The Last Fall Of The King

The Last Fall Of The King

Posted: December 2004
Title: The Last Fall of the King
Author: Orchyd Constyne
Type: FCS
Characters: Fëanor/Námo
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Author's Notes: Due to personal circumstances, I am unable to send my friends Christmas gifts, but Denise suggested I write something for those friends. I asked those friends what pairing they wanted, and a plot point, and have set out writing small pieces for them. This one is for Majinbakahentai, who asked for Fëanor/Námo in the vein of 'Fair Shall the End Be'. Merry Christmas, meldis!

Summary: 200 years after 'Fair Shall the End Be', Fëanor finds himself forced to expressing something he never thought he would express to the Lord of Mandos.

*****

Feanáro entered the lavishly appointed room, clothed in only the silk scarlet trousers he tended to sleep in. The bed had been turned down and a fire lit in the hearth, spreading warmth through the usually chill chamber. For two hundred years he had walked the corridors, slept in this bed, and bowed to the master of these halls, all for the ability to do each of those things. In return for his obedience, his submission, he was given corporeal form, a physical body with which to touch, taste, feel and enjoy all around him. He could never leave the halls; his punishment for rash, illogical behavior that led to many deaths -- but Feanáro had found a sense of peace among the dead and the silent.

The great Noldorin king crawled onto the mattress and under the thick quilts that were piled high on his bed. Sleep did not come, and loneliness soon crept into his heart. The master of these halls did not visit with him as frequently as he once did, and Feanáro found himself hurt and angry at this lack of attention. He had, after all, given himself body and soul to the dark demigod -- he had submitted and accepted him into his bed. What angered Feanáro the most, though, was the twinge of sorrow and fear he felt at the absence of his keeper. What had happened in the course of two hundred years to change him from a headstrong noble into this simpering fool who waited each night for the footsteps of a lover he had never wanted?

What *had* happened? Feanáro knew what had happened, but he continued to deny to himself and his lover what he knew to be the truth. Instead, he sat in the silence of his chamber, ears straining for those light, slow footfalls, hoping to be graced with that great being's presence. He wanted those eyes of impossible blue to look down upon him in tenderness. He wanted to hear that voice like crashing waves to whisper words of praise to him. He wanted to feel the thickness of his master's girth inside of him, claiming him, reminding him of a bargain struck and paid for.

He wanted Námo to come to him.

The footsteps echoed in the quietness of the night. Feanáro's heart sped in his chest and he felt blood rush to his cheeks and his groin. Just the sound of his footsteps drove the Noldo into a frenzy of arousal, and he clasped the quilts in a painful grip, waiting for the door to open. The steps slowed, stopped, the latch clicked, and the door slid open, revealing the tall, pale form of his lover, whose eyes glowed with an unearthly light.

"Feanáro," Námo called, closing the door behind him.

"Námo," Feanáro replied, sitting up in the bed, his erect sex rubbing against the silk of his trousers in heated anticipation.

The Ainu shed his clothing, each piece of cloth falling to the floor the closer he came to the bed. "You called me."

Feanáro shook his head. "I would never presume to demand your presence, my Lord," he breathed, the beauty of Námo's body stealing his voice from him. The Vala was already stiff, the tip of his member glistening with his excitement.

"You called me," Námo repeated, throwing back the bedclothes and seating himself between Feanáro's parted thighs. "You had words you wished to speak to me. I heard them whispered among those who wander my halls, but I wish to know if what they say is true." Námo lifted Feanáro's legs ever so slightly, baring the puckered entrance to him. He pressed his wet shaft to the opening, pressing gently against, but not breeching, the tight ring of muscle.

The Noldo whimpered, squirming in Námo's grip. The Ainu adored these games, forcing confessions from the proud king before ravaging his body and showing him pleasures he had never imagined in life. "I have no words to offer you this night, my Lord," he lied, refusing to open his eyes.

"You do."

"No," Feanáro continued to deny.

Námo pushed into his lover's trembling body, the fat head of his sex spreading his entrance teasingly. "You do. I wish to know if the faer of these halls speak the truth to me."

The words stuck in Feanáro's throat. Could he really say them? Were they even true? His heart fluttered and his passage clenched in preparation of being taken. Námo had such patience that Feanáro was often driven to the brink of insanity awaiting his master's will. But, this time, it was his own pride that forced his lover to stay his hand. He opened his mouth, but the words did not come.

"Say them, First Prince of the Noldor," Námo demanded, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Feanáro's thigh.

Feanáro opened his eyes, looking up at the beautiful creature that had owned his body for so many years. Yes, the words were true -- but could he speak them? The shaft inside him inched just a bit more, and he ached to feel that fullness that Námo's desire could offer him. Námo leaned down, his lips hovering over Feanáro's, and there he stood in stillness, those glowing sapphire eyes never wavering as they gazed into the stormy silver below.

"I ... love you," Feanáro said softly before his mouth was covered by Námo's hungry lips, the Vala's tongue slipping into his mouth as his shaft pierced him completely. He arched under Námo's body, a moan swallowed by the Ainu. As they made love, a true merging of body and spirit, Feanáro finally realized that Námo loved him, too. He had loved him as a boy, a man, a father, and a traitor. Through all the trials and sadness, Námo had carried his love for the darkling Elf, an ever-burning torch.

Had always loved him.

*****

THE END

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