Fall for Tolkien

“What?” he said, even that single word sounding as if it had to claw its way out.

“Please, listen before saying anything,” Fingon said. “You told me once you wished you could talk to me, but the words get tangled in your mind when you try. You find it hard to share your memories in mind-speak, so I found another way. Show me—”

“No.”

“I asked you to listen. Show me what happened to you there. Use my body to speak to me. I want to know. I want to have a part in everything you are.”

“I cannot do it to you,” Maedhros said, pale, strained. “You cannot wish for it.”

“Yet I do.”

It would be easier to convince Maedhros if Fingon focused on his own desire. If he spoke more about how his suggestion would help Maedhros, he would lose this battle.

“I assure you I can take it,” he said when Maedhros kept shaking his head.

He would not let Maedhros leave him out, leave him behind. Never again.

“You know nothing of what you speak of.”

“Do you think me weak?” Fingon asked and, without giving Maedhros time to answer, continued, “Do you not trust me?”

He had him, he knew. It was the only sure way to make Maedhros surrender short of telling him you owe me, which Fingon would not do, especially in such circumstances.

“Where did the pillory come from?” Maedhros asked with a hideous twist of lips.

Stalling, now. Fingon would play along.

“Is that what you call it?” he asked. “I made it.”

He beamed with pride, knowing it was in stark contrast with his position.

“Is that where you kept disappearing?”

Fingon shrugged and grinned, which did little to put Maedhros at ease.

“What of the whips and the rest?”

“Confiscated from the latest orc raid.”

“How long have you been preparing for this?”

“Long enough. Have you satisfied your curiosity, or should we also discuss what kind of wood I used to make this?”

Maedhros, who had been stubbornly looking into Fingon’s eyes and nowhere else until that moment, glanced at the pillory.

“How did you know?” he asked quietly.

The hard platform dug into Fingon’s knees. He fidgeted, grasping the wood and releasing it.

“You dream too loudly sometimes,” he said. “I did not pry intentionally. I caught only a glimpse.”

For a brief moment, he felt Maedhros’s urge to flee again before Maedhros shut it down.

“You should have woken me,” he said.

“Next time,” Fingon answered. “Now, will you finally do it?”

Maedhros wet his lips, ran a hand over his face, and nodded once.

“Put your neck in place,” he said.

Fingon readily obeyed, a small, triumphant smile on his face.

“Why would you do it?” Maedhros asked in an exasperated tone, one he had once used for children who had successfully graduated from toddlerhood but were still far from adulthood.

“Because you said so,” Fingon said, raising his head again.

“Why would you do as I say?” Maedhros asked. “You must fight. Where is your pride? Where is your dignity? Is that what you think happened? Is that how you think of me?”

“No, forgive me,” Fingon said.

He looked away and blinked very fast. If he cried now, Maedhros would stop immediately. He straightened his shoulders, set his jaw and stared into Maedhros’s eyes.

“I told you to bow your head,” Maedhros said.

Fingon spat at his feet, his skin tingling, his stomach tightening.

Instantly, his braids were wrapped around Maedhros’s hand. Fingon did not even have the time to think about resisting before the pillory was closed and locked around his neck. He could not help the small noise that escaped his lips—surprise and arousal, fear and thrill.

Maedhros took a step back.

“If you are not going to follow the rules of your own game, we might as well end it,” he said.

Fingon looked up, even though it was quite hard with the wood clamped around his neck like a vice.

“What did I do wrong this time?” he asked.

“Not a sound should pass your lips! Do you wish to show weakness before your enemy? Do you enjoy your mistreatment?”

This time, Fingon had to look away, so Maedhros wouldn’t see him biting his lips to stifle his laughter.

“Very well,” he said. “Do your black work, villain! You shame only yourself. Craven you are, daring to stand before me only when I am in chains. Release me, and we shall see who between us shall be victorious.”

Maedhros slapped him, which Fingon expected and relished. He laughed merrily, earning another slap.

“Is that all you are capable of?” he grinned.

Maedhros slowly circled him, stopping behind him. Fingon’s breathing picked up. He bit his lip when Maedhros took his braids again and pulled his head back.

“I could break your neck,” Maedhros said, leaning over him. “In time, you will wish I had. If you ask me nicely, I shall do it now. I shall spare you.”

Fingon didn’t speak. Maedhros’s hot breath tickled his ear, his chest was almost touching Fingon’s back, and the tip of his boot pushed against Fingon’s rear, slipping under it, so close to—

“Oh, please,” he moaned.

Maedhros let him go.

“No!” he said. “This is not right. You would not beg so easily. You would be defiant despite your torment.”

“All right.” Fingon cleared his throat. “You may have imprisoned me, but you shall never see me broken, you fiend! Try as you might, you will not shatter my spirit! No evil will tarnish the light of Blessed Valinórë.”

