You’ve seen my descent, now watch my rising by Sleepless_Malice

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

You’ve seen my descent, now watch my rising

*

 

From their fires soldiers stared at Maedhros as he walked through the endless rows of tents, bloodstained armor rattling with every step he took, drinking in the sounds of night, which mingled with the noises of feasting men and needless merriment. When he passed, avoiding each glance that meet his eyes, yet another sound reached his ear: those hushed whispers on the quiet Maedhros so loathed.

They knew.

They all knew.

Wherever he went he felt the burning disapproval simmering upon his skin, their questioning glances, yet no one ever dared to raise his voice to confront him directly.

Over the years, Maedhros the handsome – the fair – has taken on his castle’s by-name: the ever-cold, cold winds and an aura of ice wafting about him.

At first, he hadn’t noticed those stares and whispers, still riding the morbid waves of desires upon return, and more: he had indeed cared to be secretive, virtues that were by now long forgotten.

They knew!

But then they did not!

They knew nothing at all, nobody could fathom these horrors he had survived. Terror that went far beyond the imaginable, haunting him day and night. Those crimson dreams about veils of darkness, blood and filth; about screams of anguish, his own but not only, calling to him, whispering threats of foreboding anew; the sour stench of feces mixed with the rotting sweetness of coagulated blood, caked upon his skin.

Caked his skin was right then, too. Dust and splashes of blood blended with his countless freckles to an obscene piece of art upon his skin, hiding the still flushed cheeks beneath it. Instead, with the mask donned, indifference mastered his features. 

‘Instead of judging me, they should be grateful,’ Maedhros often thought, as it wasn’t so that his kin did not profit from what he did when everybody else went about their daily – unexciting, and ordinary – business. Upon his return, he could tell about leagues of orcs hidden deep in the woods, snarled in the words of its harsh and ugly language, perfectly matching its filthy looks. Seized by terror, and physically so incredibly weak from the beginning, Maedhros’s captives would confess whatever he wished to know whilst his cock was buried deep inside them. Of their secret forges in the mountains close by they spoke; of their raids planned next; even of their master Maedhros was spoken to in hope he would spare its life. Not that this information was exactly new to him, though, not that it would alter its fate.

A fool’s hope. Maedhros laughed bitterly, yet he smiled, provoking shocked reactions of those who stood close enough to witness.  

A fool’s hope, provoking quite the opposite effect. The more those ugly creatures confessed, the crueler he became. Such a pity that none of his captives lived long enough to tell the tale of Maedhros the Gruesome, how he came to call himself after his little adventures in mockery.

It were these nights right after the interrogations how Maglor used to politely phrase the sordid truth, which allowed Maedhros to sleep at all, lulled into slumber by the acrid reeking mixture of sweat, and blood – sex, and worse. A stench so sour that, once morning came, and with it what he has done, the bitter taste of bile filled his mouth.

 

*

Revenge.

Humiliation of those who had humiliated him.

A way to overcome the mental numbness, which crippled the marred cripple he now was all the more.

That was what he told himself, night after night.

Alas! ‘Twas true, yet then it was not. Maedhros had never been good at lying.

What sort of entertainment he pursued under the veil of darkness with frightening accuracy provoked an odd thrill, emotions he had never known before – in that way at least; deeds, which were so morbidly fascinating that addiction was the only word to describe what he felt and did.

Maedhros could never tell how, or when it had all begun. A couple of years after his rescue, that much was certain, as he could walk and wield a sword again. Alongside Maglor and fellow soldiers he had fought, valiant and brave, relentlessly until the numbness of his mind was subsided by simple exhaustion of his body. They had been quite successful that day, the blood-drenched soil told as much.

To Maedhros it wasn’t enough.

These days nothing ever seemed to be enough.

