Hello, It's Me: Chapter 1

March 2018
Corvallis, Oregon


It was Friday, March thirtieth, and Mark Lauer arrived at the Oregon State University campus as he did any other morning, listening to music in his Jaguar. This morning it was hair metal, his guilty pleasure - and that meant he was in a fairly good mood.

He'd been in a good mood a lot lately. It was unsettling. Too many times in years past he'd found little pockets of happiness just for the other shoe to drop, and he'd learned not merely to distrust being happy, but to never venture far outside a melancholy fog, not allowing himself to get his hopes yet.

And yet, here he was again, and he was happier than he'd been in a very long time.

He'd spent the night with his boyfriend, Sören Sigurðsson, at Sören's place. It had been a typical late night for them, losing themselves in passion. Mark was an early riser most mornings and Sören was not a morning person, so after waking Sören up to give him a kiss and tucking him back in before the alarm went off, he'd seen himself out and gone back home to get ready for school, his morning routine including going on a run accompanied by his Corgi-sheepdog mix, Huan. Huan was his service dog, or more accurately, in training to be a service dog - before driving to school Mark had dropped Huan off at service dog school in Lebanon, to pick up when the school day was over.

Huan was a wonderful companion, and Sören... even just thinking about him brought a flush to Mark's cheeks, a flutter in his stomach, feeling a warm glow. Sören was a fellow professor - Sören taught studio art, and Mark taught music theory - and since they'd gotten involved last summer he'd made it a point to visit Sören on campus, the two of them sharing breaks together most days. Seeing Sören was the highlight of his day, each day, and the little moments were rays of sunshine. Except they weren't so much rays of sunshine as they were like entire suns. That was what Sören was to him; that was how deeply Mark felt for him.

Mark felt more deeply than most people, because his name wasn't really Mark Lauer, and he wasn't what just about everyone assumed he was. Mark Lauer was the latest and most-used alias in a long series of them. Once upon a time he had been Macalaurë Fëanorion, the second son of the High King of the Noldor, and then he had been exiled. He'd lived longer among humans than he had among his own kind, and he had learned to pass for human, though he was only willing to hide his identity so far - he preferred to keep his black hair long, and he preferred not to glamour his ears not simply because the glamour magic required to make his pointy ears look rounded and more human was more effort than he wanted to expend, but also because the pointy ears were a reminder of who and what he was. So his hair covered his ears, never worn in a ponytail or a "man bun" unless he was at home, and usually not even then. Even his hair was not its true length, in public only going to the middle of his back, but when he could shed his glamour it fell to his thighs.

Elves were a beautiful people, and the Noldor were great lovers of beauty. His father, Fëanor, had been enamored of the beauty of the world, and the beauty in each person he met and had strove to give back, paying beauty unto beauty, making marvel after marvel, a beautiful world made all the more beautiful for Fëanor's architecture, his jewels, his smithing, his inventions. Fëanor's eye for beauty had been most with his brothers and his second son, and when Maglor had come of age they had worshiped each other in the most intimate of ways. They had been punished for this, and more - Melkor had envied their beauty, their craft, their enchantment of the world, and they had refused to bow and scrape to him. Melkor's jealousy was a monster, one that behaved in monstrous ways. Fëanor had - rightly - blamed the Valar for not keeping Melkor on a short leash. And for his blame, and daring to walk away from them, the Valar had cursed all Noldor with the Doom, but not even Maglor with his connection to the Song could have predicted that the Valar would try to break Fëanor once and for all, after Fëanor had been reincarnated as Mortal, and as the continuation of the Doom, the Valar had sent many of the modern world's ills his way. Abuse at the hands of his guardians. Bullying in school. An abusive ex-boyfriend. Rape. Post-traumatic stress disorder, bipolar disorder. Tears unnumbered ye shall shed. And so it was. Sören had been through more than most, and more than anyone should have to endure.

Yet, he had such a capacity to love. A capacity for kindness and warmth, after the cold cruelty he'd known. Bubbly, effervescent laughter - his personality sparkled. He had such a fight in him, still, a fire that refused to die.

