Christmas was typically a painful holiday for Sören. The Christmases of his childhood and teenage years had been ruined by Katrín and Einar's drinking and violence. As an adult, he'd spent most Christmases alone - the two with Anthony, in 2011 and 2012, had been happy for Anthony's company and that of his family. Christmas 2013 had been a particularly miserable affair less than two months out of his breakup with Anthony; Christmas 2014 had been better, and Christmas 2015 even moreso, but Christmas 2016 had been wrecked by the quarrel with Nicholas.
Therefore, it seemed particularly important to make this Christmas better. There was a perfect recipe for a lovely Christmas, up here on the beautiful Isle of Skye, with both Anthony and Nicholas, and not just seeing Elaine but getting to know his aunt Gitta. Christmas Day got off to a perfect start, with Sören, Anthony and Nicholas spending the morning in bed, sucking and slow, languid, sensual fucking. Four orgasms was a good enough Christmas present.
But in one way, this Christmas was more difficult than the years past - the problem of Mark. Maglor. Fëanor's own family, who didn't know who and what they were, might not believe them if told...
...who saw them as an enemy because they were in possession of a Silmaril. Two Silmarils, in fact, but Mark only knew about one.
Sören couldn't blame Mark for threatening to take them by force in three days - his Oath was his Oath. Indeed, Mark was being restrained, even generous considering his Oath, in allowing them three days to yield the stone. But the festive Christmas holiday was not exactly the best time to try to have the fraught conversation with Maglor about why the Silmaril was in the right hands, and it felt like a time bomb waiting to go off, the danger ever-present in the background as they finally climbed out of bed, showered, dressed, and began their day.
That sense of danger got all the stronger once Christmas dinner was in the oven and, while they waited, Gitta and Elaine wanted Mark to perform Christmas songs. Sören sat between Anthony and Nicholas on the couch, across from where Mark had his harp and stool set up in front of the fireplace; Gitta and Elaine curled up together on the loveseat, Kirk and Spock in their laps. It was an amazingly tranquil, cozy scene that belied the storm brewing with Mark. As the concert wore on, the situation with Mark didn't feel like a time bomb anymore... it felt like a leaking reactor about to explode.
The Silmarils were living proof that the dreams Sören, Anthony and Nicholas shared were real, memories of a past life. But for Sören, those memories had included Fëanor and Maglor making love. Consensual adults - very consensual, each of them begging the other - but still incest just the same. Sören didn't know how to broach the topic of what they remembered without the incest coming up, and asking Maglor "so, remember when you used to fuck Fëanor?" was awkward at best.
Made all the more awkward by the way Sören couldn't stop looking at Mark, mesmerized by the crystalline, liquid notes of his harp, and that silken, melting voice. Mark wasn't just gorgeous to look at, but if it was possible to fall in love with someone just from hearing them sing, Sören was most of the way there, barely breathing, stomach fluttering, mouth dry. In his devil-may-care days of casual sex back when he lived in Reykjavik, Sören would have thought nothing of propositioning Mark. Of course, that was a bad idea. Not only did he not know if the dreams of Maglor and Fëanor having sex were real or just the product of a horny imagination - just because their dreams had checked out so far didn't mean all of it was accurate - but he was human now, in a different body...
...and even if Maglor would still find him attractive like this, there was the matter of Anthony. Sören took Anthony's hand now and squeezed, a quiet show of solidarity. He imagined this was in fact how Anthony had fallen in love with Mark, close to twenty years ago, and it couldn't be easy for him to listen to that voice, that harp, and have it stir up all those old feelings.
I know the part of you that is Fëanor loves him.
Anthony's words from yesterday echoed in Sören's mind as his eyes met Mark's. The part of Sören that was Fëanor ached - though Fëanor had tried very hard not to play favorites with his sons, he and Maglor had both been creators and had a deep, special relationship. Sören could feel Fëanor's pride surging, bright and consuming as a flame, thinking Mark Lauer was one of the most talented singers and musicians he'd ever heard, thinking it a crime that more people didn't know about this talent, kept hidden here in remote Scotland. Sören had a feeling he knew why Mark kept a low profile and didn't court fame, it was easier to be outed that way, but it also felt tragic that Mark couldn't share his gift with the whole world. Sören was in awe of Maglor; of all of Fëanor's sons, Maglor was the one most strongly born of that flame, and the Fëanor part of Sören wished he could tell him that even now, thousands of years later, through tragedy and sorrow, his father was proud that fire had not gone out.
