A.N. Silmarillion based.
A.N. Heartfelt thanks to Keiliss for discussion, canon info and beta.
A.N. For other contributions much appreciated, thanks to: Mal for translations, Oshun for canon info, Enide for comments.

Summary: Finrod expects to hunt Morgoth and finds himself on a very different journey. He has company along the way.

Chapter Twelve

Calyaro was there, standing over him. Kneeling on his bed covers, saying hush while his hands were on Finrod, his body tantalisingly close. Finally satisfied with his victim’s state of arousal, he lay back on the new-woven linen and smiled up. That smile was all amused provocation, heat and expectation. Finrod took firm hold on his ravelled control and enjoyed staring down at the naked body, glad it was his turn to tease and raise raw pleasure in that compelling voice.

He liked what he saw. Liked that he could touch the curving ribcage, and smooth the skin of sun-browned flanks. He let a hand spread out on Calyaro’s flat belly, and felt its soft heat with his thumb as he ran it in an arc back and forth. He liked the way he was allowed to do as he pleased, while the smile he was growing to love played across the angular face and warm eyes watched him.

His prick had filled, urgent not just at Calyaro’s touch but at the thought of what they might do together. Calyaro’s eyes never left his, which added an intensity that transmitted itself to his groin. His own hands started roaming where they willed. He wondered what to kiss first and delayed. He wanted to look. And touch. The skin of Calyaro’s buttocks was soft, the creases a beautiful curve, the spare body still forming rounded soft muscles when he was relaxed. Finrod let his fingers gently explore his prick and balls and the soft inner thighs. He turned Calyaro on his side and cocked one leg forward so he could explore there, too. Calyaro languidly turned his head to watch him.

Finrod kissed him hard, serving notice that he wanted him and would have him if he could. He could almost feel Calyaro smiling before he met tongue with tongue and their lips and hands were all they knew.

Calyaro’s hands took to Finrod’s hair and then underneath it to run down his back and thighs. They kissed again less frantically, and then one of them found oil, Calyaro, spreading it on Finrod’s prick. Reaching behind him.

“I don’t mind,” Calyaro murmured to him, pausing. “Either way.” Up until that moment, Finrod though he knew what he wanted but oh, to feel those hands there, offering to make him ready…

He flattened himself limply to the sheets and let Calyaro do whatever he liked, groaning and flexing his hands against the pallet. Calyaro laughed and made the most of it, playing with him, dragging it out, making him sing sighs and grunts and groans as hands and fingers stroked and pressed. Finrod had never known that his buttocks and groin had so many sensitive places apart from the obvious. He found it out, as strong fingers, palm and heel of hand plied him with sensation.

If it had gone on forever, Finrod would have lain there willing prisoner to pleasure he had not imagined. Instead, Calyaro drew a firm hand down the side of his spine and let it come to rest on his backside. Lying beside him he said in his ear, “Well, Prince? What would you like me to do?” The musical voice with its low intonation completed what hands had begun. ‘Whatever you want,’ Finrod wanted to say, ‘but do it now…’

Finrod woke up cursing and threw his blanket off him. Still not sure whether he really wanted to start a relationship of a kind he had not envisaged, he stalked out into the open with his weapons and took to the soothing activity of tending his sword and his dagger with a whetstone and oilcloth.

He valued the weekly ritual and had a favourite spot overlooking one of the wide sweeps of frothing rapids. Willows hung over the water there, finding foothold on one of the series of ledges where greenery had collected up the side of the cliffs.

Mindlessly running metal over stone and checking the angle, he found his light blocked.

“My lord? Might I have a word with you?”

Calyaro rarely sought him out. Finrod sat back and looked at him. He seemed well. “What have you got on your mind?”

“The building will be entirely finished soon, all the major structural work at least.” They would still have various small-scale work that they would be finishing off for years to come. “I wondered – I wanted to ask you if I could stay on here when the others go back to Minas Tirith and Barad Eithel?”

There was no clue as to why he was asking to be gleaned from his face. “There is no reason why not, but I admit I am curious as to why you would like to stay?”

Calyaro, who was standing before him, slanted a brief look at him and then gazed down at the trees. “Because I like it here? Because there is still work to do that I am good at?”

