The golden light of Laurelin fades like honey being drawn slowly from a jar, leaving the sky awash with deepening blues and purples. In its place, Telperion's silver glow begins to strengthen, transforming the valley into a realm of shadows and luminescence. The waterfall that had sparkled with rainbow hues now shimmers like liquid moonlight, and the lake's surface becomes a mirror for the first stars that dare to show themselves.
Fëanor sits cross-legged at the edge of their camp, watching this transformation with quiet wonder. After their time in the waterfall, they had explored more of the valley, gathering berries and herbs, tracking the subtle signs of animals that called this place home. Now, as night unfurls its silver banners, he feels a peacefulness that has eluded him for longer than he cares to remember.
Behind him, Mahtan tends to the small fire they've built, its warm golden light creating a perfect counterpoint to Telperion's cool radiance. The scent of cooking food mingles with woodsmoke and pine, an earthy perfume that makes Fëanor's stomach remind him how long it's been since they last ate.
"Hungry?" Mahtan asks, as if reading his thoughts.
Fëanor turns to find Mahtan arranging food on wooden platters—bread still warm from being heated at the fire's edge, cheese they brought with them, the berries they gathered, and small birds Mahtan had snared and roasted while Fëanor was collecting kindling.
"Starving," Fëanor admits, moving to sit beside Mahtan on the blanket spread near the fire.
Mahtan hands him a platter, and their fingers brush—a brief contact that nonetheless sends a ripple of awareness through Fëanor's body. After the intensity of their encounter at the waterfall, he would have thought himself sated, at least for a while. Yet he finds that his hunger for Mahtan's touch has merely been banked, like coals covered with ash, ready to flare again at the slightest provocation.
"The berries are perfect," Mahtan says, popping one into his mouth. "Just the right balance of tart and sweet."
Fëanor tries one and nods in agreement. "Like many things worth having," he says, "they balance opposing qualities."
Mahtan regards him over the rim of a metal cup filled with water from the stream. "Is that what draws you to the forge? The balance between destruction and creation, between unyielding metal and fluid form?"
The question catches Fëanor off guard—not the subject, but the insight behind it. "Yes," he says slowly. "But also the transformation itself. Taking something raw, something with potential, and helping it become what it was meant to be."
He tears a piece of bread, considering. "My father sees only the sweat, the soot, the physical labor. He doesn't understand the..."
"The alchemy of it," Mahtan supplies. "The magic that happens between vision and execution."
"Yes," Fëanor says again, feeling a rush of gratitude that he doesn't need to explain further. Mahtan understands, has always understood.
They eat in companionable silence for a while, the fire crackling beside them, Telperion's light growing stronger by the minute until the clearing is bathed in silver so bright it casts shadows nearly as sharp as day. In this light, Mahtan looks different—his auburn hair taking on a mercury sheen, his features rendered in stark contrasts that emphasize the strength of his jaw, the noble line of his nose, the deep-set nature of his eyes.
"I've brought something else," Mahtan says when their platters are nearly empty. He reaches into his pack and produces a skin of wine and two silver cups that gleam in the mingled light of fire and Tree.
"From the vineyards near my home," he explains, pouring a measure of deep red liquid into each cup. "It seemed a fitting companion for this escape of ours."
Fëanor accepts the cup, watching how the wine captures and holds the light, appearing almost black in its depths but ruby at its edges. He raises it in a silent toast, and Mahtan mirrors the gesture before they both drink.
The wine is rich and complex, notes of berries and earth and something almost spicy spreading across Fëanor's tongue. It warms him from within, a pleasant counterpoint to the slight chill that has begun to settle as Laurelin's last heat fades from the air.
"I envy you sometimes," Fëanor says after his second sip. "Your freedom."
Mahtan's expression grows thoughtful. "Freedom is relative, my cub. I have obligations of my own, even if they're not as visible as yours."
"But you chose them," Fëanor points out. "Your craft, your path. No one decided for you before you drew your first breath what your life would be."
Mahtan sets his cup down, his gaze steady on Fëanor's face. "True enough. But we all operate within constraints, whether chosen or imposed. The question is what we make within those boundaries."
His hand comes to rest on Fëanor's knee, warm through the fabric of his leggings. "You, for instance, have made beauty that will outlast us both, despite—or perhaps because of—the pressures that shape you."
The touch, the words, the wine—they all conspire to create a warmth in Fëanor's chest that has nothing to do with the fire beside them. He leans forward, setting his own cup aside, and places his hand over Mahtan's.
"You shape me too," he says quietly. "In ways less visible than metal, but no less real."
Mahtan's eyes, silver-grey in Telperion's light, soften. His other hand comes up to cup Fëanor's cheek, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with a tenderness that makes Fëanor's breath catch.
"You forge yourself, my cub. I merely provide the space for the fire to burn cleanly."
Their faces are close now, close enough that Fëanor can smell the wine on Mahtan's breath, can see the subtle variations of color in his beard, can feel the heat radiating from his skin. It seems the most natural thing in the world to close that small distance, to press his lips to Mahtan's in a kiss that tastes of wine and desire reignited.
Mahtan responds immediately, his hand sliding from Fëanor's cheek to the back of his neck, holding him close as the kiss deepens. There's none of the desperate hunger from earlier—this is slower, more deliberate, a careful exploration rather than a headlong rush. Fëanor finds himself melting into it, into the sure pressure of Mahtan's mouth, the gentle scrape of his beard, the steady strength of his hand.
When they part, it's only far enough to catch their breath, foreheads still touching. Fëanor's hand has somehow found its way to Mahtan's chest, resting over his heart, feeling its strong, steady beat.
"You kindle something in me," Fëanor murmurs, "that burns hotter than any forge."
Mahtan's lips curve in a smile. "The feeling is mutual." His hand slides from Fëanor's neck down his back, drawing him closer until Fëanor is nearly in his lap. "Though I find I'm less interested in talking about fire than in feeling it."
Their next kiss carries more heat, mouths opening to each other, tongues meeting in a dance as old as desire itself. Fëanor shifts fully into Mahtan's lap now, knees on either side of his hips, bringing their bodies flush together. Even through their clothing, he can feel Mahtan's arousal matching his own, a firm pressure that sends tendrils of pleasure curling through his abdomen.
Mahtan's hands roam freely now, slipping beneath Fëanor's tunic to trace the contours of his back, his sides, dipping teasingly beneath the waistband of his leggings before retreating. Each touch leaves trails of sensation on Fëanor's skin, as if Mahtan's fingers carry some subtle current that flows directly into his bloodstream.
