A Second Try

A Second Try

Posted: October 20, 2006
Title: A Second Try
Author: Talullah
Type: FCHet, FCS
Characters: Oromë/Tulkas, Nessa/Tulkas, Oromë/Vána.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. They belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and God knows who else. No disrespect intended. No profit made.
Beta: Many thanks to Alex Cat for the beta job.
Author's Notes: Non-con? *snort*

Summary: Oromë has to make a decision.

*****

Almaren, Valian Years 2101

Was this fire in Eru’s song? I cannot remember. I remember hills and valleys, light and dark, raging waters, docile rivers, but nothing like this. Did we invent it ourselves, this feeling of thunder and lightning that both burns and awes me? Do others feel the same? Does Manwë’s heart bleed when Varda speaks? Does cold Námo feel more than plain affection for Vairë? I cannot tell. All I know is the sweet pain of your presence.

~~~~~~

A sudden movement startled Oromë from his musings. He lay in the grass under the light of Ormal with Tulkas by his side, both lost in reverie. Then Tulkas had stretched languorously after a prolonged immobility and had turned to lie on his side, facing Oromë.

"I like the feeling of flesh." he said in a sleep-clouded voice.

Oromë emitted a non-committal sound.

"I like it that it moves things and sweats and is sore and tired," Tulkas went on. "I love stretching and the feel of water on my skin."

He let a pale hand run up and down Oromë's chest, lazy fingers parting the few dark hairs that lay between dark nipples. "And I like it above all when we use the flesh for pleasure, as we have. I would do it all day, if I could."

He lowered his head and took a nipple in his mouth. Oromë's hand rested on Tulkas's golden hair, drawing gentle circles. "Flesh tires," he replied.

"Deliciously so," Tulkas agreed. "I plan to test its full endurance," he added before returning his lips to Oromë's chest and his wicked hand to his groin.

Oromë also loved the flesh, loved it so very much. It brought great pleasure, always tinged with a shade of almost-pain, but the pleasure was fleeting. It was an earthy and solid power, shattering in its intensity but when it was gone, Oromë longed for the days before flesh, when he and Tulkas joined in spirit. Flesh was nothing to that; his soul burned at the sheer memory of melding with the fire of Tulkas. Nothing in Eru's song could compare to that feeling.

Tulkas, however, had become so fascinated with the flesh once they had discovered its pleasures, that their love was always carnal now.

He covered Tulkas hand with his. "Divest yourself, my love, show your essence to me."

Tulkas looked up surprised. "You do not like my touching your flesh?"

"I do indeed, but-"

"But what then, love? There will also be time for the absence of flesh, as there has been in the past."

Tulkas stared at Oromë, waiting for an answer, but his hands continued exploring awakening flesh. Oromë dropped his head back and desisted for the moment. He let himself be taken by the familiar feelings of Tulkas' skin on his, the hardness of muscle against muscle, the warm wet mouth eagerly exploring every crevice and every orifice. His groin pulsated in Tulkas' mouth and he wanted more movement, more friction to help him race to the point where time stood still before it shattered.

Tulkas complied, as always, moving frantically to accompany the movement of his hips, pushing hard flesh into his mouth. Finally Oromë let out a throaty sob, and lay panting, this fists loosening their grip on Tulkas' hair as his body still shuddered. He felt Tulkas moving, preparing for his due retribution but loving the flesh exhausted him. He reached out his hand with little enthusiasm. This was the part he liked less: that they never felt the pleasure together. Tulkas pushed his limp hand away, impatiently.

"Never mind, I'll do it myself," he said dryly. Oromë made no effort to protest.

He lay listening to the distant rustling of the sea, trying to hear it above Tulkas panting and moaning. This was not how it was supposed to be. As Tulkas raced for completion, Oromë's heart raced to anger. Tulkas was hiding something. That had to be the only reason for him to prefer this tasteless animal union above the true union of the spirit. He, Oromë, was all but a fool. He would find out, Eru willing, and he would let Tulkas feel his wrath and how mighty that would be.

Tulkas shouted his release. To Oromë's ears it sounded like thunder heralding a storm.