“Is that all?” Finrod was looking closely at him, and Calyaro’s eyes had that older cast to them, and the slight smile was there. Suddenly he was sure, and stood up.

“There is also the fact that I like working for you…” the singer admitted.

“Working for me? Or do you just – like me?” He took a step forward, and a second.

“Prince Finrod, I – ” Whatever he had been going to say was lost. Finrod, deciding that waiting was not going to help matters, kissed him. It was one way of finding out.

The kiss was returned and there was an end of questions.

When they fell apart, Finrod half-laughed and half-gasped for breath, wiping his mouth and looking into the somewhat amused grey eyes.

They both said, “Yes,” at the same time. Calyaro gestured to him.

“Yes,” Finrod said mock-gravely. “You may stay on. Your turn.”

“I was just going to say, yes. I like you, not just working for you. And your hair,” he said, “I like all that golden hair…” He ran a hand down it in a curiously delicate gesture. Almost humble. Fascinated.

Finrod laughed, and shook his head. “Well, that’s alright then.” He felt a little dazed. “Ah, would you eat with me tonight?” And other things, he thought to himself with satisfaction.

Calyaro smiled his quiet smile. “Thank you, yes. I’d better take my leave, I think. For now.” He drifted toward the path, and added, “I shall look forward to it. Prince.”

Finrod felt his insides respond to the words and the thoughts that went with them and inclined his head rather than let it show by his voice failing him.

Supper came and went, and they chose the woods by starlight to get acquainted this first time.

Afterwards Finrod did not know who moved first or who pulled whom close. Their bodies were hard against each other, he knew that. He felt his own heart beat fast. The body in his arms relaxed and welcomed his embrace and when he quieted a little from the first thumping of his heart, he kissed him.

Calyaro waited for him to make that first move, but then – then there was no restraint and Calyaro had definitely done this before… Finrod smiled to himself, remembering his dream. He had supposed Calyaro was no stranger to love of his own sex, but he had only a few smiles to go on. And a kiss by the river. There was that.

He had told Galadriel he did not think of Amarië but it had not been true. He had not forgotten her. He doubted he would ever look at another woman, but he was not sure if that was to do with gender or faithfulness or just the trauma of the nature of that parting. He did not need to think about that and instead caught Calyaro’s mouth with his own.

Calyaro seemed intuitive and had broken off his attentions while Finrod got his second wind, but then he was all over Finrod, experienced and generous and thorough, and Finrod, copying him, knew it would all be well. It would be very well. He should not have waited this long to lie with someone again…

Finrod broke away from the kiss and arched heavily into Calyaro’s firm hand. He found himself held hard behind, and he forget all else but grabbed tightly the body that was so sweetly serving his until he came, gasping into the curve of sharp collar bone and shoulder.

Calyaro groaned and although things seemed very hazy, Finrod heard it and fumbling, loosed his fingernail grip on shoulders and back. He moved his hands unaccustomedly to find a comfortable fit for their bodies. Holding someone else’s erection was a matter of different angles than the unthinking tending of his own body.

Still absorbed in his own light-headed, limp pleasure, he turned sideways a little. He got a hand under Calyaro’s waist and there held him close while his other hand more expertly grasped the tight length that waited on him. As soon as his hand took hold once more, Calyaro moaned, a hum of desire and gratitude and pent up passion that delighted Finrod.

He roused out of his own replete torpor to enjoy watching the other’s face, rather cruelly taking his time about this task, their eyes meeting when Calyaro half-opened his eyes in question at this different mood. Finrod leaned in and kissed him thoroughly, and was still kissing him when Calyaro stopped breathing, sighed and came.

Finrod propped himself up on his elbows, leaning over the lean body, so different than his own, searching the face that seemed content and alertly questioning – as if to ask, was all well between them? He kissed him again, just because he could and then gave in to drowsiness.

Later, when they woke, and idled in closeness that was in no hurry to do anything, Finrod said, “I find myself thinking about your eyes a lot. I was thinking of calling you Sindamíro on their account. You have beautiful eyes by starlight, and candlelight. Mir for short. Do you like it?”

Calyaro rolled the eyes in question. “I’m not an ornament.”

