Fëanor's workshop glows with an unearthly light, flames dancing in the forge but casting shadows that seem alive with possibility. On his workbench lie three crystalline vessels, products of months of failed attempts and gradual refinements. Beside them, in a small box of polished silver, rest three strands of golden-silver hair—not freely given, but collected from a brush borrowed from Galadriel's handmaiden with promises of silence sealed by gold. His conscience prickles at the deception, but not enough to deter him. The vision that came to him between his brothers' bodies demands fulfillment, and no one—not even the perceptive Galadriel—will stand between Fëanor and the manifestation of his greatest work.
He lifts the first strand of hair with reverence, studying how it captures even the mundane light of his workshop lamps, splitting it into rainbows and returning it transformed. After Galadriel's refusal, he had brooded for days, alternating between rage and determination. Eventually, cunning provided what honesty could not. A generous gift to one of her attendants, a casual inquiry about her toilette habits, and patience yielded three perfect strands, shed naturally and collected without her knowledge.
"Not theft," he murmurs to himself, "merely... resourcefulness."
The justification rings hollow, but he pushes the discomfort aside. This work transcends ordinary morality. These jewels will preserve something precious, something that might otherwise be lost. Future generations will thank him for his foresight, not condemn him for his methods.
Fëanor's fingers move with practiced precision, working the crystal matrices into forms that will cradle light itself. The material is unlike any he has worked before—neither glass nor stone, but something between, something more. He developed it through hundreds of experiments, testing and discarding formulae until he found one that formed perfectly clear, perfectly strong crystals with internal structures complex enough to trap light within their facets.
As he works, Fëanor loses himself in the process. Time ceases to exist; hunger and thirst become distant sensations easily ignored. There is only this creation, this manifestation of his vision. He thinks of how the concept came to him—in the midst of pleasure, caught between his half-brothers, at the moment of both his greatest vulnerability and greatest power. The memory sends heat coursing through his veins, fueling his work with passion as much as precision.
The first jewel takes shape beneath his hands, a multi-faceted crystal that seems to drink in light rather than reflect it. At its core, he places the strand of Galadriel's hair, sealing it within the structure with techniques known only to him. The second and third follow, each slightly different in form but identical in function. When the basic structures are complete, Fëanor extinguishes his lamps, plunging the workshop into near-darkness.
"Now," he whispers, "for the true test."
He wraps the three crystals carefully in black velvet, placing them in a small chest designed specifically for this purpose. Then he cleans himself, changing from his work clothes into formal attire suitable for a journey to the Trees. This next step must be undertaken at the perfect moment—when the light of Telperion and Laurelin mingles in equal measure, neither gold nor silver dominant.
The journey to Ezellohar, the Green Mound where the Two Trees grow, passes in a blur of anticipation. Fëanor has arranged for privacy—a substantial donation to the Vanyar who tend the sacred space has ensured he will have a brief window of solitude for his work. As he approaches the Trees, their light washes over him in waves of gold and silver, more beautiful than any artifice could capture—yet he will try nonetheless.
The moment arrives. Telperion's silver light begins to wane just as Laurelin's golden radiance swells to equal strength. Fëanor opens his chest, removing the three crystals with trembling hands. He places them on a small stand he has brought, positioned precisely where the mingled light falls most perfectly.
What happens next defies simple explanation. The crystals seem to come alive, drinking in the holy light with insatiable thirst. The strands of hair at their cores glow with increasing brilliance, as if awakened by reunion with the source they have always reflected. Fëanor feels a pull, a draw of power flowing from the Trees into his creation, stronger than he anticipated. For a moment, he fears he has miscalculated—that the crystals will shatter under the influx of such pure energy, or worse, that they might somehow harm the Trees themselves.
But the moment passes. The crystals stabilize, the light within them settling into a steady, pulsing glow that mimics the living rhythm of the Trees. When Fëanor carefully lifts the first jewel, he gasps despite himself. Within his palm rests what appears to be a fragment of the Trees' light itself, captured and preserved in solid form. It illuminates his face from below, casting shadows upward, revealing details of his workshop that even his keen eyes had missed in ordinary light.
