Powder

Canon-compliant AU... sort of.  Angrod was taken prisoner during the Dagor Bragollach.  He quickly becomes Sauron's newest favorite toy.  Quenya names used (Angrod = Angaráto).  This is a companion to yesterday's piece "Defiant", and the reference is blatant.  I've never written Angrod before, so this is very new for me, and I'm curious to see how he will change, knowing that he is one and the same as the cousins he used to despise so much.  Oops.  Pretend you didn't see that spoiler.  Takes place after Dagor Bragollach in the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: one-sided Sauron/Angrod implied

Characters: Angrod, Sauron, several unidentified Noldorin elves (mentions Finrod)

Warning: extremely AU, semi-graphic torture, blatant allusions to non-con, mind-games, mercy-killing, slavery, consumption of elven bodies for sustinence (but not cannibalism)

Song: Skyfall

Words: 1,200
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powder (noun): matter in a finely divided state: particulate matter; a preparation in the form of fine particles especially for medicinal or cosmetic use
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/powder

Another day in the darkness came with more screams and more snapped bones.  Another victim.

By no means was Angaráto an imbecile.  He knew with each heavy beat of his heart and thick breath filling his lungs with tainted air that it was because of his stubborn defiance that these poor souls were suffering.  But he also knew with the same unshakable, undeniable certainty that this brief suffering of the body and mind was nothing compared to the fate awaiting them outside these horrible dungeons.

Better five measly days in the hands of the Lieutenant than decades gracing the mines or torture-chambers, collared and chained for sport.

Maybe that was why he never spoke.  It was horrible and sick and he should despise himself for even thinking it, but Angaráto felt justified, felt like he was doing his duty, like he was protecting these dulled, doused spirits during their short passion and journey to the safety of sweet rest beyond the cages of their earthly forms.  It was arrogant and conceited, but it was all he had, all standing between his mind and the shattering, jagged rocks below.

When his new cellmate joined him, bleeding and sobbing and pleading for him to keep his silence, to not give in to the darkness, to ignore the elf's torment, Angaráto met the eyes of the tormentor in the shadows and pursed his lips into a bloodless line of fury and hatred.

But he did not open his mouth or speak his name.  He would not roll over and play dead like a pet.

And the Lieutenant of Angband, with eyes that glowed like fire in the darkness of hell, would incline his head, golden curls spilling over broad shoulders in a glistening wave of molten light, and smirk in satisfaction, in a mockery of the strength of the elves locked away from the sun and fresh air like filthy animals.  And so badly Angaráto wanted to stand, to rattle the bars of his prison until they crumbled, to reach out and crush the windpipe of that infuriating, disgusting creature.

It was a test.  Every day.  Every hour.  Every moment.  With each new prisoner, gray-faced with the shroud of death, slicked with blood between trembling thighs, life leaking from wounds carved into their spirits, he was being tested.  But he could not break.  He could not lose.

To that flame-eyed, beautiful monster, this was a game.  And the victims were naught but pawns martyred to draw out the king on the chessboard, to corner the silent thrall.

Five days with his newest cellmate.  He had not learned the elf's name, just that he was a captive taken from the forces of Nargothrond and that he had seven more comrades besides himself who still lived.  Every moment he could spare, Angaráto sat beside the exhausted prisoner, stroked his fingers through dirty, tangled locks and massaged joints bruised from chain and stretched to unnatural angles, soothing what little pain he could.  And he would ask about the other's home, about the hallowed halls of his brother's jeweled masterpiece, about his companion's favorite place to nap in the sunshine and about the beauty of his home and the voices and scents of his family... anything to keep the mind away from what awaited the next night in this prison...

And then the prisoner was taken.  The cell was opened and the torturer himself took the terrified, crying captive away, and Angaráto remained silent as he watched them go.  But never too far.  Not so far that he could not hear the screams.  Not so far that he could not make out the begging for mercy or the pleas for death.

The prisoner was returned in the morning with the ashy first light of dawn peeking shyly from above, barely slipping through the haze of smoke settled over the land.  Blue eyes once so vibrant were faded to white, hair once thick and blond now gone gray and limp, limbs once powerful with muscle and sinew now thin and trembling.  A will once strong with loyalty fading until finally, finally the prisoner begged him...

And Angaráto would look up and see those expectant eyes and ask for warm wine.  The Lieutenant never denied that request.

Nor did he look away.  Not when Angaráto embraced and soothed the distraught, broken cellmate.  Not when he stroked that ravished, beaten body until it was relaxed and leaning upon his chest.  Not when he sprinkled white powder into the heady wine and held it to his friend's lips and promised everything would be well by nightfall if only he would close his eyes and sleep.

When the Lieutenant returned at dusk, there was naught but an empty shell to retrieve.

And the bastard just tsked and had the corpse removed, given off to the foul beasts of the abyss that gnawed off raw, rotting flesh to the bone, befouling the body that had once housed something pure and beautiful turned to ash.

The thrall and the torturer would look into one another's eyes, and Angaráto would feel such hate as he had never experienced before, such blinding rage that he almost stood once again upon shaking legs and reached for that swanlike throat from between cold iron bars so that he might snap it in two, so that he might crush it until there was a sickening crack and the angle of death.  So that he might make that mocking stare cease and those blackened lips part in a scream of agony.

As though he knew what the elf was thinking, the monster in the disguise of glory would smile gleefully in the fading light. "Do not ever break, thrall," he would hiss between the bars in a lover's husky whisper, a sound that twisted Angaráto's guts into knots of revulsion and sent shudders down his spine.  Because they both knew that that glimmer in eyes forged of the earth's bubbling blood had only one name and only one fixation.

But never did the Lieutenant reach out and touch and take.

The next morning there would be a new cellmate.  Angaráto would wonder how many days would pass before he would send this soul, frightened and fluttering like hummingbird's wings against the strength of his determination, on to the mercy of the Halls of the Waiting.  He hoped it would not be long, because this one looked young.

And had anyone ever asked, he would have told them that he was not sorry and did not feel guilty for what he was doing in the pits of filth in Angband.  Kinslayer he now might be named and forever more, but Angaráto did not regret his actions.

He only regretted that his opponent in this game of iron wills was not ready to cease their play anytime in the near future.  And he wondered how many more pawns would be sacrificed in the vain attempt to crush his righteous spirit.

And still, those eyes looked on, and those lips smiled.  The enemy bathed in rich enjoyment of sin.
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Forgive me for writing something so disturbing, but I just couldn't help myself.  And here my chemistry lab partner thinks I write girly Twilight fanfiction romance stories.  The very idea makes my stomach turn.  At least what I write here has substance and plot, even though it's also got a rather large dose of disturbing content.  And this is the toned-down version.  Unfortunately, the prompt had little to do with the point made, but it was the catalyst, so there.

Written to Skyfall by Adele from the new James Bond movie.  Honestly, I normally hate Adele's music.  Her singing drives me up the wall.  She sounds like she's choking and nasally when singing in a high register.  But meh, it's just my personal opinion.  However, I do rather like this song despite her interesting vocal talents.  Not sure it's very applicable to the piece, but I can't tell what she's saying half the time anyway, so it's mostly based off the actual music being polluted with her voice.

Sorry for the rant.  If you like her, good for you.  I just don't.

That is all for today.