Category: Tolkien-Universe
Rating: M
Couples: -
Warnings: AU, blood, mentions of torture, character death, Loss of bodily autonomy (no Non-con)
Chapter: 21
Copyright: Characters & places © By Tolkien Estate, Plot & OC´s © by me
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"Tsch..." Finarfin hissed softly, trying to keep his muscles from tensing. It would just make the pain worse.
"Should have kept your mouth shut." Mairon mused, sitting beside him, slowly driving another needle into his flesh. It was not so deep it'd do permanent damage, or scar, but the alcohol and saltwater they had been disinfected with burned.
"Yes, Master." He clenched his fists, but put no pressure on his arms, as the hooks inside his bracelets would tear into his flesh if he did.
The sun was setting outside, the sky as red as the drops of blood running down his exposed skin. Down below, he could still hear his nephews work on their crafts.
"Unfortunate for you, that the village had truly done their due to pay their taxes." And at the threat of having been misunderstood, they had even send extra after the four adult wolves had done their duty and visited the village.
They had send the second son of the chieftain of their village, as were-gild and assurance. The boy was young still, and had been put under the tutelage of the priest in the riverside hamlet across from the mansion. He'd become a priest as well, the first to be trained from youth.
"No smart comment now?" He ground his teeth when a needle sank almost to the bone of his hip, close to the wound that had brought the Silmarils out of Angband.
"No, Master." He whispered it, having know from the moment he decided to open his mouth that this might be his fate for the act.
"I suppose you can learn, after all." The Maia hummed, rising from his chair to walk around his elf. "Perhaps I should have done this to you in front of Fingolfin, then things might have gone better, don't you think?"
He was unsure if it was a trap, a rhetorical question that he was not allowed to answer. He choose to do so anyway. "Or might have made it worse, Master."
He learned it was a rhetorical question when the next two needles followed one another in rapid succession. He could not quite suppress his yelp of pain.
"There's hardly worse it could have gone." The Lord of the South snarled in anger, pulling his head back sharply. He fought against that, terrified what would happen to his wrists if he'd end up putting his full weight on them. "Only four wolves, Verloren. I lost twenty wolves over that accursed brother of yours. It is my appreciation of you that kept me from burning your skin off while you were alive in front of him for that one."
"Mairon..." Finu's golden son could not quite keep the tears from forming in his eyes. He couldn't reach the chains, and could feel the hooks start digging into his wrists.
With black curse, he was pushed upright so hard he nearly overbalanced and fell. He hunched down a bit, breathing in soft gasps.
The once Lieutenant of Angband, the only red head in a several-hundred mile-radius was trembling in some potent mixture of emotions.
"Mairon." The once King of the Noldor in Beleriand straightened out, stepping a bit closer - at least as far as his chains would allow.
"IJzer!" At once the clanging in the small forge stopped and from there it was only a few more moments he heard naked feet on the smooth stone of the building.
"Master?" There was a small pauze in the word, no doubt when Curufin had caught sight of his uncle.
"Get him to the dungeon." Their Master did not even give him the chance to answer, instead sweeping from the floor and - if the cloud of darkness and fire outside was indicative - the entire building.
"Uncle?"
"Do as he says." Finarfin whispered, looking over his shoulder at the young elf.
"Should I...?" He couldn't quite see what the smith pointed at, but he could guess. Before he could make a move to answer, his nephew clearly made his own decision. "Hold still."
"Are you prepared for if you choose wrong?" He couldn't help but ask, sucking in air sharply as the needles were pulled out gingerly.
"Yes. And Moryo will agree with me." Fëanor's fifth son whispered softly, working quickly. There was little he could say to that, so he just made sure to move as little as possible.
"You should be more careful." The more muscled of the three elves gently opened the chains immobilizing him, fingers trailing over some blood from his wrists.
"Easier said than done." The golden valet of the Lord flexed his fingers, finding to his relief that they still moved properly. "Let's have that discussion when we're not liable to get you in trouble because it's taking to long, yes?"
"Right." Neither of them had a clue how long their Master would stay gone, but if Finarfin was still outside of the dungeon by that point...? Well, it'd be no fun for anyone. "Can you walk?"
"Yes."