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He has not been so nervous to enter his bedroom since his wedding night. He and his bride had been giddy with excitement, and he had been so very eager to please—she was, as in all things, more experienced in love than he, and he had learned much from her, and vowed to love her and her alone.
It does not occur to him until later—much later—that she swore no such thing to him.
He was the one who left her. He was the one whose kin slaughtered her people, her family. He was the one too cowardly to even stay firm in his chosen course, the one who turned back in shame.
(Later, they will call it wisdom; they will call it humility. Now, he knows it is only guilt: for what he should have done, for what he has done, for what he shall never do.)
He is unsurprised that she forsakes him. He and his brother both knew what they did in leaving their wives behind. But Ñolofinwë is the proud one, the one who sallies forth no matter the cost, and it is Arafinwë who slinks back home to a bed that is no longer his bed, to a wife who is no longer his wife.
They do not sleep together any longer. She treats him coolly, as is her right; he treats her with deference, when the circumstance allows. More often than not he is in Tirion, rebuilding the shattered Ñoldor; more often than not, she is in Alqualondë, her home, and Anairë is with her.
But there are times when he returns to the memory of this place that was once his home as well, when there is simply nothing more for a King such as him to do. There are times when he walks the halls of his past, and pauses despite himself at the door of the bedroom they once shared.
Sometimes he hears only soft, slumbering breaths. Other times there is quiet murmuring, or nothing at all. Even when he is certain the room is empty, he does not enter: it is not his any longer, no matter the trinkets he left behind. (He has no knowledge of whether she kept them. He is not sure he wants to know.)
Once, he hears moans and soft whimpers of pleasure. He lingers long enough for his blood to stir, then hurries away in shame to the guest rooms where he is allowed to dwell. Touching himself to thoughts of his wife have never been more shameful.
He sees her the next day, and his guilt must be written more heavily upon his brow than usual. She stares at him, knowing yet unreadable, then turns away, taking Anairë’s arm.
That evening, he finds a note upon his pillow, written in a hand all too familiar.
Our door is open to you, it reads, and nothing more. No names, no clarifications.
It is enough. It is more than enough.
He drifts through the halls, his thoughts a fog. He could catch glimpses of clarity, if he tried, but he does not. He cannot bear to grasp hold of something bright, only to discover it is not the precious thing he has craved.
He arrives at the door and hesitates one last time. Our door, says the note in his hand. Not your door. Not his. Hers—and hers as well.
He is so lonely. If he must share her to have her again, he will. He must. He cannot bear the dull ache in his chest any longer.
He knocks softly upon her door. (Their door, the note reminds him.) Without waiting for an answer, he enters.
It is dark. The curtains are all drawn, and a single candle at the bedside is all that lights the room. Its fluttering gleam illuminates her in all her beauty, her face shadowed, her supple hröa displayed for him.
No—not for him.
Behind him, Anairë laughs softly, wickedly. He does not resist as she binds his wrists together, forces him to his knees.
“I told you he would come,” she croons.
On the bed, Eärwen shifts, spreading her legs. He swallows a moan at the sight of her wet and glistening, of the love marks upon her thighs. Once, he had been privileged to worship her like that. Now, he knows he is lucky to even watch as she dips a finger into herself, beckoning Anairë forth with only the heat in her eyes.
Anairë circles him once, twice, then makes her way over to her lover. She kisses Eärwen deeply, hungrily, and her dark hands trace their way over skin Arafinwë has loved since his youth.
He cannot bring himself to say anything. His voice is trapped somewhere in his stomach, just above the heat pooling in his groin.
“What would you have me do to him, my lady?” Anairë murmurs, caressing Eärwen’s breast, her waist, her leaking core. Eärwen shivers in pleasure, and Arafinwë shudders himself, missing her all the more. He is here, before her, and yet he has never been farther from her.
Eärwen does not look at him. Her eyes are all for Anairë, unwavering in her devotion.