Fëanor is not passive in this exchange. His own hands explore the broad expanse of Mahtan's shoulders, the powerful muscles of his arms, the sensitive spot at the nape of his neck that makes Mahtan groan when Fëanor's fingers press there. He rocks his hips, creating delicious friction between them that draws answering movements from Mahtan.
Their kisses grow more urgent, punctuated by gasps and murmurs of encouragement. Mahtan's beard leaves a pleasant burn against Fëanor's skin as his mouth travels down Fëanor's neck, finding the pulse point there and sucking gently, drawing a low moan from Fëanor's throat.
"I want you," Fëanor breathes, his voice rough with need. "Again. Still. Always."
Mahtan pulls back just enough to look at him, his eyes dark with desire, his lips reddened from their kisses. In the silver light, with his hair slightly mussed and his expression so nakedly wanting, he looks wild, elemental—less the patient mentor and more a force of nature.
"And I want you," Mahtan replies, his hands coming to frame Fëanor's face. "But I find myself thinking of new ways to please you, new territories to explore."
There's a question in his eyes, an offer that makes Fëanor's pulse quicken even further. Whatever Mahtan is suggesting, Fëanor knows with bone-deep certainty that he will say yes—has perhaps been waiting all along for Mahtan to ask.
"Show me," Fëanor says, the words both invitation and plea.
Mahtan's smile holds promise and heat in equal measure. He reaches for the wine again, refilling their cups, and hands one to Fëanor. "Drink," he says. "The night is young, and what I have in mind benefits from anticipation."
Fëanor accepts the cup, his fingers steady despite the desire thrumming through his veins. He sips slowly, watching Mahtan over the rim, feeling the sweet tension building between them like a thread being pulled taut. In Telperion's silver light, with the stars a canopy above and the sound of the waterfall a constant backdrop, he savors this moment of suspension, this perfect balance between fulfillment and yearning.
Whatever comes next, he is ready—more than ready—to follow where Mahtan leads.
The wine settles in Fëanor's blood like liquid starlight, warming him from within as Telperion's silver glow bathes them from without. Time seems to stretch and pool around them, unhurried as honey dripping from a comb. Mahtan sets his cup aside, his movements deliberate, almost ceremonial. There's something different in his gaze now—a focused intensity that makes Fëanor's skin prickle with anticipation.
"I've been thinking," Mahtan says, his voice low enough that Fëanor must lean closer to hear it clearly over the distant song of the waterfall, "about what you said earlier. About freedom and constraint."
Fëanor tilts his head, curious. Their earlier conversation feels distant now, obscured by the haze of wine and desire, but he remembers his own words about envy, about choice.
"Sometimes," Mahtan continues, one hand coming to rest at the nape of Fëanor's neck, fingers threading through the hair there, "there can be a profound freedom in constraint. A liberation in surrender."
His other hand traces the line of Fëanor's wrist, thumb pressing gently against the pulse point there. "I would like to show you, if you're willing."
Fëanor's breath catches, understanding dawning. "You want to restrain me."
It's not a question, but Mahtan nods, his eyes never leaving Fëanor's face, watching carefully for his reaction. "I want to bind your wrists," he clarifies. "To take from you the burden of choice, the weight of control, if only for a little while."
Fëanor's heart beats faster at the suggestion. In the forge, in his father's court, in every aspect of his life, he is defined by his will, his control, his ability to shape and direct. The thought of relinquishing that, of placing himself entirely in Mahtan's hands, sends a shiver through him that is equal parts trepidation and desire.
"Why?" he asks, not refusing, but needing to understand.
Mahtan's smile is tender, though his eyes remain intent. "Because there are pleasures that can only be reached through surrender. Because I want to guide you to a place where you needn't think, needn't decide, needn't be anything but what you feel in each moment."
His fingers tighten slightly in Fëanor's hair, not painful but assertive. "Because I want to see you undone completely, my cub. And because I believe you want that too, even if you've never given it voice."
The words strike a chord deep within Fëanor, resonating with something he has perhaps always known but never acknowledged. To be freed from the constant weight of expectation, from the endless calculations and considerations that govern his every action—there is an allure to it that he cannot deny.
"I trust you," Fëanor says simply.
But Mahtan shakes his head slightly. "That's not enough. I need to know that you want this, not just that you'll allow it."
Fëanor considers this, the distinction important. Does he want it? The idea creates a complex tangle of emotions—vulnerability, excitement, fear, arousal. Yet beneath them all is a current of genuine curiosity, of yearning for this new experience that Mahtan offers.
"I want it," he says, and is surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. "I want to know what it's like, to surrender to you completely."
Mahtan's expression softens with approval. "There are things we should speak of first. Boundaries. If at any point you wish me to stop, you need only say so, and I will. Immediately and without question."
"I understand," Fëanor nods.
"And if for any reason you cannot speak, or if words desert you," Mahtan continues, "you can tap three times against me or against the ground. That too will signal me to stop."
The care Mahtan takes in establishing these safeguards only deepens Fëanor's trust, his willingness to follow where Mahtan leads. "Three taps," he repeats, committing it to memory.
"Good." Mahtan brushes a strand of hair from Fëanor's face, his touch lingering. "One last thing. This is not about pain, or punishment. This is about pleasure, about trust, about experiencing sensations in a new way. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Fëanor says, though in truth he can only guess at what awaits him. The unknown stretches before him, both terrifying and thrilling.
Mahtan reaches into his pack and withdraws a length of soft, finely woven cloth, a deep blue that looks almost black in Telperion's light. "This will not hurt you," he says, running it between his fingers to demonstrate its suppleness. "But it will hold you securely."
Fëanor watches, fascinated, as Mahtan handles the cloth with the same precise attention he gives to his tools in the forge. There is craftsmanship even in this, he realizes—skill and knowledge applied to a different sort of creation.
"Give me your hands," Mahtan instructs gently.
Fëanor extends his wrists, placing them together in the space between their bodies. The gesture feels profoundly symbolic, an offering of himself that goes beyond the physical act. His hands—the instruments of his craft, the embodiment of his skill and pride—surrendered willingly to Mahtan's keeping.
Mahtan takes Fëanor's hands in his own first, raising them to his lips to place a kiss on each palm. The tenderness of the gesture brings an unexpected lump to Fëanor's throat. Then, with movements that speak of practice and care, Mahtan begins to wrap the cloth around Fëanor's wrists.
