Like The Fall Of Night by hennethgalad

---

Like The Fall Of Night

---

"Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable."

******************************************************

Like The Fall Of Night.

"he spoke to them concerning weapons"

Fingolfin watched with satisfaction as the lights of Alqualondë began to glow on the dark, distant sea. The Light of the Trees was at its dimmest, and only now was the remote gleam visible from Tirion. But his chief delight was that he was the only one in the city who had ever seen this view. The architect of the tower had deduced the possible sight-lines, and pointed out the advantage to Fingolfin, who had always had that very purpose in mind. He had sworn the architect to silence, and as far as he could tell, not a single elf had even realised the view was possible; for the windows in the towers of his father's palace at the summit of the hill all faced in other directions. Fingolfin smiled to himself, he might fall short of his brother's skill, but he had his own secret treasures, and guarded them fiercely.
He found his hand scratching at the smooth blue fabric of his breeches, just above the right knee. His mother had discreetly pointed out to him that he had acquired the habit of itching in this place whenever anxiety troubled him. He had made great efforts to suppress the tick in public, but when he was alone he caught himself nervously clawing at his leg.
He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly, moved his hand to the arm of the comfortably-cushioned chair and gazed out at the wide view. His agitated thoughts circled like vultures around the chief of the problems besetting him. Despite his best intentions, harsh words had been spoken by many, even by him. The rising tension between his elder brother Fëanor and himself was forming factions throughout elvendom in Valinor.
Though the cerebral, disdainful Vanyar spoke softly (and at considerable length) of dialogue and understanding, even they were swaying towards one side or another. Fingolfin clenched his teeth; the visit of his younger brother Finarfin, who most resembled the Vanyar side of the family, both in appearance and temperament, had embarrassed Fingolfin beyond measure, beyond embarrassment; he was mortified.

The pale face of Finarfin flushed red, like a fruit ripening all in an instant. His brother looked at him curiously, he had never seen Finarfin so flustered. Finarfin was a married elf, Finarfin had four adult children, Fingolfin could not imagine what troubled him so. Finarfin sighed and looked directly at Fingolfin
'It concerns Fingon. That is, the, ah, gossip that has been brought to my attention by Finrod. I... we do not 'gossip' together, Finrod and I, customarily, it was... it was difficult for him to discuss these matters with his father, and for my part I am no more comfortable to have to raise such topics with you, brother.' He looked down, then back at Fingolfin

'Nevertheless, I must speak. There is much talk, and indeed speculation, concerning the new lover of your son Fingon.' Finarfin grimaced and looked away, then narrowed his eyes and turned again to Fingolfin. 'I myself am ignorant of the truth or otherwise of these tales, ah, and indeed songs, which, ah... which people are ah...' his voice tailed off.

Fingolfin was frowning and staring ahead of him with unseeing eyes; fragments of rumours assembled in his memory, talk of dangerous bedroom games, and the unnerving transformation that the lover, an insipid dandy heretofore, had undergone while he had been the lover of the maia Mairon, a mere hundred or so days previously. Something new and strange was in the air, but the furtive sniggering everywhere had seemed only to draw attention to the mystery, to make elves listen carefully to any scrap of gossip, however suspect, and to imagine... to imagine whatever they wished. He frowned, the responsibility was his, the gossip concerned his eldest son. He must confront him, and demand an explanation.

Fingolfin found his hand scratching his leg again. He clenched his fist, brought his mind back to the present, where even now the rising light of Telperion was causing the glow of Alqualondë to fade away. He sighed, looked at the door and called out
'You may enter.'
Fingon strode in, beaming, he had a spring in his step, a healthy glow on his face, his grey eyes shone.
'Greetings father ! What tidings ?' he said cheerfully. Fingolfin gazed incredulously at him, and Fingon faltered, then stood upright before his father, and became very still. There was only one chair.
Fingolfin frowned at Fingon, they had always irritated each other, just as Fëanor had previously irritated him in his own youth. He had enough self-awareness to know that it was what they had in common that made them intolerable to each other; the same fierce pride, the same intensely jealous love, whether of family, possessions or accomplishments. He thought of the rush of saplings for the space in the canopy when a tree fell. But no tree had fallen for the elves of Valinor, the saplings strived but the canopy was closed.

The silence lengthened between father and son, and Fingolfin, struggling to assemble a sentence he felt calm enough to utter, writhen by wrath as he was, looked on in disbelief as Fingon's mind drifted away into a daydream. When Fingon smiled blindy into the distance, Fingolfin's rage overwhelmed him, he sprang to his feet like a striking serpent, Fingon flinched slightly and looked at his father with concern.

Fingolfin almost spat his words at his son.
'Finarfin tells me that Finrod has spoken to him of his concerns that you are the subject of 'gossip', speculation and song.'
Fingon grimaced; the thought of the prissy Finrod even hearing those sort of songs, let alone raising the subject with his stuffy father Finarfin, was unimaginable. Understanding of the dreadful embarrassment driving the anger of his father began to emerge. Fingon opened his mouth to explain but Fingolfin held up a hand and hissed 'Silence !'
Fingon stepped back half a footstep. Fingolfin looked down at the table in front of him, his eyes fixed on the long black case now weighing down the pile of parchments. He looked up at Fingon, whose face began to redden, but whose mouth still twitched with suppressed amusement. Fingolfin unfastened the catches and raised the lid of the smooth, soot-black box. He held up one of the shining blades, and then with snake-like speed thrust it into the wood of the table. The cold steel quivered with a percussive, almost musical sound, standing upright between father and son, trembling into stillness.
But Fingolfin stretched forward and took a watermelon from the platter, placed it in front of him on the table and lifted the other blade from the box. Fingon could see that Fingolfin's inexperienced hand was clasping the hilt incorrectly, but though he opened his mouth, he decided not to point this out. Fingolfin struck the melon a glancing blow, causing it to skid across the table. Fingon reached out a swift hand and stopped the fruit, placing it again in front of his father. But Fingolfin awkwardly turned the ridiculously long blade so that his son could take the handle. Fingon gripped it with a smugly confident smile, and whirled it, flashing, in the air, letting the sinews of his wrist loosen into balance with the blade, and raising himself onto the balls of his feet, in the alert stance the blade drew from him.
Fingolfin looked dryly at his son and gestured at the watermelon. Fingon, moving as swiftly as his father had done, brought the blade curving round to split the fruit. The red halves rocked gently and were still. Fingon held up the blade, then drew a cloth from his pouch to wipe the seeds dripping onto his fingers. Fingolfin sat down, pressed the tips of his fingers together and looked pointedly at Fingon.
'Tell me, my son, what is the purpose of these blades ?'
Fingon smiled tentatively 'It is a game, father, just a game.' Fingolfin looked at the split melon, then back up at the vanishing smile of his son.

'Are you truly this foolish ? Have you learned nothing of life at all in my house ?' He stood, paced angrily to the window and back 'I ask you again, Fingon, what are these blades for ?' he paused and gazed darkly into the now-whitening complexion of his son. 'But that is the wrong question, is it not ? The real question' his voice rose to an angry shout 'is WHO. '
He gripped the upright blade, wrenched it from the table and struck the blade in Fingon's hand with it, causing a clash, and a flurry of small sparks.
'These blades are useless as knives, they are too long for any practical purposes. They are useless for cutting wood, fruit, or even grass; it would be fatal to even attempt to slay a wild beast with one, however lucky your stroke, at that range any beast could kill you as it perished. Therefore...' Fingolfin looked down at the cold, sharp metal in his hand 'These blades have been designed, with malicious intent, for the sole purpose of killing or injuring other elves. They are tools for murder. '

He looked again at the melon, juice ran down the side of one half, pooling silently on the dark wood of the table. He watched as the tiny pool filled, bulging gently over the slim hole he himself had made, then with tiny tentacles of fluid grasp the splintered wood at the sides of the crack and leap forwards under its reshaped skin to fill the hole in the table. Fingolfin felt a coldness seeping into his spirit, he remembered being a child visiting the quayside; a badly-laden ship had foundered in the busy harbour traffic, and he had watched in black fascination as the ship, its masts lifted upright by the chance motions of wave and current, had sunk straight down into the darkness, while the little rescue boats had saved all the elves. And though not a single elf had even been hurt, the memory had haunted him, and been the personal darkness at the heart of his nightmares.
Compared to the horror the blades had opened before him, like a split in the very fabric of Arda, the ship vanishing into the depths seemed a homely, comforting memory. He knew his own rage, he knew that one day, unless he guarded his emotions ceaselessly, it would overcome his judgement and drive him to an act of destructive folly. The thought of having one of these blades in his hand, with an enemy near, while he was in the grip of fury, filled him with fear. But the horror was far greater than his struggle with his own passions. For the blades were known to exist now, the discovery was made. He tried to imagine a world full of angry elves, each carrying one of these instruments of death, but his mind revolted. It was absurd, elves would never strike other elves with such... His thoughts returned to his son 'Tell me of this game you play. There must be blood.'

