LOVERS AND BROTHERS

LOVERS AND BROTHERS


They stood upon the hill-top at Himring arm-in-arm, gazing down at the green lands spread out before them. People farmed on the rolling pastures looking as if they were shaken out like a quilt upon the bed of the lands to the west of the Celon.

Life for the Noldor had begun anew in the hither lands that had seemed so fearsome when they were back in Tirion, while the Trees were still alive and hope yet existed in the breasts of the young brothers. Back then they had both assumed they would be married with children on the way, just like their parents had been at the same age.

Now, their younger brothers and their cousins were gone to other places, to rule their own realms, scattered over Middle-earth like bright leaves upon the autumn winds, and Maitimo and Macalaurë were alone in each other’s company. They had decided long ago at Eithel Sirion that this was the way they wanted it to be.

Maitimo put his hand on the back of Macalaurë’s neck and squeezed it at the nape, his touch strong and reassuring. “Come,” he said. “I think he will not be arriving today. Let us go in and finish preparing our supper.” Twilight had come, sending streaks of red, orange and yellow across the sun in the western sky. He led his brother into the kitchen.

Maitimo and Macalaurë frequently made their own meals, preferring to do this when they could. During the long peace when they could relax and let down their guard. They stood in the kitchen, Maitimo carefully chopping the potatoes that he had recently peeled into bite-sized pieces. They would be placed around the roast venison that Macalaurë was preparing to go into the cooker-oven. It was a slow process since he had only one hand, but he had become quite deft at it.

The brothers had given all the other residents of Himring, Maitimo’s hill-fort, the day off. None of them had to return until the next day, unless Findaráto arrived today from Nargothrond. His cousins were awaiting his arrival, but Maitimo doubted that he would arrive until the morrow.

“Sing to me, my love,” said Maitimo. He was usually too careful to use such endearments, but since they were alone he felt he could now speak of his love to his brother. Maitimo’s high cheekbones became flushed when he anticipated the night that would be sure to follow.

Macalaurë looked at his brother from beneath a shock of shimmering golden-brown hair that had fallen to one side of his face. A thin braid had become dislodged and he slid this back into place behind his ear with fingers grease-covered from preparing the joint of meat. He smiled at Maitimo and began to croon a love song in his deep, rich baritone while he worked, his glance darting to his brother every few seconds.

Maitimo seated himself upon a stool, one fine-shaped foot placed upon its rung, a wooden bowl balanced in his lap, from which he would remove an artichoke once in a while, chop it languidly while holding it still with his stump, and add it to his plate of potatoes. A grin began to grow across his face, his artfully sculpted lips curving into a smile for Macalaurë.

Maitimo sighed contentedly when Macalaurë finished his song, stood, and grasping the platter, he walked over to Macalaurë’s table, where he proceeded to place the potatoes, artichokes and some peeled tomatoes around the venison.

“This is rather big for the two of us, is it not, my love?” asked Maitimo, giving the joint a critical gaze.

“No matter,” said Macalaurë. “There will be plenty left over for Findaráto when he arrives tomorrow. It will be just as good cold, served with jellied vegetables.”

Maitimo sighed as Macalaurë opened the door of the cooker and placed the roast inside. “We have this one night to be together. Let us not waste it,” he said, and he placed his arms around Macalaurë’s waist, hugging him against his chest.

Macalaurë turned around in Maitimo’s arms and let their chests touch. They could feel the rapid beating of each others’ hearts.

“Would you like some wine?” Macalaurë breathed heavily against his taller brother’s neck, his lips barely touching the skin.

“Thank you, I would,” Maitimo replied, his long fingers straying to Macalaurë’s ear, where he played with the braid Macalaurë had tucked behind it. He bent his head in order to nibble the tender ear-tip with his lips, grazing it lightly with his teeth.

“Ai. Nelyo,” said Macalaurë softly, and his hand flew to clasp the back of his brother’s head, his fingers weaving through Maitimo’s long strands of unbound hair.

“Ah, my brother,” sighed Maitimo, a wistful look passing over his chiseled features. “How I sometimes wish that we were not brothers.”

“Do not say that, Nelyo,” admonished Macalaurë, extricating himself from Maitimo’s grip and crossing the floor to retrieve a bottle of wine from a rack on the opposite wall. “If we were not, we would not have known Atar nor the beautiful life that we shared in Tirion before the horrors occurred.”

“But it is not right what we do,” sighed Maitimo. “I would not worry if we were not brothers.”

“What does that matter?” asked Macalaurë, his tone firm and resolute. “It is only convention that brothers may not love. We know our love is pure and true and that we need each other terribly. Here. Drink this wine and let us enjoy this night without worry.”

