Fic: Of Dwarves and Elves
Because smiths are curious people, and fond of experiments. (Celebrimbor/Narvi, explicit discussion of sex)
It’s been a week or so since Narvi last visited the family forge, but not long enough that the stories have died down. His wife’s sister smirks at him over the account books, and her youngest brother turns purple and stammers until the next-oldest brother cuffs him in the head. He at least manages a proper greeting, and Narvi nods back and shoulders through the workroom into the living space beyond. Gunnarva is there already, looking pleased with herself: she is an iron master, and her work is in great demand these days, more solid profit for the household to put gold in their beards and glittering on their fingers. They clasp wrists affectionately, and she fetches the ale pitcher and two pots, sets them on the table between them and pours the pots frothing full.
“An elf?” she says, just at the right moment to make him snort and wipe foam from his eyebrows.
“A smith,” he says. He knows she’s seen him, towering over the other jewel-smiths in the workshop, his hammer singing to a different rhythm, but one that works the mithril just as finely. And, because he won’t have his friend slighted, he adds, “Chief of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.”
“Oh, that one,” she says. “I should have known.”
She did know, he is sure, but she never could resist teasing. She takes a long drink of her own ale, her eyes brightly speculative beneath her heavy brows. “So… what was it like?”
Narvi pauses, considering. So very different, strange in such unexpected ways… “Hairless,” he says, and this time she has to wipe her beard. She has a new set of gold and amber beads braided in its forks, and he nods in appreciation. “I like the dangles.”
She is not to be distracted, not that he really expected she would be. “Hairless? None at all?”
“Not but what’s on his head,” Narvi says. “And I grant you, there’s quite a lot of that -“ And such an odd texture, too, heavy but fine, and straight as autumn rain. “But no, nothing else.”
“That’s - just peculiar,” Gunnarva says. “Go on.”
“Long and light,” Narvi says. He hasn’t tried to put this into words before, and he’s not sure he can find them. “Whippy - not breakable, but - bendy. Like willow withies, a bit.”
“And is his hammer like a peeled stick, too?” From her tone, she doesn’t see the appeal, and Narvi has to admit he was surprised by the sight, longer and thinner and paler than the dwarves he’s slept with.
“Not so much, though it’s slim enough. But long.”
She shakes her head. “Length’s not much use. Give me a decent girth every time. A nice thick hammer well-shod in iron.”
“They don’t do that either,” Narvi says.
“They don’t?”
He shakes his head. No scars, no marks accidental or deliberate, just pale skin smooth as silk, thin enough to see the veins running blue across his chest: a body not quite real, as though it might dissolve and disappear, hands that reached for wrists and shoulders suddenly passing through flesh gone to smoke and moonlight. “They have what they have, he said. Not that it isn’t pretty.”
She looks doubtful. “A little too fine and not enough fancy, sounds like.”
“There’s something to be said for fine.” He’s glad they tried it, glad to know what an elf is like naked and straining with desire, glad to have been explored in turn, those long and curious fingers finding places he hadn’t considered interesting. “You’d like his hands,” he says, and wins a quick smile and the hint of a blush.
“Well, he’s your friend,” she says.
“And a good one,” Narvi answers.
“He’s always welcome at our hearth,” she says, and he nods his thanks, pouring them each more ale.
It’s been a week or so since Narvi last visited the family forge, but not long enough that the stories have died down. His wife’s sister smirks at him over the account books, and her youngest brother turns purple and stammers until the next-oldest brother cuffs him in the head. He at least manages a proper greeting, and Narvi nods back and shoulders through the workroom into the living space beyond. Gunnarva is there already, looking pleased with herself: she is an iron master, and her work is in great demand these days, more solid profit for the household to put gold in their beards and glittering on their fingers. They clasp wrists affectionately, and she fetches the ale pitcher and two pots, sets them on the table between them and pours the pots frothing full.
“An elf?” she says, just at the right moment to make him snort and wipe foam from his eyebrows.
“A smith,” he says. He knows she’s seen him, towering over the other jewel-smiths in the workshop, his hammer singing to a different rhythm, but one that works the mithril just as finely. And, because he won’t have his friend slighted, he adds, “Chief of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.”
“Oh, that one,” she says. “I should have known.”
She did know, he is sure, but she never could resist teasing. She takes a long drink of her own ale, her eyes brightly speculative beneath her heavy brows. “So… what was it like?”
Narvi pauses, considering. So very different, strange in such unexpected ways… “Hairless,” he says, and this time she has to wipe her beard. She has a new set of gold and amber beads braided in its forks, and he nods in appreciation. “I like the dangles.”
She is not to be distracted, not that he really expected she would be. “Hairless? None at all?”
“Not but what’s on his head,” Narvi says. “And I grant you, there’s quite a lot of that -“ And such an odd texture, too, heavy but fine, and straight as autumn rain. “But no, nothing else.”
“That’s - just peculiar,” Gunnarva says. “Go on.”
“Long and light,” Narvi says. He hasn’t tried to put this into words before, and he’s not sure he can find them. “Whippy - not breakable, but - bendy. Like willow withies, a bit.”
“And is his hammer like a peeled stick, too?” From her tone, she doesn’t see the appeal, and Narvi has to admit he was surprised by the sight, longer and thinner and paler than the dwarves he’s slept with.
“Not so much, though it’s slim enough. But long.”
She shakes her head. “Length’s not much use. Give me a decent girth every time. A nice thick hammer well-shod in iron.”
“They don’t do that either,” Narvi says.
“They don’t?”
He shakes his head. No scars, no marks accidental or deliberate, just pale skin smooth as silk, thin enough to see the veins running blue across his chest: a body not quite real, as though it might dissolve and disappear, hands that reached for wrists and shoulders suddenly passing through flesh gone to smoke and moonlight. “They have what they have, he said. Not that it isn’t pretty.”
She looks doubtful. “A little too fine and not enough fancy, sounds like.”
“There’s something to be said for fine.” He’s glad they tried it, glad to know what an elf is like naked and straining with desire, glad to have been explored in turn, those long and curious fingers finding places he hadn’t considered interesting. “You’d like his hands,” he says, and wins a quick smile and the hint of a blush.
“Well, he’s your friend,” she says.
“And a good one,” Narvi answers.
“He’s always welcome at our hearth,” she says, and he nods his thanks, pouring them each more ale.