Captive by tinni

Chapter 1

Captive

Chapter 1

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The moment Morgoth released him, Fëanaro spit out the disgusting taste of Morgoth’s saliva, but this served to provoke Morgoth even more. Fëanaro’s efforts were rewarded with another slap.

“You will not spit out what I condescend to give you,” Morgoth informed him in a clipped tone. “Do you understand?”

“You do not own me,” Fëanaro answered in a sneer. “I care not about the base desire you harbour towards me. Should you attempt to force your corrupted lust on my hroä I shall see my fëa rest in Mandos,” Fëanaro assured him.

“Is that so?” exclaimed Morgoth, “What? Before that delightful oath of yours is fulfilled? Honestly, my fire spirit, you disappoint me.”

It occurred to Morgoth that perhaps he had chosen his barb poorly when an arrogant and smug smile appeared on Fëanaro’s lips.

“To disappoint you, Morgoth, I will gladly embrace the everlasting darkness. Do your worst! I fear you not,” Fëanoro sneered.

As he spoke, his eyes were lit with a fire more fierce than any Morgoth had seen before. It literally shattered the fair semblance Morgoth wore. His disguise gone, Morgoth stood above Fëanaro in all his menacing glory. His dark form towered like mountain with its head above the clouds, and his eyes held a flame that withered with heat and pierced with a deadly cold. Yet the sight of his beloved Silmarils, which had been hidden from his sight by Morgoth’s power until that moment, captured Fëanaro’s attention. In the piercing light of the Silmarils, Fëanaro saw clearly the burnt right hand of Morgoth; he laughed in scorn.

“Did you really think you could touch my creations?” he demanded of Morgoth. “Did you really think you can posses my Silmarils? Do you really think you can posses me?” he demanded.

The feeling returned to Fëanaro’s chest, yet the next instant he wished it had not. Morgoth plunged his hand into Fëanaro’s chest and grasped tight the rapidly beating heart of Fëanaro.

“Do you truly believe you can touch them still, Kinslayer?” Morgoth demanded, as he squeezed the beating organ, Fëanaro screamed in unbearable agony. “You, Fëanaro,” Morgoth sneered, “only created the casing, the light within is not your creation. You can control it not.”

“At least I can create,” Fëanaro bit out through the pain. “What have you ever wrought but mockeries and uncouth fortresses?” he demanded of the Dark Lord.

Morgoth yelled out his rage, for the words of Fëanaro stung him with their truth. He squeezed Fëanaro’s heart so hard that his screams shook the very vaults of Angband, yet the light of defiance did not leave Fëanaro’s eyes. When his voice had gone hoarse from screaming, Morgoth withdrew the hand from inside his chest.

“You have a feisty tongue, my pet,” Morgoth said. Fëanaro hissed at the degrading term but this only made Morgoth smile a malicious smile. “Perhaps we should lessen its bite.”

With quick hands he turned Fëanaro on his side, ensuring his air passage would remain clear. Then he took a Silmaril from his crown, stuffed it into Fëanaro’s mouth and gagged his mouth closed.

It burned… his Silmaril burned his mouth, his tongue. His Silmaril loved him no more and it burned. Fëanaro screamed; he screamed in his head, he screamed so loud it reverberated through out the room despite the gag. It burned… and Morgoth laughed.

“What did I tell you kinslayer? The Silmarils are yours no longer; they are mine and will do my bidding. They will destroy my enemies with the lust they will awaken in their hearts,” Morgoth said, and was taken aback by the words that came from his mouth. Yet he knew them to be the truth and his heart was glad.

“You shall be mine as well,” he whispered as he ran a possessive hand over Fëanaro’s body. “And when you give yourself to me, you will have need of your tongue,” he added in voice heavy with lust. Morgoth removed the gag and took the Silmaril out of Fëanaro’s burning mouth.

“Sleep now,” he commanded, “dream of me and all the things I will do to that delightful body of yours.”

So Fëanaro fell into a deep slumber. He dreamt the burnt hand of Morgoth was on his body and his burnt mouth was filled with the thick, pulsating column of Morgoth’s foul flesh. He dreamt the Silmarils watching his degradation at the hands of the Dark Lord like three unblinking eyes. For the briefest of moments it appeared to Fëanaro the Silmarils delighted in seeing him thus humiliated; as though what was being done to him was just punishment for spilling the innocent blood of the Teleri Mariners upon the Blessed Land of Aman. But this was just a dream… was it not?

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Morgoth returned to his throne room in mixed spirits. He had made some progress, but he did not appreciate Fëanaro’s defiance. He longed to claim the fiery Noldo, he longed to plunder his body and exploit his soul, but patience was one virtue he did possess. Yet perhaps he would not have to wait, for as soon as he entered the throne room he spied Maitimo, the eldest son of Fëanaro, struggling to free himself from the grasp of two Balrogs.

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Translation:

Fëanaro – Fëanor

Maitimo – Maedhros

Hroä – body

Fëa - soul

Author's notes: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading.

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