A few orcs had escaped into the woods, injured and broken, yet alive, crawling back to their masters hiding in the shades. What madness had driven Maedhros, then, to go after the wretched creatures, ignoring his brother’s piercing screams to hold back, he could not remember. A madman’s decision, without doubt, one that could have easily cost his life. But how was Maedhros, a shadow of his former self, supposed to value the precious gift of immortality? Despite exhaustion he had run into the gloomy twilight of the forest, following the orcs’ trail like a hunting dog, besotted by the smell of blood. His heart had beat wildly in his chest when at last he had come upon the creature, bleeding, more dead than alive, and despite his exhaustion he had been intoxicated by the hunt. Right into the orc’s face he had snarled, the sharp edge of the blade pressed closely against the creature’s throat. An easy kill, without doubt, a harder press and life would have bled from the orc’s toothless mouth, yet as the pitiful creature regarded him with shaking breath, something had begun to stir. Subtle at first, and faintly, yet distinct and unmistakably. Disgust and shock reigned Maedhros’s mind, ever since his return from Angband’s darkness not once his cock had sprung to life. Right then, it had twitched and demanded attention, throbbing so painfully that he had grabbed the creature’s throat, flexing his fingers meaningfully against it.

The first time, it simply had overcome him, hot and unexpected, fueled by hatred and spurred on by memory as screams of terror encouraged his vile deed. So easily had shoving his cock down the orc’s throat come to him, so gloriously numbing had it felt to settle into a hard, sharp rhythm until his mind had went blank. That this wasn’t right, his chest burning, aching with the injustice of it, shuddered through him like a consuming fire; every scream of the orc, hands curled into fists, wrenching, tearing at him past bruising then, had told him that this wasn’t right, yet Maedhros had not struggled to direct his rage at the innocent.  He had neither felt glory, nor pain afterwards; to Maedhros that was glorious enough, before the guilt had crept into his heart. The orc had not been him.

But then, at the end of all things, his life sold to eternity with dying virtue and surviving shame, whose crimes would bear the ever-during blame?

Upon his return from Angband’s darkness he had been a stranger in strange lands, but no stranger to rape anymore, having been raped so often that the skin of his left forearm was not enough to bear witness, and worse, had raped. They had made him do it, Maedhros had confessed one night to Maglor, too tired and too drunk to hold back his tears and more anymore. Maglor was the only one who knew, the only one who would ever know, too ashamed Maedhros still was. At first, it had been orcs he was forced upon, he had told his brother with a tremor, those vile creatures breed in mucus and dust, and then, after that wasn’t enough entertainment for his tormentors anymore, his own kin had been brought forth: chained and gagged, still wet from previous use. He had struggled then, fought against the bonds and shackles to no avail and when at last his cock had betrayed him, and malicious delight Maedhros saw in Mairon’s golden glowing eyes. Afterwards, he had retched, just as he always retched now once morning came.

That night, they had created the monster he was now.

The following nights, the monster had been shaped, polished like a precious jewel.

Each one haunted his memory in form of a nameless scar upon his right forearm, scratched into his skin by his own splintered claws, reminding him day after day of what he has become. Not even Fingon’s mercy erased the memory; the cut he had made ran below the row of scars. 

At the verge of insanity, unable to deal with what he has done, Maedhros had tried to tell himself that this had been just physical, another injury not so unlike everything else he had suffered, with the only difference that rape was culturally conferred, but apart from that it wasn’t any different. He never believed his own lie.

Sometimes, indeed more often than not, Maedhros had felt as if he had become one of those creatures, which once had been of his kind. Hard to fathom to strangers unfamiliar with their ways that once the orcs had been elves, of that Maedhros had no doubts, yet during the many years in the darkest pits of Angband, he had learned that indeed the foul beings were not so unlike his kin. They have their flaws, peculiarities and, worst of all, occasionally they showed what the darkness had robbed him of – compassion.

His sense of compassion, the virtue he had often been complimented for, lay crushed and buried in the silvery dust beneath Angband’s looming towers, lost to him for all eternity.

Even now, after all those years, he saw himself lying on his side in the dirty straw, with his knees pulled up to his chest as far as he could to keep the cold at bay, wrists fastened to the iron rings hewn into the wall. It had been after the orcs had come to him for the first time, though not for their own entertainment, that had come much later: ‘the master desires his playthings unspoilt’. Words, Maedhros would never forget, etched into his mind just like the soft voice of his mother’s whispers.

The same cries of anguish which had bled from Maedhros’s bruised and broken lips echoed these days against the walls or danced through the forest until the birds fled in terror; the cries of anguish, which still shook him in restless dreams, made his body tremble now. In a calamitous crescendo to the stinging of the orc’s fingers inside him, slick with burning oil, he had endured, drifting into unconsciousness when the pain had become too great to bear.

