1. Daeron and Macalaurë
The joy of that feast was long remembered in later days of sorrow; and it was called Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting. Thither came many of the chieftains and people of Fingolfin and Finrod; and of the sons of Fëanor Maedhros and Maglor, with warriors of the eastern March; and there came also great numbers of the Grey-elves, wanderers of the woods of Beleriand and folk of the Havens, with Círdan their lord. There came even Green-elves from Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers, far off under the walls of the Blue Mountains; but out of Doriath there came but two messengers, Mablung and Daeron, bearing greetings from the King. –The Silmarillion, "Of the Return of the Noldor"
The stars, although still bright in the sky, faded around the perimeter of the full moon. The deer dancer stood motionless looking above and beyond the heads of the crowd who had gathered to watch him. He held his head straight and erect despite the weight of his tall headdress made of the head of a stag, eight-pronged antlers intact. His stance recalled the isolation and grandeur of a large buck seen on a rise in the distance through a clearing in the trees. Tall, long-legged, nearly naked, stern of jaw, the dancer had mesmerized the audience before he made his first move.
Daeron drew back to find a good vantage point before the dance began in earnest. He had witnessed the ritual countless times, but was eager to observe it again with the inducement of scrutinizing the assembled Noldor who would be seeing it for the first time.
He eyed the base of a huge oak tree, which looked inviting, but undoubtedly would be too low. Then he spotted him: dark hair, wonderful bone structure, high, elegant cheekbones, slanting astonished eyes. Daeron watched him quickly making notations upon a piece of parchment. His foot tapped in time with beat of the drums and susurrus of the rattles, made of tiny pebbles sealed within butterfly cocoons and tied around the ankles of the deer dancer.
The note-taker's foot abruptly stopped when the high, surprising tone of a reed flute interjected itself into the music of the drums. He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes not unlike the ritual movements of the Elf dancing the role of the sacred stag. Then he began to scribble even more frantically.
Like most of the Noldor he had met at this gathering, this one approached his chosen task with an ardor and single-mindedness of purpose that made Daeron grin. He liked that quality. It reminded him of his own intensity about his work, something that had often caused people to consider him strange. At the moment that Daeron felt the smile reach the muscles of his face, the Noldo glanced at him.
"Do you know this dance? This ritual?" he asked, his voice deep, yet surprisingly melodious. His cheeks pinkened charmingly as he spoke, no doubt in embarrassment at the possibility of having his obvious intensity remarked upon. Daeron recognized the reaction all too well from personal experience. Clear blue-grey eyes widened at Daeron with hope, as the Noldo pushed a flyaway lock of dark hair behind an ear.
"You are either a musician or a loremaster I would guess." Daeron moved closer.
"Actually, I am not the scholar in my family. That would be my eldest brother. Music is my avocation," he said, sticking the pencil behind his ear in order to extend a hand to Daeron in greeting. "And you?"
"I am both. They go together among the Sindar, as my people do not have the respect for record keeping that I once might have hoped. I do know far more about this dance than almost anyone you are likely to have the opportunity to question. What can I tell you? This is the perfect time to explain; the next part coming up goes on far too long for my taste. But then it is not art to them but sacred ritual."
"First, who are these people? What are they called?"
"They are cousins of the Sindar one could say, Green-elves or Laiquendi we call them. They live largely to the east, in Ossiriand. They keep to themselves, deep in the forests. It is a credit to the perseverance and diplomacy of your organizers that they are here."
"My uncle, King Nolofinwë, is an formidable organizer. He was an able administrator under my grandfather and also acting King of the Noldor during our last years in Valinor. Oh. I am Macalaurë, by the way, second son of Fëanáro." He jutted his handsome chin up as he spoke. Daeron thought possibly in a gesture of pride or defiance, but more likely, noting the vulnerable curve of his lips, wariness of being hastily judged.
"And you are?" Macalaurë asked.
"I am your rival," Daeron said, giving him a flirtatious wink, thinking, 'Why waste time? He is too delicious not to let him know I fancy him.'
"Daeron of Doriath. Excellent!" Macalaurë extended his hand again, his face lighting with renewed enthusiasm. "The single person I had most hoped to meet here. I would not have guessed. You are not what I expected. Much taller than I had imagined. In fact, my picture of you was different in almost every way."
