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A choice that is not really a choice, and that is the beauty in it, Mairon muses, fingers tapping idly at the arms of his throne. From his place high above the floor of this tower, he watches as Finrod Felagund, that dear, foolish, noble-hearted king whose devotion brought him to doom, looks between his followers and Mairon himself, anguish wrought as bright as the Flame Imperishable on his fair face.
Kneel to me, and I will spare your friends torment, Mairon said, when at last their battle of songs was ended. I will master you either way; you may as well redeem them.
'He lies!' cries one of Elves, reaching out to clasp Felagund's hand: pitiful, pathetic, imploring. Yet he is one whom Felagund would save, Mairon knows; for such kings are kinder than their fates, and nobler than their deaths. 'You will win nothing with your surrender. Better to die than to live a slave!'
'Death would be kinder,' murmurs Felagund, as fair in despair as in fury, 'but fate is not kind.' He pulls the other Elf close to him, presses their foreheads together with a tenderness that makes Mairon think, lover, something hot and angry sparking within him. 'I have sworn, and not lightly; forgive me for what I must do.'
Such kings are kinder than their fates, and nobler than their deaths; and either way, Finrod is fair.
'Come now, king, what will it be?' Mairon mocks, reclining in his seat as if this is no more than a spectacle he tires of quickly.
Felagund's mouth twists; he shakes his head and smiles mirthlessly, his eyes bright with a sharp mixture of rage and grief that tells Mairon that he has aimed well his taunts. 'Call me a king no more,' he says at last, bowing his head; he kneels, and Mairon knows that he is conquered. 'My lord.'
And so, arrayed in sheer silks of crimson and gold, Nargothrond's once-proud once-king kneels now at Mairon's feet, by the black throne of the white tower he once ruled himself, and Mairon smiles. Letting his hand drift with his thoughts, he threads his fingers through Finrod's hair, as soft and as bright as the light of Laurelin, and then he tightens his grip, wrenching Finrod's head up. Gold glows at his throat, heavy and bold; as Mairon traces a finger down the front of the collar, he feels the heat it radiates: the caged power, the shackled fire that once ran hot in Finrod's blood.
For he too is of the house of Finwë in all its glory, fair and fell; and this Mairon remembers when Finrod dares to meet his eyes, unconcealed contempt blazing in his gaze, as the fiercest, most vicious tide rising from the emerald sea.
Mairon backhands him hard across the face. Blood stains his lip, trickles from the corner of his mouth, the same colour as the chiffon that covers less than it accentuates the fine lines and graceful curves of his body.
Is he fairer marred or unmarred?
'You forget yourself,' Mairon says, hooking a finger in the loop at the front of the collar. 'Perhaps I should have your friends brought in to remind you of your part.'
For now, Finrod yields, lowering his gaze, though Mairon sees his jaw clench when one Orc-captain shouts some filthy taunt at him—so he has learned the language, or enough of it—and for now, Mairon grants him mercy.
A gentle tug at the collar, and Finrod murmurs, 'Thank you, my lord.' His voice is steady, if a little choked, with rage or with despair: either way, he is fair.
Yet for all that Mairon enjoys displaying his pretty Elven pet, as much to lend awe to the fear his captains have for him as to remind Findaráto of his place—for as fair as he is in submission, head bowed, lips soft and demure against the ring of power Mairon wears, his spirit still burns bright—Mairon does not like to share. His alone is the shame, the pleasure, the anguish, and the devotion he wrings, forces, wins from the lovely creature that kneels at a touch to the shoulder, begs so sweetly at just a word, weeps and clings and yields at Mairon's attentions.
'Your people were right to name you fairest,' Mairon whispers to him, brushing gentle fingers over Findaráto's temple and through his hair in a mockery of love. 'Perhaps Findekáno is fiercer; perhaps Makalaurë is mightier among the singers. But thou, my songbird, thou art fairer than even thy flame-haired, fire-defiant cousin.' Smiling cruelly, rocking tenderly against the place he knows will make Findaráto tremble with dreaded need, Mairon savours in the exquisite press of his pliant body, the tortured, hated desire in his moan.
If Findaráto breaks, it will be through self-loathing of his own making; and if he does not, Mairon will still take pleasure in the meek obedience he presents to save his followers. For now they live, for Mairon wonders yet at their purpose.
Eleven Elves, and one Man, given to doom: a mighty Elf-king abasing himself to protect a wretched vassal's short, miserable life. A waste, thinks Mairon, but hardly so when its fruit is so sweet.
He withdraws, relishing in the needy whine that Findaráto cannot suppress, the desperate arch of his body and the twitch of his bound hands towards Mairon, and the shame that follows. Findaráto refuses to look at him, Elven as he is; he clings still to the vestiges of pride, king as he once was.
'Look at me,' orders Mairon, almost quietly enough that it might be mistaken as a request. But he, Gorthaur the Cruel, lord of this tower and right hand of Melkor, does not make requests; and when Findaráto looks still to the damask canopy of the bed and dares even to shut his eyes, Mairon smiles.