Fingon swallowed and looked at the blade in his hand 'I... yes, a little... but we...' he stammered into silence. Fingolfin stood and took the blade from his son's hand and then carefully replaced both blades in their case. He silently closed the lid and fastened the catches. He gave a slight sigh as he resumed his seat and watched his son's face carefully as Fingon struggled to explain.
'Father, upon my oath, it is a game we play, we try to strike each other with the blades, we call them swords, and make a small tear in each other's clothing. The winner gets to, ah... well... it is a bedroom game.'
Fingolfin spoke coldly 'No Fingon, it is the prizes which are bedroom prizes. This is no game, and these "swords" tear more than clothes, they tear skin. Have you not been cut by these blades ? And' Fingolfin grimaced with distaste 'Do you not use these "swords", as I have heard, naked, with no clothing to tear ?'
Fingon blushed, his stomach spasmed with embarrassment. How could he be having this conversation with his father, it was worse than a bad cut in the sword game. 'No, father, I do not play naked. ' he paused, the heat of his face seemed to be spreading to his throat, stifling him 'though Tasarëon does. I... he learned to use the sword naked, and in any case, as I have said, it is a bedroom game.'

Fingon felt the chill of the fear rising from his father. The tale seemed so much darker to tell than the game had been to play. He thought of the laughing eyes, the lithe, sinewy body darting and twirling around him, the shining blade being deftly twisted from his hand, the long hours, the scores of days he had spent watching those eyes over the blades, of his fury when the steel flashed past his guard and neatly slit his tunic, of his ecstatic cry when the glowing golden flesh was suddenly drawn with a line of red, and watching the blood form into a droplet and run down the smooth muscle. Of his triumph as he knelt before Tasarëon and licked the blood, and then the sweat, from the flesh which quivered so in his increasingly calloused hands. The memory renewed his blush, he looked anxiously at his father. 'I am sorry, father, you are correct, I had given no thought to the consequences of my actions. I apologise.'
Fingolfin sneered 'You apologise ? You 'had given no thought to the consequences' ? Did you ever, at any time, give thought to the nature of the activity you were engaging in ? In any way ?'

Fingon bowed his head. The enormity of his error of judgment began to rattle into his mind, like the first few stones of a landslide. The full crushing weight of the catastrophe he had instigated, or helped with the instigation of, had yet to unfurl its cascading magnitude. He put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. His fists clenched at a level below his awareness, but the keen-eyed Fingolfin observed the whitening knuckles and felt a tiny glimmer of hope. He swiftly quashed his optimism.
The sword was now, thanks to the folly of his son, a known device; any competent Noldor smith could easily make one, having merely been asked for an absurdly long knife. Fingolfin could think of no moment of comparable bleakness. The future seemed to stretch before him, oiled with the dull gleam of blood, little trickles here and there, joining together like streams from a watershed, into rivers, seas, oceans of blood, til the ship of Arda foundered in the thick black darkness, dragging all the eldar down with it. He wanted to scream; worse, he wanted to open the soot-black box, wield the blade and slay his own son, as though the past could be washed away with blood. As though anything could.
He frowned, and dragged his concentration back from the edge of the abyss, feeling already the insidious lure of the sword, sardonically offering instant death for a suspected enemy, with the fallacious insinuation that thus were problems solved. He looked again at the long flat box, thinking of its origin, then back up at his now anxious son.
'But who is this Tasarëon ? You have not introduced him to me. Tell me of him. No, summon him, let him explain himself to me in person.'

Tasarëon entered cautiously, his light brown eyes flicking swiftly round the room, measuring distances and obstacles. He walked lightly, on the balls of his feet, as springy as one of the blades. He was tall and slim, but the golden brown flesh was sinewy, and the muscles, easily visible both around and through the almost transparent tabard he wore, were clearly defined, the gold mesh of the metallic 'fabric' showed up almost every line; but thickly golden embroidered daggers decorated the hem, serving both to weigh down the fabric and preserve the modesty of the one wearing it. His sides were bare, as his feet were, and the metallic tabard was held at the waist by a heavy belt of gold links. Embroidered on the chest were crossed swords, the deftly placed tip of each serving to further conceal any cause for embarrassment. Fingolfin found his mind speculating about the rear of the garment, then almost blushed as he recollected that Tasarëon 'played' naked. He snorted at himself and looked coldly up at the handsome face of his son's lover.

Tasarëon placed a hand on his breast, bowed slightly to Fingolfin, put his hands behind his back and turned to smile softly at Fingon. Fingon moved to his side and put a hand behind his back. Fingolfin heard a faint swift click, as of a clasp being fastened, then Fingon's hand moved again, this time visibly, and slid under the flap of Tasarëon's tabard to rest on a buttock. Fingolfin was staggered. That his son should act in such a way in front of him was almost more than he could endure. That Fingon should act in this way while being rebuked for the worst folly of his life was more than Fingolfin could tolerate. He caught the eye of his son and said coldly 'You will leave this house. You will not return until you have had time to reflect upon your actions and their consequences.' He glanced at Tasarëon, then fixed his eyes on Fingon 'And you will learn some manners.'

Fingon moved slightly, as though to make some gesture, or speak, but then his shoulders fell, he bowed once to his father, then to Tasarëon, and left the room in silence.

Fingolfin turned his attention to Tasarëon, whose face was as still and lovely as a carving, but one which observed him through hooded, inscrutable eyes. Fingolfin was suddenly viscerally aware that the famous beauty in front of him was bound, and barely clad. He felt the hairs rising on his arms, and the heat of embarrassment, and more, coursed through him. The Music between them had a clear harmony, desire began to erode his restraint. He could see that Tasarëon had noticed his awareness, the air between them seemed thicker, as prickly as a storm-cloud, as slow as smoke. The fabric of his breeches tightened as he swelled. He was appalled at the vigour of his reaction to being alone with the helpless Tasarëon, the smooth skin held his eyes and silently urged his hands to touch, arousal stifled his words; the silence of the room grew in intensity until Fingolfin felt he must shout, or attack, or flee...

But he was a prince of the House of Finwë, he must exert control over his wild emotions. He reached slowly for the goblet and drank the smooth Nectar. His breathing slowly calmed, but as his anger subsided, the heightened state of his emotions kept his heart pounding, and his very flesh was alive to the mood of the other. For he could see the hem of the tabard lifted by Tasarëon's own arousal, and he wondered how much more alert Tasarëon must be, his skin exposed constantly not just to the eyes but the hands and the blades, of people like his son. He bowed his head, he could not delude himself. His own desire, a new thing for Fingolfin, who could barely remember a time before his marriage, and who had never considered another male in such a way, seemed as intense as that of Fingon; but now Fingolfin began to doubt whether he could prevent himself from acting on his urge. The thought returned to his mind that he must remove whatever chain his son had used on Tasarëon, but he knew that if he stood, his physical salute would immediately become apparent to its cause; that he was not sure that he could endure to be so near the gleaming flesh without touching it; and deep in the darkness of his spirit, he knew that he did not wish to release Tasarëon, that the fact of Tasarëon's helplessness inflamed the storm of lust engulfing him.

