The afterglow envelops them like a cocoon of shared warmth, their bodies still tangled in a languorous embrace. Mahtan's fingers trail lazily along Fëanor's spine, counting vertebrae as though taking inventory of treasures soon to be lost. Fëanor's eyes are half-closed, his breathing even, but Mahtan knows the signs too well—the mind behind those silver eyes never truly rests, always calculating, planning, remembering. Even now, in this sacred space, Fëanor cannot fully surrender to the present moment. Unless helped to do so.
"Your thoughts are already on the road," Mahtan murmurs, his beard tickling Fëanor's shoulder as he speaks. "I can feel you drifting away."
Fëanor shifts, pressing closer as though to deny the accusation. "I'm right here," he insists, but the slight tension in his muscles betrays him.
Mahtan props himself up on one elbow, looking down at Fëanor with a mixture of tenderness and determination. "Not entirely," he says, his free hand moving to trace the sharp line of Fëanor's jawbone. "Part of you is already gone—preparing, planning, rehearsing arguments for tomorrow's confrontations."
A flicker of guilt crosses Fëanor's features. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "It's not intentional."
"I know." Mahtan's thumb brushes across Fëanor's lower lip, feeling the slight tremor there. "You've never been able to quiet that brilliant mind of yours. Not without help."
The words hang between them, laden with meaning and memory. Fëanor's breath catches, his pupils dilating slightly as understanding dawns.
"Tonight of all nights," Mahtan continues, his voice dropping to a register that sends a visible shiver through Fëanor, "I want all of you here with me. Not just your body. Your mind. Your spirit." He leans closer, lips brushing the sensitive shell of Fëanor's ear. "Will you give me that gift?"
Fëanor swallows, his throat moving visibly with the action. "Yes," he whispers, the single syllable filled with surrender and trust.
Mahtan presses a kiss to his temple, then rises from the bed with fluid grace. Fëanor watches as he moves to a carved chest in the corner of the room, his naked form highlighted by the lamplight, muscles shifting beneath skin as he retrieves what they both know lies within.
When Mahtan returns, he carries four lengths of silk cord—deep blue like the midnight sky, shot through with silver threads that catch the light as they move. They're familiar to Fëanor's eyes; Mahtan wove them himself many years ago, specifically for this purpose. The sight of them sends a rush of heat through Fëanor's body, knowing what they represent.
"Arms above your head," Mahtan instructs, his tone shifting subtly from lover to master.
Fëanor complies without hesitation, stretching his arms toward the elaborately carved headboard. The position elongates his torso, emphasizing the lean muscle built through centuries at the forge. Mahtan takes a moment to simply appreciate the view—the pale skin against dark sheets, the contrast of black hair spilled across the pillow, the trust implicit in the posture of surrender.
"Beautiful," Mahtan murmurs, beginning the ritual that has become sacred between them over the years.
He takes the first length of silk, wrapping it around Fëanor's right wrist with practiced care. The binding is secure but not tight, an artform in itself. Mahtan has spent centuries perfecting his technique, learning exactly how much pressure creates the ideal balance between restraint and comfort. He secures the cord to one of the carved posts, then repeats the process with Fëanor's left wrist.
Fëanor tests the bindings instinctively, feeling the familiar restriction of movement. Already, a subtle change comes over him—a softening around his eyes, a loosening of the perpetual tension in his shoulders. With each moment, each breath, the outside world recedes a little further.
"Legs," Mahtan directs next, his voice gentle but brooking no argument.
Fëanor spreads his legs, allowing Mahtan to bind each ankle to the lower corners of the bed frame. When he finishes, Fëanor lies spread before him in perfect vulnerability—limbs extended, body exposed, nowhere to hide.
Mahtan stands at the foot of the bed, taking in the tableau he's created. "Now," he says, satisfaction evident in his tone, "now you're fully here with me."
Fëanor's chest rises and falls with quickened breath, his arousal visibly returning despite their earlier activities. The surrender of control has always affected him this way—a paradoxical freedom found in restraint.
"What will you do with me?" Fëanor asks, his voice carrying a hint of challenge despite his compromised position.