He looked up at Maedhros with as much pride as he could muster from his position.

“Well, now I simply do not believe you,” Maedhros said.

Fingon let his head fall with a sigh.

“I am listening,” he said. “And I am getting cold.”

“First and foremost, do not slouch,” Maedhros said. “Hold your head high. No, not that high. By this point, you have already realized that you will hurt your neck in this position. You have realized that you will spend a long time in this device, so you must calculate where to spend your strength. Do not clench your fists. It betrays your pain. No, it does not mean you should hold your palms wide open. Unnatural. Just let them fall. But not weakly!”

Fingon rolled his wrists in the pillory.

“Do you think I cannot see what you are doing?” he asked. “Do you believe I cannot take it if you show me the truth? For once, be honest with me.”

Maedhros would turn this into mockery if Fingon allowed him, instead of unburdening himself of his secrets; he would stall and pretend until Fingon laughed and spoiled the mood or lost his temper and put an end to this. But he wouldn’t get what he wanted. Not this time. Fingon stared at Maedhros and did not let him turn his gaze away until Maedhros’s eyes narrowed—two ice floes in the middle of deathly pale lakes. Fingon had won.

“Is it honesty you wish for?” said Maedhros, and now there was all the frost of Himring in his voice. He drew his blade. “See that you do not come to regret your wish.”

Fingon thought Maedhros would put the dagger to his throat, would whisper to him how easy it would be to cut him, bleed him out like a pig; he thought, at worst, Maedhros would carve a few scars into his skin like the ones he bore on his. Fingon’s breath stuttered in anticipation; his hips shot forward.

But Maedhros did none of it. What he did was catch the ends of Fingon’s braids in his right elbow and slash them off with a smooth, precise movement. Fingon cried out but in vain. Twice more, Maedhros repeated it until Fingon’s thick braids lay on the ground around him, his shorn hair falling in curls over his ears, barely reaching his jaw.

Fingon could not speak for a moment, breathing in the cold air with the greed of a drowning man.

“Why?” he whispered finally.

“It will make shaving your head easier,” Maedhros answered.

He took Fingon’s chin in his hand, turned his head from side to side, examining. Fingon looked into his eyes, trying not to shiver.

“When I came for you, your hair was longer than it had ever been,” he said.

Despite himself, his voice cracked. Maedhros smiled, hearing it.

“When I hang you in chains from my tower, yours, too, will grow long again,” he said.

He tugged at Fingon’s hair, nodding satisfied at the sound it tore from his throat. Fingon blinked his tears away, but a few escaped, falling rapidly on the wood below. His braids! He did want the truth from Maedhros, but such cruelty was still unexpected, still humiliating, laying him bare in a way that was beyond simple nudity.

Maedhros caught a tear and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Not enough,” he said. “By now, you should be weeping. You should be cringing away from my touch. You should be trying to bite your tongue off, so you will not beg, at the same time knowing that it is inevitable. You are beginning to realize that you are not as strong-willed, not as resilient, not as proud as you thought yourself to be.”

Fingon gritted his teeth and raised his head.

“I see you need more persuasion,” Maedhros said and took the whip.

Fingon wasn’t unfamiliar with pain—unwanted and sought for alike—but the beasts and orcs lacked the deliberateness of these swift, painful strikes, and their games with Maedhros lacked the viciousness.

Fingon’s heart beat in the rhythm of the song the whip sang as it lashed across his back. Fingon imagined it breaking open his skin, his flesh, exposing his spine, unmaking him.

“Wait!” he cried, unable to stop himself.

Maedhros halted. He walked slowly to stand before Fingon.

“The word you are looking for,” he said, “is mercy.”

“I assumed you would be unfamiliar with it,” Fingon panted, his hand stretching in vain to wipe off the sweat from his forehead.

Maedhros cracked the whip across his face. Fingon cried out in surprise rather than in pain. Pain came later, exploding along the welt—starting from his right temple and writhing in a line of fire across his nose, under his left eye, over his lips and his jaw. Fingon swallowed the blood flooding his mouth. Maedhros grabbed his chin again, forcing him to tilt his head up. Fingon had closed his eyes. He feared that if he opened them, it would not be Maedhros before him.

“The next one will take your eye, so tread carefully,” said Maedhros’s voice.

He let go of Fingon and walked behind him again. Another burning lash, and he dropped the whip. Fingon’s shoulders sagged.

“Relief should be the farthest thing from your mind,” Maedhros said. “I have not finished with you yet.”

Fingon’s trembling knees pressed against the wooden pillar, his hands clenched into helpless fists.

“Do your worst,” he spat, light-headed from pain.

“No,” Maedhros said. He leaned down, put his chin over Fingon’s head—an imitation of a lover’s gentle gesture—and whispered, “I shall do my best.”