There was a tap at the door. Fingolfin cleared his throat and said thickly
'You may enter.'
An aide came in, carrying a folded parchment, which he laid in front of Fingolfin. 'My lord, your son Fingon charged me to lay this before you as he left. He urged that you read it without delay.' The aide bowed and Fingolfin held up a hand briefly as he unfolded the document. It was brief and blunt. In one, sprawling, drunken hand the words "I, Tasarëon, do wager my body upon the next hand of cards." Below them a florid signature, in which the name Tasarëon, despite the gaudy flourishes, could clearly be read. Below this, a far more precise hand had written "Take him." It was signed "Mairon."

Fingolfin looked blindly at his aide, then his eyes cleared. He blinked, and waved a graceful hand 'Thank you. You have leave.' The aide bowed and turned, his eyes moved to Tasarëon, who ignored him. When the door had been closed, Fingolfin turned back to the parchment, his mind staggered anew by the sheer strangeness of this shining elf, with hair like varnished wood, and muscles of the pale golden smoothness of carefully sanded, polished wood. His fingers twitched, the document seemed to burn his hand. Here was Tasarëon, within his grasp, attuned to the very air, taut and responsive as the finest harp, visibly aroused and helpless, and here was written permission to take that which his body craved.
Yet still the clear part of his mind mocked the absurdity, this document was meaningless, it was nothing, he could destroy it in an instant. He frowned up at Tasarëon.
'Why did you not merely burn this thing ?'
Tasarëon swallowed 'He told me that if I destroyed it he would carve the letters into my flesh.'
Fingolfin frowned, 'Why did you not seek help ? Were you held captive ?'

There was another silence. Fingolfin realised once again that Tasarëon was even now held captive, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The light brown eyes looked back at him with a kind of dark humour in them that did not stir the muscles of his face. Fingolfin wanted to leap over the desk, throw Tasarëon to the floor and mount him like a beast. His breathing was uncontrollable, he recalled the exercises he had been taught as a child, and fought to calm himself. But the more effort he expended on the struggle, the wilder his emotions became, until he put his head in his hands and gripped his own hair in his fists.

'Tell me what befell you.' he said hoarsely, and looked up, past Tasarëon's erection, into the knowing eyes. Tasarëon moved his shoulders slightly, then lowered his gaze
'My lord, indeed I am willing to relate the story of how I came to be... ' he paused, then ended simply 'here.' The eyes took on a look of pleading 'But my lord, the tale is lengthy, and this... this garment is causing me discomfort. I beg your indulgence to let me remove it. I... I would assume another garb, but alas, my possessions were taken from me and destroyed when I foolishly signed that document. I have nothing, my lord, nothing at all. '

Fingolfin, confronted at last with a practical problem which he could actually solve, summoned an aide
'Fetch clothing for our guest, swiftly as you can.' Fingolfin watched the door close behind the aide and forced himself to at least appear calm. He stood, his eyes were only slightly higher than those of Tasarëon, who had observed the arousal of Fingolfin's body. Fingolfin, feeling as one wading into a strong countercurrent, crossed the room, into the direct physical presence of Tasarëon. It was his intention to unfasten the chain and free the captive Tasarëon, but the heat, the faint subtle perfume, and the raw sparking awareness exuded by Tasarëon, overwhelmed him. He heard the breath catch in his throat, saw the faint tremor run through the supple flesh, and his own hands reached out and took the belt of the tabard in his long fingers and opened the catch. The heavy gold links slid into his hand, he laid the chain down on the table, but found himself pressed up against Tasarëon, who had begun to shift under the strange metallic garment. Fingolfin, feeling remote within himself, as one intoxicated, watched his hands lift the garment over Tasarëon's head, leaving his hands still securely bound behind him. Tasarëon sighed and seemed to relax, but Fingolfin felt something inside himself tear as he put forth his hands and caressed the naked flesh before him. Tasarëon leaned against Fingolfin and laid his head on Fingolfin's shoulder, exposing his long throat. Fingolfin's mouth descended hungrily onto the smooth skin of his neck, he gripped Tasarëon in his arms and held the pliant body against his own. Tasarëon arched his back and Fingolfin found a faint sound emerging from his own throat, a mewl, almost, a soft moan, as even through the cloth of his breeches, he felt the muscular buttocks part to accommodate him.

They did not speak while Fingolfin took Tasarëon. The aide returned, but his tapping and knocking were ignored. Wondering if the room was empty, he opened the door, but Fingolfin, who had bent Tasarëon over the table, did not turn.

Fingolfin swept Tasarëon into his arms, staggered slightly by the density of muscle and bone, and carried him up the winding stair to his chamber. The piercing sharpness of his hunger had receded somewhat, but he lay Tasarëon on his great bed, and unfastened the catch that bound his hands behind him, then secured his hands above his head to the railing of the frame of the bed. Finally he sighed deeply and lay down beside the pale flesh, now shining with a film of sweat.

'Tell me your tale, Tasarëon.' he said, running his hand down the ripples of Tasarëon's chest. The light brown eyes looked up into his, and Tasarëon licked his lips. Fingolfin's ravening desire pulsed through him, he twisted Tasarëon's hip and slowly entered him again, and all through the tale Fingolfin was moving, slowly and possessively, in and out of the helpless body under his hands.

**********************************************************

Tasarëon stared at the cards in his hand, it was the best hand he had ever seen, not only of his own, but of anyone, ever. He tried and failed to calculate the odds, but the wine and the fact that they had been playing without cease for three days, had dulled his wits, such large numbers were beyond him. But his pockets now held nothing. He had searched them three times, aware as he was that they were empty. He had already laid everything he had on the table; Mairon, his laughing host, Mairon the powerful maia, was simply richer, and could easily outbid him. The party ebbed and flowed around them; scantily-clad, ethereally beautiful elves fawned on Mairon, feeding him wines and delicacies. Musicians filled the air with sweet sound, tall candles lit the tall elves as they danced, ate, drank and mingled around the table with two couches, where Mairon sat; his cards, which he had merely glanced at, were folded into a neat pile, precisely placed in front of him. The golden eyes mocked Tasarëon gently, a subtle smile flickered across the full red lips, and a strand of golden hair slid down from Mairon's shoulder to hang across his smithy-thickened chest.

He was dazzling. Tasarëon had been, still, after a score of days as a guest in the sumptuous palace, reeling from the pride of being invited to the party at all, when he had been completely astonished to be invited to play at cards with his host. Mairon had listenened attentively to the increasingly intoxicated elf chattering freely of his childhood, his family, and his own dreams. The small shifting crowd around them had ebbed and flowed, platters of succulent delicacies were constantly laid before them, elves with flagons hovered behind them, Tasarëon's goblet never emptied. And now, the most fabulous hand he had ever seen had been dealt him, and he had placed his last trinket onto the twinkling pile on the table between them. Mairon's final bet had been a ruby the size of an apricot, cut into a sphere. The candlelight flickered in the wine-rich depths. Tasarëon had never been interested in the hoarding of jewels, but the ruby had gripped his imagination, he saw it embedded in the hilt of a dagger, sparkling at his side; it was the kind of stone that songs are written for. He looked up at Mairon, who raised an eyebrow.
'My lord, I have nothing left to wager.' he laughed and shrugged, but a frown still folded over his eyes 'I would wager my very life on this hand, if I could.'
Mairon smiled lazily 'I do not wish for your life. Now, if you wagered your body...'
Tasarëon smiled, but with a slight lurch he realised that Mairon was in earnest; behind the playful attitude the yellow-gold eyes were intent, calculating and fixed on his. He frowned again
'I do not understand, my lord, 'wager my body', do you mean for... for intimate purposes ?'

Mairon laughed and caressed the delicate beauty on his right arm
'No, Tasarëon, it is to play a game.' his face became serious for a moment 'A dangerous game.'