Mark would love Sören even if he was not his beloved adar reborn, but Sören was all the more precious to him for having been lost, and there was a sweetness and vulnerability to him now that made Mark love him even more than ever. It seemed that in his frail mortal life, Fëanor was even more himself than ever before - defiant. Refusing the Valar the satisfaction of his flame, extinguished. And Mark felt it was right that he should take care of his adar now, after the horrible way Fëanor had died, and all the ill he'd known before that. And there was, admittedly, a certain kinky thrill in Sören wanting a strong man to take care of him and being submissive to him sexually - Maglor hungered, after thousands of years apart, and Sören would let him take his fill, craved being taken, used, fucked any and every way Maglor wanted to have him, possess him, fire consuming fire.

And it was never enough, for either of them.

Mark had come home to Sören, being both a product of his current incarnation as well as what he was long ago, helped him see the world through new eyes.

The eyes of love.

Mark passed by Sören in the hallway and felt like he was walking on a cloud. Mark thought about those sweet brown eyes, and Sören's visions, dancing through his brush into exquisite, photorealistic surrealist art, as he walked into his classroom.

And then saw googly eyes affixed to every surface.

Mark's desk had googly eyes on it, with googly eyes on Mark's chair staring back. Everything on the desk was sporting googly eyes - a jar of writing implements. The pens and pencils in the jar. The outbox and inbox, a container for paper, his school laptop, folders, a stapler, a hole punch. The wastebasket. Every chair in the classroom had googly eyes.

The war harp that Mark kept at school - his personal harp was kept at home - had googly eyes on it.

Mark sat down. He knew, of course, this was Sören's doing. Sören could be a bit of a troll but this was bad even for him, and he wondered what the special occasion was. Then it hit him - it was March thirtieth. School wouldn't be in session on April Fool's Day. So April Fool's had come early.

"Goddammit, Sören." Mark took out his cell phone and dialed Sören's number.

A couple of rings and Sören answered. "Hi, snookums," he said in his lovely Icelandic accent.

"What in the fresh hell did I just walk into?"

Sören laughed. Mark couldn't even be angry - he loved that laugh.

"What the fuck, Sören? Seriously. There's April Fool's and then there's... whatever the fuck all of this was."

American vulgarity came easily to him these days, as long as he'd been in the States, and as short-tempered as he was. He could get particularly foul when he was driving, if traffic was a nuisance.

Sören laughed harder, as if he was still tickled by an Elf swearing so much after all these months they'd been together. "Oh, you poor dear. My poor baby."

"You are an asshole."

Takk, Sören spoke into his mind - ósanwe, which they used infrequently, though it was becoming somewhat more frequent with their bond. "Look on the bright side, at least I didn't draw dickbutts everywhere with Sharpie."

"You are a dickbutt." Mark huffed. "You are the worst, Sören. Just you wait until later, you little brat -"

"Promises, promises."


_


Later that evening Mark picked Sören up - putting Sören's tuxedo cat Snúður in the cat carrier to take over to his place for the weekend. Mark was half-expecting to see googly eyes on the cat carrier too.

While they sometimes did "the date thing" and went to restaurants, Mark enjoyed cooking, and he especially loved cooking for Sören, who appreciated it, always delighted by whatever Mark came up with. Tonight Mark was making homemade lasagna, something that had become a favorite of Sören's. Sören relaxed while Mark worked in the kitchen, sometimes sketching, sometimes playing fetch with Huan or having Snúður chase a laser pointer. When the lasagna went in the oven, Mark came out and Sören curled up on him. Mark put on some sultry R&B that he knew Sören liked and he'd also developed a taste for, petting Sören's curls, rubbing his back.

Of course, "just cuddling" turned into more, and it wasn't long before Sören was on his back on the couch, Mark laying on top of him, the two of them kissing passionately, hands wandering, hard cocks tenting their trousers, grinding together. Sören was nearsighted and wore glasses, and Mark wore wire-rimmed glasses to help lessen the need to glamour his eyes, and they had to take their glasses off, getting steamed up from the heat between them. Mark loved kissing and licking Sören's neck, knowing how sensitive he was there... and he especially loved nibbling, putting love bites there, the evidence of where he'd been, what he'd done. The way Sören responded, panting, moaning, howling, bucking up against him... it was delicious. So delicious that Mark was just about ready to slide down, unzip Sören's khakis, and suck him off right there.