Maitimo took the goblet of rich red wine in his one hand, put it to his lips and drained it. He held out his glass for more. Macalaurë grinned as he poured another. “Are you trying to get drunk deliberately?” he asked. “Good, because the more relaxed you are, the better I will enjoy you.”

Maitimo smiled. “Come, let us go into the parlor where we shall be more comfortable. We will be able to smell when the roast is ready from there.”

The brothers retreated to a small parlor down the hall from the kitchen. They sank down upon a large, comfortable sofa placed along one wall. Macalaurë picked up his harp and began to play a tune. He sang along, alternately taking sips of his wine. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, Macalaurë with his feet in Maitimo’s lap, his older brother massaging his ankles. After several glasses of wine had been consumed, Maitimo’s fingers began to wander from his brother’s feet up one of his calves, where they played with the hem of Macalaurë’s trousers, rolling them up playfully to his knees.

Macalaurë was wearing his shirt open at the neck, undone partway, showing off his lean, tanned chest and one dark nipple. Maitimo was entranced by the sight of the small brownish nub while listening to his brother sing.

“Put down your harp, Macalaurë,” he whispered suddenly. “I wish to kiss you.”

Macalaurë did so and Maitimo edged forward. He laid his head upon Macalaurë’s chest.

“What are you going to do, Nelyo? I thought you wanted to kiss me,” asked Macalaurë, setting his goblet down on the table beside him. His hips bucked involuntarily, pressing his groin against Maitimo’s stomach.

Maitimo responded by opening Macalaurë’s shirt and running his fingers over the smooth expanse of chest. He lowered his lips to the satiny skin and began to kiss it, becoming aroused as he did so, kissing a hard nipple with insistent lips, circling it with his tongue before taking it between his lips and drawing it and the surrounding skin into his mouth in ravenous bites.

“Ai!” cried Macalaurë. “You are hungry! You shall have me undone ere long if you are not careful!”

Maitimo stopped and raised himself upon his elbows. “I shall have you on the sofa, brother, and after dinner I shall ravish you in my bed.”

At these words, Macalaurë’s breath became rapid and he lowered his gaze to watch Maitimo undo his trousers deftly with one hand and begin to yank them down over his thighs. The older Elf tugged at the tight-fitting garment until it was off. He moaned softly at the sight of Macalaurë’s naked body. “Ah, it has been too long since I looked upon your beauty,” Maitimo whispered.

“You could do it more often if you wanted,” said Macalaurë, reaching to stroke his brother’s dark red locks, hanging in tendrils framing his exquisite face. “If your guilt did not stand in the way most of the time. Take off your clothes, Maitimo,” Macalaurë begged. “I ache with desire to possess you again.” His hand flew to the arousal jutting from between his thighs, and he pulled himself into a more upright position.

Maitimo stood and tore off his tunic, yanking it over his head and flinging it onto a chair. He untied his leggings and kicked them off after peeling them down over his shapely thighs.

Macalaurë dropped to his knees and clamped his hands around the back of Maitimo’s thighs. He stroked the silky skin of his brother’s belly while flicking his tongue over the tip of Maitimo’s stiffened member, licking the drops of moisture that collected at the little slit in its head. Macalaurë enveloped the length with his lips, moving them down as far as they would go, opening his throat to take in as much of it as he could, while cupping and gently caressing Maitimo’s sac.

Maitimo’s loud moans filled the room. “Oh Kánafinwë!” he cried when he felt the first stroke of his brother’s tongue. Macalaurë grasped him around the knees and toppled him onto the sofa, where he exchanged his mouth for his fingers and began to apply slow caresses to his brother’s stiff member.

“Shall I finish you now?” he gasped, wiping saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“In a moment,” groaned Maitimo, “Let me taste you before you make me come.”

Macalaurë shifted to let Maitimo reach his erection. His brother grasped Macalaurë’s member first with his hand and lowered his lips to the rigid flesh, twirling his tongue around its head and licking the sides of the shaft until Macalaurë’s groans became insistent.

“Oh Gods!” the minstrel cried. “Finish me!”

Maitimo began to suck more rapidly until Macalaurë trembled and bucked his hips. Soon his salty fluids streamed into his brother’s mouth. Maitimo swallowed eagerly and raised his head.

“You taste as I remember,” he said. “Delicious.”

“Ah, Gods, but I love you, Nelyo,” cried Macalaurë. He bent and kissed the top of Maitimo’s head. “It does not matter who you are to me, it is what you are.”

“I love you too, my sweet minstrel,” said Maitimo, stroking Macalaurë’s buttocks with a gentle hand. “Come now and finish me, and then we can go and have our supper. We will need our strength for later tonight.” He gave his brother an impish wink.

Macalaurë laughed at this, and Maitimo reached up to draw his face close so that he might taste Macalaurë’s sweet lips. Their bodies clung together. They drew their strength from each other. They rolled together on the sofa, Maitimo’s arousal poking insistently against his brother’s thigh. Macalaurë broke the kiss.

