The path to Mahtan's forge feels longer today, each step heavier than the last. Fëanor pauses at the crest of the hill, watching smoke curl from the chimney into the sky he will soon abandon - a sky darkened after the destruction of the Trees. His hands are cold despite the warmth of the eternal spring, and the hilt of his sword presses against his hip like an accusation. This place has always been his sanctuary, but today it feels like one more treasure he must surrender to the flames of his own making.
He stands motionless, allowing the familiar scents to reach him—hot metal, coal smoke, and the subtle note of copper that always clings to Mahtan's workshop. How many times has he walked this path? First as a nervous apprentice, then as a collaborator, and finally as something far more complicated than either role could encompass. The memories tug at him, each one a delicate thread connecting him to this place, to the man who waits inside. Fëanor knows that after today, these threads will stretch across an impassable distance until they inevitably snap. For what? For pride? For vengeance? For truth? The answers shift like shadows in his mind, never quite settling into certainty.
Fëanor draws himself up, smoothing the folds of his travel cloak. The fabric is rich but practical—embroidered with subtle patterns of his own design but made to withstand the rigors of the journey ahead. He has already donned the mantle of a leader in exile. His people wait for him, their belongings packed, their hearts burning with the same fire he kindled within them. They cannot leave without him, and he cannot linger here much longer.
Still, his feet remain rooted to the ground. Once he enters, once he speaks the words he came to deliver, everything changes. He knows this as deeply as he knows the properties of metal and stone.
The door of the forge opens before Fëanor can resolve his hesitation. Mahtan stands framed in the doorway, his tall figure haloed by the glow from within. His auburn hair is pulled back from his face, and his unusual beard—so foreign among the typically smooth-faced Noldor—catches the light like burnished copper. His grey eyes widen slightly, the only indication of surprise at finding Fëanor on his threshold.
"I thought I heard someone," Mahtan says, his voice carefully neutral. "Were you planning to just stand there all day?"
Fëanor's lips quirk in a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I was considering it."
The silence between them stretches, taut as wire. Mahtan steps aside, a wordless invitation that Fëanor accepts after only a moment's further hesitation. The interior of the forge enfolds him in familiar heat and shadow. The arrangement is exactly as he remembers—the great anvil at the center, tools hung with meticulous care along the walls, finished works displayed on shelves. Nothing has changed, yet everything feels different.
"You're dressed for travel," Mahtan observes, closing the door behind them. He moves to a workbench, setting aside a half-finished piece—a delicate network of copper wire that Fëanor can't help but admire despite the circumstances.
"Yes." The single word hangs between them, insufficient yet overwhelming.
Mahtan nods once, turning to face Fëanor fully. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with the small burns and scars that are the badges of their craft. "So the rumors are true, then."
"Which rumors? There are so many these days." Fëanor's voice takes on an edge. "That I've gone mad? That I threaten the peace of Valinor? That I defy the Valar themselves?"
"That you're leaving." Mahtan's reply cuts through Fëanor's building anger like a blade through heated metal. Simple. Direct. Devastating.
Fëanor moves further into the room, running his fingers along the edge of a table. The wood is smooth from years of use, from his own hands working alongside Mahtan's. "Yes. I'm leaving. We all are—those who remember what it means to be Noldor. Those who refuse to bow to tyranny and lies."
"All of you," Mahtan repeats, and there's a question buried in the statement that Fëanor chooses not to excavate.
"My sons. My people. Those loyal to me and to the memory of my father." Fëanor's throat tightens around the mention of Finwë, murdered by Morgoth's hand. The loss is still raw, a wound that festers and spreads its poison through his thoughts. "We go to Middle-earth, to claim what was meant to be ours. To seek vengeance. To be free."
Mahtan makes a sound—not quite agreement, not quite dissent. He lifts a pitcher and pours two cups of wine. The normalcy of the gesture feels bizarre against the weight of Fëanor's declaration. He accepts the offered cup, their fingers not quite touching in the exchange.
"And when do you depart?" Mahtan asks, not drinking from his own cup, merely holding it as though uncertain what else to do with his hands.