A slow smile spreads across Mahtan's face. "Whatever I wish," he answers simply, climbing onto the bed to kneel between Fëanor's spread legs. "That's the beauty of it, isn't it? You've given yourself into my keeping."
He begins with the lightest of touches—fingertips ghosting over Fëanor's inner thighs, never quite reaching where Fëanor most desires contact. The teasing touch draws a frustrated sound from Fëanor's throat, his hips lifting slightly in silent entreaty.
"Patience, cub," Mahtan admonishes, pressing Fëanor's hips back to the mattress with firm hands. "We have all night. And I intend to use every moment of it."
His hands continue their exploration, mapping the territory of Fëanor's body with deliberate slowness. He traces the sharp angles of hip bones, the subtle ridges of ribs, the sensitive hollows beneath collarbones. Everywhere except where Fëanor silently begs for touch.
"Do you remember the first time we did this?" Mahtan asks, his voice conversational as his fingers circle Fëanor's navel. "The mighty Fëanáro, who would have thought you'd submit to restraint?" He chuckles softly at the memory. "And yet, once you surrendered..."
"I discovered its value," Fëanor finishes for him, his voice slightly unsteady as Mahtan's hand drifts lower, then veers away at the last moment. "The peace in giving up control."
"Precisely." Mahtan leans down to press a kiss to the center of Fëanor's chest, directly over his heart. "You carry so much, my spirit of fire. The legacy of your father. The talents of your mother. The expectations of your people." His lips move to Fëanor's throat, feeling the pulse racing beneath the skin. "Here, you needn't carry anything. Here, you simply are."
Fëanor's eyes close, the truth of the words washing through him. In no other context does he allow himself such vulnerability, such complete surrender of the control he maintains so rigidly. Only with Mahtan, only in these moments, can he set down the burdens of his identity.
Mahtan's mouth continues its journey, teeth grazing Fëanor's collarbone, tongue tracing the hollow at the base of his throat. His hands, meanwhile, skate along Fëanor's sides, the touch firm enough not to tickle but light enough to tease.
"Perhaps," Mahtan muses between kisses, "I should simply keep you like this." His tone is playful, but with an undercurrent of genuine longing. "Bound to my bed, unable to leave." He lifts his head to meet Fëanor's gaze. "Would that be so terrible? To remain here, safe and cherished, rather than marching into the unknown?"
Fëanor tugs against his bindings, testing them—not in earnest resistance, but as a reminder of their presence. "You jest," he says, but his voice carries uncertainty.
"Only half in jest." Mahtan's palm flattens against Fëanor's stomach, feeling the muscles tense beneath his touch. "The thought has its appeal, doesn't it? No exile. No war. No oath to fulfill." His hand drifts lower, finally, finally brushing against Fëanor's arousal in the lightest possible contact. "Just this. Us. Forever."
A moan escapes Fëanor at the touch, his hips lifting instinctively to seek more. "Cruel," he gasps, though whether he means the touch or the fantasy is unclear.
"Perhaps." Mahtan withdraws his hand completely, earning a frustrated sound from Fëanor. "But effective." He shifts position, stretching out beside Fëanor's bound form, propped on one elbow to look down at him. "Look at you now—fully present, fully here. Nowhere else to be. Nothing else to think about."
His free hand resumes its leisurely exploration, tracing patterns on Fëanor's skin that mirror the designs they've created together in metal and stone. Each touch is deliberate, calculated to build desire without satisfying it.
"I could keep you on the edge all night," Mahtan continues, his voice a low rumble. "Never allowing you to peak, never permitting release." His fingers circle Fëanor's nipple, then pinch lightly, drawing a sharp intake of breath. "Would you beg, I wonder? Would the proud spirit of fire plead for mercy?"
Fëanor's silver eyes flash with a mixture of desire and defiance. "You could try," he challenges, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the tremor in his voice.
Mahtan's laugh is warm against Fëanor's skin as he bends to replace fingers with mouth, teeth grazing sensitive flesh. "Always defiant," he murmurs. "Even bound and at my mercy." He looks up, meeting Fëanor's gaze. "It's one of the things I love most about you—and one of the things that terrifies me."