Sören ached for that, too. The Oath had cost his family no small amount of grief. He knew that he would do it again, if he had to, and while he regretted the kinslaying and the ship-burning, and the way Maglor was undoubtedly traumatized by the murders he'd committed later on, Sören refused to repent and submit to the Valar. If the Valar had kept tighter control of Melkor, Fëanor and his family might all be alive right now. This, ultimately, was on the Valar; the Silmarils had power, and the Valar were definitely the wrong hands.
Sören looked at Maglor's burned hand. He would do it again - but he still wished there was a way to spare his son from what he'd endured. His eyes teared up, chest tight, fighting the urge to go over and give Mark a hug.
"Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" made it even harder to fight the tears, and Mark seemed to sense the change in the room. He bowed his head slightly and asked, "Any requests?"
Gitta beamed - she had no idea what was going on - and said, "Jæja, can you play the Jólakötturinn song?"
Mark smiled back, and laughed. "I had a feeling you'd request that." He glanced back at Sören, cleared his throat and flexed his hands - Sören could almost hear the watch this - and then Mark started to play and sing:
Þið kannist við jólaköttinn
Sá köttur var gríðarstór
Fólk vissi ekki hvaðan hann kom
Eða hvert hann fór
Hann glennti upp glyrnurnar sínar
Glóandi báðar tvær
Það var ekki heiglum hent
Að horfa í þær
Kamparnir beittir sem broddar
Upp úr bakinu kryppa há
Og klærnar á loðinni löpp
Var ljótt að sjá
Því var það að konurnar kepptust
Við kamba og vefstól og rokk
Og prjónuðu litfagran lepp
Eða lítinn sokk...
Mark was as good as a native speaker, and Sören wondered if Mark had ever lived in Iceland and picked up the language. Then he knew it wasn't that - something told him that, as the Song, Maglor could speak all languages. It was sort of a "superpower" of his.
Sören felt a shiver down his spine, breaking out in gooseflesh under his sweater. He wondered if Gitta suspected there was anything magical about Mark, having known him for the last couple of years.
When the song was over, Mark looked right at Sören and asked, "Any other requests?"
Sören grasped at levity - if he didn't make a joke, he was going to make a scene, crying and hugging Mark, and nobody needed that right now. Sören took a deep breath. "Play 'Jaja Ding Dong'."
"NO JAJA DING DONG," Anthony and Gitta shouted in unison.
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "What's... 'Jaja Ding Dong'?" Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing the very undignified words he'd just uttered. "Er."
Sören was very glad he wasn't eating or drinking anything right then, or he'd be wearing it. The words "Jaja Ding Dong" out of that deep, cultured, velvet voice...
Mark's lips quirked, as if he was trying very hard not to laugh, then he plucked a few chords on the harp and started playing and singing in earnest.
When I feel your gentle touch
And things are going our way
I wanna spill my love on you all day, all day
Jaja ding dong
My love for you is growing wide and long
Jaja ding dong
I swell and burst when I see what we become
Jaja ding dong
Come on, baby, we can get love on
Jaja ding dong
When I see you, I feel like ding-ding dong...
The only thing funnier to Sören hearing the words "Jaja Ding Dong" in Nicholas's voice, was Mark singing the song in his lovely tenor. Sören shook with silent laughter, tearing up for an entirely different reason now. Gitta's laughter was less silent, and little giggles gave way to a full-bodied laugh, snorting. That made Sören laugh harder too... also snorting.
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "That isn't Icelandic."
"It's something we made up to troll American tourists," Sören said.
"It's not exactly Christmasy," Mark said, with an innocent smile that wasn't innocent at all. "One last request... something actually Christmasy this time, then my voice needs a break."
Anthony spoke, softly, a touch of steel in his voice. "'Last Christmas' by Wham."
There was a long pause, as if that suggestion had some weight behind it - the baggage of their past relationship. Sören waited, breath in a gulp, wondering if this was going to provoke a bad reaction from Mark. But then Mark just gave a nod and began to play and sing, like it was the most normal request in the world, not loaded at all.
