had noticed, since he returned, that Russo’s five other brothers seemed more distant from him. Or else Russo had distanced himself from all of them except Lauro. Perhaps Lauro was the only one who did not judge him for his lapses into his thrall-state? Lauro had said that Curvo seemed disturbed and disgusted, and Finno had tried to explain the situation to them both. Perhaps he had not done enough, or perhaps–more likely, he thought spitefully–Curvo refused once again to understand just how much Russo had suffered in Angband. More likely, he was still fleeing from his own guilt over abandoning his eldest brother to his tormentors. Finno could not be sure though–he had to observe from afar and guess because he forgot to ask Russo for an explanation. He ought to have done so. 

But I was hurt and walked away, he thought, wincing as his belly twinged guiltily. I let myself feel useless and jealous because he seemed calmer after two months with only Lauro to look after him, and I forgot to ask why…why only Lauro? And why, meldanya, do you seem so calm but stay so quiet? And why did you tell me that Lauro understood you better, then look at me as though you would be lost without me? 

Why indeed? Findekáno pondered all of those questions and more as he began the trek around the lake. Several Ñoldor glanced in his direction, but each one faltered before they could approach him. Findekáno did not believe that he was scowling, but he could feel how deeply his brow was furrowed, and he knew that his lips were pursed as he contemplated the situation before him. Aye, he was not scowling, but he must have looked foreboding indeed. 

That was just as well, he decided, for he needed time to think. He had questions for Russo, so many important questions, and he needed honest answers to those questions. Before he left to treat with the Sindar, he would have simply asked his beloved, gently but directly. But Russo had been different then–better than, Finno realized with a creeping sense of unease. He had been less calm and more prone to nightmares; he had still struggled with his swordplay, yet he had been more…present. 

Aye, that’s the word for it, Finno decided, tossing aside his old stalk and picking up a new one. His steps turned more hurried as his mind buzzed with activity. He was sharper and more engaged when we talked. Atto said that he spoke more frequently and freely when they took counsel together and that he was able to convince Makalaurë to make concessions. That he acted like a king…

But Russandol had not acted like a king today. His face had seemed calm on the surface, but his eyes had been wrong. They had looked dull and distant, apart from the brief flickers of confusion that lit up his gaze whenever Lauro or Finno’s father addressed him as the Ñoldóran. His manner had been wrong too. Before, Ñolofinwë had claimed, Russandol would speak over Makalaurë and override his authority as regent whenever it seemed proper. He had seemed determined to make peace between the three branches of Finwioni. But now…

Now he will not even acknowledge that he has a right to the Kingship, not unless Makalaurë presses him, Findekáno thought, chewing his lip instead of the straw. And Makalaurë is becoming obstinate again. 

That was, in truth, why his father had asked him to attend this political discussion. 

He has grown worse in your absence, yonya. He no longer speaks. I am not even sure if he is listening half the time. And Kanafinwë…well, see for yourself. 

And Finno had seen for himself. He had not liked what he had seen, truth be told. Makalaurë had turned prideful, prickly, and intensely defensive of Russandol’s right to the crown–which Ñolofinwë did not even challenge!–and the primacy of Fëanáro’s line. He scowled at talk of compromise, scoffed at mentions of restitution beyond the horses that Russandol had returned to them the first day that he was well enough to leave his bed, and looked beseechingly at his elder brother whenever Ñolofinwë called him to order. And the entire time, Russo did nothing but stay silent, smile into the distance, and nod. Indeed, Finno doubted that he had said more than ten words the entire evening, where before his mind and tongue had been as agile as ever! 

Finno had stayed behind in hopes of talking to him and drawing out further words so that he could understand and calm his own fraying nerves, but to no avail! Russo had been slow and sparing with his speech, and his lips had trembled anxiously each time he spoke, as though he were searching for the answer that Finno wanted instead of the one that was true. 

At the time, Finno had assumed that Russo was scared of him, but then he remembered that desperate fire burning in his beloved’s gaze just before they parted. 

He did not want me to leave, Finno thought, turning on his heel automatically. And when he spoke about me…about his gratitude…about the rescue…his voice was surer. His words were quicker. He only…he only faltered when I asked him about Makalaurë or when he had to discuss his brother. His brother who has been his primary companion these past months! The only one whose company he seeks regularly! And he is not just avoiding me. He is avoiding Tyelko, Moryo, and Curvo…even the Ambarussar! Perhaps something has happened with Makalaurë that he does not want any of us to know about. Not even their other brothers. Perhaps Makalaurë did something that he ought not to have done, and Russo is fearful that if we are allowed to wander too freely about their camp, we will discover it? Or else their other brothers will if they spend too much time in his company or Lauro’s? 

Aye, Finno realized as his feet carried him to Russandol’s dwelling. His beloved had been growing stronger–was still growing stronger, at least physically–but he had so many lingering injuries from years spent hanging by his wrist from a cliffside. His tormentors had left his hröa largely unmarred before he was chained–He liked me pretty, Russandol had murmured once when he had forgotten that Finno was thereby to him–and their kind did not long bear the evidence of injuries from blades. In truth, Findekáno had dealt his beloved’s form the most severe blow, likely the only one from which he would never recover. But even that cut–the one that haunted Finno’s dreams, the one that Russo insisted had been a mercy–paled in comparison to the scars marring Russo’s strong, shining fëa, which gave his silver eyes their only lingering light. Before, Russo had been able to bear the weight of a great many secrets and retain his impressive physical and mental strength, but now…

Protecting Lauro would give him a sense of purpose, and make him calmer, Finno thought, nodding to himself as all became clear at last, but it would sap so much of his concentration and mental fortitude. No wonder he seems so different! I must speak with him some more. I can apologize for walking off and try to soothe him and make him feel safe again. I should not let him know right away that I suspect that he is protecting Lauro. I just need to make him see that he can confide in me and that whatever it is that Lauro has done, I will help Russo shield his brother from consequences! I will…

Finno never had time to finish formulating his plan, for his feet reached Russo’s tent before his mind was ready. But, he supposed much later, that really did not matter, for as soon as he pushed open the flap and cried out his beloved’s name, he understood with sudden, sickening clarity what Makalaurë had been doing these past months.

He had ignored—or worse, taken advantage of—Findekáno’s warning to not accept Russandol’s favors of “gratitude.” He had allowed Russandol to thank him for his kindness and offer service to forestall torment. He had used Russandol for the same dreadful purpose the Enemy had in Angamando.

He had forced Russandol to fuck him, and was even now in the throes of climax, just as Findekáno stepped forth to witness the misery on Russo’s face and the ecstacy on Makalaurë’s—caught beneath him, caught in the act.