The admission hangs between them, more vulnerable than either expected. Mahtan recovers first, his hand sliding down to wrap firmly around Fëanor's length, establishing a slow, steady rhythm that draws a low moan from the bound elf.
"Yes," Mahtan says, watching pleasure transform Fëanor's features. "Like this. Present. Mine."
The possessive word sends a visible shudder through Fëanor. His wrists strain against the silk bindings, not seeking escape but needing something to push against as sensation builds within him.
Mahtan maintains the deliberate pace, neither slowing nor quickening despite Fëanor's increasingly restless movements. "You're wondering if I'll let you finish," he observes, his thumb circling the sensitive tip. "If I'll grant you release or keep you suspended in this exquisite torment."
Fëanor's only response is a bitten-off groan, his head pressing back into the pillow as his body arches within the confines of his bonds.
"The power of choice," Mahtan continues, watching every minute reaction with careful attention. "To give or withhold. To allow or deny." His rhythm slows further, drawing a frustrated sound from Fëanor. "A power you've given to me willingly."
He stops entirely then, his hand moving away just as Fëanor approaches the edge of climax. The bound elf makes a sound of pure frustration, silver eyes flying open to fix Mahtan with a look of disbelief.
"Mahtan—" he begins, the word half-plea, half-protest.
"Shh." Mahtan presses a finger to Fëanor's lips. "Trust me."
He shifts position again, moving to straddle Fëanor's thighs, his own arousal evident. From this vantage point, he can see the full effect of his actions—Fëanor's flushed skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the tension in every muscle as he strains against the silken bonds.
"Beautiful," Mahtan murmurs again, genuine awe in his voice. "The greatest work of art in all Valinor, spread before me like this."
His hands resume their exploration, but with renewed purpose now. He maps the sensitive points of Fëanor's body with precise knowledge born of centuries of intimacy—the spot just below his ear that makes him gasp, the particular pressure point along his inner thigh that makes him tremble, the exact way to stroke him and caress that spot inside him to bring him to the very precipice without allowing him to fall.
Three times he brings Fëanor to the edge, and three times he denies him release, each cycle of approach and retreat drawing more desperate sounds from the bound elf's throat. With each denial, Fëanor sinks deeper into the pure physical experience, the concerns of tomorrow fading further from his mind.
"Please," he finally whispers, the word barely audible, wrenched from some deep place where pride no longer resides. "Mahtan, please."
"Please what?" Mahtan asks, his own voice roughened by desire. "Tell me exactly what you need, my spirit of fire."
Fëanor's eyes open, meeting Mahtan's gaze with raw vulnerability. "Please don't stop again," he says, each word distinct and deliberate despite the tremor in his voice. "I need—please. I need to come."
Mahtan leans down, claiming Fëanor's mouth in a kiss that contains all the possession and tenderness he feels. "As you wish," he murmurs against Fëanor's lips. "Though I stand by my earlier statement—keeping you bound here forever has its appeal."
A laugh escapes Fëanor, breathless and genuine. "If only it were that simple," he says, a note of genuine regret coloring the words.
Mahtan's expression softens. "If only," he agrees, before returning to his work with renewed purpose.
This time, there is no teasing, no withdrawal. His touch is firm and sure, inside and out, bringing Fëanor back to the edge with practiced efficiency. When Fëanor's breathing indicates he's close once more, Mahtan speaks against his ear, voice low and commanding.
"Not yet," he instructs. "Hold it back. Show me that control you're so famous for."
Fëanor makes a strangled sound, muscles tensing visibly as he obeys despite the clear difficulty. Sweat beads on his forehead with the effort, his black hair clinging to his temples and neck.
"Good," Mahtan praises, increasing the intensity of his touch. "So good for me. My good cub. My perfect, beautiful spirit of fire."
The praise affects Fëanor as profoundly as the physical stimulation, his body responding to Mahtan's words with visible tremors. Still, he maintains control, holding back the release that hovers tantalizingly close.
"Look at me," Mahtan commands, and Fëanor's eyes flutter open, revealing pupils so dilated that only a thin ring of silver remains visible. "I want to see your face when you come apart for me."
