Metamorphoses by Sleepless_Malice

| | |

Chapter 4 - In honor of the gods; a mindless journey

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.

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment