#summerstories

There, drowned in the dense shadow of the far wall, hung a masterfully crafted painting which spanned most of that side of the room.

“I know you,” he whispered, stepping around the now-forgotten furniture, and lifted his fingers to touch the tall, red-haired man standing at the right side of a slightly older, imperious-looking stranger.

In his single-minded haste, he’d disturbed a precariously heaped stack of notebooks, but he paid no heed to the avalanche of rustling paper as his eyes were riveted on the disturbingly like-like portraits.

Recognition was far less instantaneous than it should have been, but the sight of the broad, strong-featured woman on the other side of the compellingly intense patriarch made Findekáno’s eyes widen, and his mouth fall open.

Even though his gracious host had been a life-altering surprise, the young Prince was only too familiar with the dignified couple at the heart of the purposefully forgotten artwork.

“Where have you gone?” he whispered, overcome with dread and hope alike. He’d only ever seen King Fëanáro and his beautiful, talented wife depicted in banned history books, and yet he was absolutely certain that the people in the painting were indeed that doomed pair which had vanished without a trace so many years ago.

Together, they’d created many marvels that still adorned the palace in which Findekáno had grown up.

“And sons,” he murmured. “You had many sons, fabled to have been beautiful, smart, and exceedingly talented in the art of music and of war. They’ve…disappeared along with you.”

“You must leave,” a cold voice came from the door. “You’re no longer welcome here.”

Whirling around and thereby dislodging another landslide of books and notes, Findekáno discovered his host, now clad in a light dressing gown made of worn silk, standing on the threshold.

Nelyafinwë’s mouth was curled up in a moue of wild anger, but his eyes were dull and dark with grief at the discovery of Findekáno’s abject betrayal of his trust.

“I needed to know,” Findekáno croaked, lifting his hands pleadingly. The mere thought of being banished from a place he’d originally never even wanted to enter was unbearable to him, and—at that moment—he would have done anything not to be cast out.

“You must go,” Nelyafinwë repeated tonelessly. “I shan’t have our sanctuary torn apart by your indecent curiosity and the foolish bravery of your ilk. Leave now and never come back.”

Injured pride and something else—darker and far more painful—stirred within Findekáno’s chest, and he set his jaw stubbornly. “No.”

At once, the pale ghost of a lost line changed strategies in the face of Findekáno’s defiant refusal.

“You cannot stay here—think of your father, of your siblings, of your realm!” Nelyafinwë pleaded in the same forcibly level voice. “You have a life somewhere, far from this accursed ruin, and you must return to it.”

“My realm?” Findekáno exclaimed, letting the conflicting, confusing feelings within him melt in the merciless, purifying forges of his ire. “Don’t you mean our realm?”

Flinching back as if struck, Nelyafinwë stared at him for a long moment, open despair writ plain across his comely features.

“I will not add your misery to the list of my crimes,” he then whispered, waving a despondent hand at the hated mural. “You now know who I am, and certainly, you must agree that it would be better if we were confined to these lonely halls for all the ages to come.”

“I hold no such thoughts,” Findekáno barked and bent down to retrieve a handful of pages, covered in tight, neat script. To avoid detection, he’d not brought a taper, so he had to hold the paper up to the pale moonlight to decipher the writing.

“The answer is not there,” Nelyafinwë said in a warm voice that reeked of pity.

“Tell me then, oh beauteous guardian of an ancient curse. Clearly, you know!” Before Nelyafinwë could refuse him once more, he stepped forward to grab those broad shoulders and give the wilfully secretive man a good shake.

“Share the secret of your curse with me,” he purred into a visibly blushing ear. “And your own wish shall be granted—I will leave.”

As once before, Findekáno braced for the onset of crushing culpability as the lie passed his lips—he would indeed walk away from the castle, but his plan was to seek out whatever was needed to break the malediction and return posthaste.

“Forgiveness,” Nelyafinwë confessed in heart-wrenchingly forlorn accents. “We would have to earn and be granted forgiveness to be freed. It’s a hopeless endeavour—even you cannot deny that. Now, I’ve honoured my end of the bargain. Will you flee this prison?”

Inclining his head, Findekáno decided that he had nought to lose and everything to gain, so he pushed himself up on the tips of his toes and pressed a tender kiss onto that grim mouth which had just handed him the key to his happiness.

Nothing was clear or decided in this world, he knew, but he was convinced that—if only he could deliver this living, breathing phantom—he could obtain bliss beyond his wildest dreams.

“In the morn’”, he murmured against Nelyafinwë’s lips. “Grant me this one night to be with you before you force us to part ways.”

He could see how much the other wanted to deny his request, but—in the end—he found himself nestled against Nelyafinwë’s bare chest in the bed he’d been allotted so generously, absent-mindedly counting the freckles speckling his warm, smooth skin.

“I forgive you,” Findekáno whispered, unsure whether his host had fallen asleep or if he was still contemplating their imminent farewells. “Meeting you was worth being cold, scared, and tired. I pardon you for your gruff manner, your bad tea, and your overdrawn anger.”

