Mark got very quiet. Seconds became minutes, and Sören felt like screaming, waiting for a response from Mark - there wasn't even a tell with his expression, it was as neutral as if Sören had said nothing at all.
And then at last, Mark said, "Hi Your Father, I'm Maglor."
Sören blinked slowly. He felt his head tilting. He didn't know what kind of response he was expecting, but it was definitely not that. And then he felt his own reaction bubbling to the surface. "Did you... just... seriously... answer... my confession of being your father reborn... with a dad joke."
Mark nodded. "Proud of me?" He grinned, mischief in his eyes.
Sören almost pounced on Mark, drawing him into the tightest hug he could, as tight as his heart, which he felt could burst from the elation that Mark hadn't reacted badly. He found himself raining kisses over Mark's face, then claiming his mouth and kissing him as deeply and fiercely as if he were claiming Mark's soul itself. Mark returned fire for fire, tongues teasing, playing, seducing. But through the fire there was rain - Sören felt Mark tremble against him, and start to heave, and when they pulled apart, breathless, Sören saw that Mark was crying, silently. Sören grabbed him and started kissing up his face again, kissing his tears, and now the crying wasn't silent, Mark letting out a keening wail that sounded like it had come from the depths of some part of hell where the tortures were the most severe. It brought tears to Sören's own eyes as well.
"Have I upset you?" Sören's heart sank, wondering now if the joke had been Mark's immediate way of coping with the horror of disappointment and now came the crushing weight of it. "I'm so sorry. I... I couldn't keep silent anymore, I felt like it was lying to you if I kept saying nothing about it, but I know I'm trash, compared to what I used to -"
Mark's eyes were angry now. "Adar, please."
Sören's head snapped back. His jaw dropped, and his breath exploded out of him in a sharp exhale. "You... called me... Adar..."
"Yes, because that is what you are."
"So you believe me? And... and it doesn't bother you..."
"Sören, I've known who you are for months, and you don't know how badly I've been wanting this moment to get here." Now it was Mark's turn to pull Sören into his arms, hold him close and tight. He stroked Sören's face, still continuing to cry, and the love in Mark's eyes made Sören sob now, making inhuman noises. He kissed Sören's brow and then he gave Sören another stern look. "We're going to have a talk - obviously - and I'm going to start it off by saying this. Do not, do not, DO NOT call yourself trash in front of me again. Do not make apologies for who you are now, compared to what you were a long time ago."
"But..." Sören sniffled. He didn't understand. "I mean... you wanted Fëanor, if my memories are true. You desired him. I don't look a thing like him -"
"Adar, are you insinuating that I'm so shallow and superficial to be hung up on looks?" Mark pulled back from Sören and folded his arms, looking offended.
"Well, I mean, no, but -"
"If it's a no, there is no but," Mark said, his voice almost a growl. "Listen to me, Sören. I'm not going to lie to you. Yes, back in the day, Fëanor was the most gorgeous being to ever walk the face of the Earth. One would have to be utterly blind or genuinely sexless to not desire his beauty. No, you do not look the same as my father, but trying to compare then and now is grossly unfair. It's like saying Paris isn't gorgeous because megalithic era France was lush and beautiful. Not to mention it's goddamn ridiculous. Have you seen yourself? You're fucking delicious. If Fëanor and Fingolfin were the two sexiest things in creation, you're still right up there, as far as I'm concerned. It's as if when you re-entered the plane of existence, you fashioned your spirit's vessel into the most gorgeous mortal form you possibly could have, as an act of defiance to the Valar. In fact, probably not even 'as if', I'd be willing to bet money that's actually what happened. And I only bet on sure things."
Sören wondered about that for a moment, and it felt intuitively right. He then wondered if his brothers had chosen the same approach, and the answer came from his gut: no, they would take the form that you would find the most gorgeous and sexy, what was most pleasing to you, with your tastes in this life.
Sören chewed on that. He was still crying, touched by Mark's words. Mark took Sören's hand and kissed it. Mark wasn't done yet. "Fëanor's beauty, though, wasn't just who he was on the outside. It was here." Mark brought Sören's hand to his heart, covered it with his bad hand. "He burned. People were drawn to that fire, irresistibly. When his fire shined upon someone, it made them beautiful too, bringing out the best in them, bringing out their magic, their sparkle, the gem of their spirit. He could see the beauty and goodness in everyone, the wonders of the world that others so often overlooked, even back then when magic was everywhere. Perhaps, especially back then when magic was everywhere, and most of us took it for granted. Fëanor was always shining, sparkling, making the world better just by being in it. You have that same fire in you, regardless of what you look like. When I started to see it, it scared the shit out of me."
