Metamorphoses by Sleepless_Malice

 Metamorphoses

*

 No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams.

You will go, we will go together, over the waters of time.

No one else will travel through the shadows with me,

only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

P.  Neruda

 *  

 *

Chapter 02 – World of Glass

Eönwë

*

Deep scratches adorned the Maia’s mind, which slowly had been carved into his soul since the day he was made, when the world still lingered in slumber beneath a starless night.

At first, he had been content with what he had – they all had been. How should they not, when they hadn’t known a glimpse of what else existed? Time, however, began to change both the world itself and their nature. Spirits they were, graced with powers to help those superior to their own to shape the world. More and more Eönwë’s curiosity grew amidst the darkness that surrounded them and rather quickly he had learned how far he could venture with his mind free like the birds. With knowledge, his ambitions and desires had sparked, whilst others had been content with what they had. 

When he now thought about his early days, he had foolishly forsaken the rules he at that time never knew in pursuit of his own happiness. Later, he would say it had been freedom he had tasted, without fear or punishment. The golden age, at the beginning of all things, with no laws he had to obey and no judges to face, so he wished to remember this time. So had he thought at least – a mistake, certainly, one he hadn’t even been aware of.

Soon he had found himself standing at a crossroads, the choices – or what he thought they were – laid out before him. He had made his choice – for better or for worse he sometimes still didn’t know (deep inside he well knew, too often he had seen of what was yet to come woven in the tapestries, but a relentless beast persistently lived on in his chest).

Everything he had done had left its mark on him; over many years Eönwë’s soul had become an endless labyrinth, shaped by love and betrayal, by fierce loyalty that more than once had made him suffer for faults not his own.

He had survived it all – but what for?

Some did not understand when he spoke of love, of trust and friendship, quirking their eyebrows in wondrous amazement, though he did so rarely.

Eönwë was no stranger to love. Before the world had been made he had burnt so brightly that it had nearly seared his wings, but knowledge of their journeys had paled over the years, and now only rumors existed – fairytales nobody dared to believe.

Wearily, Eönwë sighed.

'You were not made to love’ – the words had been so cruelly spoken, accompanied by the threat to exile him from the world that should be his home until all would fade. So lost he felt then, so agonizingly alone as if his other half was missing, the one who had enthralled him so.

His earliest story had been a tale of betrayal and doubts, of corruption and manipulation, how an irresistible love had invaded his soul. It was not that he hadn’t known at the beginning of days – his foolish hope had been to alter what he could never change. Although Eönwë knew, it had been for the better, the memories never failed to sadden him. Through clouds and mountains he had flown, dived into the endless vastness of the ocean. Before the world had been made, their shades had wandered in the darkness, aimless but not desolate. They had once been free, unmastered, devoid of shackles around their feet to hinder them from flying, no burden lying heavily on his shoulders, holding him to the ground.

He had been offered the world – another kind of life.

He had declined, already seeing the greater parts of all.

In sake of honor – and most likely his own survival, he had resisted the temptation of burning brighter than any other would ever dare.

Upon the memory, delight began to flare inside him. A little part of him still remembered how once his soul had felt and for a brief moment he allowed it, lingered upon what was lost forever. The lust that had glimmered in their souls, the sound of triumph, the laughter of defiance. 

Condemned the wrong, and had yet the wrong pursued?

For thousands of years he had been most loyal and faithful towards his superior, had endured hardship, and had fought many a battle for survival and glory that hadn’t even been his own.

And yet, not even bravery and skill had brought him everlasting glory, no reward for all he had done. Throughout all the years the grief of what he had forsaken had persisted, and more often than not, Eönwë wondered how it had not turned into wrath and contempt, skillfully veiling the hurt from anyone who dared to look.

What for?

‘You were not made to love.’ When once he had even apologized for the affection he had harbored for another of his kind, now the words sat bitter with him.

How cruel was it to leave him the beautiful illusion of choice, when he had had none, except to be confined to the eternal darkness until the world was remade.

Obey or starve!

The thoughts spurred the Maia’s defiance – they always did.

Wasn’t he more than a puppet on idle string?

Like a beaten dog he had knelt at his master’s feet, pleading for mercy and reconciliation. Oh what a fool he had been! And yet, not even that had brought him what he truly had craved for so long. Respect among those he loathed in his arrogance – yes, but not more, nothing else. No matter, if Eönwë was his favorite, beloved more than any other in his service; no matter how gently he treated him, luring him into safety with kind words alone – a rift had come between them, slowly but steadily.

It was no secret that monsters lurked among their own, disguised as fair creatures, their intent hidden by gentle smiles.

So it was with all the races. So was it with his own.

They reigned supreme above all else – fleeting spirits, beasts and elves alike – their wisdom so great that it was threatening in its beauty. No matter how much the Elder King encouraged and instructed him, resentment simmered in Eönwë’s soul.

Once, so long that Eönwë barely remembered it, he had been happy as a bodiless spirit before aught else was made – free to pursue his own happiness, when now he seemed to live a life that wasn’t his own. Dull duties without a noble quest, giving him too much time at hand, which he was confined to spend in loneliness. Instead of wings, manacles graced his arms.

It wasn’t fair! Yet there was no law that gods must be fair. [*]

The lies fed to him were an agony, even if they were transparent to Eönwë’s cunning mind, because beyond his own knowledge sometimes he saw, caught glimpses and flickers of thoughts that were not meant for him to see.

*

Deeply lost in thoughts, Eönwë sat on a low bench beneath the shadowing trees, hidden from view by the blinding white statues that lined the paths towards Manwë’s lofty halls when his gaze fell onto Ingwion. It wasn’t an unusual sight.

‘Surely, the elf had come to speak with his father – where else should he find him?’ Disdainfully Eönwë snorted. His king lived what he had been forbidden – love and happiness, the feeling of golden arms wrapped around his body. If only he could hate Manwë’s dalliance with Ingwë, but he couldn’t – at least not entirely, so strangely alluring the odd pair was.

More than once he had caught himself leering at them, wishing for what he couldn’t have. From time to time he even imagined entirely different things, most often late at night when the world around him was quiet.

Right now the Maia thought of something else entirely. Much to his surprise, Ingwion had adapted to the new situation fairly well, much better than most had thought he would. Or hadn’t he, and all was nothing more than fair disguise? For many moments, Eönwë simply watched him sweeping on bare feet across the marble until Ingwion halted, looking up into the clouds.

‘What does he think?’ Eönwë wondered, until the cloud moved on and bathed the elf in sunlight.

The Maia gasped; the golden light, reflected from the elf’s hair assaulted his senses. He blinked his eyes blinking to avoid the overwhelming beauty of the one he had seen so often before. Yet it felt as if he saw him for the first time, in an entirely different light. Mouth still agape, Eönwë rose and stood still like the marble statues, as if he awoke from eternal haze. Well – it wasn’t entirely correct as from time to time Eönwë had admired Ingwion occasionally before. So long ago, at the peak of his loneliness, he had even tried to befriend him, to no avail as Ingwion did not cherish his company. Why, the Maia could never understand.

Caught in a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions, somewhere deep inside of him, a long forgotten desire began to stir. That it was wrong to leer at the innocent elf who simply went about his daily life, Eönwë knew well, but he had suppressed everything that wasn’t duty for too long already.

The son of his King’s consort. Eönwë couldn’t hide the malicious smile that already had formed on his lips.

Oh what a masterpiece of cunning deceit.

But how? The frigid elf had never shown the slightest interest in him – or, to the best of his knowledge in any other at all. Heir to a golden throne, without a wife and heir, though other noble sons had so many children that his celibacy hardly mattered.

Eönwë knew he played with fire once again, as bold in vanity he wished to soar.

What he planned went against all laws that were imposed upon those of his kind. Eönwë had sworn to never use his ability to manipulate the minds of those that were like children to them. He had vowed to remain faithful to his lord for all years yet to come.

Oh but he was! A bitter laugh tumbled from his lips. What greater bond there was than what had intrigued his mind: a family affair. Or was it not so?

No, he shouldn’t proceed – Eönwë knew well. But then? Ingwion was so strangely intriguing in his beautiful innocence. And all the more: who should ever know? Who should care, when all were so occupied with watching the world drown in peril with idle eyes whilst feasting on forbidden fruit?

‘Or was it the final act of the play the gods loved to watch?’ Briefly Eönwë’s mind lingered at this thought. The moment when they flew too high for their liking, embolden by the desire and ambition for more, with a snip of their hands the wings were gone? Why would someone interpret ambitions as hubris, Eönwë could never understand. Was ambition such a bad trait for those who had been shaped with a very specific purpose in mind? 

As so often happened, the Maia lost himself in his internal monologue, and when next he looked, Ingwion was gone, leaving an empty feeling behind. Yet their meeting left him a much to think of, and that the Maia did. A chain reaction of thoughts exploded in his mind, hollow and shrieking, each serving as fueling energy as his plan progressed. Thrilling and frightening, a masterful wielder of his cunning mind – a challenge to the gods, if naught else.

He would sooner burn than fade away again, no matter what the consequences were.

*

At first it had been a fleeting thing, but all too soon, Ingwion had become the radiant beacon in the midst of Eönwë’s darkness, blinding him with his enthralling innocence. Like a magnet he was drawn to him, gravitating to him as if he was the center of his narrow world. There was no cure to sate the desire to soar higher again, to relish in the divinity he once had felt; to relish in the sky, to feel his skin – that now actually was skin – burning.

Eönwë was no stranger to obsession. Apart from his arrogance it was the gravest flaw of all.

Day after day, no matter where the elf went, he kept returning to him, admiring him, watching him from the shadows as he was graced with invisibility to the common eye. Ingwion’s golden skin was so flawless, so divine: oh how soft it must feel beneath his fingertips? A caught glimpse of him was enough to spark Eönwë’s euphoria, to make his heart thunder so hard that his formless body hurt.

Interest was all fine and well, strange as it may be for a Maia to leer around the First Born, but an unhealthy obsession was a different matter entirely, something Eönwë already wasn’t able to comprehend. Pure adoration and love for this being it was what drove him, he told himself, though it was all too evidently manifested what truly it was. Like nothing else, Eönwë wished to possess him, to make him his, as he had never desired to possess somebody else. It was the peak of wrongness, and deep inside the Maia knew it well.

But then …

What must he be such a temptation in his flimsy robes, revealing such a gentle curve of his behind? Oh how much he wished to run his hands along the sensual body, yet he dared not to – not yet at least.

Slowly, over the course of many months, Eönwë’s interests began to change. When at first his interest in the elf had been born entirely out of spite, of an almost malicious defiance towards Manwë, it now was more sincere. In fact, he was infuriated and intrigued by the creature who was so unlike himself. At night, when all was silent, Eönwë sought comfort in the music of his flute, thinking of the one who was so far away to him. Oh so tenderly his fingers would caress him – if he but only knew.

Hot rage and wincing pain filled Eönwë whenever Ingwion spoke with somebody else, no matter who it was – the fact that he was indifferent to Eönwë whilst others were graced with his charming smiles made the Maia’s blood boil: why them – why not me? Little splinters of jealousy sprang into life, so intense that the Maia’s stomach churned. 

That perhaps he simply should try to court him for a start never did occur to him in his frantic longing.

No matter where Ingwion went – through winding hallways in his father’s palace, along the forest roads, the shores, the havens, the Maia followed. Except upon Taniquetil, where Eönwë did not dare to meddle in his affairs even in his recklessness, frightened to have his true intentions revealed.

