Twice He Answered by Adoraincerta

1

Read 1

They are tied together, if it could be counted as a comfort. Leather leashes and cuffs are abundant here, enough to fix their elbows and knees tightly, though their other legs are shivering on the other end of this punishment table, or whatever Annatar may call it.

Blindfolds on their eyes aren’t blessings. Freezing wind rushes through their naked legs and hips, while other parts of their now tainted bodies are carefully anointed, shining under the dim light. Burnt and exposed, their skins are covered with older and newer scars and wounds, a draft waiting to be perfected by Annatar.

Fear of uncertainty has already overwhelmed them when Annatar finally finishes his preparations, like he wholeheartedly enjoys putting his most noble but fallen prisoners in silence.

Some noise came from the corner of this room that they don’t even know how it looks like. Noise of fidgeting a basket and punishing tools it contains. Whip or cane, paddle or birch?

None of them will escape, for that Maedhros and Maglor know for sure.

Even with vigilance and tension growing inside them, the first strike Annatar takes seems too sudden to cope - correctly - with calm. An elaborately polished whip slides the thick-scented air open, like pouring alcohol on a newly-gained sword wound. Maglor clenches his teeth and prays it will be him to withstand such humiliation and vengeance in that millisecond, but only the sharp end of the whip crosses his right thigh. Maitimo, his only family left who didn’t even cry out when dealing with his worst wounds, sobs and gasps and quivers with obvious pain.

“Does it hurt?”

Smooth voice echoes in the almost empty room, and Maglor’s fear expands further. What does Annatar expect their answers to be, or is it just a vicious question to strengthen his ill enjoyment?
Maedhros replied with silence and bited lips.

“If you refuse to answer, then I shall torture someone who will, Maitimo.”

Maglor’s muscle tightens and collides with the wooden table top. He dares not glance at Maedhros but wants to scream that Annatar could try as many torments on him as possible, only if he leaves Maitimo alone.

But Maedhros breathes out, as every time he overcomes a barrier in the throat to speak, and Maglor’s hope is gone.

“Yes.”

It’s a shattered voice, still stable but edgy.

Annatar continued.

“With your memory, how could you forget the proper title, Maitimo? Answer again before my patience drains.”

Some lump in his mouth stops him from shouting, as Maedhros spits out the words.

“Yes, it hurts… my lord.”

Annatar bursts into a laugh so hysterical that Maglor’s low cry goes without Maedhros noticing.

2

Basically the same theme with the last chapter and similar warnings. Implies incest between Mae/Mag.
Bon appetit!

Read 2

“Make sure you hold your dear brother tight, Kanafinwe, or he’s only gonna get more strokes.”

Maglor’s numb heart trembles now only because of Annatar’s threat. Wearing nothing but a specifically cut gown that anyone could see through its semi-transparent fabric, he still attempts to grab Maedhros’s wrists so mildly, as it’s the only comfort he could offer now. Smooth voice doesn’t reduce how vicious Annartar intends to be, and Maglor isn’t even allowed to close his eyes and pretend he is the one who will suffer those whipping strokes, but not Maedhros, already covered by scars old and new.

“Witness how Maitimo will groan and scream for your fault, Makalaure, and is this how you address each other when you fuck each other? See, no better than us.”

Maedhros so stably places his hands above his hair on that hard and warm tabletop, though his chest rises and falls, he shows no sign of fear or indignation beyond, as they all know too well how those emotions become Annatar’s enjoyment and feed his greed. He’s naked, and any elf or man would compete and bid a high price for seeing his every wounded muscle laid and spread, for tasting his flipping eyelashes that forms a painful look, and for sharing the ecstasy that Annatar grabs to humiliate the well-shaped.

Maedhros faces down and tamely bends his back to fall on the counter of half his height, hips clung to the edge and butt high in the air. Annatar takes his time, fingers twining around yet another new cane, circling to the third round tonight. He has much patience, and Meadhros would only be more cooperative if Maglor is defeated mentally beforehand, as he tested their deadly codependency in previous experiments.

Tension in this room grows to an intolerable level for Maglor, so no surprise that Annatar’s false move - waving his whip from the place above his head and hitting it, creating an intimidating sound - startles him more. Maglor wrings his hands, almost let loose, tears swelling. He hoped, and still prays that he could escape the real torment, or just replace Maedhros in more incoming suffering, yet Annatar barely touched him.

But when the time comes, Annatar acts fast. No more verbal threats, the first stroke hits Maedhros on his left butt and sweeps through his inner thigh. Such a fatal choice, and there is no better thing to realize Meadhros’ shoulders are shaking. His position unmoved, pain only revealed by suddenly accelerated breaths, his quivering calves betray him at the end.

Maglor takes this worse, as he couldn’t bear to stand straight anymore. Biting his lips, his jaw falls and closes tightly, but when Annatar steps into his view, Maglor remembers he should count the stroke.

“…One.”

He mutters as if choked, tears continuing to accumulate at the corner of his long, half-blurred eyes. So meek as he has served Morgoth from ages ago, although Annatar isn’t the only one that knows the trick: Maedhros.

“I wish you could count more, darling, or you know what will happen.”

Maedhros will be beaten, strokes counted or not. The last wish he could rely on is releasing his pain, through stopping tears from dripping. Maglor uses his most humble voice and replies.

“Yes, master, but please punish me that deserve it for any violation of - ”

His sentence is left unfinished, and Maedhros lets out a muffled moan when the second wound crosses with the first one. It looks black and blue, but also bloody from Maglor’s perspective. So scary, that he is sure if it was him who took it, he would be screaming for pardon by now.

It is all your fault that Meadhros always takes the responsibility for you.

He tries to form an “O” of his lips and utters another count, but tears breach first. Annatar, as if able to see through his mind, smiles so evilly and adds the last annotation.

“Punishing Maedhros works so perfectly on you, dear.”