“Do what you would,” she says lowly. “No—do unto him what you would do to Ñolofinwë, were he here.”
Passion sparks in Anairë’s smile, something dark and wild. Arafinwë bites his lip: this is a side of his brother’s wife he has never seen. He wonders if Ñolofinwë ever saw it, either.
She pulls Eärwen into another kiss, her hand delving deep into her core, and Eärwen cries out softly as she comes. Arafinwë aches, not in his cock but in his heart. He was a fool to even consider leaving her behind.
Anairë rises again and saunters over to him. Her hand drips with Eärwen’s release, so close he can smell it, and for a moment he believes she will feed it to him. But instead she licks her fingers clean, slow and deliberate, robbing him of her taste as she has robbed him of her love.
“There are three rules,” Anairë begins, her voice unyielding. “You shall obey me, as surely as I obey my lady. You shall speak your own name should you wish to cease our play at any time. And you shall not touch her. Do you consent?”
Arafinwë looks to Eärwen. Her eyes are closed; when they flutter open, it is only to look at Anairë.
He bows his head. “I consent.”
Anairë does not hesitate. “Strip,” she commands, loosing the tie at his wrists. “Then stand before me, with your hands behind your back.”
He hastens to obey. His hair is tied up in a bun, out of the way, but it catches on his robes as he tugs them off his body. Anairë’s hand fists in his golden tresses in an instant, yanking his head back.
“Keep this loose,” she says. “Ñolo likes it when I pull on his hair. You will like it, also.”
Arafinwë has never cared for such things, but he remembers what he agreed to, and nods. The tug at his scalp prickles down his spine, and his hands tremble as he loosens his breeches, freeing himself.
Anairë examines him, from the curve of his neck to the plane of his stomach to the stiff member between his legs.
“Ñolo is bigger,” she says bluntly, and traces a nail across the head.
Arafinwë hisses, jerking back, and she grabs him, tugging him close. At this he groans aloud, discomfort and arousal stabbing through him, but he lets her explore him, stroking her hand up and down his shaft, cupping his sack, probing between his cheeks.
His stomach flips. He has heard Ñolofinwë confess with wine-flushed cheeks that such bedsport pleases him, but Eärwen had never expressed interest in these things, and he...well.
“If my husband had not left me behind, I would not be here,” Anairë says, releasing him. “I would be with him. I would have left my lady’s side long ago, when what little comfort I could have given her had run dry.”
She raised her hands to his shoulders, forcing him down to his knees. She was still dressed, albeit in a flimsy robe that left little to the imagination, and though he could not see her, he could smell her, hot and wanting.
“If you had not left my lady behind, I would not be here,” Anairë continues. “You would be with her. She would have turned to you in her grief, and I would have been shut out.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowed. “In a way, I have you to thank for my good fortune. If not for your pride, I would never have come so close to my lady’s heart.”
She shrugs off her robe, revealing herself to him, to Eärwen, who is touching herself again at the scene before her. Anairë is dark as midnight, softening to sunrise in her palms and her hidden places. The sight of her is stirring, even to he, who swore himself to his wife and no other.
“My lady calls me lonely,” Anairë whispers, her voice low and dark like the rumble of the sea just before a storm. “And I might have been, if not for her. If not for you, and your pride.”
She pulls on his hair ungently, startling a cry out of him. She smirks.
“Sometimes I wish that you had gone with him even further,” she says. “Across the sea, instead of lurking in my lady’s halls, reminding her of her grief. But she is bound to you, and you are not sundered from her the way my husband is from me, and for her sake I will give you what it is you crave.”
“Anairë,” he croaked, but she bends to kiss him before he can say anything further.
She is fierce, insistent, forcing her tongue into his mouth, licking at his teeth in a vulgar way that makes his cock ache. She twines both her hands in his hair, kneeling over him, rubbing her slickness over his thigh.
