Mikhail’s not sure how long it’s been when he wakes up more properly.

He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while now, getting up long enough to half dazed eat what Morwë feeds him and drink sips of water, but once they got him the potion to fight the infection, he stopped trying to fight to stay awake so hard. 

He’s embarrassed to admit it, so he doesn’t even in his dark, dreamless unconsciousness, but it is easier to go along with what the elves want. At the very least, it’s easier to drift than try to fight his way to comprehension. Especially when comprehension means a conversation he’s not ready for.

He hears bits and pieces of their conversations, and although his Quenya isn’t good enough for him to entirely grasp the details while this out of it, he’s pretty sure they know more about the region than he does. Even Morwë— who should know less. They don’t need him, and once they find out he doesn’t know anything useful about the brand…

He wakes with a start, a jolt of adrenaline through his veins violently yanking him down to earth. All of a sudden, the only darkness he sees is in the sky, interrupted by stars he’s never needed to identify. He has people for that.

He pulls himself to a sitting position, and this time, he’s mostly successful without assistance. Moving his body hurts but not so much that he’s forced to demand help. And the pain is significantly different than it was— more the aches of not having moved enough under his own power than the agony he was in before.

Morwë watches him, sitting crouched. Measuring all his movements, ready to step in and help at any moment instead of preparing for a blow. Concern for others looks ugly on him. Disgusting. Mikhail’s first instinct is to slap that look off his face, but he doesn’t have the strength. Besides, there’s the two free elves to worry about.

Well. The one free elf, if what he’s picked up in his moments of half comprehension is to be believed. His once compatriots might not have broken Itarata, but they’ve collared him. All Mikhail needs to do is get rid of Esteldur and regain control over his wayward soldier. Morwë might be trying to “help,” but it’s coming from his love for Mikhail— he’s forgotten the fear. Mikhail needs both, in order to keep his grip tight enough for what he has in mind.

These thoughts are more or less automatic on his part. He’s not even sure where those two are now, and if he was called on to describe what he has in mind for Itarata, he’s not sure he could answer coherently.

“Are you feeling better, sir?” Morwë asks in Quenya. Quietly, almost a whisper.

“Yes,” Mikhail answers in Revkian. He doesn’t want the boy getting in the habit of using that around those two. It was one thing when it was a secret between the two of them, an exotic foreign language he could flaunt his understanding of over the other men, but now he has to face the prospect of Morwë speaking that shit like it’s his native tongue, the words sounds vile to his ears. They sound like Morwë thinking he’s better than Mikhail. He keeps his words at a similar volume, though, assuming the boy’s whispering for a good reason. “A lot. You did good, getting the medicine.”

Morwë nods, flushing at the praise. That’s more like it. But then he has to ruin things by opening his mouth again, not waiting for Mikhail to give him permission to opine.

“I think being around those two did more for you, haha. They’re nearly a thousand!” Morwë smiles as he says that, a small smile full of anxiety and naked adoration that should be reserved for Mikhail alone. It’s like he’s letting Mikhail in on a secret. Mikhail does his best to keep his face blank, trying to hide whatever emotion it is that’s threatening to take him over, but Morwë clearly detects something’s amiss. “What’s wrong, sir?”

“Nothing,” Mikhail answers automatically. He looks around, searching for the two elves in question, and he finds them sound asleep next to each other.

“I finally convinced them to let me keep watch on my own. Well, okay, that was a few nights ago, but I wanted to make sure they were really asleep before I let you out of the trance sleep properly. We should have at least an hour. Sorry I didn’t do a very good job of it, I don’t exactly have practice with this, sir.”

“This? I thought elves couldn’t do magic.”

“I’m not casting,” Morwë says as if the difference should be obvious. “I was just reweaving things so that you were awake and not asleep. Like how Itarata rewove it so you would be asleep, sir.”

The honorific feels almost tagged on there. There’s excitement on his face, which is an emotion Mikhail’s not sure he’s seen on the kid in decades. If ever. What should Morwë have to look forward to? At the very least, other than an opportunity to please him.