The binding is neither tight enough to cause discomfort nor loose enough to allow easy escape. Mahtan works methodically, creating a pattern that distributes pressure evenly, that will secure without cutting off circulation. As each loop of fabric encircles his wrists, Fëanor feels a curious sensation spreading through him—a lightening, as if some invisible burden is being lifted with each constraint added.
"How does that feel?" Mahtan asks, securing the final knot.
Fëanor tests the binding gently, feeling the way it holds him but does not bite into his flesh. "Strange," he admits. "But not unpleasant."
The reality of his position begins to sink in. He is bound now, unable to use his hands freely, dependent on Mahtan in a way he has never been on anyone. The vulnerability of it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through him—a flutter of panic quickly followed by a deeper, more surprising sense of peace.
"You're safe," Mahtan says, reading the flicker of uncertainty in Fëanor's eyes. "I have you."
And it's true, Fëanor realizes. Mahtan does have him, completely. There is nowhere to hide, no mask to maintain, no control to assert. In surrendering his physical freedom, he has also surrendered the need to be anything other than exactly what he is in this moment.
"What now?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mahtan's smile carries heat and promise. "Now," he says, guiding Fëanor to lie back on the bedroll they prepared earlier, "I take you on a journey. One step at a time, one sensation following another."
He arranges Fëanor carefully, making sure he's comfortable despite the binding, placing his bound hands above his head. The position leaves Fëanor open, exposed, unable to shield himself in any way from what comes next.
"You need do nothing but feel," Mahtan tells him, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality. "Not think, not decide, not control. Just experience whatever I choose to give you."
His hands hover above Fëanor's body, not yet touching, and Fëanor finds himself holding his breath in anticipation. The silver light of Telperion filters through the trees above, dappling Mahtan's face with patterns of light and shadow that make him seem almost otherworldly.
"Close your eyes," Mahtan instructs softly.
Fëanor obeys, surrendering even his sight, leaving himself with nothing but touch and sound and scent to guide him. In the darkness behind his eyelids, every other sense intensifies—the whisper of Mahtan's breathing, the distant rush of the waterfall, the earthy smell of the forest floor beneath them, the lingering taste of wine on his tongue.
"Now," Mahtan's voice comes from somewhere above him, a promise and a warning wrapped in a single word, "we begin."
The first touch comes as a surprise—not where Fëanor expects it, not on his chest or face or lips, but on the inside of his elbow, a place he has never considered particularly sensitive. Mahtan's fingers trace the delicate skin there, a whisper-light caress that sends unexpected ripples of sensation up his arm, across his shoulder, down his spine. With his eyes closed and his hands bound, he has no way to anticipate where the next touch will come, no defense against the sweet assault on his senses. He is a map being explored by a cartographer with infinite patience, each landmark discovered anew.
"Breathe," Mahtan murmurs, and Fëanor realizes he's been holding his breath, muscles tense with anticipation. He exhales slowly, consciously willing his body to relax into the bedroll beneath him.
The next touch lands on his temple—Mahtan's lips pressed softly against the spot where his pulse beats visibly beneath the skin. Such a chaste kiss, and yet Fëanor feels it like a brand, his awareness focused to a pinpoint on that single point of contact. Without sight, without the use of his hands, every sensation is magnified, as if his skin has become more porous, more receptive.
"Your beauty in this light," Mahtan says, his voice low and reverent, "is almost too much to bear. Like something from the first days of creation, before the world learned imperfection."
Under normal circumstances, Fëanor might deflect such praise, uncomfortable with its naked sincerity. But bound as he is, he has nowhere to hide, no way to erect his usual defenses. He can only receive the words, let them wash over him and through him, warming places within that have grown cold from neglect.
Mahtan's hands move to the laces of Fëanor's tunic, loosening them with deliberate slowness. The back of his knuckles brush against Fëanor's throat as he works, a teasing contact that makes Fëanor swallow hard. The sound seems unnaturally loud in the quiet between them.
"I'm going to undress you," Mahtan says, his tone making it clear this is not a request but a statement of intent. "Slowly. And you're going to lie there and let me look my fill."
There's a possessiveness in his voice that Fëanor has never heard before, a darker note that sends a shiver of excitement through him. This is a side of Mahtan he hasn't encountered in their previous couplings—a dominance usually kept carefully in check, now given permission to emerge.
The tunic comes off first, Mahtan lifting Fëanor slightly to pull it free, his hands warm and sure against Fëanor's back. Then the leggings, inched down with tantalizing patience, Mahtan's knuckles deliberately grazing the sensitive skin of Fëanor's hip bones, the hollows beside his groin, the taut muscle of his thighs. By the time he is fully naked, Fëanor's breath comes in shallow pulls, his skin hyper-aware, anticipating the next touch like parched earth awaiting rain.
But Mahtan doesn't touch him immediately. There's a pause, a weighted silence that Fëanor can feel like pressure against his skin. He knows Mahtan is looking at him, studying him in the silver light of Telperion, and the knowledge makes his already hard cock twitch against his stomach.
"Open your eyes," Mahtan commands softly. "I want you to see what I see."
Fëanor complies, his eyelids fluttering open. Mahtan kneels beside him, still fully clothed, his gaze traveling over Fëanor's naked form with unabashed appreciation. The intensity in those grey eyes makes Fëanor feel simultaneously exposed and exalted, like a treasured artifact being assessed by a master craftsman.
"Perfect," Mahtan says simply, and closes his hand around Fëanor's bound wrists, raising them higher above his head, stretching his body into a taut line of anticipation.
Then Mahtan bends and places his lips against Fëanor's in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, his tongue seeking entrance, which Fëanor grants with a small sound of need. The kiss is thorough, exploratory, Mahtan mapping the contours of Fëanor's mouth with the same careful attention he would give to examining a complex design.
When he pulls back, Fëanor tries to follow, lifting his head from the bedroll, unwilling to break the contact. Mahtan places a firm hand on his chest, pressing him back down.
"Patience, my cub," he says, a smile curving his lips. "We have all night, and I intend to use every moment of it."
True to his word, Mahtan begins a slow journey down Fëanor's body, starting at his jawline, pressing kisses along the sharp edge of it, then down the column of his throat. He lingers at the pulse point, sucking gently, then more firmly, surely leaving a mark that will bloom purple against Fëanor's pale skin. The thought of being marked, claimed in such a visible way, draws a groan from deep in Fëanor's chest.