"You didn't know right away."
"No, but it didn't take me all that long to start suspecting, when we were in Sausalito. Things like - you mentioning the dreams you had of burning to death, at such a young age. The quality of your art, which is like..." Mark gestured, searching for the right word. "Living magical artifacts. Things kept adding up and it stared me in the face. I dared not hope, but... here you are. I have my father again."
There was a clap of thunder then, the sea choppy. They made it to the beachside cabin just as the rain hit. Huan and Snúður made noises as they stepped inside as if to protest that their people would be out in that sort of weather. There was enough of a chill in the air that Mark decided to put on the cabin's gas fireplace, and make them hot chocolate. They curled up in front of the fireplace together, sharing a fleece blanket and mugs of hot cocoa, a nice cozy ambiance to reinforce the feeling of coming home... the Flame as hearth.
"When did you know, Sören?" Mark's voice was husky with emotion.
"When I started reading The Silmarillion - my cousin sent me a copy with the care package from Iceland, you know the one with the Applesin and the frog candies and the licorice..."
"Yes, I remember." Mark smirked. "The same copy of The Silmarillion that you threw at me when you proceeded to rage at me like a drunk Viking."
Sören facepalmed and snickered. "Oh god."
"That reaction, by the way, was so very Fëanor of you. It was endearing." Then Mark sighed. "So you've known since August and you didn't tell me until now, and it is now November."
Sören sighed deeply. "Am I in trouble?"
"Sören, you are trouble." Mark gave him a look. "Now, as far as whether or not you're in trouble for not telling me, well... not necessarily, but I want to know what possessed you to think that sitting on that info and saying nothing for three months was a good idea."
"It was a lot of things, starting with what I told you out there on the beach," Sören said. "I felt like an inadequate substitute for what was taken away from you. Like... 'here's your consolation prize, Discount Fëanor, the cheap Wal-Mart knockoff version of Fëanor, like what Doctor Thunder is to Doctor Pepper.'"
"Oh, Ada."
"I felt like it was going to be such a disappointment to you, that you'd get disgusted and leave. And... even without that. Do you know what big fucking brass balls it takes to claim to be, what I'm claiming? And I'm coming up against a history of people telling me I'm worthless, nobody, no good. I'm coming up against a mental health diagnosis where some of the classic textbook symptoms include 'delusions of grandeur' and 'magical thinking'. Not that everyone with bipolar disorder has these symptoms, necessarily, they're only a couple that could manifest from a long laundry list. But that, too, is part of it. I've not only been hearing from various people what a piece of shit I am, and I've seen in my very own life that I have a harder time with things than a lot of people, I was a real trainwreck in my twenties, but if I dare challenge any of that shittiness and say 'no, I was somebody once', I have to watch out and make sure it's not my mental illness talking. So it's taken me a lot to even put on the big brass balls it takes to say 'I am Fëanor, reborn', and keep pushing them against the wall of disbelief built up from the entire world naysaying me, it feels like, and insist 'fuck you, yes, this is who I am', and knock that wall down enough to tell you."
"And from where I sit," Mark said, taking Sören's free hand and squeezing it, "that, too, is proof you are who and what you claim to be."
The tears came on again. Sören drank his hot cocoa, trying to calm his nerves. "There's still more."
"I imagine so. I wouldn't think you'd keep something from me this long unless you had damn good reason, or at least you thought you did."
"I could say the same about you." Sören gave him a pointed look as he sipped his cocoa. "You didn't tell me you knew, either."
"No, I didn't. And I had reasons for that, but we'll... get to that."
Sören let his thoughts percolate as he finished his hot cocoa. Finally he said, "I worried that the memories I had were false. I worried about, you know... the incest thing, if my memories weren't legit, you thinking I was some kind of sick fuck."
Mark took a deep breath and he said, "You've hit the nail on the head of why I didn't tell you, or at least most of it. We were consenting adults, you didn't touch me a day before I was of age, but I know the taboo in human society against incest is very great, and even with my own people, there was a taboo, it's just that our family defied it. We were... something more. Fëanor said that we could become gods. Fëanor said, at least a couple times, that he thought we had once been gods, and Eru destroyed us and remade us as something less powerful, but I always thought that was crazy talk, you know, sorry, Ada, I know that's a sore spot for you and I don't mean to offend, but Fëanor said this when he was having his forge binges, holed up in there for weeks at a time not eating or sleeping much, obsessed with, consumed by one project or another. Creative madness, I thought - which is something I myself understood, I was composing a lot more back then, I would disappear into the Song just like he'd disappear into the Flame. But now, when I look back on everything..." Mark shuddered, looking across the room like he was looking at something very far away, a "there" that was not "there" anymore, and it brought chills to Sören's own spine.
