Second Chances

Part 1

Posted: February 2004
Title: Second Chances
Author: Larien Elengasse
Type: FCS, M/M Slash
Characters: Fëanor/????
Rating: NC-17
Beta: Alex
WARNING: This story is rated NC-17 and contains male slash pairings and explicit sexual content. If you find this offensive, or you are under-age, I strongly suggest you stop now.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the property of Tolkien, and I am sure he would be horrified if he read this…
Summary/Notes: This was a little idea I had when wondering how to throw two of my favorite elves together. Someone told me once that in Judaism they believe in something called the Well of Souls. It is believed that when a person dies, that soul returns to the "well of souls" to wait until it is reborn in a new body. This sounded familiar to me, seeing as I read somewhere in Tolkien that elves spirits, after a time, could be re-embodied in the Halls of Waiting and they could return to Aman. As the spirit has yet to live in Middle Earth, it initially speaks Quenya, once it is given an identity, it begins to take on its native tongue of Sindarin. Fëanor speaks Quenya, as Sindarin did not become the primary language of ME until after his death. Many thanks to Orchyd Constyne for the help with Quenya and Sindarin and canon advice.

*****

Halls of Waiting, Aman, early First Age

Fëanor awoke, his eyes slowly adjusting to the bright light of his chamber. He sat up slowly and looked around. His body felt light, weightless; pain and weariness floated somewhere just beyond the reach of his memory. He stood and looked down at himself, there were no scars or wounds marring his body, his tunic and leggings had been replaced by a deep crimson robe that shimmered as if it were illuminated with the light of the trees. Upon the wall hung a large oval glass, its surface was like a pool of still water, and he looked at his reflection in it. His warrior's braids were gone; his raven hair hung in a thick black curtain around his shoulders. His eyes still glittered, sparked with the fire of revenge. He held up his hands, turning them over and looking at them, curling and straightening his fingers.

It was strange, he could see his form, and his arms and legs seemed to move. If he touched himself, he could feel flesh and muscle, yet he still felt weightless. He felt no pain, no hunger; he was not hot or cold, tired or anxious. He moved to a window and looked out, feeling Anor's light warm his skin and a soft sea breeze ruffle his hair. The last moments of his life flashed before his eyes, lying upon a bier, staring up at the darkening sky. His last words had been spoken in anger, a curse upon the name of Morgoth, and a command to his sons that would bring about their doom. As his breath died upon his lips the last word he had spoken was that of his father's name, then all passed into darkness.

He left the window and walked around the room, it was furnished with everything he needed, chairs, tables, books. He tried the door but it was latched, unmovable, and he returned to the window. He was in a tower, high above the cliffs of Aman. Now as he breathed in the sea air, feeling its soft caress upon his skin, he realized where he was. He was in the Halls of Waiting, and it was there that he would await his fate.

* * * *

The new spirit slowly drifted through the Halls, studying the tapestries of Vairë. Its time was approaching, time to decide what path it would take, whom it would become. It was a new soul; one that waited for the body it was to inhabit to take shape. Time meant little to those in Mandos' Halls, it was an uncountable, intangible thing, its path either quick or slow, depending upon the road that brought you there. For this new spirit, it had been quick, for it was new, unburdened, unsullied by the woes of the world. It was beautiful and pure, innocent and open, waiting for its story to be written.

It rounded a corner and came upon one of seemingly endless doors in the Halls. This door was closed, something it had not yet seen, and it pushed upon it, feeling it creak open beneath its force.

* * * *

"You can stop this," Vairë said to her husband. "It is within your power. Has he not suffered enough?"

Mandos looked upon his kind wife, her heart so filled with pity for the suffering. "He chose his doom, he went willingly. He has the blood of his kindred upon his hands, and the doom of the Valar upon his soul."

Vairë knelt before her husband. "He was in pain, Finwë was everything to him, the Silmarils were his life's creation. The Dark One took both from him and has now vanquished him. Can we not show him pity? Can we not give him a second chance? Will you let him fall? Will you let him lose yet another thing that is dear to him?" She clasped her husband's hands in her own. "Do not make him pay endlessly, if he is to fulfill his doom and remain here, do not let them meet, do not let him lose his heart to one he can never have. Show pity, my husband, he has been punished enough."

Mandos caressed his wife's face and answered her softly, "His path is decided, what may appear cruel will in the end not be so. His heart is filled with rage and anger, it must be purged or he will fade into the darkness and will be lost to us forever."