Before he could do that, the timer went off, letting him know to take the lasagna out of the oven.

Mark set the table with candles, and poured them each a glass of wine. Sören could only have one, with his medication, while Mark could put a significant amount of alcohol away without getting too drunk. Mark was hungry for more than food, but Sören dug in, and he knew their lovemaking would be all the more intense for having to wait awhile.

Huan and Snúður both begged, and were shooed away. They came back, and were shooed away again. When they came back a third time, Mark relented and gave out dog and cat treats.

Of course, Huan and Snúður came back for more.

"This is my fault," Mark said, as Snúður attempted to climb up on Sören, making whiny meows. "I rewarded bad behavior, of course they'll do it more."

Sören smirked. "Seems like you have a habit of doing that."

Mark kicked Sören under the table. "Yes, it rather seems like that."

Sören's smirk became a grin. Their eyes locked as Sören sucked his fork clean. Seeing Sören's full, sensuous lips wrap around a fork reminded Mark of what else those lips could wrap around... not that Mark really needed reminding. Not that the thought was ever far from his mind.

Sören insisted on doing dishes, since Mark cooked, and while Sören rinsed, Mark came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Sören's waist. Sören's response was to back up against Mark, rubbing his ass against Mark's cock. He tilted his face and smiled as he felt Mark harden up, and Mark nipped Sören's lower lip with a growl.

The dishes could wait, even if it had been lasagna which was a pain in the ass to clean caked on. Mark found himself grabbing Sören by his nape-length mop of dark curls and marching him down to the bedroom. Mark started undressing immediately, and Sören shucked his clothing with a mischievous smile.

Fëanor had been absolutely breathtaking as an Elf, but Sören was still a gem among mortals. Sören stood six feet tall, with his curls now disheveled, long lashes innocent-yet-naughty brown eyes, a fine growth of beard and mustache that framed his full lips. A sweet face, pretty - he lit up the whole world when he smiled - though his default facial expression was brooding, a sultry, smouldering look to him. He was pale as milk, slim, broad-shouldered, a lithe, willowy body like a dancer. He had full sleeve tattoos going all the way from his wrists to his shoulders - flames up one arm, ocean waves up the other, which led to a firebird and waterbird on his back, tails entwined. He'd designed the ink himself, after the first painting he'd made following a suicide attempt thirteen years ago. Sören also had piercings - small black gauge plugs in his ears, titanium captive bead rings in his nipples, and a Prince Albert piercing in the head of his cock that was also a captive bead ring. That ring was magic - Mark's hole started twitching just thinking about Sören's cock, a delicious bulge in black boxer briefs. Sören couldn't get those off fast enough, and Mark, needy, tugged on the waistband, peeling them down.

Sören's long, thick cock sprang free, and that was when Mark saw it - Sören had affixed googly eyes to the captive bead ring.

Mark's jaw dropped.

Sören threw his head back and howled. He wheezed, shaking with laughter, turning red, tearing up.

Mark blinked, not able to believe what he was seeing. Sören had some truly ridiculous moments the last several months they'd been together. This was a whole new level.

"Your face." Sören leaned against the dresser, doubled over, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Oh god, Mark, your face."

"Hells."

Sören pointed to the ring. "And look! The bead makes a nose."

Mark couldn't unsee it. Sören laughed even harder - as if that was possible. And then Mark gave in too, falling apart, having to flop onto the bed and roll around, screaming with laughter so hard it hurt.

Sören joined him on the bed. Sören was still hard, and straddling his knees, Mark couldn't ignore the cock pointing at him, the googly eyes on either side of the bead making a nose. "Goddammit, Sören." Mark wheezed. "I don't know what it says about you, doing this."

Sören reached for Mark's own cock, slowly stroking it. "I don't know what it says about you that you're still hard."

Mark lost it again, and they leaned on each other, giggling, snorting, flailing and kicking.

"Mmmmm, you might just have a fetish," Sören teased.

"Yeah. I'm Sörensexual."

