They slept in most of Saturday, and after they got up and had been up for awhile, they had Geek food delivered to the cabin. They fed each other playfully, sensually, and cuddled on the couch, watching Casablanca. Later, they went for a walk on the beach. After the rain and thunder late last night - and the threat of more - the beach was foggy, but to Sören it was still beautiful in a haunting, melancholy way, especially when the sun began to set, making the mists glow.
Mark had brought his guitar, and for awhile he just sat, looking out at the waves and beyond them. At last he picked up his guitar and began to play, an old song by Queensryche.
We see the light
Of those who find
A world has passed them by
Too late to save a dream that's growing cold
We realize
That fate must hide
Its face from those who try
To see the distant signs of unforetold
Oh, oh, take hold
From a haze came a rage of thunder
Distant signs of darkness on the way
Fading cries scream of pain and hunger
But in the night the light will guide your way, your way
So take hold of the flame
Don't you see life's a game
So take hold of the flame
You've got nothing to lose, but everything to gain
Ride, to a place beyond our time
Reach, for the edges of your mind
And you are there
See, that the light will find its way
Back to a place where it will stay
Make it stay
Throw down the chains of oppression that bind you
With the air of freedom the flame grows bright
We are the strong, the youth united
We are one, we are children of the light
So take hold of the flame
Don't you see life's a game
So take hold of the flame
You've got nothing to lose, but everything to gain
When Mark's song was over, he looked a little shaken - as if the song had come through him rather than deliberately choosing to play and sing - and he put down his guitar.
Now it seemed for the first time that Sören could see what Mark was seeing beyond the waves - a world that once was, and had long since passed, where Maglor, Fëanor, Fëanor's brothers and Maglor's brothers lived and loved and it felt like they would stay that way forever, nothing could touch them and their happiness. And then everything touched them, everything hurt them, and it was all gone, washed away, and all Maglor had left from those days was the Silmarils - the light of his father's soul, the light of his father's love for his brothers, loving and being loved - and they were gone, seemingly lost forever.
Sören took Mark's bad hand and squeezed. "I love you, Kanafinwë."
"I love you, Adar."
Without thinking, only feeling - and somehow knowing, Sören took off his Doc Martens boots, and then his socks.
"What are you doing?" Mark asked.
Sören said nothing, but began to undress. A raven was circling overhead.
"Sören?"
Two ravens now.
When he was completely naked, Sören began to walk into the Pacific Ocean, rolling up at high tide, in the direction of Haystack Rock, though he knew he wouldn't make it all the way out there. The water in November was too cold, especially after the rains, and Sören gasped as it hit his ankles, again as it hit his calves. Shivering, he went in deeper, to his waist, then to his chest, then to his shoulders. Mark was calling him from the beach but Sören only half-heard him. He closed his eyes, reached out in the direction of Haystack Rock, and pulled.
He felt light hit the back of his closed eyes. The clouds were getting darker, thicker, like a storm was on its way, and he was no longer shivering. A white light was shining on him - a beam of light, like a floating headlight, was coming closer and closer, brighter and brighter. As the waves got choppier, angrier, Sören opened his hand and grabbed. He felt something fall into his hand like a glass egg, but hot, almost too hot to hold, and the light was almost blinding.
Sören came back. He was starting to have an asthma attack from the intensity of everything - the shock of the cold, the heat of the object in his hand, the surge of I did it. I did it, you Valar motherfuckers, I did it.
One of the ravens let out a croak that sounded like a cry of victory.
"Sören." Mark rushed to him just as he fell over in the sand, shaking. "Sören."
Mark carried him inside.
When Sören was wrapped up in blankets by the gas fireplace in the cabin, Mark went outside to get their things and then he came in with a stern, almost murderous look on his face. "Sören Sigurðsson."
"I did it, Mark." Sören's voice was shaking. He rocked himself in the blanket heap, clutching the Silmaril tighter. "I did it."
"Show me."