At night he dreamt: of tempest, of arousal kindled by his lover’s sparkling eyes, of ropes and raging storms, of skin against skin amidst the finest silks.

No glimpse Eönwë caught of him, no scent he smelled, no word he heard ever seemed to be enough when he wished to sink down into sweetest oblivion with Ingwion tightly clutched to his chest.

What harm would come to sink into his thoughts and slumber, to stir them into the right direction when the elf was too blind to see? Just a little innocent brush against his mind to stir his dreams into the right direction?

Eönwë wasn’t indifferent to temptation in all his ardor, when chance permitted it and he felt safe enough. It was only a small touch – nothing important, Eönwë told himself when for the first time he ventured into Ingwion’s quarters when all was quiet. Oh how peaceful he looked in his slumber. A strange happiness surged within him when his faint scent reached Eönwë’s nose and he could not withstand the urge to brush his fingers against his face.

Tiny bolts of lightning sparked at his fingertips when for the first time, he touched the elf in his slumber. Every little doubt he had harbored in the past now sprang alive anew, every painful regret was so evident, that despite the magic of the moment, pain of what he had lost soared within him. It mattered not, as there was so much more.

Eönwë knew for all eternity he was lost to the elf.

Chapter End Notes

[*] inspired by: “There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles,” Chiron said. Madeline Miller - The Song of Achilles

[General Inspiration] – Well, where to even start here? It’s so many things that inspired this fic - Or: how many hidden hints did you catch already? :D

Many things in this work are heavily inspired by Greek Mythology and the Hellenistic period, with Ovid's Metamorphoses having been a major inspiration, as well as Pablo Neruda's works. I will offer some more specific explanations chapter-wise if anybody should be interested.

So yes, Eönwë of this chapter shows many similarities to Icarus, in his dreams, in his desires – in everything he cannot have but wants do pursue, but dares not. Both are tragic figures...

Chapter 03 – Inglorious Admiration

Ingwion

*

The day was the same as any other when Ingwion returned home, Tilion’s vessel rising with its pale silvery light against the dark horizon, just transforming from blue towards the pitch black of night. The night wasn’t much different – uneventful and tranquil, his wandering thoughts accompanied by mead, carefully luring him into slumber. He was close to sleep already, at least until he opened the carven wooden door to his antechamber to retire for the night.

A gasp of surprise disturbed the peaceful silence, as he nearly stumbled back out of his chamber again. Something lay on his bed, something that certainly had not been there when he had left, something that certainly no careless servant had left behind: a neatly folded piece of paper, weighted down with an opaque pebble.

Drawing in a deep breath, Ingwion stepped closer toward his bed, eyes wide in wonder and with a caution entirely unlike himself. Those who had left these shores one way or another, now returned from Námo’s halls, often gazed at him in astonishment upon his carefree nature, his smile and gentle words. To him it was the most natural traits but so many seemed to have lost easiness amidst the dreadful snowflakes in lands unknown. Why, he always asked, should suspicion reign in his mind when these lands were safe and blossoming? Why should he hate when for a thousand years no-one had sowed hatred into the world?

Caught so in his thoughts, the little note from the pillow absently found its way into his shaking hands and he began to read, expecting a misunderstanding to have occurred.

My dearest Ingwion, the letter began, written on white paper with silvery threads – the most elaborate parchment he perhaps had ever laid his eyes upon. I love you as certain things, dark and light, are to be loved – in secret, between the shadow and the soul. If you would only hear my plea. [**]

Ingwion’s breath caught off in a strangled choke. In shock and embarrassment, in bewilderment, he quickly folded the letter so that he could not read the suggestive lines again. There was no signature below. There hadn’t even been an envelope to hide the shameful content from eyes that were not meant to read it. The handwriting was beautiful as Ingwion had rarely seen before. He wondered who was so well educated, holding such high aesthetic standards, and at the same time so uncanny, and cowardly alike to send out letters as such in secrecy.

Persistently, his mind tried to tell him: A misunderstanding, nothing to disrupt the tranquil heaven your home is.

Hardly, his heart screamed at him, someone might be interested in you – at last I might say.

A misunderstanding was unlike to have occurred as clearly he had been addressed with ‘My dearest Ingwion’. No other was named Ingwion in the Blessed Realm nor anywhere else to the best of his knowledge.

Who proclaimed to love him? Who even knew him well enough to assert such a claim to his heart?

He fell down onto his bed, sitting there with dangling legs, the letter still in his hand – obscene, he thought – the contents were not far from it, and, disgusted, he averted his eyes from his trembling hands.

Who had dared to invade his privacy in such an amoral way? Who dared to mock him so? Feign interest without ever pursuing it sincerely as it was custom among his kin? As in the distance he stared, he deliberately ignored what he still held in between his fingers, as if he could not let go of the parchment. Amidst his shock a beguiling fascination began to blossom.

Nobody ever seemed to be interested in him for so many years he had lost count already. It was that he was unhappy with his life without a wife and an heir, yet long forgotten feelings began to spark inside him, a frantic excitement usually associated with little children with eyes wide, mouth agape, fluttering bellies.

Carefully, he looked down on the letter again, only to quickly look away. Much to his frustration, which blossomed too beneath his doubts, the letter did not make much sense. ‘If you would only hear my plea,’ the anonymous writer proclaimed, and over and over Ingwion re-read the last line, asking himself of what plea the stranger spoke. For so many years he hadn’t heard any plea at all, least alone one of love and affection.

There was no one he could name who knew him so well to write such words – which were, even in all their obscenity, astonishingly beautiful, leaving a strange warmth in their wake. A cunning mind wrote them, perhaps a scholar who had been taught in the lore and lays of old.  Still admiring the clean swoosh of his initial, Ingwion wondered.

Still, his mind kept scolding him – not unfairly so. Why would his admirer not directly speak to him – instead of sending obscure messages that might not even reach him?

He had no answer to that.

Slowly his excitement ceased, drowning in the strange sickness that washed over him.

With his mind reeling, recalling the past thousand years, he tucked the letter securely away, trying to find some sleep. There had been no one who had courted him, not properly at least – or whom he had courted; apart from fleeting glances and shy smiles there was nothing to be found.

*

For many days the letter remained hidden in Ingwion’s drawer, untouched, although each night before he went to sleep his gaze lingered on his nightstand a heartbeat too long to be entirely accidental. Ingwion did not dare to touch the parchment again, as if it was cursed and held a spell that would bewitch him. The greatest nonsense he had thought in years, he knew, still: he dared not to re-read it again.

One night, so long after the letter had appeared on his pillow that he had almost convinced himself that it had been indeed a misunderstanding, he heard his father’s voice whisper against his ear, so clear that out of fear he jolted upright.

‘Choose wisely, Ingwion.’ Nobody was there – the room was empty. Yet Ingwë’s words, spoken to him when he had just passed his majority, echoed in his mind. ‘Our race is semelparous. We do not consent to fleeting affairs and idle pleasures.’

What madness this now was, Ingwion had no knowledge of. In the darkness he cursed, clutching the sheets towards his chest. Not that those words mattered anymore – over the course of time many things have changed, even among those who are blessed with immortality, withstanding the changes of the world.

It did not make sense. It simply didn’t.

And yet the words lingered in his mind, and Ingwion knew yet another night he would spend without being graced with sleep.

It nearly felt as if somebody had whispered them to him out of pure spite, placed them into his troubled soul. As he lay there, eyes watching the dance of shadows against his ceiling, his mind trailed off. Ingwë well knew, from a young age, that Ingwion’s interest in such things was sparse. Yet it was not the indirect warning towards his behavior that irked him most.

Hadn’t his father agreed to affairs, though they weren’t fleeting?

Hadn’t he succumbed to what he had named distastefully ‘idle pleasures’?

Gone against the laws that once had been imposed upon their race?

All were true, but exactly none of his business.

A disgraceful noise bled from Ingwion’s lips, so unlike him – even his thoughts seemed as if they weren’t his own anymore as he had consented to everything his father had done. ‘Alas!’ With disdain he thought, ‘wasn’t it an easy task to break those laws with the one who originally had crafted them?’

Never before had he thought with such bitterness about his father’s second happiness – quite the contrary to his shameful embarrassment. Although he knew he shouldn’t have thought in such detail about the dalliance his father had with Manwë himself, he often had caught himself doing so.

In secrecy he envied what they had – and he hadn’t.

From where arose the begrudging bitterness?

Ingwion did not feel like himself anymore.

*

As expected, no peaceful slumber came to him that night. Instead he had thought, contemplated and cursed under Tilion’s watchful gaze. When he greeted the new day he felt exhausted as if he hadn’t slept for many days. Or had he slept and a nightmare plagued him? These days, Ingwion never knew. He was unmotivated to even get dressed and leave his chambers. From his antechamber he wandered on silent feet towards the main room before he stopped dead in his tracks. In the middle of the table a wooden casket sat, richly adorned with delicate carvings – a master piece of woodcraft.

He felt excited and repulsed alike, as certainly the casket hadn’t been there last night. Ingwion knew well what that meant: whilst he had struggled to fall asleep next door, somebody must have sneaked inside his rooms – so had he slept, after all?

Because if not, surely he would have heard? And even if he had, he usually would? He wondered, in an attempt to reassure himself, when all surety seemed to have dissolved to naught.

With careful fingers he opened the lid, a thundering heart beating heavily against his chest, because despite all unease curiosity bubbled through his veins. Delicate threads of gold met his eyes, shimmering in the light of Arien’s burning flames. A scarf, Ingwion thought at first. The fabric was smooth and cold against his fingertips, a wondrous material so unlike everything he knew. Ingwion wasn’t one who strived for richness and fancy robes, yet he could see beauty when laid out right before him. However, no scarf it was he held in his hand, but a robe – a flimsy dress with two holes in its middle – one at the front, one at its back.

Ingwion’s mouth fell open as if was to say something when no words were made to describe such ambiguous fashion. Obscene and depraved!

Who tailored such useless things? Who wore …? No, the thought that gathered in his mind nearly made him vomit and with all the strength of his mind he chased it away.

Beneath the woven gold, strangely resembling his own hair in its tone, a letter appeared.

‘Naught else you shall wear the night I devour you.’

This time, the parchment the words were written on was his own, and when he realized his fingers began to shake, cold sweat beading above his brow. Somebody had sat down right there where he now stood in the middle of the night, lingering in his rooms whilst he had been next door.

When earlier excitement had reigned, now Ingwion felt like crying; as if somebody stood behind the curtains and eyed him with the flimsy robe in hand, admiring him in all the distress he had caused.

With not-so-silent footsteps he fled down the hallways, feeling the need to empty his already empty stomach.

*

After that, the letters came trickling in on an irregular basis. Ingwion was plagued by frantic excitement, always daring to hope, always scolding himself for it afterwards. At times, it even went so far that he was wholeheartedly disappointed when no gift had been left behind for him. So strange it was, two souls seemed to live inside him these days. Though hesitance still lingered, curiosity often won, his thoughts going astray towards the little notes whenever his time permitted it.

Strangely, Ingwion felt young again, like the foolish youth he hadn’t been any more for thousands of years.

Some of the letters were innocent as the drops of dew in the first rays of the sun, gleaming like iridescent diamonds in all their innocence, and many hours Ingwion marveled at the beauty of the prose and the perfect choice of words in sheer astonishment. So gentle, so delicate, when other letters were – well – outright filthy and obscene.

With the flood of letters, strange dreams appeared.

Usually, his slumber was deep and even.