Daeron laughed. "Not a pretty little piper of a quaint, rustic people, I hope?"
"Hardly," Macalaurë said, shrugging his shoulders good-naturedly. "I made the acquaintance of various of the Sindar in the area of Lake Mithrim. We have worked together there for some years now. In particular, when my brother was recovering from severe injuries, I became well acquainted with a young healer, originally from Doriath. Tadiel is her name. She is a close friend of my brother, Maitimo, and his . . . my cousin, Findekáno."
"Ah, yes, Tadiel. She is a distant cousin of mine."
"Fascinating," Macalaurë said, clearly not referring to his cousin. "Where are the drums?"
"Probably behind those trees over there. They keep them out of sight. Makes the illusion more potent. They use three double-headed cylinders. The first is quite large, called the mother drum, and the smallest is the baby drum. The variation in size produces the distinct pitches. The drums as well as the dance itself are considered sacred. The Laiquendi claim the drums speak, think of them as sentient, guiding the drummer."
"Didn't you ever feel that way about your instrument?" Macalaurë looked totally serious.
"Perhaps. But I never thought to admit it to anyone."
Macalaurë laughed. "I would guess by the quality of their resonance that they must be carved of a solid piece of hard wood, not constructed of staves. And the skin? A deer?"
"You have a good ear."
"Of course, I do. I am the great Canafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion." The seductive glint in his eyes combined with the self-deprecating humor of his tone, elicited a pleasurable frisson of response in Daeron. Macalaurë held his gaze a moment too long for affability alone.
"Yes. Deer skin. Watch this now. The deer is alert to a possible threat."
The deer dancer had been miming with remarkable accuracy the characteristic movements of a deer, grazing in a meadowland, and gracefully picking his way through the trees. Suddenly he raised his head and froze. An elf carrying a bow had appeared at the edge of the space which had been cleared for the dance. He raised his bow and pretended to place an arrow in it. The deer dancer suddenly took off, executing a series of running leaps. The hunter stalked and the deer avoided him. At last, the hunter hit his mark and the wounded deer continued his movements for several minutes, dramatically demonstrating his increasing weakness, until finally he collapsed. The hunter knelt beside him. The dying deer moved his head slightly and locked his eyes with the hunter, who then bent over him.
"The hunter is kissing the deer?" Macalaurë asked, his voice husky with strong feeling.
"No. Not exactly." Daeron watched as the hunter Elf did not quickly release the lips of the one who had played the deer.
"Well, in this case, you may be right. But that is something added. Inhibitions freed by the intensity of the moment. The ritual in its purest form requires only that the tribesman who brings down the stag show his desire to partake of its nobility and courage by appearing to inhale its dying breath. Usually indicated by placing his lips above those of the other dancer or touching them lightly. I have also heard that movement described as being symbolic of gratitude to the deer for giving his life to feed their people or a way of easing the animal to peacefully accept its death."
"Oh, whatever the explanation, that young man kissed that deer," Macalaurë stated emphatically.
Daeron controlled his tongue. He did not say a word about how obvious it was to him that the sight of the magnificent stag, so convincingly played by the powerful dancer, overcome by the beautiful young Elf, had left Macalaurë aroused. He did run his fingers lightly up the sensitive skin on the inside of Macalaurë's lower arm. Macalaurë grinned, but refused to look at him keeping his eyes fixed upon the dancers.
The hunter Elf rose to his feet and raised his bow aloft, chanting a short invocation. Then at his shrill whistle, a crowd of women and children rushed to take their assigned places around the hunter and deer. The drums took up their primal beat slowly as the dancers swayed and stomped, moving in a circle.
"Well, that is all of the interesting part. The rest is the usual: around and around, faster and faster."
Macalaurë turned on Daeron with a bemused smile, startling him with the suddenness of the move. His fingertips touched Daeron's still-smirking lips. "Are you always so confident and opinionated?"
Daeron sighed. "No. To be honest, I am a total fraud and both excited by and terrified of how you affect me."
"You fooled me. But perhaps you should be. Afraid, I mean," Macalaurë said, so softly that Daeron strained to hear his words. "You have the advantage of experience in this situation, but, if you knew me or any of my kinsmen, you might be aware that we are known for our lack of restraint."
"I have never responded to another man. You, however, intrigue me and I have been alone a very long time."
