#itarata

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.

It’s not the first time.

Nor is it the second, or the third time, or the fourth, or the fifth, or even the fiftieth.

Itarata doesn’t know how to count them anymore. Is it each body, each different cock shoved in his mouth or ass? Each thrust, hard and violent like being impaled. When there’s no one, he feels empty— loose inside. Hollow, hanging open. Those breaks aren’t much of a reprieve, though, since they usually leave him chained up in some stress position or another.

He tries to focus on the fact that he’s allowed to have his hands against the ground in this cell now. That his shoulders aren’t slowly being torn out of their socket by the gravity he can’t resist. It doesn’t feel like much of a reprieve. He thinks this human’s been here a few times now— most of them got their fill of raping him the first day, the appeal of an older elf with enough dignity not to help them by either acquiescing to the humiliation in hopes of a mercy that’s not coming or excite them by trying fruitlessly to fight wearing off pretty quickly, but some of them have decided to stick out trying to break him.

Either that, or they’re enjoying the process even though he’s just lying there like a dead fish, his mind somewhere else. He can’t say their brutality has no effect on him— every violation still feels like a fresh piece of him is being cut off and torn away. But he can’t say much right now at all. At some point in those first few hours, the adrenaline of rage cut out and his mind abandoned him entirely. The pain is a dull ache, somewhere in the distance.

The human that’s on top of him now — straddling him, his dick forcing its way into the bruised and battered hole made accessible with force — is saying something, but he can barely make it out. Some sort of taunt. He wonders if they know he’s not really here, that they’re only raping his body when what they clearly want to do is rape his mind. It’s the pain of the brand that threatens to bring him back to reality more than anything they could shove into him. Sharper than the knives and the whips they use to slice open his back, more persistent an ache than the punches and kicks can leave. His body threatens to twist on the ground in response to the ways the pain in the brand moves around, sharpening and lessening seemingly at random even though he knows it’s in response to thoughts he’s not conscious enough to pin down. At least, it did at first, when he was still adjusting. Now, it’s just another thing numb.

They enjoy the movement, though, taking it as an excuse to accuse him of enjoying himself. If he was conscious enough to even register the words, he’d laugh them off. He’s vaguely aware he’s come a few times during this, the semen coating his ass, thighs, and stomach not entirely the result of the men spilling themselves all over him, but it’s not like that means anything. Angiel’s told him stories about accidentally orgasming from a particularly intense horseback ride. The body reacts to stimuli. That's the way this works.

It means nothing to him.

From an incredible distance, a fraction of Itarata wonders what they’ve done with his clothes as this latest bastard finishes, spraying himself all over Itarata’s chest before rubbing himself all over his cheek. He remembers it being cut away, the knives nicking his skin as they tore away at the fabric, focused only on the jewels and gold embroidered onto his tunic and paying no heed to the fact that the whole garment was worth much more than its constituent parts. Bits and pieces pried off, sold on the cheap. Offensively inefficient. Not that he was going to let them take it off more cleanly.

This one stands back up, then kicks him. Steel toed boots against his already bruised ribs. No protection for his internal organs, chained up like he is. If he were one of them, it might’ve killed him. The risk of internal bleeding would be profound, if he wasn’t as sturdy as he is. As is, it’s just an addition to the patchwork of blue and purple all over his chest. He can’t see it, but he’s familiar enough with his own body to be able to tell what sort of impacts cause what marks.

That fraction considers the possibility they’ve given up on the possibility of breaking him to the point where they could sell him — they’ve got to know if they let him heal enough to be able to stand under his own power, he’ll take the first opportunity he’s been given. However broken this Morwë is, they have to know he didn’t get that way from just a little bit of gang rape. Maybe they’re planning on keeping him. He doesn’t care either way— he’s not really here.

The door opens as this one leaves. Someone new catches the door as this person leaves. Or maybe someone old, as if he’s at all able to tell from where he is. There’s a thud as something heavy outside falls to the floor. His eyes are shut and even if they were open, it’s not like he’s crooning his head to see them. He can parse that words are being said to him as this new person crouches down next to him, but his mind just doesn’t process the noises into coherent sentences. More mockery, maybe. He feels as though he recognizes the voice, but he’s different.

