Category: Tolkien-Universe

Rating: M

Couples: -

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

Chapter: Prologue

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

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They were pieces of art, the Eldar Gorthaur had taken when he fled Beleriand. And each of them was decorated in a different artstyle and -mode.

Not for the first time did he consider he'd have loved learning of these in consensual circumstances. The thought of putting paint under someone's skin so it became the canvas had never occurred to him, but it was intriguing. He might even have gotten some himself, if he'd learned about it in the North.

Of course, the fact that he had not been consulted on the matter soured the experience a great deal.

"Are you sure it's wise to get distracted?" His Master's voice purred behind him, long fingers sinking into his black hair, tugging on the hooked circlet briefly, letting it catch on his skin. Unlike his uncle, the burnished copper circlet and the shackles were the only metal decorations he had... usually.

He could not suppress the brief shiver at the pain, but did not move aside from that. He had learned.

He also knew there was no safe answer to the question, as both denial and agreement resulted in punishments for either him or the others, depending on how well Finarfin had been at tempering their Master's temper that day.

"Is it wise to remain silent?" Ah, a poor day, clearly.

"Forgive me, Master." He did not resist when the fingers tightened, nails sinking into his flesh, though tears shot in his eyes at the pain.

"Show me your work." He obediently raised the tapestry he was working on, embroidering the details of the scene. He smoothed it out, tilting it to the light better. He no longer flinched at the snake skin-tapestry winding around his left arm, two fangs descending down his pointer and middle-fingers. That too, he had learned. "Very well, I suppose you did do enough to allowed a small break."

"Thank you for your kindness, Master." He did not move the tapestry, nor himself, even as the hands slid down to part his hair. A ripple of goosebumps traveled down his back at the light and intimate touch, but at least the Lord of this fortress did not punish them for those kinds of reactions.

"Stand." He was stiff from sitting for hours without a break, but did his best to rise as smoothly and elegantly as possible. He was a work of art, he had to act the part of it as well. He lowered his own work back onto the table, standing in the position his Master wanted. "I am thinking about adding something here..." The Maia had to be gesturing, because he didn't feel anything anywhere. He wished he could turn around, or open his mind for ósanwë to ask his uncle. He could not risk either. "What do you say, Noldor King?"

"It is the largest bit on him." Finarfin evenly answered. Caranthir supposed his uncle might have it worse, being forced to spend his entire time at Gorthaur's side as his valet, while he only had to do it a short while each day, when Angband's former Lieutenant came to check his progress. Well, usually... by the sound of it, he'd soon have some more time. He was not looking forward to it.

"That, certainly." Now he felt a nail on his back, tracing some unseen image. "Yes, I think it's time. You have learned to be obedient, haven't you, Dark Finwë? I don't need to worry a whipping will ruin my art, do I?"

"Yes, Master. No, Master." He used the fact he was facing the wrong way to close his eyes briefly at the prospect. It was almost a joke, as he had only been whipped once here. He would certainly prefer whippings or the like, rather than what Gorthaur usually did for his punishments.

"Good little Fëanor-spawn, aren't you? I wish your brother had been like you." His back grew warm as the Maia leaned in, growing increasingly heated, literally and figuratively. "I wish your uncle had been like you."

He hated Fingolfin, hated him so much... Almost as much as his father, on the bad days.

"You'll finish this tapestry first though, I want that hanging up before you have to convalesce." The small mercy, that since they were works of art, they were allowed to heal for the most part to keep from becoming permanently damaged pieces of arts.

"Yes, Master." He heard the two behind him leave the room again, as he looked down on the tapestry in question. It depicted Finarfin in chains, strung up like a chandelier, trickles of blood where the metals had cut into his skin.