This Game We Play by theeventualwinner

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Lessons

Mairon's mistakes lead to some very public lessons...

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The great hall throngs, noise of the amassed denizens bouncing off of the carved pillars. Murmurs, chatter and growls meld into a cacophonous din reverberating from the black marble walls, shreds of sound rising dissonant into the high arching ceiling. In the fading sunset the hall bathes in arterial red, washed in the final embers of the sun sinking bloody behind the mountains.

Jaws gnash, teeth warped and grotesque snap and laugh; ugly, crooked grins split across ruined faces. Limbs of all shapes, sizes, some mangled and deformed, some lithe and deadly tangle with reeking leather and chainmail armour, sweaty and stained from a days combat training. Blade hilts glimmer red in the baleful light, vicious steel scimitars jostle alongside rusted gutting-hooks, riveted crossbow bolts rest in quivers of hide and bone, every crude weapon proudly displayed, splattered in blood and ichor. The crush swells, every soldier, every watchman, every servant of Angband pressed into snarling proximity, cramming into every inch of space. The commanders defend the first few rows, closest to the great iron throne of their master, a sculpted work of fluted metal writhing tortured towards the shadowed ceiling, inset with wrought gold and pale filigrees of ivory. They clear a swathe of space around the throne and its dais, revealing a splintered wooden framework standing grim to its right, sturdy beams of oak scored and flaking along their surfaces, flecked with stains of thick, dark fluid. Chains hang ominous from the upper corners of the stockade, sprayed in the same liquid as the wood, peeling maroon from the broad, heavy links.

Fiery swords force the encroaching rows of soldiers back a few paces, Balrog commanders hulking and fearsome in the gloom. Flames drip from their armour, sizzling in oily, viscous droplets on the floor. The militia mill behind them, squat orcish figures a riotous tumble of diversity, but all glancing towards the throne, all called for the same purpose, all awaiting the same exhibition.

The evening’s entertainment.

Suddenly, the great doors of the hall are flung open, riveted metal squealing on rust-worn hinges, and a shadowed figure stands silhouetted against the crimson light. Raven hair frames a handsome face, beneath a crown of sculpted iron set with three blazing gemstones, searing white and dazzling.  Golden eyes coolly survey the now silent masses, and they part before him, melting a path from door to throne. He strides forward with lazy confidence, black overcoat snapping in his wake. His servants stand awestruck before him, such dispensable little lives to be spent, to be thrown away. Reaching the base of his dais, his commanders incline their heads in solemn respect before their master; fires subdued, tendrils of flame licking softly along their crafted metal helms, flickering down shining broadswords.

Their master ascends to his throne, one finger tracing along a strand of iron metalwork along its arm, casually regarding the thronging populace before him, standing hushed and so deliciously expectant.    

“Bring him in.”

From the spread of the great doors, two figures appear, one held firmly in the talons of a Balrog chieftain. Clad only in a simple black tunic and leggings, he is dragged forward into the hall, one fiery hand clasped around his upper arm, singeing his sleeve, the other gripping his opposite shoulder. Barefoot he is marched through the ranks of soldiery, hands bound tightly behind his back with thick, coarse rope. Grim he passes through them, face kept carefully impassive, but his heart hammers hard within his chest, cold nausea coils in his stomach. His blonde hair hangs disheveled across his face, plastered with sweat across his cheeks and neck, brushing a livid bruise high on his cheekbone; crisis rose of purpling flesh to mar his usual pallor. He stares bleakly forward, eyes focused on nothing, not daring to look at his master, at his audience; in those piggish, slanting eyes something sick glimmers, some sadistic urge flexes. Sneers curl subtle across horrid faces, perverse anticipation of the revel to come.

He is hauled up the steps, viciously pushed towards his master sitting upon his dread throne. With his hands bound he staggers, balance thrown off kilter, and for one horrifying moment he thinks he might fall, in front of all of these slaves he might fall, but hurriedly he rights himself, standing awkward yet neutral before the throne, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only outward signs of his nervousness.

His master’s eyes catch his own, gold bores into faded silver, and a flicker of a grin twists over his lips <you know why you are here>. His master rises, steps towards him like a predator stalks its prey. One slender finger trails across his collarbone, and he gasps, a gentle touch so craved, yet so abhorrent, sending shudders crawling across his skin. Fingers dig into his shoulder, sudden and piercing, spin him around to face his audience, thousands of glittering eyes watching with glee every move of their lethal dance. He stares at the floor, pulse jumping in his throat, and he hears his master purr:

“Mairon, Mairon, how could you let this happen? You, my most trusted of servants.

I expected better from you.

It was so simple, Mairon. Observe, detail and report, that was all. Yet ever you overstep your authority. You ordered an attack, and for your arrogance ten of my commanders perished. Ten lives gone, all because you wanted to play your little games. Perhaps now you will understand the cost of losing.”

His master turns to his assembly, golden eyes glowing malevolent, and in a voice mocking yet stern, coy yet commanding entreats:

“Come now, my faithful servants of Angband, let us taste the price of little Mairon’s disobedience. Ten lives lost, ten lashes rewarded. Maybe then your lieutenant may remember to whom his loyalties lie.”  