Their gazes lock, creating an intimacy that transcends the physical connection. In this moment, they are stripped to essentials—no politics, no oaths, no impending separation. Just two spirits intertwined as completely as bodies can allow.
"Now," Mahtan says simply. "Let go. For me."
And Fëanor does, his release crashing through him with an intensity that draws a cry from his throat. His body arches within the constraints of the silken bonds, his eyes never leaving Mahtan's even as pleasure overwhelms him.
Mahtan watches, enraptured by the sight of Fëanor in the throes of ecstasy—the proud, controlled prince of the Noldor coming completely undone at his command. It is a gift beyond price, this trust, this surrender. A memory he will cherish in the lonely days to come.
As the waves of pleasure subside, leaving Fëanor boneless and spent against the sheets, Mahtan leans down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
"Mine," he whispers, the word both claim and prayer. "If only for tonight, completely mine."
Fëanor's eyes close briefly, his breathing gradually steadying. When he opens them again, Mahtan sees that the present has fully claimed him now—no thoughts of tomorrow shadowing his gaze, no burdens of leadership weighing his shoulders. Just pure, undiluted presence in this moment they've created together.
"Yours," Fëanor agrees softly. "Now and always, whatever distances separate us."
The promise settles between them, another thread in the complex tapestry of their relationship. Mahtan traces the curve of Fëanor's jaw with gentle fingers, memorizing the contour of bone beneath skin, the texture of evening stubble, the shape of lips still slightly parted from rapid breathing.
"Rest a moment," he says, shifting to lie beside Fëanor's bound form. "We're far from finished with our night together."
Fëanor turns his head to meet Mahtan's gaze, a spark rekindling in his silver eyes despite his recent release. "Good," he says simply. "Because I'm nowhere near ready to say goodbye."
Time suspends in the shadowed chamber, measured only by their synchronized breathing. Fëanor lies still in his bonds, sweat cooling on his skin, eyes half-lidded but alert as he watches Mahtan rise from beside him. There is something primal in Mahtan's movements now—a deliberate claiming of space that speaks to the shift in their dynamic. The older elf's auburn hair hangs loose around his shoulders, his beard catching the lamplight as he reaches for a small vial on the bedside table. The sight sends a renewed pulse of desire through Fëanor's still-sensitive body; he knows what comes next, has enacted this ritual countless times before, yet tonight it carries the weight of finality that makes every gesture sacred.
"You're watching me," Mahtan observes without turning, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.
"Always," Fëanor responds, the single word carrying layers of meaning.
Mahtan turns, the vial of oil held loosely in his palm. His gaze traverses Fëanor's bound form with unhurried appreciation, taking in the contrast of pale skin against dark sheets, the defined muscles relaxed in temporary satiation, the black hair spread like spilled ink across the pillow.
"Still beautiful," Mahtan murmurs, approaching the bed with measured steps. "Even more so like this—when you allow yourself to simply be, rather than constantly becoming."
Fëanor tests his bonds gently, not seeking escape but reaffirming their presence. The silk cords hold firm, keeping his limbs spread in a position of complete vulnerability. The physical restraint creates a paradoxical freedom—unable to act, he can only experience whatever Mahtan chooses to give.
"You speak as though I'm two different people," Fëanor says, watching as Mahtan settles between his spread legs.
"Aren't you?" Mahtan uncorks the vial, the subtle scent of sandalwood rising from the oil within. "The Fëanor who stands before the council, who rallies his people with speeches of fire and vengeance—he is magnificent, but distant. Untouchable." His oil-slicked fingers trace patterns on Fëanor's inner thigh, gradually moving higher. "But this Fëanor—open, vulnerable, responsive to my every touch—he is mine alone."
The possessive declaration sends a visible shiver through Fëanor's body. His silver eyes darken with renewed desire as Mahtan's hand finds its target, fingers circling, pressing, preparing with practiced care.
"Yes," Fëanor breathes, the admission drawn from some deep place within him. "Yours alone."