“And you were waiting, because?”

“I don’t think they want me to be alone with you, sir. I’m pretty sure Esteldur was only pretending to sleep the other night, so he could stop me from, uh. Doing exactly this, I guess. Sorry.”

Morwë looks away, his cheeks flushing out of embarrassment this time. Mikhail adjusts his sitting position as best as he can, trying to force himself to a cross legged position. His muscles ache from the use, but he ignores their complaint. He needs to look strong. Morwë adjusts his position in response, going from the awkward hovering seat to sitting on his knees. It’d be perfect, if it weren’t for that damn expression. He looks ridiculous like this.

“You did it anyway, though?”

“Of course, sir! You’re my commanding officer. Those two might be allies for now, but I’m loyal to you. And the Empire.” Mikhail feels something between relief and the familiar arousal at Morwë reiterating his allegiances like that, but it doesn’t entirely assuage the mixture of concern and disgust churning in his gut. “Plus, um. They’ve been saying some weird stuff? And I needed to…”

Morwë looks down at the ground beneath his knees. Mikhail knows how uncomfortable being in that position is, how the ground feels like it’s pushing against you. How, if you’re left there long enough, you start to cramp up. Mikhail had almost managed to forget, the taste of another man coming down his throat, laughing at him when he gasped for air. Almost forgotten the lash of a whip on his back. He’d thought once he’d gotten old and big enough, once he’d graduated, once he’d gotten his command—

Mikhail looks at Morwë’s lips, how they’re trembling. How his eyes are so dilated as he admits to confusion. He replays that memory, but it’s Morwë on the ground. Always a comforting thought, humiliating the boy as retaliation for whatever shit his higher ups put him through. Ruining him, again and again. Defiling the pure, untouchable beauty of something that doesn’t age. He needs this. He can have this.

The other two elves are asleep, and he doesn’t know how soundly. Maybe it’s a miscalculation to think he could get away with this. If they hate him already, waking up to Mikhail’s cock in Morwë’s mouth isn’t going to endear him to them any more. Maybe they’d even get over whatever it is that’s stopping Esteldur now he has his boyfriend back and he’ll kill Mikhail already. In this moment, that feels worth it.

(In this moment, he wants that more than anything.)

“What have they been saying, soldier?” Mikhail asks, reaching one hand out. It hurts, but he can’t show weakness now. Not with his once tame wild animal threatening to tug at its leash. He touches Morwë’s chin, and most of that embarrassing, befitting expression wipes away, going blank in that oh so familiar way. Once he’s killed Esteldur and gotten Itarata chained, in whatever form that takes, he’ll make them see Morwë. Wipe out whatever delusions the arrogant bastard’s formed about his perfect soldier.

Morwë trembles at the touch, and Mikhail feels himself growing harder through the trousers those charitable, generous bastards found for him. Finally. Mikhail can see the boy resisting the urge to turn his head away, see the conflict between the fear and the love. There’s nothing like it— nothing like the control. And the best part is, Morwë likes it too. Needs it just as much as Mikhail does. It’s what he was made for.

It’s what they were all made for.

“They’re saying stuff about how… um. About how it’s…”

“How it’s what, Morwë?” Mikhail asks and Morwë has the audacity to pull back. Not entirely out of Mikhail’s grip but enough that Mikhail’s forced to tighten his grip and tug Morwë forward. He makes a small noise, almost a squeak, just like he knows Mikhail likes. Mikhail has to resist the urge to slip a hand down his pants already— he does actually need to know the answer to this.

“That it, um. Should matter what I want. Even if someone is. Protecting me. I don’t need to… pay them back. And in a good military, like the one that they have, people don’t… that everyone treats each other with, um… respect? But respect means something weird, like making sure people have choices? And there aren’t consequences if you say no to stuff?”