"Hi Sörensexual -"

Mark glared - though he wasn't angry, and he'd learned by now he walked into it if he said "I'm" to Sören - and with that, he took the googly eyes off Sören's piercing. "And you talk too much."

With Sören laying on his back, Mark slid off the bed and got on his knees... all six feet nine inches of him. His hair was unglamoured here, and Sören grabbed some of it as Mark buried his nose in Sören's bush, that sexy nest of curls like the ones on his head, breathed in the natural musk of him, like woodsmoke. He took Sören's cock into his mouth, looking into Sören's eyes adoringly. Wanting to take care of his boy, wanting to spoil him, pamper him. Sören gently thrust into his mouth, moaning.

"Oh, that's good." Sören's accent was meltingly heavy. "You're so good at that."

"Mmmmmmmmmm." Mark's tongue lapped at the prominent frenulum, and he smiled at how sensitive Sören was there, gasping, bucking. "I love your cock, Ada."

Mark took it back into his mouth, and Sören groaned, leaning against the dresser for support. Yes, Mark definitely wanted that ring inside him...

...but first he wanted something else. "As much as I love your ass." He got back on the bed and leaned over Sören, kissing him deep, letting Sören taste his own musk and precum on his tongue. Their cocks rubbed together, and Mark's hands slid over Sören's body, shivering at the feel of Sören's petal-soft skin. He pinched one of Sören's nipples, making him cry out, and he slapped Sören's hip. "I think you earned a spanking for today."

Sören batted his eyes, making an innocent face that was not at all believable, and then he flashed Mark a wicked grin before he pulled himself up on his knees, and got on all fours, shaking his ass.

Mark groaned at the sight of the buttplug in Sören's ass. Sören had been wearing it almost every day under his clothes out in public since July - Mark's idea, which Sören was enthusiastic about putting into practice, wanting to be taken and fucked at any time... loving the kinkiness of it. Even on their days apart where they did other things, like Sören making time for his friends, Sören still wore the plug, telling Mark he liked that feeling of ownership. And when they were together, the sight of the plug in Sören's ass was always somehow as shockingly erotic as if he were seeing it for the first time. Mark's fingers teasingly brushed around the rim of Sören's opening. "At least you're a good boy enough to wear the plug."

"Mmmmmmmm. I like wearing it... knowing I'm yours."

"Yeah." Mark slapped Sören's ass, and Sören cried out. His fingers circled around Sören's passage again. Then, feeling another burst of silliness, Mark said, "At least you didn't put googly eyes on the end of the plug."

"Oh, damn, I knew I was forgetting something." Sören chuckled. "That'll be next year."

Mark collapsed onto Sören, both of them heaving with another round of laughing so hard it hurt. Through their tears, Sören tilted his face and they shared a giggly kiss, which sobered as it deepened, heated. Sören began to rub his ass against Mark and Mark groaned, giving Sören's ass another swat before he pulled out the plug, making a satisfying pop as it came out.

The sight of Sören open to him... Mark shuddered. He slid down the back of Sören, kissing and licking a path down Sören's spine. Spanking one ass cheek then the other, spanking, spanking, with Sören moaning. At last Mark's mouth was just outside the hole, and his tongue slid in, with Sören trembling, crying out as Mark's tongue found that sweet spot inside him.

Mark continued spanking Sören as he rubbed his tongue inside him. He slapped Sören's ass again and again, rubbed it in slow, lazy circles before another round of spanking. His tongue went teasingly slow and then hard, fast, wild, tongue-fucking him. Mark's cock twinged at the sounds Sören made, wanting to take him, wanting to pound into him, but he held back. His brat had earned some torment, and Mark was going to give that first.

"Oh god, please Mark, fuck me," Sören cried out, rubbing against Mark's face, fucking himself on Mark's tongue. "Fuck me. Fuck me..."

Mark held Sören's hips in place, slowed his tongue down even more. He stopped licking for a moment to whisper, "Naughty," licking circles around Sören's opening before pushing his tongue back inside.

"Oh god. Mark. Oh god..." Sören shivered.

