#esteldur

Main TWs: Slavery, fantasy racism (modeled after antisemitism specifically but directed towards elves), a whole lot of misogynistic language, so much sexual abuse. Protagonists include: Morwë - Broken/conditioned whumpee. Somewhere between 100 and 200. An elf from a clan that's been enslaved by the Revkian Empire since before he was born. Conscripted into the military and branded using dark magic that makes him incapable of actively going against said empire at 60, he's had a rough go of it. Of course, now the empire is split into three parts, who is he obligated to be loyal to? Aside from his beloved captain, who's been captured by what he sees as usurpers. Possibly a reincarnation of Itarata's dead sister. Playlist.

Captain Mikhail: Caretaker/whumper turned whumpee. In his fifties but looks and acts much younger thanks to his bond with Morwë. A human captain in the Revkian Empire, responsible for managing Morwë. A manipulative bastard who flaunted his control over his fort's elven slave one too many times, and now his jealous fellow soldiers are eager to make him pay.

Itarata makes it through dinner. He focuses on his food in front of him, just taking it one bite at a time. Esteldur sits by his side, making sure nobody bothers him.

Itarata can’t help but feel like his friend is acting like a bit of a guard dog, scowling at anyone who tries to keep near, but he appreciates it, so he can’t exactly complain. A few people do try to approach, and Esteldur points them towards Cindion.

He doesn’t go back to his quarters, afterwards. He follows Esteldur instead. Esteldur looks at Itarata, raising an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Esteldur holds the door open for Itarata once they reach Esteldur’s place. Itarata waits until it’s closed before he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d started to hold.

“So,” Esteldur says, taking a seat in a chair. Itarata stands there, leaning against the door.

“So indeed.” Itarata sighs, crossing his arms.

“Are you going to sit down?” Esteldur asks. Itarata shrugs. He feels better standing here, practically guarding the door. “Alright, then.”

“You saw,” Itarata says after a few tense moments. “What happened.”

“I saw the shape you were in,” Esteldur agrees and corrects him at once. “And I’d started to get the impression we weren’t going to talk about it.”

“How much is there to say?” Itarata asks, a hint of emotion breaking through his otherwise forced calm. “Whatever you’ve guessed about what happened is probably right.”

“And yet, you’re here,” Esteldur points out. “So clearly there’s something.”

Itarata breathes, his heart pounding faster than it should. He forces it to slow.

“I thought getting back here would help. That I’d be fine, again.”

“You’re not,” Esteldur states. It’s not a question, or even really a response to Itarata’s words as much as an observation.

“Maybe when the brand is gone?” he offers, and Esteldur stares him down. “I keep feeling everyone’s eyes on me. It’s like they all can see— and I don’t know why I care. Even if they did all know exactly what happened, that doesn’t mean anything other than that the humans are deranged.”

“So you’re not offended by the notion that anyone could ever see you vulnerable.”

“No,” Itarata says too quickly, and Esteldur gives him a look. “Fine. I’m not exactly thrilled about it. I’m concerned about the damage it might do to morale.”

“Morale,” Esteldur repeats, skeptical. He knows Itarata far too well. “There’s absolutely no ego involved in this.”

“I took the sacrifice so more of us wouldn’t die,” Itarata says. “I knew what I was getting into. I knew the way they talk about us, I knew there was a chance they wouldn’t exactly play by the same sorts of rules as we do. And I’m here. I survived.”

“You make it sound so logical,” Esteldur says. “Like I didn’t find you half dead, covered in those men’s —“

“Don’t,” Itarata cuts him off. His hands are shaking. He’s better than this. Stronger than this.

“Why not? Do you think not saying it will undo it? Make it any less real, like any of the other hundreds of things we don’t talk about?” Esteldur leans forward, a little bit of frustration creeping into his voice like he’s not just as bad as Itarata about it. “You can admit that you’re not okay.”

“It was eleven days,” Itarata says, his heart racing in his chest. He’s not sure how he managed to convince himself to walk all the way here. Angiel’s expression looms in his mind. As does Mikhail’s, for whatever reason. “It’s really not that long. I don’t— I don’t want to not be okay, alright? Is that what you two want to hear?”

“I mean, that part was slightly obvious, yes,” Esteldur says, with his trademark wry amusement. “It won’t kill you to admit you’re not.”

“I’m not going to let the humans win.” Itarata’s surprised by the venom in his own voice. His shake is only getting worse.

“Morwë and I killed a few dozen. Angiel will take care of the rest. Itarata, sit down.” Those last words are an order. Itarata follows, sitting on the bed. There are few people in this world that he listens to like that. Few that ever existed and much fewer now. “You’re not engaging with the humans that actually exist. You’re engaging with the idea of them.”

“Maybe,” Itarata admits.

“Don’t mistake me, I’m not saying I’m opposed to whatever it is you’ve got in mind. You know I’ll follow you anywhere, and I’m just as mad about all of this as you are.”

“But,” Itarata starts.

“But you know that winning the war you plan on starting won’t change what happened. And on the subject of other things we don’t talk about — it won’t bring her back, and it won’t bring back my parents either.”

“It’s not about that,” Itarata protests, and Esteldur gives him a flat look.

“It’s always about that. And back even further — can you honestly tell me that you don’t still dream of Minyas?”

Itarata can’t meet his eyes. “It burned, and we weren’t even there.”

“You put everything on yourself. Always.” Esteldur sighs, and Itarata rankles at that. His look is enough to scare most humans into stunned silence, but Esteldur doesn’t flinch. “You can’t be everywhere at once, and you can’t always be strong. And… I suppose I need to get to my point here, which is to say, it scares me half to death, most of the time.”

Itarata was about to say something in rebuttal at the implication that he’s not invincible, but the genuine grief and worry in Esteldur’s voice knocks the wind out of him.

“I’m sorry,” Itarata tells his old friend.

“There’s a part of me that rather selfishly wants to shake you and ask you if you understand how you looked, then. What I saw, what I’d been worrying about with everything Morwë said about the way the humans were… I know you were the one that endured it, but Itarata, I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you.”

Itarata looks away. He doesn’t want to think of the way he must’ve appeared. Slumped, collapsed. Broken. He doesn’t remember it well. He doesn’t want to. Some capacity for emotion slips away from him, and he’s a step out of touch with the moment.

“I thought I was dead too,” he admits, his voice completely empty of emotion. He feels hollow. Like the thing they’d treated him as. “I don’t— really remember most of it. It blurs together.”

“You don’t need to, I just… I suppose I needed you to acknowledge it.” Esteldur is the look to look away this time. “I didn’t mean to drag it up.”

“You didn’t, really,” Itarata says, sighing. “It’s not very far beneath the surface. I just… I don’t know. I don’t know how to get it out. Or how to bury it, with everything else.“

“I don’t know either.” Esteldur’s voice is smaller. “I know there was no physical way I could’ve gotten there fast enough to stop all of it, but I can’t help feeling… I know I should’ve done more.”

“The first day was the worst. Outside. That was — I don’t think it was actually all of them. Realistically speaking, it couldn’t have been. But it was…” Itarata’s not sure he can breathe. Not sure he can speak. He manages to do both anyway. “It was near the end of the morning, at the start. And by the time they were done, at least for the day — I could see the stars.”

Esteldur catches a breath. Itarata tries to keep from folding in on himself. He manages, somehow.

“I’ll be okay,” Itarata says, though he’s not sure if it’s to Esteldur or himself. His words sound hollow to his own ears. “That— it doesn’t change anything. Once I’m free of this cursed thing, once Angiel’s wiped the last of them off the map…”

“That’s when the real work will begin,” Esteldur says, instead of letting the ambiguity hang in the air. Itarata relishes the pivot.

“Yes,” Itarata agrees. His voice feels a bit stronger now. “You know me, I always do better when I have a purpose. And when I know the way everything is laid out.”

They sit there, just two old friends dealing with the enormity of the violation they experienced. Now Itarata stops to think, he appreciates that he’s been slightly unfair in keeping his distance like this. He might’ve endured the abuse, but in a way, there was a degree of solace in the certainty. Esteldur spent those eleven days wondering, fearing, dreading.

And what he found— he can’t possibly begin to comprehend that sort of pain. Of fearing the worst and finding it.

“I think you should tell people what happened,” Esteldur starts after a pause, and Itarata is about to object but he raises a hand. “Not like this. But rumors are going to continue to swirl about this. Especially if people are going to join you on the campaign, they’ll find other examples of what the human are like. And you’ve got two options with that. You could try and fail to hide the fact that you were tortured, let people come to their own conclusions.”

“Or?”

“Share it in a way that fires everyone up. You’re going to need to explain why this matters, why we can’t just keep hiding out here like we have been, and there’s two possible motivations. It’s either what happened to Morwë or what happened to you.”

“And you don’t think Morwë is enough?”

