Strangle

Canon-compliant probable AU.  "[The sons of Ulfang] reaped not the reward that Morgoth promised them, for Maglor slew Uldor the accursed, the leader in treason..." from Of the Fifth Battle.  Quenya names used (Maglor = Makalaurë, Caranthir = Morifinwë).  This piece is closely connected to "Contempt" and won't make much sense if you don't read that one first.  It should be noted that nothing is known about Easterling culture (other than what little can be gleaned from the works of Tolkien), but as they were known for taking unwilling wives, I can't much imagine this being beyond their depths of immorality as well.  Takes place in F.A. 472 during Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: implied Uldor x Caranthir (one-sided and non-con)

Characters: Maglor, Uldor, unknown Noldorin soldier (mentions Caranthir, Ulfang, Morgoth and the Valar)

Warning: possibly rather AU, canon-compliant, slash themes, future non-con, sexual slavery, war, rather explicit violence, on-screen murder, death, unhealthy mental states

Song: I Will Not Bow

Words: 2,128
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strangle (transitive verb): to choke to death by compressing the throat with something (as a hand or rope): throttle; to obstruct seriously or fatally the normal breathing of
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/strangle

They were betrayed.

Chaos abounded, and all about him Makalaurë could scarcely tell the difference between up and down, with only the chilling triplet peaks of Thangorodrim to guide his sense of direction as they towered above the haze of blood and battle rising as a cloud over their heads and choking their voices in their throats.  What went wrong, he could not have said, for all had seemingly gone as it should until, from behind, there came the screams and their lines were shattered in rippling waves of fear and uncertainty.

And then out of the endless tide of bodies and dust arose a familiar face.  Dark-skinned and bearded was the rather ugly fellow, but Makalaurë did not think he could care less about appearances at the moment, just that Uldor son of Ulfang might know what in the name of Eru was happening at the flank of their force.

His relief was quickly and unceremoniously cut short by a sword swift and cruel.

Because even as he stepped towards the wiry atan, the Easterling had an elf by the braids on the ground, curved blade at a white throat.  And then blood poured out onto the scalding dust, mixed into a crimson mire as the body went limp and landed, face-down and nameless.  The wet sound of suction made Makalaurë gag and shudder.  The unknown soldier, who had not even known to expect attack from behind, lay motionless, dead.

And the look into those dark eyes sent the elf's heart beating as a hunted doe's, throbbing its way up into his throat like a warning fist pounding on the door of his mind. Because those eyes were looking straight into him with wicked glee.

"What... what are you doing?" he cried, stricken almost to madness when the blade he himself had hand in training came away dripping rubies onto his fallen comrade, soaking into blue fabric and staining golden armor. "What is the meaning of this, Son of Ulfang?"

"Is it not obvious?" was the reply.

And it was.

They were betrayed, and Makalaurë knew by whom.

The dark-skinned atan moved forward, and Makalaurë pranced back to keep equal distance.  Mortal though he might be, this man was not to be underestimated.  He had been a warrior long before joining forces with the Eldalië, and he had only become more dangerous--and treacherous--under the tutelage of the stern hands of the Fëanorioni.

His retreat seemed only to amuse his opponent, whose lips were curled into a deadly smile beneath the shaggy black of his beard. "Do you flee before me like a coward, demon?"

"I flee before no one," Makalaurë hissed in response. "But I did not expect such cowardice from you."

"Cowardice?  Is that what you think this is?" And the man laughed, voice deep and rugged, a touch hoarse in the back of his throat with the tang of wild revelry, the enjoyment of rampant murder painting his hands with streams of crimson.  He crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, and it was all Makalaurë could do to evade the flash of steel aimed to slice open his belly and spill his innards across their boots. "I fear no one.  Certainly not you."

The clashing of blades consumed Makalaurë's ears, invaded his thoughts until reasoning became muddled with the pure survival instinct born of much experience in combat, fighting for his next step, for his next breath. "We had an alliance," he ground out, too focused to feel much of the betrayal he knew would later steal away all breath from his lungs, for he had trusted these men of the east to guard the backs of his kin.