"You like that," Mahtan observes, his breath hot against the damp spot he's created. "The idea of carrying my mark where others might see."
It's not a question, but Fëanor answers anyway, his voice already rough with desire. "Yes."
Mahtan rewards this honesty with another kiss, this one placed at the hollow of Fëanor's throat, where his collarbones meet. His beard tickles against the sensitive skin there, a contrasting texture that adds another layer to the sensation.
From there, Mahtan's mouth travels lower, across Fëanor's chest, pausing to pay special attention to each nipple in turn. The first touch of his tongue against one taut peak makes Fëanor arch up from the bedroll, a gasp escaping his lips. Mahtan chuckles, the sound a vibration against Fëanor's skin.
"So responsive," he murmurs, circling the nipple with his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips.
The sensation shoots straight to Fëanor's groin, his cock hardening further, a bead of moisture forming at the tip. He strains against his bonds, wanting to touch Mahtan, to pull him closer, to guide him where he needs him most. But the bindings hold firm, and he can do nothing but receive whatever pleasure Mahtan chooses to give him.
"Please," he says, the word escaping before he can consider it.
Mahtan lifts his head, eyes dark with desire but still controlled. "Please what, my cub? What is it you're asking for?"
Fëanor swallows, finding it difficult to articulate his needs when his mind is clouded with want. "Touch me. More."
"But I am touching you," Mahtan points out, demonstrating by running a single finger down the center of Fëanor's chest, over his sternum, down to his navel. "Just not where you want it most, perhaps."
The teasing note in his voice makes Fëanor want to growl in frustration, but he restrains himself, sensing that impatience will only prolong his sweet torment. Instead, he closes his eyes again, surrendering to the pace Mahtan has set.
Mahtan's exploration continues, his mouth and hands working in tandem now, covering every inch of Fëanor's torso with kisses, licks, gentle scrapes of teeth, and caresses that range from barely-there to firmly possessive. He pays special attention to places Fëanor never knew could bring such pleasure—the dip between his ribs, the soft skin just below his navel, the sharp jut of his hip bones.
All the while, he carefully avoids touching Fëanor's cock, which lies hard and aching against his stomach, occasionally twitching when a particularly intense sensation courses through him. The deliberate neglect of it is its own form of torment, making Fëanor hyperaware of how desperately he wants—needs—to be touched there.
"Your skin tastes like starlight," Mahtan murmurs against Fëanor's hip, his beard creating delicious friction as he nuzzles the sensitive skin there. "Like something rare and precious that I alone have discovered."
His hands slide under Fëanor's thighs, lifting them slightly, spreading them wider. The position leaves Fëanor completely exposed, vulnerable in a way that should perhaps be frightening but instead feels liberating. There is no performance required of him here, no need to direct or control. His only task is to feel, to receive, to surrender to the pleasure Mahtan crafts with the same skill he brings to his smithing.
Mahtan's attention shifts to Fëanor's inner thighs, his mouth tracing a path from knee to groin that deliberately stops just short of where Fëanor most wants it. The teasing is exquisite torture, each approach bringing hope, each retreat leaving him more desperate than before.
"Mahtan," Fëanor gasps, his hips lifting involuntarily, seeking contact. "I cannot—I need—"
"What do you need, my cub?" Mahtan's voice is steady, though his eyes betray his own arousal, pupils dilated so wide the grey is merely a thin ring around the black. "Tell me."
"Touch me," Fëanor pleads, past pride now, past pretense. "My cock—please—"
But Mahtan shakes his head slightly. "Not yet. You're not ready yet."
Before Fëanor can protest this assessment, Mahtan's hands slide beneath him, cupping his buttocks, lifting him slightly as his mouth descends to the tender skin where thigh meets groin. The kiss he places there is open-mouthed, hot, his tongue tracing patterns that make Fëanor's toes curl, his bound hands clenching into fists above his head.
"You're beautiful like this," Mahtan says between kisses, his breath teasing against damp skin. "Undone. Desperate. Completely at my mercy."
There's wonder in his voice, as if he's discovering something unexpected and precious. It pierces through Fëanor's haze of desire, touching something deeper than physical need. To be seen this way, vulnerable and wanting and stripped of all pretenses, and to be found beautiful in that state—it's a gift he never knew he needed until this moment.
Mahtan's exploration continues, his hands never still, mapping every contour of Fëanor's body with firm, possessive touches. He discovers places that make Fëanor gasp, spots that cause him to tense in surprise, areas that draw forth moans of pure pleasure. And all the while, he speaks—words of praise, of desire, of promise—his voice a constant tether that keeps Fëanor grounded even as sensation threatens to overwhelm him.
"The sounds you make," Mahtan murmurs, his mouth now at Fëanor's hip again, dangerously close to his straining erection. "Like music composed specifically for my ears."
To prove his point, he sucks hard at the spot, and Fëanor cries out, his body arching off the bedroll. The mark Mahtan leaves behind pulses with sweet pain, another brand of ownership that Fëanor welcomes, craves.
Time loses meaning as Mahtan continues his meticulous exploration. It could be minutes or hours that Fëanor lies there, bound and desperate, his body a live wire of sensation. Sweat sheens his skin despite the cool night air, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each labored breath. His cock is so hard it's painful, leaking steadily onto his stomach, untouched and aching.
Just when Fëanor thinks he can endure no more, when he is about to beg in earnest, regardless of pride or dignity, Mahtan's hand finally—finally—brushes against his length. It's the barest contact, fingers trailing lightly from base to tip, but after so long without, it feels like lightning striking. Fëanor's hips buck uncontrollably, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat.
"So eager," Mahtan says, his voice thick with his own desire now. "So beautiful in your need."
His hand encircles Fëanor's cock fully for a brief, blissful moment, giving one slow stroke from root to tip that has Fëanor seeing stars behind his closed eyelids. But just as quickly as the touch came, it's gone again, leaving Fëanor gasping and desperate.
"Not yet," Mahtan says, though his own restraint is clearly costing him. "Not until you're so wild with want that you forget your own name, forget everything but the pleasure I'm giving you."
Fëanor opens his eyes, finding Mahtan's face above him, expression intense with desire and tenderness intermingled. "I'm already there," he says, his voice barely recognizable. "Mahtan, please, I cannot bear more teasing."
Mahtan regards him for a long moment, assessment in his gaze. Then he bends to place a surprisingly gentle kiss on Fëanor's lips. "Soon," he promises. "But first, I want to taste more of you. Every part of you."