"The Silmarils," he names them, the word coming to his lips unbidden, as if the jewels themselves have whispered their identity to him. "My masterwork."
Days later, after testing the jewels' properties and crafting suitable settings for them, Fëanor sits alone in his private chamber, the three Silmarils arranged before him on a table of black velvet. They shine with undiminished radiance, needing no external light source, perfect in their self-contained brilliance. He has scarcely slept since their creation, unable to tear himself away from the beauty he has brought into being.
A knock at his door barely registers until it comes again, more insistent. Reluctantly, Fëanor covers the jewels with a cloth before calling, "Enter."
Mahtan steps into the room, his auburn beard neatly braided, his eyes sharp with curiosity. "So this is where you've been hiding," he says, closing the door firmly behind him. "Your wife says you've scarcely eaten in days. Your apprentices whisper that you've achieved something unprecedented."
Fëanor smiles, a small, secretive expression. "News travels quickly."
"Only when the news is worth traveling," Mahtan counters, approaching the table. His gaze fixes on the covered objects. "Will you show me, or must I guess?"
For a moment, Fëanor hesitates. These jewels represent the culmination of his skill, the physical manifestation of a vision born in forbidden passion. To share them feels oddly intimate, as if he's revealing not just his work but the circumstances of their conception.
Yet if anyone deserves to see them first—before Nerdanel, before his sons, before his father—it is this man who has been his mentor, his lover, his steadfast companion through triumphs and struggles alike.
"I will show you," Fëanor decides, "but be prepared. They are unlike anything you have seen before."
With ceremonial slowness, he removes the covering cloth. The Silmarils' light floods the chamber instantly, banishing shadows, illuminating every corner with their living radiance. The mingled gold and silver light plays across Mahtan's features, highlighting the strong lines of his face, the flecks of gold in his gray eyes, the few strands of silver now threading through his auburn hair.
Mahtan's breath catches audibly. He reaches out as if to touch one of the jewels, then stops himself, hand hovering inches away. "What are they?" he asks, voice hushed with awe.
"The Silmarils," Fëanor says, pride swelling in his chest at Mahtan's evident wonder. "They contain the living light of the Trees, preserved in a crystal matrix of my own design."
Mahtan's eyes widen. "You've captured the light itself? How?"
Fëanor explains the process in broad strokes, omitting certain details—the origin of his vision, the source of the hair that forms the jewels' cores. Some secrets remain his alone.
"They're miracle-work," Mahtan says when Fëanor finishes, shaking his head in disbelief. "Beyond anything I could have taught you. Beyond anything I imagined possible."
"You taught me the foundations," Fëanor says quietly. "Everything I am as a craftsman began with you."
Mahtan's gaze shifts from the jewels to Fëanor's face, his expression softening. "And now you have surpassed me utterly."
"Never," Fëanor says fiercely. He rises from his seat, moving around the table to stand before Mahtan. "You gave me more than craft. You gave me understanding. Acceptance." His voice drops lower. "Love."
The word hangs between them, weighted with years of stolen moments, passionate encounters, forbidden feelings. Mahtan reaches up, his calloused hand cupping Fëanor's cheek with a tenderness that belies his strength.
"And you gave me fire," Mahtan murmurs. "A brightness in my life I never expected to find."
They come together as they have countless times before, lips meeting in a kiss that begins gently but quickly deepens, fueled by days of separation and the heightened emotions of the moment. Fëanor presses himself against the solid warmth of Mahtan's body, seeking the familiar comfort of his embrace.
Mahtan's hands slide beneath Fëanor's tunic, palms warm against bare skin. "Let me see you," he says, voice rough with desire. "In the light of your creation."