“I think we should learn everything we can from him, and then find somewhere safe for him, somewhere he’s not going to have to deal with everyone’s questions and prying eyes. Getting the brand off is only the beginning. He’s going to need time to even come to understand what’s been done to him, let alone how to advocate for himself about it.”

“So I’ll have to deal with the questions instead,” Itarata sighs. “Delightful.”

“Weren’t you the one who insisted we need to focus on helping him?” Esteldur asks, and Itarata glares at him, albeit without much actual anger behind it. “It’s the only serious way to turn this whole debacle to our benefit, morale-wise.”

“No, you’re right,” Itarata agrees. He meets Esteldur’s eyes, gently this time. “I’m not ashamed of what they did. They’re the ones that did wrong.”

“You just don’t like being vulnerable,” Esteldur says.

“Does anyone?”

They sit there for another comfortable moment.

“It doesn’t have to be right away. We’ll need to take at least a week to resupply. Or we could wait until we get back…” Esteldur offers.

“Before we leave,” Itarata shakes his head. “That way, people can start making up their minds as whether or not they want to come and make preparations.”

“It’s up to you. I’d say don’t let me pressure you into making any choices you don’t want, but we both know that I couldn’t if I tried.”

Itarata laughs, standing up. He’s annoyed to admit to himself that he does feel a bit better. Lighter, maybe. There’s still a heavy weight he’s carrying, but he’s able to acknowledge it’s there, that it’s not just part of who he is.

At first, and slowly, ever so slowly, Morwë starts to relax. Esteldur wasn’t sure what to make of Itarata allowing the nér to call the two of them “sir,” but it seems to make Morwë more comfortable, if nothing else. He flinches less, offers his opinion more, and then eventually, agonizingly slowly, he begins to ask questions.

Questions about the Orontdrim. Nothing big at first, at least not to Esteldur— Morwë starts by spending too long looking at Esteldur’s outfit, the details of the embroidery on it, before tentatively asking while the four of them ride, as if the words themselves are a dangerous weapon, what the floral designs were. If they meant something in particular.

But one thing leads to another, and soon enough, that night in camp, Esteldur is promising to introduce Morwë to Anairissë, who can teach him to make the special traveling bread. To Amuntiel, who can show him elven looms the likes of which he can’t have seen since his youth. Esteldur finds himself letting his own guard down as Morwë slowly reveals a fascination with the feminine crafts— he almost off handedly references Nariel at one point, which leaves him with the strangest feeling of grief.

He hasn’t thought about her in years. She isn’t dead, as far as Esteldur knows, so he shouldn’t mourn her. There’s every chance they’ll reunite some very distant day.

He asks about their holidays. About their practices. He even volunteers a few memories of Rethyarin traditions from his youth, carried on despite the yoke of slavery his people have labored under for hundreds of years, although it’s clear going anywhere near those recollections triggers his brand. It seems like he’s working himself up to asking something much bigger, something complicated, and Esteldur wants to encourage him to just ask, to put whatever’s been so clearly eating at him into words, but Itarata reminds him over and over again to let Morwë go at his own pace.

Morwë never does ask that final, most important, question, though.

There’s a moment one morning, after he’d taken a swim in a lake while keeping watch, where he seems closer than ever to just saying it, whatever it is, but then it’s gone. And following that point… it’s almost like Morwë starts to disappear, despite being right in front of them.

Esteldur doesn’t know what to make of it. Itarata doesn’t either, as much as the nér wants to worry over the younger elf instead of taking care of himself. In their limited, carefully rationed alone time, away from both Morwë and Mikhail, the two of them try to make sense of the shift. Had they pushed him too far, too fast? Or is this disappearance, this returned shadow state, a sign that he’s making progress, as painful as it looks?

Itarata and Esteldur expect things to get much worse when they run out of reasons to keep Mikhail in a trance state, as the party closes in on , but it changes surprisingly little. If anything, Mikhail being awake seems to make Morwë more perky, not less. The nervous energy, which was starting to be masked by the fog of depression, starts to return. The questions don’t, though.

They’d almost started to get grating, especially when Morwë kept asking things that Esteldur didn’t know the answer to, but now they’re gone, Esteldur misses them. He misses telling Morwë he doesn’t know but having the consolation of being able to say he knows someone that does— he’ll introduce them. And he misses the brief glimpse of light on Morwë’s face, even if it was so quickly followed by a shadow.

Morwë doesn’t ask things of Mikhail at all. He answers. He rushes to fulfill every order Mikhail gives him, and Mikhail does give him orders. 

Sometimes it’s unthinking. It’s Mikhail telling Morwë to take care of the horses, to bring him whatever item from Morwë’s own pack even when the bag is closer to Mikhail than Morwë. Morwë barely even seems to notice it— it’s the sort of small tasks he’s been trying to do for Esteldur and Itarata this entire time. That, at least, contextualizes a minor frustration Esteldur had earlier, before the rescue— the way Morwë would deny him even the opportunity to take care of the animals if Esteldur wasn’t quick enough in doing it himself, no matter how many times he told Morwë that he enjoyed doing it.

Instinctive. Maybe indicative of a power dynamic between the two, but Morwë seems comfortable with it in a way he hasn’t been with Esteldur this entire time. In a way he’s only started to border on with Itarata. Esteldur wants it to stop, wants to grab Morwë and make him at least consider what he’s doing, but he knows it’s not helpful, and this doesn’t seem… harmful.

But it’s not always just a matter of course.

“Morwë,” Mikhail says, as the group finishes their meal one night, not too many more days away from Varnandë. Mikhail says the name coldly, almost sharply, and Morwë snaps his head around. Esteldur notes that Morwë had been staring almost longingly at Itarata again. That’s something that hasn’t changed now Mikhail’s woken up— if anything, it’s more pronounced. Mikhail must’ve noticed, because he’s looking at Itarata too now.

Itarata matches Mikhail’s gaze, as if the name uttered had been his instead. Steady. Just as dark.

“Yes, sir?” Morwë asks, looking at Mikhail with those dark eyes of his so wide. So full of something Esteldur can’t even begin to comprehend. Terror? Awe?

“Sit on my lap,” Mikhail tells Morwë, with his own eyes still very much set on Itarata’s. There’s something hungry in the set of his jaw, something predatory.

Morwë is sitting closer to Itarata, maybe for the first time, but he obeys without a second thought. Slower than he is to grab Mikhail’s things, though. Slower than he is to attend to the horses. There’s a hesitancy to his step, and he glances at Esteldur as if looking for reassurance. Esteldur is about to open his mouth and say “you don’t have to,” but Mikhail preempts him.

“Now,” Mikhail instructs him, and Esteldur looks to Itarata, trying to figure out a way to communicate without words. His heart is pounding. Would telling Mikhail to stop this only drive a wedge between the two duos? Pushing back on this relationship has only gotten Esteldur into trouble before, but what was that look if not a cry for help? What’s the point of being here if not to help when Morwë finally asks for it?

Itarata doesn’t even seem to parse that Esteldur is trying to get his attention. He’s too focused on Mikhail, as Morwë uncomfortably settles on the man’s lap. He faces out at the fire at first, but Mikhail taps him on the back. Morwë turns his head up at Mikhail, a gesture that’s only possible because of how dramatically slouched Morwë’s back is.

Mikhail tilts his head, and something passes between the two. There’s a moment of almost resistance from Morwë that has Esteldur screaming on the inside, but it melts quickly, from some signal Esteldur can’t make out, and Morwë turns around, practically straddling the man. Mikhail wraps his arms around Morwë’s back, tight enough that Esteldur feels his own breath struggling to escape his lungs.

Mikhail rests his chin on Morwë’s shoulder, and throughout this, he’s not broken eye contact with Itarata.

It’s like Esteldur’s been hit. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing here, can’t understand the language that Morwë, Mikhail, and Itarata all speak that he doesn’t. A language that goes so much further than just Revkian.

Then, Mikhail moves one of his legs ever so slightly, and that must be some sort of signal, because Morwë whimpers. Esteldur wants to jump up and scream, wants to grab Morwë away from Mikhail, but he’s frozen in place. And how would he even tear Morwë away with the two of them so closely entangled?

Mikhail turns his head, careful not to lose sight of Itarata, and lets his tongue escape his mouth. He reaches it out, running the end of it up against Morwë ear, and Morwë squirms in response, not pulling away from the touch but writhing within the snakelike grip. His cheeks are badly flushed, and Esteldur thinks back to one of what feels like an endless number of times, asking Morwë why he wanted to rescue Mikhail so badly.

”I love him,” Morwë had told him. ”He’s protected me for so long. I have to protect him now.”

For a moment, seeing that flush, Esteldur wonders if he’s reading the situation all wrong. If maybe this is something the two of them both want. He doesn’t look like he’s happy there, exactly, but Esteldur knows that such things don’t always look happy in the moment. Morwë isn’t fighting it, not really. He’s submitting so readily.

