The hammer strikes the glowing metal with a fury that matches the storm in Fëanor's chest. Each blow sends sparks dancing across the dimly lit forge, momentary stars that die too quickly, just like his father's fleeting affection. His knuckles whiten around the handle as he brings it down again and again, the rhythmic clanging drowning out the echo of Finwë's words that still ring in his ears. The heat from the forge paints his face in shades of orange and red, masking the evidence of tears he refuses to acknowledge.
The metal yields beneath his hammer, bending and folding to his will in a way his father never would. There is honesty in the craft that Fëanor cannot find in Finwë's court—a predictable relationship between cause and effect, between effort and result. Strike the metal wrong, and it shows. Treat it with respect, with knowledge, and it rewards you with beauty.
Finwë's voice haunts him still. "You dishonor your position," his father had said, voice cold as winter frost, eyes harder than stone. "A prince should not soil his hands like a common laborer."
Fëanor had stood in his father's study, the familiar space suddenly alien and unwelcoming. The gilded edges of books that once invited him to explore now seemed to mock his choices, his passions.
"There is no dishonor in creation," Fëanor had replied, his voice tight with the effort of restraint. "The Valar themselves labor with their hands. Aulë—"
"You are not one of the Valar," Finwë cut him off, rising from behind his ornate desk. "You are my son, my heir. Your place is in governance, in leadership, not hiding away among the smiths and their soot."
The words had pierced him like shards of glass. Not because they were new—this argument had played out countless times before—but because each repetition only confirmed that his father would never truly see him, never understand what burned inside him.
Now, alone in the forge, Fëanor drives the hammer down again, metal singing beneath his blow. The piece before him—intended as a delicate clasp for a cloak—warps under his anger, becoming something twisted and unrecognizable. He tosses it aside with a curse, breathing hard, his clear silver eyes reflecting the forge-fire.
A bead of sweat traces the contour of his jaw, dropping to sizzle on the hot anvil. His long black hair, tied back in a hasty knot, has begun to come loose, stray strands clinging to his damp neck. The heat is oppressive, but he welcomes it—it gives form to the suffocation he feels in his father's presence, makes tangible the invisible weight on his chest.
The door to the forge opens, sending a rush of cooler air across his back. Fëanor doesn't turn, his shoulders tensing like a cornered animal's.
"I thought I might find you here," says a voice rich as copper, warm as ember-glow.
Something inside Fëanor uncoils slightly at the sound, though he keeps his back turned, unwilling to reveal his face. "I'm working," he says shortly.
Mahtan's footsteps approach, unhurried and steady. "Are you?" There's no judgment in the question, only gentle knowing. "That poor piece of metal suggests otherwise."
Fëanor glances at the ruined clasp. "Sometimes we create through destruction."
"And sometimes," Mahtan says, now close enough that Fëanor can feel his presence like a physical touch, "we destroy to avoid creating something more difficult—like peace with those who hurt us."
Fëanor's hands clench around the hammer's handle. "He doesn't understand. He never has."
"Few fathers truly understand their sons," Mahtan replies. "Especially sons who burn as brightly as you do."
Finally, Fëanor turns. Mahtan stands before him, auburn hair gleaming in the forge-light, his rare beard—unusual among their kind—neatly trimmed against his strong jaw. His grey eyes hold no pity, only a steady compassion that makes Fëanor's chest ache.
"He called my work a waste," Fëanor says, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. "Said I dishonor myself by laboring like a—" he pauses, swallowing hard, "like someone beneath my station."
Mahtan's expression darkens briefly. "And yet the greatest works of our people have come from those willing to dirty their hands." He reaches out, taking the hammer gently from Fëanor's grip and setting it aside. "Your father lives in an older world, one of courts and councils. He cannot see that the future might be forged rather than decreed."
Fëanor lets his shoulders slump, the anger draining from him like water through sand, leaving only a hollow exhaustion. "I try to make him proud. But everything I value, he dismisses."
"Come here, my cub," Mahtan murmurs, and the endearment breaks something open in Fëanor's chest.
He steps forward, and Mahtan's arms are around him, strong and sure. The older elf smells of cedar and iron and something indefinable that has always meant safety to Fëanor. Against Mahtan's chest, he allows himself to be small again, to be vulnerable in a way he can never show his father.
"He cannot see your brilliance because it blinds him," Mahtan says into Fëanor's hair. "But I see you. I have always seen you."
Fëanor's hands clutch at Mahtan's tunic, and he feels the press of lips against his temple—gentle, reassuring. Then Mahtan's fingers are beneath his chin, tilting his face upward, and their lips meet in a kiss that tastes of comfort and desire intertwined.