Usually, he only rarely woke up when darkness still veiled the world, most often after having enjoyed his wine a little too much the evening before.

Usually, he only vaguely remembered his dreams.

But then – these days nothing was usual any more.

Nor were his dreams.

They were fueled by a fevered imagination unbeknown to him, forsaking all rules of propriety. That in itself was highly unusual as Ingwion was often described as not impulsive – collected and appraising, never speaking out loud against anything as it seemed.

One night he dreamt that he lay on a bed of deep scarlet petals, his skin glittering in the low light of the flickering candles as he was naked as on the day he was born, golden tresses fanned out around his head. When closer Ingwion looked, it almost appeared as if his body had been elaborately positioned on the flowery bed, legs neatly folded across each other, arms dangling from the sides, a blush spread across his cheeks, matching the color of the flowers. What he saw did not make any sense; he was alone – was he not? Why would he sleep on a bed of roses instead of fine silk and damask? Just the moment when he was lost in deep contemplation a creature appeared from the shade. Golden fabric flew about his slender body, not so unlike the garment he had been gifted recently, bare feet that made him walk so soundlessly that Ingwion doubted he was even there.

‘Oh what a sight you present my pretty,’ he heard him say, the stranger’s voice smooth as the velvet he wore, yet unknown to him; deep and sensual, assured as if the world was his to bend. In his hand he held an item, shaped like a phallus, pure gold adorned with rubies and other dazzling gems, each positioned in a ring shape around it. The diameter of the upper part was narrower than it was on its base, which was: large. Tales he had heard of the existence of such items, of those who originally invented them, long lost to the eternal tranquility of the Undying Lands – he had never seen, least of all used one himself.

The intensity of his dreams rose and ebbed like the surf against the shores, yet the figure became a constant. Clad in darkness, with cloudy shadows veiling his face. ‘Was he handsome?’ In astonishment, Ingwion asked more than once. Whenever the stranger made his nocturnal appearance, he had tried to catch at least a glimpse of hair, of eyes or anything else that would reveal the creature’s identity – he had never succeeded.

Even during wakefulness his dreams lingered; fragments of what he had experienced whilst he had slept made him shiver, not entirely with delight – yet with enough delight to make him blush (and hard, although Ingwion would always deny that little fact). Droplets of sweat had trickled down his forehead, his entire body glistening with perspiration as he was – there was no other word for it – fucked with the jewel-adorned phallus until everything around him became an endless blur.

Not for the first time, he asked himself when these dreams would stop, why the subconscious corners of his mind had suddenly allied with his tormentor, because worse than the content of the dreams was always the reaction they provoked. Despite the repulsing sickness that came with them, each time he woke up his cock was hard and aching; and although he didn’t wanted it – not quite at least, he touched himself to completion in the aftermath of his dreams as if his hand was guided by someone else. 

Ingwion burnt, in desire and doubt.

*

Day after day passed by, night after night, with the moon waxing and waning above him on the starlit sky, entirely peaceful and uneventful, and soon daily life consumed all his time. Life could have been as it always was – if it wasn’t for his treacherous mind. Even in the most inappropriate situations, it made him think of his secret admirer, made him relish in the unexpected affection he received

The sick affection he thoroughly missed it now, despite the better knowledge that he should be thankful for once.

In the fading light, feeling the first cool breeze of the night flowing into his chambers, he walked towards the drawer where he kept the letters and presents, hidden from prying eyes. Carefully, as if he was afraid to touch them, he took them out and sat down on the floor, cross-legged – it was the first time he did so, never daring to touch them again.

Each little letter Ingwion re-read, then, and more than one rendered him speechless, made him blush.

Each little present he held between his fingers; the pebble, now shimmering like a rainbow in the light cascading from his luster; the belt, soft doeskin leather that felt velvet against his fingertips; the flimsy garment he would never even dare to wear.

Or would he? Having been furiously scandalized at first, right now Ingwion was – much to his own surprise – not so certain anymore. Especially not, as his mind already began to imagine how he would look like wearing nothing else but that.

In the distance, the sound of a pipe could be heard, faintly the winds carried the music into his chambers, and despite the warmth the sound made him shiver.

More days passed and each night, Ingwion would take the letters to the window and read them in the fading light, wondering if he was being watched.

Each night he dreamt – of flowing silks and wine; of golden skin and hushed kisses.

Each morning, Ingwion battled the urge to let his fingertips wander across his skin.

Each time, he lost.

Naked he lay amidst golden silks, his limbs long and inviting for no one to take advantage of him. From time to time, Ingwion even imagined how it would feel to be watched in such an intimate moment. How it would feel if a body covered his own, both being slick with sweat, lips raw from endless moments of kissing. How it would feel to be thoroughly loved – not only from a distance.

So desperately he tried to erase those sickening thoughts, to simply forget each dream that had ever corrupted his mind, to bury everything under a pile of dust. Why was it so hard to ignore his admirer when he was so terrified?

*

The following day, a surprise awaited him. Pleasantly or not was yet to be distinguished. It always was. Nonetheless a frantic excitement already soared through Ingwion, made his heart beat faster.

By now, he felt as if he had learned an entire dictionary of obscene words, there was not much left that could shock him (he thought and hoped).

A small piece of rope, three individual thinner strands braided to one that was neatly tucked in a bed of golden velvet had appeared on his nightstand.

With wide eyes, Ingwion took the rope, lightly scented with lavender into his hands, feeling its smoothness against his skin. The work was simple yet fascinating in its delicacy – never before has he seen anything like it, had no idea for what it could be used. In fact it was quite out of the ordinary, not obscene, not ambiguous. Just a piece of rope.

A rope for ships, perhaps? Ingwion knew the ropes the Teleri crafted to secure their sails looked entirely different, thicker and less elaborate, also a different material was used.

Beneath, on the golden bed, lay a folded letter – paper identical to those notes he had received so far.

A tranche of the affection I harbor for you.

Ingwion couldn’t draw a conclusion about the item nor the words. The rope, unlike the rest, would always remain a mystery.

That night he didn’t dream as slumber wouldn’t come to him.

Instead, he lay awake, eyes directed towards the ceiling. Distantly, a shepherd’s pipe disrupted the nightly silence, a tune that had become familiar throughout the past months. The attention he received flattered him, yet at the same time it frightened him; not the attention itself but the way he received it. Where his thoughts had been lighthearted at first, his mood began to change as if his very mind was manipulated.

What did life in hold store for him? What did he live and strive for?

For glory and legacy? For happiness?

Condemned to solitude?

Or perhaps not? The innocent boy Ingwion still was, despite of all his years, was thoroughly flattered by the unexpected attention he received all of a sudden whilst the grown adult knew such uncanny admiration would lead to naught. Cowardly deeds instead of open words, empty phrases that could only lead to disappointment.

For a long time, the thoughts accompanied him.

He did what he always did when troubled: a stroll through Lórien’s gardens never failed to soothe his mind. High trees on the outskirts protected the gardens against the cold winds from the sea, where further inside lovely specimens of magnolia and cherry trees blossomed, giving shade to hidden ponds and gushing fountains. Ingwion loved to come here, nowhere else could such a display of surreal impressions and heavenly scents be found. A gentle breeze, salty and fresh, played about his sun-caressed skin, making the leaves above him rustle. Yet today the gardens did not soothe him as usual. No matter where he went, he felt watched, burning eyes upon his back. One time it even was if he heard hushed footsteps nearby.

Out of nowhere, Ingwion took an abrupt turn, away from the arches of wisteria, pressing himself flat against the wall. All of a sudden he was sure that someone had followed him. His heart raced, pounding heavily against his ribs, no matter how often he told himself that no harm would come to him here of all places. Many minutes he waited, struggling to keep his breathing at bay, yet no one ever passed by, no one ever disturbed the tranquil silence, but there had been footsteps close behind him? Their pace increasing as he was about to run?

Or had it only been his heart – his mind?

For a good while he waited, scanning his surroundings like an eagle his prey far below, but no matter how far he looked, he saw nothing at all. With quivering legs he left – although flew was the more appropriate word – he nearly crashed into Eönwë who stood there, in deep conversation with Olórin. Ingwion dearly hoped he would be spared his attention, could pass by in silence unnoticed.

Naturally he was mistaken. “My friend,” the Maia crooned, interrupting his conversation for a second, and Ingwion wondered since when exactly they had become friends. White teeth were revealed by Eönwë’s generous smile, gentle yet somewhat dangerous. “You appear to be extraordinarily troubled of late. Please never hesitate to seek my counsel should you ever be in the need of it.”

The words alone provoked a distinct unease, something that wasn’t unusual as Manwë’s slimy herald had been never one he was overly fond of. Everything about him seemed – well – false.

Only his long trained courtesy prevented Ingwion from lashing out. “Worry not. All is well,” he responded. A blatant lie, he knew, most likely both knew as he had never been good at lying. Still, he would be rather called a liar than discuss his personal matters with him.

Quickly he stepped away and continued his walk back home, being left alone to his thoughts. Despite the fact that unease still plagued him, a craving desire for his admirer threatened to overwhelm him all of a sudden. It was always like that, occurring in the most unlikely moments. The strange sensation always started deep in his stomach and flared down to his loins, with no willpower able to stop it.

Ingwion wished to be left alone, yet at the same time he wished for someone to pull him close, to give him some security. Protection – as strange as this may be, as life in the Blessed Realm was free of sorrow, a careful haven amidst the troubles of the world. Boring one might even say.

What if boredom were his admirer’s motives? Not genuine interest? An idle game he was playing at?

Oddly, the thought led to foolish disappointment.  

Ingwion frowned in bewilderment, not understanding himself anymore.

*

More notes and items kept appearing wherever he went; in his gardens, on his balcony, even in his bathrooms. A golden box, adorned with a feather awaited his return eagerly, standing on the floor just in enough distance to open the entrance door fully. Ingwion sighed heavily, the by now familiar feeling of being watched made him shiver. Actually he just wanted to leave it there, knowing it was pointless. Every time his eyes would fall upon the item, a sick excitement would flare. Often had he tried this strategy before – always had he lost. With a certain dismay, Ingwion lifted the casket upwards and opened it. Inside lay a piece of black silk, not exactly long, approximately the length of his forearm, a few inches in width. To Ingwion, the cloth seemed to be entirely useless just as the rope had been – what need would he have for such an item?

His tormentor apparently knew him well by now– and had learned. How exactly, Ingwion did not dare to let his thoughts remain for long. With the cloth, a note – well an entire description came, neatly folded and labeled: To enlighten you

The description was an accumulation of depraved obscenities, and only then he understood that the feather was part of his newest gift. 

Thoroughly disgusted, Ingwion fed the flames with it.

*

Not always, but from time to time, Ingwion felt as if every step he took was watched by prying, leering eyes. No matter how often he turned around, nobody was ever there; still the burning gaze on his back persisted. When he walked somewhere alone, even if it only were his own corridors, the smallest sounds made him jump and he tried to move away as much as he could. Panic and alertness became a constant in his life. Not even in his most private refuge did he feel safe anymore as too often a note lay directly on his pillow; sometimes when he woke up the sheets beside him were ruffled although he always slept alone; sometimes, a breeze of fresh air danced across his skin, gently like a lover’s touch, leaving a shiver in its wake. Slowly, he thought his mind would go insane, that he saw things that weren’t actually there.

“Begone!” he screamed into the emptiness of his room, anger and despair in his voice, before he broke down.

