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LET THE SONGBIRD SING: 6. A Chill Begins
- A CHILL BEGINS
Maglor could not fill himself enough with Daeron, and almost devoured the fair minstrel as he loved him hard and long. Daeron's new physique had made him stronger and more limber, and Maglor was aroused by his new vigour. The more that Daeron fought and pushed back against Maglor in feigned reluctance to have his defences breached, the more this activity excited Maglor so that the Noldorin warrior was encouraged to demand more attention and energy from his Sindarin lover.
"Gods---Maglor," Daeron whimpered as the Noldo's insatiable mouth enveloped him fully and exploring fingers penetrated him eagerly. He clutched handfuls of silky black hair as he writhed beneath Maglor's expert mouth and intimate touches. By the time Maglor was sated, the two Elves had each climaxed what Daeron thought must be a dozen times. They lay back on Beleg's bed, which was now divested of fur coverings that had been kicked to the floor during their wild, abandoned lovemaking. Both Elves were covered in perspiration that cooled their bodies as it evaporated.
Daeron sighed deeply. "I must get up now and build a fire, lest we freeze to death in this changeable spring climate. It does not know whether it wants to be warm or cold these past few mornings." He crossed to the fireplace and bent down to stoke the fire and determine if there was any life left in it, and narrowly evaded a sudden shower of sparks. He laughed. "Now I understand the warrior's rule of the campfire," he remarked.
"What is that?" asked Maglor, busy combing his hair with a brush that he had found in the nightstand, one of Beleg's furs wrapped around his body.
"Never stand naked before the flames," Daeron said. He stirred the ash and glowing bits of log with a poker.
Maglor laughed. "Come back to bed," he said, staring hard at Daeron's bare backside.
"You cannot be serious," said Daeron. "I am chafed and sore. At least allow me four hours or so to heal."
"Let me see," said Maglor. Daeron obliged by turning around. "Ah," said Maglor, wincing. "It is quite red, isn't it? I am sorry, love. I have been quite insatiable. Why don't you come lie down and let me rub on some oil for you?"
Daeron laughed. "Oh no. I shall not fall for another of your tricks, you crafty Goldion villain."
"Fine. At least let me rub some on your delicious bottom."
"I think I'll just get dressed," said Daeron. "What would you like to do today?" He noticed the wide grin on Maglor's face and said, "Never mind. I shall think of something." He looked all over the room for his clothes and found his leggings that had been flung on top of the cupboard. "Ouch," he whimpered as he pulled them on. "They're too tight. They will chafe something terrible."
"I do like you in tight clothing," remarked Maglor. Daeron ignored him and opened Beleg's cupboard.
"I wonder if I could borrow something of Beleg's," he mused. "He is much bigger than I; therefore, his trousers should fit more loosely than mine. Ah – I have found something," and he pulled out a pair of forest green doeskin leggings with a satin lining. He found a matching jerkin, also satin-lined, and an unbleached linen shirt to wear underneath. "These should be very comfortable," he said.
"Is Beleg the fellow in the painting over the fireplace in the other room?" asked Maglor.
"Yes, that is he," replied Daeron. "Impressive-looking, isn't he?"
"Mmm---not bad," replied Maglor, "but I think you are much more beautiful."
"You flatter me shamelessly, devious warrior," said Daeron, strapping on Beleg's tunic and pulling the belt tight around his narrow waist. "There. How do I look?"
"Gods! That colour suits you. You are beautiful," Maglor said. "Come here so I can brush your hair."
Daeron approached the bed. "No funny business," he said and sat down.
Maglor laughed. "You don't trust me. I will prove that I am good to my word. I shall brush your hair while you sit here and not touch any other part of you."
Daeron smiled and tossed his waist-length hair behind his back. "Very well, then. Show me how trustworthy you are."
Maglor started to brush the long brown locks. He pulled the brush through Daeron's hair slowly at first so as not to snag any tangles and as he eased them out, he brushed more vigorously until Daeron's hair shone like a bolt of satin. Then he dropped the brush and seized Daeron around the chest and pulled him backward against his naked torso. Daeron struggled free of Maglor's strong arms. "You lose, my untrustworthy prince!" he cried. "Your word is not good!" Both Elves laughed and then Maglor leapt out of bed.
"I suppose I should get dressed," he said. "Is there a spring or anything nearby where we could wash ourselves? That might help to heal the chafing somewhat. I have it too."
"Yes, there is a warm spring not far from here. We shall have to walk through the forest to get there. It would be a nice hike if we go on foot. It should take us four to five hours."
"That sounds perfect," said Maglor.