Then Esteldur recognizes those thoughts as blatant denial. Morwë himself has never once spoken of what he gets out of this part of the relationship— it’s always been about Morwë owing Mikhail. But owing him for what? What could possibly be worth this sort of humiliation? Esteldur had never gotten a clear answer out of it.

Itarata isn’t blinking first. Something is passing between the man and the older nér, and Morwë is only being used as a conduit. A vessel. Esteldur wants to throw up.

What do you think you’re doing? he screams at Itarata in their silent language, his eyes communicating every bit of horror at the scene, but Itarata isn’t listening to him. Like Morwë, he’s only hearing Mikhail.

After what feels like a minute of Mikhail slowly, agonizingly, and deliberately licking the edge of Morwë’s ear, Mikhail’s tongue recedes into his mouth and Morwë stills in his arms, or at least stops writhing quite so violently. He’s still shaking, almost as badly as he’d been when Esteldur had found him after the fighting had subsided. Mikhail only gives him a moment‘s rest before whispering something in that ear. Esteldur can’t see Morwë’s face, can’t see if the fear and disgust is as evident in his expression as it is on the rest of his body, but that’s enough.

It’s enough.

Esteldur can’t force himself to watch any longer. He doesn’t care about the long term. He doesn’t even care about Morwë or Itarata or anyone other than his own selfish disgust. He needs this to end, needs Itarata to do anything other than just— stare. He scrambles to his feet, the word “Stop—!” violently escaping his throat, half strangled.

“Stop what?” Mikhail asks, lazily. Morwë clings to him tighter than ever. His body language has suddenly shifted, a new sort of fear coming over him. Esteldur wonders distantly, with horror, if it’s because of him. If he’s only making things worse. “You like this, don’t you, soldier?”

Morwë mumbles something, and Esteldur is hyper aware of just how close Mikhail’s teeth are to Morwë’s neck. In this moment, Esteldur knows without a doubt— he’d kill Morwë before letting the nér go free. Mikhail bounces his legs beneath Morwë, forcing Morwë up and down.

“Stop it,” Esteldur repeats, dumbly.

“Are you jealous?” Mikhail asks, with a degree of arrogance that would astound Esteldur if it wasn’t currently knocking the life out of him, still forcing his legs up and down beneath a clearly terrified Morwë. “Would you rather it be you, between my legs?”

Esteldur flushes, from rage at the offense rather than humiliation but he knows Mikhail is counting it as a win regardless. Itarata doesn’t say anything at all, just studying the situation, which is so much worse than if he’d scolded Esteldur for once again letting his temper get the best of him.

“Just— let go of him,” Esteldur orders, trying to make himself sound as confident as possible.

Mikhail unwraps his arms, spreading them wide, but Morwë’s still holding tight to him. Some other, invisible tie, keeping the two of them together. Esteldur is sure now that he’s making things worse but he can’t bear this. Can’t bear to watch. Selfish. So selfish.

“Do you want to get off of me, Morwë?” Mikhail asks, his hands coming back in order to card through Morwë’s hair. Esteldur burns at seeing it, seeing the completely unabashed display of ownership. The only living person in this world that’s allowed to touch his hair like that is his wife. It’s almost parental, in a sick way. “Tell them.”

Morwë turns his head, and Esteldur knows without a shadow of a doubt that his, “no, sir,” is a blatant lie. He looks up at Esteldur, with pain and desperation in his eyes. More than that— with longing. That want, the unspoken please, yes is so overwhelming, Esteldur almost steps back, stumbling over himself. He only barely manages to keep standing. The nér is barely an adult, but there are first generation elves that Esteldur knows without that much aching in them.

“Like I told you,” Mikhail says with a smile. “He likes it. He likes to be useful.”

Morwë nods, miserable. Esteldur can’t help but think of all the little ways Morwë tries so hard to be helpful around the camp, pre empting every little want Esteldur could have and still seeming desperate for more to do. The attempted kiss. Esteldur had needed to go and kick rocks far enough away from camp Morwë couldn’t hear when that happened. This feels like the same thing, except Mikhail isn’t hesitating to take advantage of that horrible mindset.

Maybe Mikhail is why he’s like this to begin with.

“Or…” Mikhail starts, some worse idea clearly coming to mind. “If this is really so bad. How about he goes and keeps Itarata warm?”

Morwë turns those pleading eyes on Itarata, who inhales sharply but forces a calm expression. Itarata has always been better about touch than Esteldur, more open to it, but that’s changed since being rescued. He seems to mind most of Esteldur’s gently, reassuring pats. And Esteldur’s sure that Mikhail’s noticed— this isn’t the first time Esteldur’s caught him looking at Itarata with that peculiar hunger.

Esteldur thinks he might be grateful the only emotion he can read off of Mikhail when the man looks his way is plain, borderline violent disgust.

Esteldur wants to say no again, to say, just stop it, but Morwë opens his mouth into a wordless please and Esteldur can’t say anything at all.

“I would appreciate the company if you were willing to give it,” Itarata lies, finally looking away from Mikhail to look at Morwë instead. His expression lightens somewhat, less of a threatening edge to it, but it’s still harsh. Morwë looks at Itarata with those wide, vulnerable eyes, still pleading.

Mikhail slaps Morwë’s ass, and Esteldur flinches at the sound.

“Go on then, boy,” Mikhail says, like he’s talking to a horse. Except Esteldur’s fairly certain that he respects his horses far more than Mikhail respects Morwë. Morwë nods, then scrambles back out of his grip before clambering over to Itarata like the older nér is a lifeline. Esteldur can see Itarata recoil from the touch as Morwë positions himself beside the older nér, but Itarata does his best to hide the physical reaction as the younger nér curls up beneath Esteldur’s cloak.

Nowhere near as intimate as with Mikhail— Morwë doesn’t have the best sense of boundaries, as the incident where he’d tried to kiss Esteldur showed, but this is— far less invasive than what Esteldur imagines Mikhail had in mind. 

Itarata wraps one arm around Morwë, doing a very good job of acting like the skin contact from someone that’s basically a stranger doesn’t bother him. Esteldur is lost, out of the loop entirely, but Morwë looks at him from where he sits curled under the cloak, and Esteldur tries to adopt a comforting expression.

All Esteldur can do is try to follow Itarata’s lead. He can’t help feeling like he’d misstepped earlier, reacting so obviously — like he’d fallen into some trap of Mikhail’s. He looks between everyone, trying to evaluate the situation. Morwë looks at him, and Esteldur finds some degree of comfort in Morwë’s confused expression— the two of them can be lost together.

“If you wanted the physical comfort,” Itarata tells Morwë, though he’s really talking to Mikhail. “You could’ve asked sooner. I would have offered, if I wasn’t concerned about intruding on your personal space.”

Esteldur isn’t sure how much of that is a lie. He’s fairly certain a good portion of it is, possibly would have been even before — neither of them have ever been the most cuddly sorts, even back in their youths, though that might’ve been because of the nature of those youths. But Itarata has his priorities, and as much as Esteldur wants to yell at his old friend to prioritize his own wellbeing, he can’t say he doesn’t appreciate seeing the way Morwë seems to relax.

Esteldur’s cloak, the one he’s absolutely certain he’s never getting back from Itarata at this point, looks like wings over Morwë. Or maybe a shield. Either way, it’s a protective gesture. One Mikhail is very much not allowed into.

“Hah,” Mikhail says, faintly. The mocking cruelty in his voice is gone, as is… all of his tone, really. Esteldur half expected the man to take a swing at Itarata at first, but instead, the person they’ve been dealing with so far just seems to vanish, leaving a seemingly hollow shell behind. He doesn’t look— all that different from Morwë, really. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Maybe you over complicate things, where you’re from,” Itarata says, shrugging. Unlike Esteldur, he doesn’t seem particularly disturbed by the sudden shift in Mikhail’s tone. Maybe he understands Mikhail better than Esteldur does. Esteldur remembers Itarata mentioning seemingly out of nowhere that he’d heard the man’s screams back in the fort. “Personally, I’ve always found yes’s more meaningful when no is an equally valid option.”

That feels like an accusation. 

It’s more than a little ironic, as Esteldur spots all the little tells for Itarata’s discomfort at the contact. Esteldur knows the two younger members of their party won’t notice it— he doesn’t think he would, if he didn’t know Itarata so well. But Esteldur supposes the overall point is still valid, even under these dubious circumstances.

Esteldur steps, still so very uncomfortable. How did this get so charged so quickly?

“You’re naive,” Mikhail says, with some degree of bite to it, but he seems… hollow. Esteldur wants to think this is an act, some sort of persona that he’s adopting to mess with them, but— it’s hard to imagine that the proud monster they’d seen only moments ago would be willing to fake this degree of weakness. Besides— it’s such a stupid thing to say. Itarata? Out of all the words to describe him.

