The crystal shatters in Fëanor's hands, its fractured edges catching the fading light like tears. Another failure. The hundredth? The thousandth? He has long since lost count of these broken dreams that litter his workbench like fallen stars. What should be simple—to capture light, to hold it—has become his torment, his obsession that burns beneath his skin with a fever no cooling cloth could soothe.
Fëanor stares at the ruined gem, its once-perfect facets now a constellation of jagged lines. Worthless. He sweeps it aside to join its brethren, a growing cemetery of abandoned attempts that chronicles his frustration. Each broken piece mocks him with its inadequacy, its inability to hold what he sees so clearly in his mind—the luminous essence of the Trees, Telperion's silver glow and Laurelin's golden radiance intertwined, preserved forever in crystalline perfection.
The workshop embraces him in its familiar cocoon of scents and sounds. Smoke hangs in lazy tendrils, staining the air with the memory of fires that have burned here for centuries. The walls, once white, now wear a patina of ash like badges of honor, testament to countless hours of creation and destruction. His tools—chisels, hammers, pliers, and files—rest in organized chaos on the tables around him, their worn handles polished to a dull sheen by his hands. A symphony of metal on metal echoes from the adjacent forge where apprentices still work, the rhythmic clanging a counterpoint to the stuttering beat of his heart.
Light filters through high windows, catching dust motes in diagonal beams that slice through the workshop like golden blades. Even this ordinary light seems to mock him with its simple existence, free and formless, while he struggles to imprison its more magical cousins within the confines of crystal and stone.
In his mind, Fëanor sees them still—the Trees in their full glory. He recalls standing beneath their interlaced boughs, watching their mingled light flow like liquid radiance, pooling at his feet, washing over his upturned face. He remembers closing his eyes and still seeing their light through his eyelids, how it seemed to penetrate to the very core of his being. That moment had kindled something within him, a desperate need to capture, to preserve, to own that light—to create something that would make his father look at him with the same wonder with which all elves gazed upon the Trees.
"If I could just..." he mutters, reaching for another raw crystal, this one larger than the last, its uncut surfaces dull with potential. His slender fingers trace the stone's contours, seeking weaknesses, strengths, the hidden architecture that will either support or betray his vision. "If I could just find the right balance between the cut and the core, between reflection and refraction..."
He positions the crystal beneath his sharpest chisel, angling the tool with surgical precision. The first tap must be perfect; it sets the intention for all that follows. Fëanor inhales deeply, holding the breath in his lungs until they burn, mirroring the fire of concentration in his mind. He brings the hammer down.
Too hard. The crystal responds with a dissonant note of protest—a high, thin sound that signals failure before it even begins. A crack races along one side, invisible to any eye but his, but damning nonetheless.
"No!" The word erupts from him, a volcano of frustration spewing forth after days—weeks—of compressed control. The hammer flies across the room, clanging against a metal rack and sending smaller tools cascading to the floor in a discordant shower. "No, no, NO!"
He lurches to his feet, the stool toppling behind him. His hands tremble, not with the fatigue of labor but with the rawness of emotion. He has spent too long at this table, chasing phantoms of light through unyielding stone. His back aches, his eyes burn, and still, the perfect gem eludes him.
Fëanor paces the length of the workshop, eleven long strides before he must turn and retrace his steps. The walls press in on him, suddenly too close, too confining for the expansive frustration that swells within his chest. The air feels thin, insufficient to feed the flames of his anger.
"Why?" he demands of the empty room, of the failing light, of the scattered remains of his work. "Why can I see it so clearly yet fail to make it real?"
His vision blurs with unshed tears of frustration. He blinks them back fiercely—he will not add the weakness of weeping to his catalog of failures. Instead, he channels the emotion into movement, into destruction. He sweeps an arm across a nearby table, sending tools and half-finished projects crashing to the floor. The sound is satisfying, a physical manifestation of the cacophony in his mind.
Each failure feels personal, a reflection not just on his skill but on his worth. His father's distant gaze hovers in his memory—Finwë, who looks at his son with pride but never with understanding. Never with the depth of connection Fëanor craves. If he could create this—this perfect jewel, this captured light—perhaps then his father would truly see him. Perhaps then the hollow space within him, the void left by his mother's absence, would finally be filled.