“Maitimo, my love. Let me bring you to completion as you did me.”

He slid down until he could take Maitimo’s length into his mouth and press loving caresses upon him.

“Gods, but you are beautiful,” whispered Macalaurë, gazing upon his brother’s ivory skin and green eyes, masses of gleaming russet hair spilling onto the sofa behind him.

He stroked the swollen length with his sensitive musician’s fingers, admiring the shape and form of the perfect member. When he took his brother’s length he sucked it with such ardent passion that Maitimo spent himself quickly, gushing pearly fluids into Macalaurë’s awaiting mouth.

Over dinner the brothers talked about their other kin and reminisced about their times as children

“Turko and the others would feel that what we do now with each other is completely wrong. Especially Turko. He would think that we make a travesty and mockery of the family,” said Maitimo.

He sighed when he said this, dropping his chin to rest upon a pale, bent hand. His fingers twitched and he moved them in a circle around the rim of his goblet.

“What we do in private with each other is no concern of theirs”, said Macalaurë, his voice soft and reassuring. “They need never know. We harm no one by what we do.”

“I know,” said Maitimo, “yet still I feel the guilt.”

“Come along,” said Macalaurë, placing a warm hand upon his brother’s as it picked at a loose thread upon the tablecloth. “Let us go upstairs. We will bring a bottle of brandy with us and we can relax in the bath until we feel sleepy, and then we can go to bed.”

They climbed arm in arm up the stairs. After undressing, they lay in the bathtub, Macalaurë sitting between Maitimo’s legs, pressed back against his chest, his head under his older brother’s chin. Maitimo drew Macalaurë’s wet hair behind his back and began to play with it, smoothing it down over his back. “Would you like me to try to plait this with my one hand?” he asked.

Macalaurë nodded, and started to sing, so that they need not talk of anything else, but quietly enjoyed their time together.

When they had washed and dressed in their nightshirts, they stood upon the balcony of Maitimo’s window, staring out at the Ered Luin in the distance. The stars were bright in the eastern sky and the air was cool. “Come,” said Maitimo after a few minutes when he began to grow cold. “Let us get under the covers like we used to do when we were young.”

They retired to the spacious bed. Maitimo pulled open a drawer in his nightstand and took out a vial of oil, placing it upon the glass top. Then the brothers assumed one of the sleeping positions they had always taken as adolescents when they rarely slept in their own beds, always preferring to sleep together. Maitimo lay on his back, his hair spread across his pillow, both legs stretched out in front of him.

Macalaurë’s position was on his stomach, the side of his face against Maitimo’s hair, pinning it beneath him so that Maitimo could not move his head except to look at Macalaurë. One hand lay with palm facing down on Maitimo’s chest, and one leg was hooked around Maitimo’s.

He lowered his head and pressed his lips to Maitimo’s shoulder. “What are you thinking about?” he asked his brother.

Maitimo turned his head to look at Macalaurë. “I was thinking of the first time we did this,” he replied.

“The first time we slept together, or made love to each other?” asked Macalaurë.

“Made love,” said Maitimo. “I forget who made the first overture. Do you remember, Macalaurë?”

“Yes, I remember,” was the reply. “No one made the first move. We came together spontaneously. Our lips met and once we felt and tasted each other, we were lost. We were young and our flesh did not take long to grow heated.” He whispered these words against Maitimo’s neck. “I remember that I was the first to put my hand upon your beautiful hardness before you touched my more modest length.”

Maitimo chuckled softly. “I, too, remember,” he said. “I turned toward you when you took your hand away. I wanted to feel it again, where you had placed it, and I remember tearing at your nightshirt, lifting it up so roughly that I might see your erection grow before my eyes while I stroked it, and I tore the hem of your shirt in my haste.”

Macalaurë laughed. “That was the most exciting night I had ever experienced. I dreamed about it for years afterwards and pleasured myself to that memory many times.”

“You were so slender then. Your skin was so soft,” said Maitimo. “And your taste was exquisite to me, like honey. And when I looked upon your face as I do now, you were so beautiful.” He stroked the side of his brother’s face, gazing into it with green eyes wide and sparkling.

“You are the beautiful one, Nelyo,” sighed Macalaurë. “Your hair, your eyes—“

“We are both beautiful, are we not? We might be taken for maidens,” laughed Maitimo.

“We may be pretty, but we cannot be maidens with these things that dangle so wantonly between our legs,” retorted Macalaurë.

“And they are impatient, insistent things, are they not?” Maitimo whispered into Macalaurë’s ear. “Mine cannot stay soft when it is near you and wishes that it could be sheathed in your tight heat.”