~~~~~~

Aman, Valian Years 3450

Illuin beaconed Oromë in the distance. It was impressive, as was Ormal and anything that Aulë would set his heart into. This time, however, the vision did not gladden his heart. He arrived at Almaren, summoned by Manwë, in blatant disregard for his self-imposed exile and the underlying motives. He was a guest for a wedding. He was the brother of the bride. He was the groom's scorned lover.

He shifted on Nahar's back. Eru gave him strength. Nessa should never know that her happiness was built on his misery, and that was why he carried in his bag the finest present he found in Middle-earth. His sister deserved no less. Tulkas, however...

Nahar hastened his pace, feeling his master's agitation. Ironically, Oromë had come to love the flesh more than he thought possible. Flesh concealed the flame of his spirit; neither friend nor foe could devise the indelible stain of woe that marred him.

He hated Tulkas with all his strength. Faithless, deceiving, disappointingly inconstant. Weak. Oromë would like to think that Tulkas had succumbed to Manwë's censure of their affair. He held on to that thought, turning it in his head until it was soft and beaten. He would have preferred to believe that instead of an uglier truth: that he and Tulkas had not loved in the same measure.

When he believed other reasons, he blamed himself and that tasted as bitter as the notion of treason. He saw two flaws in his demeanour, maybe three. He had not supported Tulkas when he had wanted to wage war on Morgoth. Eru himself had planted in his heart the love for the Eldar – he could not risk their destruction even before their awakening. He knew Tulkas had never seen things from his perspective and that he had never forgiven him. That was when the quarrels had started. That was when he had committed his second mistake.

He had sulked and strayed. He had not fought for Tulkas, had not stayed by his side. His anger had burned too brightly and he had fled to avoid spilling it irrevocably. He had left his lover alone in the woods, free to roam and find another to fill his eyes and his desires. His love burned as fiercely as his anger, so he returned now and anon. Still the distance between him and Tulkas grew, first in spirit, then in body.

The clues to Tulkas' new interest had come to light insidiously at first, but then there had been no denying. Harsh words had been spoken. Tulkas never apologized: laying blame was easier. Of all things, that was the one Oromë found harder to forgive. And now Manwë called him for this last humiliation.

He headed for Aulë's home. His old friend would give him a kind word and a shelter for the night. He was not ready to meet Nessa or Tulkas yet.

“Oromë,” a sweet voice called as he reached the door. Vána. He had forgotten about Yavanna's sister. Holding Nahar by the reins, he bowed curtly. Despite that they were all made from the same moulds, Vána always seemed to him too frail, too young and too naïve.

“I am glad to see you join us. Aulë will be pleased,” she welcomed him.

“Thank you.”

“Come, let us find a bed for Nahar.”

He followed her. She had grown in beauty since they had last met, but that did not touch his heart. There lay only anger and beneath that, infinite sadness.

Inside, Aulë was warm and boisterous as always. Yavanna extended her warmth. They had much to talk about their common love, Middle-earth. Yavanna craved news, Aulë dreamt projects in his mind like an Eldar child would build sand castles and Vána listened, her eyes keen on him. There seemed to be a silent agreement that all topics but the upcoming wedding were fair game. In his heart, Oromë thanked Aulë's tact and generosity, but he also wondered if truly all knew of his cursed affair, all but Nessa.

They parted for a period. Aulë had permanent rooms for his friend, and Oromë took refuge in them before the conversation inevitably turned to the matter they all tried to avoid. He lost track of time, but sometime after, Vána called him.

“It is time,” she said from the door. He hated the pity in her voice.

He garbed himself in his best colours and left to room. There was no point in giving too much away. Aulë and his family and entourage awaited him. He held Vána's hand, taking comfort in the company.

The main square was full. Nessa's green and white entwined with Tulkas' gold and black were everywhere to be seen. Oromë followed Aulë to the altar where the symbols of the union would be consecrated. Manwë and Varda already stood there, awaiting the bride and groom.

“I am glad to see you came after all,” he said. Not even then did Oromë miss the reproach in his tone.

He stood taller. “I obey my king, and I honour my sister.”

Manwë's reply was lost in the murmur that rose from the square. A corridor formed, and from it came Nessa, radiant in tender green, her hand nested in Tulkas', who had overdone the gold theme.

