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Oromë knew it was a dodgy idea, perhaps even reaching the cusp of sleazy, but it wouldn’t leave him alone. The first time the thought wormed its way through the seedier depths of his mind, he pushed it away with a grimace. When it crept back up a few days later, he actually entertained it for a few moments before hastily shoving it back down. By the end of the week, he’d practically invited it to tea. His initial discomfort at the thought of hiding his appearance eventually gave way to reality. The truth of the matter was that he, Oromë, the Huntsman of the Valar and Lord of the Forests, intimidated just about everyone. Any Elf who happened upon him in the woods either fled in terror or dropped to his knees in worshipful reverence. Not that he could blame them. Valar by their very nature were intimidating, and his particular visage of blazing eyes, broad shoulders and biceps the size of tree trunks was enough to give any Elf tremors. While intimidation proved useful on the battlefield, it proved much less so in the bedroom. If he ever hoped to find an Elf who could get past the fact that he looked like thunder in flesh, he would have to change his approach.
The idea of a disguise was certainly not new, at least not among the Valar. Irmo did it with increasing regularity, albeit with varying degrees of success. Oromë himself had tried it exactly twice. His first attempt was a poorly conceived practical joke that involved turning himself into a chipmunk and dropping from a low-hanging limb onto Celegorm’s head. Celegorm saw through it straightaway. “Chipmunks do not sit with their legs crossed,” he had stated, matter-of-fact.
His second attempt was born out of necessity. Maglor, Celegorm’s older brother, was the featured singer at a chorale recital in Tirion’s town square. Oromë desperately wanted to attend, but the sight of a Vala seated on the front row would likely cause a riot or mass chaos or, frankly, both. The Valar only appeared when something big was about to happen. The crowd would spend most of the performance furtively whispering about the meaning of his sudden arrival and looking over their shoulders for seafaring marauders. He dared not risk it. A disguise was in order.
The concert proved to be a rousing success, and Maglor had never sounded better. After the last of the standing ovations ended and the crowd began to dissipate, Maglor shaded his eyes and watched the last few stragglers leave. He frowned. “Celegorm,” he began, tugging on his brother’s sleeve. “There, just beyond the oak tree…Is that…a sea turtle?”
Celegorm squinted. “It has a shell and four legs, so yes.”
“Why is it sitting with its legs crossed? Turtles don’t do that.”
“I can think of one that does.”
Oromë immediately abandoned the practice.
But now the idea took root anew, sprouting from an urge to become someone – or something – different, and growing into a full-fledged plan. Choosing the location of his new endeavor proved easy. Summer in Aman meant holidays by the shore, and holidays by the shore meant naked Elves. Lots of naked Elves. He would transform himself into a sea creature and admire the lovely naked Elves from a safe distance. Selecting the nature of said sea creature proved to be more difficult. It needed to be something at the top of the food chain, yet something not overly frightening. After much internal debate, he settled on the only possible answer: a kraken.
So, there he was, bobbing up and down in the sparkling sea like an overgrown jellyfish. Absently, he reached under the murky water, snatched a lone oyster from the sandy bottom and cracked its rough outer shell. The briny mussel slid down his throat, salty and cool. It was good. He really should have done this sooner.
What a fine afternoon it had become. A glorious day for examining Elves in their natural habitat. There was nothing wrong with that. After all, he was simply observing. Watching from a distance. Admiring what fate had laid before him on the sandy beach, which, at the moment was a group of tanned Noldor lads with abs tight enough to slice cheese on. And, really, who would notice an innocent, unobtrusive kraken quietly lurking just offshore? Just watching. Only watching. Nothing more.
It wasn’t his fault that the incoming tide pushed him closer to shore than he intended. And it certainly couldn’t be helped that the churning surf caused a handsome Elf wading out in the shallows to lose his footing and be carried out on a white-capped wave. He would have been truly remiss if he hadn’t reached out with a curled tentacle to grab the young lad round the waist. Why, the Elf would have drowned without Oromë’s help! The brush of his tentacle against the Noldo’s pert backside was purely accidental. The slow twining of it around the lad’s muscular thigh… not so much. And the gasp of surprised delight that escaped the sweet Elf’s full lips when said tentacle reached the curve of his hip convinced Oromë that he was doing the right thing. Aided by the undulations of the silky sea, he caressed every single inch of the Elf’s golden skin until the poor dear was left a writhing mass of delirious pleasure wriggling in Oromë’s many arms. So much for watching. After one last flick of his naughty tentacles, he tossed the dazed youth back onto the sandy beach and dove under the waves.
