Metamorphoses by Sleepless_Malice

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Chapter 5 - The Art of Drowning

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Chapter 05 – The Art of Drowning

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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