"Tomorrow. At dawn." There is no dawn anymore with the light of the Trees gone, but there are still ways to tell. Fëanor takes a sip of the wine, finding it bitter on his tongue. "We've waited long enough. The Valar debate and deliberate while Morgoth roams free with my father's blood on his hands and my creations in his crown." His voice hardens. "I will not be counseled to patience any longer."
Mahtan sets his cup down untouched. In the flickering light of the forge fire, his expression is difficult to read—a mixture of sorrow and resignation, perhaps, or something more complex. "So you came to say goodbye." It's not a question.
"I came because—" Fëanor stops, the practiced speech he had prepared suddenly inadequate. Why had he come? To persuade Mahtan to join him? To seek approval he knows will not be given? To wound himself with one final memory to carry into exile? "I came because I could not leave without seeing you."
The admission costs him. Pride has always been Fëanor's shield, and to lower it, even for a moment, leaves him feeling exposed. He moves to the glowing heart of the forge, seeking its familiar comfort. The heat touches his face, a pale echo of the fire that burns within him.
"Nerdanel stays behind," Mahtan says quietly.
Fëanor stiffens. Of course Mahtan would speak of his daughter first. "She made her choice. As I have made mine."
"And your sons? Did they choose, or did you choose for them?"
The question stings, precisely aimed to find the fault line in Fëanor's certainty. "They are men grown, not children to be led by the hand. They understand what is at stake."
Mahtan moves closer, though still keeping a careful distance. "And what is at stake, Fëanor? What are you risking in this venture?"
"Everything," Fëanor answers without hesitation. "And nothing that has not already been taken from me." He turns from the forge to face Mahtan directly. "I have lost my father. My works. My right to remain in the land of my birth. What more would you have me surrender?"
The question hangs in the air between them, heavy with implied meanings. Mahtan's gaze holds his, unwavering. In those grey eyes, Fëanor sees not the judgment he expected, but a deep, resigned understanding that somehow hurts more.
"I did not come to argue," Fëanor says, softer now. "Not with you."
"Then why did you come?" Mahtan asks again, and this time there's a tremor in his voice that betrays the emotion beneath his composed exterior.
Fëanor sets down his cup and crosses the distance between them in three swift strides. He doesn't touch Mahtan, not yet, but stands close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that even the blessed life of Valinor cannot prevent.
"Because some goodbyes must be spoken face to face," Fëanor says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Because some bonds deserve more than silence and absence."
Something breaks in Mahtan's expression then—a crumbling of restraint that transforms his features from carved stone to living flesh. His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles on Fëanor's shoulder, the touch firm through the layers of fabric.
"Then say it," Mahtan challenges, the words catching in his throat. "Say the goodbye you came to deliver, and be done with it."
But Fëanor finds he cannot. The words will not come, trapped behind the knot of emotion that tightens his throat. Instead, he reaches up to cover Mahtan's hand with his own, feeling the familiar calluses, the strength that has guided him for so many years.
"I leave at dawn," he repeats, as though the words might somehow transform their meaning with repetition. "I came to ask—" He breaks off, knowing what he wants to ask is impossible, unfair.
Mahtan's grip tightens on his shoulder. "Ask."
Fëanor meets his gaze directly, his silver eyes reflecting the forge fire. "Come with me."
The invitation hangs between them, an impossible bridge over an impassable chasm. Fëanor knows the answer before Mahtan speaks it, sees it in the shadow that passes over the older elf's face, in the slight shake of his head.
"You know I cannot."
And Fëanor does know, has always known. Yet the pain of hearing it spoken aloud is sharp enough to make him draw in a quick breath, as though he's touched heated metal with bare fingers.
"Then I have nothing more to say," Fëanor murmurs, stepping back, breaking the contact between them. He turns toward the door, his steps measured and deliberate.
"Fëanor." Mahtan's voice stops him before he reaches the threshold. "This path you've chosen... there is no returning from it."
Fëanor pauses, his back still turned, his hand on the latch. "I know," he says, and in his voice is all the fire and ice of the spirit that earned him his name. "That is why I must walk it."