As soon as Maglor had dressed, the two Elves set out through the eastern edge of Doriath. The air had warmed, and there was no wind among the trees as they walked. Maglor admired the great forest as they passed beneath its boughs. The trees in this place were tall and had canopies of dense, dark-leafed branches that intertwined and wove a high ceiling far above their heads. The pathways were smooth and clear, the spaces between the trees wide so that they could see a fair distance ahead. Many shade-loving spring bulbs with white flowers grew in swaths beneath the shrubbery and across the pathways, sending a light fragrance into the air. There were many birds hiding among the trees, but their trilling voices could be heard as the Elves walked along the trails. The two minstrels began to sing, mimicking the trills and chirps of the birds while devising a melody to incorporate the natural forest sounds into the song.
Presently, strolling and singing as they walked, they could hear the high lilting tones of a maiden's voice in response to their tune. Daeron stopped. "Listen!" he said.
"Who is that?" asked Maglor.
"It is Lúthien," cried Daeron. "But this is wonderful! I will be able to introduce her to you. Wait until you see her, Maglor. She is the most beautiful creature that Eru has ever created."
"So you have said before," said Maglor, a little disgruntled. "Now my curiosity is piqued. Let us find your Lúthien, then." The two Elves became silent and followed the sounds of the maiden's voice. Soon they came across her as she was dancing and singing in a glade. They stopped a while to watch her.
Maglor thought that she was exquisitely beautiful, just as Daeron had said. She was tiny, with pale ivory skin and hair as black as Maglor's, or perhaps even darker. Her figure appeared slight and graceful as she danced, and she was dressed in a silvery-blue gown with a trim of white lace on her flowing sleeves. The sun's rays managed to poke through the canopy of the tree branches above and shone down upon her, making her look even more luminous. Her voice was beautiful too. Both Elves stood transfixed by her singing as they stood and watched and listened to her, until her dance turned her toward them and she stopped, startled by their silent presence.
"Daeron!" she cried, and smiled happily to see him. Her smile was radiant and Maglor was staggered by its beauty. Daeron rushed forward to embrace her and as he did so, he lifted her up off the ground and hugged her tightly.
Maglor watched them, an uncomfortable feeling growing in his belly as he detected a strong closeness between them. He knew they had known each other for many years, but there was something about Lúthien that made him feel uneasy.
Daeron let her down and, pulling her by the hand, led her to where Maglor stood. She looked at Maglor curiously.
"Lúthien, please meet my dear friend," Daeron said with a beaming smile. Lúthien scrutinized Maglor with interest.
"I am pleased to meet you, my Lady," he said. "My name is Maglor."
"Good day, sir," she said. "Maglor? That is an unusual name."
My real name is "Macalaurë Canafinwë, my Lady," he replied. "In your language it is 'Maglor'."
"Indeed; you must tell me all about yourself," she said, smiling up at him. Her gaze took in his height, build and his black hair.
Maglor was instantly attracted to her beauty and her charm. Daeron explained to Lúthien that they were headed for the hot springs, and she said that she would walk with them until they reached their destination and then head home toward Menegroth. The three of them walked on together, and Maglor told Lúthien quite a bit about himself despite the fact that he did not trust her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Maglor stayed with Daeron for a year before going home. There followed years of peace, during which Maglor came to visit Daeron many times. They were always welcome to use Beleg's cabin, and at times when Beleg was home, they would have good times with him and his frequent companion Mablung, and sometimes Lúthien would join them for an evening of singing, dancing and story-telling.
But around Year 50, things began to change. Morgoth tested the might of the Noldor, sending Orcs out across Ard-galen and causing earthquakes and volcanoes to unsettle the land. Maglor's lands were attacked. During this time, and and for a long time thereafter, Maglor was unable to keep his predetermined appointments with Daeron.
On the first occasion in Year 49, after Maglor had stayed another year on the edge of Doriath, he and Daeron parted again with the promise that he would return in spring two years hence. When this time finally arrived, Daeron set out from Menegroth and rode to the place by the river that they had always used as their meeting spot since that first year. Daeron rode up to the riverbank as usual, expecting to see Maglor's tent and his familiar dark-haired prince sitting by the river. But he saw no one. The area was empty. Forcing down an uneasy feeling, Daeron waited, hoping that Maglor had just left late, or was held up by inclement weather in the north. He waited until night came, and then he rode to Beleg's cabin. The next day he rose early and went back to the River Celon. Maglor did not come that day, nor the next, nor the next day after that. Daeron stood long by the river, looking northwards. "Oh, my untrustworthy prince," he said, weeping, "Your word is not good."
Feeling great sorrow and fear, and not knowing what had become of his lover, Daeron returned to Menegroth, where he spent the next 105 years in the agony of mourning for his lost love.
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