Fic: Of Elves and Dwarves
A companion piece to Of Dwarves and Elves, because smiths are indeed inclined to experiment, and to consider the results. (Celebrimbor/Narvi, explicit)
No one says a word when Celebrimbor returns from Khazad-Dûm, though the dwarves’ gossip circulates in the crafthall and he is aware of curious looks and whispers when no one thinks he can hear.
“I wish they would just ask,” he says to Celeborn after some days of this, as they walk in the gardens at evening, and Celeborn breathes a laugh.
“Probably they don’t actually want to know.”
In general, of course, one doesn’t ask, particularly among the Sindar, where to be willfully blind - and deaf - is the only sensible substitute for privacy among the flets. Curtains and strategically trained branches do less to conceal than to signal that which should be ignored. The Noldor are more accustomed to solid walls and doors that lock, but no city is very private, and they, too, preserve the pretense of the unseen, and gossip about it later.
“But they do,” Celebrimbor says. “Want to know, I mean. Or they wouldn’t spend so much time speculating.”
“People like to talk,” Celeborn says.
“I just -“ Celebrimbor stops, his own smile wry. He and Narvi have been good friends for many years. “They’ll get it wrong.”
That’s not really it either, and he shakes his head in frustration. Celeborn puts a sympathetic arm across his shoulders.
“Tell me, then. What it was like.”
Celebrimbor leans into the embrace, grateful and yet reluctant. Celeborn took part in the battles over the Nauglamir, and still despite the good relations with Khazad-Dûm is not entirely comfortable among the dwarves. Celebrimbor can’t blame him for that, all things considered; it’s not entirely kind to make him think too closely about those things.
“Hairy,” he says, and puts his arm around Celeborn’s waist as the other dissolves in laughter.
But that’s not all, and not enough, says nothing about the astonishing solidity of a dwarf, how heavy they are for their mass, and it doesn’t begin to describe the luxuriant hair and beards or the exuberant curls that cover their bodies. He’d been prepared for that, he’d seen dwarves stripped half naked in the heat of the forges, but not for the rest, and for that he still has no words.
He finds himself in his tower staring out the long window toward the mountains, the night breeze cool on his skin. It is still warm, the summer heat lingering in the stone, not like the constant pleasant warmth of Khazad-Dûm, and when he looks at the strand of wire he has been idly shaping, it is knotted and coiled, a shape that makes him smile. That was the thing he had not at all expected, Narvi’s phallus augmented with rings and balls of his own forging - almost as thick as an elf’s fist to start with, and then the smooth metal to widen it further. It was too much for him to take, at least not in the time they’d had, and when he’d used his mouth, it had nearly choked him, though the taste of salt and metal had been a fascinating contrast. In the end, he’d taken Narvi between his thighs, hard metal and only slightly more yielding flesh against oil-slicked skin, Narvi’s enormous hand engulfing his own phallus.
Sated for the moment, they sprawled in Narvi’s bed, the woolen coverlets folded tidily aside. It had been like lying against a rock, like sunning himself in summer, Narvi barely shoulder-high and yet as solid and unmoving as the carved walls that surrounded them. He had stroked and petted, idly curious at first, and then with more purpose, finding the spots that made the dwarf draw sharper breath, and then shudder with reawakening desire, to spend himself at last in blinding passion.
Like a jewel, Celebrimbor thinks, that can be turned and cut and polished, brought to shimmering life, and then, touched just so, will shatter into nothing. It is not a question of a flaw - even the most perfect gem will break, handled correctly - but of the nature of the stone. Their breaking is more pleasant, but the dwarves, too, have that secret in their heart. It is no wonder they keep to themselves, dole out that knowledge sparingly and only to each other.
It is just as well no one has asked, because he should not answer. That secret was not given him to share.
No one says a word when Celebrimbor returns from Khazad-Dûm, though the dwarves’ gossip circulates in the crafthall and he is aware of curious looks and whispers when no one thinks he can hear.
“I wish they would just ask,” he says to Celeborn after some days of this, as they walk in the gardens at evening, and Celeborn breathes a laugh.
“Probably they don’t actually want to know.”
In general, of course, one doesn’t ask, particularly among the Sindar, where to be willfully blind - and deaf - is the only sensible substitute for privacy among the flets. Curtains and strategically trained branches do less to conceal than to signal that which should be ignored. The Noldor are more accustomed to solid walls and doors that lock, but no city is very private, and they, too, preserve the pretense of the unseen, and gossip about it later.
“But they do,” Celebrimbor says. “Want to know, I mean. Or they wouldn’t spend so much time speculating.”
“People like to talk,” Celeborn says.
“I just -“ Celebrimbor stops, his own smile wry. He and Narvi have been good friends for many years. “They’ll get it wrong.”
That’s not really it either, and he shakes his head in frustration. Celeborn puts a sympathetic arm across his shoulders.
“Tell me, then. What it was like.”
Celebrimbor leans into the embrace, grateful and yet reluctant. Celeborn took part in the battles over the Nauglamir, and still despite the good relations with Khazad-Dûm is not entirely comfortable among the dwarves. Celebrimbor can’t blame him for that, all things considered; it’s not entirely kind to make him think too closely about those things.
“Hairy,” he says, and puts his arm around Celeborn’s waist as the other dissolves in laughter.
But that’s not all, and not enough, says nothing about the astonishing solidity of a dwarf, how heavy they are for their mass, and it doesn’t begin to describe the luxuriant hair and beards or the exuberant curls that cover their bodies. He’d been prepared for that, he’d seen dwarves stripped half naked in the heat of the forges, but not for the rest, and for that he still has no words.
He finds himself in his tower staring out the long window toward the mountains, the night breeze cool on his skin. It is still warm, the summer heat lingering in the stone, not like the constant pleasant warmth of Khazad-Dûm, and when he looks at the strand of wire he has been idly shaping, it is knotted and coiled, a shape that makes him smile. That was the thing he had not at all expected, Narvi’s phallus augmented with rings and balls of his own forging - almost as thick as an elf’s fist to start with, and then the smooth metal to widen it further. It was too much for him to take, at least not in the time they’d had, and when he’d used his mouth, it had nearly choked him, though the taste of salt and metal had been a fascinating contrast. In the end, he’d taken Narvi between his thighs, hard metal and only slightly more yielding flesh against oil-slicked skin, Narvi’s enormous hand engulfing his own phallus.
Sated for the moment, they sprawled in Narvi’s bed, the woolen coverlets folded tidily aside. It had been like lying against a rock, like sunning himself in summer, Narvi barely shoulder-high and yet as solid and unmoving as the carved walls that surrounded them. He had stroked and petted, idly curious at first, and then with more purpose, finding the spots that made the dwarf draw sharper breath, and then shudder with reawakening desire, to spend himself at last in blinding passion.
Like a jewel, Celebrimbor thinks, that can be turned and cut and polished, brought to shimmering life, and then, touched just so, will shatter into nothing. It is not a question of a flaw - even the most perfect gem will break, handled correctly - but of the nature of the stone. Their breaking is more pleasant, but the dwarves, too, have that secret in their heart. It is no wonder they keep to themselves, dole out that knowledge sparingly and only to each other.
It is just as well no one has asked, because he should not answer. That secret was not given him to share.