He pushes the door open, letting in a stream of mingled light from the Trees. The beauty of it strikes him anew, knowing it will soon be only a memory. Just like this moment, this place, this man.
"Farewell, Mahtan," he says without turning. "May your fires burn bright in my absence."
The door closes behind him with a finality that echoes in his chest. The path stretches before him, leading away from the forge, away from Valinor, away from everything he has ever known. Fëanor walks it with his head high, though inside, something precious and irreplaceable splinters with each step.
"Don't you dare walk away from me like that, you cunt." Mahtan's voice cuts through the evening air, sharper than any blade Fëanor has ever forged. Fëanor halts mid-stride, his back stiffening at the command in that familiar tone - the language. He doesn't turn immediately, taking a moment to compose the tumult of his expression. When he finally faces Mahtan, he finds the older elf standing with feet planted firmly in the path, his auburn beard catching the light like copper wire, his eyes hard as hammered steel.
"We haven't finished," Mahtan says, softer now but no less insistent. He gestures toward a small garden adjacent to the workshop, a private space enclosed by a living fence of flowering shrubs. "Please."
The "please" undoes something in Fëanor—this proud craftsman, reducing himself to entreaty. He follows without further protest, though each step feels like concession. The garden offers solitude, away from any who might pass by the main path. It's a familiar sanctuary; they've sat here many times before, discussing designs, sharing wine, mapping the constellations with intertwined fingers pointed skyward.
Mahtan settles on a bench carved from pale stone. Fëanor remains standing, unwilling to suggest permanence when his mind is already mapping the long road ahead.
"You cannot do this," Mahtan begins, direct as always. "The consequences—"
"I've measured the consequences," Fëanor interrupts, his voice tight. "I've weighed them against the cost of inaction and found them acceptable."
"Acceptable?" Mahtan's laugh holds no humor. "Exile from the Blessed Realm? The sundering of your family? A journey into darkness with no guarantee of return? These are acceptable losses to you?"
"What would you have me do?" Fëanor's control slips, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Kneel before the Valar who failed to protect my father? Bow to those who counsel patience while Morgoth keeps my creations? The same Valar who demanded I surrender the Silmarils when they were still mine to give?"
"I would have you think beyond your grief and rage." Mahtan rises, closing the distance between them. "I would have you consider what this exodus means for those who follow you. For your sons."
"My sons stand with me willingly."
"Do they? Or do they follow because you are their father, because your fire burns so bright it blinds them to reason?" Mahtan's expression softens. "And what of Nerdanel? What of my daughter?"
The mention of her name hits Fëanor like a physical blow. His estranged wife, the mother of his children, Mahtan's daughter—a complex knot of relationships that cannot be cleanly severed.
"Nerdanel made her choice," Fëanor says, the words rehearsed and hollow. "She chose safety over justice. Comfort over truth."
"She chose life," Mahtan corrects quietly. "She chose not to follow you down a path that leads only to destruction."
Fëanor turns away, pacing the narrow confines of the garden. The plants around them are in full bloom, perfect in their eternal spring—another reminder of what he prepares to abandon.
"We have spoken of this already, she and I," Fëanor says, his voice carefully controlled. "Many times. Too many. There is nothing left to say between us."
"And so you leave her. You take her sons and leave her."
Fëanor spins back to face him. "They are my sons too! And they are not children to be parceled between us like disputed property. They have chosen their allegiance."
"Because you've filled their heads with visions of glory and vengeance!" Mahtan's composure cracks, showing the fear beneath his anger. "You've bound them with that cursed oath, Fëanor. An oath to pursue the Silmarils beyond reason, beyond hope—unto the very ends of the world!"
"An oath freely given," Fëanor counters, though something in him flinches at the reminder. The memory of that night is etched in fire—the raised swords, the synchronized voices, the terrible binding words that cannot be undone. "They understand what was stolen from us. What must be reclaimed."
Mahtan passes a hand over his face, suddenly looking weary beyond measure. "And what of the cost? You know once you leave, you cannot return -"
"So be it." Fëanor lifts his chin. "If we are fenced out, we shall build our own realm, greater than anything they could imagine. If they shut their ears to our lamentation, we shall sing so loudly that the very stars shake with the force of our voices."