As they approached, Nessa beamed to Oromë. He focussed solely on her, smiling back. His sister would have the perfect wedding. Behind him, Vána moved closer and held his hand.

“You lose nothing,” he heard in his mind.

He was so startled by the unbidden thought that he turned his head to her. She smiled, reassuringly. He thought he saw more than pity and affection, but he did not want it. Who was she to offer him such pale gifts and dismiss the brightest light he had known, save for Eru's. He clenched his jaw and turned to face Nessa, yanking his hand from Vána's.

Manwë frowned, but he ignored him. His life was his own. He stood watching the ceremony unfolding, consecrating what was an established fact. Then the newlyweds kissed and started greeting those closer. Oromë tensed, but when Nessa fell to his arms, he felt her joy, and for a second that was larger than his rancour. Still, he had nothing to give Tulkas except for a polite nod. Nessa was too occupied with Aulë and Yavanna to notice.

The feast went by slowly. Many congratulated Oromë, making the food and drink taste of ashes. As soon as it was polite and inconspicuous, he left the table and wandered away, to the seaside.

“You shouldn't be angry at me. I only wish you well.”

Vána again. Oromë turned on his heels to face her.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, advancing menacingly to her. “Are you offering yourself as a consolation gift, or was it at Manwë's commandment? What do you gain of this?”

Vána held her ground, earning his surprise and admiration.

“I am my own. Manwë rules not my desires or my heart.” Her calm demeanour denied the youth and frailty in her features. Oromë almost stepped back, when she took his face in her hands and whispered, “I will show you what I gain.”

She was again in his mind, unbidden. He first saw swirls of green, a feeling of spring and the scent of dawn he would always associate to her. He braced himself for maiden's idyllic dreams but what came instead knocked him to his knees.

“No!” He pulled back from her arms. “Never again.”

She pushed him to the sand, holding him captive as she bared herself. “Let me,” she begged wordlessly.

“No!”

“Let me!” she ordered and without waiting for an answer, she slipped inside his vest of flesh, touching his spirit.

He coiled, feeling sick. It was not the touch he craved. She insisted, tender and strong, soothing the scars, making him want to trust again. The breeze carried music and laughter, reminding him of his bitterness. He pushed her away. “You are not him.”

“I am not,” she replied proudly, rising in all her splendour, terrible and beautiful. “Know this, you will not have me for spite, nothing more. I saw your soul. I know you crave what I have to give.”

“I don't...” He found himself lying. He hated liars, to Morgoth with Tulkas. But he was still too proud to admit he needed or to ask for what he had just rejected so rudely.

Vána extended her hand. “This was in the Song. How could you not hear it?”

Oromë shook his head. He had never heard such a thing, but here in the beach, her words were strong and pure. He could almost imagine those bars of the Song, almost. If only she would touch him once more.

“Take my hand. Don't be stubborn.” Who would have thought little Vána had such strength? He reached out and touched her fingertips.

She knelt by his side, letting her skin gain his until he needed no cover from her. He could like being her possession, he would like it, as soon as it stopped hurting so badly. She demanded trust he was not ready to give and tenderness that he thought had died. But she gave him more than he had ever had, fresh and vibrant like an early spring, vanquishing the darkness in his heart. And he found himself wanting to give back, to warm her until she bloomed.

“That was incredibly brave,” he said much later. He was not ready for other words, words that could turn in to lies.

She simply smiled. “You were brave too.”

He held her closer in his spirit and in his body. He had never dreamed that they could blend so perfectly.

~~~~~~

Despite Oromë's efforts, Nessa's wedding was ruined. Morgoth came while all rested from the feast, Tulkas slept content in his bride's arms and he, himself found improbably healing on a desert beach.

Many cried tears of blood, none more than his friend Aulë who had put so much of himself in the Lamps. Tulkas blamed himself, for letting his guard down; Varda lamented the loss of light; Manwë prayed to Eru.

In the sorrow of a marred dawn, he looked into Vána's eyes, feeling love and strength pouring into him. He advanced through the crowd, feeling her eyes set on his back, and came to Tulkas who sat desolated by Nessa's side. He placed his hand on his shoulder and forgave what he could.

“Come, brother. We have work to do.”

*****

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Talullah