2. Let's Get Slashy!
Meanwhile, back in another reality…
“Did we win?” Fingon asked in a dazed voice. The top of Maedhros’ head had connected solidly with the back of his during their tumble from the railing. The weight of his cousin on his back was slightly uncomfortable, but fortunately he had landed on something soft.
Wincing at the pain in his own head, Maedhros hazarded a glance around. He was still in Tirion, and the skies again were blue. The streets were again in chaos, but this time the Elves were cheering in celebration, rather than screaming in terror.
“It appears so. What happened? Why am I not writhing in agony at this moment?” the red-headed Elf asked in a somewhat detached voice.
“Not everything is about you, you know.” Fingon thought about it for a moment. It was obvious now that a self-insert had been trying to cross over into their world, but something had stopped her. “Of course! The natural defenses must have kicked in! She couldn’t get through!”
Maedhros must have hit his head harder than he thought, for Fingon was making no sense. “Explain, please.”
“Obviously, she couldn’t get past the first few chapters of The Silmarillion. She must have gotten bored and given up. They’re written that way to make it inaccessible to teenage Lord of the Rings fangirls.”
The Fëanorian was vaguely offended by the thought that it was sheer boredom and not his impressive shouting that had driven their foe into submission, but this was a victory he would take any way he could get. “I see. How is Finrod?”
It was not until that moment that Fingon realized the soft thing he had landed on was Finrod. He, too, must have struck his head as they landed. “He appears to be unconscious.”
Limp with relief and too dazed to move, the three princes lay on the floor of the balcony, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
Varda bowed graciously to the High King and his brother as they took their leave of the Queen of the Stars. It was always nice when the Elves came to visit. It happened all too rarely nowadays, however, since it seemed like their front walk had a few hundred extra steps added every time she turned around. It was something she needed to remember to speak to Manwë about…
The two Elves had bidden farewell to the Lord of the Valar and were about to embark on the first flight of steps when something very curious happened. The clear blue of the sky began to turn a lurid shade of red, reminiscent of sunset but somehow, more…erotic.
Fingolfin and Finarfin halted their departure to observe this new phenomenon, and a trace of dismay showed on Manwë’s noble face. “Oh, dear,” he murmured under his breath.
“My love?” Varda asked. “Do you know what is happening? Is she trying another tactic to get in?”
“No, it’s not the same one. This one is different, more powerful, more experienced…” Manwë swallowed a rather un-lordly gulp. “I’m afraid I’ll have no power over her…”
Finarfin and Fingolfin had come running back to the throne of Manwë in distress. “Lord Manwë?” they asked.
The Lord of the Valar shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry my friends. Nothing can be done to stop this one… She is far more powerful than an attempted self-insert. It’s…a slasher.”
Fingolfin’s jaw dropped open. “Oh, no!” he groaned. “I left my son alone with Maedhros!” The Elf-lord squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands.
Even Manwë looked a little distressed at this announcement, but Finarfin tried to cheer his brother up. “There, there,” he said, patting the shaking shoulder. “I’m sure everything will be alright. After all, Finrod is with them.”
Fingolfin looked very closely at his younger brother. The Valar knew he loved him, but sometimes his brother could be more dense than the flies over Midgewater. Very slowly and carefully, he asked, “What did you say?”
Finarfin sighed impatiently; his brother could be so trying. “I said that Finrod is…with…” He trailed off. A horrible thought was beginning to form in his mind. “Finrod. Is. With. Them!”
Without a backwards glance over his shoulder, Finarfin took off at a dead sprint and took the steps leading down away from the summit three at a time. Five flights later, Fingolfin finally caught up with him. Catching his brother by the shoulder, he spun him around and pulled them both to a halt.
“Are you crazy? You’ll kill yourself!”
“But…the slasher… Maedhros… Finrod…”
“Will be long finished with whatever they’re going to do by the time we get there.”
Finarfin had to admit his brother was right. That didn’t make him feel any better, however. They began to trudge slowly down the stairs. “How do you deal with it so calmly?” he asked after a few flights in silence.
“Years of practice,” Fingolfin sullenly replied. Then he turned to his brother with a half-grin. “Want to head down to the pub for a beer?”
Finarfin, who usually preferred wine, needed to mull this over for only the briefest of moments. “Yes. Yes I do. In fact, I think I should like more than one. I think I should like to be drunk. I think I should like to be very drunk.”
Slinging an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders, Fingolfin guided them down the absurdly long and winding Stairs of Taniquetil.
But meanwhile, in Tirion…
The first thing Finrod was aware of was an uncomfortably heavy weight on his chest, and the second was an equally uncomfortable lump on the back of his head. Once he had begun to deal with these discomforts, he became aware of a sensation that wasn’t so discomforting. Someone was softly stroking his cheek and calling his name.
“Finrod… Finrod…” It was the soft, soothing voice of his cousin Fingon.
Although his eyelids felt as though someone had sneakily attached weights to them while he was unconscious, he managed to pry them slowly open…
…to discover himself nose to nose with Fingon, who hovered bare inches over him. Over the black-headed Elf’s shoulder, he could see a fuzzy red blotch that had to be Maedhros. The Fëanorian was sprawled atop Fingon and they both were crushing him. One of them had thoughtfully loosened his clothes for him, however.
“What…happened…?” he blearily asked.
“We fell,” Maedhros answered him very matter-of-factly.
Finrod fixed his cousins in what he hoped was a steely-eyed glare. “You fellows planning to get off me any time soon?”
Fingon regarded his cousin somberly. Funny, but he’d never really paid attention to how truly beautiful Finrod was. His pale blue eyes were like rare sapphirine gems…his silver-kissed blonde hair was like spun gold. The raven-headed Elf couldn’t stop himself from gathering up a fistful of the silky flaxen tresses.
“I hadn’t planned on it…” Fingon purred in a low, sexy voice.
Hold on, sexy? Finrod shook his head as if to clear it. His cousin smiled down at him in an almost…hungry way.
“Did you want me to get off?” Fingon asked in that same soft, dangerous voice.
“Err…I guess not. Not really.” The weight on his body didn’t feel so uncomfortable anymore. In fact, in a few places, it felt downright delicious. He shuddered as Maedhros shifted slightly on top of the pile, gazing down at Finrod over Fingon’s shoulder. If Fingon’s look was predatory, Maedhros’ was downright feral.
“I take it this means the self-insert was defeated,” Finrod said, only half-interested in the answer. “I mean, with the sky being that alluring shade of red and all…”
Deciding that Finrod was talking entirely too much, Fingon shut him up in the most efficient way he could think of. Maedhros’ large, warm hands stole over his shoulders and began kneading the flesh, causing a moan to escape the deep kiss he was sharing with Finrod. The Fëanorian’s hands slid lower, and soon all three princes forgot about the color of the sky, and everything else, altogether.
Thereafter a very steamy three-way lemon ensued-
But that is another story.
The End…or is it?
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.