"This isn't one of your grand designs, Fëanor. This is the lives of your people—your family—my daughter—" Mahtan stops, his voice breaking. "You go to war against a power you cannot comprehend."
"I comprehend it well enough." Fëanor's hand moves unconsciously to his sword hilt. "Morgoth may be mighty, but he is not invincible. He bleeds, as my father's death proves. And what bleeds can be killed."
Mahtan shakes his head, auburn hair sliding over his shoulders. "You would throw yourself against the darkness like a moth against flame."
"I am no moth," Fëanor says, a dangerous edge entering his voice. "I am the flame."
The silence that follows feels heavy enough to bend the light around them. Mahtan studies Fëanor's face as though memorizing it—as though he already sees the shadow of doom falling across those proud features.
"The ships," Mahtan says finally, changing tactics. "How will you cross the sea?"
Fëanor's expression shifts, becoming guarded. "The Teleri have ships."
"The Teleri love their ships as you love your creations," Mahtan observes. "They will not give them lightly."
"Then not lightly will we ask." Fëanor's eyes gleam with determination. "But cross the sea we shall, by whatever means necessary."
Mahtan's face pales at the implication. "What are you planning, Fëanor? What lengths will you go to?"
"Whatever lengths are required." Fëanor speaks each word distinctly, a hammer striking metal. "I will not be denied this passage."
"Listen to yourself," Mahtan whispers. "The Fëanor I know—the Fëanor I love—would never speak of taking what isn't freely given."
The word "love," spoken so plainly, causes Fëanor to falter. His expression softens momentarily, revealing the vulnerability beneath his armor of certainty.
"The Fëanor you knew lived in a world where his father still drew breath," he says, quieter now. "Where light was not confined to jewels that adorn a murderer's crown. That Fëanor is gone, Mahtan. Burned away in the same fire that consumed the Trees."
Mahtan moves forward, boldly entering Fëanor's space. His hand rises to touch Fëanor's cheek, the contact sending warmth through both of them. "He is not gone. I see him still, beneath this shroud of vengeance you've wrapped yourself in."
Fëanor doesn't pull away from the touch, though every instinct tells him to retreat, to protect the resolve that might crumble under such tenderness. "Then you see a ghost," he murmurs. "A memory of someone who no longer exists."
"No." Mahtan's thumb traces the line of Fëanor's cheekbone. "I see a spirit so bright it burns itself in its own fire. I see the most brilliant mind ever born to our people, clouded by grief and pride." His voice drops lower. "I see the elf who came to me as an apprentice, eager to learn, to create. Who became my peer, my collaborator. My friend." A pause, heavy with meaning. "My heart. My beloved."
The words strike at Fëanor's core, where doubt lurks beneath certainty. For a moment, he allows himself to imagine staying—continuing his work in Mahtan's forge, finding solace in their shared passion for creation rather than destruction. The vision is sweet, peaceful.
And impossible.
Fëanor takes Mahtan's wrist gently, lowering his hand from his face. "My heart remains here with you," he admits, the confession painful. "But my oath, my duty, my vengeance—these things compel me forward."
"Then let me come with you," Mahtan says suddenly, surprising them both. "If you will not stay, let me go."
For one disorienting moment, hope flares in Fëanor's chest—bright, painful, and swiftly extinguished by reality. He shakes his head slowly. "You cannot. Your place is here, with your daughter. With your guild. Your life's work."
"My life's work stands before me," Mahtan insists, gripping Fëanor's forearms. "Everything I've created pales beside what we've built together."
Fëanor closes his eyes against the ache those words provoke. "And what of Nerdanel? Would you leave your daughter alone, with both husband and father gone into exile?"
The question strikes home; Mahtan's grip loosens, his shoulders slumping slightly. "She needs one of us," he concedes.
"Yes," Fëanor agrees softly. "She does."
They stand together in silence, the impossibility of reconciling their separate paths settling between them like a physical presence. The mingled light of the Trees plays across their features, highlighting the sorrow etched there.