*

 One morning, Ingwion woke up, covered in his own seed and sweat. His dreams – those dreams – had been always vivid, leaving nothing to the imagination; at least that was what he had thought. Since today he knew it was not so. Every touch that was bestowed to his heated skin felt as if it had been truly there, every kiss, every whisper against his ear – even his backside felt somewhat sore as he tried to stand. In silence he cursed the sleeping draught he had taken last night.  

When his eyes travelled down his body his breath froze in his lungs. The words the creature had whispered into his ear adorned his stomach now, stood written on his skin:

Join me, lose yourself in a haze of lust and desire, let go of your doubts and moral outrage, flee your golden cage at last, Ingwion.  

In desperation he screamed – in desperation he wept, sending the glass on his nightstand flying against the wall in all his misery. It had to stop, it simply had to. But what could he do? He never saw the one who plagued him so, he never even came close to him.

Ingwion even thought to ask for council among those he trusted, at least briefly, before shame hindered him from doing so; in his loneliness he slowly had become a psychotic. What if the gods punished him for remaining still unwed – weren’t they all made to sire children, after all? Or was this just another psychotic thought gathering in his mind?

Maybe his father would know – and if he wouldn’t, perhaps Manwë would.

Ingwion never asked.

*

Again, someone had been in his room during his absence, taking all time in the world to arrange the bouquets throughout his living room. No lock, no guard, no warning seemed to keep his admirer out. The flowers were quite ordinary ones, wild pansies that grew everywhere on Yavanna’s blessed soil without possessing any special trait, at least to Ingwion’s knowledge. However, he had never been overly interested in the lore of herbs. Within a few days they would wither anyways, he thought with pity, no matter how good he would take care of them. So was the nature of many things, sadly as decay always lowered his spirits.

My dearest Ingwion, the newest letter began. Ingwion was close to simply crumpling it in his fist. His spirits were low of late, excitement giving way to threads of anger. Of love in idleness I often dream, of fleeting nights amidst the light of heavenly vaults with thee, my love; of beds of flowers, of thorns, of scarlet petals against your golden skin.

Like a feather, the note slipped through his trembling hands and sailed down onto the ground. The words reflected exactly what he had dreamt a while ago, even the colors of the petals matched. Ingwion sank down onto the ground, hands buried in his face as revulsion shook him.

Enough was enough – he had to put an end to this!

‘But how?’ he wept, feeling more miserable than he had ever before.

Chapter End Notes

[**] inspired by: “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.” Pablo Neruda

[General Inspiration] - Apart from the information that is canonically available, my concept of Lórien’s garden is very loosely based on the gardens of the Alhambra, especially when it comes to the geometrical alignment of pools and gushing fountains, but it is much more open and bigger, with open fields and lush meadows. Apart from that, I found inspiration in traditional Japanese gardens and the gardens of Tuscany.

Chapter 04 – In honor of the gods; a mindless journey

*

After that the little presents and suggestive messages stopped entirely, as if his admirer had heard Ingwion’s pleas of desperation. Perhaps he had? By now, Ingwion would even dare to believe that somebody else all too real lived in his mind, when the voices in his head became too strong, too overwhelming. Almost unbearably so. With a heavy frown, Ingwion shook his head. Assuming such nonsense was the height of his psychotic ridiculousness! Nobody would ever believe him.

The longer the silence persisted, the more Ingwion’s mind dwelled on the past. Two souls dwelt in his breast: one telling him to be generously relieved that everything had burnt to ash without causing greater harm, whilst the other kept persistently reminding him how much he had enjoyed being showered with such attention. He couldn’t deny either.

Slowly, after many weeks, a certain normality came back into Ingwion’s life, mostly because so many duties distracted him; councils, travels, correspondence he had put aside for the foolish pursuit of happiness. Nevertheless, a certain suspicion prevailed and always accompanied him. His hushed glances backwards with haunted eyes weren’t all too subtle – even his father had occasionally remarked upon that. Thankfully, he had come up with an excuse quickly enough. What had happened in the past should remain his secret forever. Too brightly shame and curiosity still burned inside of him. Ingwë must never know.

Despite the knowledge that he perhaps shouldn’t, Ingwion even re-read the letters in the darkest hours of the night, being drawn to them like the moth at the burning flame. Yet an entirely different flame kindled within him, whenever his fingertips brushed against the delicate writing. For once the nightly hours were not accompanied by the whistling tune of the pipe so far away as if it belonged to another world. Throughout so many sleepless nights, it had become a most pleasant constant. Only now, Ingwion realized how much he missed it.

However, he did not have time to dwell too long on his thoughts: in addition to his usual duties, he had been assigned to help his father with the preparation of the festivities in honor of the Valar in a few weeks to come. Festivities among their people weren’t exactly rare, especially not as for thousands of years their life had been safe and quiet.

Ingwion organized the festival as he was told and drowned all too easily in his work.  

*

‘An ordinary festivity,’ Ingwion said to himself, repeating his father’s words. He almost laughed out loud at the underestimation, but then merely shook his head in wonder when at last he joined the cheering crowd. Because despite the fact that he helped to organize it, what greeted his eyes took his breath away – for that he had certainly been not responsible. A pity, he now thought. Truly, he was extraordinary late, for a reason that still tainted his cheeks scarlet when he dared to think about it again.

At last he had worn the flimsy garment, listening to the voice back in his mind all of a sudden. ‘Why not wear it, Ingwion?’ it had asked, so gently, so persuading at the same time. ‘Haven’t you stalked around it like wolf about his prey, lingering, scheming? Why not give in into your wishes when in fact you desire it so?’

Why not? What harm would come from it?

And so he had done.

And so he had enjoyed himself upon the golden silks. Thoroughly and for many hours, he possibly should add.

And now he was here, standing amidst the crowd like a stranger, besotted by his own fantasies but apart from that entirely sober; in contrast to everybody else around him as it seemed. Overflowing chalices, glowing golden in the faint light of the torches, exchange of the latest gossip and idle chatter characterized the scenery laid out before him. A feast of splendor – a feast for the gods. Never before had he seen anything like it, never before had he seen so many of the Ainur in their most magnificent fána. Whilst he was used to see those assigned to Manwë and Varda on a regular basis, there were others who preferred to spend their time in their refuges, separated from the world.

‘A pity.’

Hair of gold, and skin of bronze, bodies as if sculpted from the finest stones, their eyes glittering like diamond dust in the flickering light of the torches. The incarnation of beauty, Ingwion thought, blatantly staring towards those he rarely saw, and if he did, never in such splendor. Blinding white robes freely flowed about their bodies down towards the marble ground, draped around their waist and shoulders where the fabric was fastened with fibulae and belt. Some of the robes did not leave much to the imagination, revealing more skin than hiding it. Ingwion felt a little out of place in his fine, yet ordinary dress.

Why had nobody told him? How hadn’t he noticed? Why…?

Instead of dwelling on what couldn’t be changed, he began to study one of Námo’s Maia who stood close by, repeatedly throwing a pomegranate high into the nightly air. Instead of the radiant white, as servant of death he was clad in darkness with shadows wafting around him. It mattered not; he was no less intriguing to Ingwion. Especially the jewelry he wore caught his attention: elaborate subsidiary ornamentation drew twined leaves around the dazzling gems: garnets, carnelians and chalcedony. Ingwion spotted elaborately wrought armbands winding up his ivory arms like snakes, and bracelets around his slim wrists rattled and clinked with every motion. And whilst Ingwion still stared in awe, the Maia gave him his most radiant smile – and much to his surprise, Ingwion returned it.

For once his mind was quiet, his admirer forgotten.

Friends of old embraced him, dragged him out of his haze and towards their table where he shared a cup of wine or two with them. Swig by swig, his mood began to soar. Not that it had been foul previously – quite the contrary; finally giving into the temptation of wearing the garment had sent his mind flying and he somewhat felt light-headed again, carefree. Just like the person he truly was.

Again, his gaze began to wander. Whilst all around him seemed be somewhat static, with people mostly sitting at their tables and holding conversation, Manwë’s herald appeared like a soaring butterfly this night, swarming from one flower to another. Easily he indulged those he met in idle chatter between hushed words of affection, snatching kisses from those who were not quick enough to escape – or simply did not wish to. Despite Ingwion’s marginal aversion against him, he had to admit that it was no wonder that half of his father’s court seemed to fall for the creature. Flattering like no other he was, gifted with a cunning mind (and most likely other talents Ingwion did not dare to think of), intriguing – and strikingly beautiful, glorious to look at in his splendor. For Eönwë it did not even matter if he wore flowing silks and golden jewelry as tonight or heavy armor; his regal appearance left so many breathless, just as the body steeled from countless battles he had fought in the name of the Lords of the West. Multi-laced necklaces of various lengths with golden pendants in the shape of feathers adorned his neck, twining spiraled bracelets with an eagle’s head at its end his sun-tanned arms, of which Ingwion actually could feel envious.

Why of all those gathered here did Ingwion now think about him in such rich detail?

Why couldn’t he tear his gaze away from him?

‘Because you want it,’ a voice announced joyfully in his mind. ‘Because you want me.’

Hardly.

Yet when their gazes met across the distance a shiver ran down Ingwion’s spine and quickly he had to look away.

For once at least. Swig by swig, Ingwion threw all caution into the winds, openly admiring whatever seemed pleasing to his eyes.

Right now he simply existed – amid friends and family he felt loved and safe, and the wine was a welcoming diversion to all the dread he had experienced in the past months. Wholeheartedly, he accepted filled goblet after goblet, laughed so much that his stomach began to hurt. Gods and Elves were not so entirely different, at least not when wine and mead flowed in abundance, Ingwion thought with continuing easiness as his eyes took in the scenery, filled with curiosity.

Not far from him an old friend of his sat in the lap of a Maia, idly playing with the creature’s golden hair until a hand slipped inside the elf’s robe and brushed unseen against his nipples. In delight his friend cried out, entirely forgetting that – after all – this was a public place with countless eyes staring at them. They didn’t notice, and most likely if they had, they wouldn’t even have the grace to care so occupied they were with themselves, nuzzling wet kisses against each other’s skin. Apart from Melyanna, Ingwion had never heard of Maia taking spouses; but then, before his father’s newest trophy he had not heard of dalliances between Elves and Valar, either. Nothing could shock him anymore, Ingwion thought; by now he had seen it all.

“One more,” demanded Ingwion, lifting his chalice high in the air when a servant passed by.

“With pleasure, my lord.” A servant said, and in response Ingwion furrowed his brows. My lord did not sit well with him, it never did, especially not when he had never seen the servant before. For once he let the matter slip, being not so entirely certain whom he knew in the strange charade. Instead, he turned back towards his friends, taking up the conversation they had had before.

Wind as soft as a lover’s touch played about his shoulders, crawled up his neck until Ingwion visibly shivered. Automatically, he looked into the direction where before the Maia with the encouraging smile had been standing, only to find out that now he had somewhere disappeared in the crowd. However, it did not take long until something else caught his interest, and then Ingwion knew, that by far he had not seen all. A dark-haired lady dribbled mead down another girl’s neck, licking it from her ivory skin before the liquid could slide down her breast.

Beneath the initial shock interest began to simmer. Oh how he wished all of a sudden that someone would lavish him with such non-platonic attention.

Had he truly thought that – perhaps even said it aloud? His hand flew towards his mouth in disbelief. What was wrong with him these days? Especially now as everything around him seemed to begin to spin, faces mingled to one blurred face only to separate soon after again.  