Then Sören continued his litany of why he hadn't said anything before now. As much as it hurt to lay these insecurities bare, it was also freeing to make the arguments against himself and have Mark rip them apart. A giant weight was being lifted from his shoulders. "There's another thing that I think has been at the back of my head, keeping me from telling you, that I haven't been quite able to articulate before now, but now I've found my words." He cupped Mark's chin in his hand and met his eyes. "It's a fear that the only reason why you love me is because of who I was back then. I get it that there are things in me you see that are obvious signs this is your father, reborn. That this is Fëanor, sitting in front of you. And I'm glad you can see that, and that it can offer you some comfort... a bit of hope, again."
"It does, very much." Mark took Sören's hand and kissed it, again.
"But... I'm also Sören Sigurðsson, now. For better or for worse, I have been reborn. I may be continuing Fëanor's saga, but I'm also doing it in this life. I am not exactly the same as I once was. Even if there is some greater purpose or greater destiny, some thing for me to accomplish while I'm here - and this, too, has been why I haven't said anything, because saying it means shit gets real, and I'm scared because it's a lot of unknowns and I'm not ready, I don't think I'll ever be ready to make the jump from where I am now to where... he... was... being beaten and shaped in the forge of wyrd, as Norse mythology calls it. Even if that's the case, it's not 'good enough' for me to simply teach art in a college town in Oregon, be with you, find the rest of our family if they're out there... I'm still me. There is no going back, fully, to what was. I can't do that. And as importantly, I won't do that. Your father wouldn't want me to obliterate what I am now to bring him back. But you have to understand this means that sometimes, I'm not going to say or do what you think Fëanor should have said or done. I'm going to do only what I can do, as I am, the sum of the life I've lived, here and now. And hopefully that's going to be OK with you. But as happy as I am to give you back your father, there's a part of me that isn't OK with the idea that if I wasn't your father, if I was just this random guy from Iceland who happened to have some things that reminded you of him but didn't bear his soul, you wouldn't be into me."
"OK, so," Mark gave Sören a stern look. "You will recall that I've told you I've spent more time living among mortals than I have among my own kind."
"I do."
"You notice I'm fine with you calling me Mark, and prefer you default to that."
"I do."
"It's not just because you're less likely to slip and call me Maglor in public in front of 'normals' if you're calling me Mark most of the time, though that's some of it, a lot of it. It's because, well.. I haven't been reborn as mortal, obviously, as you know, but I've changed from what I used to be, as well. I wouldn't go as far as to say I'm uncomfortable with being Macalaurë Fëanorion - not at all, I'm proud of who I am, I will not deny who I am and what I am and where I come from. I am Quendi. I am one of the Noldor. I have kept myself alive all this time to keep alive the memory of my family, their part of the Song. It is my greatest wish to be reunited with my family someday, somehow. But I am also Mark Lauer, these days, the guy who teaches music theory at a university and likes hair metal and had an embarrassing glam rock phase where I likely contributed to the hole in the ozone layer with hairspray, and I have KISS dolls, and this one time I quoted Jay-Z in front of you. That's also me. It's not an act I put on to live among humans without getting killed, it's genuinely what I've become. My life is not glamorous anymore. Frankly I've had enough fucking adventure to last me a lifetime, I want things to be nice and stable, like people I love, you know, not dying in single combat or getting killed by Balrogs. Shit like that."
"I don't know whether to laugh or cry at your phrasing."
Mark's lips quirked. "Both, probably."
They hugged each other, then Mark went on, "And... as part of that 'living among humans' thing, well, I've developed a fondness for them. If I hadn't, you would have seen me turn serial killer, or genocidal warmonger. Used what Power I have to exterminate humans like vermin. I won't deny that there are some humans I'd like to expunge from the gene pool, and there are still things some humans do that are very alien to me, like why anyone would smoke cigarettes, for example. But anyway... I was celibate for a long time before you entered the picture, but I haven't been celibate all those thousands of years I've been wandering. I've had a lot of mortal lovers, over the ages, both male and female - mostly male, but a few women. I've buried partners, and it hurts every time, and I still remember each one. You're the first reborn Elf I've seen since I left Valinor. If someone had to be the reincarnation of So-and-So for me to love them, I sure as hell wouldn't have the kind of history I do. When I realized I was in love with you in Sausalito, I suspected, strongly, that you were my father reborn, but I didn't know for sure - that certainty came a bit later. So as a very long, roundabout way of answering your concern, if you were just Sören Sigurðsson, and not also Fëanor Finwion, I would still love you. I would still want to be with you."
