#swanfeathers

Finarfin did not respond.

Eärwen breathed lightly when Finarfin leaned his head to kiss her neck, ran his tongue where he left red marks just some time ago. Eärwen tilted her head, making it easier to access; hummed lowly, smiling to herself.

Finarfin trailed his lips up her chin, then bit lightly on her cheekbone. Eärwen gasped and laughed; when she met Finarfin's eyes, they were brighter and softer than before.

"Valar," he sighed, trailing his hand down her waist. "Nothing more beautiful than you, I think."

Eärwen smiled. "Joining makes you soft," she teased, leaning back, running her hand up and down his arm. "I love it."

There, again: smile touching Finarfin's lips, making his face softer, his eyes warmer. He smiled more often, these days; and it made Eärwen's heart flutter each time she saw. Puzzling, truly! There was a time when she thought she could not stand to look at his face anymore.

"I shall be soft more often, then," he said. His hand came to cup Eärwen's breast; Eärwen felt breath catch inside her lungs as he rolled her nipple between his fingers, took it into his mouth. Want spurred anew inside her, and for a moment she felt back in her youth, shy of her own desire; but Finarfin's tongue was hot on her body, and the marks she left were bright against his pale skin, and the feeling of foolishness was replaced with pride that he was hers, and the marks on his body were hers, and the skin he was touching was hers also.

"Eärwen," Finarfin breathed, looking up at her. "What does it say about me if I still want you? I've had you and I still had not enough."

"It says that you are an unstiable creature," Eärwen laughed. She raised her hand, combed it through Finarfin's hair; smiled down at him, her face softening. "You are lucky that I am yet willing to give."

Finarfin's eyes sparked, and he did not delay any longer.

It was slower, this time; more gentle and more careful than the urgency of their bodies just an hour ago. Eärwen pulled him in a kiss that left both of them a little breathless; Finarfin's body covered her own, and she ran her hands down the plane of his muscles, traced old scars, searched the spots that made Finarfin shudder and his eyes flutter in pleasure. He in turn took his time to trail kisses down her neck and chest, suck on her breasts, bite the soft skin of her abdomen; Eärwen leaned back onto the pillows and let him do as he pleased, and through that bring her pleasure as well.

The rest of the night splintered after that, pleasure rising and falling like rolling of waves on the shore—and when her release came, it was as quiet as their whisper.

There is no point panicking. He has to keep his mind cool. He has been through worse odds.

"Arvo," Eärwen frowns, looking at him. "What is this about?"

"There are around fifty people, probably swordmen, but I will not be surprised if there were archers, too," he recounts, evenly, squinting his eyes to spot his spear in the dark of the room. "Keep calm. Do not panic. Do not make much noise. Do not go near the window."

"... oh."

They are on the second store of the palace. The summer night is hot; a lot of the windows are open. The closest is in their room. "Where have I put my spear?"

Eärwen gets from the bed. She looks at him; then, comes to the window, closes it. "Should i put on the light?"

"No. Better to let them think no one is awake." His mind calculates through thousands of possibilities. Are they already inside? They cannot be; there would have been sounds of struggle. His spear is with Aulë; he had given it back when he returned from the War. A shame; but surely, he has to have his sword, and his bow, and his knives somewhere-

"Come here," Eärwen sits on the couch, and pats the spot near her.

"I cannot. Where are my weapons?"

"You have left them at the display downstairs," Eärwen answers honestly, and Finarfin looks around for something resembling a weapon; there is a poker near an empty fireplace, and Finarfin moves to take it. It is a light weight in his hand; it will not pierce an armor. He might have scissors on the table. He can always aim for a throat, they are always underprotected in that spot-

"Arvo," Eärwen says, again. "Lover, what is happening?"

"An attack," Finarfin explains for the second time. The scissors are not sharp enough. The poker will have to do.

"Who is attacking us?"

Finarfin stops to think for a second. "Orcs," he finally answers. "Maybe wolves." Wolves could easily be left in the garden, to pick up anyone who manages to escape. Finarfin shudders, remembering the sharp teeth of a wolf that managed to get a bite on him all those years ago in Beleriand.

Eärwen looks at him, still calm. "Then come. I have closed the window and the door. We are safe here."

"I have no weapons. I need a weapon."

"I can sing a glamour over our house," she negotiates further. "Just - come here. Please."

Finarfin wavers. Glamour can work; glamour has worked in the past - and Eärwen, his wife, mother of Felagund, is skilled in Songs and spells; it could be a - distraction. It could buy them time until he retrieved his weapons - until he-

"Come," she murmurs, and he resists no more. He lays his head on her shoulder; she Sings, quietly, and a wave of sleep wraps around him. Finarfin does not resist. Her fingers thread through his hair, still not at its usual lenght after the years of war when he had it cropped; her lips place soft kisses at his forehead.

Buys time. This buys them time.

He is so tired - of fighting, of waking mid-night, of endless marches and battles and deaths. He thought he could rest - rest, if only for a second, he would trade so much for it! - but now his spear is gone, and he is defenseless-

"I have you," Eärwen murmurs. "Will allow nothing to harm you, lover, dearest, treasure. You can rest."

Finarfin struggles for a few more seconds - he cannot allow himself to- he has to- safe, safe, they are safe - until he gives up, and allows Eärwen's silver Song to wrap around him as a comforting light, as a safe embrace.

It will only buy them some time, he knows.