“No? What then, when we have built this place? Shall you be my singer? You would be very decorative, I assure you. I remember you standing in Fëanor’s halls. You had such a presence.” He ran a hand up Calyaro’s torso, thumbing his nipples and coming to rest across his collar bone, cupping his shoulder and neck. He lowered his voice, “I never thought I would be doing this to you, though.” He could have stroked him all night, front and back, just for the intense pleasure of giving pleasure. He looked forward to finding out all that Calyaro enjoyed most.

A silence. “No.”

“No? You want me to stop?”

“No, I do not wish to play your minstrel.”

Finrod stopped caressing him at the abrupt reply. “What then?”

“I have a few ideas. When I’m ready, I’ll tell you. Ask you,” he amended, more carefully, suddenly wary that it was a prince’s invitations he answered, not just the teasing request of a younger lover.

Finrod lay back beside him and gave up trying to do more than enjoy the closeness as they lay side by side. “There is no need to decide. This is a new venture, with room for new paths.”

Afterwards, Finrod remembered that odd little conversation. He waited, but for a time Calyaro said no more along those lines and Finrod did not ask. Sometimes he saw an oddly intent look in the singer’s eyes when the watch mustered for departure in their discreet twos and threes. Calyaro practiced determinedly with his bow, but most of the population did that for exercise and sport, whether or not bearing arms in defence of the borders was their work.

Those who applied to the watch had to meet exactingly high standards with a bow to be admitted. The task would be deadly dangerous if their real purpose was ever called upon. Finrod remembered those clues later. At the time he blindly let them pass, content to let Calyaro speak when he was ready.

End of Chapter Twelve

Tbc

Sindamíro – grey jewel

Chapter Thirteen

*** 105 Years of the Sun ***

Ensconced in Nargothrond after the journey south, with the King and a glass of wine, Glorfindel said with a glint of humour, “That was a novel experience, being arrested by a minstrel…”

“I’m glad you saw him. But yes, I’ve set out a full watch on the Faroth and the Plains since you came down before. We’re still building towers though,” he added as an afterthought.

“They chose a good site at the ford to waylay me,” approved Glorfindel, judiciously. “I could see three archers in the rocks above – I presume there were more?”

Finrod nodded.

“I couldn’t have got away from them if I’d wanted to, not with those rocks cutting me off to the west. Calyaro was friendly, though he had that smile, you know the one that says, ‘Glad to see you but mustn’t show it too much, you're Lord Glorfindel,’ – you know that one? But I still don’t think I deserved to be arrested just for coming to see you…”

Finrod grinned at his laughing cousin. “You weren’t arrested and you know it. They have orders to bring in anyone who approaches. Stop complaining about what you know perfectly well they did with all courtesy and tell me how long you can stay?”

“Turgon wants me back in a month. I should tell you Galadriel wants to join us here – she’s talking about bringing Celeborn to visit before I go north.”

Finrod grinned. “She wants us to like him. I was surprised by how serious she was over him. I could never imagine her settling down with anyone before, but Celeborn…”

“You approve?”

“Of course I approve! It’s not as though there could be any possible objection.”

“Until she met him, I thought she’d live with you, to be honest.”

“She made it clear from the first that she wanted to stay in Doriath. It’s not just Celeborn.”

“Melian.”

“Melian,” agreed Finrod. They fell silent a moment, neither feeling qualified for opinions on deeper mysteries not open to them.

Glorfindel returned to the anomaly of his arrival. “Why do you set a minstrel among your watch? Are you so short of archers?” Finrod felt his face give him away on two counts. Calyaro’s service had not been his idea – or his desire.

“Finrod?”

“It is what he wants. It has been the only thing he asked me for.”

“You and Calyaro – are you saying you got together? Ha! I *knew* I was right about that…”

Finrod smiled ruefully and shrugged.

“Well. Well – I am pleased for you. You know that?”

“Of course. And… thank you.”

“And the succession?”

“I’m not sure that will matter – if this kingdom is destined not to last…” Finrod said it quietly, as if with knowledge Glorfindel lacked. But he smiled then. “It shall serve its purpose for a time, however and bring security to Beleriand while it stands, be the time long or short. Already we have extended our protection westward. Círdan is most pleased, needless to say.”