Only briefly was he graced with time to wonder. Manwë called Ingwë forth, smiling his most generous smile. Naturally, Ingwion looked up, not entirely out of genuine interest – it was rather jealous envy. Despite the gentle smile he sat in all his might upon his ivory throne, with his crown of silver and sapphires sparkling in the low light. Stoic, like a statue, as if his body was carved out of marble, and only the constant rise and fall of his chest told that it was not so – but then, Ingwion had never seen him so alive, eyes so soft and filled with affection. Mesmerizing chalcedonies encircled his throat, cascading down over his chest like a gushing waterfall. Yet the jewels were not quite what made him stare so – it was his father, who now idly sat at the Vala’s feet, besotted by the love they shared. Ingwion’s poor mind didn’t even know if he wished to unsee what he saw, if he felt repulsed or intrigued – or both. Well, actually he did not even know if anything of what he saw was real as so drowsy he felt all of a sudden. One grape after another fell into his father’s mouth, fed to him by the Vala’s fingers which obediently Ingwë licked clean. Regardless of better knowledge, Ingwion stared with mouth standing wide open: how the Vala’s fingers wandered possessively towards his father’s throat and further down. Only then it was that it dawned to Ingwion – what he witnessed, what was displayed for all to see, was some obscene act of fealty, a public vow for the endless years to come. Not that it would make any difference, not almost everybody knew already – it still was something else entirely and Ingwion did not understand how blind he had been not to see, when even now with his hazy mind he realized why exactly this feast was given. Then, Manwë opened his mouth in indignation, not that Ingwion ever heard what he said, lost in a world entirely his own.

Ingwion burnt, in doubt and desire.

Fascination and, equally repulsion, was written on his face, though the strange fascination rather quickly won out. Oh how Ingwion wished to follow his desires and catch the first elf or Maia who was to his liking, take his head into his hands and kiss him until their rosy lips devoured each other. These thoughts could hardly be his own, and hardly could what he saw rouse him so. He had to admit it had when something treacherous brushed against his robes. On any other occasion he would have cursed, shame spreading across his face, but not today; not when so many sought comfort and pleasure in each other’s arms and nobody seemed to care or judge, not even the Valar’s judge himself who – well – Ingwion did not dare to look twice.

With his mind still trying to process everything he witnessed, Ingwion did not notice how Eönwë came to stand behind him, nor did he realize the gentle breeze playing about his form again.

“I have heard your words and desires well, dearest Ingwion,” the Maia whispered, much too close to his skin for Ingwion’s liking. Or not? If he would have been clear of mind, he would have jolted around, demanding of him to take a step away. But then, he felt intrigued – how would the Maia know of his dreams and desires?

He wished to ask. His mouth refused.

Not when the Maia’s lips touched his neck, nor when his arms encircled his waist, did Ingwion complain vocally, certainly much to Eönwë’s delight.  

Eönwë’s voice was soft, sympathetic even, or perhaps simply the voice he used to lure others into his trap like a hunter its prey. “At last,” the Maia murmured. Hadn’t he seen him kissing several others this night? Nothing he said and did made any sense. 

Before his vision faded and darkness ensnared him, Ingwion saw his body spiraling downwards to the floor, from above, as if his mind wasn’t bound to it anymore. Forever he seemed to fall, and fall, and fall, until the Maia caught him before his skull crushed against the marble tiles.

*

Chapter End Notes

[***] inspired by: “Happy is the man who has broken the chains which hurt the mind, and has given up worrying once and for all.” Ovid – Metamorphoses

[General Inspiration] - In regard to the jewelry, especially the gemstones and bracelets, and also the clothing they wear during the feast, I tried to stay as close as possible to actual jewelry from the Hellenistic period, using items exhibited in museums as models. And yes – Eönwë wearing too much jewelry is a kink of mine, something which can be blamed to on Encairion’s wonderful fic ‘The Price of Duty’, Chapter 27 (and the addition: ‘The Vanya’s Rebellion' ) – at least this is the fic that originally inspired me and from where I began to make up my character design of him a good while ago when I had a commission made. It can be found here: Golden – Eönwë/Glorfindel

Námo’s Maia & the pomegranate: The Hades and Persephone myth – I was even tempted to let him offer some of the fruit to Ingwion. Well, Ingwion getting caught in Mandos’ Halls with some Maia was not requested, so I refrained :D And yes, if anybody should have wondered whom exactly Ingwion couldn’t watch twice – it was my Námo/Fëanor guilty ship.

Chapter 05 – The Art of Drowning

*

Time became an endless blur whilst Ingwion drifted between sleep and wakefulness, or at least that was how he perceived it. For how long he lingered in that translucent state, Ingwion did not exactly know, assuming that most of the time he had slept. When at last slumber left him, it was still dark, oddly, because he felt as if he had slept forever. By now the sun must shine brightly – or? If he had slept – even of that Ingwion was not so certain anymore because instead of relaxed he felt miserable, more exhausted than he had been in a while. Urgently, he tried to recall his father’s feast, the spiced wine he had consumed, the laughter shared with friends – after that his memory got clouded.

Somehow he must have made it home – or? Realization hit Ingwion with brutal strength. Since when was his bed so uncomfortably hard?

There was a moment of strange, calm serenity, almost like a lapse in time as finally Ingwion understood. He wasn’t in his bed, nor was it dark – he was somewhere else, where exactly he hadn’t the slightest idea. The darkness surrounding him was an artificial one, his vision taken by force he realized when his lashes brushed against soft fabric.

By instinct he wished to strip the cloth off his face – and so he tried, only to realize that he couldn’t move his arms a single inch. Cold terror seized him. Ingwion jerked against the restraints, quick stuttered movements to untangle himself from what pinned him down to where he lay.

‘Why? How? When?’ His reeling mind did not find an answer to the questions. ‘What had he done to evoke such wrath?’

Though well Ingwion already knew that wrath was probably not the cause of his situation. Instead, the worst scenario of all began to play out in his mind, leaving him shaking in cold sweat. ‘What if my secret admirer has made the final move?’ Ingwion asked himself, although he already knew the answer. It must be him – there was no other possibility as there were no dungeons in the Blessed Realm, and nobody else who had any interest in harming and corrupting him.  

Despite his exhaustion, the thoughts of having fallen into his admirer’s trap spurred Ingwion’s defiance; with all strength he could muster in his drowsy state he writhed and struggled against the restraints, yet with no avail. As it seemed his captor had taken utmost precautions, had expected him to struggle. Or .. or was this exactly what he wanted? See him struggle, make him beg? Briefly, he stilled his movements, pondering the thoughts. Not to fight did not appeal as an option; he simply had to, no matter if it was all for naught. Which, naturally, it was. Unsurprisingly, soon Ingwion’s arms and limbs began to hurt from his futile attempt, his lungs burning.  

Somewhere behind him, he heard a chuckle, soft and gentle, standing in strong contrast to the elf’s pain. “You fight for naught, my dearest Ingwion,” a voice, one Ingwion recognized immediately, much to his dismay, said with a laugh. There was no cruelty in the creature’s laughter, only a strange admiration, sick and heavy. As if the words should ensnare him.

Ingwion could hardly believe it, freezing in his struggle. “Eönwë?!” he asked in shock and horror. ‘No. No, it can’t be.’ A myriad of thoughts threatened to drown him. ‘It must not be. Manwë’s herald could hardly be his secret admirer – or?’

Close by, the Maia snickered. “Who else did you think would be interested in you?” There was such a cruel casualness to his words, making his breath freeze in his lungs. If it wasn’t so horribly true he could easily ignore such a snarky remark. If he wasn’t bound, he probably would have merely laughed. Right now, he couldn’t. Disdain already reigned in Ingwion’s heart and soul, and he wondered how on Arda he had ended up in this compromising position. “Your hubris does not become you,” he spat. A weak attempt to spark the Maia’s fury, to wipe the arrogance off his face with words alone.

“Oh it serves me well,” said Eönwë, hesitating. Ingwion wondered why, terror seizing him anew. Although he couldn’t see the Maia’s face, the broad smile was clearly audible in his voice. Bile gurgled up his throat – from the wine he had consumed, or from Eönwë’s words he didn’t exactly know. What he knew, however, was that never in his life he had felt so horrendously sick. Then, Eönwë spoke again: “Or should I better say: it has served me well last night. Would you be surprised – amused even, if I would tell you that you weren’t so reluctant a couple of hours ago?”

The words simply flew from his lips “Shut your mouth.” The hint towards something he couldn’t remember, no matter how hard he tried, spurred Ingwion’s anger.

“Amusing,” remarked the Maia, letting his fingers run across Ingwion’s chest until the elf shivered in response. And with that, the cloth laid upon his eyes was gone. Ingwion blinked in confusion. The bright sunshine was hurtful to his eyes after so much time in the darkness, yet what hurt even more, was the Maia’s smirk that met him.

“Begone,” snarled Ingwion, provoking yet another laugh from Eönwë.

Unimpressed, Eönwë’s hands continued their journey. “Are you certain you would want exactly that?” he asked, feigning true interest in Ingwion’s miserable state. “Leaving you here as a feast for crows and eagles until some of your father’s minions would find you in such a compromising position?”

The truth in the words was undeniable, because no – he harbored no desire for anyone to see him in his miserable state. “Then untie me first.” His entire body was covered with angry welts, crisscrossing over his thighs, his chest and arms. Every now and then the highly symmetrical pattern was interrupted by bruises of a different kind, almost resembling love bites. The truth what had happened to him was undeniably manifested upon his body, yet Ingwion frantically denied the scandalizing fact.

It can’t be. It must not be. 

He heard the Maia tsk against his ear, feeling his breath against his ear. Too close, too sensual, too sickening in all his admiration. “And ruin my masterpiece?” A flicker of dismay flashed across Eönwë’s face. “Hardly.”

The cacophony of the birds high above in the leaf canopies arose to excited chatter. Ingwion couldn’t draw a conclusion why suddenly they were so noisy and where they had come as if they had heard the Maia’s words. It had been silent the whole time, except from the sound of dried leaves crunching under Eönwë’s feet as he moved around him. Before, Ingwion hadn’t even noticed that they were somewhere outside, a clearing in the enchanted forest perhaps, or somewhere else entirely. Ingwion had never seen those ruins. Or perhaps they weren’t even there, nothing more than a treacherous illusion.

The question of how it came to pass that he was so completely at the Maia’s mercy – bound and blindfolded – persisted, unanswered.

‘You weren’t so reluctant.’ The words repeated themselves in Ingwion’s head. A lie, a blatant lie, his mind screamed in response. Never would he have agreed to anything like this, when he usually avoided even speaking with Manwë’s herald. Only one vague possibility remained, one Ingwion thoroughly doubted: the wine. Aye, he hadn’t been entirely sober but not that drunk, either. Ingwion even pondered the thought if the Maia had given him some kind of sedative, poured secretly into his wine when he hadn’t looked, but he had never, not even once, come close to him during his father’s feast. So rather not. Ingwion’s mind reeled. Pretending to have been so drunk that he had no memories, something which wasn’t exactly a lie, was certainly easier to live with than assuming to having consented to anything like this. “I was drunk.”

Again, the Maia chuckled. “You were indeed, I won’t deny it.”

Still, Ingwion doubted that this was the entire truth of it – he would have never let his guard down like that. Especially not after what had happened during the past months. For moments, the silence hung heavy between them, only interrupted by the gentle rustling of leaves and fabric. Just when Ingwion opened his mouth to speak, Eönwë continued: “Truly, I never thought it possible that a bit of alcohol could wipe away your stoicism. Let’s phrase it that way: You were … well .. quite eager throughout the night, my dear friend.”