Tasarëon looked from Mairon to the ruby, from the ruby to his hand. It was a certain winner. What did it matter what he wagered, with this astonishing hand he could not lose. He smiled at Mairon, whose eyes widened for an instant, and nodded.
'Very well, I accept. I will wager my body to play your "dangerous game", show me your cards.'
But Mairon's eyes had flicked to one of his sombrely-dressed aides, who stepped forward with parchment and quill on a small portable desk. Mairon looked at Tasarëon, who accepted the proffered quill, then Mairon told him exactly what to write. Tasarëon smiled as he wrote, pausing to sip his wine, then signed the document with his customary exuberant flourish. He flicked the parchment onto the heap of jewels and turned over his hand, grinning triumphantly at Mairon. Mairon pursed his lips, then picked up his pile of cards without glancing at them and handed it silently to Tasarëon.
The hand was even better than his own. Tasarëon thought his heart had stopped, perhaps it did, but in moments it was pounding ferociously in his chest. How could this be ? He had picked the cards up merely to gloat at the misfortune of Mairon, instead, the very cards seemed to mock him. The hand was the same as his own, but in a more powerful colour. He was defeated. He had lost everything. He had wagered his own body. The cold fear drove all calculation from his mind, the odds against seeing two such hands were beyond him. The concept of cheating did not enter his naive mind. The blood drained from his face, and he looked up at Mairon, the words faltering in his throat 'I... you... I... you have won.'

Mairon raised a hand, the music ceased, the elves carrying platters and flagons melted back into the shadows. A dozen maia stepped forward with clusters of bright lanterns on tall stands. Windows were thrown open, a cold breeze swept away the smoke, the perfume and the very atmosphere from the vast pillared room. Tasarëon stood uncertainly and looked around, the table and all his possessions were whisked away, when he turned, the couch he had been sitting on was gone. Mairon, alone now on his couch, looked coldly up at Tasarëon. The maia were seated on the far side of the lights, most with charcoal or quill, and parchment in their hands, all looking attentively at Mairon. Two of the hefty, black-clad elves with ravening dogs embroidered in red on the chests of their robes, whom the guests had laughingly referred to as Mairon's Hounds, stood in front of the distant door.
There was a silence, Tasarëon swallowed, it was like falling out of a warm bath into deep snow. He could not conceive of anything to do, or even say.

****************************************************************
It was on the third mingling of the lights after being taken by Fingon that Tasarëon had awakened to the certainty that subtle potions, which dulled his wits yet sharpened his senses, and left him with no will to resist the hands laid upon him, had been given to him by Mairon; in his wine, or his food. New vigour coursed through him, he moved to spring from his bed and found himself in chains. His mind cleared, there was Fingon, arms tight around Tasarëon's waist. Tasarëon had wondered, often, if poisons were being used on him, but the potions themselves had silenced his own doubts. He drew in a great breath, Fingon stirred and slowly awoke, his pale hands beginning to move over Tasarëon's skin. And Tasarëon knew then that the damage had already been done to him, that their potion was no longer necessary; his body had been trained to responsiveness, their constant handling had altered him, they had spread him widely, probed him deeply and opened him with the slow patience of gardeners.
He remembered the twice daily massages which had so slowly lengthened and become ever more intimate. The first day that a finger had entered him. He had risen then from the cushioned table, but firm, slow hands had lowered him, as the finger, uninterrupted, explored the sensitive muscle. They had held him down thereafter, gently, almost absent-mindedly at first, until other hands had moved him to arousal, then gradually, over a dozen frustrating days, to release.
On that day, full of physical bliss, but aware in a dim way that his ecstasy had been achieved by the penetrating hand of a stranger, he was taken by the Hounds down to a smithy, where Mairon stood at the end of a long table. Four tense smiths waited at the corners, by large, heavy clamps. Mairon made a slight gesture at the table and the Hounds lifted Tasarëon onto it and fixed his limbs in the clamps. The bliss drained coldly away, Tasarëon looked up fearfully at Mairon, but the smiths wrapped his wrists and ankles protectively then began fitting heavy gold bracelets onto him. He caught glimpses of an engraving on the inner surface, but whether it were mere patterning, or the words of an unknown tongue, he could not say.
Mairon leaned over the table; his manner of one idly dusting furniture as he had handled Tasarëon when first Tasarëon took his reckless oath, had imperceptably changed, becoming gradually more sensual, and was now fully turned into possessive, intimate caressing. The scores of days that Tasarëon had spent gradually becoming accustomed to the touch of those strong calloused hands had wreaked changes upon his body. His flesh now craved the touch, his heart beat faster, desire flamed through him, his back arched; he felt like a wild animal, taken in to heal a broken limb, so reassured by the handling that it will submit to any indignity.
As the smiths welded Tasarëon into the manacles, Mairon's hands brought him to the doors of ecstasy but held him there, until the desperate plea was torn from the gasping voice of Tasarëon. Mairon released him into brief ecstasy, then stood still, while Tasarëon struggled to breathe. Gradually Tasarëon realized that Mairon had most of one hand inside him, and the other held his most sensitive feature. While the smiths sanded and polished, Mairon held Tasarëon, both with his hands and with his gaze, and Tasarëon felt that rare sense of openness from the maia, though the message he percieved was not reassuring. For it seemed to Tasarëon that the mind of Mairon had gazed upon his with contempt, that the manacles, because he had accepted them without demur, were unnecessary, that Mairon could now hold him with his eye.

Tasarëon had wondered if the swords had been a diversion, to occupy and distract him while his body had been trained to accept unquestioningly the will of another. But the dozen maia had observed intently throughout every increasingly long bout of fighting until Mairon's sword had carved its daily line in the naked flesh of Tasarëon. The maia had inspected the swift-healing wounds, they had worked eagerly on their parchments, they truly seemed interested in the effect of the blade upon him. But though each neatly-cut scar faded within days, still the memory of the stinging pain and humiliation burned across his flesh, he knew where each wound lay, and they were clustered in neat lines across his chest, into stripes on his arms and a vaguely circular pattern on his abdomen. His clouded mind had wondered fleetingly about the shapes, and concluded that his own sword had been protecting other areas of his skin, but a small doubtful voice deep in his mind had questioned how such unerringly neat, shallow cuts could be produced by one who could not pass the blade of a beginner. But the potion soothed his spirit, lulling his body into passivity as his life was taken from him.

It was not until the eighty-third mingling of the lights that the blade of Tasarëon finally caught and sliced the right sleeve of Mairon. The sense of triumph in his heart was a bright explosion of light; the daily wounds had scarred his heart, for a dizzying moment he wondered if the game might be over, and he released. But Mairon turned away, the Hounds were fastening his manacles and he was taken to be bathed.
When he had been massaged, polished and fed he was taken for the first time to a room with a great bed in the centre, surrounded by Mairon's moving feast, the exquisites floated around, elves talked and laughed, music played. Tasarëon was laid face down on the rich red cover, then his limbs were lifted, he was stretched open and fixed to the posts. He bowed his head, this was not the reward he had hoped for. But another voice, in words of flesh, sang to him of pleasure and release. He tried to calm his spirit; for this to be his first truly intimate contact with another, in such circumstances, filled him with a wistful sense of hopelessness, though the stir in the room behind him as Mairon arrived, echoed through his body. He looked down across his chest, made muscular and sinewy through the long hours of practice with the blade, he was himself as erect and rigid as a blade, the flesh of his rear and abdomen seeming almost to curl up with desire for the hands of Mairon upon him.
Mairon had worked slowly on his helpless flesh, repeatedly bringing him close to bliss, touching and tormenting him until he had begged Mairon to take him. The room cleared at once, it had been as though Mairon had waited to hear those very words, uttered before many witnessess; the voice of Tasarëon, pleading to be taken.

Mairon the maia, mighty even among his own kind, overwhelmed the helpless elf. Tasarëon felt his spirit drawn from his body and held still in the midst of nothingness, only the glow of his own desire seemed to generate light. The size of the maia filled his body and emptied his mind, he felt himself pressed aside like windblown grass; the spirit of the maia scoured through him like a searching wind, clearing away clouds, dust, leaves and trees like the hand of Eru swept across a cluttered table. His body quivered beneath the familiar touch, singing the song of flesh, welcoming the penetration, the possession, the dissolution of himself into a fleeting melody in the great symphony of the flesh of the maia.