He could feel more than hear the mirthless chuckle rumbling through Nelyafinwë, so he changed his tactic, embroidering his nascent affection and unwavering faith onto that pristine flesh with fervent kisses.

“I forgive you,” he breathed, “for following your father’s folly to your ultimate doom; I forgive you for disappearing and leaving the realm in disarray; I forgive you the crimes for which you still castigate yourself.”

When his mouth brushed against a sharp hipbone, he looked up. “Can you forgive yourself? Can you pardon your brothers for the part they’ve played?”

“They deserve no blame,” Nelyafinwë repeated the lie he’d told himself a thousand times.

“Yes, they do,” Findekáno objected kindly. “But they also deserve forgiveness. When I’m gone, please try to extend the same grace to yourself you’re so eager to bestow upon your siblings. And…learn to make a better cup of tea, all right?”

The night faded too fast—it always did.

“You must away,” Nelyafinwë whispered urgently.

Dark shadows lay beneath his beautiful eyes as if all the tears he had refused to cry had pooled in lakes of black ink atop his chiselled cheeks.

“You turn back when the sun comes up,” Findekáno whispered, extending a trusting hand. “I’d see it if you’d let me!”

Before his very eyes, the charming, alluring youth in whose strong, lean arms he’d spent an excitingly sleepless night morphed into a hulking creature, covered in reddish fur and poised to tear any foe to shreds.

“I recognise your eyes,” Findekáno gasped, awe-struck and undaunted, as he let his fingers comb through the long, shaggy pelage of the beast. “And your hair. I bet you wish one of your brothers had been turned into a brush, huh?”

Nelyafinwë threw back his massive head and uttered a vicious, resonating snarl that Findekáno only understood as laughter when tiny tears dropped from the corners of those eerily human eyes.

“Despite my unlawful intrusion yesterday, I’m a man of honour, so I shall keep the word I’ve given. Goodbye, dear Nelyafinwë. Think of my words!”

Unable to resist, he leaned forward one last time to bury his face, hot and tight with unshed tears and unspoken confessions, in that luscious fur and kissed the top of a fearsomely fanged snout lovingly.

Then, without daring a last lingering look for fear that he’d change his mind, he left the castle unimpeded.

Driven by the visceral scream of agony churning in his throat, Findekáno almost ran through the fray he’d hewn and only broke out of his delirious flight when he heard the approaching sound of hooves.

“Halt! Who goes there?” he called, lifting his sword laboriously. His arms were shaking, and his breath was short, but he was ready to defend his secret lover against all who’d seek to harm him.

“Finno? Is it really you? How have you escaped?” Not even taking the time to rein in his horse, Findaráto vaulted off the animal’s back with the grace of an acrobat to embrace his cousin. “We were prepared to slay a thousand fearsome enemies in your name.”

“No,” Findekáno roared, extricating himself almost violently. “No, you shall not harm a single hair on his head.”

“Finno? Are you quite well? You look fevered,” his cousin said in a softer tone, peering into his flushed, bloated face with alarm. “Have you been crying? What have they done to you?”

“You don’t understand,” Findekáno gasped, collapsing against the other’s chest with sudden weakness.

At that, Findaráto held up a staying hand, signalling thus to his hunting party that they’d settle down under cover of the nearby forest for a short halt. “Tell me everything.”

And so, Findekáno did. Warring shame and decorum made his account choppy and incoherent at times, but his cousin had known him for too long not to follow his disjointed narration easily.

“Do you believe Fëanáro to be…dead?” Findaráto finally asked, tapping a slender finger against his full lips pensively. As the oldest son of the minor family branch who never expected to ascend the throne and preferred it that way, he did not waste any time pondering the inevitable changes to things like the succession and the crown. “He was a dangerous individual.”

“He’s gone, one way or another,” Findekáno sighed. “Can you help me?”

“I am your father’s representative,” Findaráto chirped with a shrug. “And you are his heir. When we speak, we speak with the voice of the King in the name of the realm. Do you want us to go back and extend a royal pardon?”

Even though he was doubtful that such a negligible gesture would be anywhere near enough, Findekáno couldn’t think of a better idea, so he nodded tentatively.

“Ah, the colour is returning to your face, cousin, I take that to be a good sign. You must understand that we were on a daring rescue mission rather than a diplomatic one, so we shall have to make a few minor adjustments…”

Findaráto gave him one of his mischievous, lopsided grins. “After all, I wouldn’t want to make a bad impression on the young man who’s managed to capture your heart.”

“My…what?” Suddenly aghast by how open and unguarded he’d been, Findekáno blanched.

“Worry not, your secret is safe with me. Onwards then, brave men and women. We have a potential suitor to convince of our beloved kingdom!” Findaráto said with a confidential wink and stalked away to retrieve his runaway horse.

“I’m not sure you’ll get a warm welcome,” Findekáno moaned.

“Nonsense, I restore his true love to the man—also, unlike many of our kin, I am irresistibly charming. Leave it to me! He’ll adore me!”

Nelyafinwë was wrenched out of his dark, self-pitying musings by the frantic clacking of metal and the dissonant scream of a harp.

