#unkinged

“Finwë, Finya,” Míriel whispered, her warm, round body pressed close to his own. He buried one hand in her silvery hair, so fair, like Telperion, like Isil, like the stars, like her—and with the other he caressed the curve of her breast, so full beneath his palm, so alive. The last he had touched her she had been still and cold, so weary her hröa was no longer her own; the last he had spoken with her they had both been lifeless, distant, and her weariness had passed to him.

And behind him: “Husband,” murmured Indis, pressing kisses to his shoulderblades, her long golden hair draped over them both, so fair, like Laurelin, like Anar, like the Flame Imperishable, like her. The last she had touched him they had grown strained and distant, and their kiss was one of duty, of symbolism; the last he had spoken with her had been through ink, a letter promising that all would soon be well and he would return to her arms.

He had not returned: he had died, and left her alone, utterly.

At least, then, Míriel had returned. Míriel, who had sworn never to live again, found breath once more and rose from her bower in the Gardens of Lórien, and made her way to the house of the woman who had taken from her her husband. Míriel, who had thanked Indis rather than hated her, and come to love her even as Finwë had loved her.

He had thought, then, he would remain ever in Mandos, as penance for his greed, his desire for marriage and children beyond the bounds of what had been first granted him; as punishment for his failure in restraining his most beloved son’s endless fire. But he had been granted clemency at long last, and though he was unkinged, he was glad of it, for it meant his queens could hold him—both of them.

And so he wept, unashamed of his happiness. “Míri, Inya,” he sobbed, the bond between them, all three, glowing so bright and warm. Before it had been only him and Míriel, him and Indis, Míriel and Indis—but now it was the three of them in perfect harmony, their spirits mingling, Míriel’s red and Indis’ gold and his own dark silver winding together in gladness. 

They were bare before each other, in fëa and in hröa, and their closeness was more intoxicating than any climax. Yet they came together in flesh as much as in spirit, Indis stroking him to hardness, guiding him with gentle hands until he slipped inside of Míriel, her folds embracing him as she sank down to meet the cradle of his hips.

She moaned lowly, her head lolling back, and he set his mouth upon her neck, kissing her. Indis joined him, bending over him, pressing them all closer together, and their lips met over Míriel’s throat. She gasped, rocking forward, making Finwë keen from the heavenly sensation of her around him, and then her mouth was at his, and Indis’, and he lost himself in their warmth, in their love.

Too soon Finwë spent, pulsing into Míriel, who cried his name as she followed him into her own release. She slumped back, breathing hard, and Indis crawled over Finwë to kiss her, pressing her long, lithe body against Míriel’s short, round one. Finwë’s tears began anew as he watched them, a study in contrasts, silver and gold: one pale, one dark, both beautiful.

Indis laid Míriel down upon their bed, mouthing her way down her hröa to the soft silver curls between her legs. Humming happily, she buried her head there, and through their bond she shared with Finwë the filthy loveliness of licking his seed out of her. Finwë was painfully hard again in moments, and Míriel enticed him with a whisper of a thought: Go to her. Give her what you have given me, that I may repay her service.

She was crouched over Míriel, and at her wife’s urging she lifted her rear into the air, spreading her legs for Finwë’s access. Too tempted by the slick dripping from her folds, Finwë knelt to drink from her, and as his tongue caressed her pearl her scream of surprise was muffled by Míriel’s flesh.

But the ache between his legs was too strong for him to resist for long, and soon he rose back up and buried himself in her willing flesh. Now Indis jerked up, her mouth dripping with Finwë and Míriel’s mingled release, and whined as Finwë filled her. Míriel sat up, latching her mouth upon one small, pert breast, and as he thrust into her Finwë brought a hand to play with the nipple of the other.

Indis shuddered and came before he did, this time, and went limp between her spouses, Míriel holding her up between them as Finwë chased his own release. Over her shoulder, Míriel kissed him, and again he sobbed in gladness, their bond blazing bright as he tumbled over the edge, spending half-in, half-out of Indis’ body.

Exhausted from joy, from exertion, Finwë fell back onto the bed, and Indis curled to bury her face in his chest. Míriel laughed softly, her happiness bubbling up in their shared mind-space, and she gently cared for them, licking them clean and then wiping down what was left.

“My wives,” Finwë croaked, his throat choked with emotion, as Míriel settled down on his other side, curling around him. “My loves...” I never thought I could have this. I never thought we could have this.

We do, Indis murmured.

“We have each other,” Míriel whispered. “My husband. Our wife.”

My loves; my spouses. Indis lifted her head just enough to kiss Finwë’s chin, then returned to her safe position in his arms. We have all of Arda left for us.

I will not leave you again, Finwë promised.

Nor I, Míriel added.