Last Christmas I gave you my heart
But the very next day you gave it away
This year, to save me from tears
I'll give it to someone special...
At the end of the song, Gitta got up and quickly returned with some water for Mark. Then she hugged him tight and kissed both his cheeks. Elaine stood up to applaud, and, not wanting to be rude, Nicholas and Sören followed suit. Mark raised his water bottle in acknowledgment.
"It's a shame you don't have a bigger recording career," Gitta said.
Those words echoed Sören's earlier thoughts exactly, making him ache again. He fell back on his coping mechanism of humor. "Jæja, you should have been the other guy from Wham." Sören couldn't resist teasing some more as he picked up a Christmas cookie from the tray on the coffee table. "Maybe there's a parallel universe where you were the other guy from Wham."
Mark narrowed his eyes. Sören batted his lashes innocently before nibbling at the cookie.
"I agree with Gitta," Nicholas said. "I own all your albums, but you deserve to have much more recognition. You have truly given us a gift, with your performance."
"Well, it's... the least I could do, for the hospitality. Gitta didn't ask me to leave so she could have a more family-centric Christmas, and you guys have been very kind about me being here, even though I know it's rather awkward." Mark gave a polite smile.
"I think that nobody except the very wicked should be alone on Christmas," Nicholas said, "and though I have not been Catholic in a good long time, I think the time of Christ's birthday is a good time for reconciliation, or at least, peace." He glanced over at Anthony, then back at Mark.
"Yeah," Anthony said, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Sören patted his knee, then glared at Nicholas for putting Anthony on the spot. Family or not, Mark had hurt Anthony deeply two decades ago and that needed to be dealt with...
...after the matter of the Silmarils. Sören sighed. What a clusterfuck.
But Nicholas either didn't catch the awkward tension, or he didn't care. "I have something for you," Nicholas said, and got up. Sören and Anthony waited, exchanging confused glances.
A moment later Nicholas returned with a gift bag from the Talisker distillery. He handed it to Mark. "I had bought a few extra bottles of Talisker when I visited the distillery, to take back to London, but I think you should have one, as a way to say 'thank you' for the enjoyment your music has given me over the years."
Mark took out a bottle of 18-year old Talisker. "That's very generous of you. It's my favorite brand, too, not that you would have known that."
"I could assume, with you living on the Isle of Skye." Nicholas chuckled.
"Thanks. I was starting to feel like a fifth wheel, being here on Christmas with all of you, but... less so now." Mark's smile was genuine, his eyes soft.
"Oh, Mark, honey, I'm sorry you feel like that," Elaine said, and got up to give Mark the hug that Sören wanted to give. Mark returned the hug, giving her a squeeze. "Here, I know what would help you feel more like part of the family. I should show you my family photo album. I've even got pictures in it from Sören and Nicholas, now. Maybe I could add a picture or two of you, as well."
Before Mark, or anyone else, could protest, Elaine dashed off, and when she returned, she had a handsome black leatherbound album, trimmed with silver scalloped borders. She dragged Mark over to the love seat on the other side of the couch, and started to go through the photo album one page at a time, passing it around for everyone to see, telling little anecdotes. "There's little Anthony dressed up like Elton John with big sunglasses and a sparkly beret, teaching himself to play the piano -"
"MUM. MOTHER. I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD."
Mark bit his non-burned hand, trying very hard not to laugh and failing at it. He composed himself long enough to say, "Anthony, I didn't know you played the piano."
"You never asked," Anthony said. He squirmed. "Besides, me trying to tell you about my piano playing would be like a little kid showing a crayon drawing to da Vinci."
"I doubt it. It's impressive you taught yourself."
Anthony was beetroot, and passed the album without even looking at it when it came to him. Sören tousled Anthony's hair, chuckling at the photos of small Anthony in his ridiculously flamboyant getup. "Wow, even back then it was obvious you were gay."
"Right?" Anthony managed to laugh at that.
The mood turned somber at pictures of Anthony's late father Roger, and his late uncle Nigel, who he'd been very close to, and Elaine's late mother Anthea, who Sören had been very fond of. Anthony also cringed a bit at photos of himself as a teenager, describing it as a "difficult and painful" time in his life.