Vairë lowered her head and nodded, a single tear falling from her eye and wetting her lord's robe.

* * * *

Fëanor lay upon his back in his wide bed, staring at the ceiling and pondering his fate. He closed his eyes as tears slipped from them. He worried for his sons, for what would become of them in the years to come. He saw now what Mandos had tried to tell him, he saw how foolish his rash actions were, now all those he held dear would pay the price of the Oath.

He felt a soft brush against his cheek and a strange voice whisper, "Why are you so sad?"

His eyes shot open and he crawled backward against the head of the bed, his wide eyes searching the room for the intruder. "Who is there?" he called out.

"I have no name as of yet," came the answer.

The voice was strange; it was a mixture of both male and female. Again came the soft stroke upon his cheek and he flinched. He could see no one. "Why can I not see you? How did you get in here?" his voice nearly cracked with fear.

"Do not be afraid, sad one," the voice said, "I am not here to do you harm. I wish to comfort you, to ease your burden."

"Why can I not see you?" he asked again, his voice growing stronger.

"I have no form as of yet, I have yet to be born," the voice answered.

"You are a new spirit?" Fëanor asked, the fear leaving his voice.

"Yes, I am," the voice answered. "Though my time is coming, soon I will be able to take shape as well as substance."

Another soft brush of what felt like a hand against his cheek. He willed his fear to heal and relaxed to the calming touch of this spirit.

"Why are you so sad?" The spirit asked again. "Your heart is heavy with grief."

Fëanor bowed his head and answered quietly, "I have done horrible things. I have much to atone for."

"I know who you are," the spirit answered. "I know what it is you have done. It is woven in the tapestries."

Fëanor felt the warm press of the spirit against him, and he leaned into it, its pure warmth and gentleness seducing him. Tears fell freely from his eyes as he answered, "I have the blood of my kin upon my hands, blood of those who had loved me. I have sentenced my sons to doom because of the Oath, I have lost my life, and yet my father is still passed, passed beyond where I can reach, and the Dark One still has my creations."

He shuddered as he felt a kiss pressed upon his temple and soft strokes upon his hair. He could not explain it, but suddenly he needed this spirit, he needed its soft touch and loving embrace. It was the purest sensation he had ever known, it was pure light, beauty, and compassion.

"You do have much to atone for, Fëandro," the spirit answered, "but you are not hated as you fear you are. You are loved by the Valar, even after all that has passed. Your father sits at the right hand of Eru, he is at peace now."

Fëanor sighed and nodded. "It does my heart good to know he is at peace, even if I was the cause of his passing." He furrowed his brow and asked, "Why can I feel you but not touch you?"

The spirit answered gently, "I do not have the power to manifest. I can make you feel my touch, but you can not feel me for I have no form."

Fëanor felt a strange calm settle into his bones, and suddenly he grew sleepy. "When will you take form?" he asked quietly.

"Soon," the spirit answered. "Would you like to see it when I do?"

Fëanor nodded and sighed. "Yes," his voice drifted off as he began to fall into reverie, "very much…" he started and opened his eyes. "Wait…" he called out.

"Yes, Fëandro?" the spirit answered.

"What should I call you? How can I find you if I want to see you?" He realized he no longer felt the spirit near him and he reached out blindly for him.

"Ssshh… Fëandro," the spirit answered gently. "I will return each day while I remain here, fear not."

He felt a soft kiss upon his forehead and found himself aching to reach out and touch the kind spirit who had comforted him so greatly. He sighed as he drifted into reverie once again.

* * * *

Halls of Waiting, Aman, Middle of the First Age

Time passed and the spirit honored its promise. Each day as Anor reached its apex in the sky, the spirit returned. Often Fëanor would speak with it, recounting his past deeds and expressing remorse. As he talked to this spirit, the rage and need for revenge that had so filled his soul began to subside, and in its place was a profound need to right the wrongs he had perpetrated upon those who had not deserved his wrath.

Some days, he would sit in the chair by the window just talking to the spirit. On those days when his remorse was most acute, the spirit would gather him in his arms and hold him close, whispering kind words in his ear and bestowing loving caresses to his body.

One afternoon, he lay upon his back waiting for his friend. He heard the unique voice greet him and felt his presence beside him.

"Poicaquen," he answered quietly. A smile curved his lips as he felt the soft caress he had come to need as dearly as air. He felt the spirit's presence beside him and he whispered, "I fear I have come to need these visits. I am afraid I have fallen in love with you."