Unlike the angry heat of the forge, this warmth spreads slowly through Fëanor's body, softening his edges. Mahtan's beard tickles against his chin as their lips part and meet again, each kiss deeper than the last. Fëanor's hands slide up to tangle in Mahtan's auburn hair, holding him close as if afraid he might disappear.
When they finally part, Fëanor's breathing is uneven for reasons that have nothing to do with his earlier exertion. Mahtan's thumbs brush over his cheekbones, wiping away traces of tears Fëanor hadn't realized he'd shed.
"You need to breathe," Mahtan says, his voice low. "Away from here, away from him. Come with me."
Fëanor blinks. "Where?"
"There's a valley I know, three days' ride from here. A place where the trees remember older songs than even our people know. There's a waterfall that sings all day and night, and stars that seem close enough to touch, wild skies different from our proximity to the Treelight." Mahtan's eyes hold a promise of peace, of freedom. "Let me take you there, just for a few days."
The thought of escaping—of leaving behind the suffocating walls of his father's expectations—calls to Fëanor like a distant horizon. "He'll be angry that I've gone."
"He's already angry," Mahtan points out, a hint of wry humor in his voice. "At least this way, you'll have found some joy in the meantime."
Mahtan kisses him again, and Fëanor can feel himself yielding, softening like metal in the flame. "Come with me, my cub," Mahtan whispers against his lips. "Let me show you beauty that doesn't need to be forged—only discovered."
Fëanor looks around the forge—his sanctuary turned prison by his own anger. The ruined clasp on the floor. The tools that suddenly seem like chains. He turns back to Mahtan's patient gaze and feels, for the first time since entering his father's study, that he can draw a full breath.
"Yes," he says simply. "Take me away from here."
Mahtan's smile is like light breaking through clouds, and as he presses another kiss to Fëanor's lips, Fëanor thinks that perhaps there are kinds of creation that happen not through hammer and fire, but through touch and tenderness. Creations his father will never understand, but that Mahtan teaches him with every caress.
"We'll leave at dawn," Mahtan says, his hand warm against Fëanor's cheek. "Pack lightly. Everything you truly need will be there."
And as Mahtan's arms encircle him once more, Fëanor believes him.
The forest unfolds before them like a secret being whispered into cupped hands. Three days of riding has brought them deep into the wilderness, where the trees grow taller than towers and the air smells of pine and possibilities. Fëanor breathes deeply, letting the scent fill his lungs, replace the lingering smoke of the forge, the stifling perfume of his father's court. Each step their horses take carries them further from judgment, from expectation, until Fëanor can feel something tight within his chest beginning to unravel.
Mahtan rides slightly ahead, his broad shoulders relaxed, auburn hair catching the light as it filters through the dense canopy. Occasionally, he points out things that might escape notice—a flash of wings high above, tracks of creatures rarely seen, a flower blooming out of season. His voice carries no demands, only invitation to observe, to appreciate. This is a different kind of teaching than what happens in the forge, but Fëanor finds himself just as eager to learn.
"There," Mahtan says, reining his horse to a stop at the crest of a gentle slope. "The valley I promised you."
Fëanor draws alongside him, and the breath catches in his throat. Below them lies a hidden paradise, cradled between rising walls of stone draped in emerald moss. A stream cuts through the center, widening into a small lake at the far end, fed by a waterfall that tumbles down the rock face in veils of white and silver. The trees here are ancient, their massive trunks speaking of countless years undisturbed by axe or saw. Wildflowers dot the valley floor in splashes of color that seem almost deliberate, as if some divine hand arranged them for beauty rather than chance.
"It's..." Fëanor searches for words, finding his extensive vocabulary suddenly inadequate.
"Yes," Mahtan agrees, understanding what remains unspoken. "It is."
They make their way down a narrow trail, their horses picking careful steps through roots and stones. As they descend, Fëanor feels as though they are entering another realm entirely—a place where time flows differently, where troubles cannot follow. By the time they reach the valley floor, the tension that has lived between his shoulder blades for months has softened to a distant memory.
They establish camp in a small clearing near the lake, close enough to hear the constant song of the waterfall. Mahtan moves with the ease of long practice, showing Fëanor how to construct a shelter from branches and oilcloth that will keep them dry should rain come. Together, they gather wood for a fire, unpack their provisions, lay out bedrolls side by side. There is intimacy in these simple tasks that Fëanor has never known before—a domesticity he has neither sought nor valued until this moment, watching Mahtan's hands arrange kindling into a perfect cone.
When their camp is settled, Mahtan suggests they explore. "The day is still young," he says, grey eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. "And there are wonders here that cannot be seen from one vantage point."