"There must be another way," Mahtan says finally, his voice rough. "Some compromise—"
"There is no compromise with theft. With murder." Fëanor's voice hardens again. "What Morgoth has taken, I will reclaim. What he has destroyed, I will avenge. This path was set the moment he spilled my father's blood and stole my light."
Mahtan studies him, seeking some crack in his resolve, some opening for reason. Finding none, his expression shifts to resignation. "Then you truly mean to do this. To leave Valinor. To pursue Morgoth across the sea."
"Yes." The single syllable carries the weight of absolute certainty.
"And nothing I say will dissuade you."
"Nothing anyone could say," Fëanor corrects gently. "My course is set, Mahtan. My ships—borrowed or taken—await. My people prepare for the journey even as we speak."
Mahtan turns away, moving to the edge of the garden where a small fountain plays, water cascading over skillfully arranged stones. "Then we have reached an impasse," he says, his back to Fëanor. "I cannot convince you to stay. You cannot convince me to go."
"So it seems," Fëanor agrees, the words tasting bitter.
Mahtan's shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. When he turns back, his expression has changed. The arguing mentor is gone, replaced by something more intimate, more vulnerable. "If this is truly our last night," he says quietly, "I would not spend it in fruitless debate."
The implication hangs in the air between them, clear as the note of a perfectly struck bell. Fëanor feels a different kind of heat rise within him, banishing the chill of their argument.
"Nor would I," he admits, taking a step closer.
Mahtan reaches out, his hand finding Fëanor's, their fingers intertwining with the practiced ease of long familiarity. "Come inside," he says, leading Fëanor back toward the forge, toward the private chambers beyond. "If we cannot change what tomorrow brings, at least we can make tonight something worth remembering."
Fëanor follows, their joined hands a bridge spanning the chasm of their opposing choices. For tonight, at least, they can pretend the dawn will never come.
Mahtan's private chambers lie beyond the forge, separated by a short corridor that transitions from workspace to sanctuary. The room is familiar to Fëanor—the wide bed with its intricately carved headboard, the shelves lined with personal treasures they've exchanged over the years, the window that frames the eternal twilight of Valinor like a living painting. A single lamp burns low, casting their shadows against the walls in an intimate dance. Fëanor stands in the center of the room, suddenly uncertain, the weight of their impending separation pressing against his chest like a physical thing.
Mahtan closes the door behind them, the soft click of the latch sealing them away from the world outside. For a moment, neither moves, as though crossing some invisible threshold requires a ritual neither can quite remember.
"How many nights have we spent here?" Fëanor asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Not enough," Mahtan answers simply. "Never enough."
They stand apart, the space between them charged with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires. Fëanor's eyes trace Mahtan's form—the broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, the strong hands now hanging loosely at his sides, the unusual beard that has always fascinated him. How many times has he run his fingers through that auburn cascade? How many times has he felt it brush against his skin?
"I never thought—" Fëanor begins, then stops. "I never imagined our last night would come so soon."
"Nor I." Mahtan takes a step forward, then another, approaching Fëanor with the cautious respect one might show a flame that could either warm or consume. "Perhaps there's wisdom in not knowing such things in advance."
Fëanor doesn't retreat as Mahtan closes the distance. Their bodies don't touch, but he can feel the heat radiating between them, the magnetic pull that has always existed in their proximity.
"I cannot stay," Fëanor says, feeling compelled to reiterate what they both already know.
"And I cannot follow." Mahtan's hand rises, hovering near Fëanor's face without making contact. "But tonight..."
"Tonight is ours," Fëanor finishes for him, leaning slightly into the suspended hand until Mahtan's palm cups his cheek.
Their fingers brush, and they feel a spark—not static from the dry air, but the kindling of a more elemental fire that has always burned between them. It jolts them nonetheless, bridging the gap that separated them moments before.
Mahtan's thumb traces the curve of Fëanor's lower lip, a touch so light it might be imagined. "My Fëanáro," he murmurs huskily, the intimacy of it sending a shiver down Fëanor's spine. "My spirit of fire. My flame. My song."