“Maybe,” Itarata says, smooth. There’s not a great deal of doubt in his tone.

“It’s— it’s just the way things are, though,” Morwë tries to argue, even though he’s the one huddling under Itarata’s cloak as if for dear life, and Mikhail glowers at him, even though Morwë is clearly trying to back him up. Morwë freezes, pulling in tighter on himself. Esteldur wonders briefly if it hurts his body, to be in such tension all the time. It must ache. “Isn’t it?”

“The way things are now doesn’t have to be the way they are forever,” Itarata tells the two of them. He glances towards Esteldur for the first time in some time now. Esteldur shrugs at his old friend. He trusts Itarata to handle this better than he can — he still has absolutely no idea what’s going on here. “And some things don’t stop unless people make active choices to stop them.”

“People don’t change,” Mikhail tells Itarata, a little more confident now. Esteldur wonders if it’s the way Morwë flinched from him, that gave him that confidence back. Or if it’s something else— if it’s not confidence at all something else, something hotter. Denial.

“They do,” Itarata shrugs with effortless certainty. Esteldur wonders who he’s thinking about. He knows plenty of neri and nissi who have transformed over the centuries. Mostly slowly, in response to the steady but unstoppable acclimation of memories. But some much, much faster. “If they choose to. If refusing to do so doesn’t cost them dearly.”

Esteldur feels grateful, somehow, that the conversation’s finally turned back to not so veiled threats. He knows what to do with those.

“Being like this doesn’t cost you?” Mikhail asks. The words should be venomous, and it’s true that they’re far from kind, but there’s barely anything behind them. “Doesn’t make people hate you? If you just acted normal, not any of this freakishness, they wouldn’t come after you. They wouldn’t hurt you.”

That part is so obviously projection that Esteldur can’t help the humorless laugh that escapes him. Mikhail turns his attention on him, and Esteldur thinks if he’d been tied up or worse, bound by a brand, he’d find the raw, unfiltered hate terrifying.

“Give up everything we have, all for the hopes of getting the approval of people that made up their minds about us before we’ve ever met? Are you mad? Did that even save you?”

It’s Mikhail’s turn to flush. Esteldur wonders for a moment if he should be afraid, if the man’s going to go for a weapon, but he doesn’t. He just looks away from everyone now, somehow managing to be a spitting image of Morwë, if Morwë was angry instead of terrified. Esteldur wants to push him further, but Itarata signals him to stop. As if Esteldur’s at all been the one pushing this so far.

Esteldur sits back down, and the conversation is over. Morwë puts his head on Itarata’s lap, maybe taking Itarata’s words as more consent than they were probably meant as, but Itarata doesn’t stop him. The hypocrisy only seems more and more pronounced to Esteldur— how are you going to make that point for him while ignoring it so obviously for yourself? But Esteldur’s not exactly going to call Itarata on it now. Not in front of those two.

Something’s changed between the four of them, and Esteldur has no choice but to file this entire evening away in his head along side a long, long list of things he’ll need to have words with Itarata about later.

The way that Itarata was looking at Mikhail— even if the point he was making was one that might ultimately benefit Morwë… it didn’t feel about helping Morwë at all. It felt like some sort of competition. A challenge over ownership.

Itarata’s obviously latched onto the notion of helping Morwë as a way to avoid thinking about whatever happened to him, in those eleven days, and it’s not like Esteldur can begrudge him that when he’s been just as bad about it. But seeing this— seeing Itarata now place a hand on Morwë’s back, where their shared brand is…

There’s discomfort in Itarata’s body at the touch, yes, but there’s also an element of pride. Of triumph of what can’t help but read as Mikhail’s defeat here.

Esteldur tries to banish the memory of Itarata on the ground, alive only in the literal sense. A human man on top of him. Having to wait for the opportunity to strike, out of fear of the human’s screams. Tries to pretend he didn’t see the bruises, the red, swollen parts of his body that’d been violated, over and over again. Mikhail hadn’t looked much better.

Esteldur trusts Itarata not to take this too far, trusts whatever passed between him and Mikhail tonight to be calculated and not cruel. And Morwë doesn’t seem unhappy, where he is. Clinging onto Itarata as if for dear life. That trust, that knowledge, doesn’t make the knot in Esteldur’s throat go away.

Mikhail regains consciousness slowly.

The last thing he remembers is the colors and the motion. Morwë’s black hair flying behind him, the red of Andrey’s blood spraying across the room to match Mikhail’s, and the silver of a blade he’s never seen Morwë even draw, let alone use. Then black.

He wakes to a face he’d never thought he’d see again, leaning over him in some sort of twisted reversal of their normal dynamic. Morwë’s expression is twisted in a type of fear Mikhail’s never seen before— and Mikhail thought he’d practically catalogued every way his boy could feel afraid.

Mikhail’s sure he’s dreaming, or maybe hallucinating, but he’s in too much pain to be dreaming. And the hallucinatory Morwë isn’t worries about him. He’s on— the ground? The forest floor? It’s a welcome break from the stress positions his former comrades liked to leave him in, but it’s firm. At least his head is propped up by some sort of bag.

Morwë sees his eyes are open and twists back, turning to face someone Mikhail can’t see.

“He’s awake!” Morwë says in Quenya, breathy and afraid, and Mikhail tries to adjust his position to look at the other person. He’d told his boy to run, to get help, but he hadn’t actually expected Morwë to be able to follow through on it. He’d half expected the elf to starve on his own, not— successfully rescue him? Let alone with the assistance of what can only be another elf.

Someone whose voice Mikhail doesn’t recognize hollers back. “I’m helping Itarata.”

Mikhail tries to pull himself up, tries to demand to know who this is, but Morwë puts a hand on his chest, pushing him down gently. Far more gently than Mikhail’s ever done to him.

“I’m fine, Esteldur,” says a voice that Mikhail does remember. Firm, despite its scratchiness. How can he speak at all, after all of those hours of screaming? Mikhail knows he couldn’t sound that confident right now. Although he’d certainly been a prisoner for longer, he can’t confidently say he’d had it worse than the elf. At least some of Mikhail’s former comrades had shown hesitation to hurt him, even if that hadn’t lasted long. “Attend to the human. His injuries will cause his more damage in the long term.”

And all but the most dedicated of them had gotten bored after Mikhail had broken down completely, preferring their new, prettier prey. Mikhail’s face burns thinking about it.

“Are you sure?” the new elf— Esteldur— asks, and Itarata makes a noise that could almost be a laugh.

“Thank you,” Morwë says as Esteldur appears, the two of them crowding him. Mikhail flinches back, not only from the invasion of his already extremely violated personal space but because that’s a free elf. And an old one, too— Mikhail can’t exactly explain how he knows, but there’s something to the way the bastard holds himself. Beyond the concern and annoyance on his face in even measure, there’s a profound fatigue in his eyes. “You’re going to be okay now, sir.”

Esteldur’s hair is pale brown and straight, in contrast to Morwë’s black. It’s pulled back in a tight, practical ponytail. His skin is warmer, much more tan, than Morwë’s. His features are softer than Morwë’s sharp edges, but he’s the furthest thing from soft. There’s no signs of wrinkles on his face, but there’s a weight to him that makes Mikhail think of his grandparents.

“Rescuing you was a condition for his help,” Esteldur says with a shrug, answering the question Mikhail hadn’t even gotten around to wondering yet. “And Itarata said that you’d likely know a bit about these brands.”

Mikhail would’ve stumbled backwards at the venom in Esteldur’s voice and on his face if he wasn’t flat on the ground, pain in all of his limbs. Dangerous. Dangerous. Mikhail can’t even reach his hands up to try to fight the free elf off— he’s completely powerless.

“Can you wait until he’s doing better before you start interrogating him?” Morwë asks, almost exasperated.

“Fine,” Esteldur says, glaring at Mikhail. “How are you doing.”

“I’ve— been better,” Mikhail gets out. His words are shaky, his voice is sore, and Morwë looks at him with concern. Mikhail feels rage or maybe humiliation. He’s supposed to be the one looking down on Morwë— on his slave, his slut. He promises himself, he’ll make Morwë pay for seeing him like this. He’ll make the whore choke on it. “Wh-who are you?”

Esteldur glances towards Morwë, as if waiting for the boy’s approval. Worse, Morwë nods, giving it.

“I am Esteldur, son of Astariel. That is Itarata, son of Lómwen. We are Orontdrim, a free people. Your loyal soldier,” he says in a measured way that makes Mikhail assume he’s chosen the description for Morwë’s sake, “has done us a service in guiding me to your people’s stronghold.”

“Not— not my people,” Mikhail tries to say, but Esteldur looks at him like he’s lying. He isn’t— these people sided with a usurper and have practically become bandits. But all humans must look the same to elves. In seeing that face, Mikhail realizes it won’t be enough to fuck Morwë until his boy remembers Mikhail is the master and Morwë his slave. He’ll need to destroy the two arrogant free elves. He’ll need to break them.

