#askaipi

There was the misery of torture of course, of having the flesh torn from his back with spiked whips until he passed out from blood loss, only to have the whips brought out again when he was half healed. There was the horrible pain of glowing metal set to his flesh until he thought his bones must be singed, all the while his tormenters asked for answers he did not know and had never known. There was the misery of constant humiliation, sometimes as a method of torment, but also the just the daily degradation as he was denied clothes and the filth on his body built up, until he felt lower than a worm. 

He also learned that misery could be delivered just as well through neglect. At first, he thought he could bear hunger, but as the years passed and he saw his body waste before his eyes, the gnawing pain in his gut became harder and harder to bear. The pain of thirst moved faster; he soon learned that even if he had been allowed a cup of bitter, oily water, in just a few hours Maitimo’s throat would be burning. He would wait for days with his awful thirst in whatever position he had been chained in, the ache in his joints and the cramps in his muscles growing into agony.

Misery sank into his bones, until it seemed to encompass his past, his present, and his future. When they came to unchain him from the horrible crouch he had been kept in for several days, Maitimo felt a brief moment of relief despite the more logical part of his mind that told him he was being released only for further pain. The four orcs sent to escort him had to drag him; his legs refused to move after being locked in place for so long.

When the walls changed from the rough texture of the caves he was usually moved between to smooth dark stone, Maitimo felt his dread grow. The only time he was taken this far above ground was when he was taken to Morgoth, and that was the worst misery by far in Angband. The Vala’s piercing eyes and terrible burning spirit seemed able to torment his mind as much as whips tormented his body.

He wasn’t brought to the throne room. Instead, they stopped in front of a pair of iron bound double doors.

“We have a guest for Lord Mairon,” one of the orcs said.

The guard at the door peered at him suspiciously. “My lord did not tell me he was expecting any visitors.”

“Order from the Mighty One,” the orc replied.

“He’s not going to like this,” the guard warned, but rapped on the door with his spear anyway.

“What?” The flat question came from inside the room.

“Lord Melkor has sent you a visitor.”

There was a sound that seemed penetrate Maitimo’s very being; whatever was on the other side of that door wasn’t pleased. “Make it quick.”

Maitimo didn’t know what he expected as he was dragged through the door, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this. The floor was carpeted, the plush surface unbelievably soft against feet that had only felt stone for years. The room was diffused with light, the soft glow of candles magnified by crystals and colored glass. The large room seemed to be divided into different purposes — Maitimo could have sworn he saw goldsmithing tools at a workbench and another corner with glass containers filled with multi-colored liquids — before he was thrown to the ground.

“Kneel,” snarled the orc, as if it was possible for Maitimo to do anything else. He bowed to Mairon. “The Mighty One says you must interrogate him.”

“Oh really? I must interrogate him? As if I have nothing better to do with my time than question a useless prisoner? I suppose requisitions, excavations, and the logistics of arming our entire host is not enough?” Mairon’s low musical voice was at odds with the sharp sarcasm of his tone. Maitimo watched his guards shuffle awkwardly from his spot on the ground.

“Get out. And if you breathe a word of what I said, I will slowly boil you from the inside out.” The orcs beat a hasty retreat, and then they were alone. Maitimo didn’t look up; whatever horrors were in store for him would happen whatever he did.

“Well, have a seat, I’ll get to you in a moment.” That at least grabbed Maitimo’s attention. He peered up from his spot on the floor. Mairon wasn’t looking at him at all; his entire focus was on whatever he was writing. Maitimo almost gasped out loud; Mairon was stunning. Red hair, a deeper shade than any he had seen tumbled around his shoulders. The golden flame of his eyes was mesmerizing. Maitimo swallowed; he already felt horribly out of place and filthy in the rich, pristine chambers. Now he felt like a twisted creature compared to the being before him. 

But he had been asked to take a seat. Earlier, he would have fought even the smallest order in Angband, but now he knew there was no point in resisting this reasonable request. Better to save his energy for the actual questioning. Maitimo crawled to the chair, and pulled himself onto it. He winced as he sat down. His back and buttocks were still only partially healed from the last time he had been whipped, but the flinch was more so at the thought of his filthy skin touching the elegant upholstery. 

Mairon didn’t look up through the whole laborious process. He appeared to be filling in some sort of grid, carefully writing figures and occasionally tallying up the columns. Finally he looked up.

“So you are the High King of the Noldor?” He sounded bored.

“I was. I am not king of much here.” Maitimo met Mairon’s eyes, trying not to be the cringing thing he could feel himself becoming. 

“Hm, so I am to interrogate you. Are they still asking you about silima?”

“Among other things,” Maitimo said cautiously.

“I already know the size of your army, how they are armed, what they have gained, what they still lack, where you are camped, the messages that have been exchanged with the local Sindar, and who now calls himself the High King. I’m sure I know more than you at this point about the Noldor on these shores.” Mairon sighed heavily. “But I shall question you nonetheless. How did Fëanáro create the Silmarils?”