“What now? Has someone come to fell us at last?”

Turning his cumbersome frame in a room too small for it, Nelyafinwë joined his brothers at the small, narrow kitchen window, only to espy the telltale cloud of dust heralding a group of quickly approaching horses.

Had he not gained a new appreciation for seemingly inanimate objects, Nelyafinwë might well have dropped the saucer he’d been polishing for the small feast he was presently preparing.

Even though his siblings would not be able to join him in the simple pleasure of eating, they’d all agreed with Findekáno’s assessment when Nelyafinwë had told them about what had transpired during the night.

The idea of having a family dinner once more, truncated and perverted as it might be, had lifted everyone’s spirits, and so Nelyafinwë had tried to ply his uncooperative bestial form as best he could to perform the menial tasks that were required to have such a humble banquet.

As far as he could tell, he’d made good progress, but now, all his efforts would turn out to have been in vain. How cruelly fitting!

The screeching of the harp reached a tremulous crescendo—Nelyafinwë was tempted to swat it from the windowsill, but he refrained, knowing that his fearful hope would turn him into the monster he refused to become. He wouldn’t give in to his basest instincts!

“Why would he come back? I’ve told him there was nought but death and desolation here,” he answered the question echoing through the room as much as through his own racing heart. “He promised.”

Of course, Nelyafinwë remembered that Findekáno had deceived him once before in the pursuit of what he’d deemed to be the “greater good”, and he’d only ever vowed to leave and had never sworn not to return, but that much had been implied, hadn’t it?

As the thundering cloud drew nearer, he could discern the flashing gold braided into the thick, gleaming hair of their recently lost and yet already bitterly regretted visitor.

“No,” Nelyafinwë gasped, and—heedless of his grisly shape—rushed to the door to intercept the interlopers before their wrath could endanger any of his beloved brothers.

Roaring and growling, he burst forth.

“Dear,” Findekáno cried and threw himself off the horse and into his unwilling host's long, twisted arms. “My kin have come to deliver me, but—as I’m already free—we’ve changed plans and shall now free you instead.”

A thousand thoughts and contradicting emotions flashed through Nelyafinwë’s mind—gratitude and disbelief making him freeze protectively around Findekáno’s solid warmth—and he stared at the visibly drawn, exhausted face of his sweetest dream in wordless confusion for a long moment.

“Good day,” Findaráto interrupted their strange and fragile intimacy with cheerful bonhomie. “My cousin tells me you’re in need of forgiveness.”

His gaze—sharp and perspicacious despite his air of good-humoured shallowness—fell on the incongruous heap of miscellaneous tools and instruments by the door, and he bowed courteously.

“You’ve done me no grievous harm, so there’s not much to pardon,” he then went on with a lopsided shrug. “Nevertheless, as Finno here insists, I forgive you for imprisoning my uncle and my cousin. The first is alive and well, and the second couldn’t get back here fast enough, so I dare say that there was no harm done.”

More men dismounted and, under the pressure of their Princes’ demanding expressions, they did their best to conjure up offences and crimes they could forgive.

When nothing immediately changed, Findekáno’s face fell.

“It’s not that easy,” Nelyafinwë hummed comfortingly into his ear. “But I’ve taken your advice—I was just preparing everything for a little feast tonight. Would your party care to join us? It won’t be as grand as what you’re used to in the palace, but it’s the best we can do out here.”

“I’d love to,” Findekáno exclaimed, nuzzling closer to the broad, bare chest of a mystery on which he hadn’t given up yet. “The others can have the room you gave me yesterday; I can spend the night by your side and watch over you.”

He remembered the dark shadows marring Nelyafinwë’s delicate skin only too well. “You need to rest, dear, and I can make sure that your beauty doesn’t go unnoticed.”

“You’d defend and protect me? Your jailor? A walking nightmare?” Nelyafinwë sputtered. It became increasingly difficult to shut out the jubilant clacking of his siblings throwing themselves bodily into the air in a weird display of exuberant joy and characteristic impatience, so he turned to carry Findekáno into the castle.

“Be my guests,” he called over his shoulder, shuddering at the thought of the supplementary teacups and plates he’d now have to wash.

“Yes, make yourselves comfortable,” Findekáno added merrily. “On account of having two hands, I’ll help with the preparations.”

“So will we,” Findaráto interjected suavely and followed the lumbering beast as if he’d not even noticed its terrifying girth.

When, not much later, the table was laid and the candles were lit, Findekáno raised his polished goblet solemnly. “To our gracious hosts and their future.”

“We have no—”

“He’s set his mind on it,” Findaráto cut in when Nelyafinwë tried to curb his guest’s enthusiasm. “He rarely fails once that is done.”

As he watched his siblings, Nelyafinwë felt his heart mellow. Yes, they’d stop struggling—they’d even actively help Findekáno find that healing forgiveness that would restore them to life.

Perhaps, it was time. Mayhap, they deserved to be saved after all.

And, at that very moment, as the light shone bright and a long-lost sense of comfort settled over the party, a flash of lightning cut through the scene.