They follow the stream upstream toward the waterfall, walking close enough that their hands occasionally brush. Each accidental touch sends a current through Fëanor's skin, like metal responding to a lodestone. The forest floor is soft beneath their boots, a carpet of moss and fallen needles that muffles their footsteps until they seem to move as silently as deer.
"In the court," Fëanor says after a while, "everything is designed to impress, to overwhelm with its artifice. But this..." He gestures to the towering trees, the play of light through leaves, the delicate ferns unfurling at their feet. "This makes me feel small in a way that doesn't diminish me."
Mahtan's hand finds his, fingers intertwining. "Nature doesn't judge," he says. "It simply is. Perhaps that's why it heals what civilization wounds."
They walk on, hand in hand now, until the sound of the waterfall grows from distant music to thunderous presence. Rounding a bend in the stream, they come upon it in all its glory—a sheet of water cascading down a cliff face at least three times Fëanor's height, crashing into a deep pool before continuing on as the stream they've followed. The force of it sends a fine mist into the air that catches the light, creating countless tiny rainbows that dance and disappear in the space of a breath.
Fëanor stands transfixed. He has shaped water in his art before—rendered it in silver and crystal, captured its essence in flowing designs—but seeing it now, wild and free and thunderously alive, he understands how pale his imitations have been.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mahtan says, close to his ear to be heard over the roar.
Fëanor turns to find Mahtan already looking at him, not at the waterfall. The intensity in those grey eyes makes heat bloom across Fëanor's skin, despite the coolness of the mist.
"Yes," Fëanor answers, though he's no longer speaking of the scenery.
Mahtan's smile turns mischievous. "The pool is deep enough for swimming. The water is cold, but on a day like this..." He glances up at the light filtering through the trees. "It would feel like a blessing."
Before Fëanor can respond, Mahtan is already unlacing his tunic, pulling it over his head to reveal the broad planes of his chest, sprinkled with auburn hair that narrows to a line disappearing beneath the waist of his leggings. Fëanor has seen Mahtan bare-chested many times in the forge, but here, in this wild place, there's something different about it—something primal that makes his mouth go dry.
"You're staring, my cub," Mahtan says, amusement in his voice as he bends to remove his boots.
"You're worth staring at," Fëanor replies honestly, then begins to remove his own clothing.
Soon they stand naked on the smooth stones that edge the pool, the mist from the waterfall beading on their skin. Fëanor is conscious of the contrast between them—his own lean form, muscle defined but not bulky, smooth skin unmarked by hair except at the joining of his thighs, where his manhood hangs half-aroused already. Beside him, Mahtan is broader, solid as an oak, with a dusting of hair across his chest and arms that catches the light like copper wire. His own arousal is more evident, thick and rising against his thigh.
Mahtan steps into the water first, gasping at the cold but pushing forward until he's waist-deep. He turns, extending a hand. "Come," he says. "The shock passes quickly."
Fëanor takes his hand and follows. The water is indeed a shock, stealing his breath, making his skin tighten into gooseflesh. But Mahtan is right—after the initial jolt, it becomes invigorating rather than uncomfortable. He wades deeper until the water reaches the middle of his chest, feeling weightless, new.
"Come closer to the fall," Mahtan encourages, leading him by the hand.
They move toward the cascading water, where the pool is at its deepest. Here, they must swim, and Fëanor feels a childlike delight in the freedom of it, in the way his body cuts through the water with easy grace. Mahtan leads him to where the falling water meets the pool, where they can stand on a submerged ledge with the torrent just beyond arm's reach.
"Watch," Mahtan says, and steps forward into the fall itself.
The water crashes around him, plastering his hair to his head and shoulders, running in rivulets down the contours of his body. For a moment, he is transformed—not Mahtan the smith, the mentor, but some wild spirit of the forest, elemental and untamed. Then he steps back, laughing, water streaming from him.
"Your turn," he says, and Fëanor doesn't hesitate.
The force of the water is a surprise, stronger than he expected, pounding against his shoulders and back. It's overwhelming for an instant, and then exhilarating—washing away everything, leaving only the present moment, the rushing sound, the cold clarity. He feels cleansed, reborn. When he steps back, he's laughing too, spontaneous and unguarded in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
Their eyes meet through the mist, and something shifts in the air between them. Mahtan reaches out, pushing a strand of wet hair from Fëanor's face, his touch lingering. Fëanor leans into the contact, suddenly craving more than just this casual touch.
"Here?" he asks, voice barely audible over the water's roar.