For Maedhros all limits had vanished through the pursuit of solemn hours of happiness: when at first, he had simply murdered, occasionally tortured to gain valuable information, he had begun to rape – not for lust, that had come later, he had lied to himself day after day, but as yet another instrument to extract information, it was proving no longer sufficient.   

He had come differentiate the smells of fear: of hurt and agony – of death. Especially the last never failed to ensnare and amaze him, erasing all doubts he might have had once.

Confusion most often marred their pitiful faces as they finally began to understand, as rough fabric slid over Maedhros’s hands, their snarling voices becoming a mere whisper, pleading for the mercy Fëanáro’s eldest was unable to feel or to grant anymore. Instead, frantic excitement reigned upon their helpless pleas, pulse racing as he thrust hard and relentlessly into its abused body so hard that whispers soon became screams again.

After a while, those pleas of mercy usually subsided, just before they rose anew, although wishing for an entirely different kind of mercy: the sweet kiss of death. Without doubt, Maedhros was still able to give it, yet most often he took his time with it.

Hours, sometimes even days, he would let them rot, screaming and wailing like newborn children. All sense of time was lost to him in the cold twilight grave deep below his fortress of ice, reeking of body odors, mildew and coagulated blood so ill-befitting for the noble lord he still was. Bones and gristle, pieces of dried skin lay scattered on the dusty floor, rotting until nothing was left of it. In Himring, well below the last cellars those caves lay hidden, with an iron door blocking the way to the winding staircase that followed. Not that anybody would ever dare to come close by, no, but certain precautions must be made. A second entrance led to the caves, surrounded by thorny bushes, hidden between the solid rocks. That way Maedhros brought in his precious prey, and out, too, feeding the corpses to the beasts of the forest.

Usually, although much depending on his current mood, Maedhros would mar them, cut off their fingers if they dared, or attempted to touch him. Sometimes, he would even cut off their cocks if their sickening excitement manifested itself in treacherous stiffening.

He went about commonplace matters then, about a lord’s daily business, wrote letters and his dairy in the gloomy darkness, drew little sketches about how to improve Himring’s strength. Ordinary things, truly, and for a while indifference shone from his grey eyes, his turmoil as he watched the wretched creatures howl and bleed, until his missing fingers began to itch, those fingers which had felt so perfect against his hardened cock. Patience ran thin, since his attention span had diminished to nonexistence after his captivity.

He would take them, again and again until his stained breeches would stick to the orc’s thighs; until he could not differentiate anymore if the wetness against his groin derived from his seed or from blood. Not that it mattered in either case. He had lived many years too long in a reeking mélange of blood, pus, and feces to be bothered in the slightest.

Sometimes, if the opportunity presented itself he ordered them to rape each other, just as he had once been forced to rape his own kin.

Sometimes, he would even order them to be gentle with each other – these were the worst commands, those Maedhros took the greatest delight in. Somehow, cruelty was easier to bear than sweetness, he had learned that soon enough.

He would watch them, always.

Coo. Order. Smile.

And kill.

It had become an incredibly addictive routine.

Whilst he scribbled some useless words to Caranthir, Maedhros would watch, and towards the end of the letter his writing would always become uneven and oddly twisted. Once, a while ago, Caranthir had commented on that sloppy writing, had even dared to mock his eldest brother, asking if some whore had distracted him. The backhand which had followed, Caranthir would so soon not forget, nor would Maedhros: agony ripping across his brother’s face was so strangely beautiful to behold.

Naturally, he had regretted the physical chastisement, just as he regretted so many things he had said and done, yet what he regretted most was what he had never uttered – perhaps would never say. There were many he still holds dear in his stony heart, those little fires which keep him alive.

The moment when the last breath rattled through the sliced trachea, gurgling sounds like wave caught between the rocks ashore; the moment the black blood splashed against the wall before them; the moment just after he opened their throat with the knife his father once gave him to cherish until the end of days. It was in these moments, when Maedhros felt free at last, all sorrow and pain leaving him for the blink of an eye as his body was wrecked by his victim’s last spasm of life. Despite all the powers he had held, and still holds, he had never felt more powerful than in this moment. A terrible, yet so addictive form of beauty, of which Maedhros could never rid himself. 

