Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, and everything recognizable herein, are not mine. They belong to the Tolkien Estate, and I make no claim whatsoever.
Rating/Warnings: Teen. Rated Teen for violence, torture, language, and mature themes. Seriously, if torture bothers you, do not read this.
Time frame: the twins are still quite young - in their late twenties or early thirties, I would guess. So in "human terms," mid-teens
A/N: I've argued with myself for two days now whether or not to post this. But I've finally given in to the desire to get feedback on this, so I'm posting. I realize it's not my best, it's a bit different style than I'm used to, and it's probably going to be controversial (in at least some respects), but even so, I do want to hear people's opinions. Just know that, when I wrote this, I was going through some...stuff, I suppose you could say, and suffering from writer's block, and as such, this ended up being the only thing that I was able to write.
My sincerest apologies for not having updated any of my other fics for longer than expected. Like I said, I'm suffering from some major writer's block at the moment, and I've been working on updates for a while...but I'm not pleased with them, and I don't think that they are good enough quality for my amazing readers and supporters - who deserve nothing but the best I can do. (So why am I posting this...? Again, I'm second-guessing myself...)
Anyway, as I said, feedback is welcome - as long as it's constructive. Please don't flame. Also, I really don't need a bunch of messages or reviews just telling me how the reader was angered or sickened (or whatever) by the content. Honestly, if you don't like torture, don't even read. But yeah...anyway, I hope you enjoy. And do let me know what you think...just don't rant please.
Dolor Patris
Water. Choking him, drowning him – filling his mouth and his nose and his lungs, stinging his eyes. Hands scrabbling uselessly against rough wood, as he tries in vain to pull away from the smothering blanket of liquid that clings to him, suffocating him – hands that ache and sting, although he cannot not remember why. And something holding the back of his head, shoving him down and holding him there no matter how hard he struggled and thrashed.
His face is yanked out of the basin of water by the hair – long, ebony strands plastered together with a mixture of water, sweat, and blood. He gasps, chokes on the water still streaming down his face, coughs, then retches. Only water and a faint trace of pink come up.
A single shove, sending him crashing to the floor, his naked body gleaming pale in the torchlight as water continues to stream down his face and shoulders, and drip from his hair. He is shaking, and coughing, and retching, and trying to breathe even though it still feels like he's drowning. Trying to curl up, to protect his chest and stomach, even though it hurts to simply move.
He doesn't get far before someone is grabbing his hair again, and yanking his head up off of the floor. Cold brown eyes meet his, eyes warmed only by the flickering enjoyment of seeing him whimper in pain as some of his hair is torn from his scalp. A small grin twists thin, shrew-like lips.
"Are you ready to talk now?" The voice is silky and smooth, oozing through the air like a viper. He doesn't answer, just keeps his lips pressed firmly together even though his head hurts, and his neck hurts, and his whole body hurts. "Come now," a finger trails along his cheek, running over the welts and lacerations there, "don't you want the pain to stop?" But still he doesn't answer, although whether it's stubborn pride, or the fact that, if he opens his mouth he's going to vomit again, he can't be certain.
A hard shove sends him crashing back to the floor again. He can't curl up though, for before he has the chance, he feels rough hands grabbing at his wrists and arms, hauling him upright. Then they're dragging him, but not toward the table with the basin of water on it as he had expected.
They're pushing him up against a wall, and one of them grinds his face into the stone. They pinch and poke with cruel fingers, and laugh as he squirms. They jeer and taunt, calling him a "whore's lord," and "bastard," and asking how many men he'd bedded. He doesn't answer, just closes his eyes and swallows the bile that rises in his throat as they touch him and taunt him, too weak to fight them, barely strong enough to stand.
Laughter comes as he tries to twist away again and his legs finally gave out, sending him crashing to the floor.
"Come now, it will all end if you just tell me what you want to know. Just give me the names."
He curls up into a ball, knees against the stone wall, wrapping his arms around his burning, aching chest. He struggles to breathe, ignoring the faint gasping sound that each breath makes. It will all end soon anyway – don't they know that?
"Maybe we should get one of the bastard's litter and bring him in." Cries of agreement, and more cruel laughter.
"Younger and prettier," someone else laughs. "I wonder how much it would take to make him scream."
He hasn't felt true fear since they had come at him with the red-hot poker. But now he feels a rush of panic, and it sets his blood on fire, jolting him out of the pained stupor he had lapsed into.