The Trees' light represents more than beauty to Fëanor; it symbolizes permanence in a world where everything he loves seems transient, vulnerable to loss. If he could capture that light, preserve it, perhaps he could also preserve the fragile connections that tether him to others. Perhaps he could finally feel secure in his place in the world.
Another crystal joins the discard pile, this one hurled with deliberate force against the far wall where it shatters into a constellation of glittering fragments. The sound of its destruction resonates in the quiet workshop, reverberating back to him like the echo of his own heartbreak.
Outside, twilight deepens. The quality of light shifts, becoming more blue than gold, shadows lengthening across the floor like reaching fingers. The day is dying, and with it, another opportunity lost. Tomorrow he will begin again, but tonight the weight of repeated failure sits heavy on his shoulders, a familiar burden he cannot seem to set down.
Fëanor stands amid the wreckage of his ambition, chest heaving, hair wild around his face. His clear silver eyes reflect the last of the day's light, twin pools of thwarted desire. He feels flayed open, his skin too thin to contain the tempest of his emotions. In this moment, he is raw nerve and exposed bone, a being of pure sensation screaming silently into the void.
The door to the workshop opens with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. Fëanor does not turn, does not need to see to know who stands there. He recognizes the presence as intimately as his own reflection—Mahtan, whose steady heart beats in counterpoint to Fëanor's frenetic rhythm.
"Leave me," Fëanor says, the words scraped raw from his throat. "I am poor company tonight."
But Mahtan does not leave. His footsteps are deliberate, unhurried as he navigates the battlefield of Fëanor's frustration. He does not speak, does not offer empty platitudes or unwanted advice. He simply moves into Fëanor's space, a calm eye in the storm of emotion.
Fëanor feels Mahtan's gaze on him—assessing, understanding. The weight of it should be intrusive, but instead, it anchors him, provides a tether when he feels in danger of spinning off into the darkness of his own mind. Mahtan has always seen him, truly seen him, in ways that others—even his own father—never have.
Mahtan's presence fills the workshop differently than Fëanor's does. Where Fëanor burns, Mahtan glows. Where Fëanor rages, Mahtan abides. His auburn hair and beard—so unusual among their kind—catch the last rays of daylight, transforming them into a corona of burnished copper. His grey eyes hold neither judgment nor pity, only a steady compassion that Fëanor both craves and resents.
"You should go," Fëanor says again, softer this time, less conviction in his voice. "I am... not myself."
Mahtan's silence speaks volumes. He steps closer, near enough now that Fëanor can smell the scent of him—forge-fire and cedar, earth and sky. Mahtan reaches out, not touching, but offering connection should Fëanor choose to accept it.
And in the gathering darkness, surrounded by the wreckage of his ambitions, Fëanor feels something shift within him. The anger recedes, not disappearing but transforming into something else—something warmer, more vulnerable. In Mahtan's steady gaze, he sees not the reflection of his failures but the possibility of understanding, of being known despite them.
The moment stretches between them, taut as a wire, humming with unspoken words and unexpressed emotions. Outside, the first stars appear in the deepening twilight, while inside, two figures stand frozen in a tableau of reaching and resistance, of need and fear, of longing disguised as anger and compassion cloaked in silence.
Mahtan's hand finds Fëanor's shoulder, warm and solid through the thin fabric of his work tunic. The touch is simple—five fingers resting on the slope of muscle and bone—yet it reverberates through Fëanor's body like the echo of a bell struck in a silent chamber. He doesn't flinch away, though every instinct screams at him to protect his raw, exposed heart from further injury. Instead, he finds himself leaning into that touch, starved for the comfort it offers.
"Come," Mahtan says, his voice low and rough like stone over stone. "The hour grows late, and you've been at this bench since dawn. The gems will wait until morning."
Fëanor wants to protest—the work is urgent, the need to create overwhelming—but his lips form no words of resistance. The steady pressure of Mahtan's hand guides him away from the carnage of his frustration toward the adjacent forge room, where the heart of their craft beats in glowing coals and molten metal.
The forge embraces them in its primal warmth. Here, the air shimmers with heat rising from banked fires, creating rippling distortions that make the world seem less solid, more dreamlike. The rhythmic clatter of hammers has faded as apprentices depart for the evening meal, leaving behind only the soft hum of cooling metal and the occasional pop and hiss of the coals. The scent is different from the workshop—less of dust and crystals, more of iron and fire, sweat and creation. The very walls seem to exhale the day's labors, releasing the accumulated tension of concentrated work.