He is human. They are lesser than him. He is entitled to their service, and it’s only through a freak of their births, however many centuries ago that was, that they are capable of looking in his eyes as if they are equals. Worse— as if Mikhail is beneath them.

Itarata is unbroken, despite enduring as much as Mikhail, if not more. But the other soldiers don’t have Mikhail’s experiences in shattering elves. Mikhail swears to himself that one day, he will have the two of them begging for the right to lick his boots. Begging for his cock.

“If you say so,” Esteldur says, skeptically, and Mikhail swallows his terror. The mental image of the two elves as submissive and pliable as Morwë escapes him as he realizes how utterly helpless he is. He turns to Morwë. “You were bandaging his wounds?”

“Yeah,” Morwë nods, bobbing his head. “I got the important ones. Oh, uh. He’s not at risk of bleeding out or anything, but I think a few of them might be… infected? Or starting to be? They’re weird colors.”

He uses a Revkian word for infected. Apparently it’s not a Quenya one.

“Aren’t you the one that knows things about humans?” Esteldur asks. “I’m assuming whatever you’re talking about is a bad thing.”

Mikhail’s bite his lips. If he’s been miraculously rescued from being tortured for fun by his former comrades only to die from infection from a hunch of idiot elves who don’t even know how to brews the most basic of anti infection potions… admittedly, he doesn’t exactly know either, but he at least knows where to find someone who can.

“I was their whore, not their doctor,” Morwë protests, and Mikhail feels his heart skip a beat. Was? How long has it been, that this Esteldur could get him talking like that’s the past tense? And it has to be the influence of Esteldur, Mikhail knows the boy’s not exactly capable of changing on his own. “I know what it is, at least.”

He can’t be. He can’t have gotten ideas in his head this quickly.

Esteldur gives Morwë a look before glancing over at where the other elf is propped up.

“Itarata?” Esteldur asks. “I don’t suppose you know anything about this?”

“Not particularly,” Itarata replies. “I know the word but not how to fix it.”

“A human village will— have someone,” Mikhail says. Every muscle in his body screams like it’s been continuously stretched. He tries to look around, leaning up, but Morwë gently pushes him down again. All he can tell is that they’re in a forest and not the fort, but how far away from it are they?

“Do you know where any of those would be?” Esteldur asks Morwë, and Morwë shrugs. Why would they ask him? Why are they listening to his opinion on anything? Mikhail thinks he understands the jealousy that drove the men that used to belong to him to side with a false emperor, to betray him. The emasculation of watching someone flaunt their control over his bitch.

“You would want to ask the supply sergeant about that sort of thing, and I’m pretty sure you slit his throat.”

“Which one was… ah, yes. Apologies.”

Morwë shrugs. “He would’ve screamed.”

“Well, if we keep going along the road, we should at least find an inn, and they’ll be able to point us in the right direction,” Esteldur says. “But will we be able to ride in this condition?”

“I will endure it,” Itarata states. “I’ve made it thus far.”

“You should rest,” Esteldur argues. “The riding will aggravate your—“

“I will be fine,” Itarata cuts Esteldur off. “I’ll heal on my own, given time and a safe haven. Mikhail will not.”

“You’ll heal if you don’t bleed out.”

“I’ve endured only a fraction of what I’ve been made to understand was Morwë’s daily experience for decades. And he is alive. They had no intentions of allowing me to die, but they did not care in the same way for Mikhail. Esteldur, I will ride under my own power, and I will ride soon.”

Mikhail feels a moment of awe at hearing Itarata’s words, the man pausing only for sips of water from a skin that Esteldur must’ve given him. He doesn’t raise his voice at all, but the words carry. No hesitation, even at the reference to his own abuse. Mikhail shoves that down. He’ll break Itarata like the traitors couldn’t. He’ll fix this. Fix the situation that left him so weak he needed elves to save him.

“Itarata’s right,” Morwë agrees, a little shyly but nowhere near as terrified as he might’ve been not so long ago. What did they do to him? “Once they realize what happened, they’ll probably come after us. Especially considering, uh. The threats you made.”

That last bit was directed at Itarata, who smiles like a wolf, despite the condition of his face. Mikhail gets a good look at him now. He’s mostly nude, with the exception of a cloak that looks better suited to Esteldur’s frame. Mikhail himself is covered by Morwë’s cloak and underpants. The cloak isn’t big enough to cover the fact that Itarata hasn’t been allowed that little dignity, nor the presence of bruises, crusted blood, and even bite marks across the inside of his thighs.

It’s hard for Mikhail to make out Itarata’s facial features— it’s practically nothing but bruise, shades of blue and purple dark enough to be mistaken for black. Mikhail wonders if he looks the same way.

Mikhail remembers overhearing some of those very threats from the cell next to Itarata’s. There were times he’d faltered, times even the defiant elf had let the humans draw begs from his lips, but mostly, he’d stood strong. Mikhail had barely lasted a day before his own pride was nothing more than a distant memory.

When we get to wherever we’re going, he swears to himself. I will have my whore’s mouth on my cock, and there will be nothing those two arrogant bastards will be able to say or do to stop him from pleasing me.

The power dynamic, restored. Morwë might be acting up, but he is still loyal. The brand on his back ensures he cannot act against the Empire’s will, and the fact he’s here means he still sees the empire as synonymous with Mikhail.

“I see your point. But if the human is to be conscious, this will cause more problems…” Esteldur trails off.

“I’ll put him to sleep until he’s needed,” Itarata says, reaching out a hand. Esteldur crosses the small clearing to take it, helping the other old elf to his feet. He allows Itarata to lean on him some too.

“He won’t like that…” Morwë replies, and Mikhail wants to agree, loudly, but his voice is already so sore.

“You’ve told me of some of what he’s done to you ‘for your own good.’ Is this not the same thing?” Esteldur argues. Morwë sighs, and Mikhail wants to scream that it’s not at all. He’s a human, he’s supposed to be the one holding the leash. “Itarata is right. Besides, he’ll heal faster in a trance-sleep.”

“For his own good,” Morwë says, as if he’s trying to convince himself.

“N-no—“ Mikhail tries to argue. He can’t be powerless in front of these three, any more so than he already is. He thinks back to all the times he’s used that line on the boy, tried to remember if he ever actually meant it or if it was just an easy way to get him to comply with whatever it was Mikhail wanted. “No, no— don’t. I can ride on my own.”

It’s a lie— he knows he can’t. He knows he’s nowhere near as strong, as brave, as able to bear the pain as Itarata so obviously is. But he can’t let them make decisions for him. Can’t let them think he’s not the one in charge.

“I’m sorry, captain,” Morwë says to Mikhail, pulling back and away to let Itarata closer. Mikhail already feels distant, like the darkness is coming for him again, and Itarata hasn’t even started whatever it is he’s going to do. “Are you sure you can do this, sir? Your voice…”

“I’ll be alright,” Itarata says, and he begins to hum.

It takes Morwë until the fourth night to break.

Well. That’s not entirely true. He’d tried offering on the first night. But he’d been kind of indirect, and Esteldur had too much on his mind at that point. Morwë had been selfishly relieved, then, that the older elf didn’t seem to be in the mood. He’d been kind of freaking out, meeting other elves for the first time in decades.

Even if they aren’t from the same tribe, they are still part of the same people, or so he vaguely remembers someone saying from before he was conscripted. Dmitri had put it more crudely the night before the attack. ”Just because they’re not the same breed doesn’t mean they aren’t all dogs. We’ll make them our bitches.”

Esteldur had cut Dmitri down the next day, though. The Orontdrim, as their name for themselves apparently is, might have taken some losses, but they’d done so much damage to the traitors despite being outnumbered and lacking active magic. Even if Esteldur’s commander — Itarata— hadn’t surrendered, they would’ve won. It just would’ve been at a greater cost. Not once, did any of the Orontdrim hesitate to defend their home. Even that surrender is only temporary, if Esteldur is to be believed, and he says it so confidently that Morwë can’t help but believe him. Esteldur says everything with effortless confidence, except for things about Morwë. Morwë didn’t know it was possible for an elf to look so strong, to stand straight without that defeated look in their eye that Morwë remembers from his childhood.

And Morwë hasn’t even thanked Esteldur for saving him yet. Esteldur hasn’t asked yet, but Morwë knows it’s better to be proactive about these sorts of things. When people have to make demands, they tend to be more brutal. It’s just the way of the world.

Morwë’s never been with another elf before, but he knows his own body isn’t that different from that of the humans who’ve fucked him. He just hopes that Esteldur isn’t too big. He knows he’s bigger than most humans, though very few of them ever bothered touching him. He hopes whatever they saw in him that made him so unworthy of being touched in turn doesn’t hurt too much.

