Fëanor stands in the soft golden light of the birthing chamber, his silver eyes fixed upon the small bundle nestled against Nerdanel's breast. His son. The word echoes in his mind like a prayer, unfamiliar yet instantly precious. Nerdanel sleeps now, her copper hair spread across the pillows like autumn leaves, her breathing deep and even. The ordeal of bringing forth life has left her exhausted, but triumphant. He touches his fingertip to the infant's impossibly small hand, marveling at the perfection of those miniature fingers, when he hears the door open behind him.
"They sleep," Fëanor whispers without turning, recognizing the tread of those footsteps as intimately as his own heartbeat.
Mahtan crosses the room silently, his auburn beard—unusual among their kind—catching the light from the high windows. He comes to stand beside Fëanor, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch, a distance measurable in heartbeats rather than inches.
"My grandson," Mahtan says, voice rough with emotion. "And my daughter, both well."
The smith's hand comes to rest on Fëanor's shoulder, the touch firm and warm through the light fabric of his tunic. Such a simple gesture, appropriate for a father-in-law to his daughter's husband, yet Fëanor's skin burns beneath it.
"Nelyafinwë," Fëanor says, tasting the name, still new on his tongue. "Our firstborn."
Mahtan's eyes meet his, and the shared secret between them hangs in the air, unspoken. The healers and handmaidens have all withdrawn, giving the new mother and child time to rest. They are, for this rare moment, unwatched.
"You look weary yourself," Mahtan observes, his thumb tracing a small circle on Fëanor's shoulder. "The wait was long."
Fëanor nods, remembering the endless hours of Nerdanel's labor, her cries, his helplessness. "I didn't know what to do," he admits. "For all my skill at crafting, I could shape nothing to ease her pain."
"Some things lie beyond even your remarkable hands," Mahtan says. "Come. She will sleep for hours yet. The garden air might clear your head."
A flutter of guilt passes through Fëanor's chest. Should he leave his wife and newborn son? Yet Nerdanel sleeps deeply, attended by skilled healers nearby, and the soft weight of Mahtan's hand on his shoulder promises something he has thirsted for during these long, anxious days.
"Just for a moment," he agrees.
They walk through the corridors of Fëanor's home, nodding to the occasional servant or kinsman, their pace unhurried, their manner giving no outward sign of what simmers beneath. When they reach the gardens, Mahtan leads them toward a secluded path that winds through tall hedges of flowering shrubs, eventually opening into a small courtyard with a stone bench partially hidden by a weeping willow.
"Your home has grown more beautiful since I last visited," Mahtan says, settling onto the bench. "Nerdanel's influence, I suspect."
Fëanor sits beside him, close enough that their thighs touch. "She has an eye for beauty I sometimes lack. I focus too much on function, on perfection."
"And yet you created perfection today," Mahtan says softly. "A son."
The weight of fatherhood presses against Fëanor's chest anew. "I don't know how to be a father," he confesses, the words spilling out unbidden. "Mine was—" He stops. How to describe Finwë's love, somehow incomplete since his mother's passing? How to speak of always feeling second to memories? And as if his father blamed him, and was always so quick to find flaw?
Mahtan understands without further explanation. He takes Fëanor's hand in his, calloused palm against calloused palm, craftsman to craftsman. "You will find your way. The forge teaches us patience, does it not? To wait for metal to find its true form?"
Their fingers lace together, and they feel a spark—heat from their shared passion, but it courses through Fëanor nonetheless. The garden seems to fade around them, the sounds of birds and distant voices receding.
"I've missed you," Fëanor admits. "These past months, with Nerdanel so near her time—"
"I understand," Mahtan says. "Your place was at her side."
But now his place seems to be here, in this hidden garden, with the father of his wife. The contradiction doesn't escape him, nor does the danger of what they do. Yet Fëanor has never been one to turn from fire, even knowing it might burn.
Mahtan's free hand rises to touch Fëanor's face, tracing the high cheekbone with a reverence that belies his strength. "You are magnificent," he says. "Even exhausted, even worried, you burn brighter than any I have known."