He had been deceived by false promises, and now he promised in return, so charming, so beautiful and soft in that ensnaring voice of his. “Hush,” Maedhros would often say, or “easy,” just the way he murmured to his horse with the stench of battle in the air.

As much as he loathed to admit it, many things could be learned from the forsaken Maia’s cunning mind, and many things Maedhros had adapted unknowingly. Intrigue, and manipulation on the emotional side, deceit so subtly done that it would lull his victims into a false sense of security so easily.

Oh what an utter fool he had been.

At first, Maedhros had resisted the golden Maia, had never told a secret, which was bestowed upon him by his kin. He had never intended to speak a single word, yet then so marvelously the Maia had played false until Maedhros’s defenses began to waver, one by one. Slowly at first, but then a strange voice in his mind had filled his thoughts, had ensnared him so that in the end, Maedhros had followed the silent command, words spilling from his lips like gushing waterfalls.

Deep inside, he most likely had always known about the cunning deceit, yet his corrupted mind had refused to listen. For the sake of a stomach filled with food after weeks of starvation he had told Melkor’s minion the first secret out of many, the Maia’s sugary praise spellbinding him. That night, Maedhros had feasted on roasted meat, only to be told afterwards that the marvelous supper had been his friend of old. After a night of abuse, he had begged for a gentle touch against his blistered skin, tears streaming down his face when at last the Maia had granted him his solemn wish, only to be backhanded with such force that he couldn’t tell up from down afterwards.

“There is no law that gods must be fair,” (*) his father had told him often during their perilous journey across the sea, and right then, Fëanáro’s words had never rang truer than in Angband’s twilight halls.

Right then, they were true no less.

Wasn’t he superior to those he mistreated so severely?

What law dictated him to be fair and noble, just and predictable? He thought not without bitterness.

Upon the memory of old, Maedhros snorted, followed by fey and poisonous laughter, which bled from his lips. It was the same laugh he had so thoroughly despised as his father had sacrificed the precious ships to the torch. What he had thought an end and only been the beginning of yet another perilous journey, one that would never end.

He hated himself.

Always.

And each time such memory coiled in his mind, he hated himself all the more.

What madman has he become in a world reigned by madness? A world in which kin slew kin without batting an eye, a world where all sense of propriety and common decency seemed lost. Such thoughts often occupied Maedhros’s mind of late, consuming his sanity, fueling his strange lust for blood. Today wasn’t any different. Maedhros’s gaze was fixed on the flickering candlelight, but his mind wandered afar, plotting another raid under a moonlit sky. It had been long. Too long, he thought as he noticed the heat, which began to churn in his stomach.

Although the scenarios he forced upon his captives would vary, depending if his mood was merely sour or outright bad, some things never changed. He would never undress whilst his victims were always naked, most often armor rattling in the pace of his thrusts, nor would he ever use his fingers to ease his way. Instead, over the years he had hoarded many metallic objects in Himring’s caves, none of which did Maedhros put to good use, quite the contrary.

It depended.

It always had, right from the beginning.

Yet he had come to master his cruelties to perfection over the years, has explored things he would have condoned not so long ago. Some acts of torture and humiliation he simply loved to perform, bringing him to the verge of orgasm each time, yet other’s he found incredibly boring after a short while. And then, there were practices even Maedhros was hesitant to inflict upon his captives.

He had shied away from the thought of pissing into their faces, though he had always mutilated the corpses in that way after he had been done with them. One night however, the thoughts arose anew, and realization struck him.

Who had ever shied away to rape and to humiliate him? To flay his back with whips and mar his skin with burning iron?

That night, idle fingers had trailed along his never fading scars, regarding the wretched creature cowering before him with undisguised hatred. Its bound wrists loomed high above its head, secured to the hooks Maedhros deliberately had driven into the walls, stretching out its naked body lewdly before him.

Fueled by flashing anger and a maelstrom of returning memories, Maedhros had unleashed a wrath of an entirely different sort, giving into all the malicious fantasies. It had been the night when the screams of agony must have echoed high upon Himring, carried upwards to the lofty towers by the ever blowing winds.