Clearing his throat, Daeron responded, "I left out one thing about the ceremony. The combination of the ritual dance, the simple, repetitive music, you know, the entire ambiance, causes one to, sort of, let go of one's inhibitions. Like the dancer and the kiss."
"Daeron, I know that. I am not entirely stupid. Just, like I said, inexperienced. But I don't care. Is there somewhere we can go?" Macalaurë leaned in closer to him, in the cool evening air his warm breath against Daeron's neck felt scorching.
For a moment Daeron wondered if he was the one who had been hypnotized by the ritual and was imagining all of this. "Are you offering yourself to me?" he asked in a choked whisper.
"Now who sounds slow? Yes. I am. Say you want me before I lose my courage."
"You know I want you." Grabbing Macalaurë's hand he dragged him away from the torch-lit clearing. As soon as they were out of the immediate view of the other spectators, he pulled Macalaurë into his arms and kissed him. The kiss was lovely. Macalaurë responded as though he had done it countless times.
"Are you sure?" Daeron said, when he reluctantly broke off the kiss. They both breathed loudly. Daeron could not comprehend why he wanted to move more slowly, when everything he had wanted from the moment he had seen this Elf seemed to be his for the taking.
Macalaurë shot him a vibrant smile and took his face between his hands. Macalaurë's skin looked translucent in the moonlight and his stately beauty had taken on a savage grace.
"I told you that I am very unsure. So do not ask me again." Macalaurë chuckled softly. "Don't give me time to think. I would rather regret this than wonder what if. Kiss me again. That was different, different in a good way, than I thought it would be."
"All right then." Daeron kissed him again. The second kiss involved even more enthusiastic participation on Macalaurë's part. He kissed Daeron as though he had waited much too long for this type of physical contact. Macalaurë pressed his prominent erection against his own. Daeron thought if making love to him was anything like kissing him, it would be impassioned and uninhibited.
"Are you staying alone?" Macalaurë asked.
"No. I am with my friend Mablung from Doriath."
"Well, then, we have no choice but to go to my tent. I don't think that Maitimo and Findekáno will be there tonight. They have been staying at Findekáno's. It is larger and located in a more isolated area."
"Are your brother and his friend . . . "
"Yes. But I did not tell you that. Eru, you are amazing." Macalaurë rubbed his cheek against Daeron's, kissed and licked him on the neck, took his ear lobe between his teeth and tugged softly. Then he initiated another long open-mouthed kiss. Finally, he pulled away slowly, looking into Daeron's eyes. He sighed and whispered. "Let's go. I cannot stand here doing this much longer before I explode. It is not far from here at all."
"You are the one who is incredible, Macalaurë." Daeron took his hand, wondering of how Macalaurë was willing, even eager, to pursue something he knew nothing about, with someone who was a virtual stranger. But then, he mused, one could not underestimate the power of lust alone. "Take me there."
"This way," Macalaurë said, tugging at his hand. Daeron became aware of the almost feathery touch of Macalaurë within his mind. These Noldor were intense and highly skilled. Macalaurë reassured him. "But I do know you and trust you. Your decency is transparent."
As they walked further away from the clearing, the cessation of the drumming signaled the performance had ended. Silence was followed by an eruption of voices, which also disappeared as they neared Macalaurë's tent to be replaced by the sound of a waterfall cascading into the nearest of the shimmering pools. Daeron had heard that there was something at least semi-magical about this area at the foot of the Ered Wethrin Mountains. Some insisted that a protective force allowed one to relax certain barriers and internal defenses here without fearing harm to either the flesh or the spirit.
He wanted to ask Macalaurë why they were here. The Golodhrim did not strike him as a particularly superstitious people. "Did your uncle choose this location because the Pools of Ivrin are renowned for their beauty? Or, I wonder if he has heard the stories that the power of Ulmo protects any who venture here?"
"I have no idea. But, I do feel set apart from everything before this night and untroubled by what will follow. Shall we exploit that to our advantage before it fades?"
Daeron could not take his eyes off Macalaurë as they walked. Grateful that he had walked this same path several times in the last two days, he realized that he otherwise might have tripped. The beauty of the woods and reflection of the moonlight in the pools visible ahead of them diminished in comparison to Macalaurë's profile.