At last, towards the end of the album, there were photos of Anthony and Sören from their first attempt at a relationship over 2011-2013 - those memories were bittersweet for them both - and photos over the last two years, of Anthony and Sören together, and Anthony, Nicholas, and Sören. There were also some older photos of Sören and Nicholas that they'd donated to the collection some months ago - in particular, a photo of Sören when he was twenty and hadn't grown a beard yet, and a black-and-white photo of Nicholas from the 1970s, when he was in his mid-twenties... also beardless.
At these two photos, Mark's mouth opened slightly, his eyes widening as if with alarm. He looked over at Sören and Nicholas on the couch, and then back at the photo album, and shifted in his seat. Before Sören could ask what was going on, Elaine asked, "Are you all right, dear?"
"Yeah, I'm..." Mark swallowed hard and gave a tight, thin smile that did not meet his eyes. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" He handed Elaine the photo album, quickly got up, and went down the hall.
Sören was confused, and a bit concerned, but he held his peace until Mark came back a few minutes later. Instead of going right over to the loveseat to sit with Elaine again and finish up the photo album - they still had cat photos to look through - Mark marched over to the coatrack and shoe rack, quickly put on shoes, and then his trenchcoat.
"Mark?" Gitta cocked her head to one side.
"I think breakfast is disagreeing with me," Mark said. "I'm going to go out for a bit and get some air."
With that, he walked out before anyone could say anything else. Anthony spoke the word Liar into Sören's mind, but Sören already figured that out himself.
Sören sat there for a moment, still confused, and in a bit of shock about the scene that had just transpired. Then it hit him, since Sören had PTSD himself - it was possible that seeing all the family photos in the album was triggering Mark because of having lost his entire family, and the reaction finally caught up with him. Once again, Sören felt that ache, wishing there was some way to fix things, some sort of comfort he could provide. It was always bad to be triggered, but Sören knew from personal experience there were few things worse than being triggered on Christmas.
This time, instead of sitting on his feelings in reserve, those feelings sprang Sören into action. He found himself leaping from the couch, grabbing Nicholas by his arm and dragging him over to the shoes and coats. "What -" Nicholas's eyebrows shot up.
Sören gave him a stern look, feeling impatient, like this shouldn't have to be explained. "I think he's triggered, we should go follow him to make sure, you know. He doesn't do anything rash."
Nicholas exhaled sharply, and spoke into Sören's mind, As you know, the man has been carrying his grief for thousands of years. I don't think he would self-harm or try to take his own life now, after all this time.
Everyone has their breaking point, Sören shot back, thinking of facing the Balrogs, knowing he wasn't going to survive... willing to go out fighting. Wanting his death to count for something.
Wanting to die, wanting the pain to stop.
And then he'd been sent to the Void, punished for eons, finally released into a mortal body, during an age of turmoil. Sören's mind recalled the Völuspa:
Evil be on earth, an Age of Whoredom,
Of sharp sword-play and shields’ clashing,
A Wind-age, a Wolf-age till the world ruins:
No man to another shall mercy show.
He didn't want a worse fate for Maglor, reborn in a vulnerable human body when climate change was causing famine and societal upheaval on a mass scale. Yes, Maglor had endured thus far. But Sören knew people could only be strong for so long. He knew that very well indeed.
Not thinking, just feeling, Sören dashed down to the bedroom, took the two Silmarils out of the glass egg inside the gold aluminum pineapple, and put them in his coat pocket. He could still feel the stones pulsing, burning like there was a hot-water pack in his pocket. Once he returned to the greatroom, Anthony limped over on his cane as quickly as he could, and Sören helped him bundle up. Then, after a quick explanation to Gitta and Elaine that they thought Mark might be having a flashback and they wanted to go keep an eye on him, they went out to the Vauxhall; Mark's car was already gone.
Soon enough, they caught up to Mark on the road, following close behind him. Mark drove faster; Nicholas matched his speed, a fierce look of determination on his face.
"I can't believe we're doing this," Nicholas muttered.
Sören patted the Silmarils in his pocket. "Neither can I." He would not yield them to science, nor to the Valar - but if it meant saving Maglor's life, he would give them. His eyes stung with bitter tears, reluctant to part with them, but the thought of Mark's light going out from the world hurt even more.
On and on they followed Mark down the roads. It was a grey, overcast day with a strong chance of rain, and the snow-capped craggy hills were shrouded in swirling mists that seemed to echo the melancholy mood. Sören had no idea where Mark was going, but it felt like they were driving an excessively long time across the Isle of Skye.