He held up an unopened bottle and gave it to Glorfindel to open. “You must come to Eglarest – you haven’t been there lately? He and I are talking of rebuilding there and at Brithombar. I miss boats and ships. He’s very good. Ocean-going vessels to deal with the worst storms… It’s a great place. Another world. We could take you sailing.”

Glorfindel sat back and drank his wine, refilled his cup. “We could do that, but for now – tell me more about Calyaro.”

“Calyaro?” Glorfindel just looked at him. Finrod laughed. “There is not much to tell. He still plays, as before, but he won’t take it up again full time. He’ll teach anyone his songs if they ask, but as soon as he discharged his last task here,” he gestured to the vault above them, indicating the fortress complex, “he asked my leave to apply to join the border watch.”

“And you agreed?”

“I laughed and said a harper had no place guarding Taleth Dirnen.” The plain guarded the easiest route from the north, geographically if not militarily, with Minas Tirith standing firm sentry on the Sirion and Orodreth competent in his stead while Finrod was here.

“What then?”

“He took to practicing his weaponry, and asked me again a year later.” Glorfindel waited. Finrod turned his cup in his hands, old, old habit. “He challenged me to an archery contest when he saw I would say no. If he won, I was to let him go.”

“He did not win against you.” It was not a question. Glorfindel stated it as fact. Finrod’s skill with a bow had rivalled Aredhel’s. Few could beat either of them, though it was Aredhel who took most pleasure in it.

“I was winning. I had one more shot. I felt – satisfied that I would get my way. And then I saw him realise he would lose…” Calyaro was across the room and glanced over, faintly questioning. His eyes rested on Finrod briefly and then he turned back to his companions, but the warmth in them was unmistakeable and Finrod smiled back, lifting his cup slightly toward him. This relationship was no secret.

He looked back at Glorfindel. “I shot wide. As soon as he applied he was accepted. He’s done well and has already been promoted. He gets on with the others and makes a good leader.”

“You’ll have to give him another name. Let the old Calyaro go. You’re more than ready for the future.”

Finrod looked in his cup, swilled the light reflected in the rippled surface from the candle sconce behind them. “Yes,” he said. And more softly, “Yes, I am. Whatever comes, I am ready for it.”

A last weight fell away from him as he realized Aman no longer held him in the grip of regret, grief or even anger. Tirion had been as beautiful as the rape of Alqualondë was cruel, but neither city were writ in his future. He felt a great gratitude to his cousin.

“Glorfindel, Turgon is building, too, is he not?”

Glorfindel sat very still. He said nothing.

Finrod had come to be sure after Turgon’s own travels that Lord Ulmo’s message had been offered to both of them. He had recognized the signs without Turgon having to tell him anything. Nor had he asked, knowing how he had felt himself about Nargothrond. The secrecy with which Turgon was going about his project told Finrod that what they built would not be open to visitors when it was done. He knew also that Elenwë’s death had left Glorfindel determined to protect Idril. He would not leave Turgon now.

“When he goes, are you going with him?”

A glance. A slow, single nod. They sat in silence for a little, before Finrod sighed and shifted, reaching for the wine.

“Will you come and say good-bye, before you go?”

“Ah, Finrod…” Glorfindel took a long, long drink, and opened another bottle. “I think, tonight, we should get drunk under the stars, my friend.” For a moment, Finrod thought he had come to say goodbye already and unbidden tears rose – which Glorfindel saw.

“Not yet. It won’t be yet. And I will come and say good-bye. I’m going for Idril’s sake, not just Turgon’s, though I think he needs someone.”

Finrod knew. He laid a hand briefly on Glorfindel’s arm. “Yes. But I’m glad it’s not yet.” He released a breath and let the moment pass. “We’ll need some more bottles.”

Glorfindel grinned and tipped his own prize toward his host. “That’s my lad. It will save me coming back down when we’ve finished this one.”

On the Narog’s banks, Glorfindel returned to discussing the matter of a new name for Calyaro. Finally, he pronounced, “Edrahil,” and seemed satisfied.

“I like the sound of that.”

“It means warden of the marches, or walker of the border. In Sindarin. With a bit of fiddling, at least. It’s certainly an awkward language compared to Quenya.” And then, “Shouldn’t you go and fetch him, and we can tell him? Break it in with a drink?”