Esteldur finishes getting the fire going, then brushes his hands together, in a “well, that’s done,” gesture. He turns to Morwë, who’s still standing up even though he’s usually sitting at this point in the evening, half expectantly. Morwë stares at him, trying to steel himself.

He feels a weight in his chest, a disgust building, and he wonders why. Aren’t elves supposed to be so desirable? That’s what everyone says to him. ”How could we be expected not to fuck a pretty thing like you? You’re all practically begging for it, aren’t you? That’s what you do, that’s what you are.”

Morwë swallows the acid in his throat as Esteldur gives him a confused look. Normally, Morwë is sitting down by now, curled up with his hands around his knees and trying to make himself look as small as possible, but he knows that isn’t exactly appealing to everyone. Esteldur doesn’t seem to like to be the type of person to force his legs open. He probably wants Morwë to start it, to make a show of gratitude for saving him.

“Do you need something?” Esteldur asks, looking up and down Morwë. Morwë interprets that as sizing him up. It has to be. He sounds almost annoyed. The first trace of doubt enters his mind, at the genuine confusion in Esteldur’s voice. What if he doesn’t want this? Morwë tries to ignore the thought. The fear, really. If Esteldur doesn’t want him… maybe he’s ugly, for an elf. Or maybe he’s been too thoroughly despoiled by humans to be desirable by his own kind.

“I— need to…” Morwë starts, and then he bites his lip, embarrassed by how awkward that sounds. Normally, a lone soldier would be all over him by this point. Maybe because Esteldur is so old, his perception of time is weird? That four days doesn’t seem so long to wait to take advantage of the fuckable young thing right in front of him? The willing whore? (Always willing. Always useful. They still take from him anyway.)

Esteldur tilts his head in what still seems to be confusion. “What?”

“You helped me. You saved me, and you’re helping me now.”

“Yes, I did,” Esteldur agrees, his brows furrowed as if Morwë still isn’t making sense. Morwë tries to extend himself to his full height, though it’s awkward. He’s not used to having to look up at someone. He’s usually the tallest person in any room.

Esteldur is strong and dangerous, and Morwë needs Esteldur to want to protect him. That’s all that matters. Morwë steps forward and forces down the part of him that doesn’t want this like he always does. Because he does want this. He should want this more than usual. Esteldur has been gentle with Morwë so far, not pushing him. He hasn’t even hit Morwë once yet.

“I’m. You said it was… um. I know you said you didn’t need anything, on the first night? But if you just wanted it. I can— I can be good? For you? I want to.”

“What’re you talking about?” Esteldur says, seemingly genuinely baffled, and Morwë hesitates. Maybe he can back out again, like he did then. “Want to what?”

“I’ll just— I can show you,” Morwë says, stepping closer to the older elf and kisses him.

Or at least, he tries to. He blinks, realizing his lips are pressed against air. There’s a hand on his chest, stopping him mid air, warm and solid and realizes with a start that Esteldur has stepped back, one hand out stopping him. Morwë feels his heart skyrocket, and he stumbles backwards, moving away from the gentle but firm touch. He nearly trips over a tree root, ending up with his back against a tree, but Esteldur hasn’t followed him at all.

“Are you mad?” Esteldur asks, as if Morwë’s screamed suddenly, out of nowhere, or started talking to the air instead of tried to kiss him.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry.” Morwë pulls in on himself. “If you don’t like that. If you don’t want me to start things. If you want to take it from me instead, or if you don’t think I’m good enough to kiss you, I don’t have to do the kissing, I know a lot of people don’t like that, I can just—”

“Why would you think I would want any of that?” Esteldur demands to know, disgust clear in his voice. His face tightens at that last sentence in particular. “You’re barely older than a child, I’m nearing a millennia. Not to mention, I am married.”

“That’s ok!” Morwë says, hurriedly responding to the second part of Esteldur’s rejection. He doesn’t really know why him being barely more than a child would matter — humans fucked him plenty before he became an adult. “I can keep a secret. Your wife doesn’t have to know. It doesn’t even really count, right?”

“I— Morwë, what are you talking about?”

“Everyone sleeps with whores when they’re at war, and we’re going to war, right?”

He slips into Revkian for whore. He doesn’t know the Quenya word for it.

“I don’t understand…” Esteldur says helplessly and the anger disappears from his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you, I just...”

“Why not?” Morwë demands to know, almost pushing himself forward for a second.

“What?”

“Why don’t you want to hurt me? You’ve been so careful and nice and you haven’t put me in my place even once!” Morwë says, practically shouting it, and he realizes with a start there are tears in his eyes. “Why haven’t you?”

Esteldur opens his mouth as if to say something, then stops himself. He takes a deep breath instead, and Morwë holds himself in preparation for a hit that doesn’t come. Esteldur pulls his hand where it hangs in the air back, then takes a step back. He continues to breathe intentionally, and Morwë has absolutely no idea what he’s thinking. He forces himself to take a step forward, arms by his side so Esteldur knows he’s not trying to be a threat. Not trying to defend himself. “I mean, I can do it myself, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty? If I was out of line. I promise I won’t fight or anything. I’m good at this, I’m good at taking it.”

“Morwë,” Esteldur says, and in that moment, he sounds tired. The sort of way humans sound if they’ve gone without sleep for days in a row. Then he straightens. “Do you mind giving me a few minutes.”

“No, sir,” Morwë says, automatically. He’s not entirely sure what the hierarchy here is supposed to be, but clearly, Esteldur is above him. Everyone is always above him.

Esteldur inhales again, puts a hand to his face as he manages his breathing. He brings himself to say, “I’ll be back,” before he walks off back into the woods. Morwë stands there, the fire casting shadows on his face, waiting. He hates waiting. It’s so much easier when people just get things over with.

Morwë hears Esetldur’s steps, until he can’t anymore. Esteldur’s steps are heavier than they usually are. He’s nowhere near as loud as any of the humans Morwë’s known, but he’s still audible to Morwë’s sensitive hearing most times. This time, he breaks branches underneath his feet. Too angry to be careful, Morwë realizes. And he’s gone away from their camp.

For a brief second, Morwë is terrified that, despite Esteldur’s words, the other elf has decided to abandon him. That he doesn’t need Morwë’s help to find the fort after all. He tries to reassure himself by telling himself that all of Esteldur’s stuff is here, including the horses, but then he starts to worry about why Esteldur left. To find a good branch to make a switch of? He counts the seconds, but his carefully measured numbers just start reminding him of having count out the blows of a whip.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. He doesn’t know where he should be when Esteldur comes back, if he should be prepared and if so, in what way? He just ends up standing there where Esteldur left him, as still as a statue, and when Esteldur does come back, sixteen minutes later, he seems surprised to see Morwë’s still standing there. He buries the surprise quickly.

Esteldur takes a seat, cross legged, by the fire, and Morwë stares at him. He doesn’t seem to have anything with him…

“You can sit, if you’d like,” Esteldur tells him after a pause and another deep breath. Morwë nearly dashes up to the fire and sits by it too, back to his previous position. It is starting to get cold. Esteldur’s posture is open, unrestrained. He puts his hands in his lap. “I’d like to apologize, for my… outburst a moment ago.”

“It’s alright,” Morwë says. “I’m used to worse, sir.”

“That’s the issue,” Esteldur sighs, and it’s Morwë’s turn to give him a confused look. “It’s become increasingly apparent to me that I am not… particularly well endowed in the necessary skills to assist you.”

Morwë frowns. “You’re helping me get Mikhail back. What else is there?”

“There’s the question of your happiness. Your wellbeing in the long term.”

Morwë’s brand begins to ache. He doesn’t understand what Esteldur means. His happiness? He doesn’t even know what that would look like. It’s so inconceivable that it parses as potentially treasonous. “I can keep going fine, sir.”

“Stop— calling me that,” Esteldur says, and Morwë bits his lip. “Please.”

“Okay,” Morwë nods, feeling like he’s been hit. Why won’t Esteldur just do that instead? It’s easier than trying to navigate this minefield.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Esteldur begin, measuring his words. “But you appear to me to be under the impression that… your presence is something that you need to make up for, by offering… sexual favors.”

Morwë tilts his head. Esteldur seems to find the words hard to say, as if there’s something distasteful about the concept. Isn’t that just the way things are?

“Are you saying you don’t want me? At all?” Morwë asks.

Esteldur sighs again. “I am saying that it would be quite inappropriate of me to ask such a thing of someone that is so blatantly afraid of me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Esteldur mutters something under his breath that Morwë can’t make out.

“I am not one of the humans you have learned to please out of fear of consequence, Morwë. There is very little in this world that you could do that would provoke me to hurt you and even then, it would not be in punishment but in self defense. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir—“ Morwë starts, before cutting himself off. No, not sir. “Yes, Esteldur?”