Mark ate him like that as long as they could both stand it. Mark's cock was ragingly hard now, wanting to plow away inside that wanton little hole, but still he made himself wait as he came up for air. He got on his knees behind Sören, grabbed Sören's hips and began to rub his cock into the crack of Sören's ass, teasing them both. Sören helped, rubbing against him like he was in heat. Mark saw Sören's fists grab the pillows, white-knuckled, his hands shaking. Just the sound of Sören panting, letting out a little whimper here and there, was so erotic that Mark had to fight off coming right here and now.

Sören reached to grab the lubricant from where Mark kept it on the bedtable and tossed it over his shoulder. Mark's quick Elven reflexes caught it. He poured lube over his cock, and over the crack of Sören's ass, watching the lube drip into the waiting hole, and he groaned. He rubbed against Sören some more, and Sören rubbed back at him harder, shuddering with a cry.

"Will you just fuck me already!" Sören growled. "Fucking tease..."

Mark slapped Sören's ass. "You may be my adar but you're not in charge anymore." He rubbed Sören's ass and slapped it again. "Slut."

Sören loved that. Mark's fists clenched, hearing Sören groan, feeling across their empathic bond what that did to him. He couldn't take it anymore. He started to push into Sören, who cried out "oh shit, oh god, yes... yes..."

The hunger Sören had for this, the trust it took for Sören to be this way with him, after what he'd endured... Mark would never take it for granted. He rested in Sören for a moment, letting Sören adjust to being stretched, and his first few thrusts were slow, deliberate, loving. I will never, ever hurt you, Mark spoke into his mind.

And at last he let Sören have it, slamming into him. Sören rocked his hips back at him, desperate, frenzied. Mark growled and Sören screamed, the bed rocking against the wall, their hips slapping together, the wet suctioning sound of Mark pistoning in and out of him competing with Sören's cries. Sören felt so good wrapped around him, and he could feel how much Sören was enjoying the sweet friction inside him. Mark needed to come, but first he needed to lose himself in the man he loved. They needed to get lost together. In the wild, primal moments of passion where they were all hunger, all need, they were also as strongly the Flame and Song as they ever were. The way Mark connected with the Song when he was making love to Sören took his breath away, dizzy, intoxicating, feeling like he was hearing the song of creation itself, from a universe exploding into being to a new dawn waking the world in glorious clouds. Sören was his sunrise and sunset, his aurora, his supernova, his light. The Music had been dying, but in their passion it was like they were weaving something new, the fire of their love shining light back into the world. This was everything, everything. They weren't just making love with their bodies, but with their souls.

And yet, still with their bodies. Mark loved watching Sören's ass, loved looking at the ink on his back as he stroked away like this. Sören was growling now too and that drove him mad with lust, going even harder, faster. When Sören lost control, contracting around him, howling as his body heaved, Mark flew over the edge as well, falling on top of Sören as he spent and spent and spent, crying out again and again. In the distance, shimmering bells, shadows and light playing together, light out of darkness, joy.

They spooned for a few minutes, then Mark slipped out of Sören and rolled Sören onto his back, pulled him close. They kissed deeply, and when they kissed again their cocks woke once more, hands searching, exploring, cock rubbing cock as their tongues danced.

Mark took Sören again, going more slowly than before. Now that they'd both gotten that savage need out of their system, they could be more sensual this time, savoring. Mark's fingers brushed and walked over Sören's body, and he bent his head to lick one pierced nipple, suckled, then feasted on the other. Back and forth, as Sören panted, bucked, cried out. Mark tugged Sören's nipple rings with his teeth, fingers playing with one as he lapped and sucked and nibbled on the other. He loved making those nipples swell and glisten, like delicious, ripe berries begging to be eaten. He loved all of Sören's body but the pierced nipples did something to him. And playing with Sören's pierced cock added to his excitement, especially with Sören's reactions, relishing every gasp and quiver and breathy moan.

As they got closer, their bodies moved together harder, faster. Soon Mark was driving into him just as hard and fast as before, Sören swearing in Icelandic, until he couldn't make words at all, just shouting wordlessly, wailing, almost sobbing in his need. Mark reached down to play with Sören's sensitive balls, stroking Sören's cock with the other hand. Sören was getting very close, balls tightening, and Mark felt himself rushing there too. He needed Sören to come first. "Come for me, baby," he whispered.