The request sends a thrill through Fëanor's body. He steps back, removing his clothing with deliberate slowness, aware of Mahtan's hungry gaze following each movement. The Silmarils' light plays across his bare skin, casting it in unearthly radiance, highlighting the lean muscle, the few scars earned in his craft, the evidence of his arousal.
"Beautiful," Mahtan breathes, his own hands moving to remove his clothing. "As beautiful as anything you've ever crafted."
When they are both naked, they come together again, skin against skin, breath mingling, hands relearning familiar territories. There is no haste in their movements, no desperate urgency—only the slow build of desire between two who know each other's bodies as intimately as their own.
They move to Fëanor's bed, bathed in the light of the Silmarils that makes every touch seem highlighted, every sensation intensified. Mahtan's beard scrapes deliciously against Fëanor's chest as his mouth travels downward, tasting, exploring. Fëanor's fingers tangle in Mahtan's hair, loosening the practical braids until auburn waves spread across his thighs.
"I've missed you," Fëanor admits, gasping as Mahtan's mouth finds him, engulfs him in wet heat. "Thought of you... even as I worked."
Mahtan hums in acknowledgment, the vibration sending pleasure coursing through Fëanor's body. His skilled tongue works in patterns learned over centuries, bringing Fëanor to the edge of climax before pulling away, denying completion.
"Not yet," Mahtan says, sliding back up Fëanor's body to claim his mouth again. "I want to be part of you when you finish."
They shift positions with practiced ease, Fëanor guiding Mahtan onto his back, straddling his sturdy hips. Oil from the bedside table slicks Mahtan's fingers as he prepares Fëanor with patient thoroughness, stretching him open until Fëanor is rocking back against his hand, demanding more.
When Fëanor finally sinks down onto Mahtan's length, they both groan at the perfect rightness of the connection. Fëanor sets the pace, rising and falling with deliberate slowness, watching how the light of the Silmarils plays across Mahtan's face, highlighting the pleasure written there.
"Look at me," Mahtan commands softly, his hands gripping Fëanor's hips. "Let me see you come undone."
Fëanor meets his gaze, allowing Mahtan to witness every flicker of pleasure, every moment of vulnerability as they move together toward completion. When release finally claims him, it feels like his very being expands outward, encompassing Mahtan, the room, the Silmarils themselves—everything connected in a single moment of transcendent pleasure.
Mahtan follows moments later, his climax triggering aftershocks of sensation that leave Fëanor trembling above him. They collapse together, breathing hard, limbs entangled, hearts gradually slowing to normal rhythm.
Later, lying in the circle of Mahtan's arms, Fëanor watches the steady glow of the Silmarils across the room. Their light seems to pulse with the rhythm of their creator's heartbeat, as if they remain connected to him by more than mere craftsmanship.
"What will you do with them?" Mahtan asks, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Fëanor's shoulder.
"Keep them safe," Fëanor says without hesitation. "They are too precious, too powerful to display casually."
Mahtan's hand stills. "You speak of them almost as children rather than creations."
"Perhaps they are both," Fëanor muses. "They came from me, yet they are more than I intended. I feel... protective of them."
"Be careful," Mahtan warns softly. "Such beauty invites envy. Such power attracts those who would possess it."
Fëanor turns in his arms, pressing a kiss to Mahtan's bearded jaw. "Let them envy. Let them desire. The Silmarils are mine alone—as you have been mine, as I have been yours."
"Always," Mahtan agrees, tightening his embrace.
But even as they drift toward sleep, wrapped in each other's warmth and the gentle radiance of the Silmarils, Fëanor feels a shadow of premonition cross his consciousness—a sense that these jewels, born of vision and passion, might one day bring both glory and grief beyond imagining. He pushes the thought away, focusing instead on the solid reality of Mahtan beside him, the tangible success of his creation.
Whatever the future holds, this moment—with his greatest work completed and his oldest love beside him—is perfect beyond words. Fëanor allows himself to sink into it completely, putting aside, for now, the whispers of destiny that seem to emanate from the glowing jewels watching over their creator's rest.
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