"As I have with you," the spirit replied, "I will miss you when I leave these halls."

A tear traced down Fëanor's cheek and he asked, "Does the day approach?"

"It always does, melda," the spirit answered. "But not so soon as to think on it now."

Fëanor felt the soft caress of the spirit's touch upon his face and he closed his eyes. "Kiss me…" he whispered.

"Ve elyë méra," the spirit replied.

Fëanor felt the soft press of the spirit's kiss and he opened his mouth, unsure as to what to expect next. He moaned softly as what felt like a tongue entered his mouth, sweeping across his own. He groaned as he arched against the warm press of the spirit's presence, soft caresses covering his chest, and arms. His robe fell open as the kiss left his mouth and made its way down his neck and chest, a warm, wet sensation lathing his pebbled nipples before traveling lower. He wadded the coverlet in his fists as he moaned and arched beneath the bodiless entity that filled him with love and desire. He cried out softly as his lover took his length; warm, wet suction caressing his rigid flesh. He whispered, "I love you…" over and over as this beautiful spirit gave him love and pleasure like he had never known before.

He felt his seed spill over his belly, disappearing as fast as it came, and a tear fell down his cheek. He was wrapped in warmth and love, his body trembling beneath the soft caresses and warm kisses bestowed upon his flesh. "I love you, Fëandro," the spirit said.

"How will I go on without you?" Fëanor asked. "I am trapped here, I will never leave, I cannot even escape this loneliness and pain through death."

The spirit covered his form and whispered, "It will not always be thus, Fëandro. You will see, one day we will be together, truly, it has been written."

He shivered and slid beneath the covers. "Stay with me," he whispered.

"I will as long as I am able, my love," the spirit answered.

He drifted into reverie, comforted by the warm embrace of his lover.

* * * *

Halls of Waiting, Aman, End of the First Age

Countless days passed, each one filled with love and tenderness for Fëanor and his lover spirit. One morning, he awoke with a start and sat up in the bed, his hand clutching his chest. The first of his sons had fallen. "Caranthir…" he whispered.

A vision came to him of a great battle, elf against elf. "The Silmaril…" he whispered as tears fell from his eyes. Nothing he did could take what he saw from his mind. First was Caranthir, his neck pierced with an arrow from one of the archers of Doriath. Second came Curufin, an elven blade piercing his chest and armor. Fëanor clamped his hands tight over his eyes, shaking his head and whispering "No…" repeatedly. Next to fall was Celegorm, felled by Thingol's heir at the very steps of the Sinda's throne. "My sons," he whispered painfully, tears flowing freely from his eyes.

He saw the flight of the Sindar from Menegroth, the desperate screams and terrified faces as they fled before the wrath of his four remaining sons. Next to fall were Amrod and Amras, his twin sons, slain as they pursued Eärendil's people to the mouths of Sirion. Only two remained, Maedhros and Maglor, and they withdrew before killing every last one of the refugees.

He lay upon his side in the wide bed; his body shaking as voiceless sobs wracked his frame. His sons were dead, and it was his fault, as surely as if he had killed them himself. His arms were wrapped around his frame, tears wetting the pillow beneath his head, as he grieved for his fallen sons.

* * * *

"It is time," Mandos deep voice addressed the spirit. "It is time to reveal your form to you. The day approaches that you will leave these halls to dwell in the east."

The spirit drifted behind the solid form of the Vala, following him as his dark robes caressed the smooth stone floor upon which he walked. The Vala paused before a new tapestry; one that depicted the scenes of the life that would become the spirit's. "When the time comes for you to leave these halls, you will touch the image of your body and you will join with it as it is born into the world. You may now assume its form, if you wish to do so. Permission is granted."

With those words, the Vala glided down the hall and around the corner, out of the spirit's view. The spirit perused the tapestry that hung before it and took upon the shape that it would have for the rest of its days upon Arda. It crossed the corridor and looked at itself in the mirror.

Male, tall, powerful, beautiful. Those were the first things that entered the spirit's mind as he looked upon himself in the mirror. His head was crowned in golden silk, his eyes bright sapphire blue, his lean yet strong form covered in alabaster skin. A smile curved his lips as he gazed upon his form. "Sinda," he whispered, his voice lowering an octave. He turned and admired his naked form in the mirror and a smile crossed his lips as he imagined Fëanor's reaction to it. He returned to the chamber in which he had lived since his creation and found robes of deep emerald green laying upon a bed. His chamber had not previously contained anything; it had been an empty room, for he had no needs in his prior state. Now it was furnished with all an elf could want. He pulled on the robes of emerald green and ran his fingers through his unbound hair. His eyes darkened a shade as his form was flooded with grief. He placed his hand upon his heart as a tear fell from his eye. He wiped curiously at the damp trail upon his cheek and whispered, "Fëandro… I am coming, my love."