Fëanor turns his face into the touch, his lips brushing against Mahtan's palm. "Take me somewhere," he whispers. "Somewhere we can be alone."
Mahtan rises, still holding Fëanor's hand, and leads him deeper into the gardens. Beyond the cultivated paths lies a small stone outbuilding, once used for storing gardening tools but now largely forgotten since newer structures were built. Mahtan produces a key from his pocket—he has planned for this, Fëanor realizes with a rush of desire.
The door opens silently on well-oiled hinges. Inside, the stone room is surprisingly comfortable, with a pallet laid with soft blankets in one corner, a small table with an oil lamp, even a carafe of wine with two cups.
"When did you arrange this?" Fëanor asks, smiling despite himself.
"Yesterday, when I arrived," Mahtan admits. "A hope, not a presumption."
The door closes behind them, and finally, they are truly alone. No need for careful distance, for measured words. Fëanor steps into Mahtan's embrace, feeling the solid warmth of him, the strength of arms that have worked metal for centuries. Their lips meet, and Fëanor tastes the familiar sweetness of Mahtan's mouth, the scratch of his beard against skin.
"I thought of you," Fëanor murmurs between kisses, "even as I held Nerdanel's hand. Even as I welcomed our son into the world. Does that make me monstrous?"
Mahtan draws back just enough to look into Fëanor's eyes. "It makes you honest. We contain multitudes, you and I. Love is not diminished by being shared."
His words soothe something jagged in Fëanor's heart. He reaches for the fastenings of Mahtan's tunic, his fingers deft as they undo each clasp. "I want to feel you," he says. "I want to forget everything else, just for a while."
They undress each other slowly, each garment removed revealing more skin to touch, to taste. Mahtan's body is different from Nerdanel's—broader, harder, contoured with muscle from centuries at the forge. His chest hair forms whorls of copper and gold, trailing down to where his arousal stands proud between powerful thighs.
Fëanor, slender but no less strong, presses himself against the older elf, their bodies aligned from chest to knee. "I've dreamed of this," he admits.
Mahtan guides him to the pallet, laying him down with surprising gentleness for one so powerful. "As have I," he says, settling beside Fëanor, propped on one elbow to better gaze down at him. "The new father, the brilliant smith, the prince of our people."
His hand trails down Fëanor's chest, circling a nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. Fëanor arches into the contact, all thoughts of propriety and duty dissolving like morning mist. Here, there is only sensation, only desire.
Mahtan's mouth follows where his hand has been, lips closing around Fëanor's nipple, tongue teasing the sensitive peak while his hand slides lower, over the flat plane of Fëanor's stomach to the jutting hardness beyond. Fëanor gasps at the dual sensations, his fingers tangling in Mahtan's auburn hair, loosened now from its practical braid.
"Please," Fëanor whispers, not too proud to beg. "I need—"
"I know what you need," Mahtan says, his voice a rumble against Fëanor's skin. "I always know."
And he does. His hands and mouth seem to find every place that makes Fëanor tremble, every sensitive hollow and eager nerve. When Mahtan's mouth finally closes around Fëanor's length, the younger elf has to bite his lip to keep from crying out loud enough to be heard beyond their sanctuary.
Fëanor loses himself in the wet heat of Mahtan's mouth, the skilled pressure of his tongue, but before long, he reaches down to pull Mahtan back up. "Together," he insists. "I want us together."
Understanding, Mahtan retrieves a small vial of oil from beside the pallet. The scent of sandalwood fills the air as he slicks his fingers, then reaches between Fëanor's thighs. The first breach is always a shock—intrusion and welcome mingled—but Mahtan knows how to ease the way, how to make Fëanor's body sing with pleasure rather than protest.
One finger becomes two, then three, working Fëanor open with practiced patience until he's writhing on the pallet, dignity forgotten. "Now," he pleads. "Mahtan, now."