The offer felt like a blessing on the relationship, and Finrod smiled and went to send someone with the invitation.

***

Finrod half-woke in the pitch dark of the unlit chamber. He missed the stars down here. The arm that lay across him had moved. Edrahil was rising. They were used to keeping different hours and irregular times. He could subside into sleep again if he wanted, but he chose to blink himself awake.

Footsteps padded into the corridor to collect a light from the candle kept alight there. The candle-flame bobbed back into the room. Lazily, Finrod watched Edrahil dress for his return to duty in Taleth Dirnen. A smile and a kiss and he was gone but in time he would be back. For Finrod, morning would come soon enough; he went back to sleep to catch what dreams the night still offered.

End of Chapter Thirteen

Tbc

Edrahil – S. Border Follower, March Warden [(possible meaning) Robert Ireland, A Tolkien Dictionary]

Chapter Fourteen

Edrahil seemed strangely serene in his acceptance. After he woke, Finrod kept a hand on him in weary caress, comforting himself by simple touch.

They kept watch in turn, the three of them, though mostly they were all wakeful. He and Beren talked at times, keeping their voices low. Edrahil did not seem to feel the need to talk. How strange, that they would end here, in the corrupted deeps of the hold they had built. They had met in the dim dark of Morgoth’s mists and even now he remembered how brightly the stars on the Ice had contrasted with the shadows in Alqualondë.

It was not cold here. Edrahil felt warm to the touch. He stroked the wild hair into rough order and started to plait it, long habit, and one they both enjoyed.

The Helcaraxë had not damaged Edrahil’s hands permanently. The performance at the Mereth Aderthad had proved that beyond any doubt. Irony that a song for Fëanor could have pierced Finrod’s heart and set him on his own path of healing, at last able to mourn the belovéd of his youth and the city that had such claim on his younger heart.

The years had passed so fast. He wished he had spent more time sailing off the Falas… He never had taken Glorfindel sailing with Círdan.

He started on a plait the other side of Edrahil’s head, glad of the time they had shared.

When had he forgiven his cousin Fingon? He did not know. After his uncle had shown him Nargothrond’s caves. Before they had finished building. Life had a way of moving on. He smiled to remember.

“Edrahil,” he said, softly. “Still so quiet? It is a good name, but Sindamíro was the better. I have not told you often enough how beautiful you are.”

He had known the curse would find him. He had not known how. The intervening years had been good to them. He moved his fingers gently in Edrahil’s hair, enjoying the murmured response.

When Celegorm spoke against him, Finrod had thought he would have to go alone, betrayed and abandoned, his audience ensnared by gift and curse alike.

He had been ashamed for his people though he knew they had all been trapped by Thingol’s demand, his own promise and a bitter oath. Perhaps one day he could stand before Lord Manwë. He hoped so. He had a question for him. Why had He refused their stand against the Black Enemy in these lands? Would He have preferred the shy Laiquendi and brave Sindar to stand alone, isolated and over-run in the face of Morgoth’s depredations and ambitions? And what of Men, in a land where Morgoth ruled unchecked?

Why would Manwë leave evil uncontested? Perhaps Fëanor’s accusations of cowards left behind had not been so far out. Moral cowardice in the Lord of the Valar? Ifs won no wars, but he could not help imagining Fëanor’s pursuit, sanctioned, supported and all this wide world without that oath and the cursed doom that went with it…

But Edrahil had not been afraid of Celegorm or his oath. Nor had twisted words tainted him with belief of their insidious cautions. He had looked down his nose at the two princes who knew him as their father’s servant and scorned their persuasions. He had stood with Finrod on the Ice, had built two citadels with him, and mounted a watch that had never failed them. He stood at Finrod’s side, as he was betrayed in his own stronghold. He stood with him still, unflinching even here.

In these dark depths, there had been no betrayals. Twelve there had been of Nargothrond’s people who had come with him. One remained. Yet buried out of light, out of hope, out of life itself, loyalty had burned like a beacon, lighting the way to Mandos’ halls.

With all else fallen away, one hope remained.