Sören opened his hand, and the Silmaril floated above his palm, turning over and over, brilliant like a lamp went on in the room, millions of tiny rainbows sparkling over them. Mark's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. Then he took Sören's palm and examined it with disbelief. "You are unburnt."
Sören looked at his palm. "Ah." He didn't know what to make of that - he was surprised and not surprised at the same time.
"Sören. You could have gotten hypothermia in that freezing fucking water -"
"I'll be OK." Already Sören was starting to feel better between the blankets and the fireplace and the heat of the Silmaril and his own natural warmth.
"You are fucking impossible," Mark said as he went to the kitchen to make hot tea to further warm Sören up.
"No, not impossible." Sören said. "Imperishable."
When he came back a few minutes later, Mark snapped, "Flame Imperishable you may be, but you're not immortal." Mark looked almost angry enough to spit. "It's great to have a Silmaril back - really, that sounds sarcastic, but no... it's... important. But you know what? I'd rather have you. Not dead."
"You can have both," Sören said.
Mark's brow furrowed. He watched as the Silmaril sank back into Sören's palm. "I'm almost afraid to touch that thing, after..." He opened his own scarred palm.
"No, Maglor. It's OK now." And with that, Sören grabbed Mark's wrist and put the Silmaril in his hand.
He was right. Mark dropped to his knees and began to sob. He came closer to Sören, laid his head on Sören's lap through the blankets, and wept. Sören held him, pet him.
"Ada," Mark choked out, shaking. A wail erupted through him. "Ada."
"Yes, Maglor. It's OK now. Ada's here. We're going to find our way." Sören played with his hair some more.
Mark came closer and rose up enough to take Sören in his arms, give him a fierce, tight hug, rocking him and rocking him, and now Sören wept too, crying with Mark, crying as he had never cried before.
"Here," Sören said, opening the blankets. "If you're so worried about me catching hypothermia... come get me warm."
Mark seized Sören's mouth in a kiss and pushed him back against the bearskin rug with a growl. He put the Silmaril on Sören's chest over his heart, still in his hand, and Sören covered Mark's hand with his, reaching with the other to pull Mark down against him, to kiss him again.
But Sören needed to recover from the ordeal of the freezing water... and the shock of claiming the Silmaril. He felt like he'd been in a battle. In the warmth of Mark's embrace, Sören rested as Mark held him, weeping. The tears silently flowed down Sören's own cheeks, shaken to his core. There was no going back now; the past, present, and future were all one.
_
The next morning Sören woke up to the sound of rain, and the feel of Mark raining kisses over his face. Sören made a happy contented noise and snuggled closer to Mark, then giggled when he felt Mark's hard-on pressed against him. His giggling became a breathy moan when Mark began kissing his neck, his shoulder.
Then Mark claimed his mouth again and when the kiss pulled apart, Mark looked into Sören's eyes - his own eyes radiant, filled with love and longing - and he stroked Sören's cheek, pet his curls. He started to sing:
Sunday morning rain is falling
Steal some covers share some skin
Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable
You twist to fit the mold that I am in
But things just get so crazy living life gets hard to do
And I would gladly hit the road get up and go if I knew
That someday it would lead me back to you
That someday it would lead me back to you
That may be all I need
In darkness he is all I see
Come and rest your bones with me
Driving slow on Sunday morning
And I never want to leave
Fingers trace your every outline
Paint a picture with my hands
Back and forth we sway like branches in a storm
Change the weather still together when it ends
That may be all I need
In darkness he is all I see
Come and rest your bones with me
Driving slow on Sunday morning
And I never want to leave
But things just get so crazy living life gets hard to do
Sunday morning rain is falling and I'm calling out to you
Singing someday it'll bring me back to you
Find a way to bring myself back home to you
That may be all I need
In darkness he is all I see
Come and rest your bones with me
Driving slow on Sunday morning
And I never want to leave
Sören felt tears burn his eyes, heart aching, chills down his spine at the beauty of Mark's tenor, the feeling behind those words... the feeling that they had finally come home.
"I love you, Ada," Mark husked.