Mahtan positions himself between Fëanor's thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against the prepared entrance. Their eyes lock as he pushes forward, breaching the tight ring of muscle with exquisite slowness. Fëanor's breath catches at the fullness, the stretch, the delicious burn of being filled by the one who taught him so much—not just about smithcraft, but about his own desires.
"Mine," Mahtan whispers as he seats himself fully, their bodies joined as completely as possible. "My brilliant one."
The pace he sets is deliberate, each thrust deep and measured, hitting places inside Fëanor that make stars bloom behind his eyelids. Fëanor wraps his legs around Mahtan's waist, urging him deeper, faster, his hands clutching at the broad shoulders above him.
"Yes," Fëanor hisses. "Like that—don't stop—"
Their coupling grows more urgent, the quiet of their sanctuary broken by the sound of flesh meeting flesh, by half-stifled moans and gasping breaths. Mahtan's hand wraps around Fëanor's length, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, bringing Fëanor to the edge of pleasure and holding him there until he thinks he might shatter from it.
"Let go," Mahtan urges, his voice rough with his own approaching climax. "Let go for me, Fëanor."
And he does. Release claims him like a tidal wave, pleasure crashing through every limb, every nerve. He spills between them, back arching off the pallet, teeth sinking into Mahtan's shoulder to muffle his cry. The rhythmic clenching of his body draws Mahtan over the edge as well, and he feels the hot pulse of the older elf's release deep inside him.
They collapse together, sweaty and satiated, breath gradually slowing. Mahtan's weight is a comfort rather than a burden, anchoring Fëanor to the moment when his mind might otherwise already be racing ahead to duties and projects and plans.
"Stay with me," Mahtan murmurs, as if reading his thoughts. "Just for a few moments more."
Fëanor allows himself to be held, to feel the beat of Mahtan's heart against his own. Outside this room waits his wife, his newborn son, his responsibilities as prince and craftsman. But here, for this stolen interval, he is simply Fëanor, beloved and known.
Later, they wash in the small basin provided, dress each other with the same care they used to undress, and share a cup of wine before preparing to return to the main house. Fëanor smooths Mahtan's hair, rebraiding it with nimble fingers while Mahtan straightens Fëanor's collar.
"Thank you," Fëanor says, the words inadequate for what he feels.
Mahtan smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "For what, specifically?"
"For understanding me," Fëanor says simply. "For allowing me to be all that I am, without judgment."
Mahtan kisses him once more, gently. "Always," he promises. "Now, let us go see your son. He will be the first of many, I think. The beginning of a great line."
Together, they step back into the light, walking a respectable distance apart now, their secret locked away until the next time they can steal away to share their forbidden passion.
Fëanor's knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the birthing bed, his gaze fixed on Nerdanel's contorted face. This birth is different from all the others — harder, longer, filled with her strangled cries that slice through him like blades of ice. The midwife's furrowed brow and quick, whispered instructions to her assistants tell him what no one dares say aloud: something is wrong. His breath comes faster now, shallower, the room's walls seeming to contract around him as memories he's spent centuries burying claw their way to the surface—his mother's face, pale as moonlight, her life bleeding away as she brought him into the world.
"The baby is turned," the midwife announces, her voice clipped with professional concern. "We must reposition it."
Nerdanel's hand finds his, squeezing with a strength that should reassure him, but Fëanor barely feels it. His hands are numb, but he feels a warmth in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognizes as panic. Blood roars in his ears, drowning out the midwife's next words. He can only stare at the sheen of sweat on Nerdanel's brow, the strands of copper hair stuck to her temples, the way her lips pull back from her teeth as another contraction tears through her.
"My lord?" Someone is speaking to him. He cannot respond. "My lord Fëanor?"
A healer touches his arm, and he flinches as if burned. His vision narrows, dark at the edges. The room spins like a potter's wheel gone wild.
"His mother," he hears Nerdanel gasp between pains. "Míriel... died... birthing him."
The healer's expression shifts from concern to understanding. "My lord, you must step outside. You're not helping her like this."