Sören shrieked as he shot all over Mark's chest and stomach. The feeling of Sören's hot cum spraying him, and Sören's channel pulsing around him, and Mark was gone, crying his name as he spilled, feeling like the fire was melting his bones, liquefying him. What a lovely way to burn.

The room was very bright now. Sören's eyes were shining, and he had a radiant smile, perfectly at peace. Mark committed it to memory - no matter what the future held, he would remember Sören like this, beautiful in bliss. Mark kissed him softly as he slipped out. "Your turn."

He expected Sören to just take him, but Sören decided to repay him for all the teasing. He lay on his back and Sören dove down, tonguing him like his life depended on it, devouring him. Mark got close to coming just from that, and then Sören slowed down, eyes locked with his, wicked. Mark howled with frustration. Sören laughed into him softly, going even more slowly.

Sören stayed down there for what felt like forever. Every time he'd speed up, and Mark would be right on that edge again, about to climax, Sören would slow his licking, teasing and teasing. It was delicious, and maddening. Sören knew how to drive him out of his mind with sensation, with raw sexual need.

He needed to be good and ready when Sören at last took him. Sören could be a vicious, savage top, as aggressive now as he was then. Mark loved it, his legs on Sören's shoulders as Sören hammered him, a Viking conquesting, pillaging, taking what he wanted. But Sören was sensitive enough to want what Mark wanted too, and Hells, Mark wanted this, the bead in that ring rubbing his prostate exquisitely, the rhythm stroking him just the right way, his lust fueled by the hungry, almost angry look on Sören's face as he slammed into him harder and harder. The lewd, primal slap of Sören's balls against him as he fucked made it even better. And those sexy growls... Mark's fists clenched, gasping for breath. Wanting to come, wanting to make this last as long as he could, never enough, always needing more...

Mark shot first, painting Sören's nipples, then Sören's throat and his face. Sören lapped like he was at a fountain, getting some cum on his tongue as the rest made another mess on his face, and then with a roar Sören flooded him with white-hot seed. The feeling of Sören emptying into him intensified his release, contracting and shooting again as pleasure throbbed through him, a full-body orgasm, falling, flying, ecstasy.

Sören sank down into his arms and they tangled up together, nuzzling, giving each other sweet little kisses. Sören snuggled into his shoulder and Mark stroked his sweat-damp curls.

"I love you," Mark husked.

"I love you." Sören peeked up, and smiled, wrinkling his nose with happiness before nuzzling Mark again.

"I love hearing it."

"I love you. I love fucking you. I love the way you fuck me." Sören crinkled his nose again and bit his lower lip - Mark would have flipped him onto his back and ravished him if he weren't too spent. For now. Sören grinned. "I love the way you punish me."

"Yeah... you like being a brat too much, I think." Mark gave Sören's ass one last little swat. Truthfully, it was never too much... and Sören knew it.

"Oh, if this is the way you react when I troll you this much, I'll definitely have to do that again next year," Sören giggled.

And then Sören sobered, and Mark knew why. Talking about the future was still a fraught subject for them.

When their relationship was new, Mark had admitted that he was wary of being involved with yet another mortal - even one that was the reincarnation of his father-lover, not that he and Sören had broached that subject yet. It wasn't simply not wanting to watch another partner die... not wanting to watch his father die all over again... but it was also the fact that Mark didn't age, and because of that he necessarily had to move around from place to place, since his personality was such that he couldn't get away with being younger than his thirties or forties and his personality was such that claiming to have "had some work done" was suspect. That was a hard enough life for him, never mind forcing it on someone else. Someone like Sören in particular, who really needed peace and stability in his life after everything. Sören had asked Mark to give their relationship at least a year and let Sören make the decision about coming with him when the year was over, and Mark had done one better, as it would take two years for Huan to complete his service dog training. And later on that fall, when Sören had revealed he was Fëanor - which Mark had already figured out - Mark had decided that he really couldn't live without Sören, and Fëanor had always been fairly sure of what he wanted. So Mark was done with the idea that he and Sören would eventually part ways.