Mairon spent many hours every day using the eager flesh of Tasarëon, sometimes slowly, not touching the taut flesh with any other part of his body, letting the sheer bulk of himself fill Tasarëon and overwhelm him with patient relentlessness. But almost always the hands were upon the naked skin, sometimes in still possession, more often stroking and caressing. Tasarëon floated through the last score of days he spent in the hands of Mairon, brought so often to bliss that the ecstasy seemed to overflow into all the rest of his time. He would be marched into the sandy courtyard where they fought with the blades, and his body would salute Mairon in its ready arousal.
But when the blade was in his hand, and his eyes met the hooded yellow-gold eyes of the one who had taken him, who had covered his body with wounds and who as yet could still dance tauntingly aside from Tasarëon's swiftest strike, then his body forgot desire, forgot everything but the sword in Mairon's hand and the cold calculation in his eye.

The tabard was put on him when he had been brought into the courtyard, Mairon waited in his carven chair as the surprisingly rough metal was lowered over the head of Tasarëon, tucked in under his bound hands and the heavy belt of gold chain fastened around his waist. Mairon had beckoned him, and Tasarëon had moved into the familiar position between Mairon's long thighs, while the knowing fingers explored his body. Mairon had taken the hem of the tabard between finger and thumb and frowned, then pressed the mesh fabric against Tasarëon's nipples, to examine the transparency. He had caressessed Tasarëon for a while, though only enough to arouse desire more fully. For the first time since the foolish wager, Tasarëon was not made to fight.
Mairon had gestured to the Hounds, who had closed around Tasarëon and led him down unfamiliar corridors to a half-hidden door onto the main entrance hall of the palace. The Hounds had stood like stone by a long wall, Tasarëon between them, his hands bound, dressed only in the metal tabard, gazing hopefully out into the streets of Tirion for the first time in more than a hundred minglings of the Light of the Trees.

****************************************************************

Mairon had led Tasarëon to the nearby park, full of the murmur of the crowds of expectant elves gathered, for an open-air concert was to take place. He ushered him into an alcove, high-backed seats concealed the table on three sides but the fourth side faced the distant stage where musicians tuned their instruments. An aide filled a flagon, Mairon sipped the thick wine and slid a hand under the tabard and around the waist of Tasarëon, streching his long booted legs and settling comfortably onto the cushioned bench. One of the exquisite elves fluttered up, leading the formally-dressed Curufin, son of Fëanor, prince of the House of Finwë, who glanced with a puzzled frown at Tasarëon , then inclined his head slightly to Mairon, who gestured expansively at the empty bench. Curufin sat, the elf seemed to alight opposite him, hovering almost. Mairon poured wine for Curufin and nodded at the fragile-looking elf, which darted away.

Tasarëon had not listened to the conversation that Mairon had had with Curufin, they were both keen smiths and spoke chiefly of metals and ores and the vagaries of the furnace. For while the mind of the maia had been busy with one elf, his hands had been busy on the body of the other, and Tasarëon was trembling and gasping on the edge of ecstasy. Curufin watched hungrily from the corner of his eye, still talking with the cool-mannered Mairon, while Mairon put down his goblet, slid his other hand beneath the tabard and used it to penetrate the writhing body of Tasarëon. Tasarëon jerked and uttered a soft, deep groan as the powerful hands briefly released him from desire. He hung limply as Mairon lifted him onto his lap, tucking Tasarëon's legs between his own, then opening his breeches and lowering Tasarëon's body until he was impaled upon Mairon, and had thrown his head back on Mairon's broad shoulder. Mairon slid a hand across the still-trembling flesh, and with the other raised his goblet to the now silent, gaping Curufin.
Curufin had blinked and swallowed, unable to believe what was being done in front of him, in front of all these elves... He looked around, the park was crowded, but all eyes were on the stage, the performance was underway, he had not even been aware of the start. Gradually, slowly, Mairon was lifting the hips of Tasarëon, and allowing the elf's own weight to impale him. The lids of Tasarëon's eyes were drooping, his fine lips parted, his sleek hair damp with perspiration, his skin glowing. Curufin felt he had never seen anything so lovely in physical form before, the long bare limbs, pleated with muscle and sinew, teasingly revealed by the almost transparent gold mesh, burned across his wine-clouded eyes. For this wine also contained the potion, and Curufin's spirit was dimmed enough to let desire sweep aside his natural caution. He looked longingly at the helpless Tasarëon, under the sardonic eye of Mairon, who saw Curufin, all unknowingly, actually lick his lips. Mairon snorted silently, derisively, and nodded at an aide, who moved away. Mairon took a hand from the slowly sinking Tasarëon for a moment and raised his glass to Curufin.
'My friend !' he said with a smile, then looked serious 'If I may presume to call you such,' Curufin bowed slightly and smiled. Mairon drank, then put down the goblet and ran his hand down the naked ribs, over the hips and down between the thighs of Tasarëon, while Curufin seemed to sway slightly in his seat.
'These notions we have spoken of have filled my mind with new optimism for our work. I would treasure the opportunity to share my thoughts with you again. In token of my earnestness, to prove that my words are not mere politeness nor vain flattery, I would leave you with two gifts, small tokens of my sincerity.' He raised a hand and an aide brought forth a casket, six flagons were within. Mairon gestured at them. 'Since you have relished this wine, I offer you a little more to remind you of this. '
Then Mairon rose, lifting Tasarëon smoothly off of himself, turning him and laying him across the arms of the astonished Curufin.
'And this, for which your desire is clearly visible. He is as pleasing as he looks, too pleasing, I have been distracted from my work, toying with that sweet flesh.'
Curufin raised a hand to steady Tasarëon, and found that it was already a caress, that his breeches were now uncomfortably tight, and that above all else, the smooth features of Tasarëon were looking closely at Curufin, at the dark Noldor hair, the clever grey eyes, now darkened with desire, and the strong, symmetrical bones of the House of Finwë. Curufin was not outstandingly handsome, but his usual gravitas had given him an air of poised wisdom that held the gaze of the once frivolous Tasarëon.

An aide of Mairon stepped forward and placed the box carrying the two swords carefully on the table. Mairon strolled away and spoke to Curufin over his shoulder 'These go with him.' But Curufin did not look up.

Mairon strode through the centre of the concert, to the lavish seat prepared for him in the front. His entourage followed in his wake, sparks from a firework. Most heads turned to watch them pass, many looking for the near-naked elf Mairon had been with. When they did not see him, they looked around, then fell silent. The silence spread, until the music faltered and stopped. Every eye in the park was on Curufin and his new lover; but Mairon looked straight ahead, a small smile folded into his full lips, a dark gleam in his eye.

Curufin had stood, taking Tasarëon from behind; and impatient of the roughness and hindrance of the tabard, had pulled it over Tasarëon's head. It had taken only a moment to remove the belt, and now Tasarëon stood naked in front of him, and Curufin greedily explored the pliant flesh. Both were lost in the pleasure of the moment, their eyes closed, they listened only to the loud irregular breathing that seemed to come from the two of them at once. Tasarëon was overjoyed to be free of the power of the maia; to be experiencing such pleasure with another elf, though less intense than the crushing embrace of the maia, filled him with relief. He felt sure that his life had been returned to him, that he was free to embrace the sweet melody of another of his own kind, to be truly fulfilled as an elf, as himself.
Curufin was enraptured beyond thought, he had taken a male elf before, but it had been out of kindness, at the pleading of a lovesick suitor. He himself had briefly enjoyed it, but been dismayed by the gushing enthusiasm of the other. He had avoided him thereafter. But this, his body was aflame, every touch seemed to burn his fingers, not with pain but with desire. His hands moved more swiftly, Tasarëon's mouth found his, and they made the small sounds of desire in each others throats. Curufin moved his hips, Tasarëon ground against him, they pounded together and then Curufin put his head back, gasping with ecstasy as the desire flooded away. Tasarëon spasmed, moaning, in his arms, and they kissed for a moment.
But Curufin was beginning to feel the silence, and the eyes.