And before Fëanor can process what this means, Mahtan is moving down his body again, hands spreading his thighs wider, positioning himself between them. His intention becomes clear, and Fëanor's breath catches in his throat, a mix of anticipation and vulnerability washing through him.
"Yes," he whispers, giving permission before it's even asked for.
Mahtan's smile is predatory and tender at once, a combination that sends another surge of desire through Fëanor's already overwhelmed system. "My good cub," he says approvingly. "So brave for me. So perfect."
And then he lowers his head, and Fëanor knows that whatever comes next will push him even further beyond the boundaries of pleasure he thought possible. Mahtan's mouth maps territories Fëanor never knew could bring such pleasure, each kiss and lick and gentle bite drawing sounds from him he doesn't recognize as his own. Time stretches like heated metal, malleable and glowing, measured not in minutes but in sensations—the wet heat of Mahtan's tongue, the scrape of his beard against sensitive flesh, the cool silver light of Telperion dappling their entwined bodies. When Mahtan finally raises his head, Fëanor is trembling, hovering on the edge of release yet denied the final push that would send him over.
"Please," Fëanor gasps, the word worn thin with repetition. "I need you. All of you."
Mahtan's eyes are dark pools in the silvery light, his own breathing far from steady now. "You shall have me," he promises, his voice a low rumble that Fëanor feels as much as hears. "But first..."
From his pack, Mahtan retrieves a small vial of oil, unstoppering it with practiced ease. The scent that wafts from it is subtle but intoxicating—sandalwood and something else Fëanor can't identify, something that seems to speak directly to the part of him that craves Mahtan's touch.
"This will ease the way," Mahtan explains, though Fëanor needs no explanation. They have coupled before, though never with Fëanor bound, never with this careful deliberation that transforms each moment into its own eternity.
Mahtan pours some of the oil onto his fingers, warming it between them before moving his hand between Fëanor's spread thighs. The first touch against his entrance makes Fëanor jerk, sensitive beyond measure after all the teasing that's come before. Mahtan's other hand rests firm on his hip, a steadying pressure.
"Breathe," Mahtan reminds him, and Fëanor forces himself to inhale deeply, to release the tension that's instinctively tightened his muscles.
The first finger slides in with surprising ease, his body eager despite—or perhaps because of—the long buildup. Mahtan works him open with the same careful attention he's given every other aspect of their encounter, adding a second finger only when the first meets no resistance, curling them to find the spot inside that makes Fëanor cry out, stars bursting behind his eyelids.
"There," Mahtan murmurs, sounding pleased. "Remember that feeling. It's only the beginning."
By the time Mahtan withdraws his fingers, Fëanor is writhing on the bedroll, his bound hands clenching and unclenching above his head, his cock painfully hard against his stomach. He feels open, empty, desperate to be filled.
"Watch me," Mahtan commands, and Fëanor forces his heavy eyelids up to see Mahtan finally—finally—removing his own clothing.
Even in his desperation, Fëanor can appreciate the sight before him. Mahtan's body is magnificent—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, strong arms and a chest dusted with auburn hair that catches the silver light, powerful thighs and between them, his cock, thick and proud, curving slightly upward and already glistening at the tip.
"You are beautiful," Fëanor says, the words escaping without thought.
Mahtan's expression softens momentarily. "As are you, my cub. Never more so than now, spread before me like a feast."
He pours more oil into his palm, then takes his own length in hand, stroking slowly to spread the slickness from root to tip. The sight makes Fëanor's mouth water, his body clenching around emptiness, anticipating the fullness to come.
When Mahtan positions himself between Fëanor's thighs again, there's a new tension in the air—a sense of threshold about to be crossed. He hooks his hands beneath Fëanor's knees, pushing them up and apart, exposing him completely. The position should make Fëanor feel vulnerable, displayed, but instead it feels like an offering, a gift he gives willingly.
"Look at me," Mahtan says, and when Fëanor meets his gaze, he continues: "I want to see your eyes when I take you. I want to watch every reaction, every flicker of pleasure."
Fëanor nods, beyond words now, his entire being concentrated on the point where their bodies are about to join.
The first touch of Mahtan's cock against his entrance sends a jolt through him, like lightning finding the highest point in a storm. It's both too much and not enough—the promise of what's to come without the fulfillment. Mahtan doesn't push forward immediately, instead circling the sensitive ring of muscle with his tip, spreading oil and precome in teasing strokes that make Fëanor's hips lift involuntarily, seeking more.
"Patience," Mahtan admonishes, though his own voice is strained now. "Good things come to those who wait."
Fëanor wants to protest that he has waited, has been patient beyond endurance, but before he can form the words, Mahtan presses forward—just slightly, just enough for the head of his cock to breach the tight ring of muscle.
The sensation is exquisite—a burning stretch that borders on pain before melting into pleasure as his body yields. Fëanor's breath catches, held captive in his lungs as he adjusts to the intrusion, as his body remembers this feeling, welcomes it.
And then, just when he expects Mahtan to continue, to push deeper, to fill him completely—Mahtan withdraws, pulling back until only the very tip remains inside.
"What—" Fëanor begins, confusion cutting through his pleasure-haze.
Mahtan's smile is both tender and wicked. "Did you think I was finished teasing you, my cub? That I would give you everything at once, when drawing it out is so much sweeter?"
As if to demonstrate his point, he pushes forward again, a little deeper this time, but still withdrawing before Fëanor can truly feel filled. The pattern establishes itself—each thrust going slightly deeper, each withdrawal leaving Fëanor more desperate for completion.
"Please," Fëanor whispers, the word a prayer and a demand wrapped in one breath. "I need—"
"What do you need?" Mahtan asks, his hips still moving in that maddening rhythm, giving just enough to stoke the flames higher without granting true satisfaction. "Tell me, Curufinwë. In detail."
The use of his father-name —rare from Mahtan, who usually calls him "my cub" in these intimate moments—brings Fëanor's focus sharply back. This is what Mahtan wants, he realizes. Not just his body, but his voice, his words, his explicit acknowledgment of desire.
"I need you inside me," he says, his voice rough. "All of you. Deep. Please, Mahtan."
Mahtan rewards this with a slightly deeper thrust, but still not what Fëanor craves. "More specific," he urges. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do."
Heat flushes Fëanor's face, a different kind of vulnerability now—to speak his desires aloud, to give them voice and form. But with his hands bound, his body spread open, what dignity is left to preserve?
