Work Text
First Age 67
By decree of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath and Lord of Beleriand, the tongue of the kinslayers is hereby outlawed. It shall be spoken neither in private nor in public by any who dwell within the confines of this land, extending to the furthest borders of all Beleriand.
Fëanor turned the decree over in his hands after parsing the Sindarin words, “pitiful,” he muttered to himself, “careless,” his eyes widened upon discerning their meaning, “unacceptable,” he flung the scroll into the fire where the flames devoured it with a satisfyingly loud crackle.“Father?” Maedhros asked wondering what had caused such consternation.“Elwë thinks he is the king of us, it cannot be born. It will not. If he cannot speak properly then we still shall!” In his great rage, Fëanor himself came unbidden to the very marches of Doriath. He was waylaid there in part by the Girdle of Melian. However, upon recognizing his kingly mantle, several guards of Doriath approached to parley with him. At Fëanor’s bidding, word was sent to Thingol, and Fëanor was given leave to plead his case in person before the king. Fëanor could not help but admire the construction of Menegroth and its great, vaulted ceilings. Some of the stonework, he thought, might have been more skillfully carved, but it was a masterpiece of architecture nonetheless. He was roused from his contemplation as Thingol entered the great room and sat upon his high throne. Sit was not quite the right word for it though, Fëanor thought, for Thingol seemed more to drape himself over the throne than strictly sit in it. He had a feline air about him, and Fëanor wondered at his apparent flexibility. Fëanor also noted that Melian was not with him. Evidently, she had no desire to speak with a known kinslayer such as Fëanor. Neither did anyone else, for the hall was empty aside from the two of them.Thingol cast his cool gaze upon Fëanor and spoke in smooth and eloquent Sindarin, “Faenor, I have allowed you here—”“Fëanáro!” Fëanor injected.“—in memory of your father who was my friend,” Thingol continued, “despite my better judgement. I have heard that you have grievance with me. Speak, and I will consider your words.”Fëanor scoffed reflexively and answered back in Quenya, “Grievance I have with any who would speak such a bastardized tongue. The more so with one who would seek to force such a monstrosity on me and mine.”Thingol’s strong brows narrowed in displeasure, “I have allowed you here in goodwill and you have already broken the laws of this land. Speak no more of the tongue of the kinslayers. Do you not repent of your evil deeds?”Fëanor was defiant, and his tongue continued its familiar words “I will not bow to your law, king, for I also am king of myself and my own people. You are the king of Doriath and the Sindar, the grey elves. I am the king of the Noldor and I will not be commanded by you, especially in such a matter. Your tongue is the degenerate offspring of a scandalized mother.”Thingol rose and took a few steps toward Fëanor, “We are speaking in circles. I will not change my decree, and while you are in my kingdom if you do not follow my law I will have you cast out. Our people are proud, as is our tongue. Both have grown in this land and are suited to it. We are not degenerate or bastardized, we are evolved.”“See how you speak now? You drop the proper vowels at the end of words or sometimes omit them entirely for what reason I do not understand. You have softened your consonants and added voice where none was due, or worse yet made them aspirates. It is madness! And your diphthongs—”Fëanor remained firmly planted where he stood, yet Thingol approached closer until he was near enough that Fëanor felt the warmth of his breath as he spoke, "Never again in my ears shall be heard the tongue of those who slew my kin in Alqualondë! Nor in all my realm shall it be openly spoken."Fëanor found that he was craning his neck to look up into the king’s eyes. He was taller even than Maedhros, and his bright silver hair was nearly as long as he was tall. It was intricately braided with shining silver in a beguiling pattern of knots and loops. Thingol’s hair looked soft as silk, and much finer. Fëanor paused a moment in consideration, but his will was set in spite of his momentary enthrallment, “I will not yield.”“Why?” Thingol tilted his head and inclined it closer to Fëanor who could feel the barely concealed anger emanating from his form, “Are you so proud?”“I have the right. And my tongue is not suited to such ill-usage.”Thingol looked at him strangely and pulled back slightly, “And what usage is your tongue better suited to?” It had not escaped his notice that Fëanor was very fair, and Thingol felt a slight curl of heat rising in his chest at his own words.“Any skillful pursuit, as are my hands. I am a master at all my crafts, linguistic and… otherwise.”Thingol stayed his anger momentarily as a crooked smile worked at the corners of his lips, “I have heard as much. Not unlike all your people. Still your skill has proved ill for you, and it seems you have grown wicked in your arrogance.”“If I am wicked, it is not for arrogance. For skill I have surpassing even that which I have claimed.”“That may be so, but I would require proof. And a reason. What reason would you give for me not calling my guards to escort you away right now?”“What reason would you ask? You already have my answer. I will not speak your tongue, but are you suggesting that I demonstrate how I can put my tongue to other uses?” Fëanor’s tone had lowered and he spoke the last word just above a whisper. He too, had leaned forward now and his face was mere inches from Thingol’s. “You are a stubborn ass,” Thingol’s hand reached out and he grasped Fëanor’s robes near his chest, “what could you possibly show me?”At this ungentle touch, Fëanor felt himself shift first from anger then to lust as he thrust his own hands out and fisted them into Thingol’s long, flowing robes, “You might be surprised,” he breathed even as his lips first brushed then pressed firmly against Thingol’s.Neither relinquished his grip on the other and they kissed as much with fury as with desire. Each pulled the other closer until their bodies were pressed together in their grappling. Beyond the wet slide of tongue on tongue the faint sound of fabric ripping turned their attention, slightly, away from each other. Their mouths pulled apart momentarily but neither released the other.“Truly, you have a skilled tongue, if you would show me more…”“Yes,” Fëanor was already roughly pulling at the fastenings of Thingol’s cloak and he threw it unceremoniously to the ground. His nimble fingers made quick work of the laces of his tunic and he cast it aside with the rest of Thingol’s clothes before Thingol had done much more than undo a few of Fëanor’s buttons. Fëanor pushed Thingol’s hands away from his chest and undid his own clothes with familiar efficiency. When he was bare he looked up, at last considering their surroundings, “Is this a place for such pursuits?”“No one will disturb us.”“Then learn what my tongue can do.” Fëanor kneeled before Thingol but kept his back straight in such proud defiance that it was clear to Thingol this was no act of obeisance but rather one of desire. Fëanor reached his hands forward and firmly grasped Thingol by the hips and drew him near. It was almost a stretch for him as he took Thingol down his throat but he worked with expert proficiency. It was true, Thingol thought hazily in his completion, that Fëanor truly did possess a most skilled tongue. And it would not be arrogance to claim his superiority in this pursuit, or any other. But that did not change anything.
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As Thingol held the silmaril in his hand, he felt an almost a living warmth enter him and spread through his entire body. In his mind’s eye he could see the hand and heart of the jewel’s creator. It had been years since he had seen Fëanor, but he recalled him now as if it had been only yesterday, or even as if Fëanor were still with him. Thingol had admired both his skill and his beauty then, though he found him altogether too proud and arrogant. However, holding his creation in his hand, Thingol thought perhaps he understood Fëanor a little better now. It was hard not to admire the silmaril, and it was hard not to love it. The feeling must have been even deeper for the one who created it. Thingol clasped the silmaril to his chest. Much had been lost in the gaining of the jewel, and perhaps more to come. Yet now he would treasure it both for its own worth, and the memories it brought forth within him. The world was greater for the life and works of Fëanor, and lesser for his loss, despite everything. Fëanor would never be forgotten. And Thingol would hold his memory even closer than he held his silmaril.