He raised his head from Tasarëon's mouth and looked up, his jaw dropping in mortified horror. He had made a public spectacle of himself, he was destroyed. The very musicians were standing gaping at them, half of the large crowd was on its feet, every eye was upon them. He could not imagine what to say. He clutched Tasarëon to him and cleared his throat. His jaw worked, but no sound came forth. But the spell was broken, the conductor tapped the stand, the musicians collected themselves, and after a few faltering notes, began to play again. The crowd, with the sound of wind in the trees, settled down and turned away. Curufin stared blindly at their backs. He knew that a disaster had befallen him, that he had committed a grave blunder, a huge error of judgment, a mortifying failure of self-restraint.
But even as the word restraint scratched its way into his mind, the chains on the wrists of Tasarëon were crushed against Curufin's abdomen, and the mere thought of them slowly reignited the flames of desire. To his horror he realized that his parents had ducked to the edge of the crowd and made their way round to the back, even now they approached. He gritted his teeth and slid reluctantly out of Tasarëon, groping anxiously for the appallingly scanty tabard, tugging it over the head of Tasarëon and fumbling the belt closed. They hurriedly sat side by side on the bench, though it occurred to neither of them to unfasten the wrists of Tasarëon.

Nerdanel smiled warmly at them both, but held out her hand to Curufin, who rose and followed her over to a nearby tree, just out of earshot. Fëanor looked curiously at Tasarëon, then smiled warmly
'May I sit ?' he asked politely. He watched a muscle twitch as Tasarëon's arm tried to gesture reflexively, but Tasarëon merely nodded. Fëanor settled himself on the bench and looked at Tasarëon seriously
'People are worried to see someone in chains. May I unfasten them ?'
Tasarëon looked at him with wide searching eyes, then turned and held out his wrists. Fëanor undid the clasp, and Tasarëon sighed, rubbing his shoulders and upper arms 'Normally Mairon moves me into a different position and the pain does not get bad. But Curufin...' he paused and smiled.
Fëanor smiled warmly back, but Tasarëon could feel something from this famous, this mighty elf, eldest son of Finwë, renowned in equal part for his beauty, his wisdom and his agile strength, the creator of the silmarils himself, that seemed out of place. His spirit opened, and he felt the spirit of Fëanor part like rising mist. They looked at each other with astonished surmise. The clearest understanding had passed between them, a rare sympathy of mind, a musical resonance. They knew each other.
For what Tasarëon saw was the desire in Fëanor, not to take Tasarëon, but to be taken by him, and in chains. Fëanor was staggered by the realization that Tasarëon had seen this in him. But worst of all, their mutual understanding had not dampened his desire, but inflamed it. His naked mind was already in the possession of the beautiful Tasarëon. The submission of his body was almost a detail. They were still and silent for a while, struggling to comprehend the change that had stormed through them. After a long pause, Tasarëon spoke softly
'You must prepare your body.'
Fëanor nodded silently. Tasarëon lifted the flap of his tabard and showed Fëanor what he would need to accommodate. 'You must exercise the muscle, and hold it open, for as long as you can endure. He had elves to do this. You will use such items as candles.'
Fëanor quivered slightly, his jaws clenched, his breathing disordered. Tasarëon found his own breathing troubled, the urge to bend Fëanor over the table at once seemed to rise from his body and fill his mind. But Fëanor rose 'I am to ask if you need help in fleeing him. I now suppose not. I will prepare for your coming. ' he bowed, looked at Tasarëon with slightly parted lips and longing in his hot grey eyes, then was gone.
Tasarëon gripped the edge of the bench, breathless at the pace of events, deeply stirred by the new desire, and the certainty of fulfilment, staggered by the contrast between them. He himself was a nobody, he had no talents, no skills, he had done little and been nowhere. While that had been the mighty Fëanor, the most celebrated elf, the mightiest, strongest, cleverest, most beautiful of face and body of all of them. Tasarëon was in a turmoil of astonishment, joy, desire and pride. He took a deep breath and looked up, Curufin was approaching.

Tasarëon smiled up at him, and saw the shoulders of Curufin loosen with relief.
'My mother hopes we will call upon her soon, and that you will, on that occasion, dress formally.' he blushed, and Tasarëon laughed.
'Your lady mother means for me to 'dress' at all, please do not be embarrassed, I have been like this for so long, through so much...so much change, that clothing seems almost trivial now.'
Curufin nodded 'Clothing is trivial.' he paused, then blushed again 'I am now to invite you to dine with me at my house, it is nearby.'
Tasarëon smiled knowingly into Curufin's eyes 'Only to dine ?' he asked softly. Curufin swallowed, then stood
'Please, I only wish to leave the scene of my embarrassment as swiftly as I may...' his eyes caught the long casket on the table. He lifted the catches and opened the lid. The swords gleamed in the mingled light, Curufin looked enquiringly at Tasarëon.
Tasarëon closed the lid and narrowed his eyes, then looked back in the box. Tucked in beneath the swords was a piece of parchment. He passed it, unread, to Curufin. The words of the parchment stunned Curufin, who half fell back onto the bench, then turned to Tasarëon with horror in his eyes and handed him the parchment. The message that Mairon had added seemed to lift a great weight from Tasarëon's heart, he had been given away, he was free of the maia. Tears blurred his vision.

Curufin was struggling for words, moral outrage fought with desire, but his indignation had cooled his passion and he had taken a hold of his breathing when Tasarëon slid along the bench, pressing his side into Curufin's, whispering softly in his ear.
'When we are alone, none of these people will matter. When we are alone, none of these things will matter. When we are alone only our bodies will matter, and only to each other.'
Curufin kissed him gently then rose, took his hand and led him away.

In the score of days that followed, Curufin kept Tasarëon exactly as Mairon had kept him, relishing the details of Tasarëon's experiences with the maia, learning to handle the sword, and the body of Tasarëon. But all the time his busy mind gnawed at the problem of the sword, more precisely, since he was a renowned smith, at the problem of the construction of his own, better sword. He was a little taller than Mairon, his arms a little longer; he found the balance wrong, he wanted a longer, heavier sword. His distracted mind drifted along in thoughtless pleasure beside the distracted mind of Tasarëon, who was appalled to find himself thinking of what he wanted to do to Fëanor while Feanor's own son was taking him.

There came a time when Curufin unfastened the chains
'I must call on my mother. Will you come ?' Tasarëon smiled and nodded. Curufin opened a chest and gave Tasarëon a tunic and breeches. They were a little large, but the fine fabric settled into elegant folds on the slighter frame of Tasarëon. Curufin nodded approvingly
'They look better on you than they do on me.' he laughed. Tasarëon wriggled, his sensitised skin was swamped and irritated by the garments, even such smooth, rich fabric as these. He sighed and straightened himself.
'I am ready.' he said.

*****************************************************************

Fëanor brooded silently while Nerdanel conversed with subtly inquisitive formality with her son and his lovely new friend. Tasarëon sat very still, feeling the intensity of Fëanor's desire as an almost physical presence in the room; he was astonished at the calm, grave voices of mother and son, seemingly oblivious, while he himself concentrated hard on maintaining an even tone in his voice. His hands could barely be held from twitching as the time crawled past, like the intolerably slow pouring of thick honey. Finally Fëanor rose.
'By your leave, my lady, there is somewhat that I would show to Tasarëon while you speak with our son.' He smiled at them, Nerdanel nodded graciously, and Tasarëon rose to follow Fëanor. As they left, Curufin, expecting his father to have been instructed to leave them together, turned to his mother.
'What error have I made now ?' he asked. Nerdanel frowned
'None of which I am aware. I did not ask to be left with you.' she paused thoughtfully 'However, I am afraid that my husband has been in changeable mood of late, it may be that there is something I am to discuss with you which he feels he has hinted at, but, alas, I have formed no notion of what troubles him.
Of course, it may be that he truly does have something to show Tasarëon, it may be that he has made him a gift, he has spent much time locked away, working many long hours.'