"This is it," Macalaurë said, a tone of affectionate pride in his voice. It was a neat tent, slightly larger than those visible in the vicinity. He untied the front flap and gestured to Daeron to enter before him. As Daeron passed him he brought his lips close to his ear and said in a low voice, "Thank you for coming here."
"Please, let us be honest with one another." Daeron fastened his eyes on Macalaurë's exquisitely vulnerable mouth just before the tent flap fell back into place and cut off the moonlight. "A legion of Orcs could not have kept me away."
Macalaurë's laugh was musical, erotic. A soft curse in Quenya that Daeron did not understand accompanied a clatter of glass against metal.
"Ouch. I found the cursed lamp." Macalaurë struck a flint and lit it. "You are handsome. The light outside did not do you justice." He laughed and touched Daeron's face. "And, of course, I was distracted by your voice, that silver-blond hair, and your broad shoulders. I'm getting butterflies in my stomach. I think you had better kiss me again."
"Trust me. I will take good care of you."
After a few minutes of lips and tongues, moans and clumsy fumbling with clothing, Daeron found himself upon a mattress, kneeling between Macalaurë's legs, gripping their erections together in both of his hands. Macalaurë's silky hair, pure black in the lamplight, spread out across a pillow, while his eyes remained squeezed shut. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his labored breathing, his lips barely parted, while his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
"Open your eyes, Lachenn," Daeron said, his voice darkly seductive even to his own ears.
"Eru, Daeron." Macalaurë's eyes fluttered open, innocent, tender, and aggrieved. "I cannot hold on."
"Then do not try." Daeron released him for a moment, moved to his side and curled up next him, dropping light kisses upon his mouth, taking hold of Macalaurë's shaft again, and beginning to stroke slowly.
"Do I have to keep my eyes open?" Macalaurë asked, between returning his kisses. Then suddenly, grunting and grimacing with embarrassment, he covered Daeron's hand and both of their stomachs with his hot release.
"You don't have to do anything. I just really like your eyes and I wanted you to see how we looked together like that."
"I saw. It looked so good that I had to shut my eyes or I would have spilled even sooner." Macalaurë gazed at him in such relief and pleasure that Daeron laughed out loud.
"Now, there is something that I must do," Macalaurë said, with a grin. "You still have a problem." He bent down over Daeron, completely shocking him by taking him into his mouth. Macalaurë obviously had no experience, but he appeared to know exactly what he wanted to accomplish. The artlessness and sincerity he brought to his task affected Daeron far more profoundly than skill alone might have.
Macalaurë took in a little too much and gagged slightly, moving his mouth back up he circled the head with his tongue and mumbled, "Sorry."
"No. It's wonderful." Daeron told the truth. He was lost, floating. 'There is perfect and then this kind of imperfect. And this is the best,' he thought. A single glance from Macalaurë brought him unexpectedly to the edge.
"Oh. Careful. I am going to come." Macalaurë gave him another sidelong look, but did not pull his mouth away or stop moving, instead he fumbled to find one of Daeron's hands and grasped it tightly. Macalaurë choked a little and swallowed conscientiously as Daeron spilled into his mouth. Drawing very slowly away, Macalaurë scooted up next to Daeron and with a mischievous crinkle of his nose kissed him on the mouth, teasing him with the taste.
With a languid sigh, his nestled his face against Daeron's neck. "I liked that much more than I expected I would."
"I tried to warn you . . . I didn't expect to you would care to swallow . . ."
Macalaurë put his hand against Daeron's mouth, laughing against his throat, before lifting his head to look at him. "I didn't know if there was a right or wrong way, but it did seem like it would have been rude to spit it out. It's not like I am a shy maiden doing it for the first time."
"But it was the first time with another man for you." His manner amused Daeron, making him like this man better every minute. He liked his boldness and lack of pretension. He liked his directness and humor.
"Yes. That was fairly obvious. I suppose one gets better with practice?"
Daeron stroked his face, so beautiful and golden-tinged in the lamplight, surrounded by a mass of fine dark hair. His pale bluish grey eyes seemed to hold the light within them rather than reflect it from without. All of these returned Noldor had those eyes, giving them a slightly alien look, attractive but strange. The effect was even more startling up close than it had been from a distance.
After a few minutes of holding one another close, not speaking and barely moving. Macalaurë began to plant kisses upon Daeron neck and throat. He bit him sharply on the collar bone.