At last, there were signs indicating the Fairy Pools were near, and Mark's car went in that direction. Nicholas followed, and it seemed to Sören they finally had an answer about where Mark was going. Sören had wanted to see the Fairy Pools while they visited Skye, but not like this.
Then again, maybe Mark really was just going out to get some air and clear his head, in a picturesque setting. That was what Sören hoped for. Nonetheless... his hand rested on his pocket, over the warm, pulsing jewels. He took a few deep breaths, heart racing with anticipation.
At the car park, Mark got out of his car first, then they did, and caught up to him on the trail. Not looking back at them, Mark asked, "So you're stalking me now?"
"You left so abruptly and looked so... perturbed that we thought it might be best to check on you," Nicholas said.
Mark shrugged. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit," Anthony said.
Mark stopped in his tracks. Now he turned around. Mark and Anthony regarded each other for a long moment and then Mark said, "OK, I'm not fine. But you really didn't have to -"
"Yes, we did," Sören said.
Mark raised an eyebrow at Sören. He turned back around and kept walking, not saying anything.
The walk out to the Fairy Pools was longer than Sören had been anticipating, longer still because they had to exercise some caution with the trail in the slippery winter weather. Anthony had to stop and rest every ten minutes or so, and after the second stop Mark also stopped - even though he hadn't looked back, he had acute enough hearing to know they took a pause. For all of his seeming annoyance at being followed out here, Sören thought it was a decent gesture for Mark to stop and allow Anthony a rest break.
Sören didn't mind the stops, not just because he wanted to accommodate his partner, but also the walk to the waterfall was gorgeous, even in winter, even with the thick, swirling fog - perhaps especially with, which gave the place an enchanted, haunted feeling that seemed evocative of the fairy legends of old; Sören kept half-expecting to see a fairy or nature spirit walk out of the fog...
...besides Mark, who looked like he belonged there, surprisingly serene after the earlier emotional storm.
"I like to come here when I need to breathe," Mark explained once they got to the fall.
"I can see why," Sören said, his voice hushed, reverent. The view of the mountains in the distance and the fall cascading down frosted rocks into an icy pool was magnificent, making his hair stand on end, gooseflesh under his layers. "Fuck, I should paint this." Then he blurted out, not thinking about it, "I'd like to paint you, here."
Mark laughed.
"Seriously." Sören pulled out his cell phone from the pocket opposite the Silmarils. "Can I take a few photos of you, as a reference?"
"I normally don't allow photos of myself but... sure, why not. You already know what I am." Their eyes met, and Mark opened his mouth again, like he was going to say something, then closed his mouth like he'd thought better of it.
Just before Sören could get the camera application ready, the mist moved and made a wall between them. It was easy enough to step out of the way, but then Sören saw an intensely bright light in the mist that was not the eye of the cell phone camera reflected - far brighter. For a moment Sören worried that one of the Silmarils had escaped his pocket and flown up, as they could float at times, defying gravity - but a quick pat-down indicated they were both still there. The bright light came closer, closer...
...It was indeed a Silmaril, just like the other two. It went right into Sören's hand.
The mist fell away, and Mark stared at the glowing orb in Sören's gloved hand, then glared at Sören, looking murderous. He took a step forward, moving his hand in the "give it" gesture; Sören reflexively took a step back, putting away his phone, and then Anthony limped forward on his cane, with Nicholas beside him, getting in the path between Mark and Sören.
"I'm sorry, but I shan't allow you to attack him," Nicholas said.
"Nobody has to get hurt if you hand over the Silmaril -"
"Macalaurë." The name came out of Sören without thinking about it. He stepped around them and put his hands up, with the Silmaril floating just above his shoulder. "If you really, really want it - if it will give you peace, if it will keep you... safe... keep you from doing something like taking your own life... you can have it. You can have all of them." Sören took the other two Silmarils out of his pocket, put one in each hand, and held them out. "But first, let me explain -"
"How..." Now it was Mark who took a step back, eyes wide, the same stricken look as when he'd seen the photos. "How do you have all three?"
Sören gave a nervous laugh. "Oh shit. OK... this is going to sound completely crazy, but..." Sören took a deep breath. "I'm Feanor. Reincarnated as human, but I am your father."
