Category: Tolkien-Universe
Rating: M
Couples: -
Warnings: AU, blood, mentions of torture, character death, Loss of bodily autonomy (no Non-con)
Chapter: 40
Copyright: Characters & places © By Tolkien Estate, Plot & OC´s © by me
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He was stretched out on the rack in the small dungeon, arms sore from the position they'd been in for a good few hours.
Of course, they were overshadowed by his back, where he'd gotten a new artwork. Laurelin had been carved into his flesh, to match his brother's skin-tapestry of Telperion.
"Oh little IJzer..." Gorthaur entered the dungeon, still alone. He wondered what had happened to his uncle. "You forgot to mention that you told Fëanor's thirdborn that they should ask for Schilder. I am disappointed."
There was no safe answer, even he knew it. Not if he wanted the relief in his heart to be obvious. That they had asked had to have meant they'd been able to offer a price worthy. Moryo was safe, his brother was safe.
He hissed, back arching when the saltwater came into his open wound. The Maia claimed it was for disinfection, but he'd eat his own leg if it wasn't also for the pain.
"I was too kind to you... or perhaps them, to let them shield you so much." The Master of the region murmured, fingernails dragging along the open wounds. "No more. I doubt your kin will ever be able to think of another price for either you or Verloren. I will break you."
Curufin desperately wanted to ask what they'd managed to scrounge up for even just Caranthir, but he didn't want to risk more anger.
"I will break you... and them, for being so annoying." He wouldn't hurt them, he wouldn't dare... surely? "I wonder... did I ever tell Verloren what I promised his brother I'd do if ousted from Tol Sirion?"
"He never said, Master." There was only so much silence he could risk, before punishment became due on account of ignoring Gorthaur.
"I suppose he would have brought it up, had I done so. I promised Fingolfin a battalion of orcs as bedmates to his golden brother." The redhead mused, nails dipping to his hips. He chuckled when feeling the slight shiver the elf could not suppress on time. "He will have to make due with a nephew."
"What!?" He recoiled, rattling the chains and nearly hurting his wrists.
"Well, I can't punish you with Schilder anymore, can't I?" Angband's former Lieutenant purred, sharp nails digging into his scalp. "And you are not as invested in Verloren as you are in your brother. So this it'll be... once you've healed."
"No." They had dodged that very well now, and he was not about to participate in ending about the only good streak they'd had during their captivity.
"Then it'll be the Secondborn. I've seen enough of them desperately want a turn on my personal bed-warmer." He stated it like it was nothing, like he was discussing dinner rather than...
Curufin made a strangled noise in answer.
"You'll have a few days to think it over, IJzer. Either it's you, or it's half a dozen Secondborn. You know he won't do anything against it either way." He knew that very well indeed. Gorthaur would only need to insinuate that if it was not his uncle, it'd be him and his uncle would be a willing... willing... "Come now, you're the only one of Fëanor's kids to give him a grandchild. You can't tell me you don't know how to do it."
He fought against his desire to curse or struggle, as that might just end up with both things happening regardless of his choice.
"Master?" Thuringwethil's voice floated from inside the corridor leading to the dungeon. "A trader has come for an audience."
"I don't have my valet, Thuri..." Despite his complaint, his tormentor left him hanging in the chains. In worse pain than he'd been just a few minutes ago.