When everyone blinked dazedly, the various tools—propped up on soft pillows—had been replaced by beautiful, young men who stared at their own hands in amazement.

Outside, the afternoon sun sparkled like a ruby, but when Findekáno turned to his host, Nelyafinwë sat beside him in his precious human form, eyes wide and entirely, gloriously naked.

@fellowshipofthefics This is the end of the third week for me!

-> Masterlist

“Are you all right?” Elya’s soft voice came from the small door beside the fireplace. She had discarded her muddy clothes and was leaning against the sturdy wooden frame in nought but her practical underwear.

“I’m fine, dear,” Bilbo replied, squashing the inkling of guilt that was scratching at his thoughts. He felt bad for insinuating that the King and his subjects had despicable designs on his little assistant when they’d been nothing but courteous thus far.

Mayhap, he now admitted to himself, he was simply projecting his own twisted insecurities upon everyone around him. In fact, he’d seen Elya in various states of undress before, and he’d never batted an eye.

How could he just assume others would harbour dark thoughts?

As he now looked upon her natural, feminine beauty without the slightest shade of desire or possessiveness and saw her soft smile, he realised that she knew.

Elya had probably known from the start that he was not attracted by women—why else would she have agreed to accompany a man that much older than herself on a mission during which she would inevitably be at the mercy of all his appetites and flaws?

“You like the look of that dwarf,” he said. It was not a question.

“So do you,” she retorted with a mocking giggle. “Not the same one, obviously! Thanks to them, neither one of us is dead, so I’d dare say that it’s not a crime to enjoy beauty, is it?”

Pursing his lips, Bilbo regarded her thoughtfully—overwhelmed by the impression Thorin had made on him, he could almost imagine what it would feel like for a “normal” man to look at her.

Elya was not exactly the kind of woman who drew every eye in a crowded room, but she was not an ugly girl by any means either. Cerebral and somewhat effaced, she only ever came alive when a conversation moved past the initial stages of shallow small talk.

“Be careful, my girl,” he finally said. “You don’t know what is going on in his head.”

“Do you think me unable of wilful seduction?” Elya grinned. “Do you need a lesson to tempt that stern King?”

Fluffing up defensively, Bilbo waved his hands. “Go to sleep; you’re talking humbug!” he scoffed, but his cheeks felt treacherously warm, nonetheless.

“Sleep tight,” Elya chirped and disappeared into the adjoining room, whistling to herself softly.

Despite his inner turmoil and the contradicting impulses racing through his tired brain and leaden limbs, Bilbo fell into a deep, dreamless sleep almost at once.

He knew not how long he’d been out cold when a discreet knock at the door made him bolt upright in befuddled alarm.

“Yes?” he called uncertainly, moving his stiff jaw to dispel the thick taste of slumber from his heavy tongue. “Come in!”

“Mister Bilbo,” Ori said as he poked in his head. “I’ve come to tell you that Thorin is waiting for you by the main gate. Fíli will accompany you downstairs so you don’t get lost.”

As he registered the flustered movements of Ori’s fingers tightening spasmodically around the stack of notebooks he was holding, Bilbo’s gaze grew sharp with suspicion.

“And you?”

“I’ve been advised to take Miss Elya back to the gardens so that we may compare notes.”

“Is that what you call it hereabouts?” Bilbo snapped curtly.

“I don’t understand your meaning,” Ori replied quietly—sudden panic had drained his face of all colour and his eyes were dark lakes of unrest. “I don’t seek to harm her; you have my word.” “You take care of yourself, my boy,” Bilbo sighed. “I’d never thought it possible, but Elya might well try to take a bite out of you.”

“Bite me?” Nervous fear was seamlessly replaced by profound incomprehension. “Why would she do something so unreasonable?”

Sighing, Bilbo decided that he was too tired still to be having useless conversations such as the one he found himself enmeshed in now—he’d warned the boy; there was not much more he could do.

Under Ori’s still-dumbfounded gaze, he checked his kit and swapped his sweat-drenched shirt for a clean one before declaring confidently that he was ready to observe and document whatever enigmatical critter the King wanted to show him.

“Wargs also bite,” Ori commented. “Thorin sends this so you may wear it—for your protection.”

The dwarf held out a shimmering shirt of alluringly archaic chainmail that glittered like starlight encased in polished crystal in the wavering light.

“Oh, it will be too heavy,” Bilbo tried to protest, but—when the odd garment was handed over—he had to admit that it was much lighter than it had any right to be.

He couldn’t fathom what good so light a safeguard would be, but he didn’t want to scorn his host’s generosity, so he slipped into the strange shirt before putting on his overcoat.

“I shall thank him,” he said as he walked past Ori out of the room.

“It’s Mithril,” Ori explained. “Light as a feather but surprisingly durable. May it serve you well. Elya—is she…”

“Elya!” Bilbo bellowed, banging his fist thrice against her door as he went. “Your beau is here to look at your sketches!”

And, on that excessively, embarrassingly petulant note, he stomped off towards the glint of gold at the other end of the hallway.