"No," Fëanor protests, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "I won't leave her."
"Fëanor." Nerdanel's voice cuts through his panic, momentarily clear. "Go. Please. I need... to focus."
Another healer takes his arm more firmly, guiding him toward the door. Fëanor resists, but his body feels foreign to him, his limbs disconnected from his will. The last thing he sees before the door closes is Nerdanel's face contorting with a fresh wave of pain, her scream following him into the corridor.
The hallway outside offers no relief. Fëanor paces, his breathing ragged, each of Nerdanel's muffled cries piercing him like an arrow. He presses his palms against the cool stone wall, leaning his forehead against it, trying to ground himself.
"I'm cursed," he whispers to no one. "My mother died to give me life. Now Nerdanel—"
He cannot finish the thought. Behind his closed eyelids, images flicker like torchlight—his father's grief-stricken face when told of Míriel's passing, the tiny bundle of his own newborn self, forever tainted by the price paid for his existence. Now history threatens to repeat itself, to take Nerdanel from him, to leave another child motherless because of him.
"She won't die," he tells himself, but the words ring hollow. His legs weaken, and he slides down the wall until he sits on the floor, head between his knees, fighting for each breath.
"Fëanor."
The voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. He looks up to see Mahtan standing over him, his auburn beard carefully braided for the occasion of his second grandchild's birth, his eyes sharp with concern.
"Come," Mahtan says, extending a hand. "This helps no one."
Fëanor takes the offered hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Without waiting for consent, Mahtan leads him away from the birthing chamber, down a series of corridors to a small study that Fëanor barely recognizes as his own. The door closes behind them with a soft click that feels like finality.
"Breathe," Mahtan commands, placing his broad hands on Fëanor's shoulders. "With me. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
Fëanor tries to comply, but his breath catches. "She's struggling," he says. "The baby is turned wrong. What if—"
"No what-ifs," Mahtan interrupts firmly. "Nerdanel is strong. Stronger than you know. Trust in that strength."
His hands move from Fëanor's shoulders to his face, cradling his jaw with a tenderness that belies their roughness. The touch anchors Fëanor, drawing him back from the precipice of his fear.
"Your mother's fate is not Nerdanel's," Mahtan continues, his thumbs brushing over Fëanor's cheekbones. "The healers know what to do. They are prepared."
Fëanor nods, not trusting his voice. Mahtan's proximity, his scent of forge-fire and sandalwood, provides a comfort nothing else could. His breathing slows, matching Mahtan's rhythm unconsciously.
"There," Mahtan says softly. "Come back to yourself."
Fëanor reaches up, covering Mahtan's hands with his own. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "For showing such weakness."
Mahtan's eyes darken. "There is no weakness in fearing for those you love." He pauses, then adds, "I feared for you just now."
Something shifts in the air between them. Fëanor becomes acutely aware of their solitude, of the heat of Mahtan's body so close to his own. Fear transmutes into a different kind of urgency, a need for connection that runs bone-deep.
"Make me forget," Fëanor says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Make me feel something else. Anything else."
Mahtan hesitates, his eyes searching Fëanor's. "Are you certain?"
In answer, Fëanor surges forward, claiming Mahtan's mouth with desperate hunger. The kiss is nothing like their usual calculated, careful embraces. It's raw need, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. Fëanor pushes against Mahtan with the whole weight of his body, seeking to lose himself in sensation.
Mahtan responds in kind, his initial surprise giving way to equal fervor. His hands move from Fëanor's face to his waist, then lower, gripping his hips with bruising force. He backs Fëanor against the study wall with a thud that would have hurt if Fëanor could feel anything beyond the pulse of desire drowning out his fears.
"Like this?" Mahtan growls against his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath Fëanor's ear. "Is this what you need?"
"Yes," Fëanor gasps as Mahtan's teeth find his throat. "Harder. Make me yours."