Fury arose anew. Eönwë was nothing to him, least of all a dear friend. “Do not name me so when you well know it’s the greatest lie of all.”

“Oh–” breathed Eönwë, a smirk audibly in his voice. “I hadn’t anticipated that you would still prefer to be named ‘my whore’”

“Stop feeding me your ridiculous lies.” Ingwion wasn’t far from screaming now. “I am not your whore – was never your whore, and most importantly, will never be your thrall. No matter how many filthy notes you keep sending me, no matter with what gifts you will shower me, I will never return your sick affections.”

Eönwë tilted his head to the side. “No? I had quite a different impression from you this night. You have appeared to have thoroughly enjoyed yourself.”

Ingwion had no explanation how, and why, such vivid images flooded his mind all of a sudden.

As if he was detached from his body he saw himself, swaying and stumbling through the crowd during his father’s feast. However, he wasn’t alone. Much to his horror he tightly clutched the Maia’s arm for all to see, giggling like a foolish youth. “This can’t be true.” Shame began to creep up Ingwion’s cheeks – they weren’t all too discreet, especially not himself who was groping the Maia’s buttocks without any decency. Before his inner eye he saw how Eönwë and himself, each other’s hands extraordinarily busy, walked past where Manwë and Ingwë sat. And as if that was not bad enough, he saw how his father gave him a nod of approval, accompanied by his most generous smile. Too much it was to bear, to see, to witness. His own father …  was Ingwë truly that blind?

As they were past them, out of sight and earshot, the Maia leaned in, whispering something into his ear. In response, he smiled a besotted grin, nodding in approval. After that, his fingers sank into the fabric of Eönwë’s flowing robes. Why, he would never understand. Momentarily, silence hung between them, not an uncomfortable one. Each of them was lost in his very own thoughts, Ingwion’s mind going astray towards the golden garment he had worn before the feast. And whilst he did, quivering in excitement, his fingers began to wander: touching the bare skin at the Maia’s neck, idly playing with the golden necklace.

The suspicion that the Maia must have indeed drugged him became all too evidently confirmed by what he saw, because what he saw wasn’t him, not how he usually behaved, especially in public. Well, Ingwion wasn’t even entirely certain if any of it was real. The last thing he remembered was how the world around him began to spin, just before darkness enwrapped him. Actually, he had assumed that he slept his intoxication off somewhere. Apparently he hadn’t – instead he must have awoken at one point as somebody entirely different. “What have you put into my wine?” Ingwion asked, suspicion all too evidently ringing in his voice. Again, he tried to free himself of the restraints that still bound him. As expected he did not succeed.

“Idle-in-love. Why do you ask?” said Eönwë, trailing his fingertips across Ingwion’s cheeks with sickening gentleness. “All these years you were a hopeless cause.”

Ingwion’s eyes went wide. “A hopeless cause?” Surely he must have misheard. Their interactions in the past had been limited to only a few occasions. “And drugging me with a love potion seemed to be a valid cause to you?”

Eönwë smiled, placating. “What choice did I have?” he asked with such an innocence that Ingwion wished to slap it off the Maia’s face, not for the first time.

By now, Ingwion boiled with indignation. “Do you truly think that would legitimize your actions?”

Eönwë nodded. “Partly, yes. But then you have legitimized my actions yourself well enough, remember?”

At first, Ingwion did not comprehend; not until flashes of memories, another swirl of images, began to play out in his mind, sensual and yet sickening at the same time. When the first time he had only seen everything, he now additionally felt what was happening to him.

This time, at least in reality, he remained silent apart from the tiny whines that slipped past his lips, finally accepting the inevitable bite of ropes into his skin. No mercy could be expected of one who was completely devoid of it, lacking basic understanding of how feelings and emotions worked.

His arms were securely tied behind his back, causing a constant burn of his tendons, whilst his fingers had long lost any feeling. Ingwion’s eyes fluttered shut when the Maia pushed him down against the unyielding floor. Where he had expected it to hurt, much to his surprise it didn’t; at least not his knees, the pain of his aching arms overlaying everything else. In this uncomfortable position he had to remain for how long he didn’t know, hands forced to cup his elbows by the strain of the ropes. Like a wolf regarding his prey, the Maia stalked around him with a feral gaze. Sick admiration was shining from his ice-blue eyes. Why didn’t he struggle, Ingwion wondered. Why did he not even mutter in protest?

“Why, you ask?” the Maia whispered. “Because long before you’ve consented to play this little game with me.”

“Liar!”

Whilst he saw himself kneeling upon the floor, Eönwë’s fingertips continued their journey across his heated skin, exploring, teasing – entirely unimpressed by the fact that he had named him a liar. And worse. The Maia’s voice was thick with admiration when he spoke again: “For so many years I have wanted you, perhaps since you were born. Every second I did not spend in duty, I devoted to you.”

Ingwion sneered in disdain, struggling for composure. “Oh, what a noble sacrifice.”

Eönwë pretended not to hear him. Instead he traced a finger across the swell of Ingwion’s hips, smiling to himself when the elf tried to escape his teasing touches. The idle thoughts that the Maia would release him still floated through his mind, although Ingwion knew he never would, no matter how much he begged. He wouldn’t. That was what the elf swore to himself in silence. He wouldn’t beg for mercy, he wouldn’t scream and plead. For once he would simply endure.

“Beautiful,” murmured Eönwë, though this time he didn’t say it specifically to Ingwion, letting his fingers wander along the ropes, hands sliding down Ingwion’s thighs in teasing strokes. “Perhaps I should tie your legs, too. What do you think?”

Without awaiting his reply, Eönwë continued, beginning to wrap the rope several times around each ankle. After that, Ingwion saw how his legs were forced apart by elaborate ropes, biting into his fragile skin, the ropes somehow connected to his wrists. Whenever he tried to move one limb, all others hurt simultaneously. Ingwion’s brows constricted as another rope passed vertically between his nipples, moving upwards towards his neck, just as if the Maia wished to strangle him. And perhaps he would? The rope continued across his back, meeting his bound wrists.

For Eönwë it was a practice routine, a sinfully choreographed dance of which he didn’t know where the Maia had learned it. Although Ingwion did not want it, he couldn’t help being astonished and amazed by the complexity of the work. How rope after rope enwrapped his body as if he was meant to be a gift. Perhaps he was? The ropes tightened until he was pinned, bundled. Entirely immobilized for how many hours to come he never knew.

When he was finished binding him, all of a sudden, he was gone.

Ingwion blinked, startled. What psychological games the Maia was playing at again, he didn’t know, perhaps even didn’t want to know, as in his presence fear and worries kept persistently lingering in his soul. In the past, when the little attentions kept trickling by, too often he had felt manipulated. It was odd, truly. Seconds ago he had wished him to be gone – now he didn’t. Had he thought being touched by him was unsettling, being alone, kneeling on the cold ground, waiting for the Maia’s next move was by far worse. However, the next move didn’t come for many hours – or was he simply not allowed to see?

From somewhere behind him, he heard Eönwë explain: “Only a willing mind can be manipulated, and once tested I found your soul more than willing to oblige.”

“Liar.”

The Maia snickered. “Hush, now. You well know I am not. If you care to recall what note accompanied the golden robe: ‘Naught else you shall wear the night I devour you.’ Does something dawn to you?”

If he would have been able to, Ingwion would have crossed his arms before his chest. “I wasn’t wearing it tonight.”

Admirably, the Maia smiled down at him. “Not at the feast, no. But before–“

Ingwion cut him off. “Are you implying that this – all of it – can be blamed upon myself?”

With that said, all the images fled from his thoughts as if he had never experienced any of it, and only the present remained. A present Ingwion did not know how to deal with it, being unable to move a single inch.

“No, I wouldn’t,” stated Eönwë. “I was merely implying that, no matter how much reluctance you feign, you were all too easily corrupted, ensnared I might even say. Because deep inside you wanted this, perhaps had always wanted it. You are lonely, Ingwion and please do not even try to deny it.”

For once, Ingwion didn’t, accepting the bitter truth of it. As he did, the images began to flood his mind again. What he saw next, took his breath away.

Sweat dripped down his body as his muscles trembled with exertion, screaming in protest against the restraints. Exhaustion did not easily come to him, so he assumed that he must have spent countless hours indeed in his compromising position. Yet something else entirely simmered beneath the sharp pain: notions of pleasure he had never felt before in such breathtaking intensity. Seed – he didn’t know if it was his own or the Maia’s, or a mix of both, trickled down his thighs like a rill of milk, and when the soft wind brushed against it, he shivered. Nearby Eönwë stood in all his naked glory, elaborate jewels still adorning his golden skin. As if he was a piece of precious art – a sculpture as so many decorated Taniquetil’s lofty palace, Eönwë regarded him with affection, panting slightly.

Usually, Ingwion wasn’t one for swearing. Well – usually. How should he act as usual when everything about this situation was highly unusual? Something akin to ‘sneaky bastard’ fell from his bruised lips. So at the end he hadn’t given his consent – or had he, and this was nothing more than played idleness? Ingwion couldn’t tell with reality becoming an endless blur in his mind.

His circlet must have been lost somewhere, probably hidden in the folds of his robe; a prince without a crown, subject to fleeting pleasures that weren’t his own. Or were they? Admittedly, he did not look entirely repulsed. Wrecked – yes. Abused – yes. But there was something else in his face, something akin to exhausted happiness. In the silence, Ingwion’s face shifted expressions due to conflicting desire. What was it that he desired – to scream and run away, or see the end of it?

His visions and reality began to mingle oddly as the Maia’s fingertips trailed down his chest again to probe tentatively at his opening, leaving a burning sensation behind when he withdrew. “Stop it,” Ingwion wished to scream, the words never bleeding from his lips. Certainly this was not happening for the first time this night as the resistance his body gave was naught. He caught a flicker of gold when he looked into Eönwë’s eyes, dark feelings burning brightly in them. “I wonder, now that you are yourself again,” began the Maia, “what else we could experience together?”

The rope cut into the skin of his upper arms, tight around his wrists placed onto his back, from where they were securely connected with another rope that spanned around each thigh, forcing them apart. Eönwë’s hands were so sure in everything they did, so steady, Ingwion couldn’t help thinking as he watched how another knot was tightened. In between he felt the Maia’s lips press a kiss between his shoulder blades, his fingertips gently massaging every spot just above where the knots bit into his skin with such an attentive tenderness.

The Maia’s pleasure – and perhaps his own – was secondary, evolving in the act of tying him up, Ingwion realized when from somewhere more ropes appeared. Three stranded fiber ropes he used to complete his work of art, lightly oiled with lavender, the scent he originally thought was the Maia’s own. Intricately knotted ropes pulled his legs further apart and kept his thighs splayed wide. The conclusion of what they were for was to be drawn easily, and the thought alone made Ingwion shiver – not out of fear, but in anticipation he realized. He felt so vulnerable, so exposed, so unable to do anything against it at all. Exactly that sent sparks of excitement floating through him.  

Nevertheless he fought against the compromising position (though by know he was almost certain that this was nothing more than play). However, the more he struggled, the more painful became the ropes that ate their way into his skin, of that Eönwë’s had made certain. Even if he inhaled too sharply, the ropes constricted him in precise lines.

Once, the work was complete, he saw himself with the Maia’s eyes.