Something brushes against his chest softly, almost gentle even with how much it hurts. Not the first one to play at kindness. The officer from the first day, whose name Itarata must’ve learned at some point, kept trying to use that as a way to break his disassociation. But they haven’t done that for… days? Has it been days? There’s been gaps between the men coming in that he’s wondered might be night, but his internal clock, normally so strong, is completely broken from the haze of dissociation. Either way— they’d all given up on that pretty quickly. Impatient, as all humans are.

His body shudders at this touch, unconsciously responding, and the movement makes every ache of his body worse. The words are reassuring, gentle. More mockery. Somewhere distantly, he grits his teeth.

The fraction of him that’s paying attention hears the rattle of a key in the cuffs around his ankles, then his hands. That fraction only notes it as a novelty. Plenty of them have unchained him for long enough to move him around, reposition him. They’ve flipped his body from back to front a few times, moved it so he was sitting. He doesn’t know if he could stand under his own power— when they’ve tried to make him stand, he’s forced them to use chains just to be an inconvenience. They’ve mostly left his body on the ground lately, realizing it’s not worth the effort to make him flop around when he’s not responsive enough to be anything other than a hole.

But this one’s careful in moving him, not letting his head smack against the ground. Mindful of the wounds. Another person enters the room, or maybe two? One of them is louder than the other, if that’s the case. Or being held awkward. It doesn’t matter. Maybe they want to fuck him at the same time.

He feels his hair being brushed out of his face, and then— there’s a kiss against his forehead. Soft.

And that’s when the distant part of him realizes the words being whispered to him are in Quenya. Not Revkian. His eyes fly open, and he’s nowhere near entirely present, but—

“Esto—”

His voice is so weak, like he’s been screaming. Was he screaming? He thought he’d managed to stay quiet. He trails off, unable to ask the question. There’s been things he’s thought might be hallucinations, but nothing like this…

There’s a pause, before his oldest friend tells him, “Save your breath. Getting in was the easy part.”

Itarata promises himself that the humans that have him bound will not hear him scream.

They are nothing but children to him. He was here in this world before their grandparents’ grandparents were born, and he will be here when they are nothing but dust in the ground. There will come a time where he is the only living being to remember any of their names, or there would be that time if he intended on learning any of them.

The rage at the indignity of being bound in this way, with a collar of iron heavy around his throat connected by chains to the cuffs around his wrists behind his back with barely enough slack for him to lean forward or twist his head without choking himself and the cuffs around his ankles that keep threatening to trip him, burns so bright that he leaves no time for fear. Not to mention the chain that dangles loose from the collar, down in front of him, like a leash.

He is not the child he was when Mírwen was cut down, her first life ended before either of them had even reached adulthood. He is not the young adult that had to step up to lead his people when his parents faltered, so lost to their grief that they might have, through their inability to serve the roles they’d been appointed when what would become the Orontdrim had set out in their exile from Minyas, allowed their tribe to be destroyed before it had even begun. He is the nér that endured the Dark Days and built a haven with his sword and hammer alike.

He repeats these truths to himself with every step even as he hears the humans mocking him to each other. They mostly speak Revkian, some with thicker and more noticeable accents than others. He doesn’t allow himself to react to any of the taunts. Even if he acknowledged them as meaningful, he’d rather not let on that he knows their language.

He’s never traveled through a portal before, and the trip which is mundane for the Revkians leaves him dizzy and disoriented. It doesn’t help that one of them shoves him through it. He stumbles, instinctively going to put his hands forward, but he can’t with the chains. He grunts, narrowly managing to avoid being forced to his knees in the clearing. There’s a difference in altitude, between where he was and where he is now.

He doesn’t know how far a distance he’s traveled, but it can’t be that far. The scout-mage comes through the portal she’d opened last, sweating like it’s the height of summer rather than a crisp autumn day, but capable of standing on her own power. The clouds above them are different, having moved by at minimum, around a hundred miles, but it’s clearly the same weather system. They’ve gone from an enemy camp less than a day’s ride from Fendetaras, from the safe valley behind it that has been his home for all those years, to somewhere else, much higher in the Great Mountains.