The endearment breaks something in Fëanor—a dam holding back emotion he can no longer contain. He surges forward, eliminating the last distance between them, his hands rising to frame Mahtan's face as their lips meet in a kiss that begins as confirmation and quickly transforms into hunger.
Mahtan's arms encircle him, one hand splayed across the small of his back, the other threading through his long black hair. The kiss deepens, tongues meeting in a dance familiar yet urgent, as though they're trying to memorize each other's taste before separation.
When they finally part for breath, Fëanor's silver eyes are bright with unshed tears. "My dark passion," he whispers against Mahtan's mouth. "My anchor in the storm."
The words, rarely spoken aloud, hang between them like precious gems. Mahtan makes a sound—half laugh, half sob—and presses his forehead against Fëanor's.
"If you knew what you mean to me," Mahtan says, his voice rough with emotion. "If you could feel what I feel when you're near—"
"Show me," Fëanor interrupts, his hands sliding down to tug at the fastenings of Mahtan's tunic. "Make me feel it. I need—" He breaks off, unable to articulate the desperate ache inside him.
Mahtan understands without words. His fingers join Fëanor's, helping to remove the barriers between them. The tunic falls away, revealing Mahtan's chest, broad and muscled from centuries of work at the forge. Fëanor's hands spread across the warm skin, tracing old scars and familiar contours.
"You are beautiful," Fëanor murmurs, pressing his lips to the hollow of Mahtan's throat. "You have always been beautiful to me."
A tear slips down Mahtan's cheek, catching in his beard. "As you have been to me, since the first day you walked into my forge, too proud to admit how much you had to learn."
Fëanor smiles against Mahtan's skin, remembering his younger self—arrogant, brilliant, and utterly captivated by the master craftsman who would become so much more than a teacher. "I learned quickly," he says, nipping gently at Mahtan's collarbone.
"Too quickly," Mahtan agrees, his hands finding the elaborate clasps of Fëanor's travel garb. "Always too quick to master whatever caught your interest."
The outer layers of Fëanor's clothing fall away under Mahtan's practiced fingers, revealing the simpler tunic beneath. Mahtan's hands pause, resting on Fëanor's shoulders.
"And did I catch your interest?" he asks, suddenly serious. "Or was I merely a path to knowledge?"
Fëanor pulls back slightly, meeting Mahtan's gaze directly. "You know better than that," he says, his voice low and intense. "You have always been more. You became the knowledge I sought."
Another tear joins the first on Mahtan's face. Fëanor reaches up to catch it with his thumb, then brings it to his lips, tasting the salt of Mahtan's sorrow.
"Don't," Mahtan whispers. "Don't make this a farewell yet. We still have tonight."
Fëanor nods, swallowing the knot in his own throat. His fingers return to Mahtan's body, exploring with deliberate slowness, committing every plane and curve to memory. Mahtan does the same, removing Fëanor's tunic with gentle care, revealing the pale skin beneath.
They stand chest to chest, skin against skin, heartbeats synchronizing as they have so many times before. Fëanor's hands slide around Mahtan's waist, drawing them even closer together.
"I want to remember every moment," Fëanor murmurs, his lips brushing against Mahtan's jaw. "Every touch. Every breath."
"Then let us make memories worth carrying," Mahtan replies, his hands moving to the fastenings of Fëanor's leggings. "Into exile. Into eternity."
They undress each other fully, their movements unhurried despite the urgency thrumming beneath their skin. Each piece of clothing removed is a barrier dissolved, bringing them closer to the raw truth of their connection. When they finally stand naked before each other, the lamplight plays across their bodies, highlighting the differences between them—Mahtan's broader frame and auburn hair against Fëanor's lithe muscle and midnight locks.
Mahtan takes Fëanor's hand, leading him to the bed they've shared countless times before. The sheets welcome them, cool against heated skin as they stretch out beside each other. Their bodies align naturally, finding the familiar configurations that have always brought them pleasure.
Fëanor's hands are restless, traversing Mahtan's body as though mapping territory he fears losing. His touch alternates between feather-light and firmly possessive, drawing small sounds of pleasure from Mahtan's throat.
"Slow down," Mahtan murmurs, capturing Fëanor's wrists gently. "We have time. The night is young."