“Does it?” hissed Macalaurë, gripping Maitimo’s wrist in a hand made strong by the wielding of a blade for more than three hundred years. “And what of mine? Mine all but swells to impossible size at the thought of your perfectly-shaped buttocks.”

“Does it wish to enter me tonight, my love?” asked Maitimo, “Between my round buttocks? Or does it wish my lips to sheathe it again?”

“It wishes to enter you,” whispered Macalaurë, his voice a heated moan. He held his brother’s face in both hands and pressed a soft kiss upon the delicately carved lips. He knelt on the bed and pulled off his nightshirt, sitting completely nude astride Maitimo’s thighs, and reached forward to pull Maitimo’s nightshirt up to his chest, letting his brother pull it off the rest of the way.

Macalaurë held a vial of oil in his hand and gazed at his brother in the candlelight, watching the way the light cast flattering shadows over Maitimo’s magnificently-formed body.

Macalaurë thrust his hips forward, taking his hard member in his hand and sliding the tip against Maitimo’s shaft, brushing it up and down the length of his older brother’s arousal. Maitimo moaned and his hips jerked involuntarily.

“Raise your hips, Nelyo my love,” said Macalaurë.

“I cannot. I am much heavier and I am afraid of hurting you,” said Maitimo. “Let me turn over.”

“No,” said Macalaurë. “I want to be able to see your face and the rest of your body when I take you. Now raise your hips.” His full mane of hair fell over his face, but a gleam was still visible in his eyes.

Maitimo did so, pushing his head back against his headboard to assist in raising his hips off the bed as high as he could. Macalaurë grasped his brother’s legs below his knees, spreading them apart. He positioned himself between the long limbs so that he could enter Maitimo’s passage. He gently inserted one oiled finger and then another into Maitimo’s entrance, taking his time to stretch the tightness open so that he could take his brother comfortably. When he removed his fingers he poured more oil on them, and slicked his own shaft until it was wet with the stuff.

Maitimo cried out when he felt his brother’s hardness enter him, and bucked his hips upward, allowing Macalaurë to drive his shaft in further.

Holding onto Maitimo’s knees, Macalaurë thrust until he was blinded by passion and sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes. He gave a powerful cry as he came, pushing forward into Maitimo while he gripped his brother tightly by the knees, pulling them toward him so that he could push deeper within Maitimo’s tight passage. He thrust rapidly, his breathing increasing with the escalating hammering of his body into that of his brother.

“Ai, Gods! Ai!” he cried. With one last mighty push, he expelled his fluids.

Maitimo, eyes squeezed shut, called out his brother’s name. “Ah, Macalaurë!” he cried, trembling with the force of his passion.

When he was spent, Macalaurë withdrew and dropped his brother’s legs down onto the bed. A sizeable erection still poked out from Maitimo’s loins. Macalaurë flopped onto his stomach, and Maitimo rolled over on top of him, his rigid shaft sliding between his brother’s thighs.

“Should I massage your shoulders for you, dearest one?” asked Maitimo, stroking Macalaurë’s back with one large, skilled hand while pumping his thick member against the cleft of Macalaurë’s buttocks.

“Ai, Maitimo,” said Macalaurë with a deep sigh. “I can feel your hardness against my aching hole,” he whispered. “It wants to feel your cock inside it.”

“I want you too, songbird,” said Maitimo, nibbling the tip and back of Macalaurë’s ear. “I want to ram my stiff member into you so hard it will make you sing even louder.”

“Ahh,” cried Macalaurë. “Do your worst.”

Maitimo used the oil to prepare himself and his brother, and then entered the slick tip of his engorged member into Macalaurë’s entrance with the same fervor that Macalaurë had shown him. He thrust carefully so as not to hurt his smaller brother. His arousal was thick and lengthy and he pushed in slowly, only letting a couple of inches penetrate and then withdrawing the slick length before easing it in again, a little more of it this time.

When he had penetrated Macalaurë to a depth of about four inches, Macalaurë’s slender body bucked off the bed from the exquisite sensation of having his sweet spot stroked many times. “Oh Gods!” he screamed.

Maitimo came with a lusty cry, Macalaurë’s lithe, slender body trembling beneath his.

When it was over and they were both so spent that they could not move, they lay together with Maitimo spooned behind Macalaurë, his face buried in Macalaurë’s hair, his arms wrapped around his brother’s body. They did not bother to dress again in their nightshirts.

Macalaurë sighed contentedly. “Methinks the memory of this encounter shall linger for a long while.”

“Let us hope it will last forever, my love,” said Maitimo, grasping his brother’s hand and pressing tender kisses to the long, beautifully-shaped fingers. He closed his eyes and fell asleep, dreaming of his brother, his hair blowing in the wind, standing atop a mountain with the world at his feet.