He finds himself standing in front of a different mountain fortress, one that might be impressive to a human farm worker who’d never before traveled outside their family’s grounds, but to Itarata seems at best pedestrian. Ramshackle, even, with barely the occasional gesture to decoration. A stonemason and architect of the Orontdrim whose ages haven’t even reached triple digits could single-handedly build circles around this construction. It’s serviceable, but utterly boring.

Somewhere the others will find him. His people will not abandon him. He has no doubts about this. It’s only a question of how long it will take and how merciful Itarata will be feeling when they do.

One of the soldiers on this side of the portal, one who must not have been at the attack, whistles at the sight of Itarata. Itarata snaps his head to face him, letting every iota of rage show in his gaze without caring about the strain it causes with the chains. The soldier almost takes a step back under the intensity of it. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Itarata, though, just breaks the eye contact. He sizes up Itarata’s body instead.

“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” one of the men who most definitely had been there says with a laugh as he steps out from the portal. Itarata had been unable to miss his name— Ivanov. He’d likely been the one to push Itarata, if Itarata has to guess. That Itarata is the “it” in question does not go over his head. “Move it, whore, you’re getting in the way.”

Whore is one of those words that doesn’t translate to Quenya particularly well. There is a word for someone who makes their skill at sex a trade, in the same way someone might be a smith or a weaver or a musician, but it lacks the derogatory connotations that humans apply to it. It’s not a word one would throw at a captured enemy. There is, he supposes, a word for one who cheats on their spouse.

He thinks nothing of the implication, his mind full with thoughts of vengeance.

Itarata refuses the order. They have dragged him this far, and they will have to drag him the rest of the way, regardless of how outnumbered he may be. Regardless of how many days, weeks, away his rescue may be.

“Are you stupid?” Ivanov says. “I said, move it.”

Despite his harsh words, he too withers under Itarata’s gaze, only able to bear the intensity of it for a moment. He can’t be older than twenty five.

Ivanov kicks him this time, square in the back. Itarata keeps quiet even as he stumbles forward, managing to stay standing even fettered as he is. Even as the pain in his chest from the bruised ribs burns.

“You’ll die for this,” Itarata tells him simply, letting his head go back to center and setting his focus to a point in the distance. He tells all of them. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. His rage is as cold as ice. Earlier in the day, before the chains, he’d attempted to offer mercy. He’d told them that if they’d release him, he would spare them. That offer had expired the moment they collared him, held him down against the dirt and chained him like a dog. “If you release me now, I will make it quick.”

Admittedly. That had been only in Quenya. Just as this is. That doesn’t mean that most of the soldiers don’t feel the weight of the thing that isn’t a threat but a promise.

Most of them. Not all of them.

Itarata hears the portal behind him shut as the scout-mage and the last of the soldiers step through into the clearing outside the borders of the fort. Though, he supposes, it’s less of a noise and more of a sudden absence of the noise from the other side. The birds are cut off mid song, leaving only the ones on this side.

His rage doesn’t leave him as he realizes his escape’s been cut off, and it’s not hopelessness that threatens to rise up in his chest. He already knew he was surrounded, that these chains would keep his escape from being that simple. But there’s something to the gap between the two places being opened and closed so casually that reminds him, although he is old, these people are heirs to

“Not quite as much of a coward as the old captain’s bitchboy, huh?” one of the men says, turning to look at a friend. Looking away only slightly lessens Itarata’s presence.

“Kind of freaky,” his friend says. “Seeing a dog like that acting like a person.”

The humiliation, Itarata tells himself, is on them. Any debasement he may suffer reflects only on the heads of those that would lessen themselves to commit it.

“Bet you Nikolai can fix him right up something good, though,” another one cuts in, then scowls. “Wish we coulda grabbed the bitchboy too. I would’ve loved to bend him over in front of Mikhail, finally take the wool from his eyes about how much of a slut that bastard really was. What do you think he was doing there?”

“Probably looking for its master. Poor puppy dog, lost without someone holding its leash. I bet the feral ones eat him alive.”

Itarata keeps his expression level. He’d caught glimpses of what he’d thought might’ve been a foreign elf in the fighting, tall as he’d been for a stranger. He’d almost convinced himself the nér had been a hallucination, a trick of his mind in the middle of a fight he hadn’t been ready for despite all his years. After all, the stranger nearly looked like Mírwen.

