Category: Tolkien-Universe

Rating: M

Couples: -

Warnings: AU, blood, mentions of torture, character death, Loss of bodily autonomy (no Non-con)

Chapter: 15

Copyright: Characters & places © By Tolkien Estate, Plot & OC´s © by me

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Curufin slipped into the side-room that was their bedroom - for all that it was open to the rest of the floor save a low wall. Their Master wanted to be able to look inside at a glance, after all.

Caranthir was on the middle bed, usually their uncle's, resting on his chest. The new skin-tapestry was still an angry red, but it didn't look like it was the red of infection, just the red of irritated skin.

Finarfin was with their Master, out in some fields at some outlying settlement. Between their uncle's personal skill and power, and the Maia's raw reserves, they were forcing the surrounding lands to slowly but surely turn fertile and green.

It gave the sons of Fëanor some time off, even if it usually came at a price as well. There was the worry that they'd find a way to subvert their Oath, and manage to escape somehow, so at least one of them would be rendered poorly-mobile.

"Big brother?" It were about the only times they could speak any form of Elvish out loud, as barring some quick words here or there they managed to squeeze in, they had to speak the tongue of the Secondborn they lived amongst. The wolves didn't snitch about those kind of things.

"Mmh...?" The other black-haired elf peeled his eyes open, blearily looking at his sibling.

"I have some food." The House was always emptied of the Secondborn servants, whenever the Lord was not in residence, leaving only the elves to attend to its' maintenance and the care of what wolves remained behind. The youngest of the three moved the tray briefly to draw attention to it. It was the basic dish of these lands, with some herb-infused water for drink. Grapes had not yet made their way down this far south, so wine was a fond memory at the moment.

The Weaver groaned as he pushed himself up gingerly, trying to move his back as little as possible as he did so. "Thanks."

While his brother ate, the Smith slid behind him, checking the still-healing skin to make sure it was truly not infected anywhere. It was not, thank Eru. He reached for the pot of cream, slowly and gently applying it over the white form of Telperion now on his sibling's back.

"How's yours?" Caranthir softly asked, hunched a bit with the clay bowl in one hand.

"It's fine." He had been the victim last time a field needed some Songs sung over it, his stomach being scarred to go along with the wolf's head and geometric patterns on his shoulders. "Just a bit tight, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

"Good." The once-Lord of Thargelion raised his hand to his cheek, where the skin-tapestry of a gem marred his cheek.

The once-Lord of Himlad moved to sit beside him, feeling the slight pull of his own gem-shaped scar when he frowned. "It's alright, Moryo. It's just some scarring. Nothing new." He absentmindedly traced the scars on his shoulders. At least his decorations would fade over time, which he wasn't so sure would be the case of the skin-tapestries.

"I should be keeping you safe." The third Son of Fëanor whispered softly, looking over at him.

"Hey, you're doing it." It was perhaps the cruelest thing of their time here; they themselves hardly suffered for any faults - made-up or true - as their Master leveraged their love for one another against them. The fourth Son of Fëanor looked down on the slender fingers around the bowl. He could vividly remember the hammer-swing that had broken two of them, and dislocated a third. He had resisted his first decoration, and Moryo had nearly lost his craft over it.

Only some quick backpedaling and pleaded apologies that made it so that their uncle had been allowed to treat the injury. Moryo had been perhaps the most obedient of the two of them, keeping his famed temper in check since he learned Curufin would be the one to suffer if he did not.

"I should have made sure you could've followed Tyelpe."

"And left you alone against him?" He countered, carefully leaning against the other elf. "He'd have killed you... and then uncle would have died, and who knows what he'd have done to your city if he didn't get any of us? I'm just glad that Tyelpe managed to get away."

"At least he got away." The other elf sighed in agreement. "At least the others are safe."

"At least that." They sunk into silence, until horns sounded in the distance. "Oh."

"They're coming back." Caranthir forced himself to get up fully, moving slowly. "We have to greet him."

"Yes." They joined hands, following the wolves down to the front-door of the mansion. Looking out the massive openings, they could see the boat come up the river. "How bad do you think uncle is this time?"

"I hope not too bad." Biting his lip, his brother bowed and he followed his lead. He could understand the sentiment, not only for their Finarfin's sake, but because he couldn't carry him easily on his own, certainly not at the speed their Master would want. He send a small prayed to Eru when seeing two bare feet in his field of view.

"Master." Both greeted the Maia demurely.

"Your back?"

"Almost well again, Master, thank you for your care." The copper-decorated Finweon whispered, trembling at the pain of the stretch from his skin.

"Good. I have a thing you must make."

"Yes, Master."