He whirled out of his chamber moving with graceful speed through the halls, ascending the stair to his love's chamber.

* * * *

Fëanor lay upon his side, his glazed eyes staring at the blank stone wall. He could cry no more, his form laden with a heavy numbness. His sons were there now, sequestered in their own rooms in Mandos Halls. Curufin and Celegorm were housed on the lower level, as punishment for their wicked deeds in life. Caranthir and the twins were housed near him, on the level just below. Their stay would not be as lengthy or painful, as the sins they committed were brought upon them by the Oath only. In time, they would be released into Aman, to live out their lives in peace.

He heard the door to his chamber open and close, and he slowly sat up to see who had entered.

He gasped when he took in the vision at the foot of his bed. He had never seen the elf before, but nonetheless, he knew who he was instantly. "Poicaquen," he whispered.

"Aye, melethen," the Sinda answered. He rounded the bed, coming to stand beside his lover. He sat upon the edge of the bed and caressed Fëanor's cheek. "It has come to pass, has it not? The fate of your sons?"

Fëanor nodded and whispered, "Yes, it has."

The Sinda gathered his lover in his arms and held him tight. "Ai, melethen, I grieve with you. Your pain is my pain."

Fëanor clung to his lover. At last, he was able to touch him, to hold him, to see him. It belatedly occurred to him that he now had a male lover, something he never had before. He found he did not care, he was so grateful to have him at all, to be able to touch him, to see him. He buried his face in his lover's golden hair, his hands caressing his broad back. He turned his head and pressed his lips against his lover's neck and reveled in the soft sigh that issued from him. His voice, once so hard to describe, was now deep and melodious; his body was finely built and strong. His hair and skin were softer than he could have ever imagined, and his nostrils were filled with his lover's unique scent.

He pulled back and gazed into the Sinda's bright blue eyes. "Nat vanima," he whispered.

The Sinda smiled and caressed Fëanor's face, running his thumb over the Noldo's full lips. "As are you, ervainen vorn."

"What is your name, melinya?" he whispered.

"Thranduil," the Sinda answered.

Fëanor smiled and reached for his lover with his mouth. "Make love to me, Thranduil," he said softly.

Thranduil plunged his new hands into Fëanor's dark hair, pulling his lover's mouth to his own. It was so different, the sensations he felt now with this new body. A persistent throb began to emanate in his loins and he moaned quietly as Fëanor consumed his mouth. He felt himself being pulled onto the bed, Fëanor's strong arms and legs wrapping around him. Again, he felt that strange sensation of wetness upon his cheek as tears fell from his eyes. The sudden pain in his heart shocked him as he thought about leaving this place, leaving this beautiful elf that had so captured his heart.

Fëanor rolled over him and gazed down into his face and whispered, "Do not weep, melinya. Our time together may be brief, but my love for you will last until the end of time. Always will I live in your heart, if not your memory."

Thranduil nodded and smiled weakly. "As my love will live with you. I will try not to forget you, Fëandro, but I do not know what will happen when I am to leave here."

"Ssshh… poicaquen," Fëanor whispered. "We will find one another again, you said so yourself."

"Love me, Fëandro," Thranduil whispered. "Replace this pain that I feel with love."

"Yé, melinya," Fëanor answered, and he covered Thranduil's lips with his own.

Thranduil's deep moans and breathless sighs assaulted his senses as he made his way lovingly down the Sinda's body. He wanted to touch and taste every inch of the beautiful form laid out beneath him, he wanted to memorize the way he felt and smelled, and the way he tasted. He softly kissed the smooth, alabaster flesh, his tongue lathing its silken surface as he traced the line of his lover's collarbone. He deftly untied the belt holding Thranduil's robe closed and slid it away from his body, exposing him to his hungry eyes. Never before had he looked upon a male this way, had he wanted another male as he wanted Thranduil. He worked his way down his lover's chest, exploring the soft spot beneath his arm, smiling at the delightful chuckle that issued from his lover's lips.

"Ticklish?" he purred as his hands slid over his lover's abdomen.

"Yé," came Thranduil's breathless reply.