Mikhail tightens his grip on Morwë’s chin enough that Morwë whimpers, something pulsing through Mikhail’s veins both burning hot and freezing cold. How dare they. How dare they try to fill his pet’s head full of ideas like that. Yeah, maybe Mikhail’s been taking advantage of the brat, but that’s just the way the world works. It’s not like he really blames the traitorous bastards for what they did to him, after all, even if he’s embarrassingly grateful for Esteldur killing so many of them. They’re just men doing what men do to people that don’t have any power.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Morwë squeaks out. “I’m sorry. I knew they had to be lying, or wrong, or something, it just— sounded wrong, but they both kept saying it, and I guess I kind of. Wanted to believe it?”

“Shhhhh,” Mikhail tells him, muffling his fury, pulling Morwë in by his chin, and Morwë lets himself be led, his back following his head. It’s worse than he thought. So much worse. It’s foolish. Naive. How could these idiots have lasted so long, believing this crap? Let alone trying to convince others of it? A good military? That’s how you get a weak military, full of soft cowards who’re afraid to do what’s necessary.

(He doesn’t think about the fact that two lone elves were able to rescue him and Itarata from the heart of a Revkian stronghold. About how quickly that stronghold had consumed itself in infighting, how all of his strict discipline had meant nothing to what were supposed to be his men. Anything elves have accomplished is only proof of the fact they’re cheating, with their stupid ‘passive’ magic that they flaunt in everyone’s faces as if it’s a reason for their superiority and not evidence that they’re only fit to be slaves.)

Elves are soft, pretty things, only useful for what they can do for men like him. And Morwë is his, always will be. He just needs to remind the boy of that, before his control slips any further.

“It’s a good thing you woke me up when you did,” Mikhail says, measuring his words. He doesn’t want Morwë to think he’s angry with him, after all. It’s not his fault, after all. He’s been a good boy. A good dog, reporting to his master. “That must’ve been so confusing for you. Poor, sweet thing.”

“I…” Morwë starts. His body is as responsive as always— Mikhail can see Morwë’s starting to respond to his master’s touch as always beneath his uniform — but there’s something stopping him from getting with the program entirely. Normally, he’d be throwing himself at Mikhail by now. Normally he’d be slavishly grateful for Mikhail paying him any heed at all. “I don’t think—"

Mikhail puts a finger to Morwë’s lips, his words still quiet but harsh. “That’s right, you don’t think. You obey.”

The resistance on his face lessens, but it doesn’t disappear entirely.

“Yes, sir,” he says, with an almost resigned tone that Mikhail would normally adore, but it’s not scratching the same itch right now. It doesn’t feel right. He wants Morwë to mean it, or almost—

He almost wants Morwë to keep pushing back. To get into a position where he says no. Begs Mikhail not to, for once, to kick and scream like Mikhail had done not too long ago now, and for his no’s to not matter. For Mikhail to take everything from him, in a way he never had before.

“You got me up for a reason,” Mikhail tells him. Morwë nods faintly, as much as he can without breaking away from the tight grip. “You know what I need. What happens next.”

“What if we wake them, though?” Morwë asks, a quiver in his lips, and it feels like the last token resistance. He wants this, needs it as much as Mikhail does. He needs to be reminded of where he belongs. He’ll thank Mikhail for it later.

“You’re the one who went against what they said, Morwë. If anyones going to get in trouble for this, it’s going to be you,” Mikhail lies. He’s pretty sure those two would find a way to blame him for the sky being blue. “Have they punished you yet?”

“Esteldur said that, um. Punishment just makes people more afraid. And it means they won’t show you if you’ve made a mistake?”

Mikhail laughs, as quietly as he can. “Maybe he says that. But do you think he really means it? No, he’s just waiting for a big enough fuck up to bother getting his hands dirty. People like you need to be punished. It keeps you in line, keeps you from getting any of these inconvenient ideas.”

“I guess you’re right, sir.”

“Now,” Mikhail says, and it’s both a segue and a command. Mikhail’s hand moves to the back of Morwë’s head and Morwë makes a noise that’s almost a sigh, os if pleasing his master is a chore to get over with. He tries to pretend that doesn’t matter to him. He’d rather Morwë adore him or be afraid of him, not— bored with him. Mikhail shoves Morwë’s head down, towards the bulge between Mikhail’s legs, harder than strictly necessary. Morwë’s hands are left keeping him up, stabilizing the inherently unstable position.