"I want your cock inside me," he says, the words coming easier than he expected. "I want you to fill me completely, to take me hard, to make me feel it tomorrow and remember this night."
Mahtan's rhythm falters momentarily, his own control clearly tested by Fëanor's words. But he recovers, his next thrust still shallow, still teasing. "Better," he acknowledges. "But I think you can be more... persuasive."
The challenge in his eyes is clear, and something in Fëanor—the part of him that has always burned too hot, wanted too much, reached too far—rises to meet it.
"Please fuck me," he says, the crude word strange on his tongue but perfect for the raw need he feels. "I've been empty for so long, waiting for you to fill me. I need to feel you deep inside, need to be stretched around you, completed by you."
His hips lift with each word, seeking more than the shallow penetration Mahtan allows. "I'm yours," he continues, the admission tearing from some deep place within him. "I have always been yours. Take what belongs to you. Claim me. Make me yours completely."
Something shifts in Mahtan's expression—a tightening around the eyes, a flare of nostrils—that speaks of control stretched to breaking. His next thrust goes deeper, but still he withdraws, still he denies them both the full joining they crave.
"More," he demands, voice rough as forge-stone. "Beg me, Fëanáro. Let me hear how much you need this—need me."
And Fëanor, Prince of the Noldor, heir of Finwë, proud and fierce and unyielding in all other aspects of his life, finds that here, in this moment, there is freedom in surrender, power in submission. He lets go of the last tattered remnants of his pride and gives Mahtan what he asks for.
"Please," he begs, no artifice now, no calculation, just raw, honest need. "Please, Mahtan, I cannot bear it anymore. I need you inside me, need to feel full, need to be taken, used, loved. I am empty without you, incomplete. Please—"
His voice breaks on the last word, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of his eyes. He has never wanted anything with such fierce desperation, never felt so utterly at the mercy of his own desire.
Mahtan's expression softens even as his body remains taut with restraint. One hand leaves Fëanor's thigh to brush a tear from his cheek, the tenderness of the gesture a stark contrast to the relentless teasing of his cock, still barely penetrating, still denying them both.
"You are magnificent," Mahtan says softly. "Never more beautiful than when you surrender your pride, when you show me the truth of your need."
His hips push forward slightly, then retreat, the pattern unchanged despite Fëanor's pleas. "A little longer," he promises, his own voice strained now. "Just a little longer, and I will give you everything you ask for. But first..."
He leans down, his chest nearly touching Fëanor's, his face close enough that their breath mingles. "First, I want to see you reach the very edge of endurance. I want to know I've taken you past thought, past pride, past everything but sensation."
And with that promise—or warning—he continues his exquisite torture, each shallow thrust a reminder of what awaits, each withdrawal a denial that builds the need higher, hotter, more desperate than before. Under Telperion's silver light, with the distant song of the waterfall as counterpoint to their mingled breathing, they balance on the knife-edge of pleasure and frustration, neither willing to yield—Fëanor in his begging, Mahtan in his restraint—until something has to break.
Something has to give. The tension between them has stretched beyond endurance, a string pulled too tight, vibrating with a note too high to hear but felt in the marrow of their bones. Fëanor's pleas have dissolved into wordless sounds, desperate and primal. Mahtan's control, iron-forged and steady until now, begins to show cracks, hairline fractures that widen with each shallow thrust, each denied completion. Their eyes lock, silver meeting grey, and in that moment, something passes between them—an understanding, a surrender that belongs to them both.
"Now," Mahtan whispers, the word both question and answer. "Now, my cub."
And then—finally, gloriously—he pushes forward in one long, smooth thrust that doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt inside Fëanor's willing body.
The fullness is overwhelming, a perfect invasion that transforms emptiness into completion. Fëanor's back arches off the bedroll, a cry torn from his throat that might be Mahtan's name or merely a sound of pure sensation. His bound hands clench into fists above his head, knuckles white with tension as his body adjusts to the intrusion it has been craving.
Mahtan remains still, giving him time, though the effort of restraint is visible in the trembling of his arms, the tension in his jaw. Sweat gleams on his brow, in the hollow of his throat, across the broad expanse of his chest. His eyes never leave Fëanor's face, reading every flicker of expression, every minute shift from discomfort to pleasure.
"You feel," Mahtan says, his voice strained, "like coming home. Like finding something I've been searching for without knowing it was lost."
The words pierce something in Fëanor more deeply than the physical joining. He has no response, no clever retort, only the truth of his own vulnerable state, laid bare for Mahtan's eyes alone.
"Move," he manages finally, when the initial stretch has faded into a burning need for friction, for more. "Please, Mahtan, move."
And Mahtan does, withdrawing almost completely before driving forward again, establishing a rhythm that starts slow but steadily increases in tempo and force. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through Fëanor's body, building upon each other, creating a rising tide that threatens to drown conscious thought.
The angle changes slightly, and suddenly Mahtan's cock is striking that spot inside him that turns pleasure into something transcendent. Fëanor cries out, his body clenching around Mahtan's length, drawing a answering groan from his lover's throat.
"There," Mahtan murmurs, adjusting to maintain the angle. "Just there."
His hips move with increasing urgency now, the careful control of earlier dissolving in the face of mutual need. The sound of their bodies meeting fills the clearing, a counterpoint to their labored breathing and broken words of encouragement and praise.
Fëanor's cock, neglected until now, throbs against his stomach, leaking evidence of his arousal onto his skin. He aches to touch himself, to provide the additional stimulation that would push him over the edge, but his hands remain bound above his head, leaving him dependent on Mahtan for his release.
As if sensing this need, Mahtan shifts, supporting his weight on one arm while the other moves between them, wrapping around Fëanor's length. The first stroke nearly undoes him, the dual sensation of being filled and handled with such intimate knowledge overwhelming his already taxed senses.
"Not yet," Mahtan cautions, perhaps feeling the telltale tightening of Fëanor's body around him. "Together. We finish together."
His hand slows its movements, denying Fëanor the fast friction he craves, keeping him hovering on the edge of release without allowing him to tip over. It's exquisite torture, made all the more intense by the continued thrusting of Mahtan's cock inside him, hitting that perfect spot with unerring accuracy.
"Please," Fëanor gasps, beyond pride now, beyond everything but the desperate need for completion. "I can't—I need—"
"Soon," Mahtan promises, his own voice ragged. "But first..."