Mahtan leads Fëanor to a bench set against the wall, far enough from the forges to be comfortable but close enough to bask in their ruddy glow. Without words, he presses Fëanor to sit, then moves to a small alcove where personal items are stored. He returns with a flask and two roughly hewn cups, the craftsmanship deliberately imperfect, as if the maker had chosen to embrace the beauty of flaws rather than pursuing sterile perfection.
"Drink," Mahtan says, pouring amber liquid into one cup and pressing it into Fëanor's hands. Their fingers brush, and a current passes between them, subtle as a change in air pressure before a storm.
The drink burns pleasantly down Fëanor's throat—fermented honey with spices, warming him from within as the forge warms him from without. He takes another sip, feeling the rigid lines of his frustration begin to soften at their edges.
Mahtan settles beside him, close enough that their shoulders touch when either moves. He takes a drink from his own cup, his eyes never leaving Fëanor's face. The scrutiny should feel intrusive, but instead, it feels like recognition.
"You push yourself too hard, cub," Mahtan says, the endearment falling from his lips as naturally as breath.
The word—so small, so casually spoken—strikes Fëanor with unexpected force. "Cub." A term for the young, the protected, the cherished. Not a word used between master and apprentice, but something more intimate, more possessive. The single syllable contains multitudes: affection, concern, a hint of authority, and something else—something that sends a flush of heat across Fëanor's skin that has nothing to do with the nearby fires.
"I am hardly a child to be coddled," Fëanor responds, but there is no bite in his words, only a reflexive defense against the vulnerability Mahtan's tenderness evokes.
"No," Mahtan agrees, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Not a child. But still mine to worry over."
The simple possessive—"mine"—hangs in the air between them. Fëanor's breath catches in his throat. He has been many things to many people—son, prince, apprentice, prodigy—but never simply "mine" in the way Mahtan says it, as if claiming not his title or his talent, but his essence.
"The light will not be captured if you sacrifice yourself in the attempt," Mahtan continues, his voice gentle but firm. "The Trees have stood for ages; they will wait for you to solve their riddle."
Fëanor sighs, the sound dragged from somewhere deep within him. "It is not merely about capturing their light. It is about..." He hesitates, searching for words to clothe the naked need that drives him. "It is about creating something enduring. Something that will remain when all else fades."
"Ah." Mahtan nods slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You fear loss."
The observation is so simple, so accurate, that it pierces Fëanor's defenses like a well-aimed arrow. "I have known little else," he admits, the words barely audible over the soft crackle of the forge. "My mother..." He does not need to finish; Mahtan knows the story of Míriel's fading, how she gave so much of herself in Fëanor's creation that nothing remained for her own continuation.
"And you believe that if you could capture the light of the Trees, you would somehow undo this pattern? That you could create something so perfect it would defy the natural cycle of loss and renewal?" Mahtan's questions are not cruel, but they are unflinching, stripping away the comfortable layers of self-deception Fëanor has wrapped around his obsession.
"When you put it that way, it sounds foolish," Fëanor says, a hint of his earlier bitterness returning.
"Not foolish," Mahtan counters, his hand finding Fëanor's wrist. Through the thin skin there, he can surely feel Fëanor's pulse quicken at the contact. "Never that. But perhaps mistaken in its aim. Some things are not meant to be captured or preserved. Their beauty lies precisely in their impermanence."
Fëanor looks down at Mahtan's hand on his wrist—strong, calloused, marked with the small burns and scars of their craft. A craftsman's hand, a creator's hand. A hand that has guided his own countless times over the years of his apprenticeship, showing him how to hold a tool, how to feel the metal's response, how to coax rather than force the materials to his will.
"What things?" Fëanor asks, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, though they are alone in the forge.
"Moments," Mahtan says. His thumb traces small circles against the inside of Fëanor's wrist, each revolution sending tiny shivers up his arm. "Feelings. The first sight of a new spring. The taste of wine on a loved one's lips."
The last example hangs between them, charged with implication. Fëanor's gaze rises from their joined hands to Mahtan's face, searching for confirmation of what he thinks—what he hopes—he hears in those words.
Mahtan meets his gaze steadily, his grey eyes reflecting the forge-fire, turning them to liquid silver. "I have watched you chase perfection since you first came to my forge, barely more than a child yet already burning with a fire I recognized all too well."