Morwë makes a faint noise, maybe protesting the fact that there’s the fabric in the way.

“There’s a zipper. Use your teeth,” Mikhail instructs, and Morwë stiffens in a moment of some emotion. “You know how, I’ve saved your ass from having to for any random bastard that wanted you enough times.”

Morwë does, maneuvering the metal down. 

He loves having Morwë’s ass as much as of the other hundreds of men that’ve gotten to fuck the damn whore over the years— though most of them only once— but there’s something special about having such a dangerous pretty young thing sucking him off and knowing he’s the only one that Morwë makes this much of an effort for. The way he always tries to make sure to inhale before Mikhail’s inside, even though he must know by now that it’s futile— Mikhail likes to see him struggling for air too much to let him get away without choking on it at least a bit.

Morwë’s hair feels so good, soft like the sort of silk Mikhail hasn’t gotten to wear since before his stupid exile all the way out here in the crack ass of nowhere. The boy’s ethereal, beautiful in this perfect, untouchable way. Except he’s not untouchable, is he? Not now. Mikhail has him like any common whore, and he doesn’t have to pay for the privilege. The idiot boy would follow him halfway across the world even without the brand ensuring his tameness.

His lips slip around the head of Mikhail’s mostly erect penis, more tentatively than usual. Mikhail threatens to apply further pressure with his hand on Morwë’s head, and Morwë obliges. Normally, this is the part where Mikhail gets to feel like he’s more powerful than the Emperor. Unstoppable.

But Mikhail’s mind drifts even as Morwë obliging runs his tongue across all the right spots, even as Mikhail lets out muted noises of satisfaction just to give the boy some feedback. He can’t stop thinking about Itarata. His stubborn pride that even half the fort combined couldn’t fuck out of him. Morwë seems almost too easy, in comparison. Why should it matter, if Mikhail can have the runt of the elven litter hanging off his every word, hanging off his cock, when that bastard is lying there, asleep and thinking he’s free even with that brand?

Mikhail closes his eyes. Normally, Mikhail likes to watch, see Morwë’s head bobbing up in down as Mikhail shoves him and releases him to catch a breath, only to shove him again, forcing Morwë further and further down, closer to the hilt of the blade, but Mikhail can’t help being distracted by how sickly and weak Morwë looks tonight. Instead, he lets himself picture the flawless, uncowed Itarata.

He imagines Itarata in chains— like he’d been when Mikhail had caught a glimpse of him on the way into his cell. Trussed up like a present. In his head, they’re back in the dungeon of the fort, or maybe Mikhail’s old quarters, and not the forest floor. Itarata’s forced to kneel, and Mikhail is disgusted in this moment at Morwë’s eagerness to please him.

Pathetic. How dare he allow Mikhail to use him so easily, with such token resistance? Mikhail will still take him, will not mind the substitute, but he knows now he’s been playing games with tame dogs when there’s been wolves out here the entire time. A real challenge. Getting that Itarata down on his knees, willing to do more than just spit in Mikhail’s face like he had for the men of Mikhail’s old fort— that would matter. 

This is just tiding him over.

“More,” he hisses in Morwë’s ear, and the boy makes a noise of protest muffled by obstruction in his mouth. Mikhail’s hand on the back of Morwë’s head turns into a fist clenching his hair tight, pulling it back so the boy’s lips are only just barely wrapped around Mikhail’s length, or to push the boy back down again. There are tears in the boy’s eyes. Good.

Mikhail almost wants to see Morwë die then and there. Mikhail wants to take away the boy’s breath for long enough, block his nose so he doesn’t even get that reprieve, and watch the light fade from Morwë’s eyes. Maybe then it’ll wipe that cloying, pitying look off his face. Maybe then Mikhail will get to feel whole again.

His soldier. He’ll make them see.