Fíli merely nodded, but Bilbo could see the grin he desperately tried to hold back tugging at the corners of his mouth beneath the luscious moustache.

As promised, Thorin was standing in the foyer leading to the main entrance to his hidden kingdom.

Suppressing a little gasp of dreamy recognition, Bilbo drew closer. Alarm bells went off in his head at the sight of the impressive sword hanging from the King’s belt and the realisation that Thorin was also fully armoured.

“You wanted to see beasts,” the regal apparition of dark blues and flashing silver grinned when he noticed Bilbo. “So, I’m going to give you exactly that.”

Despite remembering that he could never tell another soul about what he’d seen on the island and wondering why Thorin went to such lengths, Bilbo nodded gratefully.

A tiny part of his heart hoped and prayed that the dwarves acted in such an illogical fashion because they wanted to please their guests.

As he was mostly mocked or ignored by the people around him, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel immensely gratified by so benevolent a behaviour.

“It will be dangerous, though,” the King warned him in a soft, insistent voice. “Please stay behind me.”

The feeble, deflecting joke died on Bilbo’s lips when he met those hypnotising eyes of burning azure, and so he merely nodded and followed wordlessly.

Again, he had to wonder why the ruler of a purposefully secret island realm would take such precautions to safeguard the life of an intruder—he stopped dead in his tracks.

“You’re not going to betray me by feeding me to some unholy, toothy creature, will you?” he asked Thorin’s broad back.

Bilbo had expected blustering anger or cold disdain from the King, but—when he finally turned around as one aged beyond his years—there was only a wistful expression of profound sadness on his elegant, sharp features.

“No,” Thorin sighed. “The thought has grazed my mind, I won’t lie, when my nephews informed me of the presence of unbidden strangers camping in the woods. A moment of despicable weakness that reminded me of the failures of my kin which I regret most earnestly, I assure you. No, I’ve invited you to my Halls, and—as my esteemed guests—you are under the protection of my people and my heart.”

“Your heart?” Bilbo squeaked breathlessly.

“Would it be too forward to confess that your arrival, Master Baggins, is the single most intriguing and delightful event that has happened in this forsaken domain for countless years?”

Bilbo shook his head—he could feel his ears warming up with emotion, so he ducked his head and buried his hands in his pockets for fear that he’d fall prey to one of the maudlin, ridiculous gestures of which he’d accused his poor assistant.

The weakness coursing through his veins was only too common amongst humans, and he instinctively wondered whether someone as formidable as Thorin could and would feel the same tingling of aimless anticipation in so compromising and potentially romantic a situation.

For what felt like half an eternity, they clambered over rocks and pushed through dense foliage in comfortable, companionable silence.

“There they are now,” Thorin whispered as he made a complicated, meaningful gesture that sent Fíli scampering away.

“Where is he…” Bilbo hissed frantically. Thorin had brought him to a stony ledge, overlooking a shallow valley, littered with boulders and dry, dead bushes—looking around, the seasoned researcher recognised with a chill that they’d returned to almost the exact spot from which he’d been taken to meet that mesmerising king now squatting low to the ground and pulling him down with him.

“He’s going to rouse the beasts so you may see them in motion,” Thorin chuckled. “Wargs are fearsome creatures, great hunters and ruthless murderers, and we usually try to avoid them.”

By now, Bilbo sorely regretted his careless words—he’d never sought to expose himself or his hosts to unnecessary danger.

“Don’t worry,” Thorin said soothingly. “Fíli is a brave warrior, and he’s young enough to take great pleasure in tugging at an inveterate foe’s tail.”

Before Bilbo could fill the suddenly oppressive silence that fell between them like a corrupting mist, heavy with possibilities and unspoken desires, with inane, breathless babbling, a great cacophony of howls arose from below.

“Here they come,” Thorin husked.

Eyes wide with shock and instinctive curiosity, Bilbo Baggins watched the huge monstrosities leap to their massive paws and snap their frightening fangs warningly at one another.

It turned out that the misshapen rocks he’d seen glimmering in the moonlight had not been mineral in nature; Bilbo gulped as he realised just in how much danger he and Elya had really been when the dwarven scouts had found them.

“Canine?” he whispered to himself, wondering whether this strange animal was more akin to a wolf or a bear.

Thorin frowned. “They’re alien to everything and everyone,” he then simply said and gave a lopsided shrug. “Hostile and dangerous.”

As if to prove his point, one frighteningly big, densely muscled specimen launched itself off a rocky outcrop and lunged at them, its ghastly fangs bared and glistening like tarnished gold in the moonlight.

Before Bilbo could so much as shriek in terror, Thorin had drawn the sword at his hip and brought it down in a silver arc across the deep blue night sky.

Felled mid-air, the beast thumped to the ground with a sickening noise.

“Forgive me,” Thorin exclaimed. “I woefully underestimated their strength and determination—they’re hungry.”

He’d stepped in front of his paralysed guest instinctively, and Bilbo’s mouth went dry for entirely different but no less visceral reasons as he stared up at the strong, majestic profile that was outlined in silver thread against the mesmerisingly beautiful background.