He withdraws completely, leaving Fëanor empty and confused, a sound of protest escaping his lips. But Mahtan only smiles, a flash of teeth in the silver light, as he moves up Fëanor's body to reach his bound wrists.
"I want to see you," he explains, working at the knots. "All of you. Want to feel your hands on me when you come."
The bindings fall away, and Fëanor's arms drop to his sides, blood rushing back into fingers that have grown numb. There's a moment of disorientation—his limbs his own again, control returned after being so thoroughly surrendered—but before he can fully process the change, Mahtan is guiding him, helping him roll onto his stomach.
"Up," Mahtan directs, hands at Fëanor's hips, lifting him to his knees. "Let me see you like this."
The position is even more vulnerable than before, exposed and open in a way that would be mortifying with anyone else. But with Mahtan, it feels right—another form of surrender, another gift freely given. Fëanor braces himself on forearms still tingling with returned sensation, his back arched, his body offered up for Mahtan's pleasure.
The first thrust in this new position drives deeper than before, drawing a startled cry from Fëanor's lips. Mahtan's hands grip his hips firmly, holding him steady as he establishes a rhythm that's more urgent now, less measured, driving them both toward the release they've been denied for so long.
"Touch yourself," Mahtan commands, his voice a growl that Fëanor feels in his bones. "Let me feel you come around me."
Fëanor obeys, his newly freed hand reaching beneath his body to grasp his aching length. The first stroke sends sparks through his vision, the second draws a moan so deep it seems to come from the center of his being. He matches his rhythm to Mahtan's thrusts, creating a circuit of pleasure that builds with every movement.
"You're close," Mahtan observes, one hand sliding up Fëanor's sweat-slick back to tangle in his hair, pulling gently. "I can feel it. Let go, my cub. Let go for me."
The slight pain of the hair-pulling, combined with the relentless pressure against that perfect spot inside him and the friction of his own hand, pushes Fëanor to the edge. He hovers there for what feels like an eternity, suspended between unbearable tension and imminent release.
"Mahtan," he gasps, the name a talisman, a prayer, a lifeline as pleasure threatens to unmoor him completely. "Mahtan, I'm—"
"Yes," Mahtan encourages, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own control clearly fraying. "Come for me, Fëanor. Let me feel you."
The use of his name again, in this context, is what finally breaks the dam. Pleasure crashes through Fëanor in waves, starting at the base of his spine and radiating outward until every nerve ending seems to sing with it. His release pulses over his hand, onto the bedroll beneath him, his body clenching rhythmically around Mahtan's still-thrusting length.
"MAHTAN!" The name tears from his throat, a sound so raw and primal it barely resembles speech. It's a declaration, a surrender, an acknowledgment of something deeper than the physical act that precipitated it.
The feeling of Fëanor's climax rippling around him pushes Mahtan past his own limits. His grip on Fëanor's hips tightens to the point of bruising, his thrusts becoming desperate, seeking. And then he's there, his body going rigid as he drives deep one final time.
"Fëanáro," he calls, the name breaking into fragments as pleasure overtakes him. "My Fëanáro."
The possessive sends an aftershock of pleasure through Fëanor, a secondary wave that leaves him trembling. He feels the heat of Mahtan's release inside him, marking him in the most intimate way possible, claiming him from within.
For long moments, they remain joined, both too overcome to move, to separate, to break the connection that feels suddenly sacred. Fëanor's limbs tremble with exertion, with the aftereffects of the most intense pleasure he's ever experienced. Behind him, Mahtan's breathing gradually slows, his hands gentling on Fëanor's hips, soothing the spots they had gripped so tightly.
Eventually, carefully, Mahtan withdraws, the separation causing both of them to gasp at the sensitivity. He guides Fëanor down to the bedroll, arranging him on his side before stretching out beside him, pulling him close so that Fëanor's back is pressed to his chest, his arm a protective band around Fëanor's waist.
"Are you well?" Mahtan murmurs against the nape of Fëanor's neck, concern evident in his voice.
Fëanor tries to form words, but his mind feels scattered, fragmented by the intensity of what they've shared. He settles for a nod, reaching back to squeeze Mahtan's thigh in reassurance.
Mahtan seems to understand, pressing a kiss to Fëanor's shoulder blade. "Rest then," he says softly. "We have time."
And Fëanor does, letting his eyes close, letting his body melt against Mahtan's solid warmth. He is dimly aware of Mahtan drawing a blanket over them both, of the continued silver light of Telperion filtering through the trees, of the distant sound of the waterfall that seems to mirror the gradually slowing rush of blood in his veins.
In this moment, wrapped in Mahtan's arms, marked by his passion, filled with a contentment he's rarely known, Fëanor allows himself to simply be. Not the prince, not the craftsman, not the son seeking approval, but just himself—a being of flesh and spirit who has found, however briefly, a perfect union of the two.
"Thank you," he whispers, uncertain if Mahtan is still awake to hear it, uncertain if he's even speaking aloud or merely thinking the words. "For everything."
The arm around his waist tightens slightly in response, and Fëanor lets himself drift toward sleep, anchored by that touch, by the steady rhythm of Mahtan's heartbeat against his back, by the knowledge that for now, at least, he is exactly where he is meant to be.
Consciousness returns to Fëanor slowly, like scattered pieces of himself gathering back together after being flung to the stars. His body feels both leaden and weightless, pleasantly exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical exertion. Behind him, Mahtan's solid warmth anchors him to the present, a steady heartbeat against his back marking time that might otherwise have lost all meaning. The night air has cooled around them, but beneath their shared blanket, a pocket of heat envelops them like a private world of their own making.
He isn't sure how long they've lain there—minutes or hours, the silver light of Telperion giving no hint of time's passage. He only knows that the thunderous pace of his heart has calmed, that the trembling in his limbs has stilled, that his breathing has found a rhythm that matches Mahtan's own.
"You're back with me," Mahtan murmurs, not a question but a gentle acknowledgment. His hand begins to move in slow circles across Fëanor's chest, a grounding touch.
Fëanor makes a sound of assent, not yet trusting his voice to form proper words. His mind still feels pleasantly clouded, thoughts drifting like mist over the lake's surface.
"Don't move," Mahtan says, pressing a kiss to the nape of Fëanor's neck before carefully disentangling himself. The loss of his warmth is immediate and unwelcome, but before Fëanor can protest, Mahtan is back, kneeling beside him with a cloth dampened from their water supply.
"Let me care for you," he says, his voice carrying such tenderness that Fëanor feels something tighten in his chest.