"You never tried to temper that fire," Fëanor observes.
"How could I?" A smile tugs at the corner of Mahtan's mouth, half hidden in his unusual beard. "It would be like trying to temper a flame with more fuel. Besides..." He pauses, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "Besides, your fire called to mine. It always has."
The admission settles over Fëanor like a mantle, both weightless and profound. In the space it creates, memories resurface—moments he had dismissed or misinterpreted: Mahtan's hand lingering too long on his shoulder during instruction; shared glances across the workshop that held more than professional assessment; late nights discussing craft that somehow always turned to discussions of beauty, of passion, of longing.
"I thought..." Fëanor starts, then stops, recalibrating. "I never allowed myself to think."
"Nor I," Mahtan agrees. "It seemed... inappropriate. You were my student, my responsibility. You are the son of the king. I am merely a smith, albeit one with some small renown."
"Never 'merely' anything," Fëanor interrupts, sudden fierceness in his voice. "You are Mahtan. You are..." He hesitates, courage failing him at the precipice of confession.
"What am I to you, Fëanor?" Mahtan asks, the question gentle but direct, leaving nowhere to hide.
Fëanor feels as though he stands at the edge of a great chasm, with only faith to carry him across. Fear grips him—fear of rejection, of misunderstanding, of the vulnerability inherent in honest desire. But beneath the fear runs a deeper current, a longing that has shaped itself around Mahtan's form over years of denied recognition.
"Everything," Fëanor whispers, the word escaping before he can call it back. "You are my teacher, my guide, the one person who sees me as I am rather than as what I represent. You are..." He inhales sharply. "You are the one I dream of when I wake in darkness, reaching for someone who is not there." Fëanor swallows hard. "My dark passion."
The confession hovers in the air between them, as tangible as smoke from the forge. Fëanor waits, heart hammering against his ribs, for Mahtan's response—for acceptance or gentle rejection or, worst of all, pitying kindness.
What he receives instead is Mahtan's other hand rising to cup his cheek, the touch reverent and questioning at once. "You are my heart's flame and song," Mahtan says, the words like a spell, an invocation of something long hidden coming into the light. "For so long I have kept this buried, this wanting. I told myself it was inappropriate, forbidden. That I was too old, too common, too wrong in my desires."
"Not wrong," Fëanor insists, leaning into the touch like a cat seeking affection. "Never wrong."
"Society might disagree," Mahtan says, though he does not withdraw his hand.
"Society knows nothing of what burns between us," Fëanor counters, sudden defiance flaring. "They would have us live by their small rules, their neat categories—master and apprentice, elder and younger, nothing more. But we have always been more, have we not? Even when we denied it to ourselves."
Mahtan's thumb traces the high arch of Fëanor's cheekbone, a touch so gentle it barely disturbs the air between them, yet Fëanor feels it like a brand upon his skin. "Yes," Mahtan acknowledges, his voice rough with emotion. "Always more. From the moment you walked into my forge, all sharp angles and fierce determination, something in me recognized something in you. As if we were two halves of a whole that had been sundered and found each other again across the ages."
The words resonate within Fëanor like a struck bell, articulating what he has felt but never named. "Then why did we waste so much time?" he asks, the question both plaintive and demanding.
"Perhaps we needed the time," Mahtan suggests, his other hand still wrapped around Fëanor's wrist, thumb pressed against his racing pulse. "Perhaps this—what lies between us—needed to season, to strengthen, like metal in the forge."
"And now?" Fëanor asks, leaning imperceptibly closer, drawn by the gravity of Mahtan's presence. "Is it strong enough now?"
The question hangs in the air, weighted with more than its simple words. Mahtan's eyes search Fëanor's face, reading the hope, the fear, the naked wanting written there.
"I believe it is," Mahtan says finally, each word deliberate as a hammer strike. "Strong enough to withstand whatever comes. Strong enough to be acknowledged, at last." His hand slides from Fëanor's cheek to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the dark silk of his hair. "Strong enough to be acted upon, if that is what you wish."
"It is," Fëanor breathes, the admission both terrifying and liberating. "It is what I have wished for longer than I have allowed myself to know."
The space between them has narrowed to inches, then centimeters, their breaths mingling in the warm air of the forge. Somewhere in the depths of the building, metal clinks against metal as it cools and contracts, a counterpoint to the accelerating rhythm of their hearts.
