Dwarf-friend they call me, when they mock me - and mock me they do, my own people, when they see me with you.
'Isildur has lost his wits', I heard a healer whisper to another, 'He treats them like honoured guests, like an army, although they are barely a division in number.'
Fools! Healers, what do they know of war? A dozen dwarves is worth a brigade of men, and a brigade of them is worth an army!
Durin the Deathless, in your mithril mail, with your sword and axe you would slay a dragon all by yourself. Too bad Sauron has no dragons and what pitiful underlings he has stay cowardly behind the walls. Dragons we could deal with, you and I. Of all our leaders we are the ones most skilled with weapons, and you are my better.
Elendil my father would be more dangerous if he did not waste so much time protecting the wounded. Anarion's body is still the same as when he was a youth, he has barely the muscle to bear his armour without stumbling. And all that ridiculous gold plate makes it heavier... that dandy! Glorfindel is another such, he may have slain a balrog sometime in the dawn of time, but now I think he wastes more time plaiting his hair than honing his skills with a blade - and such an old-fashioned sword at that, it is high time he bought a new one.
And as to our elven commander, king high-and-mighty Gil-Galad, he is very skilled in avoiding the front line and leading from behind. That herald of his, Elrond, would not be too bad if only he took up a proper sword instead of that ridiculous spear of his - or should I say spears, as he breaks one every another month or so. And then we have Celeborn, Celeborn the diplomat, always talking and never saying anything worth saying. I wish he had brought his wife with him, at least the lady has some way of keeping him silent. Who knows, Galadriel might actually understand strategy...
But I'm rambling to myself again, no better than Celeborn save that I have the decency not to disturb anyone else with my ponderings.
I was thinking about you, and I should have kept to that thought, for it brings me joy instead of scorn, and joy is rare when camped in Mordor, while scorn can be found aplenty. Sometimes I feel the silent hill are holding siege to us, their shadows kill our mirth and darken our dreams. In this dark land we are forced to stay, our supply line like an umbilical cord connecting us to life, while we wait that this rocky womb would give birth to our victory. I wonder if the orcs are eating each other in that fortress, or if all the army Sauron now has consists of wraiths and spectres, shadows and nightmares, vampires and ravens. Certainly the stench that issues from that tower of night contains no wisp of smoke, no smell of life, just the cold vapours of death and decay.
But I was thinking about you. I need great concentration for that nowadays, to turn my mind away from this barren land.
I close my eyes. I wait for you in our meeting place, the council tent that is empty every night. I have managed to get some peace from my brother who still tags along after me like when we were kids.
I imagine your body in my arms, your lips on mine. There is no nonsense about you, nothing weak, nothing fancy and elvish, no pretence, you are honest. That is what I like in you. I'm not sure if what we have is love, we never use the words of love that women so appreciate. It would be ridiculous to call you my love, beloved, beautiful. Instead I call you mine and you call me yours, and when we share a bed we share a fierce battle, wrestling each other for our pleasure, binding, forcing, using each other and whether I win or lose I enjoy it.
I open my eyes as you enter the tent, or rather, to the sound of your axe dropping to the floor. I see you are drunk again, and you offer me some of that bitter dwarven draught that tastes like distilled anger. You are in no mood for talks, instead you use your most commanding tone to order me:
'Off with your clothes, boy.' I hate the word "boy" and you only use it when you are drunk. I know you want me now to behave like a dwarf pleasure-lad, a young one learning the games of men, serving so that he in turn can be served when he is older, a natural enough arrangement in a society where there are twice as many men as women.
I am offended as I prefer the times when we are equal, but as I am indeed the younger in years I obey, and I am glad that you have come into this tent instead of one of the "spearmen's tents", as your tribe calls the tents where the young soldiers sleep and do their pleasure-works.
You take me from behind, painfully. You use my mouth, my hair, you stain me. But when you finally tire I am both roused and angered, and as you are drunk it is hardly difficult for me to force my way inside you. You curse me in dwarvish and I laugh, I conquer you. I am at the height of my strength and I take you several times, and finally I have you completely at my mercy as I torture you with tender touches, you are aroused and I hold your own hands away with one hand as I slowly massage you with the other. You beg me to let go, to take you in my mouth, anything to release you from this torture. Finally the pressure in your member releases itself and again you curse me. We have a wrestling match the kind we often have, but you are weakened and I end up seated on your chest. As the winner's right I demand you take me in your mouth and so my revenge is completed.
'Call me boy, will you, grandfather?'
You no longer can curse me as your mouth is in better use.
No, this certainly is not love. This is war. And I rejoice in it.
The shadow of Barad-dur is tall and dark, it hides the sunrise and moonrise from our view. Love, I think, has no place in Mordor.
Later I will see this is not entirely correct. Love has no place in my life in Mordor, but in others' it may bloom. But I do not envy them. Sunshine and flowers are for elves and dandies. You and I, Durin V, we are warriors body and soul.
******
This I will dedicate to H, a friend who recently turned both our interests briefly towards S/M and other dark things, with no life-changing results but some strange thoughts and conversations. H alone of all who have received these dedications may actually read the story, someday. To you, then, my unprejudiced, dear, if not dearest, friend.