When he can barely breathe for the intensity of her onslaught, she pulls back, eyes dark and shining. “I scarcely know what to do to you,” she whispers. “My lady told me to treat you as I would my husband, but I can see only you. And what I want with you is—different.”
“Do as you would,” Eärwen says, her voice quiet but firm. “He will take whatever it is you desire, meldë.”
Anairë reaches, wrapping a few strands of his long hair around the base of his cock. She pulls tight, making him whine, making him leak but preventing him from doing anything more.
“If my husband returned, after all he has done, I would do a thousand wicked things to him,” she says darkly, lifting herself up over him, gripping his shoulders. His heart beats wildly as she teases him, kissing the tip of his cock with her folds, promising a fire he has not known since the Trees still shone.
“But for you—” Anairë breathes in, long and slow, then sighs it all out as she sinks down upon him at last, enveloping him in heat that makes him twitch and moan— “for you, I know the most torturous thing is to deny you her, to make you earn your right to be her husband.”
“My lady,” he chokes out, awash in sensation he did not ask for but cannot deny. “H-how—how may I earn this?”
She rolls her hips, taking him deeper, and kisses him again. He thinks, madly, that he can taste Eärwen on her tongue.
“You may begin by serving me,” she growls, and pushes him down so she might ride him while yet offering Eärwen the best view.
Arafinwë thinks he will not last long, inside of her. But even as he strains to come, he cannot: his own hair binds him, and she laughs as he moans, some plea for release slipping from his lips.
“Enough,” says a soft voice from the bed. Anairë is flushing hot and wet around him, her thumb playing with her pearl, but at once she stills, looking up at Eärwen with the reverence she deserves.
Eärwen rises, slipping off the bed. Her hair cascades down her back like Telperion’s sheen caught in water, a contrast to the dark honey of her skin. She is still the most beautiful creation Arafinwë has ever seen, and he weeps to know he is forever separate from her.
Or perhaps not so separate.
She touches Anairë’s shoulder, and Anairë shudders and comes again, just at that. Arafinwë whimpers softly, and Eärwen turns her gaze to him.
This time, he thinks he understands her.
“I am sorry,” he whispers. “Eärwen, beloved, I am so sorry—I failed thee, I failed thy people, I failed us all—”
“Enough,” she repeats, and takes Anairë by the hand, lifting her off his cock. She kisses her softly, then nods to her, and Anairë loosens the knot of hair around his base, freeing him.
“I forgive you,” Eärwen says, gazing into some distant world. “But I will never forget, husband mine. What my dear Anairë says is true: you must earn my love once more.”
She extends a hand, and he reaches for her, hesitating at the last moment. You shall not touch her, Anairë had warned.
“There is one other rule,” Anairë murmurs, pulling him to his feet. “You shall obey our lady above all.” She guides his hand to Eärwen’s, and he shudders as he touches his wife’s skin for the first time since before the Darkening.
“Eärwen,” he whispers, her name holy on his tongue like a prayer, a plea of repentance deeper even than what he has offered to the Valar.
She slips away, leaving him empty-handed, returning to Anairë’s embrace. Anairë holds her protectively, her eyes fixed on him, triumphant.
But he does not feel defeated. He does not begrudge Anairë her love, her loneliness soothed. It is what he yearns for, also.
He has gone soft now, never having reached release, but that is not what matters. He gathers his robes, dresses, and makes to leave, dizzy with relief: he has another chance. She is giving him another chance.
“Arafinwë,” Anairë calls, just before he crosses the threshold of this room that was once his own.
He pauses, but does not turn.
“You may return tomorrow night, if you wish,” she says. “This is only the beginning.”
He bows his head in acknowledgement, then flees. He cannot bear to linger—the ache of separation is more familiar, more comforting, than the tremulous flicker of hope that now rises in his breast.
He will return. He cannot waste this chance, no matter what he must do to win her love once more.