Fëanor led Tasarëon in silence up to a large room, a bed with a deep blue cover stood by a tall window. Tasarëon felt himself breathe more easily as the object of his desire came finally within reach of his hands; he took hold of the tunic of Fëanor and lifted it off. When Fëanor was naked, Tasarëon held Fëanor's hands behind his back and ran his other hand possessively over the hot skin. Fëanor tilted his head back and Tasarëon's lips began to move slowly over his throat. Fëanor made a small sound, and then, after the hand of Tasarëon, gripped around him, began to move, he moaned 'Please, please, take this.' Tasarëon smiled to himself, his hand moved faster and Fëanor was overwhelmed, the bliss was total, sudden and devastating. His knees felt like those of a newborn deer, Tasarëon led him to the bed, laid him down and methodically fastened the trembling limbs to the bedposts. When Fëanor was taut, Tasarëon knelt between his legs and looked down into the longing eyes.
'It will be my first.' he said 'But I was trained well, I think you will not be disappointed.'
Fëanor nodded 'It will be my first, with a male, I have no notion what should occur.' he smiled sensually 'I am in your hands.'
Tasarëon learned much as he took Fëanor. He himself had had his skin thoroughly sensitised; but though it took little to arouse him, his body needed and preferred a great deal of touching and caressing to be filled with bliss. For Fëanor it was very different, the long hours in the smithy, the constant tiny burns, had blunted his awareness of the surface of his skin. He craved only the vigour of forceful penetration, he needed the chains to brace himself, to intensify the impact, to feel truly taken. Not for him the long, languid torments of the maia's slow climb to ecstasy.
Tasarëon closed his mind and unleashed his body, he hammered into Fëanor like Aulë on a recalcitrant ore. He rested briefly, toying with the magnificent body, and began again, trying to move more slowly but swept along by the urgency of Fëanor's hunger. Time passed beyond their awareness, the door opened and a voice cried 'Here they are ! oh...'

Tasarëon narrowed his eyes and moved faster, it was no time to stop. Fëanor moaned 'Oh Eru...' as Tasarëon filled him, and they found release together. Tasarëon was leaning on the heels of his hands, his head bowed, gasping, sweating and still inside Fëanor when Curufin, and soon after, Nerdanel, reached the door. Fëanor raised his head, looked at the doorway then drooped back without speaking. There was nothing he could possibly say. There was a frozen silence.

Curufin spoke first.
'Please keep the clothes. Farewell.' he said to Tasarëon, then left.
Nerdanel looked curiously at her husband, then caught the eye of Tasarëon, who had turned at Curufin's words. She nodded at him
'Yes, you knew him. I saw it too. I am astonished that you are the one who saw him, but then you will understand him more readily than most of us. Will you keep him ?'
Tasarëon shook his head 'No, my lady, I was honoured to give him pleasure, but our music is not in harmony. I would have followed your son anywhere, but I am no longer welcome. In truth, it seems I am without a home.'
Nerdanel smiled dryly, 'You will understand if I am reluctant to offer you hospitality. But there are those whose tastes are in harmony with yours. I will have you escorted to the House of Fingon, who will be fascinated to meet you, however the music plays, and will offer you more constructive help than I feel able to.' She turned to Fëanor 'I shall return to the House of Mahtan. Farewell.'

Tasarëon bowed his head, the strong emotions were worse than sword cuts, and far slower to heal. Guilt strangled him, he wanted to flee the House of Fëanor, he reached for the chain, but the croaking voice of Fëanor stopped his hand.
'Please' he gasped 'One last time. You will not return, I do not know who else to ask...'
Tasarëon nodded and ran a hand over the shining skin 'I am so sorry.' he said 'I wish...'
Fëanor smiled wistfully 'If you find anyone who would do what you will not...'
'I will send such an elf to you directly.'

Nerdanel instructed the escort to lead Tasarëon to the House of Fingon, deliver her note and then wait in the tavern across the street until Tasarëon left. After many hours they set up shifts. Finally the tavern keeper promised that he was in constant contact with the household, that Tasarëon was now ensconced in the bed of Fingon, and that any activity would be reported at once. They left. Fingon, who regularly drank in the tavern, had been amused beyond words when the landlord told him the tale.

********************************************************

Fingolfin had been listening in growing horror, barely eased by the fact that Tasarëon was no longer directly in the hands of Mairon. For what did that matter, when he himself was here to bind and use the helpless Tasarëon... He scratched angrily at his right leg, but caught himself, then clenched his fist, pulling the sheet up from under the mattress; he had to stop, he had to release Tasarëon at once, and clothe him, and send him somewhere away from the grasping hands of the House of Finwë.

But even as he considered the rescue of Tasarëon, he realised with a shock the profound contempt with which not only Tasarëon but all elves had been viewed by Mairon. Worse still, the maia's predictions had been accurate. For Fingolfin could see what Tasarëon himself had yet to grasp, that he was a weapon in himself. His body, his chains, his wholehearted submissiveness made an irresistible lure for those like Fingolfin himself, hungry for power. Tasarëon had been trained to use the weapon and at the same time to be used himself as a weapon, not to directly injure or kill, but to spread the knowledge and skills needed to turn anger into murder. The fact that the marriage of Fëanor had been destroyed, and that when his own wife learned of what he had done to Tasarëon himself, she would undoubtedly leave him, were mere details to the full horror of what Tasarëon, just by existing, represented. He had given the sword a dark fascination, it would forever have resonance in peoples minds with their darker impulses of desire, its very shape and function inevitably drew comparison with that other, sweeter form of penetration.
Tasarëon himself, as an object of secret desires, would be frenziedly pursued. He would need careful protection. The songs about him were explicit, and had what Fingolfin could now see was a malicious tone. Fingolfin for the first time wondered who exactly had composed these songs, and whether there might not be more coming from the palace of Mairon than one wounded elf. He dreaded to think how people would treat Tasarëon when he returned to the social life of Tirion. He would be hunted, relentlessly pursued by obsessive lechers; endlessly vulnerable to command.

Fingolfin's mind cleared, for a moment the fog of desire and anger lifted, the cool light of detachment showed him himself, among the lechers, holding the body of his son's lover, whom he had chained with his own hand. He could not permit himself to continue what had been an outrageous act perpetrated upon a stranger before he had even heard the true horror of what had been done to Tasarëon. After hearing what had been done to Tasarëon, he was filled with self-loathing and a crushing sense of his own weakness; he would be no better, morallly, than those who had done this to Tasarëon if he took him again. He could not touch the lithe body any more, he must move away, release Tasarëon, he could not contribute further to the atrocity he had already colluded with. He must stop, at once.

The mere thought of stopping made him whimper, he mocked himself. But it was too late for Fingolfin. He was overpowered by the fact that he was already inside Tasarëon, that he had already used him, that one more time would make no difference. He knew, in the last bastion of his spirit, that his arguments were the spurious pleadings of animal desire, the most primitive part of him, hoping to wear down his resistance with sheer noise. But even as he struggled to fill himself with the sense of cool purpose his wisdom required, his witless flesh had ignored the debate and begun moving in the willing flesh of the guileless Tasarëon.
'One last time' he breathed softly, plunging into the tight heat. Tasarëon moved slightly, arching Fingolfin deeper inside, they lost themselves in each other, words and griefs cast aside as the body found it way to bliss.
Afterwards Fingolfin sighed and stroked the bare skin. He reluctantly griited his teeth and pleaded with himself to stop. He spoke at last.
'I must release you. It is obvious to the youngest elf that you were forced. Whether you were poisoned or not, you were forced. They kept you naked, they guarded you, they held you down while they used your body. They welded you into manacles. They wounded you, and threatened you with worse. It is no longer relevant that you enjoy your chains, you are damaged, you need to rest and heal. I will send you away from my family altogether, to the family of my wife, to the House of Inglaurë, kin to Ingwë and counted among the great of the Vanyar. There you will recover.' he paused, choked a little and said hoarsely 'If you then decide that you wish to see... to see any of us, you will be free to invite us to call on you.'
Tasarëon gazed up at Fingolfin, startled and puzzled. 'If that is your wish, my lord.'