At least, he can only assume they’re talking about an elf. It’s the same language they’ve started using for him. Cruel, objectifying. Threatening all sorts of horrors that Itarata once hoped were gone from his life for good, only this time he won't be able to escape it. He clutches his fists tight enough that his knuckles turn white. Esteldur will take care of him...

That’s only one of the conversations happening around him— about him. He catches all of them, and he lets them fuel his rage instead of trying to ignore them. His trembles are of fury, not of terror. He will not let them see him hurt.

“Arrogant son of a bitch. I hope he was fucking worth it.” That soldier, Donavan, spits at him. Itarata doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I can’t wait to hear him begging.”

“Elf bitch thinks he’s too good for us.”

“Pretty mouth on that one, even nicer than Morwë’s. You think Nikolai will let us put him through the paces?”

“Please, it looks like it’ll bite your cock off.”

Morwë. That’s the name of the nér that was at the battle. A Mólado, based on the way they’re talking about him. Itarata’s more familiar than most Orontdrim with the system that the Revkians inherited and managed to make even more brutal. He itches to reach for the sword that’s been taken from him, with a hand that’s bound.

Patience, he reminds himself. He surrendered rather than allowing the fighting to continue for a reason. For several reasons— the faces of his fallen people burn in his mind. Recent losses. A pain he’s used to being a dull ache ignites fresh, and he buries it with fury.

He’s made compromises to keep his people safe before. He’s kept the true horrors of the Móladar from his people. It’s not a secret, exactly, as any of the Orontdrim is perfectly capable of venturing into the human world on their own or asking questions of those who have walked the Iron Path. But it’s a tactic assumption between all of them to not volunteer the information. After all, the ones who returned here are the ones who have given up on trying to free their cousins.

He knows it haunts Angiel. Not only what she saw but also that she was unable to dissuade people from following in her stead. So many of them have failed to return, and there are nights where he wonders if they’ve fallen to the blades of humans, been captured and turned into a part of the very system they’d set out to destroy, or if they’re still out there. Seeing the world, seeing its horrors and deciding they can do something about it, that they don’t have any choice.

The threats — promises — from these men wash over Itarata’s back. He forces them to drag him, or at the very least, he forces Ivanov to grab the chains and try to drag him. His strength is much more profound than that of the soldier, and his digging his heels in.

“Come on, you idiot. You’re the one that surrendered. Do you want us to open that portal and go back? Kill some more of your men?” Ivanov demands. Itarata hides his reaction to that. They can’t— a force of this size, mostly reservists who, if the talk of Mikhail is to be believed, was already split into multiple factions? There’s no way there’s any other mage-scouts here. They’ll have to at least wait until the morning. He adopts a posture of faux confusion, unwilling to reveal he’s fluent in their language. “Drag more of them here?”

“The poor thing doesn’t know what you’re saying, Ivanov,” one of his friends says, mockery clear in his tone, before looking around. “Any of you lot speak elf drivvle?”

Nobody nods.

“Mikhail might…” someone offers. “If the bitch taught him any.”

“Pft, Mikhail might be down bad for that slut, but he’s not gone that native,” another one retorts. “Besides, you really trust him to translate? Just beat the idiot into submission. Drag its unconscious body down to Nikolai, if it refuses to come with. Don’t need to worry about breaking it like we did with the skinny bitch, this one’s got some fight in it and some meat on its bones.”

He mentally retracts the second offer of mercy, the one for a quick death. He doesn’t consider himself particularly brutal, but the way they’re speaking of Morwë, of an elf he’s never even met, is enough to make him want to skin the lot of them, with the same practiced hand that he’s used on thousands, hundreds of thousands, of prey animals over the centuries. Except for these bastards, he wouldn’t give time the privilege of dying first.

He thinks nothing of himself. Of the fate that awaits him. He can’t acknowledge it. Not by the hand of humans. He is older than this empire, older than the Revkian tribes that founded it.

“You sure about that? It’s barely been reacting to what’s happened so far. Morwë must’ve been a defective model, that little shit would fold at a raised voice.”

“Fucker’s creepy. Maybe this was a shit idea,” the one who’d already suggested their attack had been a mistake chimes in.