Felagund will not be moved by pain, he knows, stroking along the soft inside of one creamy thigh, watching as Findaráto flinches—that will have to be an experiment for later, of the fine line between rapture and torture—and so Mairon murmurs, 'The soldier. Your captain.'
Findaráto tenses. His breath catches; he holds it as if fearing that it contains the words on Mairon's tongue.
'Who is he to you?' Mairon presses, still stroking, still gentle, and Findaráto's legs part a little more. For fear or for desire; either way, he is fair.
'Please,' Findaráto whispers, barely audible, and how he holds the words back reveals more than anything else could.
'More than a mere soldier,' muses Mairon, skating the nails of his fingers over Findaráto's hip. 'A friend.' Findaráto's eyes open, the anguish of the emerald sea meeting Mairon's gaze as if that will stop the questioning. Yet had Findaráto wanted that, he should have obeyed earlier. 'A lover.'
The devastation is instant. It is beautiful; for even a king may be brought low by love. The fire in Findaráto's eyes roars and breaks as his spirit writhes in its lovely anguish until only glassy despair remains. Mairon thinks that he could carve gems from that broken gaze, brighter than the finest emerald and more expressive than the most polished sapphire.
'Beg,' Mairon orders softly, and this time Findaráto obeys, arching towards him to display the gentle dip of his waist, the sharpness of his hips, the enchained strength of his bound arms. He tips his head to the side, offering Mairon the vulnerable curve of his throat above the collar; spreads his legs with a wanton neediness that belies the dread in his eyes.
True, that Mairon could easily take from Findaráto what he wanted, for the collar binds his power as the shackles bind his hands. But it is so much sweeter, so much more satisfying to watch Findaráto plead the only way he knows how, attempt to bargain with the only thing of value he possesses: his body.
Findaráto must hate himself. But if only, if only he could see how pretty a picture he makes, bending his body to Mairon’s will in this foolish effort to save his friends.
For he is fair, and Mairon has an eye for beauty; and it is always sweeter to see a treasure yielded up than to seize it by force.
'Mairon,' whispers Findaráto. When he uses Mairon's name, it is a plea for mercy, a plea made to a kinder soul, one that is but the faint smoke of memory curling from Valinor's forges.
'What are you willing to give?'
Findaráto's eyes close, open again, a well of despair glimmering in his eyes. If the Sea mourns, she must do so in Findaráto's eyes, for there is no spirit more expressive, no soul more determined to love and lose.
'Anything.' He trembles, and Mairon thinks of how the most minute shift within him would make him shiver; his breath comes shallow and uneven, and Mairon thinks of how he would moan.
Softly, Mairon kisses him, covering Findaráto’s mouth with his own. Give me your hope, your love, and your fear; your loyalty that has led you here and lain you upon a bed of forbidden desires and lies.
Fiercely, Findaráto kisses back, moaning when Mairon slides a hand between them to stroke him. So sensitive, so responsive, so satisfying to toy with and leave wanting, enough so that he abases himself and begs. I hate you; I want you; I hate that I want you. I need you, Findaráto’s spirit screams, blazing and dimming as the grieving Sea dashing her tears on the shore, even as his body bucks up to meet Mairon’s touch.
A play is like a windowpane; it lets light shine on the soul.
Hail, Felagund, chosen lover to poetry, betrothed to fate.
'Anything,' Mairon repeats, amused, lets his fingertips glow with forge-bright heat as they dance, flamelike, over the dip and jut of Findaráto's collarbone; and marvels when Findaráto moans, hips twitching against nothing. Again Mairon's fingers sweep over Findaráto's perfect skin, marked and marred, dipping into the hollow of his throat, brushing up the side of his throat to lay fire over his pulse. A bead of pearly fluid leaks from the head of Findaráto's cock, and he throws his head back, begging for more.
He is a prize, this one: begging to be ravished as Maitimo never did; begging to be broken and mastered and bent to Mairon's will, once and over again; begging for the fire to use him, abuse him, consume him.
Fear makes people do terrible things. Love makes them do worse.
Abandoning the questions he began, Mairon moves to settle between Findaráto’s spread legs, sinks two fingers into him where he is already slick and open from earlier. The heat of his hands Mairon has cooled, but his ardour he has not; and after he has prepared Findaráto carefully with oil, he withdraws his hand, smiles tenderly, cruelly at the desperate anguish in Findaráto’s sea-bright eyes, and claims him in one slow, deep thrust. Findaráto’s cry rings out, lingering and longing and self-loathing, trailing off into a quiet, broken sob.
Buried inside him to the hilt, Mairon pauses to admire the Elf beneath him, from where his hands writhe in their chains, to where the blood thunders at his throat, to where his cock pulses between them, leaking onto his stomach in shameful desire.
‘Beautiful,’ Mairon praises, and moans when Findaráto’s body tightens desperately around him. So easy to take, so easy to break.