 

*

He had not cared about his brother’s snide remarks: not then, not now. In fact he never could bring himself to care when so obediently the creature drank down his piss. No greater relief there was than to force his urine down the orc’s throat – it was the peak of humiliation when the orc gagged and coughed, just before urine began to spill onto the rest of his ugly face. From there, it ran into its mouth anew, dripping from the corners of its wretched mouth making Maedhros pull his hand back in disgust.

After the battle was over, he had escaped to the forest, wandering as he told his brother. “It will be the death of you one day,” Maglor told him; he had been told that many times. Perhaps that was exactly the reason why he pursued these hunts, having tired of his forsaken life long ago, embracing the opportunity whenever it presented itself.

Horrid appreciation glimmered in Maedhros’s darkened eyes, and then he smiled, quite satisfied with his obscene work, gaze transfixed upon the victim’s throat, where tentatively the muscles flexed. Without warning, Maedhros yanked the orc’s head roughly backwards so that it was forced to look at his scarred face.

Killing made him be at ease for a day or two, but the special look of fear made him hard.

He had to force himself not to think too much, briefly looking away, as treacherous threads of arousal began to flare in his stomach, threatening to destroy what he had dreamt about so often now. It had been long between his hunts, he realized, too long, given his body’s violent reaction to the sight before him. Maedhros stood still and straight, without any emotion in his features, just hardness, yet his cock betrayed him, twitching against his breeches. Although he usually preferred the castle walls for his obscene games, right then, he was thankful for the forest’s twilight.

“Beautiful,” he heard himself murmur, glee tinting his voice, gaze skittering down the orc’s humiliated body, yet what would come was more beautiful still. By now, he had come to master it all to perfection, even the bubbling noises his captives made as they fought against the rebellious stomach his piss provoked. Without a warning he grabbed the orc’s chin tightly, skin still wet with his urine, fingertips digging into his skin so hard that Maedhros knew soon bruises would spring to life –  granted the wretched thing lived long enough. These days, more often than not, they didn’t. Like flies they were dying, either from internal bleeding, literally raped to death, strangled by filthy ropes or beheaded. Into the darkness of Angband’s caves Maedhros had whispered that he would repay the orc’s sordid kindness should he survive the nightmare he was trapped in. Those vows, said each night before exhaustion curled its dark fingers about him, had been the last vestige of hope to fight insanity.

He was true to his promise, his vile deeds surpassing the imaginable by far.  

Under Maedhros’s scrutiny, face tense and unreadably, the orc found itself, breathing hard and ragged, unable to read its tormentor’s face. And there it was: the first smell of fear, sour and so very welcomed by its tormentor, accompanied by a racing pulse, fluttering against Maedhros’s touch. Excitement began to coil and grow inside Maedhros, and not long after he felt his cock spring to life.

Across the distance their eyes met, and for a split second the creature tried to keep its uncontrolled reaction at bay. Though sparsely lit, Maedhros made always certain the light was bright enough for his victims to see him: the fey laughter in his eyes, the sick pleasure at each injury bestowed upon them. And in addition, he so much cherished to watch: those terror-stricken faces, rivulets of sweat, blood and worse.

By then, Maedhros has seen and heard it all: Tears of agony, mocking words spat in fear, sobbed pleas and false promises.

The one before him now did not struggle, despite the threat of torture looming above its head, idly smiling back at its tormentor while faintly hoping it would escape.

A fool’s hope.

Not a single orc has ever survived his special treatment.

With malicious knowledge Maedhros smiled down at it. The ones trying to feign control, to please their new master were those which promised to be of the most entertaining sort, saving their screams for the most precious of moments when the last breath of life fled their lungs. When young, Maedhros had never been interested in the anatomy of the elvish body, or science in general, that is. Both had been Celegorm’s and Curufin’s interests, still were, but what Maedhros learned late at night when all else slept, would truly put their knowledge to shame: of faces turning from red to blue to white, he had learned, of flayed backs and amputated limbs; of chemicals that burned on skin like fire, of incandescent iron, too.

Often their own cruel devices were bestowed upon them: shackles made of blunt iron, heavy chains of the same harsh material, hooks and leathered strips, precious objects Maedhros had brought back to Himring from his nightly raids. What he found his halls lacked, he made the captives create, enslaved for work until starvation consumed their ugly bodies.