"We never had any such thing," Uldor told him, still grinning, still silently laughing in a mockery of Makalaurë's confusion. "No man of the tribe of Ulfang ever was on your side."

"It was all a lie." That much became obvious. "Whatever Morgoth offered you--land, wealth, power--you will receive none of it, mark my words!  The Dark Lord is naught but a thief and a liar, and he will throw you to the dogs as scraps of meat once your use is spent, traitor!  You betray us only to be betrayed in return!"

More laughter, loud and carousing, almost frightening.  For all his words, Uldor--accursed betrayer--was undaunted. "All of those things he offered my father, and Ulfang took his word like a fool, but I--I desire something of a different nature." And suddenly there was a gleam there, in eyes like murky pools tainted with filth, one that sent shivers down Makalaurë's back, that left every hair standing on end with bone-deep terror.

It was like a man consumed with greed looking upon a feast laid out to satiate his lusts.  But it was not upon food which he gazed.  Sickened, Makalaurë dropped his guard and tried to retreat again, to leave the proximity of this hideous beast, only to find his arm wounded and his sword slipping from numbed fingers.  Only to find the crazed man upon him as a foul breath of wind from the north.

"You understand," the Easterling purred, gripping his hair in a taut fist, lips pressed against his ear. "It was never land or wealth or power that I wanted, but rather a pretty trinket with emeralds for eyes and ebony silk for hair, with alabaster for skin and poison running through blue veins."

Morifinwë.  The older brother felt shock rake its claws across his soul.  This foul beast wanted his brother as payment for loyalty to Morgoth.

"I'll have him at my feet in chains, that mouthy bitch gagged and bound and naked.  A prettier slave would be hard to find, even back east.  Can you imagine how lovely he would be, marked from the whip, laid out on the floor in his place as a dog, but with those eyes hot with fury, even as he bathed my feet with his tongue... and maybe something else as well."

How could Makalaurë not imagine it?  The image came forth unbidden, a nightmare of jewel-encrusted hopelessness and torment.  But this human imagined only hatred in green eyes, imagined only the stubbornness and flamboyant facade surviving through the hardship to burn as a flame in the night.

This human knew not Morifinwë, knew not the sweet-hearted, bashful creature hidden in the thicket of scowls and sullen silence and mocking words.  Knew not that of them all, Morifinwë was perhaps the most fragile in spirit, the least confident in his beauty and intelligence and individuality.  Knew not that being degraded and raped would destroy the outer shell and reveal something all too soft and vulnerable underneath to be exploited, to be utterly wrecked and rebuilt as a new creature.

It was no vision of defiance that Makalaurë saw before his eyes.  And the horrifying image would not leave him--would never leave him.

Nor would the vision of the monster before him, dark eyes boring holes into his heart.  But rather than draining hope from the breach in the walls of Makalaurë's endless patience and calm, something else was seeping through the cracks drilled so deep into his core, something molten and searing hot.

Like the blood of the earth was his core, searing and searing until every inch of flesh burned as if laid bare to open flame.  Until his empty hands shook so hard he could not have gripped a sword had it been laid in his palm for the taking.  Until all the pain that moaned and whined at the back of his mind was gagged and shoved into the shadows where he could not see, could not feel.

Nothing but flame and ash, a black smoke filling the pure emptiness of his soul.  Building and building until he could hardly breathe for its taint, for the pressure in his chest.

His eyes were reflected in Uldor's darkness like miniature suns.

"He will be mine, and I will make good use of his body and passion.  Maybe being a whore and a slave will drain away some of that arrogance in his blood.  In your blood.  But we won't need to worry about your blood--it will soak into this field with the rest, lost in supplication to the Dark Lord."

The curved blade stained with the life of his warriors came down towards his throat, but though Makalaurë would never recall later what happened, it never struck true to its mark.