Mikhail finishes too soon, before he’s even really gotten in the rhythm of it. Morwë takes it like a good bitch, of course, it’s what he does, but he also pulls back, escaping Mikhail’s grip in the moment of weakness as Mikhail’s entire body pulses. Morwë is back to his knees, but this time, the position doesn’t feel so submissive. It feels like a mockery.

“What’re you doing?” Mikhail asks, his words still low but cruel.

“I—“ Morwë glances down at Mikhail’s wet cock, soaked in the remaining cum. “Aren’t you done, sir?”

“I’m not fucking done with you yet,” Mikhail hisses. A weak orgasm, barely worthy of note, but even if it’d been the best he’d ever had, it didn’t matter. This isn’t about getting off, it isn’t about feeling good. He wants so badly in this moment to have a blade capable of leaving a mark on the boy that would last, something comparable to that brand. Something that would haunt him for however long he lived.

But he doesn’t. The gashes on his back from where the whip cut into him, again and again, so many more times than when he was at the academy, no matter how badly he’d messed up then, are going to scar, and he’s sure his fresh shame, his total humiliation, is written on his face. What he allowed to happen. What he willingly did, in exchange for just a bit more water.

“Okay, sir,” the boy says, wiping traces of cum off his lips. He’s trembling like a leaf, but he’s trying to hide it. Mikhail wants to be turned on by that, by the return of the fear that means Mikhail is in his rightful place and all is good in the world But instead, all he can do is wonder how many others have had the boy like this. Has that Esteldur yet? That Itarata? 

Maybe that’s why they’re so deadset on turning Morwë away from him. They want the dirty slut all to themselves. They know how good he is on his knees.

“Where do you want me, sir?” Morwë asks.

“Pull your pants down,” Mikhail orders. Morwë’s shoulders tense, and he nods mutely, pulling himself up long enough to unbuckle his belt and following the command. His breathing is unsteady and shallow, like it always is when he’s scared. “On your back.”

Morwë lies down. Mikhail struggles a bit with the exertion of clambering onto the brat, and he groans a bit, but he powers through. Can’t show weakness. At least he doesn’t have to worry too much about getting it up— one of the benefits of fucking this brat so much. That passive magic does more than keep him looking young. It’s funny, how Morwë’s very biology enables his repeated rape.

And he even likes it.

Mikhail lines himself up with Morwë's hole, and Morwë’s eyes widen.

“Sir, aren’t you going to—“ Morwë asks as Mikhail brushes up against him, threatening to breach.

“You need a reminder of where your place is, soldier,” Mikhail cuts off Morwë’s objection. Admittedly, part of this might be because he doesn’t know where any lube would be around here, and he’d rather go in bare than use spit. That’s just gross. “Now, remember, you don’t want to wake them up, don’t you?”

Morwë nods mutely, his eyes so wide with terror and anticipation. Some part of Mikhail wonders if he should be rewarding the kid, not punishing him. Morwë didn’t have to come back for him. But he can’t forgive Morwë for seeing him vulnerable. Not until he’s made him pay for it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you anyway,” Mikhail tells him. Even if you don’t deserve it.

He thrusts, and Morwë bites down on a scream, his eyes shut. There’s resistance, enough that Mikhail thinks maybe Esteldur hasn’t been screwing him this entire time, but Morwë’s used to this. With Mikhail, with everyone else that ever looked at him. He knows how to relax, even when he really, really doesn’t want to.

It hurts Mikhail too, going in like this without even any preparation. There are reasons he usually takes his time that go beyond any mercy for the boy taking him. But this isn’t about making Mikhail feel good right now— it’s about punishment. It’s about making things right.

Morwë inhales when he can, in between thrusts, and Mikhail feels something hot in his chest, better than when Morwë was sucking him off earlier. It doesn’t feel comfortable, not this tight. Not in the conventional sense. Mikhail grunts from the exertion as he fucks Morwë— his slave, his soldier. His whore. Morwë risked everything to save him, and he deserved to be punished and rewarded for it both. It’s only right.

He slides further in, beating Morwë into that sweet submission with each blow. At some point, he stops biting back screams of pain and starts having to resist moans instead.