Over the time he had become quite inventive, he thought, letting his finger wander along the sharp spikes inside of the two-part collar, which would soon adorn the orc’s flexing throat. The fact that he had brought it out to the battlefield, wrapped into a linen bag and hidden it in the forest, made it obscene all the more. Impressive was perhaps a quite befitting word to describe the hoard of torture instruments, some small yet effective enough to be brought to the encampment. But those were not truly necessary: the golden hand attached to his stump, a few leather straps, the dirk and his cock had always proved to be sufficient enough to paint in all shades of black and crimson.

“Please master, no,” the nameless orc wailed, looking up at Maedhros from the cold earth of the forest, eyes blown wide with terror, face pale and incredibly ugly. Oh, how he hated those useless whines, especially today, as his patience ran thin. So disdainfully memory stung of how he had pleaded almost identical words, already on his hands and knees. With quick fingers Maedhros freed his cock, half hard already, from his blood-stained breeches, briefly tempted to shove it into the orc’s mouth to silence him. In comparison to the stout creature, his cock was huge, obscenely large, and the frightened stare did not go unnoticed by Maedhros, who reveled in the turmoil.

As one fey, Maedhros laughed before he yanked the creature upwards by its throat, pressing it against the tree with its chest. And in its wake, he tore down the filthy cloth from the orc’s waist. So easily sweet lies tumbled from his lips. “Tell me,” Maedhros said, voice smooth as silk, “where your league is hiding, and I shall let you go.”

The orc snarled and choked, both of its hands trying to clutch at Maedhros’s armor, but remained silent otherwise.

“Does the prospect excite you?” rasped Maedhros, lips too close against the creature’s neck, the tip of his cock encircling the orc’s entrance, dry as dust. Captivity, pain, control – those ingredients, which made adrenaline course through his veins.

“No, no, no,” at last the creature said, and thin-lipped, gleaming red mouth, Maedhros laughed at him, giving him the distinct appearance of wild beast. “Master –”

He was lord in his halls, master however, he was not. “Tell me, then.” So harsh and ugly the orcs’ language sounded to his ears, so utmost wrong to tumble from his lips. During his captivity he had picked up a word or two, the rest his slaves were forced to teach him.

“No league ... alone ...” A blatant lie that Maedhros unveiled easily, “killed all,” the orc added, too late.

He gripped his cock, precome spilling from the tip already, and he leaned forward, splitting its legs apart as if he meant to rip it in two, before he shoved his cock into the creature’s tight opening. “Scum. And liar.”

Muscles cracked and tore under the merciless assault, rivulets of blood springing to life, finally easing the way a little, yet the orc’s pitiful screams never diminished.  

“Valley ... twenty more ... master ... please...,” it somehow managed to choke out, chest heaving with every stuttering breath it took.

“Thank you for such valuable information,” Maedhros said, thrusting hard into the orc until he was buried to the hilt inside the trembling creature.

The rhythmic slap of skin on skin filled the forest, followed by guttural sounds and obscenities bleeding from Maedhros’s lips, fighting to drown the orc’s screams that were like music to his ears.

“Master…”

Malice tarnished Maedhros’s voice, the vibrations of it paralyzing the creature at his mercy. “Not a word I have said.”

Again, that madman’s chuckle, a pitying croon, his cock – hard and thick and hot – thrusting into his victim entirely unimpressed. Cruel mirth reigned Maedhros’s mind already, then, fantasizing about how he would end its life. Choke it? Stab it? Or simply left to bleed to death? A rapacious promise, surely. Each one had its appeal, Maedhros had no doubt, yet choking on the bitter taste of sweat and salt and blood never failed to drown his own misery. It felt good to end a life by his hand alone, and his mind was set. Maedhros wished to throttle it, to watch its eyes bulge and its lips go black.

The prospect excited him, spurred him on, and by the second, Maedhros’s breathing got harsher, his thrusts growing more erratic as so obscenely the orc twitched in the same rhythm, forced to follow the cadence of his master’s bodily commands. Yet another guttural noise bled from Maedhros’s lips as the creature’s spasms provoked its channel to clench around his cock. He well knew that the orc’s reaction had nothing to do with enjoyment, a mere reaction to the violation of its body, yet that had never stopped Maedhros from taking it as what it was not.