Mark's mouth opened.
"When I was four, I started having dreams about burning to death. Terrible, horrible nightmares about being ganged up on by a pack of fire demons. Nightmares no small child should have. There was no explanation for that - there were no fires in my town, in my neighborhood, when I was a kid, I didn't see it on TV, and the abuse hadn't started yet, this was when my mamma was still alive." Sören realized then Mark didn't know anything about his life. He went on, "Years later, I was in med school, and I almost didn't make it. I struggled with self-harm and feeling suicidal. The dreams returned, stronger, like they were daring me to kill myself."
Even though it was bitter cold outside, Sören handed each of the Silmarils to Anthony and Nicholas, and began undoing his coat. Before Anthony could finish the question "what are you doing", Sören's coat fell to the ground and he pulled his sweater up over his head. He turned around so Mark could see his back, the firebird and waterbird following the path of the sleeve tattoos up his arms - flames on one side, ocean waves on the other.
"I got the phoenix tattoo and the flames as a way to... channel that fire, I guess, to not let it destroy me. The water was for temperance." Sören put his sweater back on. "Anthony and Nicholas also have had strange dreams."
"We dreamt of being brothers," Anthony said. "I was blond."
"I dreamt of making these stones," Sören said, "to honor my love for my brothers. And when the first one showed up, came to me... it proved these weren't just dreams."
Mark's hand covered his mouth.
"There's art," Sören said, nodding. "I can show you my portfolio if you come to London. I know how crazy this sounds, but -"
"I believe you," Mark said, his voice shaking.
Sören's fists clenched, feeling that ache again, but sharper this time... a fierce, gnawing feeling. The mixture of pain and relief in Mark's voice threatened to undo him, tears burning his eyes again.
"I... believe... you," Mark repeated. He gave a shuddery sigh, looked down, and then up. He blinked back tears, but after a moment of silence, they spilled down his cheeks, and his jaw trembled when his eyes met Sören's again. "When I saw those photos, it spooked me. You look so much like Fëanor." He turned to Nicholas. "And you, Ñolofinwë." He turned to Anthony. "And you reminded me of Arafinwë, both in personality and looks - well, a black-haired version, but still. By itself, that was just a very big coincidence. But then seeing those photos of the two of you..."
Another chill went through Sören. There was a strong resemblance between a young Nicholas and the dark-haired brother-lover of his dreams - the major difference was the length of hair and the intense blue eyes, like flame - but it was one thing to dream it and another thing to have that confirmed by someone who was there, and still alive to tell the tale.
"The Silmarils are yours," Mark said. "You... you can have them." With that, he broke down crying.
Sören finally gave into the urge he'd been fighting for hours. He walked forward, and took Mark into his arms. Mark fell to his knees, weeping harder, and Sören dropped down with him, holding him close, holding him tight, rocking him.
"I know that even though I'm still your father here," Sören said, a hand on his heart, "I'm different, and it's... not a replacement, really. But... I'd like to try to give you something back. A family. A home. Why don't you come to London with us, when we go back? Stay at our place for awhile? We have room."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sören cringed, realizing he'd just invited Mark to live with them - Mark, Anthony's ex - without asking Nicholas and Anthony first, without consulting them, without even a discussion. Once again, he'd acted on impulse, one of his major faults.
But to his relief, Nicholas and Anthony looked at each other, then they nodded together and also stepped forward and around Mark, each putting a hand on Mark's shoulder.
"Come home, Macalaurë," Sören said, and leaned in to kiss the top of his head.
Mark sobbed, heaving, and Sören rocked him, pet him, crying along with him, wanting to make it stop hurting, the Fëanor part of him grieving, raging, for his beloved son, for the Song born of his Flame, who deserved so much better than to wander for eternity alone and lonely, haunted by memories of what he'd lost, what he'd done.
At last Mark looked up and simply nodded. He wiped his eyes. "OK," he said.
"Yeah?"
Mark smiled through his tears. "Yeah."
Sören threw his arms around Mark and hugged him harder. They laughed and cried, and then, Sören helped him up. Nicholas and Anthony hugged him too, and for a moment the four of them hugged, and suddenly the mists lifted and the sun broke through the clouds, shining over them in silver-gold light.
chapter 9 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index