And yet, Sören didn't completely trust that - and not that Mark could blame Sören, with his issues. Earlier in the year, in February, a bout of the flu had turned into bronchitis had turned into walking pneumonia, aggravated by Sören's asthma, and Mark had come to stay with him for a couple weeks to take care of him. Mark had been haunted by the sight of Sören so ill and weak, and Sören began to fear once more that Mark would leave. Even as Mark had shown he hadn't left, he was still here, he could still feel those doubts creep up now and again.

As they were creeping up now.

But Sören had nothing to fear. Mark was tired of running, tired of being alone. And Sören's fire kept him so very, very warm.

And Mark realized - as ridiculous as the googly eyes had been, especially on Sören's Prince Albert piercing, and especially the jokes Sören had made about the plug... it exemplified what he loved about Sören. Never had he loved his mate more than he did this evening, irreverent, sassy. All of the old brattiness and mischief of his father in a fun, exciting new package.

He wanted this for life. And he knew Sören did too. But Sören wouldn't just take his word for it. Sören needed more than words, having had experience with gaslighters, and people who said one thing and did another. Sören needed a tangible sign of commitment.

Mark knew, then, what he had to do.

In the meantime his arms tightened around Sören. "Next year I might get you back." He kissed Sören's cheek. "Might even outdo you."

Sören grinned, the angst rolling off him for now. "I'd like to see you try."


_


On Saturday morning Mark let Sören sleep in. He left Sören a note saying he went to the supermarket to pick up groceries... which wasn't a lie.

But it wasn't the entire truth, either. Mark took a detour.

The jeweler had some very nice rings, any of which Sören would probably have been fine with, but they were also very generic. Mark wanted to give Sören something that not everyone else had. He wasn't the jewelry designer that Fëanor had been, or the artist that Sören was now, but there was still a touch of that in him, being his father's son. He and the jeweler went over plans for two matching custom rings - a simple white band, with diamonds going around it, an endless circle, a symbol of their lives coming full circle, the unbroken chain of eternity. It was elegant and tasteful, clean and classic. It was, arguably, not unique on its own. But the inscription Mark wanted on the inside - now that was something else.

On the inside of the ring, Mark wanted the phrase sönn ást deyr aldrei - Icelandic for "true love never dies" - done in Old Norse futhark runes. Sören used runes for his signature on paintings and pottery; he was very proud of his Icelandic heritage. It seemed that being born in a land of volcanoes and the fire of the Northern Lights in the sky was Fëanor's calling card - a flex at the Valar, that the Spirit of Fire would not be so easily quenched.

The jeweler said the custom work would take approximately two months. That was annoying to Mark, who wanted to be able to give this to Sören right now, but he also knew that art took time. So Mark accepted the ring wouldn't be ready before the end of May. He just hoped that, between now and then, he could continue to give Sören the assurance he needed.

The laws in Valinor were imposed by the Valar, not really natural to how Elves were in Endor, taking lovers as they saw fit, often more than one. Fëanor and Fingolfin had taken private wedding vows to each other, in secret, that Mark had witnessed, joining them in the marriage bed that night. But Maglor had not been suited for the "traditional" marriage that Tolkien reported - there had been a woman he'd had a son with, that went badly, that was the beginning and end of it. That said, Mark had spent enough time among humans that he understood why humans made those bonds. And Sören was still human. Marrying Sören didn't feel unnatural, strangely enough. It felt like they were taking a rule imposed by others and still breaking it, making it their own, reshaping it to suit themselves. Reclaiming. Making it sacred.

He hoped Sören would feel the same way. If they couldn't have a happily ever after, with Sören's mortality and Mark's immortality, at least they could have a "happy for awhile". A moment of peace, in Mark's ancient life. He was tired of running indeed, and he didn't want Sören to run from him, "quit before you can fire me". Since Sören's illness in February, and the haunted look in his eyes as Mark had to bathe him, feed him, Mark had been afraid of that.

The ring wasn't just a tangible assurance that his word was bond, it was like a talisman. Protect our love. Protect our life together. Let us find rainbows in the storms, like the sparkle of these jewels.

chapter 2 | return to Under The Rose | return to index