Metamorphoses by Sleepless_Malice

---

Chapter 3 - Inglorious Admiration

---

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.