"Fair." Sören let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."
"And now I'm going to say something that may not sit well with you, but needs to be said anyway. As much as I loved my father - still love my father - I'm not a fan of the idea of 'we have to be together because we were together in a past life'. I certainly think that having a past life connection can add fuel to the fire of attraction... but that fire has to be there to begin with. True love cannot be compelled or forced. I love the spirit of fire in you, Fëanor, but I also love Sören. Our relationship stands or falls on the basis of who we are now, meeting once again, falling in love with each other all over again, for the same reasons as before and new ones. I am nobody's slave, and I will not be anyone's master. We are not in this relationship out of compulsion from the past, enslaving us to a future we don't really want... we are together because we love each other as we are now."
"Yes." Sören nodded, tears falling harder than before, relief flooding him faster, overwhelming him. "That's it, exactly."
"And you, Sören..." Mark stroked Sören's cheek. "You are more precious to me now than you ever were, because Fëanor was lost and he is found again... but also, I see you as you are now, the flame in you shining brightly through all of the darkness and horror you've known in this frail, mortal life, the kindness and decency and courage and laughter and wonder which is all the more remarkable for rising up in a world where the magic is dying, the Music is dying, and the world needs people like you to bring it back. I am not disappointed with you at all, I do not find you an inferior substitute for what was. I am proud to have you stand at my side, as strong as you are, as bright and beautiful as you are... inside and out." He leaned in and kissed Sören's cheek. "I love you."
"I love you, Mark. Maglor. Macalaurë. Kanafinwë. My Song." Sören kissed his mouth, a soft, sweet lingering kiss that held the promise of more. "And now that we've cleared the air..."
"Yes. Tonight is not a night for words." Mark kissed Sören back, harder.
Sören shoved Mark down against the faux bearskin rug on the floor in front of the fireplace and began to pull up his T-shirt, then as Mark pulled it off Sören fumbled with his jeans. Mark took those down and yanked off Sören's T-shirt, unbuttoned and unzipped Sören's jeans. Their underwear slid to the floor, hard cocks springing free. Sören reached for the travel-sized lubricant he habitually carried in his jeans, but Mark stopped him before he could apply it.
"I want to taste you first," Mark husked.
"Only if I can taste you too."
Mark smirked. "We'll get there."
Mark rolled Sören onto his back. He spent a long time making love to Sören's entire body, kissing, licking, nibbling, caressing, rubbing, teasing. His lips and tongue and fingers explored with a sensuality like never before, Sören melting deeper and deeper, body aching, almost singing, screaming, for release, yet ever so content to be lost in Mark's expression of love through his touch. It was as if Mark had taken what Sören had said about his dream of them once having been gods, before the Noldor were the Noldor, and he was worshiping Sören now with reverence and awe, with transcendent, all-consuming ecstatic devotion. He made the course of Sören's entire body several times over, down and up and down again, both the back and the front of him, with Sören more and more exquisitely sensitized with each fresh wave of fire.
Mark did avoid Sören's cock and ass, as if he knew he'd bring Sören off too soon. But Mark brought Sören dangerously close to orgasm several times as he lapped, suckled, and stroked Sören's nipples - he couldn't ever remember them being so hard, so swollen. It was Sören's nipples that Mark feasted on one last time before he finally sat up, breathing hard, eyes blazing with hunger for more.
Sören gave Mark the same treatment, loving him all over, thrilling to every moan and sigh and gasp and growl as Sören honored the beauty of his hard, sleek body, the Noldorin splendor, as close to perfection as Sören had ever seen. It was lust, to be sure, but it was also love, wanting to give affection, comfort, pleasure to his beautiful songbird, to give him all the passion he could stand, the passion he was made for. "Not alone anymore," Sören whispered between kisses, fingers brushing over Mark's flesh in patterns like Tengwar, like Norse runes, as if he were painting him to life, conjuring him. "You have me, as long as you want me. You have this."
And at last Mark whispered, "Ada."
Sören looked up and their eyes met. Mark took Sören into his arms. "Ada, let me taste you. Drink you. Please."
