Talking Hurts by Lipstick

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Chapter 4

Warning: Non-con sexual activity

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Chapter Four

It rushes up through me like a wave of icy water and there is nothing I can do except throw myself past my sleeping brother and vomit over the side of the bed. It is convulsive, unstoppable, I am hanging upside down bringing up mouthful after mouthful of curdled sleeping draught. It comes up with such force it squeezes out my nose.

I feel a hand gently pulling my hair out my face, arms around me, holding me up so I am no longer choking. I whimper a little against my will. Maglor rubs my stomach. The spasms begin to ease. I spit up the last of it then collapse against him. He reaches for a cloth from the table beside us and wipes my nose and mouth.

I moan a little in disgust. Maglor breaks free of me.

"I should call someone to clear that up." He says.

I collapse back against the pillows. Relief floods me. I am shivering, but I feel the tension in my body ease. For a few moments, I feel almost well.

Maglor returns with a mop and bucket. He props them against the bedside table and turns to me.

"Feel better for that?"

I nod and smile weakly.

"At least you missed the bed sheets." He looks over at the mop.

"It just did not seem right to start waking people up." He adds.

I am glad Maglor is preoccupied with playing chambermaid. My eyes are still watering.

After Maglor has disposed of the mop, he returns to bed and pulls the blankets round me. I am still shuddering, but I feel warm inside, hot even.

"Are you tired?" I whisper.

"I think I am quite awake now." He replies.

"I do not feel altogether sane."

He strokes me a little. For once, it feels pleasant.

"How so?"

"I feel like I might burn up from the inside."

"You are just frustrated. It will feel better once you are on your feet again."

"I dare say it will. But it is not that."

I sigh.

"I have felt like this before."

I can hear the blood roar in my ears. I have an irrational urge to start screaming. But I doubt I have the strength.

"When?"

"When I first was sent to the mines." I swallow.

Maglor takes that as a signal to pour me a glass of water. I take it. It helps wash away the sickly sweet taste of vomit.

"Are you too tired for this?" I ask.

"No," he replies. "Are you?"

I shake my head and begin.

When I first came to the mines, I noticed there were more elves than orcs. No Akasâns either. An occasional Balrog would do the rounds on a tour of duty. But mainly, it was us quendi. That gave me hope.

The others were Avarin. They ignored me as if I were poisonous. Even the orcs kept their distance. In the dark, I shone.

I lie against my brother and let the words fall out without caring for meaning or order.

We were not permitted speech, but we were given weapons. I would look into the eyes of those working beside me, and question without words. Why do you not fight? And they shrank from me. Their spirits were broken. They kept their heads down in my presence, knowing I would cause trouble.

And I burned with light. I burned with the light inside me of the trees of Valinor. I was white with flame and the orcs shuddered in my presence as they did in the presence of Balrogs.

We slept as we fell, in front of the work faces, when the orcs sounded the bell for rest. I did not sleep. I lay with my knees hugged to my chest against the chill and I dreamed, awake.

I was alive, I was unbroken, and I was in the very heart of my enemies' stronghold. Father could not force the gates with the might of our armies behind him, but here I was, a coiled serpent poised to bite beneath the armour. Morgoth Brauglir, I will rip out your heart from right within you.

I felt extraordinarily powerful. Like a Vala. Like the Flame Imperishable itself. I was here, uncorrupted, and I felt dangerous. I hewed at the rock as if I were boring down the foundations of Angband. I was alive, tingling, fingers against stone as if it would reveal to me secret fault-lines from which the dark palace could be overthrown. I listened for the sounds of whispers, dissent whatever little treacheries may be carried on the heavy air. I watched the bowed elves around me, who feared my brightness as if it were something they dare not want. I hunted for tiny signs of growing courage.

We were not permitted speech, but they spoke all the same. At first, I did not recognise the words, although after a while with repetition and my newly sharpened wits I began to piece this whispered language together. The words were Avarin, the Old Speech from Cuivienen harshened and condensed from being hissed in whispers. After I had been there a month, the hissing got noticeably louder

The thralls still would not look at me. But they began to look at each other, even when the orcs lashed their backs and gave the command "Heads down." The shame, the knowledge of their brokenness had kept them from looking into each others faces before. They dared at least to look and I knew things were beginning.

The way they held their hammers and axes changed too. They held them with more skill, more reverence, as if it had finally occurred to them these were weapons with which they could win freedom.

The air became less chill. I was now not the only one burning. Others too were waiting for a secret sign, a movement in the stone, a whisper to travel the galleries. Everything felt taut and stretched as several thousand quendi strained towards breaking point.

In the dark of Angband burnt the Silmarils. I was so very close. We burnt together, in harmony.

I felt deadly. I had to strike, soon. I did not care if I died in the attempt. I ached from crouching for the kill.

When they came for me, I was working at the rock-face as usual. I was so full of nervous tension, I sensed them coming up from behind. Two orcs. I swung my axe twice. They died before they could touch me. The hissing stopped. I turned from the work-face with my pick in my hands, waiting. I was the only one.

The others cowered to the rock, pretending not to notice anything unusual was going on.

Six more came. But they could not withstand the light in my eyes and were dazzled even before they approached me. I lunged forward from the two at my sides and brought the pick-axe down through a third’s skull. Blood shot through the air. I swung left and put aimed through the staggering yurch's neck. The orc to the right had moved behind my back and I slammed him against the rock-face hard enough to daze him while I dealt with the others. Then he too met his fate.

The elves beside me were still working, but now they were visibly tensed. They knew the signal had come.

For one moment I really did think the spark would flame.

Then the orcs attacked in full strength. Down the line I saw others half turn. One flinched too wildly and was hewn down by a scimitar. They moved on towards me. The air was taut, and I was ready. I needed to fight.

The Silmarils flashed again in my eyes as they advanced upon me. One, two, three fell and I hoped, I knew in a moment the others would be beside me. When a fourth orc fell the sounds of mining ceased.

As I drew the pick from the skull of the fifth, three others grabbed the shaft and pulled it from me. I leapt at the orc before me, bearing down with my weight, knocking him to the ground. I hit at the one beside me with my fist, he staggered and fell. Hands curled about me from the sides, scorched by my flesh. I turned and ripped his throat out with my teeth. Two more advanced and pinned me to the rock-face with their bodies. My hands reached out to choke. Someone threw some kind of sack over my head.

I lost the light. The orcs grip around my wrists became faster, more sure. I was no longer aflame.

I felt the manacles bite against my arms.

I heard a pick strike the rock-face. The clatter of mining resumed. My legs were shackled and I was carried away.

There was a room off from the main galleries, made by an iron gateway being put before a side tunnel. It was used by the orc overseers, mainly for punishments. There was a lot you could be punished for there. Talking to each other. Breaking equipment or tardy work. Sharing rations. I think they just punished everyone on cycle of duty and made up the excuses as they went along.

No-one had dared punish me yet. I turned my will to tempered steel. I was put down on a wooden table. They chained my arms above my head, pulling the sack away. I vowed I would not scream. I would not betray the dreams I had freshly awakened with visions of horror.

They did it with the axe handle. You cannot give up your soul to a chunk of wood, can you?

I did scream in the end. They would have killed me otherwise. I bought my life by wordlessly crying out the hopelessness of rebellion. I screamed, I pleaded, I begged.

When it was over, they untied me and left. I struggled to sit up and looked down between my legs. I was bleeding violently. It soaked into the tabletop and gathered in an expanding pool on the floor beneath. My legs were numb.

"They have killed me," I thought. "They shall be in trouble for that."

Then I fell into darkness.