"You will have to show me how this is done. Take the initiative. I do not think it is something that I can so easily improvise as causing you to climax with my mouth."
"Do you know how it affects me to hear you talk like that?"
Macalaurë softly laughed. "I can only hope." He rubbed his thigh insistently against Daeron's hardening length. "So, show me."
Unable to keep his hands from exploring the silken texture of his skin, the hard plane of his chest, and moving lower to take hold of Macalaurë's fully erect shaft, Daeron looked into those curious, star-lit eyes. "Are you asking me to take you?"
"It can hardly be otherwise." More kisses on Daeron's throat ended with a tongue exploring his ear and then a whisper of breath, cool against the wetness there. "I have never before felt the urge to be taken in that way, but the desire is strong within me now, and I have no wish to question or second guess it." Macalaurë drew himself away from Daeron and held his chin with one hand, looking into his eyes. "Will you do that for me?"
"You do not have to ask twice. Do you have any concept of how irresistible you are saying those words?" Daeron could barely speak for swallowing and breathing roughly.
"I have a good imagination." Macalaurë's brilliant smile caused Daeron to exhale shortly in response.
It did not take but a few minutes for Macalaurë to find the "something oily and viscous" that Daeron had requested. A salve intended for chapped skin, made with oil of wintergreen, had been rejected for a heavier odorless, colorless grease used for cleaning swords. Daeron had insisted it had a far better consistency.
Macalaurë added, smiling and wrinkling his nose, "And without the sting or that dreadful smell."
Daeron decided that he probably had fallen in love with him when throughout the entire search and decision-making process, Macalaurë's erection refused to wilt.
They returned to the mattress and Daeron maneuvered Macalaurë onto to his stomach, pulling his hips up. Resting his head on a pillow, Macalaurë lifted his backside up a bit higher using his lower arms to support himself. Macalaurë closed his eyes, with the slightest upward curve of his lips, breathing audibly. The susurrations reached straight into Daeron's groin, causing more blood to rush to where he scarcely believed he could have accommodated it. Macalaurë's erection remained hard, but he also appeared relaxed, completely confident in his partner. Daeron thought him to be not simply brave, but dauntless. As Daeron prepared him, the only syllables Macalaurë formed were an occasional approving "hmm" or "ah."
"I think you are ready. Shall I try now?" Daeron asked.
"Yes," he answered, his beautiful voice clear and determined. Holding him close, his chest against the satiny skin of his back, Daeron pressed against his opening. Macalaurë tensed at first and then relaxed. When Daeron pressed forward again, he found himself suddenly inside him. He waited for a moment, before pushing deeper. The only sounds were Macalaurë's deep breaths.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. Good. You were careful."
Again Daeron's heart took flight, the surge of affection nearly overwhelming. He began pushing and withdrawing, slowly and shallowly at first. When the rhythm of Macalaurë's breathing sped up and he began to moan softly, Daeron allowed his movements to grow faster and stronger. Daeron reached beneath Macalaurë and grasped his length, stroking and caressing it until he was pleading "more" and "harder." A longer, deeper thrust brought forth a sudden howl of pleasure from Macalaurë which indicated to Daeron he had found the spot that he had hoped to hit.
After that Macalaurë pushed back forcefully against him, moving with him, and did not cease to vocalize, flooding him with demands, endearments, curses and praise. Daeron joined him with groans and strangled cries until they both exploded.
Daeron slid off to the side, still holding Macalaurë tightly. He found himself babbling. "I had no idea. That was unbelievable. Brilliant. I never expected . . . do you realize you are extraordinary?"
Macalaurë gave a sleepy chuckle. "I did nothing." He raised an eyebrow and ran his thumb across Daeron's lower lip. "But I was right to insist that you should do me first, wasn't I?"
"Maybe right. Maybe favored by fortune. I never did that before. Had it done to me a couple of times. Whichever. It was nice."
"Nice! You admitted yourself that it was bloody brilliant."
Lachenn = flame-eyed, Sindarin term for the Noldor, referring to the light in their eyes.
Golodhrim = Sindarin for Noldor
The deer dance is based upon a Mexican folkloric dance I have seen a lot of times. The part about inhaling the breath of a deer was influenced by a scene with a dying deer in Elfscribe's story "Ohtarnil: A Warrior Love."
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.