Warnings: Slash, graphic sex, incest, AU. Not for the underage, or those who have problems with the distinction between fantasy and reality.
Context: Based on chapter 6 of 'A Very Fire.' Also refers to Elven sexual practices described in chapter 3 of that story. Please read that story before this piece, or this won't make any sense.
I imagine this as a dream Fingolfin has shortly before his duel with Morgoth, remembering the moment everything began to unravel and wondering if it could have gone differently.
Did Fingolfin remember this dream when he awoke? What did he understand it to mean? I don't know, although I imagine he will tell me one day. But it does seem to me that there are certain aspects of himself that he will need to struggle with for much of his life.
I generally loathe explaining my fics, but it does seem important to mention that sex can be a metaphor for many things. Also, 'A Very Fire' still has many chapters to go, and this piece should not by any means be taken as the last word on what the Feanor/Fingolfin relationship is 'really' about.
A note on the title: Song of Songs 8:6 describes passion with a word that can be translated as either 'a very fire of God' or 'a burning flame.'
A Burning Flame
To take what I desire I must lose what I am. Yes, I give myself to the flame, to be not myself but what I seek, consuming and consumed. And that is what I will be.
Feanor's kisses were soft at first, though demanding. A flicking tongue, prying lips. A moment passed, a breath of a moment, in which Fingolfin could have turned away. Then it was fled, as though it had never been.
Taking the flame
Fingolfin reached up and wound his seeking fingers through his brother's long, unbound hair, dark, so dark it should have stars, radiant like star-blessed night in the light of the Silmarils. A breath. A touch. Lips closer, then pressing hard. Feanor almost pulled away as Fingolfin returned the kiss, in the shock of the extremity of the passion, far more than even Feanor had given. Almost, but did not. Could not. Lips seeking, claiming, demanding. A sigh, as bodies pressed together. Then, a sudden motion as Fingolfin stepped half a step backwards, madness in his eyes, his breath, his blood. The top buttons of Feanor's shirt had already come undone, revealing the beginnings of the muscles of his chest. Inch by inch Fingolfin slowly opened the taunting garment, stopping with every motion to kiss each new delight of exposed flesh.
A breath, harsh and ragged, from two mouths as one. Feanor did not speak. Only his eyes spoke, crying yes to every touch, bearing a consent so true that only through the dark fire-filled Silmaril-lit eyes could it be spoken. Fingolfin undressed his brother with the utmost tenderness, quickly stripped off his own clothes, and then lay on his back, looking up at the naked beauty of his lover's perfect body. Feanor looked down with a broken smile, a smile that would perhaps once have seemed a smirk, but now seemed only lips that needed to be kissed. Arms outstretched, Fingolfin offered himself, his smile whole.
Almost falling, Feanor was on him, thigh on thigh, breast on breast, lips on lips, breath mixed with breath, heart pounding on heart. Never had Fingolfin imagined he could be so completely desired. Limbs moved together, fire-dancing, as if no closeness could suffice. He opened himself to be taken, wanting complete intimacy, the fullest surrender to this mage-spirit, so long distant, burning now against the length of his body. Then, Feanor moved back, yet not breaking the full contact of naked flesh, and rolled himself over, pulling Fingolfin so that he lay between his legs. He moved against him, raising his hips in a way that left no doubt as to his demand.
Fingolfin placed one hand on Feanor's chest, feeling the rapid breath, the sudden pounding of an eager heart. "Beloved," he spoke the one word.
"Yes," Feanor answered, as Fingolfin slowly eased himself inside him.
As their bodies joined together, so too did their spirits. Not the gentle caress of souls, no, this was a falling into darkness, an endless cavern, and yet warm and welcoming as Feanor's eyes. And in the darkness flared a sharp burning light, light brighter than Silmarils, fire of blood and body and soul.
In the merging of flesh and spirit Fingolfin felt Feanor change beneath him, years peeled away one by one until he beheld the eyes of a lost boy, a child with no mother, a young Elf isolate in his perfection. It was this boy he embraced with gentle strokes of his body, this boy he loved with all the passionate caresses of his newly opened soul. In the moment before climax they paused, eyes on eyes, two children taking comfort in the dark. Then Fingolfin felt his own soul as a bright clear white flame, and Feanor burning red-hot in the darkness, and the two flames were one, completing each other in a sudden excess of joy.
They collapsed together, breathless, Fingolfin falling sweat-drenched to his brother's chest. After a time he looked up again into those eyes, swift-changing light and dark, so beloved. No trace of mockery remained, onlycould it be innocenceand the shadow of peace in the pure cleansing light of the Silmarils that bathed Feanor alongside Fingolfin's touch.
When he regained his strength Fingolfin stood again to look on the Silmarils. This time when he reached out his hand to touch them Feanor did not warn him away, but stood behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him close, brushing his lips against the back of his shoulder.
Fingolfin's hand turned transparent as he touched the jewels. His flesh did not block the light, but rather the light shone through it, as if the hand and the rays were one.
"What do you think I should do with them?" Feanor whispered, his lips close to his brother's ear.
Fingolfin looked inside himself and saw that he knew the answer. In their union they had shared alongside the merging of the body the union of souls, so deep that nothing had been held back. Yet another breach of custom, he thought contentedly, pulling his brother's hand across his body to his lips.
"Let them be given to the elements," he said, 'to the heavens and the heart of the earth, and to the sea, that their light may burn there always. For such fire is not to be possessed."
"No," breathed Feanor, kissing his brother's neck. "It is not to be possessed. It is to be shared."
Fingolfin turned in his embrace away from the jewels and returned the kiss with all the growing fire in his soul.
Much later, they dressed in silence and walked hand in hand, as they always did, to the entrance hall. "Will I see you again?" Fingolfin asked as they separated.
"Do you need to?"
Fingolfin touched the green stone at his chest and realized, to his surprise, that as intense as the pleasure was that he had taken in his brother's embrace he did not need to feel it again. He carried Feanor's burning fire with him always, hard against his chest. For this it was formed, he thought, to forge into one what ought not to ever have been two.
Then he laughed. This is how he would have thought what seemed an age ago, before he had seem the light of the Silmarils on his brother's naked body. "This is what I need," he growled, grasping Feanor by the waist and kissing him yet again, and again, hard, deep, burning, demanding, unyielding.
"What will the Elves of Valinor do with two such as us?" Feanor murmured into the kisses.
"Live," Fingolfin answered. As do I, he added in his soul, knowing his thoughts to be heard.
When he finally departed, Fingolfin realized that he had not said farewell to the Silmarils, and that he would almost certainly never see them again. A fleeting thought, soon banished from his mind. They were only objects after all, only a vague light, almost dim in the shadow of the true burning flame.