Below them, panicked whining and a few yelps of pain and anger resounded.

“We root them out and chase them off,” Thorin explained, nodding at the now deserted valley. “It makes them desperate.”

Nodding solemnly, Bilbo sighed—he understood that a thriving colony could not tolerate the proximity of so vicious and unpredictable a foe, but he also felt sorry for the dumb beasts that only followed their instincts and the secret call of some dark power beyond their understanding or control.

As he observed Fíli’s tireless efforts to rout the pack, Bilbo heard a low wheeze from behind.

Believing the warg to have come back to life, he whirled around, but the impressive carcass was still motionless, its congealing blood looking pitch black in the strange light.

“Thorin?”

“A minor scratch,” the King barked defensively, pressing one broad paw against his ribs.

“Let me see,” Bilbo demanded, regretting having left the bigger part of his first aid supplies in his room.

Nevertheless, his mother had taught him never to go on any adventure wholly unprepared, so he was able to staunch the bleeding and disinfect the wound he’d laid bare by tugging off the heavy coat and the torn tunic from Thorin’s solid frame.

Somewhere, deep within his belly, he took note of the fact that the King didn’t so much as shiver in the cool air—he merely glared at his unwelcome nurse ferociously while stubbornly repeating that he was perfectly fine.

“You’re right,” Bilbo finally said, sitting back on his haunches. “You’ll live. Now, I’ve seen enough for a night. Let’s get you back to safety—I’m sure your own healers can do better than my impromptu dressing.” At the thought of Óin’s inevitable fussing, Thorin groaned again.

To his delight, Bilbo insisted on staying by his side even though he was visibly exhausted after the unexpectedly exciting and potentially deadly outing they’d had.

“Will you escort me to my bedchamber to make sure that I don’t overexert myself?” Thorin asked with a mix of hopefulness and wavering mockery.

“You can bet your sweet ass that I will!” Bilbo grunted resolutely.

“I do not understand what the taste of my behind has to do with anything, but I’d welcome your company. Will you have a glass of wine with me before I am forced into bed like an ailing doter?” Thorin grinned.

The cheerful, invigorated look of one who’d just survived a brush with death suited him, and Bilbo was no longer sure that it was such a great idea to be alone with someone he’d ogled shamelessly for as long as he’d known them.

It was late, they were tired and yet overexcited—this was far from ideal or reasonable.

The same electric, slightly metallic taste of danger flooded the scientist’s tongue, and—true to his imprudent nature—he followed the siren call of a world-altering discovery fearlessly.

The wine was surprisingly sweet and mellow, and Thorin’s smile grew softer with every passing minute as they sat in comfortable silence in his private chambers as if they’d been friends for years and decades.

Friends…or lovers.

The way the King was eyeing him now would definitely have raised some eyebrows, and—had he looked at Elya in such a manner—Bilbo would have seen himself forced to hit him over the head with something solid and heavy.

“Do you like it here?” Thorin then asked without any introduction that might have explained his mental leap. “Is there anything else you’d like to see?”

Pursing his lips and cocking his head, Bilbo thought about that for a moment. “I’ve seen the wargs, I’ve seen your bare chest, and I trust Elya is knee-deep in flower drawings by now—no, for tonight at least, I’m good,” he then said with a playful wink.

“First you make reference to my backside, and then you bring up my chest—Master Baggins, is such a manner of speech usual amongst your people?”

Bilbo was not entirely sure that he had people, but he’d hitherto considered his offhand comments to be mildly offensive at the very worst.

He shrugged sheepishly.

“I don’t know how long you intend to stay on the island,” Thorin went on, a hint of doubt and tension creeping into the still stilted staccato of his diction. “However, I can promise you that there are many interesting things yet to discover.”

As rumbling and unwieldy as his speech might have been, Thorin’s body and instincts were those of a trained warrior, and so he moved with enviable agility and grace despite his injury.

In the blink of an eye, he’d left his seat and was crowding Bilbo against the backrest of his oversized, heavy chair.

“Thank you for taking such pains caring for me—I assure you that it was not necessary,” he said in a low, thrumming voice as he took Bilbo’s hand and lifted it to his lips.

Overwhelmed with the sensation of the King’s astonishingly soft beard tickling his skin, Bilbo nearly forgot the echoing laugh of the resident healer who’d taken one look at Bilbo’s field dressing and had given him an appreciative nod before simply walking out again.

“It was my pleasure,” he said breathlessly, leaning forward slightly to entice Thorin to move his lips to a more interesting spot.

“Is it common among your people to kiss someone’s hand?” he asked in a half-hearted persiflage of the King’s previous exclamation of confusion and frustration.

“Only the hands of those who have previously commented on one’s physical attributes,” Thorin whispered, and then, those strong fingers clasped Bilbo’ chin and tilted it up a fraction.

Thus far, Bilbo had been too much of a realist to give any credence to idiotic notions like fate and love at first sight, but—when Thorin’s lips brushed against his own with both righteous caution and undeniable fervour—he felt something he grudgingly had to identify as faith arise in him.