“Should kill him and sell the body instead, save ourselves the hassle,” someone on the other side of the crowd adds. Itarata starts to parse the sheer number of them, and something resembling dread starts to build in his chest despite himself. Most of the attacking force has already returned to the castle with their loot in tow, but that still leaves dozens of them out here, surrounding him like a swarm. A few people start nodding along with that idea.

The one that’d said they couldn’t wait to hear him beg— a day that will never happen, in Itarata’s mind — steps forward, closer. “You’re letting him get in your heads. Fucker might be immortal, but he’ll still bleed.”

He steps so close, and Itarata can see he’s strong. There’s a difference in his uniform— an officer— but their internal hierarchy doesn’t mean much to Itarata. The only thing that means is that, unlike Ivanov, he’s actually well fed. He sizes up Itarata and he almost manages to hold his gaze. When he can’t, he grows angry instead of hesitating.

“You two,” he orders, pointing at two of the bigger and burlier men in the crowd. “Hold him up.” They each grab one of his shoulders. Itarata feels his heart try to jump into his chest, for the first time his shield of anger cracking. Itarata would try to muscle his way out of their grip, and in another place, he might’ve been able to. But he can’t position his feet effectively, with the cuffs. The officer slams his fist into Itarata’s gut— hard.

They’d stripped his armor from him already, leaving only his sheer silk shirt to protect him from the assault. If Itarata was standing under his own power, this blow would be enough to knock him into the dirt. Instead, the grip that contains him, traps him, keeps him standing. It hurts, especially with his injuries from earlier in the day, and he bites down on a scream. He will not give them the satisfaction. He breathes in as steadily as he can, with the wind knocked out of him.

He’s taken hits worse than this in the past month, in training with his people. If this is what they think will break him, they’ve got bad news coming their way.

“Kramar. Go tell Nikolai we’ve got a present for him soon.” The man that moves to follow the order looks at Itarata with something resembling pity, before running off. Once he’s satisfied that Kramar has in fact left, the officer leans forward. Itarata wonders if the officer had chosen this in order to allow him to look down at him. The man’s barely six feet, if that. Itarata’s got near two and a half feet on him, when unencumbered. “Hey. Elf boy. I know you’re pretending not to understand us.”

“What?” Itarata gets out, in a Revkian that’s only half a century or so dated, as he regains control over his breathing. It’s usually easier, but the hands on his back and on the chains binding them, let alone the officer’s breath on his face, are doing a number to his internal equilibrium. “How did you know?“

The officer smiles and several of the gathered soldiers break into laughter.

“It was a guess, before you’d just confirmed it for me,” the officer says. His voice seems almost sing songy, soft but cruel. He reaches a hand out to trace Itarata’s chin, and Itarata pulls back as far as he can, avoiding the touch, but one of the men holding him pushes his head forward, into the officer’s hand. Itarata feels like a fool. A beginner’s trick, one any child not even triple digits of age, could see through. And he’d fallen for it.

“Now. You’re already at our mercy. You will be going to see Nikolai. But whether that’ll be right now, willingly, or after everyone here, everyone that risked their lives and some who’d lost friends in the process, to get you have had their way with you right here and now, not even inside our walls… well, that’s up to you.”

He reaches forward with the hand that’s not holding his jaw tight, groping at the space between Itarata’s legs before finding his flaccid cock and giving it a tight squeeze before letting go, like the meaning of his words wasn’t already down there.

Itarata doesn’t try to pull back this time, uncertain if that would count as an answer. It’s not out of surrender— he looks at the officer with the same resentment as ever. He has no intention of making this easier for the bastard. However, he’s an adult. He can face the fact that getting so thoroughly injured before they’ve even dragged him through the door won’t exactly be conducive to his escape plans.

The crowd titters, some of them drawing closer. He can see their faces, hungry, and for whatever reason, he remembers the pile of bodies he found Esteldur in, after the first pogrom, all those centuries ago. Buried underneath his father’s body, unable to even scream for fear of drawing attention to the humans that had cut so many of them down that it had necessitated a mass grave. They’d just been kids then. So young, only starting to conceive of the brutality of the world they loved so much.