"Then love me." Sören's arms tightened around him and he pulled Mark into a kiss, deeper and hungrier than before, Sören's cock rising to meet Mark's cock, sliding together, wanting.
It was an echo of their very first time together in Sausalito over the summer, the first climax Sören had with Mark, cock rubbing cock. They rubbed together slowly, sensually, hands sliding over each other, kissing again and again, the teasing dance of their tongues mirroring the way their cocks played. Mark kissed and licked Sören's neck, kissed down to Sören's nipples, watching the way Sören reacted as his tongue pebbled and peaked them, as the same mouth that sang so sweetly now made the Flame sing with ecstasy. They lost themselves in the silken rhythm of their bodies, the heady intoxicating feeling of being reunited after so long and discovering a new path of their journey together.
They took their time getting to orgasm, it being enough for awhile to just tease, play, keeping each other on that edge and going deeper and deeper. But at last they couldn't hold back any longer, rubbing against each other harder, faster, kisses more feverish, hungrier, more urgent, moans louder, becoming shouts and broken cries. When they reached that point of no return, Mark grabbed Sören's hands, holding them hard enough to hurt, and he ground out, "Fëanor. Sören. Come with me."
"Yes, elskan," Sören gasped, and there it was, cock spending on cock, an erotic sight that made them come all the harder, trembling against each other, panting. Mark kissed Sören savagely, with such passion that it brought tears to Sören's eyes and set off another pulse of orgasm, another spurt of seed shooting out of him onto the man he loved.
"You are everything," Mark whispered, and kissed Sören again. When they pulled apart, Mark met Sören's eyes, his own wild, needy, and he said, "The most Fëanor thing Fëanor has ever done is remaking himself into something new and beautiful. Sören, but still Fëanor. An alchemy of the spirit. Who you are now is still sacred. Defiant. Your life - your tragedy, your triumph - is art. You are the phoenix you have marked on your skin, this world was not able to quench your fire. Never forget that, Adar."
The tears Sören silently shed through orgasm were no longer silent, coming harder, ripping through him. He grabbed Mark and kissed him with all the fire and passion in him, rising their spent cocks once again. Mark quickly readied them both and slipped into Sören, and after a few minutes of sweet, gentle thrusts as they held each other, kissing and kissing, Mark gave into the storm of their emotions and took Sören hard, pounding Sören harder than he'd ever been fucked in his life, as Sören grabbed the flood of Mark's hair, pulling on it to urge him on, shouting so loud it made him hoarse. And when they climaxed together Mark's cries were as loud as his, and Mark sobbed with him. As their orgasm ebbed and faded, Mark held Sören tight, rocked him, and said, "I love you, Sören. I love you, Fëanor. Now and always. We were made for each other, but we also chose each other, claimed each other, and there is power in that. I don't know what the future holds for either of us, I only know that I want you in it."
Sören kissed Mark's brow, nuzzled him, pet him. "You've got me, Macalaurë."
When Mark got up and made them coffee, Sören took his meds and decided to check his e-mail, which he didn't like doing on the weekends but was a necessary part of life as a teacher - he couldn't escape work entirely even when he was working. He opened up his laptop and when he started the Internet, his home page had breaking news and he saw there had been riots in Portland yesterday, specifically connected to the protest that Dooku was attending.
Sören's heart began to hammer in his chest. Mark saw the look on Sören's face when he came over with coffee. "Ada, what is it?"
Sören opened his mouth and he couldn't speak. He was reading about injuries and arrests - no fatalities reported, but just seeing the words "injured" and "arrested" attached to numbers made Sören wonder if Dooku was one of them, and he couldn't bear it. The tears came on again and now he heard himself making high-pitched noises.
"OK, Ada. Shhhhh." Mark sat next to Sören on the couch and he glanced at Sören's laptop. When he saw the news his own jaw dropped. "Oh shit."
Sören finally made a word. "Nico." His voice sounded raw, and the very sound of his best friend's name set Sören off, breaking down, falling apart in Mark's arms. "Nico. Oh god, Nico. Something happened to Nico..." Sören gave a wordless scream.