The Elf’s friends were alarmed when he finally washed ashore. They leapt from their blankets to come to the aid of their nearly-drowned friend. “What happened?” they cried. “We looked up to find you carried out to sea, yet here you are! Saved! It is a miracle!”
The lad, still glowing from newly found pleasure and pink from the light kiss of suction cups, responded with a dazed smile, “Not a miracle. A kraken.”
~*~
Once he breached the no-touching threshold, it was easy to cross it again. Soon it was habit. Every afternoon, Oromë chose a new stretch of beach, hiding just beyond the breakers to spy on unwitting Elves out for a swim and help them back to shore if help was needed. Help was almost always needed.
They certainly were lovely, those Elves with their long limbs and dark hair and soulful grey eyes. He had always had a soft spot in his heart for the Noldor ever since he first spotted them in Middle Earth, particularly the wild and passionate sons of Fëanor. Celegorm was bright and cunning, and when the young Elf showed an aptitude for hunting, he eagerly shared his knowledge of birds and beasts. Curufin was quick to smile, and Caranthir was full of wit and spirit, but Maglor especially captured his imagination with his gifts of song and verse.
For years, Oromë had admired the young bard, though he tried hard not to show it. Maglor’s quiet demeanor gave him an air of unapproachable elegance, so Oromë chose to worship him from afar. He lurked in the evening shadows just outside of Fëanor’s home, listening for Maglor’s clear tenor and sweet harp to pierce the darkness. He lingered outside the concert hall hoping to catch a few stray notes waft by on the breeze. He even hid in the forest shadows when Maglor sang each morning to greet the rising rays of Laurelin.
It was all fine until the night Celegorm found him squatting under the concert room window, grinning like a slack-jawed idiot at one of Maglor’s improvised compositions, The Tale of the Shaven Weasel. Celegorm teased him mercilessly, but he agreed to keep it a secret. So, for now, he contented himself by watching other Elves from afar. For the most part.
A beautiful young thing with legs that went on for miles dipped his toes in the surf, and Oromë felt that familiar swell of desire. Ducking under the water, he rode the surf closer into the shore before raising his glistening head above the waves.
“There!” cried the lad. “I see him! It’s the kraken!”
All at once dozens of young Elves, most as naked as the day they were born, rushed down the beach and charged into the sea like a herd of water buffalo in heat. Inhibitions and clothing alike fell to the sand, and the eager cries of lusty young lads filled the salty air. “Me! Touch me!” “Graze my chest with your tentacles!”
All Oromë could do was stare in wide-eyed shock at the surge of bodies splashing toward him. For a wild moment, he contemplated the idea of a sandy orgy, but he knew from experience that sand tended to collect in unwanted places, rendering the encounter less pleasant than one would expect. He also doubted his ability to satisfy so many eager young lads at one time, despite his added appendages. Even for a Vala, it would be too much of a good thing.
With a violent whip of his many tentacles, he shot through the shallow waters out into the deep sea, escaping the dismayed cries of the ungroped youths. “We scared him off,” he heard one wail above the surf, “and now I’ll never know how a tentacle massage feels!”
Moments later, he was back on dry land in his usual rugged form, trying to wriggle his wet body into dry clothing. Nahar, his horse, snuffled at a tuft of grass and flicked her brown eyes up at him.
“Not. One. Word,” he hissed.
She shrugged and munched on some clover as he gathered the rest of his belongings. Some things were better left unsaid.
~*~
Horse and rider thundered along the forest trail, sending all manner of woodland creatures scurrying for shelter. By the time Oromë reached his lodge in the woods, his mood had turned from deeply shocked to horribly ashamed, and to make matters worse, he had a visitor.
Underneath a knotted elm stood the Vala Ulmo, Lord of the Sea, looming like a barnacled nightmare. He glared over at Oromë with a look fit to freeze a charging bull at thirty paces.
“We have a problem,” the nightmare growled and gestured to the door of Oromë’s large wooden house with his trident. Oromë swung open the wide oak door and held it as Ulmo sloshed inside.
“A problem?” Oromë asked, not bothering to hide the irritation in his tone. Yes, he knew there was a problem, thank-you-very-much, but a wee flicker of hope danced around the edge of his thoughts. Maybe Ulmo meant a different problem. Perhaps Ulmo needed help with a thieving flock of seagulls, or perhaps a group of flatulent sea lions, or maybe even a renegade whale with a taste for crab traps. He smiled weakly and hoped beyond hope that a gassy sea lion was indeed the issue.