"Mmmm… you taste so good, melinya," he whispered as he worked his way lower, pressing his mouth to his lover's abdomen. He chased it as it flinched away, feeling the soft, damp tip of his lover's arousal graze his chin. He paused, looking up into eyes that had turned midnight blue, and he whispered, "I have never done this before, poicaquen. I have never pleasured another male."

Thranduil smiled, then answered, "Just as I have never been pleasured. Anything you do will please me, melethen. Just your touch pleases me."

Fëanor smiled and nodded. He took his lover's length in his hand and slid his lips along its silken length, savoring the unique smell and feel of it. He traced the vein along the underside of his desire and smiled as he heard the needful groan of his lover. He opened his mouth and engulfed Thranduil's arousal, slowly experimenting with depth as he went. He pinned his lover's hips to the bed as he took him deeper, swirling his tongue along his length. He felt Thranduil's arousal begin to twitch and his body tightening beneath him, and he began to swallow. Thranduil's deep groan filled his ears as his warm seed spilled down his throat. He tried not to choke, his eyes watering as he endeavored to take it all in. He let his lover's softening length slip from his swollen lips and he licked up the traces opalescent fluid that had escaped his mouth.

He worked his way back up Thranduil with his mouth and hands, his own pulsating arousal sliding against the Sinda's body. He claimed Thranduil's mouth with his own, plundering its depths with his tongue.

He pulled back and gazed into his lover's face, smiling at the blissful expression. He felt Thranduil's hands slide into his hair and saw him smile. "Melanyel, Thranduil," he whispered.

Thranduil opened his eyes and smiled, caressing Fëanor's face. "Melon le, Fëandro."

Thranduil rolled over his lover and consumed his neck and chest with his mouth. Fëanor arched beneath him, tangling his hands in Thranduil's golden mane. He felt the Sinda begin to work his way down his body and he stopped him, guiding his mouth back to his own. "Nay, melinya, let me see your face. I want your lips upon mine when I find my release."

Thranduil smiled and nodded, his hand drifting down Fëanor's abdomen and taking his rigid length. He stroked and squeezed the soft column of flesh while consuming Fëanor's mouth. He swallowed his lover's cries of ecstasy as he pressed their bodies together, feeling the warm essence of his lover spill between them.

They curled against one another; enjoying each other's warmth and loving embrace as they drifted into reverie.

* * * *

Halls of Waiting, Aman, End of the First Age

"The time has come," Mandos deep voice echoed in his ears. "You have a moment to say goodbye to Fëandro, but your vessel awaits. If it is born into the world without you, it will perish."

Thranduil turned his wide sapphire eyes up to gaze into the bottomless dark pools of Mandos' eyes. "I understand," he answered, his voice laden with grief.

"Once you leave here, you will start anew, memories of this place will fade and you will be sundered from the life you have here."

Thranduil nodded. As the Vala left him, he turned and raced toward Fëanor's chamber, to say his good-byes to his first love.

* * * *

Fëanor had felt their time growing short, and he paced his chamber like a caged cat. He wrung his hands and shook his head. He was desperate to hold on to him, though he knew he could not.

Thranduil burst through the door, one look at his lover's face confirmed his worst fears. The day had come. "No, not yet," Fëanor whispered desperately. "Not so soon…"

Thranduil crossed the room to him, tears tracing down his cheeks. "I am sorry, melethen," he whispered as he gathered Fëanor into his arms. "By Elbereth, I will not forget you, Fëandro. I swear to you in the Halls of Mandos that you and I will find one another again. I will always love you, my heart will always be in your keeping."

Fëanor clung to him with all his might, sobs wracking his body as he began to feel his love slip through his arms. "Melanyel, Thranduil. I will find you again, though I know not how."

He felt one last, fleeting kiss upon his lips before his lover's form vanished into ether. He fell upon his knees in his chamber, howling in pain, cursing Mandos and his own short sightedness. This was his punishment for the cruelty he had so easily dealt out in his madness. He was destined to dwell in this place, forever in pain.

Elvish translations:

Poicaquen = Pure one (Quenya)
Melda = friend (Quenya)
Ve elyë méra, = as you wish (Quenya)
Melethen = my love (Sindarin)
Nat vanima = you are beautiful (Quenya)
Ervainen vorn = my dark, beautiful one (Sindarin)
Melinya = my love (Quenya)
Yé = Yes (Quenya)
Melanyel = I love you (Quenya)
Melon le = I love you (Sindarin)

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