"OK, Ada? Try to calm down. We don't know for a fact that something happened to your br - friend." He took Sören's chin in his hand and met Sören's eyes. At Sören's blubbers of protest, Mark insisted, "We don't. We only have numbers, statistics, no names. So here's what you're going to do. Have some coffee, and call his cell. See if he answers. OK?"
Sören nodded. Mark handed Sören the cup of coffee, fixed the way Sören liked it, and after a few sips, which got him breathing somewhat normally again, Sören got out his cell and hit speed dial on Dooku's number.
Dooku didn't answer after four rings, and he was always awake at this time on a Sunday. "Jesus," Sören said.
"Maybe he's in the bathroom," Mark said.
Sören tried again five minutes later. Four rings and it went to voice mail again; Sören hung up without leaving a message. He tried again another twenty minutes later and still no answer. Sören broke down crying again.
"OK. Let's take one last walk on the beach, and then go back to Corvallis, and back to your place and see if maybe his car is in, if he's home, before we start losing our minds." But Mark's own brow was furrowed.
It was only drizzling when they walked Huan on the beach. "I feel like I should apologize for the weather," Sören said, "but I still had a nice time here."
"So did I. I need to go to the sea more often, I think. It helps me recharge."
On the trip from Cannon Beach back to Corvallis, Sören tied himself up in knots more and more about Dooku, crying again, fidgeting. He knew it was painful for Mark to watch, but he couldn't help himself. He tried Dooku's number a few more times and got no answer, and at last when he buried his face in his hands, doubled over, Mark pulled the car over and pulled Sören into his arms.
"OK. Sören. We... we need to try to distract you for at least a little while so I can get us back to town, OK?" Mark gave him a stern but gentle look. "Talk to me."
"About..."
Mark pursed his lips. "What made you finally decide to tell me who you are?"
Mark got back on the road as Sören collected his thoughts. It was raining harder now, and Mark turned up the windshield wipers. Finally Sören took a deep breath and he said, "Well, it was eating my conscience..."
"I'm sure it was, but I'm guessing it was eating you for awhile before that. What was the turning point?"
Sören sighed. "I painted a woman I'd never seen before who exists, she's Sharon's girlfriend. I dreamt of a man I'd never seen before... who exists, I ran into him at a gas station. I realized I'm not crazy."
Mark's eyes widened. "You know what this means. You wouldn't just dream of them for no reason. They're... probably like you."
"You mean... Elves reborn as mortal?" And then Sören's voice dropped to a hush, excited and terrified all at once. "Family?"
Mark nodded solemnly.
A frisson went down Sören's spine as he thought of Frankie. "Mary Frances. Marilwen. Lalwen." He facepalmed, not believing he'd missed the obvious, especially when he'd painted her when Mark had played a song in tribute of his aunt. "Jesus..."
"Ada... the man you dreamed of..." Mark raised an eyebrow. "Were you lovers in the dream?"
Sören nodded.
"That's probably one of your brothers, then." Mark let out a shuddery sigh, tears in his eyes. "For so long, all I wanted was to see my family again. And now, at least three of you are here..."
"We should double date with Sharon and Frankie sometime, or at least have them come by to meet you."
Mark nodded. He wiped his eyes. "I almost can't believe it."
"Neither can I. But it's real, Mark. And that means if they're around, there's a good chance the others are, or at least some of them."
Mark got back on the road. "I never thought I'd say this, but... you're probably right... I probably have a chance at being reunited with my family at least this way."
"I imagine there are probably some relations higher on your priority list than others," Sören said.
"Yes. Like Fingolfin."