With a nod, two commanders step forward, one seizing him about the shoulders, the other slicing through the rope binding his hands. Together they drag him to the wooden frame, ignoring his faint struggles. They pull his arms roughly apart, stressed muscles howling in protest, and snap his wrists into the biting manacles, pressing hard into tender skin. With one mighty tug, his tunic is ripped off, flung aside, leaving him dangling half-naked before the court, cold air rippling over his skin. His master gestures, and with a flourish a coiled whip is placed in his hand. From a handle of polished bone, knotted thongs of oiled leather spring, thin and menacing, strung with tiny shards of metal at each stinging tip, cruel blades to cleave deep through skin and muscle. His master unfurls it, admiring its length, turning it slowly in his hand, metal slivers glimmering infernal in the blood-soaked light.

He hears his master ready himself behind him, arm raised for the first brutal stroke. The muscles in his back clench in dread anticipation, twisting under his skin. Time seems to congeal, marked only by the wild thumping of his heart, throbbing warped and muted through his head. He stares at the floor, hair falling in a tangled mess over his face, some small mercy shielding him from the brutal gaze of his audience, vicious smiles played across each cruel face; all here to witness his punishment, his humiliation, their feared lieutenant torn apart before them. Shivers run up his spine; they were all assembled, all of them here to revel in his disgrace, to watch him break, like parasites squirming joyous through a festering wound. But he’s not going to scream, whatever happens he’s not going to scream, he wouldn’t give them the pleasure, he’s not going to…

CRACK

White lines of fire rip across his back, and desperately he forces down the shriek clawing up his throat, moaning choked and ragged through gritted teeth. He writhes, some frantic reflex trying to tear himself away, but the iron manacles grip him tight, and he can only struggle futile in their dread grasp. He hears the first stifled sniggers, tiny ripples of laughter from his savage admirers, shame curling hot inside him, and he fights back the tears that suddenly prick in his eyes. He clamps his jaw shut, stares resolute at the marble floor and…

CRACK

Sparkles of light explode across his vision, the impact punching the air from his lungs, hissing through his teeth. His back arcs, and his feet scrabble across the floor, trying to force his trembling legs to remain standing as he staggers, dragging sharply on his wrists as the chains bruise against his skin. And he hears his master croon, voice dripping with bitter tenderness:

“Oh Mairon, I thought you could take it. I thought you were stronger than this. Would you disappoint me again, little one?”

And humiliation runs cold within him, and he shuts his eyes, face contorted in a grimace of pain, and he fights so hard to breathe, the air sticking in his throat, pulse fluttering frantic through his veins and he…

CRACK

Seven more times he endures, each lash searing across his back, a raw, bloodied mess of flayed skin. Every miniscule movement sends fresh bursts of agony shooting through him, grappling with the hovering blackness at the edges of his vision, threatening to drag him down into merciful unconsciousness. He barely registers his audience; caught enraptured in his performance, eyes fixed on every lash of the whip, every contraction of his muscles sliding pale beneath his skin; tongues lick lascivious across teeth as he gasps, as he whines. Agony defines his universe, radiating in burning tendrils from his ruined back, defines it in brutal strokes and throws him into it, cradled in strands of crude, throbbing pain wrapped strangling around him.

With the final strike, he sags, exhausted body hanging limp in the chains, only his chest stirring faintly with each laboured breath an indication of his being alive. Faintly, as if in a dream, he feels rivulets of blood inching down his legs, lukewarm streams tracing down the backs of his thighs, soaking through his leggings. At his master’s gesture, the two commanders step forward, swiftly unlocking the manacles about his wrists, and he collapses to the cold floor, slick with droplets of his own blood, and he whimpers, waves of pain crashing through him anew. The audience chuckles, drinking in his destruction, in each pair of midnight eyes sick joy blazes, transfixed on the spectacle unfolding before them.        

Slowly he rises, shakily picking himself up off of the floor, wincing as every movement sends jolts of pain shooting through him. He stands before his master, blood trickling down his legs; a deadly pause in the game of cat and mouse as his master regards him, eyes sly in the failing light. His master steps forward, one slender hand cupping his chin, raising his face until their stares meet, gold drilling into silver.

“Now, Mairon, have you learned your lesson?”

And with his master’s condescending, biting words something defiant flares in his eyes, last tiny shreds of rebellion showing themselves bold. Instantly, his master recoils, snarl of disgust twisting his features, and backhands him viciously across the face. The sudden impact splits open his lip, sends him spinning across the dais, one hand clasped to his cheek already purpling from the blow. A dread silence settles across the hall, mutters die in hollow throats, all eyes fixed in sadistic surprise towards the stage. He freezes, hand still resting on his throbbing cheek, and for one terrible moment he knows, with dread certainty he knows he has overstepped the mark, challenged his master one hurdle too far. It stops the breath in his lungs; quivering anticipation looming over him, paralysis of foreboding squeezing so tight, hurting more than the whip’s lash ever could.

His master walks over to where he stands, still calm, still collected, but something burns livid in his eyes, and his words cut down to the bone.