Ingwion would never forget how he looked – cheeks flushed, standing in high contrast to his porcelain skin, of which often was said that it looked so fragile. Golden hair swept carelessly down his shoulders towards the middle of his back where his hands rested, provoking a light brush against them from time to time when a breeze reached the clearing. However, what intrigued him most were his eyes, half-lidded. Their usual color was a bright aquamarine with a threads of a darker nuance, like the sea on Alqualonde’s shores on a calm day; right now they were nothing like it. When the light of the burning candles caught in them he looked into the gray eye of a raging storm, dark and dangerous. However, he wasn’t allowed to see his own eyes for long as they were covered with a silken piece of cloth, obscuring his vision. His mouth opened in protest – only to fall shut again, when each touch bestowed upon his skin intensified as another sense was muted.

In the present, Ingwion complained once more: “I was unable to consent in my state of mind.”

Eönwë merely waved his hand, explaining with such calm casualness that the elf’s blood froze: “Still, you clearly enjoyed what I did to you. A necessity – nothing more – is it to blur visions from time to time; too often the common eye is blind to what it truly desires.”

Even basic moralities seemed to be such a foreign concept to the Maia that Ingwion didn’t even know what to respond anymore. Wasn’t it common sense that forbade drugging others? But then, also truth lay in his words. In fact, despite his revulsion what he saw intrigued him. Actually, Ingwion enjoyed watching him, the strange power that radiated off him as he spoke and gestured; the undisguised might compared to his own pettiness. The Maia’s words could be like knives, tear open minds and thoughts for all to see, Ingwion well knew by now.

Did he still care?

Instead of flowing silks and gleaming damask he now wore strings of lace, a nuance darker than the ivory tone of his skin. Though he felt strangely humiliated, degraded to the Maia’s plaything far off where nobody would ever find them, the complex aesthetic of his tied up body was undeniable, even to him. The elaborate knots of the lace formed a row, just like a string of pearls running down his torso and back, ropes crisscrossing over his thighs, spanning down even towards his feet where the Maia had just fastened another knot. Like a sculpture his body appeared, well-defined muscles, arms and legs neatly folded by the strength of the ropes.

The abundance of patience on Eönwë’s side was breathtaking as was his beauty. Despite his aversion against the Maia, Ingwion found himself reveling in the sight he made, golden hair cascading down over his shoulders like molten gold, adorned with clasps of the same nuance – some simple, whilst others were decorated with sparkling gems placed in elaborate settings. Every now and then, Eönwë licked away the sweat on his skin, as if it disturbed his perfect artwork. To the Maia, everything he did was a performance, the plan for it probably laid out in his mind for thousands of years. There was a particular moment in which Eönwë’s fingers brushed against Ingwion’s lips, an unusual touch, which he couldn’t be sure was accidental, even if it was too intense and attentive to be so.

What happened in the visions he relived right then and what actually happened became an endless blur, because still – or again – Eönwë kept touching him, kissing him. The body in which his fëa resided wasn’t his own anymore, the ability to move completely taken from him. He must have struggled, must have screamed, yet not a single word of complaint did he hear tumbling from his lips; instead he saw his flushed cheeks, his cock hard just the way it always had been after waking  up after those dreams.

Eönwë shifted Ingwion’s kneeling body with masterful ease against him, tugging at the laces every once in a while until he apparently was content with what he saw. He could feel the press of thighs against his own, hard and demanding, the Maia’s chest against his back – at least as much the ropes permitted it – warm and somewhat comforting. With tenderness, Eönwë brushed Ingwion’s hair to one side over his shoulder, kissing and biting his neck. For what for was all too evident, all the more when two strong arms sneaked around his torso. “So long I have dreamt of this,” the Maia cooed against his ear, sending bolts of lightning through his body. Soon, they were subsided by discomfort. Pain flared behind Ingwion’s eyes when the Maia’s cock slipped inside him inch by inch. Strong arms pushed him down – further and further, until he felt as if he couldn’t take anymore. “Stop, enough, no. NO–” Ingwion babbled, amidst his cries. His pleas and whimpers dissolved in the chill air of the night, unheard, unanswered. What had he expected from the adamant creature? Compassion and pity? Understanding? Hardly. Ingwion exhaled harshly; he knew what the Maia wanted, desired of him. If he only knew his own desires. Usually, he would object to such indecent propriety – right now he was not so certain anymore.

When Eönwë’s cock was fully inside him, a cry bled from Ingwion’s lips whilst frantically his immobilized body shook in a futile attempt to flee from the pain. Much to his surprise he was at least given a tiny moment to become adjusted to the unusual penetration. The Maia’s length was hardly comparable to his own fingers. Slowly, but steadily, Eönwë began to move inside him, leaving a burning sensation behind. With his inability to actually move in his bound state, easily the Maia lifted him up and down, just enough to remain inside him. Again, just as it had been before, pain and pleasure began to mix into a breathtaking mélange.

A moan tumbled from Ingwion’s lips, chasing away the tranquil silence of the forest surrounding them. Because despite all the wrongness it was undeniable how good the Maia’s cock felt inside him. As if that was all he had ever craved throughout all the lonely years without even knowing it. Or was his mind again corrupted?  

Ingwion burnt – in desire and doubt. Threads of apprehension stirred within him; threads he wished weren’t there; a strange warmth filled him. Audibly, Ingwion gasped, balancing on his knees, bound and tied and slick with oil. Apparently, his moan was enough reassurance: Eönwë filled both of his hands with Ingwion’s buttocks, almost leaving marks upon the elf’s skin with his fingernails. He thrust forward with a filthy moan, hard and deep, and completely. Ingwion’s breath caught and his throat constricted, choking off his whines, strangled words he never thought to speak out loud bleeding from his dry lips. Every now and then, the Maia tore at the ropes spanned around his body, whilst relentlessly and without mercy he fucked him.

Tears of agony caught in his golden lashes, Ingwion clearly saw what he had no memory of, mingling with drops of sweat on his cheeks as his body went up and down; sinful and obscene. What has become of him, Ingwë’s proud prince? Slowly, the mingled pleasure and pain broke his mind in a perfectly exquisite torture, one he could hardly escape.

“Mine, all mine.” The quiver in the Maia’s usually stoic and mocking voice whilst he fucked him made his knees go weak – it was the most sensual tone Ingwion had ever heard. Teeth grazed his neck, his ears, whilst fingertips wandered between his thighs, stroking him so tenderly.

It was hard to believe his own thoughts, Ingwion doubted them, but it was such an incredible relief to simply obey, to follow the unspoken commands without having another choice; to give – to relinquish his mind and body to one who was superior to himself.

Strange thoughts indeed, so unlike how his mind usually worked – yet it were his own, clearly, as they continued, bewitching him; intriguing him. What wrong was it to go mindlessly limp against the Maia’s body, with nothing but the ropes hindering him from falling? To curse and swear and plea for mercy? Embracing the sensations as if he was bewitched?

“Let go,” murmured the Maia against his throat, sensual enough to make him shiver in response. “Become aware of the sensations I may offer you. For once, just allow yourself to feel.”

His mind screamed no when his treacherous body had already made the decision, moving up and down on Eönwë’s cock.

Hushed tones between moans disrupted the silence, surprisingly they were his own, Ingwion noticed. Well, not quite, as every now and then a filthy moan spilled from Eönwë’s mouth against his skin. Not a word had he believed Eönwë when he had named him a whore, his whore; how he perceived himself right then wasn’t exactly far from it. Ingwion was caught in the transcendent state of euphoria, racing towards a heavenly orgasm. His thighs trembled from the effort to hold his weight upright, his body which had begun to rock against the Maia’s own. Gently, Eönwë’s hand ran down his sides, supporting him to reach those heights of pleasure he had – until then – always reached alone. Yet there was more it, something deeply hidden in the last corners of his mind. Ingwion’s eyes went wide – in shock and disbelief.

The Maia’s touch seemed far more familiar than it should have been, was as if he had experienced it so many times before that it almost felt – natural, a constant that had been always there. Only then it completely dawned to Ingwion, what he had never truly understood.

Immediately, his mind snapped back to reality. Now, at last, he had the affirmation that he hadn’t become mad over the course of time, imagining things that weren’t there; that he had felt touches and caresses against his skin when nobody was present in his chambers; that all the months he hadn’t slept alone in his bed when everything seemed to become unbearable; that those gentle breezes hadn’t been the wind. It had been the Maia’s hands and lips, mapping and exploring his body, and his voice whispering to him in his dreams.

Everything about so many months fell into perfect place.

The tranche of rope he had received, the words written across his skin, the blindfolds, the flowers, and everything else – they were little hints towards the complete whole. Towards what happened tonight. Possibly, Ingwion had assumed, had perhaps even known that everything had been sort of real; still – why had Eönwë plagued and terrorized him so? In between all his revulsion, Ingwion couldn’t help to be amazed by the accuracy.

Although he had not spoken a single word, the Maia exactly knew what he had thought. “As I have said before,” whispered Eönwë, leaning down towards his face. “Too often moralities and doubts reign over what our heart truly desires. Somehow I had to convince you.” It was as if the Maia was inside his mind, or was it him who saw right into Eönwë’s soul? Ingwion met his eyes, and they shone brighter than the sun and moon combined, sparks of fire flickering back and forth. He wanted more – so much more. All of a sudden he desired everything he had abhorred for so many years.

Eönwë’s thoughts were dark, but of a different darkness than Ingwion had always suspected; cultivated through the many years when he had to wear a mask, hiding his true emotions and intentions. Nobody had ever seen behind the mask of indifference the Maia wore, Ingwion suspected, nobody had ever been allowed to see what he was able to see now. Compassion and genuine interest, understanding instead of arrogance, traits he had never associated with him.

Could it be that he had been wrong all his life? Or was this just another sinister allusion only made to provoke an eruption of guilt?

For once, Ingwion doubted it, genuinely so.

All he had ever perceived was the unspeakable arrogance the Maia wore like a perfect disguise. Right now he wondered, if he wore the mask to hide his vulnerability behind it. Was there more to him than met the common eye? Ingwion didn’t know what to think anymore, not even if he hasn’t worn a mask himself. Who was he truly?

Eönwë’s thoughts he now saw were so pure, standing in such high contrast of how he had seen Manwë’s herald throughout all the years. They were so bright that they could light up an entire galaxy without the help of Varda’s stars, outshining everything else in its innocence. Had Ingwion in truth fought his inner demons when he had fought against Eönwë’s affections? Or was this nothing else than the final manipulation?

Yet there was more for him to see: thoughts that directly affected him. Absently, Ingwion slipped into the realm of his own fantasies, comparing them to what he saw in Eönwë’s mind. The Maia wished to ravish him, to love and care for him in a way that easily could be described as unhealthy and demanding; mumble sweet words of adoration into his ear whilst he took him; hold him close whenever need be. Weren’t these wishes he had often dreamt about whenever loneliness threatened to overwhelm him? Too deep Ingwion was caught in his thoughts to realize that his fears and dreams almost were identical; only the width of a blade separated them.

And then the Maia’s mind was blocked to him, and Ingwion was confronted with reality.

He hadn’t noticed until now, but Eönwë watched him expectantly, approval shining from his eyes. When the Maia had at least partly dressed, Ingwion couldn’t tell, but by now he wore a black cape, loosely fastened around his waist with a golden band so that his chest was still uncovered for Ingwion to see. From the Maia’s face, Ingwion’s gaze wandered: along his throat, where still the dazzling jewelry played about his skin, automatically guiding his eyes down towards his navel. Ingwion didn’t want this, he told himself, he didn’t like him, least found him appealing in such a way. Yet, more than once he blatantly stared, his gaze mapping the taut muscles beneath the golden skin. His breath caught in his throat, when a searing warmth began to be born deep in his stomach; his treacherous body seemed to betray him, certainly not the first time since he was caught in restraints.