“It depends,” Itarata says, his voice smooth as though he’s talking which type of tea he’d prefer. The response from the crowd is mixed. Some laugh, amused by his insistence on acting as he had any control here. Some seem to grow angry, scowling. He hears more than a few of them mutter about arrogance, which he thinks is rather rich coming from a bunch of upstarts that would barely qualify as prepubescent to him. It’s only arrogance if the pride is unearned.

“On?” someone from the crowd calls out, and Itarata doesn’t answer, looking pointedly at the officer instead.

“You heard the question, boy,” the officer says, and the absurdity of a human man calling him that makes rage rise in Itarata’s throat, sharp and acidic.

“On who this Nikolai is,” Itarata says, stating the obvious. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not exactly from around here.”

The snickers are subdued, but still present.

“Oh, that’s easy,” the officer says. “He’s the one that’ll be branding you.”

It’s like the world goes cold. Or maybe that’s just his blood turning to ice. Itarata replays the sentence in his mind, over and over again, searching for another interpretation. Replaying everything the soldiers had said. He’d expected the harassment— hell, his diplomatic meetings with the Revkians prior to this had been laced with similar threats barely masked as jokes, not that he'd let anyone know. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility that one or two of them might actually try it.

“No,” he says, the first hint of any emotion entering other than a sense of superiority and rage entering his voice.

Not despair. Not yet. But horror, definitely.

He thinks of all the words they’d used to describe the broken Moládrin nér. What they’d said they’d wanted to do to him.

“He’s going to need you still for the procedure,” the officer continues, a sharp smile covering his face. “So one way or another, we’ll be breaking you in. Could just carry you up to his quarters, hold you down when we get there and take advantage of you after, but I think we all want to see what you can do when there’s still some fight in you.”

Itarata could’ve tolerated this if it was just the threatened gang rape. Beyond that, even if they’d tried to sell him into slavery, he would endure. He would outlive them, and one day, he would think no more of them. Just like he endured the Dark Days, like he’s moved past them.

But a brand— that’s forever. Decades in the futures. Centuries. Millennia. For as old as he feels now, Itarata knows that the future is incalculably vast. Even past the end of this lifespan, if he’s slain in combat or brought down by some natural disaster, he will return with his memories of his current life locked behind a shroud of pain and his loyalties bound to whomever the brander wills it. If he’s lucky, that owner will be a mortal man and in a century, he’ll be able to walk mostly free. But what’s the point of binding an immortal slave to only one generation?

“No,” he says again, his composure cracking. He thinks of this Morwë, his appearance in the battle like a ghost.

“No isn’t exactly an option here, elf boy,” the officer says, tapping his finger against Itarata’s jaw impatiently.

“My name,” he says through a rage and building dread that he can no longer conceal. “Is Itarata.”

The officer pulls back his invasive touch, only to hit him. Backhanded. There’s nothing Itarata can do to defend himself, so he just takes it, face burning.

“Your name is whatever we decide it is, brat. Do you understand?”

Itarata laughs. Just a single “hah.” These men, insignificant, are used to dealing with the fallen Rethyar, beaten down by centuries of abuse. Depending on how old Morwë is, it’s entirely possible he’d never known Mithyas as it was in its glory days. But Itarata has known freedom, has known glory, in a way these men never will.

They will not make a thrall out of Itarata like they did him.

“You will die by my hand,” Itarata says, and this time, he knows they can understand him.

“C’mon, Cap,” one of the soldiers chipped in, clearly uncomfortable. Itarata would face him, if he wasn’t sure that the officer would drag his face back, and he doesn’t want to give up the staring contest. “How long are you gonna let him run that mouth before we’re allowed to shove something in it? The unlucky son of a bitch has made his choice.”

The officer doesn’t look away from Itarata, just grabbing the loose chain that dangles from the collar at his neck.

“Let’s bring him inside first. There’s better places to attach this to, and besides, I’m sure plenty of the others will want a turn. The whole base has been missing having Morwë around.” The officer pauses. “Make sure people know to expect a fight, though. We all learned a lesson today, that not all elves are as much of a pushover as he was.”

Elves? Pushovers? They really must only be familiar with the Móladar.

“Lotta good men died for that,” someone in the crowd scowls. “This bastard better make us some good money.”

“He’ll pay for himself several times over,” the officer replies, still intently focused on Itarata, the words clearly more meant for him than the critic. “I assure you.”

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.