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“You are the King,” Findaráto, ever eager to throw himself bodily into any interesting adventure, conceded. “And if this be your command, I shall be more than happy to follow your orders.”

Ñolofinwë smiled wearily; he heard the end of the sentence his nephew didn’t speak out of respect and caution. “Even if I don’t believe a word you say.”—the meaning was there, hovering like a foul smell in the blessedly warm and dry throne room, but the King was too exhausted to take offence to Findaráto’s potentially selfish, reckless motives when all that mattered was the retrieval of his son and heir.

“I’ll be off before morning light,” Findaráto promised. “I shall assemble the best men I can rouse on such short notice. Worry not, Uncle, we’ll bring back my dear cousin. Rest and recover!”

There was deep love and earnest pity in his mellow voice now, and Ñolofinwë sank back against the soft cushions someone had piled around him as if they were afraid he’d collapse without support.

“Very good,” he croaked. “May your road be blessed!”

Nelyafinwë had managed to ignite the damp wood in the old, draughty fireplace and was now sitting back on his haunches, strangely self-conscious of his glaring nudity in the face of one dressed in such torn splendour.

“How did you get cursed?” Findekáno asked, cautiously taking a sip of his bitter, stale tea. He couldn’t fully understand the strange and cruel fairy tale in which he’d found himself, but all thoughts of murder and escape had long since fled his mind.

How could he sustain such absurd musings when the captor he’d expected to be barbaric and brutal had turned out to be a touchingly sad youth of such exquisite beauty that the Prince couldn’t bear to avert his gaze from those long, sculptural limbs for even a single moment?

“My father angered the wrong sorcerer?” Nelyafinwë sighed. He’d agonised over that very question for too long without having come to any satisfactory conclusion, and he was sick and tired of the torturous doubt rearing its venomous head every so often. “He was an angry man—haughty, dismissive, and regrettably short-sighted at times—and he must have crossed one who sought to take revenge.”

“Was? Anyway,I don’t see how that is your fault,” Findekáno interjected pointedly. “Is there nothing that can be done? It was not mere posturing that made me claim that someone will come to deliver me…and I’m afeared for your safety.”

A terrible silence fell. Then, somewhere deep within the labyrinthine bowels of the castle, a clock chimed.

“We’ll be fine,” Nelyafinwë smiled gratefully. “You must be tired; let me show you to your quarters.”

“In the dungeons?” At that thought, Findekáno’s face hardened suddenly, and his gaze automatically sought the sword he’d cast aside earlier. It lay still where he’d left it, but a pair of scissors and a hammer had inched up to it in what he could only interpret as a pose of menacing challenge.

Shaking his head, Nelyafinwë got to his feet once more. His motions were jerky and awkward as if he was no longer used to performing such mundane, unaggressive movements.

“You’ve proven that you’re willing to keep your word; you shall be given a room. I’ll attempt to make sure that all the lighting fixtures are functional—you have my leave to explore our shared prison at your ease. I’d only ask you not to intrude upon the west wing—some secrets are better left undisturbed.”

Even though he nodded, the very picture of amiable compliance, Findekáno resolved then and there to disregard the exceedingly polite and undoubtedly reasonable request.

It was amply clear to him that his host—for Nelyafinwë had supplied much-needed warmth in the form of a blazing fire and a hot drink which warranted a change in title—was reluctant to share the whole truth.

“I’ll save you yet,” the valiant warrior thought stubbornly. He would not wait for the inevitable confrontation in which he would, there was no doubt about it, lose one way or another.

Indeed, he didn’t want to see either his friends and kinsmen or this bewitching contradiction slain before he’d exhausted every other avenue.

Many an ungenerous thing had been said about his father behind his noble back, but nobody could have ever accused him of neglecting the education of his children, so Findekáno was fairly confident that he could and would devise a solid plan to reverse this unholy curse and become a rescuer rather than a mere detainee.

If only his brother or his cousin had been with him—Turukáno’s love for lore and Artanis’s uncanny instinct would surely have cut his research and frenzied cogitation in half.

Alas, all he had at his disposal was his own intellect and a fierce heart, set aflame by the endearing beauty and charm of the tall redhead now fleeing the fire’s revealing glow to plunge into the obscuring shadows of the passage leading away from the dining room.

“Will your brothers guard me?” Findekáno asked as innocently as he could, hastening after the retreating gleam of a long, white back.

“My brothers are a harp, a knife, creaking scales, a hammer, and a pair of rusty scissors respectively,” Nelyafinwë chuckled. “They might keep a screw on you—for lack of actual eyes—but I rather think that they’ll prefer hounding me for my breach of the rules.”

Feeling the biting sting of unwelcome guilt, Findekáno was about to ask whether it would be more agreeable to everyone if he spent the night in the same cell his father had only recently vacated when Nelyafinwë asked a question of his own.

“Do you have siblings?”

Findekáno sighed. “Two younger brothers and a sister. My brothers are quite unlike in temper and tastes, and my sister cannot be compared to another living being without insulting one or the other…”

“What about you? Do you share many traits with them?” Nelyafinwë turned around. The light of a nearby window washed across his sharp collarbones and his almost elfin face in a way that made it so inexplicably hard for the mesmerised onlooker to breathe that Findekáno nearly failed to so much as understand the question put to him.