Mahtan works with deliberate patience, watching Fëanor's face for every minute reaction, adjusting pressure and pace accordingly. His free hand strokes soothingly along Fëanor's flank, a counterpoint to the more intimate touch.
"Do you remember the first time?" Mahtan asks, his voice gentle despite the intensity of his gaze. "How nervous you were beneath that mask of arrogance?"
A smile flickers across Fëanor's features, genuine despite his quickening breath. "I remember you seeing right through me," he admits. "As you always have."
"You came to my forge seeking knowledge of metalcraft," Mahtan continues, adding another finger to his careful ministrations. "You left with knowledge of yourself."
Fëanor's head presses back into the pillow as sensation builds within him, his wrists pulling against the silk restraints. "A fair exchange," he manages, voice strained. "Though I'm not certain I've mastered either lesson completely."
Mahtan's laugh is warm, affectionate. "Some studies are lifelong pursuits," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to Fëanor's hip bone. "And some teachers are reluctant to declare their students fully graduated."
His fingers withdraw, drawing a small sound of protest from Fëanor that transforms into anticipation as Mahtan moves into position above him. Their eyes lock, communication passing between them that needs no words—trust, desire, the shared acknowledgment of what this night represents.
Mahtan reaches up, brushing a strand of black hair from Fëanor's forehead with unexpected tenderness. "My cub," he murmurs, the endearment inevitable.
Fëanor's breath catches at the nickname, his eyes widening slightly in recognition of what it signifies—not just passion or desire, but a deeper claim, an acknowledgment of the guidance and protection Mahtan has always offered.
"Your cub," Fëanor echoes, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mahtan nods once, a solemn confirmation, before leaning down to capture Fëanor's mouth in a kiss that contains equal measures of tenderness and possession. As their lips meet, he presses forward, joining their bodies in a slow, deliberate motion that draws gasps from both of them.
For a moment they remain perfectly still, connected in the most intimate way possible, foreheads pressed together, sharing breath. Then Mahtan begins to move, establishing a rhythm that speaks of experience and restraint despite the fire burning in his eyes.
Fëanor strains against his bonds, not in resistance but in the instinctive desire to touch, to hold, to participate more actively in their union. The restraints hold firm, keeping him in his position of surrender, forcing him to accept what Mahtan gives without the ability to direct or control.
"Mahtan," he breathes, the name both plea and prayer. "Please—"
"What do you need, my cub?" Mahtan asks, never breaking his steady pace. "Tell me."
"More," Fëanor manages, the word encompassing a multitude of desires. "Deeper. Harder. I want to feel this tomorrow—" His voice breaks. "When I'm gone."
Something flashes in Mahtan's eyes—pain or determination, perhaps both. He adjusts his angle, driving deeper as requested, his hands gripping Fëanor's hips with enough force to leave marks. The new intensity draws a cry from Fëanor's throat, his head falling back to expose the long line of his neck.
"You will," Mahtan promises, voice rough with exertion and emotion. "You'll feel me with every step of your journey. With every decision you make. With every breath you take in exile." Each phrase is punctuated by a powerful thrust that sends waves of pleasure through Fëanor's bound form. "I will be with you, whether you wish it or not."
The declaration is both comfort and challenge. Fëanor's eyes open, meeting Mahtan's gaze with raw emotion. "I will always wish it," he vows, the words sincere despite the circumstances that drive them apart.
Their bodies move together in ancient rhythm, finding the synchronicity that has always existed between them. The physical act transcends itself, becoming a communication more honest than words have ever allowed them. In this joining, there are no politics, no oaths, no divided loyalties—only two spirits connecting through the medium of flesh.
Mahtan bends lower, his chest pressing against Fëanor's, creating friction that draws moans from both of them. His mouth finds Fëanor's ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe.
"My beautiful, brilliant, stubborn cub," he murmurs, each word a caress. "Even bound and at my mercy, you command me with your very existence."
The confession—for it is a confession rather than a complaint—makes Fëanor's heart constrict with an emotion too complex to name. He turns his head, seeking Mahtan's mouth, needing the connection of a kiss to ground him as sensation threatens to overwhelm coherent thought.