"No." He hadn't even meant for it to come out, but the word bursts from him before he can keep it in. His voice is hoarse and raw, and he hates the way it sounds like he is pleading. Nonetheless, he has spoken, and now they know they can use his children against him.
"So the bastard actually cares for its whelps?" The toe of a boot slams into his side as he tries to roll over, sending him crashing back to the floor, his back slamming against the wall. Another blow, this time to his chest, and then another to his stomach. He gasps and gags, feeling sick.
A hand threads through his hair, then the man with thin lips and cold brown eyes is shoving his head back against the wall. The man kneels on his chest, and then leans down until he's all but whispering in his prisoner's ear. "How long do you think it'll be until one of your whelps breaks?" the man asks, trailing a hand down his chest, digging his nails into the blistered burn sprawled across his breast. "Until he's screaming and begging for relief? Until he tells me anything I want to know?"
"No," he moans, somehow speaking through the pain of bone grating, and nails tearing into scorched flesh. "They know nothing. I swear to you, they know nothing."
The man smiles gleefully, and leans closer. "But you do," he whispers, "and if you will not give me the answers I am looking for, then I will torture your children until you do. Think how they'll scream, and how it will all be your fault. They'll beg for relief – any relief – and they'll curse you for not answering my questions."
Something rises in him – something dark and furious – and he lashes out, striking the man's nose with his forehead. He can feel the crunch of bone, and then a waterfall of blood pouring down onto his neck and chest as the man recoils, howling with pain.
He tries to stand as the weight vanishes from his chest, his strength fueled by the dark anger that courses through his body and ignites his blood. He gains his feet unsteadily, and turns to face his tormenters.
The man starts laughing, the sound high and nasal through the blood that is still coursing from his nose. "Looks like you're not as broken as I thought." The man reaches out, and his hand finds the butt of the whip that was lying forgotten on the table beside the abandoned basin of water.
He lifts his arms as he sees the whip snapping toward his chest. The braided thongs wrap around his wrists, and then the man is jerking the whip back. As it pulls free of his flesh, it feels like thousand burning, stinging nettles are being dragged from his skin. The whip leaves a thick, bleeding welt in its wake – that makes three.
Almost before he can brace himself, the whip is cracking again. Only this time, the man snaps it downward, wrapping the long coil around his legs. He staggers when the whip is torn away, very nearly falling.
But then, before the man can strike again, he's lunging forward, arms crossed in front of his chest, leaping for the man who wields the whip with murderous intent, silver eyes blazing.
The others reach him first. They grab his hair and pull him down, kicking him as he falls, hitting him with thin, willowy canes that leave angry red welts in their wake. They turn him, writhing and biting, over onto his stomach, and then they stand on his hands, and kneel on his shoulders and feet, pinning him to the cold, hard ground.
They beat him then, with fist and boot and cane and whip – beat him until he is shivering with pain and the fear of each blow. They beat him until his ribs crack, and his shoulders bleed, and he can't breathe. Then the man kneels by him, fisting his hand in his prisoner's hair, and pulling his head up so he can whisper into his ear.
"This is your last chance, bastard. Give me the names, or else I will bring in one of your whelps, and I'll do the same to them." He hesitates for just an instant, letting his words sink in. And then, "No…actually I'll do worse. I don't have to keep them intact to answer my questions, after all."
He is shaking uncontrollably, with both pain and fear. How much more can he take? Can he watch his sons be tortured on his account? No. He can take more pain of his own – although how much more, he does not know – but he knows he could not bear to watch one of his sons scream.
"Please," he begs. He begs, pleads, willing to do anything, anything to save his sons.
"I'll take them and I'll flay the very skin off of their backs," the man whispers gleefully. "Think how they'll scream."
"Please. Anything, I'll do anything…"
"Give me the names."
He is silent.
"Go bring me one of the bastard's sons," the man says, looking up at one of his underlings. Laughter, and then the lumbering footfalls of two men as they stride toward the door.
"Wait," he cries, shaking. "I'll tell you. Just…don't… Swear to me." He turns his head up, and looks at the man dead in the eye. "Swear to me, if I tell you, you will not harm my sons."
The man looks taken aback for a moment, but then he grins. "Very well. I swear that I will not harm your sons if you tell me what I wish to know."
"Swear by Tulkas."
"You are not the one to be making demands," the man hisses, losing his grin and tightening his hold on his hair.
"Swear."
The man spits a curse. "I swear by this…this Tulkas that I will not harm your sons if you tell me what I wish to know." The man shoves his head against the floor, and stands up. "Now give me the names!"