Fëanor's breath catches at the restraint, his eyes meeting Mahtan's with a flash of heat. "The night is never long enough," he counters, but allows Mahtan to guide his pace.
Mahtan presses a kiss to Fëanor's palm, then his wrist, then the inside of his elbow—a trail of sensation that makes Fëanor shiver. "My impatient flame," he says, the words vibrating against Fëanor's skin. "Always burning too quickly."
"Only you can bank my fire," Fëanor admits, the confession soft and vulnerable. "Only you ever could."
Something shifts in Mahtan's expression at those words—a deepening of desire, a strengthening of resolve. He moves over Fëanor, supporting his weight on his forearms, their bodies aligned from chest to toe. The position is both protective and possessive, caging Fëanor beneath the larger elf's frame.
"Then let me," Mahtan says, lowering his head to claim Fëanor's mouth in a kiss that is no longer gentle. It is demanding, controlling, an assertion of mastery that Fëanor responds to with a soft moan.
Their bodies move together, finding the rhythm that has always existed between them. Mahtan's hands slide beneath Fëanor, lifting his hips to press them more firmly together. The friction draws gasps from both of them, their kisses growing messier, more desperate.
"Mahtan," Fëanor breathes, his head falling back as Mahtan's lips trace the column of his throat. "Please—"
"Tell me what you need," Mahtan murmurs against his skin. "Tell me how to make this night eternal for you."
Fëanor's hands tangle in Mahtan's hair, holding him close. "Make me yours," he whispers. "One last time. Make me forget everything but you."
Mahtan lifts his head, meeting Fëanor's gaze. In the low lamplight, his eyes are dark with desire and something deeper—a possessive love that transcends the physical act they're engaged in.
"You have always been mine," Mahtan says, his voice thick with emotion. "Since the first time you yielded to me. And you will remain mine, no matter what borders separate us."
A sob escapes Fëanor, unexpected and raw. Mahtan catches it with his lips, kissing him deeply as tears spill from both their eyes, mingling on their cheeks.
"My spirit of fire," Mahtan whispers against Fëanor's mouth. "Burning so bright it hurts to look upon you. Yet I cannot look away—I never could."
"My dark passion," Fëanor returns, his voice breaking. "My secret heart. The one truth I never shared with the world."
Their bodies press closer, seeking the ultimate connection. Mahtan's hand slides between them, wrapping around both their lengths, drawing a gasp from Fëanor at the intimate contact.
"Stay with me," Mahtan instructs, his free hand cupping Fëanor's face. "Be here, now. Nothing exists beyond this room, this bed, this moment."
Fëanor nods, his silver eyes locked with Mahtan's grey ones. For now, he can pretend that dawn will never come, that the world outside doesn't wait with all its demands and oaths and vengeance. For now, there is only Mahtan's touch, Mahtan's voice, Mahtan's love surrounding him, filling the hollow spaces that grief and rage have carved within him.
Their movements grow more urgent, bodies seeking release and connection in equal measure. Mahtan kisses away the tears that continue to slip down Fëanor's cheeks, murmuring endearments and promises that both know cannot be kept.
"I will find you again," Fëanor vows, his voice trembling as pleasure builds within him. "Somehow. Somewhere. This cannot be the end."
"Never the end," Mahtan agrees, his rhythm faltering as emotion threatens to overwhelm them both. "Only a pause. A breath between notes in an eternal song."
The poetry of it—so unlike Mahtan's usual practical speech—undoes Fëanor completely. He pulls Mahtan down into a kiss that tastes of salt and sorrow and desperate love, their bodies moving together toward the precipice of pleasure that awaits them.
When release comes, it crashes through them simultaneously—a shared climax that feels both like culmination and beginning. They cling to each other through the waves of sensation, names and endearments falling from their lips in broken whispers.
"My flame and song, my spirit of fire," Mahtan breathes against Fëanor's temple as the tremors subside. "Burn for me in the darkness. Remember this light we've made together."
"My dark passion," Fëanor responds, his arms tightening around Mahtan as though he might dissolve into mist at any moment. "Keep my heart safe until I return for it."
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