Mahtan's answer is to pull him close, one arm encircling his waist, bringing their bodies together from chest to thigh. The contrast of the cold water and Mahtan's heat against him makes Fëanor gasp, a sound swallowed by Mahtan's mouth as it claims his in a kiss that has none of the gentleness of their earlier embraces in the forge. This is hungry, primal—teeth catching his lower lip, tongue delving deep, hands gripping with urgency rather than comfort.
Fëanor responds in kind, fingers tangling in Mahtan's wet hair, pulling him closer still. Their bodies slide together, slick with water, and Fëanor can feel Mahtan's arousal pressing hard against his own. The sensation sends sparks of pleasure up his spine, makes him roll his hips instinctively, seeking more of that delicious friction.
"My cub," Mahtan breathes against his neck, lips trailing fire despite the cold water. "So eager."
"For you," Fëanor manages, his own voice strange to his ears—deeper, rougher. "Always for you."
Mahtan's hands move down his back, cupping his buttocks, lifting him slightly so that their cocks align more perfectly. The first slide of hardness against hardness draws groans from them both, the sound nearly lost beneath the waterfall's constant thunder. Fëanor wraps his legs around Mahtan's waist, using the water's buoyancy to his advantage, bringing them even closer.
"Yes," Mahtan encourages, one hand moving between them to grasp both their lengths together.
The dual sensation—Mahtan's cock hot against his own, Mahtan's hand encircling them both—makes Fëanor's head fall back, exposing his throat to Mahtan's hungry mouth. Teeth graze the sensitive skin there as Mahtan begins to stroke them in tandem, the water making everything glide with perfect ease.
Fëanor clings to Mahtan's shoulders, fingers digging into muscle, anchoring himself against the onslaught of pleasure. Each stroke sends lightning through his veins, each scrape of Mahtan's beard against his neck adds texture to the building ecstasy. The cold of the water only heightens every sensation, makes the heat building between them seem even more intense by contrast.
"Look at me," Mahtan commands softly, and Fëanor lifts his head, meeting those grey eyes now dark with desire.
There is something profoundly intimate in maintaining that gaze as Mahtan's hand works between them, as their hips find a rhythm together, thrusting into the tunnel of Mahtan's fist. Fëanor feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with his nakedness—as if Mahtan can see past skin and bone to something essential within him, something raw and true that he keeps hidden from everyone else.
"Beautiful," Mahtan murmurs, and Fëanor isn't sure if he means the way they look together, or something more fundamental.
The pressure builds within him, coiling tight at the base of his spine. Mahtan's strokes grow faster, his grip firmer, and Fëanor can feel the telltale pulsing that means Mahtan is close as well. Their breath mingles, quick and sharp, creating small clouds in the cool air above the water.
"With me," Mahtan urges, his voice strained. "Together."
The command—the permission—is all Fëanor needs. His release crashes through him like the waterfall at his back, powerful and unstoppable. He cries out Mahtan's name, the sound torn from his throat as pleasure convulses through him in waves. His seed pulses between them, mingling with Mahtan's own as the older elf follows him over the edge, groaning deep in his chest, his whole body going rigid before shuddering against Fëanor's.
For long moments, they remain entangled, supporting each other as the aftershocks fade, as their breathing gradually slows. The water washes away the evidence of their passion, but not the bone-deep satisfaction that suffuses Fëanor's body, not the sense of connection that seems to hum in the small space between them.
Eventually, Mahtan guides them to the edge of the pool, helping Fëanor onto a warm flat stone large enough for them both. They stretch out side by side, letting the heat of the rock and the lingering light dry their skin. Fëanor feels languid, every muscle loose, his mind quiet for the first time in longer than he can remember.
Mahtan's hand finds his, fingers intertwining. "Better than the forge for working out frustrations, I think," he says, and Fëanor can hear the smile in his voice without looking.
"The forge has its virtues," Fëanor replies, turning his head to regard Mahtan's profile against the sky. "But yes, this has certain advantages."
Mahtan turns as well, bringing their faces close, and places a kiss on Fëanor's forehead that feels like benediction. "The day is still young," he says. "And we have nowhere to be, nothing to do but exactly as we please."
The freedom in those words is as intoxicating as Mahtan's touch had been. Fëanor closes his eyes, letting the light warm his face, letting the sound of the waterfall wash through him. Here, far from his father's disapproval, far from the politics and pressures of his position, he feels not like Prince Fëanor, heir and obligation, but simply like himself—a being of flesh and desire and joy.
"Thank you," he says softly, "for bringing me here."
Mahtan's only answer is to draw him closer, tucking Fëanor's head beneath his chin, one hand stroking slowly up and down his back. And for now, it is answer enough.
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