Something primal awakens in Mahtan at those words. He pulls back just enough to look into Fëanor's eyes, and what Fëanor sees there sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine. Gone is the patient mentor, the supportive father-in-law. In his place stands something wilder, a creature of pure claiming hunger.
Mahtan's hands tear at Fëanor's clothing, ripping fabric where it doesn't yield quickly enough. Fëanor responds in kind, his fingers fumbling with lacings and clasps, desperate to feel skin against skin. They are rarely so careless, so abandoned, but now propriety seems like a distant memory, irrelevant to the inferno building between them.
Half-clothed, Mahtan spins Fëanor around, pressing him face-first against the wall. His beard scrapes the back of Fëanor's neck as he bites down on the junction of neck and shoulder, hard enough to leave marks. Fëanor welcomes the pain, arching back against the solid heat of Mahtan's chest.
"You think you're cursed?" Mahtan's voice is rough against his ear. "Then be cursed with this. With me."
His hand slides around to grip Fëanor through his leggings, finding him already hard, straining against the confines of the fabric. Fëanor pushes into the touch, a broken sound escaping his throat.
"Please," he begs, past pride, past restraint.
Mahtan tugs Fëanor's leggings down just enough, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. There is no slow preparation, no careful easing of the way—just Mahtan's fingers, slicked with saliva, pressing into him with insistent demand. The burn is exquisite, pain and pleasure twining together until Fëanor can't distinguish between them.
"You belong to me," Mahtan says, working another finger into Fëanor's tight heat. "Not to your fears. Not to your ghosts."
"Yes," Fëanor agrees, desperate for more. "Only to you. Now, Mahtan. Take me now."
Mahtan withdraws his fingers, and Fëanor hears the rustle of clothing, the wet sound of Mahtan spitting into his palm. Then the blunt head of Mahtan's cock presses against him, larger than his fingers, demanding entry. Fëanor braces himself against the wall, pushing back to meet the first thrust.
The initial breach steals his breath, the stretch bordering on too much. Mahtan pauses, allowing him a moment to adjust, his chest heaving against Fëanor's back. Then he begins to move, each thrust harder and deeper than the last, claiming Fëanor in the most primal way possible.
"Is this what you needed?" Mahtan growls, one hand gripping Fëanor's hip, the other fisting in his long black hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. "To be taken? To be owned?"
"Yes," Fëanor gasps, each word punctuated by the force of Mahtan's thrusts. "Don't stop. Don't ever stop."
Mahtan bites his exposed shoulder, hard enough to break skin, and Fëanor cries out, the sound raw and animal. The pain shoots straight to his groin, his cock jerking between his body and the wall. Mahtan reaches around to grasp him, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, his palm rough with calluses that create delicious friction.
"You're mine," Mahtan says, his rhythm growing erratic, driven by something beyond control. "Say it."
"Yours," Fëanor agrees, his body clenching around Mahtan's invasion, welcoming it, craving it. "I'm yours."
Mahtan's thrusts grow more powerful, lifting Fëanor onto his toes with each forward motion. The sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the study, along with their harsh breathing and half-stifled moans. It's nothing like their usual lovemaking—no tenderness, no restraint, just raw claiming need.
"Mine," Mahtan growls against his ear, the word a declaration and a brand. His hand tightens around Fëanor's length, thumb swiping over the sensitive head, gathering the wetness there to ease his strokes.
The dual stimulation pushes Fëanor toward the edge. He feels his release building, a tidal wave gathering force. Mahtan senses it too, changing the angle of his thrusts to strike the spot inside Fëanor that makes stars explode behind his eyelids.
"Come for me, cub," Mahtan commands, his voice rough with his own approaching climax. "Let go, Fëanor. Let go now."
The permission unleashes something in Fëanor. He spills over Mahtan's hand with a hoarse cry, his body clenching rhythmically around Mahtan's thickness. The contractions push Mahtan over the edge as well, and he buries himself to the hilt with a final powerful thrust, his release hot and pulsing deep inside Fëanor.