“I don’t know,” Maitimo said, reflexive terror closing around his throat and making his voice shake.

“Why did Fëanáro burn the ships?”

“To prevent anyone from fleeing, and from his half-brother from joining us.” He had agonized over letting that information slip, but it had spilled out some time ago. In the end he wasn’t sure how much it mattered. Morgoth already knew of the strife between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë; he had helped sow it. At least Maitimo had not spoken of the kinslaying.

“Anything else you wish to share?” Mairon absently flicked a contraption on his desk, setting off a tinkling cascade of chimes.

“No.”

“Well, that was a very productive conversation, a good use of time for us both.”

Maitimo felt a huff of air leave him, something like a laugh. “This is the best use of my time since I arrived.”

A corner of Mairon’s mouth rose. “I suppose it is.” He drummed his fingers against the desk. “Nelyafinwë, do you like games?”

“Yes,” said Maitimo hesitantly. 

“The only thing that’s enjoyed by folk here is base gambling. A good wager can be entertaining, but only for a moment.” Mairon carefully set the ledger to the side. “The numbers are as good as they are going to get until Langon sends his update.” Mairon stood and returned with two goblets. He handed one to Maitimo. Maitimo sniffed it suspiciously. 

“It’s water.”

After a cautious sip, Maitimo began to drink greedily, the cool, clean water soothing his parched throat and tasting sweeter than any nectar.

“If you throw up, I am expelling you immediately.” 

Maitimo reluctantly lowered the goblet, and saw a board with many glittering pieces had appeared on the desk. 

He tried to remember what had happened last night. Tani was in town and she had brought an array of exotic goods as usual. The Khazad-dûm dwarves were good for more than mithril; they also provided access to a vast trading network east of the Misty Mountains. This time she hadn’t brought fine fabrics and beautiful glasswork; instead she had spread out an array of dried mushrooms, each a more alarming combination of colors than the last.

“We tried some of these when my kin brought them to Khazad-dûm,” Tani said. “A monochrome fabric will look like a rainbow, you’ll feel heat and cold like you’ve never felt before, and problems that have been locked deep in your mind will come springing out. But you have to be careful — if you consume them with darkness in your heart you might spend the whole night screaming.”

Annatar knew from the first sentence that passed Tani’s lips that the Gwaith-i-Mírdain who were gathered around the dwarf were going to try the mushrooms, even if the consequences she had described were twice as likely and twice as dangerous. He also knew that her description was accurate. He had encountered such plants in his journeys in the east and seen them used by sages and torturers alike. 

When they gathered in their corner of the common room that evening with a jar full of sweet fruit and nut paste that would be their vehicle for the mushrooms, Annatar had tried to demur.

“Eating a fungus is not going to grant me any insights I don’t already have. Besides, I don’t even metabolize the chemical components that create the psychedelic effect.”

“But couldn’t you change that?” Celebrimbor asked.

“Yes…” The next question was inevitable.

“Don’t you want to try it with us? You might not discover anything you didn’t already know, but you won’t know until you try.”

“It would be a waste,” Annatar tried as a last ditch attempt.

Celebrimbor squeezed his hand under the table. “There is plenty for us all to share.”

“Fine.” Some time later he needed to figure out why he always caved when Celebrimbor asked him to do something. It could potentially interfere with things. “If we really are set on ingesting strange mushrooms on the word of a dwarvish trader—” Tavi made a noise of protest. “We should try to only consume the mushrooms. Other mind-altering substances like alcohol should be avoided; they will only interfere.”

From his position curled up in Celebrimbor’s bed, Annatar eyed an empty wine bottle cast on the floor. He vaguely remembered making the smallest alternation to his liver so that he could feel the effects of the mushrooms. Was that the error? Or was it the alcohol he must have ingested? Or did he have more than one mushroom, or even worse, multiple kinds of mushrooms?

He remembered Celebrimbor pressing the drug against his lips and smiling widely as Annatar did the same. He remembered being convinced that he’d made the alteration to his liver too subtle as he laughed at his friends discovering their own fingers, the grain of the table, and the bubbles in a fermented drink. He remembered Celebrimbor pressing his face to Annatar’s neck, murmuring about colors so beautiful he couldn’t bear to see. And he had told him to look because even if he forgot in the morning it was worth the joy of seeing now. Annatar had not been looking at the candlelight, or the condensation on the glasses, or listening to the rippling ebb of voices; he had been staring at Celebrimbor’s face.

That was the last coherent memory. He dragged himself upright and dourly eyed the trail of clothes that led to the bed. He couldn’t imagine the state he had been in to throw his clothes on the ground with no thought to their upkeep or proper place.

Physical sensations are only temporary. Pain is meaningless, Annatar thought to himself as he slowly put on a linen shirt and carefully folded the rest of his garments and set them on a table. He picked up the empty wine bottle, grimacing the whole time, and finally exited the room.