He brushed Fingon’s neck with the back of his hand, stopping for a moment to feel his frenzied pulse. He traced a welt stretching from Fingon’s shoulder to his lower back, so tenderly that it scarcely hurt.

Ever had Maedhros been fond of Fingon’s back. It pleased him to sit and watch as Fingon trained with the sword—shirtless for his benefit—muscles coming alive under his skin. Later, he would put a hand between Fingon’s shoulder blades and give a slight push, and Fingon would bend easily, skin damp with sweat, limbs still quivering with exertion. Maedhros would stroke his neck, his shoulders, run his fingers along the ridges of his spine, trace his ribs, his hipbones, then slip his hand lower and make Fingon utter sounds he would never think himself capable of. His mind—unguarded for a brief moment—would open before Fingon, so that he would feel Maedhros’s ravenous desire, his worshipful reverence, his tremulous devotion.

Now he knew none of it. Maedhros’s mind was carefully controlled, and his fingertips did not press into Fingon’s skin in adoration. No longer was Fingon an idol to worship, a lover to cherish; he was a possession, a toy to be played with or broken on a whim.

He shuddered as Maedhros’s fingers continued their unhurried journey over his cracked skin, mixing cold sweat with beads of blood and adorning Fingon with this unholy stain.

Yet, those fingers were slick when they began playing with him, teasing him. Fingon, deafened by the drumbeat of fear and desire, had not heard him uncork the vial, had not even thought he would.

But Maedhros took care with him, going slower than he had even their first time. Fingon strained against the wood, his neck stiff, as one after another, four digits invaded his body. He focused on the painful marks the whip had left on him, locking his knees around the pillar, so he wouldn’t arch back, wouldn’t give his torturer the satisfaction.

Maedhros wasn’t deterred. He pushed his stump to Fingon’s back, forcing his body down. The wood pressed against Fingon’s throat, snug as a lover’s hand. Maedhros twisted his fingers. Fingon flushed hot again despite the damp coldness of the dungeon. The sting of the welts betrayed him, striking a harmonious chord with the thrum of pleasure instead of distracting him from it. He rocked with the fingers, rubbing against the pillar, a distant part of his mind hoping he had polished it well.

“More?” asked an amused voice. “You only have to ask.”

Fingon’s stubborn silence was broken by a strangled whine when the fingers slid out of him and gripped his hardness.

“A proposal for you, then,” the voice continued. It was not even slightly out of breath. “Tell me a secret, and I shall be merciful.”

Fingon wanted to spit at him again, but even if he could move his head, his mouth was too dry.

“I am no traitor!” he forced out.

The hand tightened around his cock, and Fingon twisted, helpless, sobbed once before biting on his tongue.

Short, fey laughter made him fold his ears.

“You will speak,” he heard a low whisper. “You will tell me all I wish to know. You will do all I wish you to do. You will become what I make you.”

“No,” Fingon said, weeping. “No.”

His cock was finally freed, but he had no time to take a relieved breath before the fingers were back inside him, stabbing, leaving their burning prints within his flesh for good.

“Already you yield.”

The fingers left him and, without thinking, he struggled against his restraints so he could follow them.

“Already you show your true nature.”

He was breached slowly, smoothly. There was no pain, yet it stung, and he wept bitter tears.

“So easy it is to break you. Even the youngest, weakest Moriquendi resist more. Yet, a prince of the Noldor, nurtured in the Light of the Trees, shatters like a porcelain bowl, spilling his essence, emptied, ready for me to reshape it as I wish, fill it with what I wish.”

“You lie,” Fingon whispered, rocking in rhythm with the slow thrusts. “I am not yours. You might mark my body, but you will never touch my fëa.”

“Curious. Elven hröa and fëa are connected, are they not? Are they not one, intertwined? Maim one, and the other shall reflect its defacement. Perhaps it is the marring of your fëa that your skin shows so plainly. Do you not feel it—the shadows inside you, the charred edges of your fëa? Do you not feel the seed of hatred blooming, extinguishing the light? Soon, it shall consume you all.”

“No,” Fingon cried, “no, you lie! It burns bright. It burns bright!”

“Indeed, bright and powerful is hate. There it sits now inside you and feeds and grows. You shall lie in the dark and stoke its fire. Its flames shall consume you and all who are foolish enough to stay near you. You shall hide in the dark and plot their demise for the crime of being unmarred unlike you, for having the daring to care for you. You shall hate them and hate yourself for it with no reprieve and no escape. You shall hate life itself and all that binds you to it.”

“No,” Fingon said through tears. “I still love. I love.”

“You shall succumb to me,” the voice said. “You shall succumb to hatred. You shall be consumed by fear.”

“Never!” Fingon cried through halting sobs. “Never!”

“Admit it!” The punishing angle of the hips changed. The hand gripped him again. “Accept it!”

