Chapter Text
It is a stupid mistake.
“Come to the bedroom with me, love?” he hears behind him, and he knows Fingon’s voice when he hears it, and it is not of course as though anyone else in the camp would call him ‘love’. But he has been studying this map and these documents for what seems hours, absorbed as he attempted to reconcile them, and - “in a minute” - comes out of him as what must be automatic response, reaction somewhere below thought. And, before he has time for thought, hands are suddenly on him, he is physically lifted up, held as though even all the weight he has recovered back from Angband matters little at all, and being moved, carried away from the table -
It is an inexcusable mistake. He knows Fingon’s hands as he knows Fingon’s voice, knows the touch of his body, knows how unthinkable it should be to draw connection, any, between his dark tormentors and his rescuer to whom he owes all. But at the feel of the hands on him, the air under him, he still does not think, he still does not act rightly though it is his second chance in less than minutes. He feels them, and suddenly all that his mind and body produces is blind response, and he struggles, fights, fights to be free, to be put down again -
He is put down. Almost dropped, really, the same hands all that keeps him on his feet. For a moment, before he is shoved into the wall, slammed against stone, his face ground into it by a grip suddenly in his hair.
And now he thinks. Now he puts voice and words and hands together, and it is stupid, it is inexcusable - “I’m sorry - I’m so sorry - please.” The grip takes him back from the wall only to slam him forward again, the breath forced out of his lungs cutting of his words.
“I should have known,” the voice says, in his ear now. “that your promises still meant nothing to you. That ‘anything’ might as well mean ‘nothing’ when Maedhros Feanorian says it.” He tries to shake his head and can’t do it, cheek still ground into the stone.
“No, no - I meant, it, I swear, I mean it, it was a mistake, I’m sorry, I swear - ”
His legs are kicked farther apart, Fingon’s grip still keeping him from falling.
“You are very fortunate that I am feeling too merciful today to take you right here.” The hand leaves his hair so another can press between his legs, and he can’t hold back a whimper - he is sore today, from Fingon’s lesson the night before. A lesson, it seems, he has forgotten far too quickly. “Remind you you’re mine in the room where you sat at a table with our scrolls while we walked across the Ice.” The hand is in his hair again, and he tries to nod and succeeds at it, scraping his cheek and a painful tug on his scalp but -
“Yes. Please, I’m sorry, yes, Fingon, my lord prince, I will never deserve you, I will never deserve your forgiveness, I’m sorry, I’m yours, I’ll always be yours -” (He has been called eloquent by many - in Valinor and even since, heir to his father in rhetoric, in conferences and speeches and formal ceremonies. He does not find himself eloquent here.)
He breathes as the unforgiving grip loosens by a fraction. “Perhaps something can still be made of you.” He starts to nod again - “Yes -” only to feel it tighten harder than before, to be slammed forward yet again.
“Don’t talk. You are not going to say one more word to me until we are in my bedroom, and then you are going to kiss my shoes and suggest to me what punishment is appropriate for your behavior today. Perhaps that and a night of kneeling by my bed and thinking on your loyalty will teach you not to forget it.”
He does not, this time, forget. He nods in silence when the grip releases him, does not turn from the wall until a hard push in a new direction lets him know he has been given leave. He turns in time to see Fingon stride out of the room without another look at him.
He straightens his robes and smooths his hair - there may be others in the hall, and not all might understand his duty, as he does.
He follows.