They settled into a sixty-nine position, laying at each other's sides. Their hands continued to roam over what flesh they could reach as they sucked each other's cocks, tongued each other's openings, took cocks back into their mouths to suck harder and faster than before, devouring until they spilled their seed together, drank as if it were holy wine, as if this were a sacrament of the union of Flame and Song.
It was a release, a powerful one, but they were not yet sated. Sören didn't know if he ever would be, feeling the energy coursing through him - different than before, bright and sparkling, as if the confession of the truest, deepest nature of their bond had awakened a magic within them. It had never been enough, back then, the two making love for hours, each release seeming to only make them need more, crave another round of the delicious passion that sent them flying, the journey of sex as good as the destination of orgasm. "I could eat you alive," Sören whispered between fierce, hot kisses. "Tear you apart, put you back together again to tear asunder once more."
"Yes, Ada. Take me."
It was time for the lube. Sören readied them both, and pushed into Mark, laying on his back, a look of ecstasy on his face as Sören filled him, as if he'd been waiting for this his entire life and it was far better than the expectation. Sören went slowly at first, overcome by emotion, wanting to stay in this place of deep, deep love, where all that mattered in the world was this, the two of them rediscovering paradise lost with their bodies, their hearts. But soon enough Mark urged him on faster, harder, wanting to be fucked, his need even more savage than usual, too long waiting, needing. Sören gave it to him, Mark's legs propped up on his shoulders, balls smacking against him fast and furious as he drove into him, hearing himself growl, losing himself in the sweet silken heat of Mark wrapped around him, those magnificent cries, the beautiful face rapt in passion...
Mark came with a shout that seemed to echo across space and time. Sören came a few thrusts later, giving a deep roar like a victorious beast that had conquered its prey. Mark cried out again as he let loose another blast of his seed over Sören's body, and Sören collected it with his fingers, tasted it, the most perfect taste in the world.
It was Sören's turn now. He stayed on top of Mark but this time Mark was inside him and Sören rode. The burning fireplace and the intense, wild ride made them both sweat, and Mark's body glistening just drove Sören wilder, bouncing away on top of him, howling, whimpering, panting, as animal as he was divine in those moments. When Sören climaxed, Mark soon followed, and the feeling of Mark spending into him, claiming him, was almost too much to bear, bringing tears to Sören's eyes.
Still not enough. Mark pulled out, and now he was astride Sören, riding Sören's cock with the same abandon that Sören had ridden him, shivering as Sören's fingers and palms played over him, needing to touch, feel, have, hold. When Mark got close to climax, giving cries that were almost sobbing in their desperate need to come, yet also needing to never stop this union of their bodies, Sören reached to play with Mark's cock, working it vigorously in time with Mark's hips and ass, his own thrusts into Mark, balls slapping against him once more. Mark had a loud, messy orgasm, so utterly debauched that it made Sören come hard too, screaming as he shot into the contracting walls, pulsing so sweetly.
They still weren't done. Now Sören was on all fours, face down, ass up, and Mark took him from behind, slamming into him.
"I love it when you're like this," Mark rasped.
"I love the way you fuck me." Sören shivered as Mark leaned in and began kissing the back of Sören's neck, his shoulder.
Mark's teeth sank into the back of that sweet spot where neck and shoulder met, even sweeter from the back, Sören's entire body breaking out in gooseflesh, cock throbbing urgently as he heard himself let out a broken cry. "Oh god," Sören sobbed. "Oh god... ohgodohgodohgod, Mark. Mark. Maglor..."
"Yes." Mark growled through clenched teeth. He licked the same spot where his teeth had been, making Sören gasp and cry out again, trembling against him. "You're mine."
"God, yes..."
"Mine. My Sören. My Fëanor. Past, present, future. Mine."
"Yes... yes..."
"Give into me," Mark demanded, nibbling on Sören's neck and shoulder again. "Come for me. Cry out for me. I want to hear you shout into the Song. Set fire to the Song, Adar."
A deep, primal, guttural sound began to rise in Sören, louder and louder, erupting like a volcano as his orgasm took him, Sören's mind's eye exploding with color and light, flowers blooming, stars bursting, galaxies spiraling up and out from dust. There was white light searing him like a nuclear blast, pleasure so great he thought he could die from it, and he was crying out over and over again, weeping, roaring, sounds that were ugly and beautiful all at once. He felt Mark's seed fill him again, seeming to pour endlessly, Mark's own cries wrapping around his. Mark's chest was on his back, Mark's arms holding him tight as they shook together, the final act of what had been a magnificent performance.
There might yet be more to come over Saturday and Sunday, but for now they needed to rest. The sun was rising.