“You wanted this,” Mikhail tells him, hissing the words practically into his ears. “This is why you woke me up.”

Morwë nods, and fuck, there are the familiar tears in his eyes. Maybe this doesn’t feel pleasant— but it feels good. It feels right.

Mikhail wraps his hand around, grasping at Morwë’s hanging manhood. It’s only half erect, so Mikhail has to stroke it up. Morwë’s really crying now, choking down sobs as Mikhail starts to slow his rhythm, focusing his attention on making sure Morwë’s at full mast. Morwë twists in response to the touch, bucking so he’s fucking himself on Mikhail’s cock, pressing into it as his body makes a futile attempt to escape, and — fuck, that’s it. He feels pressure building, much stronger this time.

“Tell me what you are,” Mikhail orders Morwë.

“Yours,” Morwë gasps. Mikhail leans in to kiss the tears from the corner of his wide open eyes, and Morwë pushes himself into the ground, the dirt. Where he belongs. “Yours, sir, please, I’m— yours—“

Mikhail doesn’t hear him after that. His world goes perfectly clear, for what could be a moment or what could be eternity. Morwë lets out a slight moan beneath him, his own release following only after he knows he’s pleased his master.

It’s almost perfect. Almost enough to fill the hollow in his chest that what happened not so long who’s left in him.

But when Mikhail comes back to himself, he sees Morwë unfurled beneath him, and he knows he won’t be truly satisfied until it’s Itarata screaming his name.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he starts making plans. They want Morwë to go with them on their stupid, probably pointless quest to free Itarata from the brand, probably because they’re going to try to free Morwë too. Free him for another sort of slavery, probably. The slavery of being useless. Mikhail can’t let that happen— he doesn’t need the brand to control Morwë, but he likes knowing it’s there, likes the insurance of it. Morwë would listen if Mikhail demanded they leave the group, he’s sure of it, but if he does…

He gazes over, across the camp to the unconscious forms of the two older elves. The one he’ll kill and the one he’ll bend to his will— bend over. The two of them look almost peaceful, resting like this, but he has no illusions about how badly it would go if he tried to cut Esteldur’s throat and chain Itarata in his sleep. He’ll need to be smart.

This quest is the only chance he’ll ever have to touch something truly pure. Morwë’s half human at this point, for as long as he’s spent being ruined by them. Mikhail doesn’t think they have a serious fighting of actually figuring out how to remove the brand, since as far as he knows, it’s impossible, but if there’s anyone that can figure that shit out, it’s these ancient elves. He can’t let this opportunity slip through the cracks like this.

“Um,” Morwë says, from where he’s trapped beneath Mikhail. “Sir.”

Mikhail slides off of him. He’s pretty sure the boy could throw him off if he really wanted to— could’ve easily beaten him in a fight if it came down to it. But he doesn’t. He knows who his betters are.

“Good boy,” Mikhail tells him, and Morwë flushes— but he also looks away.

“I’m going to have to, um. Put you back to sleep, sir,” Morwë says, clearly ashamed. “Otherwise, they’ll, um. Know I woke you up early. You should go back to resting, anyway.”

“Of course, I don’t mind,” Mikhail lies. “You’re doing it for me, after all. My perfect soldier.”

“Yeah, um. Do you want to wash…” Morwë looks at Mikhail’s pants. They’re mostly clean. Morwë’s good at swallowing— Mikhail’s taught him well. “I guess. You’ll be fine. But I should…”

“Put me to sleep first,” Mikhail orders. If it’s an order, then he’s not powerless. “Then go wash yourself off.”

“I think you should be good to, um, ride with us awake. And I don’t think they’ll mind you being up if they can keep an eye on you, sir.”

They don’t think I’ll be able to hurt you while they’re watching, huh? Mikhail translates, and he keeps his laugh to himself. They’ve no idea what they’re dealing with, how deeply Mikhail has buried himself in Morwë’s psyche. The boy could live for thousands of years on, long past the point where even the slowest aging version of Mikhail could keep up, and he’d never forget him.