“They’re much like me in some ways,” he finally said slowly. “And completely unfathomable in others. Turukáno is smarter than I could ever endeavour to be, Írissë is so fearless and independent that she frightens the living daylights out of our parents, and Arakáno is impetuous to a fault.”

“You love them dearly,” Nelyafinwë commented feelingly.

“That I do. I wish you could meet them—they would be just as fascinated by you as I am.”

“You flatter one you barely know. However, you actually might understand better than most that I also have my own brothers’ well-being in mind in everything I do and say. Unfortunately, they’re as different from one another as the seasons or the times of day, and it’s nigh-impossible to make all of them happy.”

As he spoke those words, full of regret and unequivocal devotion, Nelyafinwë halted outside a richly decorated door. “My room is just down the corridor,” he informed Findekáno in a low voice, tinged with embarrassment. “Do not hesitate to seek me out if Káno’s mewling keeps you awake—you shan’t disturb me.”

“Will you be enjoying the fleeting pleasures of your magnificent body?” As soon as the words had left his lips and returned to his own ears in an avenging echo, Findekáno flinched vehemently. “Oh, my mother would have me take nought but bread and water for a week as punishment for that comment. I meant no offence—I don’t know why I said it…like that.”

Caressing the strange and unexpectedly stimulating visitor with an unreadable look, Nelyafinwë allowed himself to display that gentle, cryptic smile that had once driven maidens and squires alike mad with delight.

“Mayhap, it’s considered unrighteous that any living man should inhabit such a dangerously corrupting form for more than half the day—justly so, if I may be so bold—and it’s in an effort to preserve the nutrition and sanity of those around you that you’re perforce deprived of so fearsome a weapon,” he muttered under his breath.

Suppressing what could have been a groan or a fit of giddy laughter, Nelyafinwë pushed open the door. “Justice—as an eternal, immutable concept—is not for us to know or to question. I bid you good night, Findekáno, honourable son, loving brother, and astounding guest. This evening might have been the best I’ll ever have, and my raging regrets have dulled into a sense of bittersweet sadness—I thank you for that.”

With a crisp bow, he withdrew, followed by various metal objects clanking after him in the impenetrable darkness.

“Good,” Findekáno whispered, not even taking the time to enjoy the exceptional beauty of his lodgings, and slipped out again noiselessly to explore the forbidden wing.

He was sure that Nelyafinwë would have to contend with a gathering of irate weapons and instruments of different natures, and he pushed aside the pang of instinctive sympathy and solidarity.

His sister often reproached him for being too loquacious, but—in this instance—he was almost certain that all the conversations he’d prompted since arriving would ultimately lead to a happy resolution of his sensitive but stirring conundrum.

Nelyafinwë didn’t need to turn around to sense his brothers’ presence.

“We cannot keep him here,” he enunciated, trying to dissimulate the note of imminent grief in his voice. “To protect and defend you, I shall set him free come morning. Once he’s seen my bestial form, he shall be glad to leave this place.”

Angry sounds of scraping metal exploded behind him, but still, he didn’t have the heart to face the lacklustre objects. In his mind, Nelyafinwë conjured up the images of his brothers as they’d once been.

Even now, he could easily recall Kanafinwë’s twinkling eyes and Morifinwë’s characteristic blush. Of all the cursed members of this family, Curufinwë The Younger might have been the only one who was relieved to no longer glimpse echoes of their father’s glory in his reflection, but even he surely regretted having been reduced to unyielding intransigence.

Turcafinwë had been cutting in his remarks and actions, and the twins undoubtedly had ever been two blades slashing in perfect synchronicity, but they’d also been warm and funny.

Nobody, not even beings of such ruthless violence as they’d been, deserved to be nought but weapons, forever barred from touch without risking injuring another.

A slow, questioning melody threaded itself into the hum of the others’ discontentment.

“No, there shall be no forgiveness for us,” Nelyafinwë replied. “I just want to prevent any unnecessary bloodshed.”

The harp’s song became more insistent, pleading without needing words.

“Yes, I did enjoy this evening, but I cannot keep him for my own pleasure,” Nelyafinwë sighed. “He has siblings as well—I’d never bereave them of their older brother any more than I could desert you lot.”

A single note, a strident accusation, cut him short. Nelyafinwë winced—he hated being reminded of his attempt to find the one who’d cursed them. Not only had he failed to undo their misery, but he’d also risked leaving his siblings stranded and rudderless.

“I’m here now,” he said, turning to his bed and lifting the sharp-edged tools onto the soft blanket one by one. “It’s you and I, forevermore. I love you.”

He couldn’t bear to close his eyes, so he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft clangour of the resting tools.

Suddenly, an incongruous sound startled him out of his drifting reverie—he slipped off the bed and snuck out, counting the hours until sunrise.

Heavy-hearted and soft-footed, Nelyafinwë apprehensively turned towards the condemned wing to bravely face his oldest and most intimate fears.

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