"Then let us waste no more time," Mahtan whispers, the words a caress against Fëanor's lips, a promise of what is to come. "Let us finally acknowledge what has always been true, what has always burned between us, bright as the forge-fire, enduring as the stars."
And in that moment, surrounded by the implements of their craft and wrapped in the warm glow of the forge that has witnessed their long dance of approach and retreat, something shifts and settles into place between them—a recognition, an acceptance, a surrender to the inevitable gravity that has been drawing them together since they first met.
Time slows to a syrup-thick crawl as Mahtan leans forward. Fëanor counts his own heartbeats—one, two, three—each one louder than the last until the sound fills his ears like the roar of the sea. He has imagined this moment in secret dreams, in fleeting thoughts banished as quickly as they formed, but reality outstrips imagination. The anticipation alone is exquisite torture—the narrowing distance between their lips, the warmth of Mahtan's breath against his skin, the slight tremor in the hand that cradles the back of his neck.
Fëanor's eyes flutter closed of their own accord, surrendering one sense to heighten all others. The scent of Mahtan intensifies—metal and earth, cedarwood and ember—filling his lungs with each shallow breath. The forge's heat pales compared to the warmth radiating from Mahtan's body, so close now that only molecules of air separate them.
And then, the separation vanishes.
Mahtan's lips touch his, and the world contracts to this single point of contact—soft, dry, tentative. The kiss is gentle, almost chaste, a question rather than a demand. Their lips brush together, and they feel a spark—not static from the dry air, but something deeper, elemental, that jolts through Fëanor from mouth to heart to fingertips.
For a heartbeat, neither moves, suspended in the newness of connection. Then, as if by mutual consent, the pressure increases. Mahtan's hand tightens slightly at Fëanor's nape, drawing him closer, while Fëanor's own hands rise to find purchase on Mahtan's broad shoulders.
The kiss transforms from question to statement, from hesitant to certain. Mahtan's beard—that unusual feature among their kind—brushes against Fëanor's chin and upper lip, a novel sensation that sends unexpected shivers down his spine. The texture is both foreign and intimate, another layer of sensation added to the complex tapestry of their connection.
Fëanor has known desire before—fleeting attractions, passing infatuations—but nothing like this molten heat that floods his veins, turning his blood to liquid fire. The kiss awakens something primal in him, something that has slumbered beneath layers of propriety and denial. He feels simultaneously unmade and more fully himself than he has ever been, as if Mahtan's lips against his own are both destroyer and creator, breaking him down and rebuilding him in the same moment.
A soft sound escapes him—half sigh, half moan—and he feels Mahtan's lips curve into a smile against his own. The smile transforms the kiss, infusing it with joy alongside the desire, with tenderness alongside the heat. Fëanor responds in kind, his own lips softening, opening slightly, an invitation and a surrender.
Mahtan accepts the invitation. His tongue traces the seam of Fëanor's lips, requesting rather than demanding entry. The touch is delicate yet deliberate, echoing the careful precision with which he handles molten metal in the forge—respectful of its power while unafraid of its heat.
Fëanor grants access without hesitation, parting his lips on a shaky exhale. The first touch of Mahtan's tongue against his own sends a shock wave through his system, a jolt of pure sensation that makes his fingers dig into the solid muscle of Mahtan's shoulders.
The kiss deepens, becoming a conversation without words. Mahtan leads, but not with domination—with experience, with care, with an attentiveness that speaks of his desire to give pleasure rather than simply take it. His tongue explores Fëanor's mouth with delicate thoroughness, learning the terrain of this new intimacy, discovering what draws soft sounds from Fëanor's throat, what makes his breath catch, what causes his body to press forward seeking more contact.
Fëanor, for all his usual confidence, finds himself following Mahtan's lead willingly. There is freedom in this surrender, in allowing someone else to guide him for once. His usual frenetic energy settles into a focused intensity, all his considerable attention narrowed to the points where their bodies connect—lips to lips, hand to nape, palms to shoulders.
The world beyond their embrace ceases to exist. The forge's glow, the distant sounds of the evening meal beginning elsewhere in the complex, the cooling tools and solidifying metals—all fade to insignificance compared to the taste of Mahtan's mouth, the feel of his solid form, the scent of his skin warming under Fëanor's hands.