“Technically, you are the one with the problem, but since there are hundreds of naked Elves roaming the shore in search of a molesting kraken, it has become OUR problem.”
“Ugh.” Oromë sank into the nearest armchair, leaving Ulmo to drip in the doorway.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Ulmo’s scowl deepened. “Because I’m not leaving here until our problem is resolved.”
“What do you want me to do?” Oromë’s head began to ache and he rubbed his temples in slow, clockwise circles. It didn’t help.
“Stop fondling Elves, for one.”
“Done.”
“And stop lying to yourself. I know what you are doing.”
Oromë stopped massaging his temples and shot Ulmo a dubious look. “And what exactly is that?”
“Groping random Elves instead of finding the one Elf who you truly desire.”
“I…um…what?” Oromë shifted in his seat, uneasy with the direction the conversation was headed. “I know exactly how to find Celegorm. Look for the largest group of fair young Elleth, and there he is, right in the center.”
“Not Celegorm. It was never about Celegorm,” Ulmo continued, knowing a raw nerve when he saw one. “He is merely a means to an end, an excuse to see more of his dear brother, isn’t he?”
“Of course not. I love Celegorm like a son, and I treasure the time we spend together in the forests.”
“That is not what I mean and you know it. What you feel for Maglor is far from paternal affection.” Seeing Oromë’s awkward expression spurred Ulmo onward. “Quit preying on unsuspecting Elves and go find him. He’s the one you want.”
It was true, and there was no denying it. From the first moment he had seen Maglor, Oromë knew he was different…special. He lacked the quick temper that characterized his brothers, yet possessed the same fiery passion that drove Fëanor to greatness. The result manifested itself in collections of sonnets, anthems and songs that brought tears to the eyes of the most hardened warriors and inspiration to the hearts of young lovers. Even now, the first notes of Maglor’s Ode to a Mossy Stump could warm the most cynical parts Oromë’s heart.
“You are right,” admitted Oromë with a despondent sigh. “He is the one I want, but I haven’t the foggiest idea how to pursue him.”
“I have just the thing. It never fails.”
“Truly?” Oromë was skeptical. If there was a Vala who looked even more intimidating than him, it was Ulmo. And perhaps Námo, but Námo’s wife kept him on a short leash, so he didn’t really count. If Ulmo had a tactic that worked, he would listen.
“Oh, yes,” replied Ulmo with a sage nod. He leaned forward as if ready to divulge the secret of life itself and said in a loud whisper, “Clams.”
“Clams? Clams?!”
“Just think about it. Clams are the perfect gift,” Ulmo cried enthusiastically. “They’re easy to catch, taste delicious and the shells can be used for a variety of practical or decorative purposes. I’ve even seen the shells used as tableware.”
Oromë sighed and resumed rubbing his temples, this time in counterclockwise circles. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
Ulmo seemed pleased to have helped. “Splendid! Tell me how it goes.” He splashed his way back to the door, then paused to waggle a finger. “And no more groping naked Elves. It upsets the dolphins.”
For the better part of the afternoon, Oromë sat in his armchair, rubbing his temples and trying desperately to think of a reasonable, non-clammy way to approach Maglor. By the time the light of Laurelin gave way to that of Telperion, he’d rubbed two red spots on his forehead, but had not massaged a single good idea out of his throbbing head.
~*~
Daybreak found Oromë in exactly the same place it had found him every other pleasant day for the past few weeks: in the water, just off the shore. He’d lain awake all night fretting over a good excuse to bump into Maglor. There wasn’t one. He couldn’t simply knock on the Elf’s front door and introduce himself as Celegorm’s friend the Vala, who had been admiring him from afar for years. That would be awkward and strange. He knew, however, that Maglor often sang as the first rays of Laurelin bathed the sky in vibrant streams of orange and gold. Perhaps, if he waited for the right moment, he could approach Maglor after his morning ritual.
So, once again, Oromë bobbed up and down in the cool sea, cracking oysters with his tentacles and scanning the beach for any sign of Maglor. He appeared on the sand just as the first blush of Laurelin’s rays tinted the sea and sky a dusky pink.
The high, clear notes of Maglor’s song carried over the water like a finely woven net. It wrapped around Oromë, drawing him closer with gentle tugs until he found himself sitting in shallow water, completely enraptured. In fact, it took a few moments for him to even realize the song had ended.
Maglor cocked his head to one side, studied him for a moment then said, “A kraken? How unexpected. What brings you to this stretch of shore?”