*****************************************************************

The House of Inglaurë seemed less a household than a slow dance performance. Tasarëon had watched almost wistfully as Fingolfin's escort marched away down the broad leafy avenue of the vast garden. The palace and gardens seemed to overlap, marble paving fading and scattering among the foliage that in turn gently invaded the interiors. Inglaurë had awaited him at the tall door, leading him silently into an airy spacious Hall, and up to a long table, sparely furnished with perfectly shaped goblets and flagons. The Hall filled with elves, mostly fair or golden haired; the Vanyar, beloved of Manwë, famed for their wisdom and culture. Servants moved among them, bearing platters of flawlessly-presented delicacies.
Tasarëon felt hideously out of step with the graceful Vanyar, but Inglaurë kept him by his side throughout the long formal dinner, asking few questions and talking little himself. Tasarëon found the silence soothing, it enabled him to look around and learn something of the people.
When the room was cleared and empty, Tasarëon wondered if Inglaurë had something to discuss, but he said nothing, merely sat, looking ahead, sipping his wine. Tasarëon had a feeling of expectation, but his tentative opening of minds had shown him only a cold, blank surface, impenetrable as rock. He sighed, it had been many hours since he had awoken in the arms of Fingon, then the summons had come to Fingolfin, and he had been taken by him. The long formalities of the meal had tired him beyond emotion, he wanted only rest. He could not leave his host, he had not been given a room, the hour was late, the great House dark and silent. He sat in the empty room with the remote Vanyar, wondering what or who he awaited.

Four of Inglaurë's followers, bearing the eagle feather token of the House, led in Mairon. Inglaurë rose instantly and gestured to the puzzled Tasarëon, who did the same. To his astonishment, Inglaurë took the chair that Tasarëon had been sitting on out of the room, while Mairon stepped out from between the Eagles and lowered himself comfortably into the tall, carven Seat of Inglaurë. Tasarëon was still gaping at Mairon when Inglaurë returned, approached Tasarëon and swiftly undressed him. Tasarëon looked at the Eagles but they were gone, at the far end of the room one stood on either side of the door. His heart went cold, his vision darkened. He made no futile gesture of resistance as Inglaurë, who sat at the feet of Manwë, bound his hands and raised them above his head to suspend him from a lantern-hook on a thick chain. Tasarëon was shocked beyond his capacity to process; even Fingolfin, he was certain, had had no notion of the corruption of Inglaurë, who even now was running his hands gloatingly over the helpless skin of Tasarëon. He stopped, turned away and knelt before Mairon, who opened his breeches. Inglaurë stooped over his lap and spent a long time pleasuring Mairon. Tasarëon watched, feeling despair settle on him like a blizzard of snow.

When Mairon was stretching and sighing contentedly, Inglaurë turned to Tasarëon, who saw the expression on his coldly beautiful face and winced away. But Inglaurë held him by the hips, turned him and took him swiftly and hard. Mairon watched Tasarëon's eyes from the seat with a distant, indifferent coldness that terrified Tasarëon. The realisation that he himself had believed in the desire of Mairon, that he had felt it as an honour to be so carefully prepared, so patiently awaited by a maia, had been a source of pride. To be the lover of someone as beautiful as Mairon, whoever or whatever his nature, elf or maia, had filled him with joy and desire. But he knew now that the desire of Mairon had been to shape him into the perfect tool, the perfect weapon, for delivering the swords into the hands of the feuding families of the House of Finwë. Mairon's cold eyes gazed steadily into his, and he understood more, understood that the maia was now showing him this knowledge, that he, Mairon, could force the knowledge into his mind, and watch him as he crumpled inside from the knowledge of his own insignificance. A hint, a mere suggestion, was given to Tasarëon, that his future now contained only misery and degradation, which would gradually increase in horror as the aeons slowly passed. Tasarëon tried to scream but no sound came from his throat. He was at once cold and sweating. Panic made him thrash wildly, gasping for escape, for air. Behind him Inglaurë made a noise of smug pleasure, still thrusting into Tasarëon, who hung still, his head bowed, his body limp.
Inglaurë's hands sat casually on the naked hips. He made no attempt to caress Tasarëon, and left him barely stirred from loathing. The two Eagles appeared and he was carried up the grand stairs, through luxurious rooms, past the room that was clearly the chamber of Inglaurë himself, into a dressing room. One of the Eagles pulled aside a rack of colourful cloaks and pressed a panel, which slid smoothly into a hidden slot in the wall. A short passage with a dusty window was revealed, there were two doors, the Eagles carried him into the right-hand room. It contained a bed, and nothing else, the small window was uncurtained. The Eagles bound him face down on the bed, and took up position by the door.

***************************************************************

Tasarëon lay clenching his teeth, trying to order his breathing, and waited. He had time to reflect on the enormity of his crime against himself. Had any elf, ever, been as foolish as him, he wondered, gambling his body with a maia; everyone knew they were incomprehensibly powerful and more subtle in their stratagems than even the wisest of the Vanyar could follow. Yet he, an indifferently-educated nobody, had really thought he could beat one in a game. Tears of humiliation burned his eyes, but the Eagles were there, endlessly watching him.

After the time it takes to slowly drain a flagon, the door opened behind him. He did not turn. Inglaurë walked to the wall at the head of the bed and nailed a parchment drawing to it. As Mairon's all too familiar hands parted his buttocks, Tasarëon looked in growing horror at the picture. As Mairon crushed his way inside Tasarëon, causing him to suck in his breath with the coming of pain, the image, and much else beside, became clear to Tasarëon.
It was an outstandingly realistic charcoal drawing of his own naked body. The maia must have done it, no elf was capable of such accuracy and precision. He groaned as Mairon thrust into him again, his already cold flesh growing colder as he focused on the red marks on the image. His skin ached with the memory, for here, recorded in perfect detail, was every wound that Mairon, who was taking him even now, had carved into his naked flesh. The cuts made letters, the letters words. Here, carved into his skin, confirmed in accuracy by the increasingly sharp memory of pain, were the very words of his reckless gamble.
'I, Tasarëon, do wager my body on the next hand of cards.' Below, below his waist, a carefully drawn eye had been carved. Bile rose in Tasarëon's throat, Mairon had drawn, carved into Tasarëon's living flesh, one line at a time, with the lines vanishing daily, a more convincing eye than any elf could have done given the whole image to keep in sight. He retched; for once Mairon spoke to him.
'It is too late. Too late for you, too late for all.'

Inglaurë spoke 'Now ?' he said. Mairon said nothing, but Tasarëon presumed he had nodded, for Inglaurë stepped over the arm of Tasarëon, knelt before him and entered his mouth with a contented sigh. Though he was of a lesser girth than Mairon, he was long, and Tasarëon choked on him with reflex tears starting in his eye. Despair filled him, concealing every memory of happiness. There was no point even wondering what they would do to him, for they themselves, he realised, did not yet know. Their merest whim would dictate his very breath.

Silently, and with no warning, darkness fell, then brightened a little as Tasarëon's eyes adjusted. It was as if one of the Trees, suddenly instead of gradually, had gone out. Moments later, as Mairon and Inglaurë harmonised their movement to crush him between them, Tasarëon watched the small window as the pale sky, with the suddenness of a flaming torch plunged into water, went black. The world was silent, and dark. Tasarëon was terrified beyond measure, nothing had prepared him for this. He waited for normality to be restored, for the Valar to act, for Eru to move. But the darkness and silence continued, until the now rapidly pushing Inglaurë breathed thickly 'Is it... did he...'
Mairon whispered hoarsely 'My master has destroyed the Two Trees. The darkness has returned.' He jerked deep into Tasarëon, then ran a possessive hand over his back and moaned in ecstasy.

Tasarëon's tears dropped straight onto the mattress, touching no part of him, in the way that Inglaurë and Mairon had taken him. He was not only unmoved, he was filled with horror and loathing at their touch, and at himself for ever venturing into the House of Mairon.

But the words of Mairon stuck in his mind.
'It is too late.'
He understood them now. He had handed over the control of his body, and his body had been taken from him by many expert hands. He knew that Mairon could have made him scream with pleasure, could still do it, even now. His body had been trained, it was responsive beyond his power to resist.
He could no longer choose the escape into death. He had been taken by the enemy, alive. There was no possibility of escape, nor of rescue, he had vanished from the face of Arda. Mairon had him, utterly naked, utterly helpless, until the end of the world. The darkness filled the window, as solid as stone.

*******************
*******************

 

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

NSFW