Mahtan's other hand finds Fëanor's waist, fingers splaying wide to bracket his ribs, thumb brushing against the jut of his lowest rib through the thin fabric of his tunic. The touch is proprietary without being possessive, appreciative without being demanding.
The kiss evolves, ebbs and flows like a tide. Moments of deep, searching connection give way to lighter brushes of lips, to the gentle scrape of teeth against a lower lip, to shared breaths and subtle shifts of position. There is no hurry, no desperate rush toward something else. This moment is complete in itself, perfect in its unfolding exploration.
Fëanor feels stripped bare, not by the removal of clothing but by the honesty this connection demands. Each response, each quickening of breath, each small sound that escapes him reveals another layer of his desire, his vulnerability, his need for this specific connection with this specific person. It is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, this emotional nakedness.
Mahtan seems to sense the overwhelming nature of these sensations. His kisses gentle, become more soothing than demanding, giving Fëanor space to catch his breath, to find his bearings in this new landscape they are charting together.
Finally, with obvious reluctance, Mahtan draws back slightly—not a withdrawal but a pause, a chance to see as well as feel. His grey eyes are darker now, pupils expanded with desire, and his usually composed features are softened, vulnerable in their openness.
"Fëanáro," he breathes, the name itself a caress. His thumb traces the line of Fëanor's jaw, now slightly reddened from the friction of his beard. "My beautiful, fierce one."
The possessive sends another wave of heat through Fëanor's body. He has never wanted to belong to anyone, has guarded his independence fiercely, yet hearing himself claimed in Mahtan's deep voice feels right, feels like recognition rather than possession.
"I have wanted this," Fëanor admits, his voice rough with emotion. "For so long, without allowing myself to know it."
"And now that you know?" Mahtan asks, the question gentle but direct. His hand remains at Fëanor's nape, fingers threaded through the dark silk of his hair, maintaining their connection.
Fëanor doesn't answer with words. Instead, he leans forward again, initiating their second kiss with more confidence than the first. This time, he is not passive but actively participating, his mouth moving against Mahtan's with deliberate intent, his hands sliding from shoulders to chest, feeling the solid strength beneath fabric.
Mahtan responds with a deep sound of approval that Fëanor feels as much as hears, a rumble that travels from Mahtan's chest into his own where they press together. The kiss turns heated, less exploratory and more passionate, as if the initial hesitance has burned away, leaving only the pure flame of their mutual desire.
Fëanor's hands grow bolder, tracing the contours of Mahtan's chest, learning the shape of him through touch. He finds himself cataloging details with the same precision he applies to his craft—the breadth of shoulder, the firmness of muscle, the places where Mahtan's breath quickens when touched.
The kiss breaks again, both of them breathing harder now. Fëanor feels light-headed, intoxicated not by the small amount of mead they shared but by the heady rush of finally acknowledging what has simmered between them for so long.
"We should perhaps," Mahtan says, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady, "find somewhere more private to continue this conversation."
The suggestion sends a thrill of anticipation through Fëanor's body. The forge, for all its symbolic significance as the place where their relationship began, is still a semi-public space where any late-working apprentice might enter. What is unfolding between them deserves privacy, deserves the sanctity of closed doors and uninterrupted time.
"Yes," Fëanor agrees, the single syllable containing multitudes—agreement, desire, the willingness to take this newfound connection further. He feels simultaneously anchored and adrift, certain of what he wants yet dizzied by the speed with which long-denied feelings have surfaced and been acknowledged.
Their third kiss is brief but loaded with promise—a pledge of what is to come, a seal upon the unspoken agreement between them. When they separate this time, both rise from the bench in a single fluid movement, as if they have choreographed this dance together despite its newness.
Their fingers intertwine, Mahtan's larger hand enveloping Fëanor's slender one, and the simple contact—skin to skin, palm to palm—feels almost as intimate as their kisses. There is trust in this connection, vulnerability in the linking of hands, an admission that whatever comes next, they face it together.
In the warm glow of the forge that has witnessed so many creations, they have created something new between them—something both fragile and strong, a connection formed in the crucible of long acquaintance and newly acknowledged desire. And as Mahtan leads him toward the private quarters beyond the main forge, Fëanor feels a sense of rightness settle over him, a recognition that some things, once set in motion, follow a course as inevitable as metal flowing into a well-crafted mold.
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