For long moments, they remain joined, Mahtan's weight pinning Fëanor to the wall, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Mahtan's arms encircle him now, no longer restraining but supporting, as if he knows Fëanor's legs might not hold him. "My flame," Mahtan whispers. "My song."
"My dark passion," Fëanor husks, turning his head to press his lips against Mahtan's bearded cheek. "My anchor in the storm."
Mahtan helps him turn, supporting his weight as they face each other. Their foreheads touch, an intimate gesture more tender than the fierce coupling that preceded it.
"Are you back with me?" Mahtan asks softly.
Fëanor nods, realizing that his panic has indeed receded, replaced by a bone-deep satiation and something like peace. "Thank you," he says simply.
They clean themselves as best they can with a basin of water from a side table, straightening clothing, covering marks where possible. Fëanor's tunic is torn beyond immediate repair, so Mahtan gives him his own outer robe to wear over it—an act that might raise eyebrows, but less conspicuous than the alternative.
A knock at the study door startles them both. They step apart quickly, composing their features into neutrality.
"Enter," Fëanor calls, his voice remarkably steady.
A servant appears, bowing low. "My lord, the midwife sends word. Your presence is requested in the birthing chamber. Your son has arrived."
Relief washes over Fëanor like a physical force. "And my wife?" he asks, barely daring to hope.
"Tired but well, my lord. The danger has passed."
Fëanor's eyes meet Mahtan's, sharing a moment of profound gratitude before he follows the servant back to the birthing chamber, Mahtan a respectable distance behind.
The room that had earlier seemed so fraught with doom now glows with a gentle light. The smell of blood and sweat remains, testament to the struggle, but it's overlaid with the scent of healing herbs and clean linens. Nerdanel reclines against fresh pillows, her hair damp but neatly braided over one shoulder, her complexion pale but her eyes bright with triumph and love.
In her arms lies a small bundle, wrapped in soft blankets. Fëanor approaches slowly, almost reverently, as if afraid his presence might somehow disrupt this fragile peace.
"Come meet your son," Nerdanel says, her voice tired but joyful. "He fought his way into the world. A warrior already."
Fëanor sits carefully on the edge of the bed, peering at the tiny face nestled against Nerdanel's breast. Unlike Maedhros, whose wisps of hair had been reddish like his mother's, this child's head is covered in dark fuzz, black as a starless night.
"He has your coloring," Nerdanel observes. "Your father's coloring."
Fëanor touches the baby's cheek with one finger, marveling at the softness. "He is perfect," he whispers.
"What shall we name him?" Nerdanel asks. "I thought perhaps after your father—"
"Morifinwë," Fëanor says, the name coming to him suddenly, completely formed, his mind's eye recalling the whispered my dark passion to Mahtan a short while ago. "Dark Finwë."
Nerdanel considers this, then nods. "It suits him. Though it's a weighty name for one so small."
"He will grow into it," Fëanor assures her, his eyes lifting to meet Mahtan's across the room where he stands with the other relatives who have gathered to welcome the new arrival.
Something passes between them, a silent understanding. The darkness in Fëanor—his fears, his passions, his secret desires—has found expression not only in Mahtan's arms but now in this child, this dark-haired son who fought his way through danger to emerge triumphant.
"Morifinwë," Fëanor says again, lifting the child from Nerdanel's arms with careful hands. He holds his son up to the light, a formal gesture of acknowledgment and acceptance. "I name you Morifinwë Carnistir, son of Fëanor, grandson of Finwë, prince of the Noldor."
The gathered family members murmur their approval of the name, reaching forward to touch the child in blessing. Mahtan approaches last, his large hand gentle as it rests briefly on his grandson's head.
"A worthy name," he says, his eyes meeting Fëanor's with a depth of meaning no one else could possibly understand. "For a worthy son."
Fëanor nods, cradling Morifinwë close to his chest, feeling the steady beat of the tiny heart against his own. This child, born of struggle, named for darkness but also for greatness, will carry forward both his legacy and his secrets, a living testament to all that he is—both the parts the world sees and those he shares only with Mahtan.
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