Captive by tinni

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Chapter 2

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Captive

Chapter 2

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How did one measure time in the land of eternal stars? He did not know, more than likely by watching the passage of constellations across the sky. He wished he had paid attention to such things during his journey on the ship, but it was too late to think of such things now. Not that Fëanaro particularly cared about time anymore; all he really wanted to know was how long Morgoth had left him to dream the recurring dream of being taken, brutally and mercilessly by the foul mistake. How was it that Eru, the All Father, could make the mistake of creating Morgoth? Was he not supposed to know all that was to befall? Should he not have known what evil Morgoth would work? So why did he let him be born?

All themes have their uttermost origin in Eru spoke a voice in his head, a memory of the dim past, when the Trees still shone. Who was that?

“Atarinya” Fëanaro cried out, recognizing the voice.

A horrible thought occurred to him in that instant. What if? What if Finwë had seen all he had done to extract vengeance for his death? What if he had seen the kinslaying on the shores of Aman in the tapestries of Vairë? What would he think? Would he understand Fëanaro’s thoughts as he sat outside the walls of Olwë’s city? Or would he agree with Mandos and condemn him as well? He did not know, but he certainly cared what his father might be thinking of him. The whole of Eä could think ill of him, he did not care, but Fëanaro could not bear it if his father thought ill of him.

The voice of Finwë continued. Even the theme of evil has its uttermost origin in Eru, but while evil is part of the whole, it does not control the whole. It can never control the whole, for it is the will of Eru that evil should be rejected and for the most part the creations of Eru do just that. But those who do not reject evil…

The words cut off as Fëanaro was again treated to a vision of himself being taken by Morgoth. His stomach lurched, his fëa recoiled in horror, his hroä reacted once again to the supposed violation, so vivid were the visions that plagued him. Dishonoured and debased, Fëanaro wondered why his fëa had not fled his hroä and sought refuge in the halls of Mandos, or even… even the everlasting darkness.

“Because,” the deep ominous voice of Morgoth cut into his thoughts, “I won’t let you.” Fëanor screamed in despairing agony.

***

It is said that Elves do not feel the cold, but apparently there was a limit to their tolerance. The cold of the Helcaraxë was too much for the hardiest of the Noldor race, even Findekáno the valiant.

He could not remember what is was like to have a body that did not shiver, hands that did not shake, or a mind that did not despair. In this he was not much different from any other of his people. No, that was a lie. Findekáno had a cause for despair the others did not. No, it was not because he and his followers were also guilty of spilling the blood of their kin. It was that after all that had happened, his heart still beat foremost for the eldest son of Fëanaro. Findekáno bit his lip hard to stop himself from uttering his name. He was too close to too many people. They would not understand, not now, not when hate for Fëanaro and his sons was all that sustained more than half his people through the bitter cold of this frozen wasteland.

Hate however did not sustain him. Love did. Albeit it was love for a traitor and a kinslayer, but it was the only thing that would keep him warm in this desolate place. The memory of Maitimo’s love also gave urgency to his steps. He felt as if his cousin, his friend, his lover needed him… wanted him and never in his whole life had he not been able to give Maitimo what he wanted… what he needed. He would not start now.

***

“I always knew your fire was great and grand,” whispered Morgoth into Fëanaro’s ears as he licked and kissed them with the soft supple lips of his fair form. “But never did I imagine it could be this strong,” he admitted. “You resist the spell that keeps your hroä and fëa bound together and it weakens everyday. You really are trying to disappoint me by embracing death.”

Fëanaro continued to struggle against Morgoth’s relentless grasp. “Did you truly believe you could get me to submit to you?” he demanded. “You are more foolish than I thought,” he sneered. To his great alarm, Morgoth only laughed.

“Oh, you will submit to me. In fact, you will beg to submit to me,” he assured him. “Do you know why?” Morgoth wondered detachedly.

It was Fëanaro turn to laugh. “If you think I will succumb to physical torture than you are sadly mistaken. The perverted images you tormented me with will remain just that, perverted images. They will never become memories.”

Once again Morgoth laughed. “Oh, I know that no instrument of torture will work on you, but I am not so sure about your son,” he said, and Fëanaro’s blood ran cold.

The room began to shift and change, or was that only a trick of his mind? He did not know, he did not care; all he cared about was the sight that greeted him when the room stopped shifting, the room stopped changing. On the other side of the room his eldest son, Nelyafinwë, was strung up by his hands and feet; eyes closed but acutely conscious, stretched to the utter most edge of endurance of his body. By the light of the Silmarils Fëanaro saw the unnumbered scars that marred Nelyafinwë’s once smooth and flawless skin. His well-formed body had been disfigured, with chunks of flesh missing, not that he had much flesh left. He was mostly skin and bones, his thick flaming red hair, so like and unlike his mother’s, in tatters. Fëanaro could hardly recognise him, yet recognise him he did and all he could do was stare.

“Sauron,” Morgoth called in a singsong voice, “I think young Maitimo…” the mockery in his voice was all to clear when he used Nelyafinwë’s mother-name, afterall he was not exactly well-formed right now, “…has already grown into the extra four inches you added to his height. Perhaps it is time we stretched him a bit more.”

A tall, shadowy, vaguely elvish figure moved towards the iron wheel near the feet of Maitimo. Slowly, taking as much care as Fëanaro did with his gems, Sauron took hold of the wheel and turned. Maitimo screamed; he screamed so loud it echoed through the depth and breadth of Angband, he howled so high that the very vaults of the Iron Hell rang, and he cried out the name of the one he loved more than life itself… he cried out for Findekáno.

Fëanaro could feel Morgoth’s lips curl up in a cruel smile.

“Did you know your son and your nephew were lovers?” he wondered as the name of Findekáno was ripped from the throat of Nelyafinwë once more. “I did,” he whispered in Fëanaro’s ears.

Fëanaro kept his eyes fixed on the naked form of his son slowly being stretched on the rack by the boot licker... suddenly Fëanaro felt his heart constrict.

“I would appreciate it if you did not refer to my faithful servant as a boot licker. Good help is hard to find these days and I really don’t want to have do anything rash,” Morgoth whispered into his ears. “But you have not answered my question, did you know they were lover?” he demanded.

Fëanaro felt sharp jabs in his head, as if someone was trying to probe the deep recesses of his mind. For a while he resisted, but at last the pain became unbearable as Morgoth's prodding became more demanding. 

“Yes!” Fëanaro cried out. “I knew, his brothers knew… even my dim-witted half-brother knew. It was so obvious, it was written in their eyes and in their faces. We just...” 
 
“Ignored it. Hoped they would grow out of it. Tell me, Fëanaro, did you not bring Findekáno to Middle Earth because you hoped to end this... taint?” wondered Morgoth.

Fëanaro nodded, Morgoth laughed. “How does it feel, my Fëanaro, to know that you failed? That he is still in love with his *male* cousin, that in moments of respite he dreams of his hands all over his body, your nephew’s mouth on his...” his words were drowned by a loud cry from Maitimo. 
 
“STOP!” cried Fëanaro. “I’ll do anything, just stop hurting him.” 
 
Morgoth’s smile broadened. “Anything?”

******

Translation:

Fëa –soul

Hroä – body

Atarinya – father in Quendi

Maitimo – Maedhros’ mother-name, it means well-formed

Fëanaro- Fëanor

Findekáno – Fingon

Nelyafinwë – Maedhros’ father-name

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

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