“It seems you still need a lesson in humility, my servant. I would be happy to oblige, to… further your education.”

The black overcoat is shrugged off, falling to a crumpled heap on the floor. Clad in a black shirt and trousers closed with ornate gold filigree, his master stands imposing before him; majestic and terrible, a god of rage and desire and obsidian glory.

He toys with the lacing of his trousers, fingers teasing the silken threads resting between his hips. And he looks at his servant, black lust smouldering in his gaze, and smiles.

“Ah, Mairon, how lucky are you to have such an audience? After all, you have such a flair for theatrics. Now, get on your knees.”

And for a second he hesitates, failing to grasp his master’s meaning, confusion flickering over his face.

“On. Your. Knees.”     

He sinks slowly to the floor before his master, knees hitting the cold marble lacquer, creeping horror of the intent forming obscene in his mind. Trembling with degradation, he looks pleading up at his master, standing so powerful over him.

“Please don’t. Please, please my lord, not here, not in front of them; I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…just please don’t do this. And I will do anything you want of me, anything, but just please, please not here…”

But his wavering speech is stopped, one iron hand gripping his jaw, nails digging hard into his cheeks, bolts of pain lancing from his already raw skin.

“Get on with it.”

With shaking fingers he reaches up, slowly unlacing his master’s trousers, feeling his master already stiff beneath the soft leather; and a hot flush of embarrassment runs up his neck, pink blush mottling his pale skin. The first sniggers break throughout the crowd, half-stifled chuckles from smirking mouths echo in quiet susurrus, but in his ears it’s like they were screaming, ringing hollow as humiliation floods through him, clawing through every vein, every artery, dripping from the wounds across his back to pool on the floor beneath his knees.

He shuts his eyes, one shuddering breath inhaled as he steels what brittle resolve he has, and he parts his lips for his master. He runs his tongue from the base of his shaft to its tip, slowly bobbing his head up and down his master’s length. From above him he hears a smug sigh, and he grabs his master hard around the backs of his thighs, gripping him in some nameless desperation, as shame and horror wage savage war within him.

With a growl his master thrusts his hips forward, pushing himself hard down his throat, and he gags, struggles to propel himself backwards, freeing his airway. But his master’s hands hold his head firm, fingers twined unyielding through his blonde hair, pressing him further down his length, until his nose almost touches the flat, lean muscles of his master’s abdomen. He chokes again, thin ribbons of saliva dripping from his lips, but his master ignores him, pushes him down, roughly forcing his shaft further down his servant’s throat with each shove. He moans, still struggling in his master’s grip, snatching what small gulps of air he can as he master withdraws slightly, only to slam violently forward again. Ripples of half-smothered laughter spread amongst the crowd, such abhorrent delight at their lieutenant’s humiliation, subjugated totally before their fell gaze. All eyes fix on his bleeding back, their master’s hands wound so tightly through his hair, standing triumphant as he continues to thrust savagely forward, ramming his shaft hard in brutal rhythm as his lieutenant writhes beneath him with each gagging impact; nothing but a toy to be used, to be abused.

Their master surveys the room with a grin; a snarl of hunger, of something dark and salacious and twisted, and his golden eyes gleam demonic. He chuckles deep and low in his throat, and like a dam burst under the pressure of the river his servants howl; jeering, raucous laughter exploding across the hall.

Their mockery rings shrill in his ears, and to his horror he feels hot tears begin to run down his cheeks, marks of his shame tracing silver lines across his aching jaw. And he wants to run, to run away and hide where no one can ever hurt him again, where no one would ever find him, he could curl up with his misery and they would all just leave him alone; but his master’s hands grip his skull, slamming himself roughly down his throat, muscles in his master’s abdomen clenching with each roll of his hips as he neared climax.

With one final thrust his master comes, hot seed spurting down his throat, dripping thick and white from his lips. One hand twisted in his hair, his master pushes him away, throws him discarded down on the marble floor. Pain racks through him as his back arcs, splattering droplets of fresh blood across the stones. He reaches one shaking hand to his lips, tears shining on his cheeks, retching as his master’s taste lingers across his tongue, and hears his efforts rewarded. Cackling, hysterical laughter stabs through him, every denizen of Angband rocked with evil mirth cracked across their ugly faces; ripping their pleasure from his failure, his humiliation. And for one horrible, crushing moment that seemed to last an eternity he drowns beneath the weight of his disgrace; spluttering like a gutted fish left forgotten and dying on the floor.

Slowly he staggers to his knees again, sitting small and defeated as the wave of brutal noise smashes unstoppable down around him. Hardly daring to look up at his master already composed and smirking from the iron throne, in a quavering voice barely audible amidst the ravening he whispers the fatal question:

“Why?”

“Why what, little one?”

“Why do you do this to me? Why do you make me do these things? Do you…do you hate me that much?”

“Hate you? Oh Mairon, no, nothing so spiteful.

I do it because I love you.”

And the words punch through him, stopping the breath in his lungs. His master doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand, ((you couldn’t ever understand)) not hate, not hate but love; cruel warped violent broken love bleeding out across the floor.

((That makes it so much worse.))