The opportunity for which Oromë had been so eagerly waiting had finally presented itself! He pulled himself up to his full kraken height, slithered up the sand to where Maglor stood and dropped a small net full of clams right at his feet. He intended to say something clever such as, “Please accept this simple gift from an admirer,” but in his haste to speak, he forgot that krakens do not have tongues. Or lips, for that matter. What came out of his gaping maw was a long belch that smelled of saltwater and partially digested oysters.
“Brrraaaaaaaaaaaapppp.” Oromë wanted to die.
Maglor wrinkled his nose and took a step backward. “For me?” he asked with a nod toward the clams. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness. We should steam them for breakfast. Will you join me?”
Oromë dared not open his mouth again, so he nodded his bulbous kraken head in assent, and together they made their way up the beach to a tidy campsite. In short order, the clams were in a pot, steaming away.
Maglor perched himself on a large piece of driftwood and pulled his tunic over his head. “It is already warm at so early an hour. Today will be perfect for swimming.”
Carefully, Oromë hoisted himself onto the driftwood, too, which proved difficult given his current state. The suction cups on his tentacles stuck to the wood, causing him a bit of mild panic. He twisted, yanked and flailed his arms and managed to ply one loose with a sharp pop. His eyes darted back to Maglor, who by this time had divested himself of the rest of his clothing. Oromë did what any black-blooded kraken would do - stare.
Maybe it was just his imagination, but Maglor seemed intrigued by his appearance. Was he coming closer? Oromë swayed a little on the log as Maglor rubbed one of his tentacles with the tip of his big toe.
“For a kraken, you’re actually quite attractive, and I must admit that your tentacles hold a certain odd appeal,” said Maglor, who looked more than a little appealing himself. “But I think I prefer the real you.”
“Yarrrp?!” belched Oromë in surprise. The real him?! Blast!
Maglor pointed at Oromë’s carefully folded tentacles. “Kraken do not sit with their legs crossed,” he observed.
Oromë heaved a fish-scented sigh of defeat and morphed into his usual seven foot tall self. The driftwood log groaned under the pressure of the added weight before it, too, admitted defeat and dumped him naked right onto the sand. Unfortunately, the sand now covered the very parts of him that one would least want covered in sand. Fortunately, though, his change in vertical alignment put him squarely in line with Maglor’s substantial assets. They were covered in nothing but the cool morning air. Oromë grinned in spite of himself.
“You’ve been staring at me for the better part of two decades,” noted Maglor as he ran his fingertips slowly down his own taut torso. “Don’t you think it’s time you introduced yourself?
Oromë sat up straight and cleared his throat. “Greetings, Maglor. I am Oromë, Lord of the Forests.”
“Well met, Lord Oromë,” Maglor smoothly replied and offered the Vala an outstretched hand. “What say you to a swim before breakfast? Sand can be quite chafing.”
Hand-in-hand, the two waded into the cool, clear water. Oromë could scarcely take his eyes off of Maglor, who made a show of rinsing his long dark hair. He combed it with his long fingers, flipped it over his shoulder and reached up to smooth the stray locks off of his forehead. Oromë felt glad the water was waist deep.
Maglor took Oromë’s hand and held it to his lips, covering his fingers in soft, warm kisses. “Before we go any further, I need your word that the kraken will no longer make daily appearances just off shore.”
“You have my word,” Oromë replied as he wrapped his free hand round Maglor’s slim waist and pulled him close.
“I am the only oyster whose pearl you may pluck.” Maglor pressed himself even closer in invitation.
“An apt analogy,” mused Oromë as his hand drifted to cup Maglor’s bottom. “Round, smooth, firm, lovely…”
“Well, I do have a way with words.” Maglor wrapped his arms around Oromë’s neck and began to nibble at his collarbone.
“Yes, they roll right off of your tongue,” Oromë rasped as Maglor licked the curve of his neck.
“Only when I’m feeling inspired.” Maglor twined his legs round Oromë’s waist to show him the extent of his inspiration and began to hum a tune.
“I know my day is looking up/when I’m fondled by a suction cup/ My spirit notches up a peg/when tentacles wrap around my leg…”
Oromë chuckled and gave Maglor’s bottom a playful smack. “Stop it or I’ll pluck your pearl right here, little oyster.”
Maglor raised his head and gave Oromë a look hot enough to melt steel. “That’s exactly what I hoped you would say.”
Threading his fingers through Maglor’s damp hair, Oromë pulled him into a fiery kiss so deep he felt it in his knees. No more hiding, no more furtive longings, no more worshiping from afar. This was the real him holding the Elf he’d always wanted.
Much to the dismay of young Elves everywhere, the kraken was never seen again.
~*~