Mahtan grants the unspoken request, their lips meeting in a kiss that begins gently but quickly deepens into something more primal as their bodies continue their dance. When they part for breath, Mahtan's gaze is fierce with possessive desire.
"Mine," he says again, the word no longer a question or even a simple statement, but a decree written in the book of fate. "Whatever comes, whatever choices lead you from this place—you remain mine."
"Yes," Fëanor agrees, surrendering to the claim with complete conviction. "Yours."
The pace increases, both of them approaching the precipice together. Mahtan's hand slides between their bodies, wrapping around Fëanor's length, providing the additional stimulation that makes his bound form arch with renewed pleasure.
"With me," Mahtan commands, his rhythm faltering as control begins to slip. "Together. As we have always been."
Fëanor nods, beyond words now, his body responding to Mahtan's will as it always has. The dual sensations of Mahtan inside him and around him create a building pressure that cannot be contained, a pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
When release comes, it crashes through them simultaneously—a shared experience that transcends the physical. Fëanor cries out, back arching as much as his bonds allow, eyes locked with Mahtan's through the waves of ecstasy.
In that moment of perfect unity, Mahtan bends forward, his mouth finding the junction where Fëanor's neck meets his shoulder. As the final pulses of pleasure course through them both, his teeth sink into the pale skin there—not hard enough to break the surface, but with enough pressure to leave a mark that will linger for days.
"Mine," he growls against the marked flesh, the declaration final and absolute.
Fëanor's response is a shudder that runs through his entire body, a surrender more complete than the physical bonds could ever enforce. "Always," he whispers, voice raw with emotion and spent passion.
They remain joined, breathing gradually slowing, neither willing to break the connection that feels more precious than ever in light of their impending separation. Mahtan's weight presses Fëanor into the mattress, a comforting pressure that grounds him in the present moment.
After what might be minutes or hours—time has lost meaning in this sacred space—Mahtan carefully withdraws, drawing a small sound of loss from Fëanor. He doesn't go far, settling beside the still-bound elf, one hand splayed possessively across Fëanor's chest.
"The mark will fade," Mahtan says quietly, fingers tracing the already forming bruise on Fëanor's neck. "But my claim remains."
Fëanor turns his head to meet Mahtan's gaze, his silver eyes bright with an emotion too complex for simple naming. "Some marks are invisible," he agrees. "Yet more permanent than any physical sign."
Mahtan's hand rises to cup Fëanor's cheek, thumb brushing across his lower lip with infinite tenderness. "My cub," he says again, the endearment settling between them like a vow. "My spirit of fire."
"Your cub," Fëanor confirms, turning to press a kiss to Mahtan's palm. "Your fire."
Time passes in gentle silence. Fëanor's limbs remain outstretched in their silken captivity, though the tension has long since melted from his muscles. Mahtan's fingers trace idle patterns on his chest, counting heartbeats, memorizing the rhythm as though it might someday be forgotten. The lamp burns low, shadows lengthening across the walls like reaching fingers. Neither speaks, neither moves to break the perfect stillness they've created—a moment suspended between what was and what must be.
Eventually, Mahtan stirs, pressing a soft kiss to Fëanor's temple before rising to his knees. "Let me release you," he murmurs, his voice gentle in the quiet room.
Fëanor nods, watching with half-lidded eyes as Mahtan moves to the foot of the bed. The older elf's hands are steady as they untie the silk cord around Fëanor's right ankle, his touch clinical yet reverent. Once the binding is removed, Mahtan takes a moment to massage the flesh beneath, thumbs working in small circles to ensure proper circulation, though the bindings were never tight enough to cause discomfort.
There is ritual in these movements, a ceremonial quality that transforms necessity into art. Mahtan repeats the process with Fëanor's left ankle, then moves upward to attend to his wrists. The final bindings—those that restricted Fëanor's hands—seem the most significant somehow. As Mahtan carefully unties the knots, his expression is solemn, as though acknowledging that with these bonds removed, Fëanor is truly free to leave.
When the last cord falls away, Mahtan gathers all four lengths of silk, folding them with precise movements before setting them aside. Fëanor brings his arms down slowly, muscles stretching after their extended position. Mahtan takes each hand in turn, massaging from wrist to fingertips with tender attention.