Esteldur gives him a look. “Do you really.”

“Not really, but,” Morwë admits. The reassurances are going over his head a bit. There’s always something. “I can play along?”

“No, I… Morwë… I have no intention of treating you as a slave. Elves don’t do that. I know in many ways you are still chained by that magic, but that is something that has been done to you. It is not who you are.”

“What I am,” Morwë corrects Esteldur automatically, without even thinking about it, and something dark crosses Esteldur’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, but I don’t really understand what you’re saying. What use am I, if you don’t want me?.”

“You’re helping me retrieve an old friend,” Esteldur says. “And you’re not the world’s worst company, despite being as skittish as a hare. You’re… I don’t even know why I’ve been going along with this line of thinking. Your worth is not decided by how useful you are.”

Morwë squints at him. “So what is it decided by?”

Esteldur leans backwards for a moment. “I reiterate my previous point about not being the best equipped to assist you… but I suppose I’m all you’ve got. I almost wish I’d just asked you to mark the way on the map…”

“I’m sorry,” Morwë says, automatically trying to defend himself from the clear disapproval.

“No, no. I’m trying to apologize, and I’m doing a horrid job of it.” Esteldur goes to his bag and withdraws more of that bread. He passes a piece to Morwë and takes one for himself. “Good to not discuss such subjects on an empty stomach. We’re tired from riding as well. Please, try not to inhale this in one bite this time? It can’t be good for your digestion.”

Morwë nods mutely and tries to follow Esteldur’s example, tearing off pieces and chewing them. He guesses he can follow that order. Esteldur has been giving him it, and he doesn’t seem to be likely to start taking it away now. Still, it feels mind bogglingly slow. Even attempting to force himself to slow down, he’s still finished far faster than Esteldur is.

“Is it because I’m ugly?” Morwë asks once he’s done, trying to pretend he’s not hurt by the rejection. “I know I’m disgusting and easy, but I promise, I can make up for it. I’m really good with my tongue, that’s what everyone says. Your wife doesn’t have to know.”

Esteldur finishes his bite, then looks around as if waiting for someone else to show up, but nobody does. “You are not disgusting, Morwë.”

“You clearly think I am.” Morwë’s tone is bitter, more bitter than he means to let on. He hurries to say, “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

“You are correct in recognizing I’m feeling disgust. But not with you. I am disgusted with the people that have taught you that what you would prefer matters so little. I am disgusted with the people that would hurt you so thoroughly that you would preempt their violence by attempting to punish yourself. And to be frank… I am disgusted with myself and my people, that we have allowed the horrors you’ve undergone to persist in the world.”

“I don’t…” Morwë begins, weakly. He doesn’t understand. Why should what he want matter at all? He’s Móladrin. That’s just the way things are for them.

“Once we retrieve Itarata and return to Varnandë, I intend to have words with him, as well as several others. My people have neglected yours for a great length of time, and I am uncertain if this is a wrong we will ever be able to make amends for.” Morwë thinks first of Mikhail and the fort when Esteldur says your people. After all, he doesn’t say it with an undercurrent of malice at all. But from context… “I see you don’t understand, and I am deeply sorry that I am unable to make myself clear.”

“It’s okay,” Morwë tells him, more than a little lost.

“No, it is not. And I hope that once you grow to appreciate the severity of the wrongs that’ve been committed against you, you are able to forgive me for the role I have played in enabling them.”

“Alright,” Morwë nods. “I forgive you, I think?”

“That’s— alright. We can work on this.”

“If you say so.” Morwë feels suddenly very conscious of the way his clothes stick to his body, of all the sharp angles of him. Esteldur is looking at him like Morwë is more naked than he is when he’s naked. He looks anywhere but at the older elf. “You’re saying… you don’t want to use me? Even though I’m okay with it?”

“There’s more to consent than being okay with something, you know.” That word— consent— isn’t entirely unfamiliar to Morwë, but Esteldur is using it in a way that Morwë doesn’t understand. What does agreeing to something have anything to do with sex? “Even if I wasn’t married— and I’ll point out most people that aren’t soldiers will be at least a touch offended by the implication they’d be willing to cheat on their spouses.”

“I mean, it’s only cheating if it’s with a person, right?”

Esteldur looks like Morwë hit him. Morwë wants to backpedal and apologize but he’s still not sure for what. Esteldur composes himself, and Morwë has no idea why he’s being so patient. Clearly, Morwë doesn’t understand the rules of his current situation, so why isn’t Esteldur hitting him for breaking them until he figures it out?

“Would it at all be possible,” Esteldur starts. “For you to at least… pretend that you think of yourself as someone worthy of respect? I won’t hurt you if you can’t, I can tell that’s a lot to ask.”

Morwë has absolutely no idea what that looks like. How is he supposed to be afraid of himself? Call himself sir? Follow his own orders? He’s not even sure that’s what Esteldur means, what else does respect look like? The idea is laughable. He hangs his head. If this is what free elves are like, then no wonder humans decided they needed to be broken. This doesn’t make any sense at all. His brand aches, and the pain is like an old friend.

“I’ll try, s— Esteldur.”

“Good,” Esteldur says, sharply. “I’ve no intention of letting anyone hurt you anymore, least of all myself.”

Esteldur watches the other elf. The Mólado.

Morwë is thin. Not the sort of Eldarin build that humans label as thin because of their height but surprisingly thick once you get a good look at them but actually skinny. The sort of skinny you only see on an elf if they’ve been actively starved for an extended period or chronically underfed for decades.

His hair is longer and darker than Esteldur’s, and he kept it loose, even through the fighting. Even though it must’ve gotten in the way. He’d spoken to some of the enemy soldiers in Revkian more fluently than with the archaic and foreign dialect of Quenya he’s been using to communicate with Esteldur, but he hadn’t looked anything like them. His black hair is as dark as obsidian, shining only in reflection no matter the lighting, and his skin is pale like that of someone from much farther North than even the Great Mountains, where the soldiers had hair that changed from black to brown in the light and ranged mostly from slightly pale to tan.

By some human standards, Morwë might be a girlish sort of beautiful, maybe, but to many humans, elves are all the same sort of feminine, regardless of if they’re a nér or a nís. Their hair is usually long and so they all must be like women. To Esteldur, Morwë is clearly a nér, or at least clinging to an appearance or masculinity with all of the strength he has.

Esteldur keeps his eyes on the fire, studying Morwë out of the corner of his vision, while Morwë’s gaze flickers from spot to spot. Their combined hearing is good enough to catch any predators or enemies that might try to sneak up on them, there’s no need to keep watch so literally, but he isn’t looking across and out. His gaze catches on the sword at Esteldur’s belt, on Esteldur’s hands, on Esteldur’s lips, but never lingering long enough to grow comfortable.

Esteldur has never met one of the Móladar before. He’s lived in these mountains since the Orontdrim were merely one of countless small nameless and homeless elven bands, almost six hundred years ago now, but even when he was young, he never walked among humans as extensively or with as much enthusiasm for the prospect of exploration as some of these newer Orontdrim do. Of course, as a member of the second generation, he hadn’t had much of a safe haven to grow bored with in his own youth. The world that excites them so just seems tiresome and full of danger to him.

The Orontdrim, having grown into a tribe with dozens of bands across the Great Mountains, learned of the Mólodar from Angiel, the first of those youthful adventurers, when she’d returned near four decades after she’d set out, a hardened gaze that would leave plenty of her elders looking away. That many selfish humans envied elves for their longevity and fertility they brought the land wasn’t news to the eldest Orontdrim, the ones that remembered the Dark Years — the time of pogroms and exile that drove them into these mountains and sundered them from their brethren.

But that anyone, of any species, would go so far as to use spellcasting to craft a chain that could bind an elf not only in one life but allegedly even into the next… that not only had an entire tribe fallen to this fate but that it was the Rethyar, of all of the tribes… That Minyas, the oldest elven city, had fallen to humans who would use that dark magic…

Esteldur wasn’t the only one who’d found it hard to believe. He’d never doubted Angiel; she was no liar and the steel in her gaze belied she’d seen the sort of horrors that the elder Orontdrim had wanted so badly to protect their descendants from. But he’d managed to convince himself such horrors would never reach his door.

Now Itarata, Esteldur’s commander and oldest friend, is gone, taken by an attack that never should have happened, and if Esteldur is to have any hope of retrieving him, he will have to place his trust in the hands of a nér whose loyalty is magically bound to an empire split in three parts. Morwë claims to be trailing these particular Revkian soldiers because his commanding officer, loyal to the Emperor’s true heir, was captured by them too, but Esteldur finds it hard to believe that’s the full story.