“Sindamíro, heart of my heart, I swear I will never stop looking for you in Eldamar, no matter how long Mandos keeps you. By stars’ light and Ithil’s shadows, I promise you I will be looking for you when you are returned to us.”

“And I intend to come hunting you, unless the stars have fallen first and the world ended.” Finrod could hear him smiling.

“Hush, never say so.” His heart ached at the thought of Mandos’ promise. Not lightly would the Vala pity a kinslayer.

“The world is full of beauty and we have seen more than our fair share. Shall I sing for you? One more time?”

Finrod bent to kiss him. “Yes. Shock these stones with glory, and let your song reach to the stars since their light cannot stretch down to us here.”

Out of the dark rose a bitter-sweet, familiar melody that had not lost its power to pluck his heart-strings.

Uryala úruva, rúcina háya,
Massë nárotya?
Massë calatya?
Mana ré, vinya omentielva nó elenilanta?

Lírinen, enyalin alcaretya,
Ar lómissë,
Írë tintilar i eleni, yar cenner tye mahta
Undu oioliltalelta
Enyalin úretya.

Marta mettatya ar voronda endatya,
Yón ataretya.
Enda vórima
Náro úrin,
Áni tana i tië
Ya lertan hilya
Liltien elvëa úressë menelo
Tennoio lehta Ambar-lúmello.

Unshed tears thickened Finrod’s throat at the change of words. Edrahil’s was the faithful heart, though they had all been fated. He set a hand on both companions, Beren on his right, who sat silent beside them and Edrahil leaning against him. Finrod’s voice when he spoke resonated in the dark, defiant. “Know this, I have no regrets about my choice.”

“Nor I,” said Edrahil, warrior minstrel, rising to his feet too fast for Finrod to stop him. “Remember it, in this life and after. Hold him back!”

That last he cried to Beren, who managed to delay Finrod, despite their frantic struggle. Red points of light blinked and an evil hurring growl shook their bones.

Still lithe despite injury and lack of water, light and food, Edrahil’s steps could be heard moving out in front of them.

The beast prowled closer, and Edrahil stood his ground, feet planted motionless in the dark. Finrod fought in silence to break free and go to him, even while he listened intently for sound of Edrahil, watched in despair the eyes slinking across the pit…

His voice came out of the darkness, breathless but loving and with all his dry humour, as the wolf moved in.

“Stop fighting and listen to me. Look for me in Aman when you find yourself there, but love as love finds you with all my blessing. Years of grace you have given me, and I would not steal all your years to come in fruitless waiting. When I am spared to follow you into life once more, there will be nothing owing between us.”

Finrod’s cry as the werewolf sprang should have shattered the darkness and brought the very walls down upon them.

***

Before it returned, he had time to give Beren the translation he asked for and to teach him the song through his tears.

Burning brightly, fled far hence,
Where thy fire?
Where, thy light?
When, our reunion before stars’ fall?

In song I remember thy glory
And in the night
By stars’ shine, who saw thee fight
Under their endless dance,
I think of thy heat.

Fated thy end and faithful thy heart,
Son of thy father.
True heart,
Bright fire,
Show me the path
That I may follow
To dance star light in heaven’s heat
And keep earthly time no more.

When he stood in his turn alongside Beren, fighting ready, he murmured softly into the dark, “True heart, ‘tis I who follow thee.” He had time to smile fleetingly, as he and the werewolf leapt at the same moment – the wolf at Beren and he squarely in its path.

End of Chapter Fourteen
End of Fic

***

A.N. In the Year of the Sun 465, Finrod died in a lightless pit of Sauron’s making on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the captured island site of his own former citadel of Minas Tirith. Taken prisoner with thirteen others when helping Beren as Finrod was sworn to do, he survived while one by one they died asSauron sought to discover their purpose. None betrayed the King’s identity or Beren’s intention to steal a Silmaril from Morgoth.

Edrahil had been chief among those who volunteered to go with Finrod when Celegorm, driven by his oath, spoke with great craft against any of the people of Nargothrond aiding Finrod in his mission. Finrod died saving Beren from the werewolf that attacked him. Beren escaped and from his descendants was born Elrond of Imladris.

Tol-in-Gaurhoth – Isle of Werewolves, once Tol Sirion.

By Stars' Light 12-14/14

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