“You’re up!” Celebrimbor greeted him from his desk with a devastating amount of energy. 

“Yes,” was all he could manage as he took in Celebrimbor, fully dressed and very awake. He took a second glance as he slumped on the couch across from him. His relatively composed state was not quite as impressive as it had been at first; he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and his braids were definitely on their second day of wear. “Did you sleep at all?”

“No. After I helped you to bed, I stayed up all night writing on colorimetry.” He gestured at the stack of paper next to him. “No promises that it’s comprehensible though,” he said with a wry smile.

“Aren’t you tired?” Annatar found Celebrimbor’s complete disregard for what one might term healthy habits concerning at the best of times, but more and more he was wondering how he’d survived the First Age.

“Not at all! Look what else Tavi brought us.” Celebrimbor thrust a mug of pungent liquid towards him. Annatar recognized another familiar plant from the east: a bean that could be used in several different forms as a stimulant. He had used it in the past as a paste given to slaves to increase productivity. Celebrimbor was of course drinking it as if it were as harmless as water.

“Aren’t you tired of modifying your state of being with chemicals?” he asked.

Celebrimbor just laughed at him. “Actually tonight we were going to try the set of mushrooms we didn’t get to last night. Will you join us?”

“Absolutely not.” While Annatar was not perfect, no matter how he strove for it, he could at least resist making the same mistake two nights in a row. 

“Very well; I don’t think it will be quite as enjoyable without you.” The cool silver  eyes were so warm.

“Aren’t you going to sleep at all?” Annatar asked, trying to convey his disapproval. 

Celebrimbor began throwing some things in a bag. “Maybe this afternoon. Lofrik composed a ballad last night, he’s going to perform it soon. Would you like to join me?”

Annatar could think of few things he’d like less in his current state than listening to a dwarvish ballad composed under the influence of psychedelic mushrooms. “I would not.”

Celebrimbor poured him a glass of water and sat on the arm of the couch as Annatar drank it. “Want me to have anything sent here?”

“Just some bread.” He should probably object to being fussed over, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. 

Celebrimbor laughed. “I’ll have someone come by. I’ll be back later to try to convince you to join us again tonight.” 

Celebrimbor flicked his tongue over the head of his cock and Gil had to bite off the moan that rose unbidden. Brim’s pace stayed agonizingly slow though, and Gil wondered how long they had until Oropher showed up for his meeting. He grabbed another section of hair and started twisting. Gil could ask Brim to stop, or speed up, or he could just grab the back of his head and start fucking his throat, but that would rather prove his point that Gil was too impatient and bad at taking time to enjoy life’s simpler pleasures. 

Gil-galad was not impatient — would an impatient person enjoy rope making? He could be a patient person and still hold the opinion that thirty minutes was on the long end for a blow job. Well, hopefully it hadn’t been thirty minutes yet, or else Oropher would be at the door, about to walk in on Gil-galad in a very compromising position with the Sinda’s least favorite co-council member.

Finally, finally, Celebrimbor sped up slightly, the tight friction of his pursed lips making Gil’s heart speed and breath quicken. He clenched the section of hair he had been winding in his hand, resisting the urge to pull harder. That wasn’t what they were doing this afternoon. He tugged the hair lightly in warning. Brim looked up and squeezed his thigh in assent. Not that that was ever a question — he always swallowed. 

Gil-galad muffled a shout into forearm, the orgasm that had been building through Celebrimbor’s slow strokes and light suction finally cresting. 

Celebrimbor wiped off his mouth and laid his head on Gil-galad’s thigh and smiled sweetly up at him as Gil tried to get his breathing back under control.

“What the fuck were you doing to my hair?” he asked the moment Gil felt capable of speech.

“Um, twisting it?” Gil offered.

Celebrimbor felt his head, almost half his hair twisted into three-strand right laid sections. “Was I boring you? Was the blow job bad?” He looked genuinely offended. Celebrimbor always held himself to a high standard, whether it was in the forge, in the council chamber, or in the bedroom.

“No, no! I just wanted to keep my hands busy,” Gil said sheepishly. 

Celebrimbor raised his eyebrows. “I told you, you just can’t sit still.”

“That’s not what this was about!” Gil protested as he tucked himself back into his braies and smoothed his robes back down. Celebrimbor stood up, straightening his clothes. He glanced back at Gil, making sure he was presentable before opening the door.

“Thank you for your guidance, your Grace,” he said as he opened the door. He held it open for Oropher, who had been apparently waiting in the hall. Gil-galad was suddenly very glad he had thought to stifle any noises. Oropher looked at Celebrimbor’s haphazardly twisted hair in confusion. “Nice to see you, Lord Oropher,” Celebrimbor said with a smile. “Have a good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Celebrimbor,” Oropher said stiffly. He wrinkled his nose as he walked into the room. Gil tried not to think about how much the room must smell like sex.