At the very least, his loyalty to the man he’s perusing goes deeper than what his curse demands of him. The way Morwë says his captain’s name— Esteldur wonders if he sounds the same with Itarata in his mouth. What could this Mikhail, a soldier of the very Empire that enslaved Morwë, have done to earn not only Morwë’s obedience but also his love? Angiel and many of the youthful adventurers that had followed the Iron Path she’d set out were been insistent that the brand could only bind, it could never create anything in the one who bore it.

Morwë can bear no physical scars from his time in the Empire, aside from the brand. Elves, no matter which tribe they might originate from, heal from any sort of wound inflicted by natural means completely. They don’t get sick, they don’t suffer infection. That is to say, just Esteldur can see no evidence of physical abuse beyond his malnourishment. there’s a skittishness to him that Esteldur, in all his centuries, has never seen before in an elf. Perhaps never seen before, period.

Skittish and also eagerly deferential. Excessively so. Esteldur knows he’s got a bit of presence— it comes with the territory of being only around two centuries shy of a thousand years old. Younger elves, especially ones who have never lived at Fendetaras let alone passed it, will pay him heed. They fall in behind him rather than beside or ahead of him on instinct. Perhaps this is all that’s occurring but more profound as Esteldur is likely the first free elf that Morwë’s ever met.

Esteldur had needed to tell Morwë it was fine to eat, when he’d put the rations in front of the younger nér. Morwë’d looked so distrustful, but he’d eaten anyway. Fast, like it might be taken away from him at any point. No thought to savor it. Esteldur was almost offended on behalf of his wife’s cooking, wanted to ask what was so bad about her lembas that he wouldn’t take his time, but he couldn’t bring himself to comment on the oddity of Morwë’s actions.

Of course, he’s barely engaged Morwë in conversation at all. It’s a combination of his own reticence to ask questions he doesn’t really want the answers to and Morwë’s tendency to reply to any questions asked as efficiently as possible, with no room for ambiguity. Esteldur’s never been the best at small talk anyways — his wife tends to speak for the both of them, when the two of them are together, and there is rarely anything that Itarata says that Esteldur feels the need to contradict. Still, he doubts either of those two would know what to make of Morwë.

He is young. No older than two hundred and likely far from that. It’s difficult to describe exactly how Esteldur can tell, they’re of a similar height, and there’s not exactly physical signs of aging in the way wrinkles or grey hair might betray an older human. Morwë’s demeanor might betray it, but the subtle differences between the world weariness of one who has seen horrors they could not and would not describe and one who has simply lived for near a millennia aren’t always the easiest to parse. Particularly for those whom a century is all they get.

As if Esteldur hasn’t seen plenty of horrors of his own. His mother’s screams echo in his mind, just as his father’s blood threatens to stain him all over again. Neither of them were that much older than Morwë is now. Itarata’s sister hadn’t even made it to that age when she’d been cut down, her body desecrated as greedy hands tore every gem that Esteldur had cut for her from their settings.

…That was the last time he’d walked among humans. But of course, that was long before the Iron Path was set. All paths had been so dark back then. Perhaps these recollections, impossible for him to erase even as the bodies of the ones he once loved have long since been consumed by the earth they were left on, are the reason reason why he resides at Fendetaras, a perpetual watch dog, the reason he amongst all of the Orontdrim would chase Itarata. Why his beloved would not only give permission for him to go but demand it of him, even as the day of their daughter’s marriage grows close. Most of the survivors of those dark days have more effectively laid their memories to rest, not quite as haunted as they were when they’d begun to build new homes, but the three of them…

He shakes his head, as if the simple motion is enough to dismiss the memories of his own youth rising unbidden. Morwë’s gaze goes from flickering to focused, his eyes going wide at just the simple gesture. As if the shake of the head is an expression of displeasure with him. When Esteldur looks at Morwë next, he looks at him head on.

“Are you alright?” Esteldur asks, the frozen terror that Morwë’s posture radiates impossible to ignore. He realizes, all of a sudden, that he hasn’t asked that this entire time. It’s been a busy day, but he still feels like he’s committed some horrible crime of neglect.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. You got injured worse than I did.” In addition to probably being a good number of decades out of date and affected by a profound Revkian accent, his Quenya a different dialect than Esteldur is used to. Some of the latter youthful adventurers that had followed the Iron Path brought Rethyarin refugees who’d survived the fall of Minyas back with them, so Esteldur is capable of recognizing the more major differences in vocabulary.

“I’ve endured a great deal in my time. I’ll heal,” Esteldur tells Morwë. It’s true, although perhaps not entirely honest. It’s been a great length of time since he has engaged in serious battle. The Orontdrim build good defenses and few intruders have gotten close enough to Fendetaras to even threaten to harm them. Esteldur’s wounds from the fight with the Revkian soldiers that Morwë called “the usurpers” sting, more so than he’d like to admit, but it’s not the cuts and bruises that gets to him.

Itarata. His commander, his closest friend, in the hands of an unknown enemy. And who knows what else will follow? The old Emperor might have been a bastard, but he’d known that the Orontdrim weren’t worth the cost of trying to conquer. Not to mention, there were treaties that were supposed to be in place, trade deals that any sane heir would want to be maintained.

Those deals with an Empire that had inherited the slaving ways of its forefathers and which clearly descended from the kingdoms and tribes that perpetuated the pogroms of the Dark Days might’ve grated against the morals of the more self righteous amongst the Orontdrim, Esteldur himself included in their ranks, but everyone agreed that the alternative, of forcing war, would end with expulsion for the lucky and that same enslavement for those who were not.

“Well. Me too,” Morwë says, as if affronted by a slight Esteldur hadn’t meant to lace his words with. Morwë stares at Esteldur head on, and Esteldur almost wonders if there’s fury there. Certainly defiance. Incomprehensible— Esteldur hadn’t meant the comment as some sort of competition. He’d merely wanted to reassure the younger nér.

“Hm,” Esteldur says. Morwë narrows his eyebrows in suspicion, as if he himself hadn’t been offering up borderline monosyllabic responses earlier in the night. From most younger elves, Esteldur would’ve expected an interrogation at allusions to older times. His daughter certainly loves pestering him about all of the centuries he’d spent before her birth, and she was raised in a cradle of elvenkind, never forcibly torn from it as still a young child as the Móladar are said to be. The two of them might be from different tribes, but they’re part of the same nation, aren’t they?

“You don’t have to worry about me slowing you down,” Morwë insists all of a sudden after a pause, as though that’s what Esteldur was even thinking of. Perhaps he was unable to interpret the “hm” and simply filled it in with something that made sense to him. He continues, not particularly daunted by Esteldur’s half shrug. “And. Um. I mean, I told you, I can be useful.”

“I already agreed that I needed you,” Esteldur replies, a little bemused and more than slightly unnerved by how defensive Morwë seems to be getting at such an innocuous comment. They’d been sitting in silence for what’s probably been hours, if Esteldur could be bothered to consider such things. Esteldur, at the very least, found the rest, well, restful, even if he’d been worrying the entire time. Morwë, on the other hand, seems just as tightly wound as before. If anything, Esteldur would say he’d looked calmer when he’d been cornered by those former allies. At the very least, less jittery. There’d been something dead in those eyes in the moments before Esteldur had cut down the man he’d called Dmitri.

“I mean, yeah,” Morwë says, hurrying past that. “I know you have someone to rescue too. But if you need anything else, um. While we’re on the way. You did save my life and stuff.“

Morwë’s face is slightly red, and Esteldur’s unsure of why. “I know this part of the land better than you do, I’m fairly certain. You can take charge when we get closer, if there’s anything I haven’t been accounting for.”

Morwë’s opening his mouth to spout off something even more confusing before Esteldur’s even done with his sentence, but the last words seem to throw him for a loop. At least Esteldur isn’t alone in being lost in this conversation.

“Are you sure? But I’m—“ Morwë drops the end of the sentence, looking sheepish. Esteldur can only guess at what he meant by that. An elf, probably.

“Sorry,” Morwë says, and then calls Esteldur something in Revkian. Esteldur shrugs helplessly. He has nothing to guide him through this conversation.

Esteldur tries most days to not think poorly of humans because of the ways some of them have done their species a disservice. It’s not as though humans have a monopoly on bastardry— it was at least in part the actions of other elves that drove the band that would become the Orontdrim away from Mithras to begin with, even if Esteldur can’t reasonably hold them accountable for the devastation that followed that icing out.

It is very difficult not to curse humanity as a whole on nights like these.

Esteldur does not know what was done to Morwë that he thinks of his own kind as inherently lesser. He does not know how Morwë could bring himself to love a commanding officer that would exist in a system that kept him in chains, magical or physical. An officer that would let him go hungry for so long that he’d look like this. He can’t even begin to imagine what it would take, were he in Morwë’s shoes, not to despise the entire species for the actions of what must be almost every single one he’s met so far.

Selfishly, Esteldur doesn’t care about this. Doesn’t think to try to help Morwë. All Esteldur cares about in this moment is saving Itarata before—