“Pardon me,” Maedhros murmured in amusement, lacking any sincerity, “I forgot that you’d even take a dog’s cock to fulfill your sickening lust.”

Excitement of how he would proceed numbed Maedhros’s ears to everything the orc has to say in its defense, withdrawing his cock from the bleeding creature.

So cold their fingers had felt against his hole, the same coldness the orc now felt from his metallic hand; soon after it had burned, and soon the warmth of blood would chase away all coldness. They had used him often, had left him raw, bleeding and each time he had prayed to the gods who had cursed him long ago to take his life, unheard. Day after day he had cursed them, and cursed them still for not granting him his greatest wish.

The fingers in the nameless thing’s hair tightened and so violently Maedhros pulled at its head that the sharp spikes inside its collar were driven deeply into its skin. Mucus, saliva and blood dribbled down its chin, and from there down on its heaving chest, whilst Maedhros took advantage of its momentary distraction, pushing his prosthetic into the abused hole. Piercing shrieks of terror alternated with pleas and helpless whines disrupted the tranquil night, chasing away what beasts might have hidden nearby, attracted to the site by the stench of blood, yet Maedhros alone did not hear.

Only the echo of his own voice it was that he heard, as if glancing off the trees around him, snarled in that wretched tongue he so much loathed. Dark blood gushed across his golden hand, pressing deep and deeper still, ran across the scars of his forearm, soaking his chest and breeches, making his heart beat wildly in his chest. Despair and terror flooded in the creature’s veins, supplant the blood, which escaped its body here in there. By then, the rivulets had become black rivers, weakening the orc by the second. It wasn’t long before he would faint from the loss of it, Maedhros realized, a most unfortunate coincidence – a waist of glorious potential, something he wished to prevent at all costs. Quickly he withdrew his blood-stained hand, pushing in his cock again.  The pace Maedhros set was brutal, hand wrapped about the orc’s throat, pressing the collar hard against its trachea to choke it breathless until its channel relaxed. Each time, he held it a little longer, yet never long enough to kill. The orc spluttered and gagged and coughed, but still it lived that miserable life of it, no matter how bloody raw Maedhros fucked it. Amidst the vileness of his deeds a terrible form of beauty began to blossom, a maelstrom of fake illusions, and the remedy of his endless pains.

A while.

A little longer.

Maedhros thought, knowing well he was close, so very close to eternal blissfulness already, endorphins numbing each and every single pain he had ever felt. He thought about Fingon, then; about his mother, too; about a life of blessed boredom, mollycoddled by how easily everything had come to him; about the helpless feeling he had felt when his father had set the ships ablaze, Maedhros thought, driving into the screaming creature with full force. The faces of friends long dead, killed by the minions of the black foe, reflected against his close eyelids and in his ears the cheerful laughter during feasts. He even felt those clever lips upon his skin, the brazen hands, and the clumsiness he had been so ashamed of. Upon the heartwarming memories long lost to him, tears streamed down Maedhros’s scarred face and hard and harder still he thrust into the orc, trying to match its crescending squeals. And then, all of a sudden he stopped, tightening the grip about the creature’s throat, choking it until with a heartbreaking sob the last breath fled its lungs and Maedhros thrust into it one last time, shuddering and screaming the accumulated pain through gritted teeth into the nightly air. And then there was silence, the corpse lying at Maedhros’s feet where he would leave it to rot, just a voice from the other world whispering in his head like the leaves whistled above him in the wind.

 

*

Filthy strands of flaming hair clung to his face, caked with dust and blood, the reek of sweat, and sex, and terror wafting about him wherever he went. There was no way to deny that what he did made him sick – that his very being made him sick – and yet at the same time it made him feel alive again, serene calmness washing over him.

‘At last, I shall sleep and dream: of flowers, of blue sky and bright sunshine, of soft winds playing through my hair’ Maedhros thought with a faint smile, exhaustion claiming its last tribute, as he lay down besides his sleeping brother.

*

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The title is borrowed from the Persian poet Rumi.

(*) Line taken from "The Song of Achilles"

A massive thanks goes to the wonderful violinclad and Naurin-of-the-East for reading this story beforehand.