"Fool," he hissed between clenched teeth, the wrist at the hilt of the blade captured in his hand.  And he squeezed until his arm screamed in agony, until Uldor echoed its sentiment and the crack of shattered bone met his ears.  And oh! the beautiful sound that pulled the second brother to his feet, that resonated with his spirit, that gave him the strength to drag the vermin with him.  That gave him the will to pull back his arm and plant his fist into the other man's nose if only to see the spurt of blood on his white, bruised knuckles.

Makalaurë was too far gone to think of caution and recklessness.  Too far gone to think of right and wrong and justice.  Too far gone to think of anything but seeing those eyes staring dead up into the face of their murderer, their executioner.

For how dare this mortal spit upon his family!  How dare he sully one of Makalaurë's brothers in speaking such heinous plans aloud!  How dare he think himself above them, this traitor and rapist!  This keeper of slaves and the council of darkness!

And with each curse he laid upon the mortal, his fist bore down in another strike.  Such fury he felt, that he barely saw before him the sudden change from triumph to terror in black eyes, the sudden struggle to flee from his grasp, crawling through the mud formed of spilled crimson and burning sand.  He could not stop, not until this worm had paid for his foolhardy words and actions, for his sickening fantasies.

Paid through Makalaurë's fingers wrapping around his throat, heedless of the scratch of rough whiskers and the clawing of blunt nails digging into flesh.  All the elf wanted--all the brother wanted--was to strangle the noxious, sinful, blasphemous soul out of this easily broken outer shell and chase it away into the Void where such filth belonged.

There was the sound of a rattling, airless breath, and satisfaction bloomed hot and thick in his belly, almost as arousal, for he could see the vessels pop in the whites of eyes that looked upon him as a demon stepped bodily from a nightmare.  It should have made him ill to the core, this joyous feeling of power spilling through his body.  But fear was no replacement for regret or remorse, and this pitiful monster before him had neither.  No redeeming light in the shadows.  It needed to be exterminated, annihilated and washed from the face of this sweet earth.

Until dark skin tinged blue where once it was fleshy pink.  Until the hands that pawed desperately at the vice around a heaving, crushed throat weakened and fell to the red below.  Until lashes stopped fluttering as a fleeing bird's wings and the body stopped wriggling as a fish speared clean through.

Until no new breath was drawn, and no heartbeat pounded against Makalaurë's clenched fingers.

And there was no guilt.  He was not sorry.

The fire burned all the kindness in the older brother's heart to ash.  When he took up his foe's sword and looked upon those men with whom he had once trained and shared drink and laughed in the night, no pity was awakened in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind.  For once, no treachery lurked in the shadows, and Makalaurë knew with all his being what was right and what was wrong.

Because no one was allowed to lay finger on his brothers.  Neither orcs, nor Morgoth and nor the Valar themselves.  Not until every ounce of breath and life was faded from Makalaurë's fallen and rotting corpse.

He stood and spat on the accursed traitor.  And, seeing his fey, wild eyes, before him the enemy fled.  And he pursued on winged feet, the hunted turned the hunter, tracking through the forest his prey without rest and without regret, a predator hungry for just desserts.

And none who caught his eye escaped.  There was no mercy this day.  Not an ounce to be found.  Not a drop.  Not even a whisper.
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I do believe I've mentioned before that Maglor is the scariest of them all when pissed off (Exhibit A: Black MAGLOR has appeared by ~kittykatkanie on dA).  Consider it his inner "mama bear" coming out to play.  Besides, he's a dad, he's got protective instincts (according to my head-canon anyway), and I don't know about you, but if I heard someone say something like that about my sibling, I think I might just explode.  In any case, this is just an exploration of motivations, and I read that line in the Silmarillion (which I'm re-reading again until I can get my hands on the Children of Húrin) and this happened.

The song doesn't have a lot to do with the story lyrics-wise, but it's more of the musical message.  I have been in the mood for something a little more wild and heavy as of late.  I poked at Nightwish a little, but I didn't find anything that fit, and then I found this and it made me happy, so I Will Not Bow by Breaking Benjamin is what I wrote it to.  And I am quite pleased.  My inner bloodlust has been sated for the time being--angst planned for tomorrow.

Have a pleasant day. :3