He rolls over, stifling a cry as his ravaged back touches the floor, and clutches at his chest, trying to steady his breathing. He hesitates, something in him rebelling against revealing the names and locking his jaw. But then the image of his sons emerges, and he imagines he can hear their screams. His fevered mind turns frantically.
"Artanis," he chokes out at last. Perhaps, just perhaps… Use the truth, just not the truth that he will understand. "Mithrandir."
"No!" the man screams, whirling and letting the whip that he has taken up once more strike. It takes him across the chest, flaying open the blisters on his breast. "In the Common Tongue. In Common! Or do we need to bring your whelps in after all?"
I'm sorry. "Galadriel." He chokes on his words, and they taste bitter on his tongue, like bile, even as he forces the next name out. "Gandalf." I'm so sorry. He wonders if they can even hear him, or if he's too far gone. Does he even want them to be able to hear his betrayal? "Saruman." The man is licking his lips, eyes wild and cheeks flushed with triumph. "…Me."
The man looks down on him, a cruel smile etched onto his lips. "Very good," he says, and again there's that oily, oozing, snaky note in his words. And then the man kicks him, and laughs again as his body crashes into the wall like a broken doll.
"Have your fun," the man says, and turns to his brutes.
The brutes descend on him like wolves on a lame stag as the man watches on, lounging against the far wall with his bruised and swollen nose and black eyes. He's still smiling.
They only stop when he can't scream anymore, and leave him lying there, motionless, in a pool of his blood and filth. They had been careful not to deal him a killing blow, and they had known enough of Elves not to go so far as to shed their own breeches. But they had hurt him in every other way that they could – hurt him until he screamed, and until blood ran like water down his bruised and riven skin. They cursed him when he stopped screaming and went limp, and then they let him fall to the ground with a sick thud.
"Take the bastard back to his whelps," the man orders, speaking at last. "You can have more fun with him tomorrow."
"Ada." He tries to lift his head, but he cannot seem to move at all. He's lying on his back. It hurts – everything hurts so badly he wants to scream, but he cannot seem to do that either. "Oh, Ada." There are hands touching him, but they aren't hurting him. Why aren't they hurting him?
He pries his eyes open – since when had they been shut? – and looks up. Everything is blurred dark, and somehow his head hurts even more now. He blinks, but still he cannot see – or is it that there simply is nothing for him to see? He tries to roll over, but a hand on his shoulder halts him.
"Easy, Ada. Don't move." He knows that voice. He knows that voice. But why is it shaking? It sounds as if it is crying.
"No, don't cry," he wants to say. "Hush now, I'm here. I'll protect you, I swear." But he can't. He can't even sit up.
So instead he moves his arm, despite the pain, reaching for the boy to whom the voice belongs. Fingers find his, and he clutches them tightly. Hush, he seems to say. Hush, I am here.
Another body presses against his on the other side, snuggling against him despite the blood, and filth. And despite the pain, he doesn't mind. Instead, he grits his teeth and, with the final shreds of strength that he has, settles his arm around his son's shoulders, drawing him closer. His son presses close, burying his head against his father's side, just as he had done when he was a child.
The one holding his hand lies down as well, snuggling close, like his brother. They are both shaking, and he suspects that they are both crying now.
"Do not worry, Ada," one of them says, through his trembling and his tears. "We'll save you."
"We won't let them hurt you again," the other finishes, voice shaking with the vehemence of his determination.
"Hush." His voice is hoarse, and barely audible, and it hurts to speak – like a thousand blunt knives being drawn across his vocal cords. But he speaks nevertheless. "You do not know what you are saying," he wants to tell them. "It is not your place to protect me, but mine to protect you." But he does not. Instead, he only says, "Sleep, my sons. I've got you."
He can feel that they relax at hearing his voice, even though their trembling – and their sobs – increase, and although it hurts as they turn to him, he says nothing. Only pulls them even closer. "I love you," he whispers.
And then he begins to weep.
Too young, he thinks. They are too young for this. Please, he pleads, praying to whoever is listening, let them be rescued. I will die for them – please, let me die for them, if that is what you ask. But please, I beg, save my sons.
A soft whisper brushes against his mind, twining with his thoughts. For an instant his pain vanishes, replaced instead with the soft trickle of water and a ray of light as bright as the sun and moon. But then it is gone as quickly as it came, leaving only the darkness and the pain in its wake.