‘Please,’ Findaráto gasps when Mairon wraps a hand around his throat, beneath the enchanted collar that thrums with enchained song. More, his body says, arching: a plea for mercy, a plea for release, more—enough to crush him and choke the life from him, Mairon thinks, and lets the flame heat his fingertips again.
He will not grant Findaráto death; he is not so careless as that. But to torment him with the hint, to let the nails and teeth dig in enough to make him bleed: that is the art, thinks Mairon, curling his fingers into Findaráto’s throat hard enough to bruise, hot enough to burn.
He has Findaráto trained so well now: desperate at the kiss of fire-branding agony, and distressed at the lash of a gentle hand cupping his cheek.
No greater art hath Arda than this: that Finrod Felagund be most beautiful in the breaking.
‘For whom do you weep?’ For whom does the Sea mourn?
‘For myself. For my friends.’ Findaráto’s throat works beneath Mairon’s hand, pressing into the cruel grip, longing for the swift mercy of death. He thirsts for death as the dry, cracked earth for water. ‘For us all.’
A confession, a plea, a prayer from a shattered soul whose love has killed his hope. It is enough for now, Mairon decides, claiming Findaráto in a deep kiss, bruising in its gentleness. When they part, Findaráto’s eyes are glassy, with desire or with despair: either way, he is fair.
The Sea lashed into submission, wonders Mairon, for Findaráto inspires poetry in even death and torment and fate. A whispered word of permission in his ear and he comes undone before Mairon’s eyes, his quiet cry rising and breaking as a wave on the shore. Moaning at the tender, exquisite press of Findaráto’s body around him, Mairon gathers Findaráto to him in a rush of brief, real tenderness, muffling a gasp in Findaráto’s neck as he finds his release within his trembling body.
The marks Findaráto bears Mairon will heal later—or perhaps not, for he seems to have the answer to his earlier question of whether he is fairer marred or unmarred.
Either way, he is fair. But he is perfect when Mairon dips a finger in the blood pooling in the hollow of his throat, and he does not flinch, but sighs.
‘I love,’ whispers Findaráto into Mairon’s skin in the hush that falls over them, mournful and uncomprehending. His tears run hot, salt mixing with blood to forge grief.
‘Of course,’ murmurs Mairon, as a lover taking confession. ‘How could you do otherwise, you who were made to love?’
He cradles Findaráto to his body, stroking his hair, over his shoulders and down his naked back, soothing him with this mockery of love. Breath ghosting over the delicate tip of Findaráto’s ear, Mairon murmurs, 'And to give anything for it.'
Findaráto shudders. From arousal or from fear; either way, he is fair. He says nothing, curls closer into Mairon's poisonous embrace and brings his lips to Mairon's collarbone, offering his mouth and whatever else he may.
'Would you give me Nargothrond, if I asked for it?' Mairon presses, never for a moment stopping the kindness he bestows upon Findaráto. It is how he has broken him: by mixing tenderness and torment.
Long moments pass before Findaráto answers; by the shaking of his shoulders, Mairon thinks that perhaps he is weeping, thinking that he must doom his city, or doom his heart. When at last he speaks, his voice is choked, its lilting song wavering like the last star against the dying night.
'My lord,' he cries, and Mairon tips his chin up with gentle fingers, forcing their eyes to meet. The Flame Imperishable in Findaráto's eyes flickers once and dies; the Sea in them rages and keens. His eyes flutter closed, lashes settling gold dust against the bronze of his cheek; his lips part, inviting and pleading. 'I cannot.'
'Then tell me what you would have me do to your soldier, your captain—your lover,' Mairon coaxes, comforting, as a god hearing confession.
Shielded in the arms of his enemy, Findaráto sobs, crumbles, yields. 'Grant him death,' he whispers, voice breaking on the last note, refined and ruined in his loyalty and love.
‘Fortunate, then, that I will not now ask you for Nargothrond.’ He has more than one purpose in delaying his conquest, not least that the city will expect him at this time; but Findaráto need not know. As it is, Findaráto showers him in gratitude, whispering thanks and pressing kisses to all the skin he can reach; and Mairon deals the death-blow.
‘Yet were such a time to come, I would have you give him death yourself.’ The tears shine afresh in Findaráto’s eyes, the Sea mourning anew; and Mairon kisses his forehead tenderly. ‘You would wield the knife yourself, drawing it across his throat or sliding it into his heart. And his blood would stain your fingers, cooling as it trickled down your wrist; and you would watch as the light left his eyes and weep as his body grew cold in your arms.
‘And then you would describe to me how it feels, to take your lover’s life with your own hand; to betray the one who promised you loyalty, and to whom you swore love in return.’ It would be a final confession, Mairon suspects, even as he lays out the scene in loving detail; but a worthwhile one nonetheless.
‘Fear not,’ he comforts, cradling Findaráto’s trembling body, savouring in the strength hidden beneath fragility. ‘I am content with you.’
And if it is a lie, then at least it is a beautiful one.