With infinite gentleness, Mahtan begins to clean him, the cool cloth a soothing balm against skin that feels oversensitized, marked by their passion. He moves methodically, almost reverently, from Fëanor's face—flushed still with exertion and lingering pleasure—down his neck, across his chest where sweat has dried in a sheen, over his stomach where evidence of his release has left trails. When he reaches more intimate areas, his touch becomes even more careful, attentive to any sign of discomfort.
Fëanor watches him through half-lidded eyes, struck by the contrast between this gentle tenderness and the fierce claiming of earlier. It's the same hands, the same man, yet the touch couldn't be more different—one designed to push him to his limits, the other to bring him safely back.
"How do you feel?" Mahtan asks when he's finished, setting the cloth aside and stretching out beside Fëanor once more, this time face to face.
Fëanor considers the question, searching for words that might adequately convey the complex tangle of sensations and emotions coursing through him. "Like I've been unmade," he says finally, "and then remade into something new. Something... more truthful."
Mahtan's eyes soften with understanding. One hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from Fëanor's forehead, the touch lingering. "That's the gift of surrender," he says quietly. "It strips away the layers we build around ourselves until only essence remains."
His fingers trail down to trace the outline of Fëanor's lips. "You were magnificent. Braver than you know."
The praise settles into Fëanor like warming honey, spreading outward from his center. There's a vulnerability in receiving it that feels almost as exposing as the physical acts they've shared, but he doesn't pull away from it, doesn't deflect with pride or self-deprecation as he might have once.
"Only because it was you," he says instead, the simple truth of it resonating in his bones. "Only with you could I..."
He doesn't finish the thought, but Mahtan seems to understand anyway, leaning forward to press a kiss to Fëanor's forehead, then each closed eyelid, then finally his lips—a benediction, a sealing of something unspoken between them.
When he pulls back, he gathers Fëanor against his chest, one hand moving to stroke the length of his spine in long, soothing passes. The other cradles the back of Fëanor's head, fingers tangling gently in his hair, massaging his scalp in small, circular motions that draw a contented sigh from deep in his chest.
"You might be sore tomorrow," Mahtan warns, his voice a pleasant rumble against Fëanor's ear where it rests over his heart. "We were... enthusiastic."
There's a hint of amusement in the words, but also care, concern. Fëanor finds himself smiling against Mahtan's skin.
"A worthy price," he murmurs. "I'll wear the reminder gladly."
Mahtan's chest rises and falls with quiet laughter. "My wild one," he says fondly, pressing another kiss to the top of Fëanor's head. "Always so ready to embrace fire, even when it burns."
The endearment settles around Fëanor like a favorite cloak, comfortable and familiar. In the silence that follows, he finds his thoughts drifting back over what they've shared, not just the physical communion but the deeper surrender, the way Mahtan guided him to a place of perfect vulnerability and held him safe there.
It strikes him suddenly how different this is from every other aspect of his life—the constant struggle for recognition in his father's court, the competitive nature of the forge, the endless negotiation of politics and familial expectations. Here, in Mahtan's arms, he needn't strive or compete or prove himself. Here, he is valued simply for being, for the honest expression of his needs and desires, for his willingness to trust.
The realization brings an unexpected tightness to his throat, a burning behind his eyes that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with a soul-deep recognition of something he's been seeking without knowing it.
"What thoughts chase themselves behind those eyes?" Mahtan asks, tilting Fëanor's face up to study his expression.
Fëanor blinks away the threat of tears, unwilling to mar this perfect night with melancholy. "Only that I wish we could remain here, like this. Away from... everything."
Mahtan's expression holds understanding, his thumb brushing across Fëanor's cheekbone in a gentle caress. "We carry this with us, my cub. Even when we return to the world of duties and expectations, what we've found here remains. A sanctuary we've built together, one we can return to whenever the need arises."
"My cub," Fëanor echoes, the possessive warming him from within. "I like when you call me that."
"I know," Mahtan says, a smile in his voice. "It suits you—fierce and proud, but also capable of a softness few are privileged to witness." His hand resumes its gentle stroking of Fëanor's back. "My good cub, who gave himself so beautifully to me tonight. Who trusted me to guide him into unknown territories."
The praise seeps into Fëanor's very marrow, a healing balm for wounds he hadn't known were still raw. It's not the calculated flattery of the court, nor the grudging acknowledgment his father sometimes offers. It's something purer—appreciation for who he truly is, not what he represents or what he can provide.
"We must return eventually," Fëanor acknowledges, the reality of their situation impossible to ignore completely. "My father will be looking for me. There are obligations..."
"Shh," Mahtan soothes, fingers coming to press gently against Fëanor's lips. "Not tonight. Tonight, there is only this valley, this fire, this blanket that holds us. Only you and I, as we are in this moment."
He shifts slightly, gathering Fëanor closer still, arranging their bodies so that Fëanor's head rests more comfortably on his shoulder. "Sleep now, my good cub. Morning is still far away, and we have earned our rest."
Fëanor wants to resist, to cling to consciousness a little longer, to savor every moment of this rare peace. But his body has other ideas, the deep exhaustion of their lovemaking combined with the emotional intensity of his surrender pulling him inexorably toward sleep.
His eyes grow heavy, the silver light of Telperion seeming to soften and blur around the edges. Mahtan's heartbeat is a steady rhythm beneath his ear, his hand a constant reassurance against Fëanor's back, and the combination forms a lullaby more effective than any musician could devise.
"Rest," Mahtan whispers again, his breath warm against Fëanor's forehead. "I'll be here when you wake. I'll always be here."
It's a promise they both know he cannot truly keep—life and duty and the separate paths they must sometimes walk will see to that. Yet in this moment, it feels like truth, and Fëanor allows himself to believe it, to take comfort in it as sleep claims him more fully.
His last conscious awareness is of Mahtan's lips pressed against his temple, of strong arms holding him secure, of a whispered "My good cub" that follows him into dreams. And as he drifts, Fëanor knows with bone-deep certainty that whatever awaits them beyond this valley—whatever pressures and expectations and conflicts—they will face it strengthened by what they've shared beneath Telperion's silver light.
In Mahtan's arms, with the waterfall's distant song as counterpoint to their mingled breathing, Fëanor sleeps more peacefully than he has in years, his usual fierce fire banked to a steady glow that warms without burning. Tomorrow will bring what it will. Tonight, he is exactly where he belongs, held safe in the embrace of the one who sees him truly and loves him still.
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