“No,” Fingon wept even as he arched his back, even as he trembled under the touch of that cruel hand. “No, never!”

The hand was gone momentarily, then it returned with the dagger and pressed it to Fingon’s throat.

“Submit to me if you wish to live. Accept what you are.”

Fingon shook his head, the cold blade grazing the tender skin of his throat.

“I know,” the voice said—gentle, mocking. “What you truly long for is death. I offered you the chance once, and you refused it, yet now you beg for it. But I am nothing if not generous. Admit what you are, what you have turned into, what you have always been destined to become, and I shall grant you your release.”

The thrusts had become faster, erratic, carving Fingon from the inside, the way the dagger threatened to do.

“Say it!” the voice demanded. It wasn’t so unaffected now. It was angry. It was trembling, teary. “Surrender!”

Fingon shook and bit his tongue against the words that threatened to spill from his lips. But he understood now. He knew it was not what Maedhros truly wanted. It was not what he needed.

“Do what you will,” he rasped, aware how the blade dug imperceptibly deeper into his skin. “You shall not have me.”

A wordless cry of rage. Hot seed filling him. The dagger dashing past his throat.

When Fingon gathered his wits enough to be aware of his surroundings again, for a moment, he was sure Maedhros had opened his throat from ear to ear. His hand twitched, but he was still restrained. He took a breath, exhaling with relief when he realized that he still could. His thighs and stomach were sticky. He vaguely remembered feeling his release, though he was not sure if Maedhros had touched him.

His back was cold, deprived of Maedhros’s warm weight. His heartbeat was slowing down. He tried to turn his head to find Maedhros, but his field of vision was limited.

“Russandol,” he called, “you forgot to release me.”

No hurried footsteps approached him; no apologetic exclamation was heard.

“Russandol?” Fingon cried. “Release me!”

He heard Maedhros rasping as if a blade had punctured his lungs, and he was choking on his own blood.

Fingon thrust his arms up and easily broke the lock and the wood. Straightening his aching back and neck, he took a glance at his shorn braids, the taste of regret sharp in his throat, then he ran to Maedhros, slumped in a corner.

“Russandol,” he said, slowly sitting down by him.

Maedhros turned his head to him. Blinked.

“You will be cold,” he said. “Where are your clothes?”

“Never mind that now. Are you well?”

“Oh, you are bleeding!” Maedhros cried. He turned Fingon’s head to the side and hissed at the sight of the welt. “You should not be sitting in the cold, naked and wounded.”

“Russandol,” Fingon said. “Stop it.”

They looked at each other, locked in a silent struggle. Fingon proved more stubborn. Maedhros let out a breath, closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against Fingon’s. For a few moments, they stayed motionless, breathing, Maedhros’s hand grasping Fingon’s arm, Fingon’s palm resting over Maedhros’s heart.

Finally, Maedhros opened his eyes, shuffled back, looked at Fingon and winced.

“Your hair,” he said. “How are you going to explain it if someone asks?”

Fingon felt another sharp stab of regret at the mention of his hair. He stifled it.

“I shall refer them to you,” he said. “Perhaps you can explain that you will be using it to make a chain to hang me from your tower.” He laughed, earning a raised brow from Maedhros. “It was your worst line,” he said. “Please never write poetry.”

“You did not find it so amusing when I spoke it,” Maedhros said, but he was laughing too, even though there were a few familiar shrill notes in his laughter.

He fell silent abruptly, looked at Fingon again, grimaced and shook his head.

“This was a terrible idea,” he said. “Your worst one so far.”

“Hmm,” Fingon said. “I am certain I can recall worse ones. But I shall not remind you, for I am merciful.”

Maedhros laughed his dissonant laugh again, cupped Fingon’s face with a shaking hand, and pulled him close, hiding his face in Fingon’s short curls.

With dismay, Fingon realized that Maedhros had once again deflected, changing the focus of the conversation from himself to Fingon, but he waited until the tremors running through Maedhros’s body subsided.

“Was any of it true?” he asked quietly.

His strength had seeped away, and he was leaning against Maedhros’s side, shivering a little but still refusing to dress.

“You will have to spy on my dreams more to find out,” Maedhros said.

Fingon could not discern his tone, and his mind remained closed.

“I only wonder if this helped you at all,” he said.

“Is that why you did it?” Maedhros asked. “To help me?”

“Mostly, yes,” Fingon said. “Did I?”

“Ever you come to my aid unlooked for,” Maedhros said bitterly. “I cannot say if this was helpful, Findekáno. I am too angry and ashamed.”

Fingon shifted, the welts on his back smarting as they brushed against Maedhros’s woolen tunic.

“Is that all you feel? Anger and shame?”

Maedhros looked at him, and there was sorrow in his eyes and savagery. But he smiled.

“No,” he said. “Come now, come! I cannot abide leaving you in filth and cold for so long.”