Sören sighed deeply. Just the name was like a knife to his heart. He felt the hysteria rising in him again, this time from remembering his beloved brother-lover, the sour note things had ended on the last time they'd seen each other, Fëanor dying with the belief that Fingolfin hated him - made more bitter by the secret marriage vows they'd taken to each other, to always find their way back to each other no matter what. And then, reading about Fingolfin's last stand against Melkor - a suicide mission if there ever was one, the act of a man with nothing left to lose... that had destroyed Sören when he'd read it, remembering the love he and his brother shared, seeing Fingolfin's death play out in his mind's eye from the story. No, he didn't want to obliterate himself to go back to the way things were, but just the same, he wondered if they both might still be alive right now if they'd worked things out between them like adults, another round of makeup sex, instead of the wall of pride...
I miss you, my Ñolofinwë. Without you, I am missing a piece of my soul.
Sören closed his eyes, trying not to cry. "Yeah," was all he could muster aloud. "I wonder where Fingolfin is right now."
I know when that hotline bling
That can only mean one thing
I know when that hotline bling
That can only mean one thing
That was Sören's ringtone for Dooku, chosen to annoy his uptight best friend. Sören frantically grabbed for the vibrating cell phone, and swiped Accept. "Nico?"
"Sören, hello. My apologies for not answering -"
"NICO, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? YOU BETTER BE ALL RIGHT OR I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD -"
Dooku chuckled softly. "Sören, I'm fine, I swear to you."
Sören breathed a sigh of relief. He had to go there, to make things "normal" and okay again. "Hi Fine I Swear To You -"
"You shan't be fine, if you keep making jokes like that."
"Come at me, bro." Mind, gutter. "But... seriously?" It was almost a squeak, and Sören felt a little embarrassed, but his relief at Dooku being OK and the need to hear the sound of his voice - oh, that voice - won over his embarrassment, keeping him on the line. "The riot yesterday, you..."
"Did not get arrested, was not injured. It was a very fraught time, I must admit, and I worried when the police showed up that it would get even worse, but I was not one of the protesters escalating things, they were a splinter group from the one I was with. We were behaving ourselves."
"OK." Sören let out a low whistle. "Jesus, Nico, you had me scared shitless..."
"I know that not answering my phone didn't help. It accidentally dropped into a puddle and I had to do the trick with rice to see if I could save it. As you know, it will take hours to dry out..."
Sören felt himself smile at the as you know - he'd been the one to teach Dooku the technique with dry rice on a wet cell phone. "OK, well, I am so glad to hear it was just that and not because you got hurt or arrested. You seriously fucking scared me..."
"I would apologize, but I'd go to the protest again, Sören. I am a man of convictions, I must stand up for what I believe is right."
"Hi A Man Of Convictions -"
"Truly, your students should organize a revolt against your jokes. I'd be happy to help."
Sören blew a raspberry over the phone. "You love it."
"How was Cannon Beach? Are you still there?"
"We're on our way back now."
"Are you spending the evening with Mark? Would you like to come for dinner?"
Sören glanced over at Mark, and before he could open his mouth, Mark said, "Go see your friend tonight. We can swap tonight for tomorrow if you want."
"Mark, you sure that's OK?"
"I wouldn't be telling you it was if it wasn't." Mark rubbed his shoulder. "You were in here having a fit worrying if he died. Please."
"We can do dinner," Sören said to Dooku.
"Splendid. ...Perhaps we could go out to eat, if you're not bored of restaurants from your trip away? I'm still a bit exhausted from the ordeal yesterday -"
"Oh, eating out is fine." Mind, GUTTER. Sören's cock stirred slightly at the thought of them having a "glad to be alive" sixty-nine. "I can even treat you to show you how glad I am that you're OK -"
"Not necessary, Sören."
"You never let me pay for you."
"I have more money than you do. Besides, you grace me with your presence. I shall go forth and make reservations - will you be back by six, do you think?"
"Most likely."
"Come to my house then, and we'll proceed."
"All right. I... I'm glad you're OK, Nico."
"Thank you. I'm glad that you're glad I'm OK."
"Hi Glad That You're Glad -"
Click. Sören grinned.
And then he stopped grinning, realizing his wondering where Fingolfin was had been followed immediately by Dooku's call.
His hair stood on end, gooseflesh breaking out over his arms. There he is.
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