"Better?" Mahtan asks, his grey eyes seeking Fëanor's silver ones.
"Yes," Fëanor responds, though in truth, he feels a curious emptiness with the bonds removed—as though something precious has been taken rather than returned. He sits up, rolling his shoulders to ease lingering stiffness.
Without the physical restraints, something shifts between them. The roles of master and submissive dissolve, leaving only two elves facing the reality of imminent separation. Fëanor reaches for Mahtan, and Mahtan comes willingly into his embrace, their naked bodies pressing together in a contact that seeks comfort rather than passion.
"I shouldn't have marked you," Mahtan murmurs against Fëanor's hair. "It was selfish."
Fëanor's hand rises to touch the bruise forming on his neck, feeling a pleasant ache that will linger for days. "No," he disagrees softly. "It was necessary. For both of us."
Mahtan pulls back slightly to study Fëanor's face, his own features revealing a vulnerability rarely displayed. "I meant what I said," he admits. "You are mine, Fëanáro. Distance cannot change that. Exile cannot sever it. Even death, should it find either of us, will not end what exists between us."
The words pierce Fëanor's careful composure, drawing forth emotion he thought exhausted. Tears well in his eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. He tries to turn away, to hide this weakness, but Mahtan catches his face between gentle hands.
"No," Mahtan says firmly. "Do not hide from me. Not tonight. Not when every moment we have left is precious beyond counting."
The permission—to be vulnerable, to grieve openly—breaks something in Fëanor. A sob escapes him, raw and painful, quickly followed by another. Mahtan pulls him close again, his own tears falling silent and steady into Fëanor's black hair.
They hold each other, naked in body and spirit, allowing the sorrow they've kept contained to flow freely between them. Fëanor's fingers dig into Mahtan's shoulders, holding on as though the older elf might suddenly vanish. Mahtan's arms encircle him completely, a living fortress of flesh and bone and heartbeat.
"I don't want to leave you," Fëanor confesses against Mahtan's chest, the words muffled but clear enough. "Of all that I leave behind in Valinor, you are what I will miss most keenly."
"Then stay," Mahtan says, though the lack of force behind the words indicates he knows the suggestion is futile.
Fëanor shakes his head, his hair sliding like silk against Mahtan's skin. "I cannot. You know this."
"I know," Mahtan sighs, his breath stirring the top of Fëanor's head. "As I cannot follow. We are both bound by chains stronger than any physical restraint—you to your oath, I to my daughter and my place here."
They separate enough to look at each other properly, tear-stained faces illuminated by the dying lamplight. Fëanor reaches up to brush moisture from Mahtan's beard, the gesture impossibly tender.
"What will you do?" he asks. "After we are gone?"
The question seems to surprise Mahtan. "Continue," he says after a moment's consideration. "Work at my forge. Teach my apprentices. Support Nerdanel as best I can." He pauses, then adds quietly, "And wait for news, though I dread what tidings might eventually reach us."
Fëanor's expression clouds at the mention of his estranged wife. "Will you tell her?" he asks, not specifying what he means, but knowing Mahtan will understand.
"About us?" Mahtan clarifies, his hand absently stroking Fëanor's back. "No. That knowledge would only add to her pain." He sighs. "She loved you once, very deeply. Perhaps she loves you still, beneath her anger and disappointment."
"As I loved her," Fëanor admits. "But we grew apart long before this exile. My heart turned to other pursuits—my crafts, my jewels." He meets Mahtan's gaze directly. "And to you."
The acknowledgment hangs between them, honest in a way they've rarely been about the complicated tangle of their relationships. Mahtan nods, accepting the truth without judgment.
"The heart is not a simple mechanism," he says. "It cannot be shaped and directed like metal in a forge. It follows its own patterns, creates its own alloys."
They fall silent, holding each other in the comfortable intimacy of long familiarity. Outside, the mingled light of the Trees shifts subtly, marking the passage of time that neither wishes to acknowledge.
Eventually, Mahtan straightens, as though coming to a decision. "I have something for you," he says, disengaging gently from Fëanor's embrace. "Wait here."