‘This must not be real,’ thought Ingwion in desperate silence. ‘Cannot be real.’ And for the first time, he hoped the drug still affected his drowsy mind, offering an easy excuse. He well knew it didn’t. The Maia stepped towards him, still smiling his most radiant smile, when he stood between Ingwion’s splayed legs.

Eönwë leaned in, his necklace brushing against Ingwion’s stomach, until his lips were close to his own. “Why linger in the past when the present is so much more appealing?” he asked, rhetorically as not a moment later his lips brushed against Ingwion’s, tentative, barely there, but still lingering.

The words of response sounded false even to Ingwion’s own ears. “Stop it,” Ingwion pleaded, though weaker than ever. If he was honest he did not even know for what exactly he asked to stop. The touch of fingers that ran so gently down his sides? Those teeth against his skin – soft at first, becoming demanding in their wake? To be released from the bonds that held him, back pressed against the marble? Languidly, Eönwë nibbled his skin until a shudder wracked his already exhausted body.

Momentarily, Eönwë stopped his attentions, but nevertheless Ingwion could feel his erection through the fabric. “There is no need to lie to me with words when I can see right into your soul – and heart. Underestimating one that isn’t of your kind is a weakness, as is your pride. Both shan’t serve you well in the wars yet to come.”

Eönwë spoke of things Ingwion had no insight to, strange riddles to his ears and drowsy mind, when all he could think about was the Maia’s cock resting against his belly. The effect it had, was undeniable, and certainly he wasn’t the only one who noticed. The smirk upon the Maia’s lips was affirmation enough.

“Rather than fight me, you should kvell to have me at your side,” Eönwë said with pitiful resentment before a smile of triumph flashed across his face, before he chuckled. “However, I might reconsider the plans I still have in mind for you – if you would not be so visibly aroused.”

“I– I–…” What originally it was he wished to say, Ingwion forgot when the black garment slipped from the Maia’s shoulder towards the floor, leaving nothing to his imagination any more. In silence, the Maia undid the ropes around Ingwion’s ankles, lifting his legs high up into the air until they rested upon Eönwë’s shoulder. It was far from comfortable, Ingwion had to admit, with the muscles burning upon the new position. Soon, however, all pain was diverted towards somewhere else, drowned in the burning sensation he felt when the Maia’s erection pushed past his already sore ring of muscles. Ingwion’s bound hands trembled, and so did his legs against Eönwë’s shoulders, though for once no word of complaint slipped past his lips.

“Relax,” whispered the Maia against the hollow of Ingwion’s throat. Perhaps, he indeed wished to let go, perhaps he even tried to, nevertheless he did not succeed. His entire body tensed upon the unusual penetration, making everything far worse than it already was. The first, already eager, thrusts, elicited whines and tears of agony alike, and in his mind, Ingwion braced himself for what was yet to come.

Before that night, he had been a virgin as odd as it may sound, given the fact that he was thousands of years old.

Before that night, he had never known that lovemaking could happen twice a night? Thrice perhaps even?

Before that night, he had never known how exquisite pain and pleasure combined could feel.

Now he knew, and with every moment that passed, the pain was subsided by something else, something greater and by far more pleasurable, much to Eönwë’s delight. The Maia kissed him then, eager and passionate, yet at the same time with such a loving affection that at last Ingwion ceased his struggles. Titillating fingers danced across his neck, his arms, making his body shudder. With every word the Maia said, with every touch that was bestowed upon his skin, Ingwion’s demeanor of revulsion crackled. What was happening to him, Ingwion would never completely understand.

“Untie me,” he demanded, once his lips were free again.

“What?” The Maia snapped, eyes blinking. It was evident that Ingwion’s demand did not fit into his greater scheme, in the perfect picture he most likely still carried in his mind.

Now it was Ingwion’s turn to smirk. “I have said: untie me – and you have understood me fairly well,” he repeated with a challenging smile. In fact, he had no idea from where his boldness arose right now, just that he took great delight in unnerving Eönwë. But that was not all what delighted him: with amusement Ingwion noticed that the Maia was not as eloquent as he thrust inside him, his words becoming unintelligible and cut-off as he muttered something under his breath.

At last, Ingwion felt pity and offered an explanation to the poor creature who so quizzically looked down on him: “Worry not, I am not planning to escape,” he said, surprised by his own words. Because once freed he could try at least. “I .. Well, I desire to touch you that is all.” An underestimation, yes, because he so much desired to let his own hands wander through the golden locks, across the taut muscles. With practiced moves the knots around his wrists came undone.

Ingwion’s hands either rested on the Maia’s hips or clutched to his shoulders in desperation when Eönwë’s lips and teeth bruised him, devoured him as he never thought it possible. It was incomprehensible to the common mind, how he felt, then: free at last, floating, without weight restricting him. Right now, it wasn’t him who existed, all aversion gone, dissolved into exquisite pleasure. For once, he did not care about moral outrages, about his father’s words. He simply existed, and simply savored the act of love (though he would never dare to name it love what transpired between them).

Oh he was so close already when he felt Eönwë’s hand slip between their slick bodies, his teeth grazing along his throat, fisting his cock in frantic excitement. In his wildest dreams he had never been reduced to such a mess, and worst of all: he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Not that the Maia had drugged him; not that he had lured him into his trap laid out so finely before him; not that every second somebody could stumble into them. How should he care when the Maia’s cock felt so heavenly inside him and nothing but their mutual pleasure seemed to matter anymore? Giving and taking, obeying and demanding – for once he simply existed.

Ingwion remained dimly aware that the Maia still spoke to him; he could hear and feel the sound of his voice vibrating against his skin, although the words soon subsided. His breath fled from his lungs in a moan that for once wasn’t one of hurt and agony.

It was the peace of mind he had always craved.

It was freedom to soar high up in the sky, and it was incredibly beautiful.

Distantly, Eönwë’s voice cut through his fogged brain, a hum of approval, a grunted noise whenever Ingwion’s hips jerked under the merciless assault. Untying his legs had brought certain benefits, there was no denying that, allowing for even deeper thrusts than he had felt in his visions.

All strength left him at once, and then he was nothing more than a boneless mess, unable to fight, unwilling to fight the Maia’s touch anymore, his voice fading into nothing. For once he simply existed and felt, doubts and morals – even his father’s words – forgotten. Ingwion came with a wordless cry, Eönwë’s hand still in his hair, his cock inside of him as he felt his golden hair flowing in the wind, feeling warm and embraced by the breeze that played about his body. It felt so unlike what he had discovered using his own hand, as if he was flying through clouds, above the lands and the sea below him; he expected to fall, crushing and torn from his dream, but never did.

Instead, safely he landed, his soaring mind coming back to his exhausted body, still shaking by the raptures of climax, senses dulled. However, the ecstasy was gone. Instead, exhaustion settled in, a pleasant sort of exhaustion. Comfortable and peaceful.

For the first time in many years – perhaps for the first time in his life, Ingwion felt sated. Nevertheless, tears streamed freely down his cheeks, something he could not explain, because he wasn’t sad, not exactly.

“You were perfect,” Eönwë mumbled, equally drowsy, brushing away the errant tears with his thumb. Where his thumb had lingered, Ingwion now felt his lips, feathery and soft, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his neck. Carefully, he began to free his arms from the remaining ropes, making certain that the touch between them persisted all the while.

Attentive – that was exactly what the Maia was, something Ingwion had never thought him capable of, especially not when his own desire was sated. The words, whispered against his damp skin, barely reached Ingwion, caught in his hazy dreams of ropes and seduction.

“Have you enjoyed your little journey?” asked Eönwë, tracing idle patterns on Ingwion’s soiled chest. “The phosphenes you saw?”

Ingwion’s eyes narrowed. “Phos– what?”

“Phosphenes,” said the Maia casually, beginning to undo knot by knot until Ingwion’s body was entirely freed. “The word for seeing bright artifacts – stars, flaring colors – against your eyelids without light ever entering them. Your eyes were closed.”

His wrists felt sore, and when he tried to move his arm to shake the fatigue off them, they trembled uncontrollably. Ingwion winced as he began to stretch out, the first time for many hours. “How would you know?” he asked in genuine curiosity inclining his head to the side.

Casually, the Maia began to explain: “Your journey was my own; what you saw you didn’t see with your own eyes but with mine. It is an easy task to guide your mind when all your guards were down.”

Ingwion was rendered speechless.  

    - And surprised.

Shouldn’t he be well disgusted by the revelation how easy it was for the Ainur to manipulate a common elf’s mind (not that he never had suspected it before). 

    - He should, yet he wasn’t.

There was nothing manipulative in the Maia’s touches right now, in those soft caressed that eased the soreness of his arms and legs; not in the way his fingers brushed against each bruise as if he wished to apologize for it; not how he lifted a goblet filled with fresh water to his dry lips; not in the way he kissed him – tender and affectionate – so evanescently that Ingwion almost whined in protest.

Shouldn’t he flee, now that at last he had the chance to?

     - Possibly he should, yet he didn’t.

Although he could easily. Even if he sat up right now, his back rested against the Maia’s chest, their legs strangely entangled, the embrace Eönwë had around his form, was loose.

Ingwion draw in a deep breath and closed his eyes; he had to try at least if he was able to communicate with his thoughts alone. ‘Why?’ he asked, curiously, although deep inside, he already knew the answer to his question.

Much to his surprise, Eönwë answered him aloud: “Because you would have never given me the chance to show you how genuine my affection for you is.” Ingwion knew the Maia was right. He wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t even have considered it. “Because you would have never understood if I had it explained it to you with words alone.” That was also true, he well knew, he would have been thoroughly disgusted by the strange fantasies the Maia harbored. “Not what it means for me – nor for you. Content is the one who has broken the chains which hurt the mind, those who hindered it from flying.” [***]

Ingwion leant back against Eönwë’s body, tilting his head so that he could see his face. “If you think all the distress you caused me is forgotten,” he began, knowing that his words lay somewhere near the truth, “I have to disappoint you and you are thoroughly mistaken; I cannot merely pretend none of it has ever happened.”

Idly, the Maia brushed a strand of Ingwion’s golden hair aside. “That is not what I am asking of you.”

“What then?” Ingwion inquired. Throughout their dialogue, no matter if aloud or not, the gentle touches persisted, and slowly Ingwion came back to himself. Beneath his exhaustion a pleasant ache began to spread throughout his body, reminding him of what he had experienced tonight.

“Consideration – nothing more, nothing less.” Unexpectedly, he paused, and Ingwion wondered why, weighting the Maia’s previous words. “Well, perhaps – to hold you a little longer in my arms if you would permit?” Again, and out of nowhere, Ingwion’s body began to tremble; not from exhaustion; not from worries and fears; from a warmth simmering deep inside him, when possessively the Maia held him.

“I will,” he said at last, letting his eyes fall shut.

** 

Chapter End Notes

[***] inspired by: “Happy is the man who has broken the chains which hurt the mind, and has given up worrying once and for all.” Ovid – Metamorphoses

[General Inspiration] - Inspiration for the flying fëa was found heavily inspired by the amazing Eönwë/Mairon fanfiction Chasing Mirages by Russandol where I first have read about the concept and admittedly simply LOVED it