He rises from the bed, moving with unselfconscious grace to a carved chest in the corner of the room. Fëanor watches, appreciating the play of light and shadow on Mahtan's muscled form, committing every detail to memory—the exact shade of his auburn hair in this light, the way his beard frames his strong jawline, the confident movements of hands that have taught him so much over the centuries.
Mahtan returns with a small wooden box, its surface polished to a high sheen and inlaid with mother-of-pearl in an abstract pattern that suggests flames. He sits on the edge of the bed, the box held carefully in his palms.
"I began this the day after our first night together," he says, looking down at the box rather than at Fëanor. "Though I did not know then what it would become or when I would give it to you."
Fëanor sits up straighter, curiosity piqued. "What is it?"
Instead of answering, Mahtan opens the box and removes something that catches the lamplight with a subdued gleam. He holds it in his palm for a moment, then extends his hand toward Fëanor, offering it for inspection.
It is a brooch, exquisitely crafted from copper that has been treated to resist tarnish. The metal has been worked into the shapes of two creatures—a wolf and a phoenix—intertwined in a design that suggests both protection and unity. The wolf's front paws embrace the phoenix, while the firebird's wings encircle the wolf in return. At the center where the two creatures meet, a large amethyst glows with purple fire, with smaller stones of the same gem serving as eyes for both beings.
The craftsmanship is extraordinary, even to Fëanor's discerning eye. Every hair on the wolf's coat is individually rendered, every feather on the phoenix's wings distinct and perfect. It is a masterwork of metalcraft, representing hundreds of hours of painstaking labor.
"Mahtan," Fëanor breathes, awestruck by both the beauty of the piece and the emotion it represents. "This is..."
"It's us," Mahtan says simply, watching Fëanor's face. "The wolf and the phoenix. You chose the phoenix, do you remember? When we spoke of spirit animals during that summer by the lake."
Fëanor nods, memory rising clear and sweet. They had lain beneath the stars, sharing wine and stories, and the conversation had turned to the creatures each felt kinship with.
"The phoenix," Fëanor confirms softly. "Born in fire, living through fire, returning to fire at the end of its days." He looks up from the brooch to meet Mahtan's gaze. "And you chose the wolf. Loyal, protective, fierce in defense of what is yours."
"What is mine," Mahtan echoes, his finger tracing the outline of the wolf figure. "The amethyst represents our spirits joined, despite physical bodies that may be separated." He turns the brooch over, revealing an inscription on the back in tiny, perfect tengwar script: "Separated by fate, united in spirit."
Tears threaten again in Fëanor's eyes. He takes the brooch with reverent hands, feeling its perfect weight, the subtle warmth of the metal that has absorbed Mahtan's body heat.
"It is the finest gift I have ever received," he says, voice thick with emotion. "More precious than any gem or metal could be on its own."
Mahtan's hand covers his, both of them now holding the brooch. "Wear it," he says. "Not openly, perhaps, but keep it with you. When you feel lost or alone, remember that somewhere, I am thinking of you. Loving you. Waiting for you to find your way back, if such a path exists."
Fëanor closes his fingers around the brooch, feeling its edges press into his palm—a tangible reminder of what he leaves behind. "I will," he vows. "Always."
Mahtan leans forward, pressing his forehead against Fëanor's in a gesture of intimate connection. "The wolf will guard your journey," he murmurs. "And the phoenix will light your way home."
"Home," Fëanor repeats, the word acquiring new meaning. No longer just Valinor, no longer just the lands of his birth—home has become this connection, this bond that transcends physical location.
They remain thus connected, breath mingling, the brooch clasped between their joined hands like a physical manifestation of their bond. Outside, the dim light shifts further toward what passes for dawn in the eternal twilight of a Valinor without the Trees. Time, which seemed suspended in their passion, resumes its relentless forward march.
Soon, too soon, Fëanor must leave this sanctuary and return to his people, to his sons, to the path he has chosen that leads away from all he has known. But for now, in this moment, there is only Mahtan's closeness, the precious weight of his gift, and the love that binds them across whatever distance fate may impose.
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