Canon-compliant. Maedhros only lived on the whim of the Dark Lord. On the whim of his lust for the prince's father. Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro). Also, Sauron is called Mairon and Morgoth refers to himself as Melkor. Basically, this is a continuation of "Desire" and is heavily related to "Perfection" as well. Because I felt like writing from the evil POV today. Takes place in Angband a handful of years before the start of the First Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion.
Pairings: hinted at one-sided Morgoth x Maedhros
Characters: Morgoth, Sauron, Maedhros (mentions Fëanor, Finwë, the Fëanorions and Nerdanel)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, slash, obsessive behaviors, slavery, abduction, attempted coercion, implied torture, humiliation tactics, etc...
Song: Leia
Words: 1,463
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disappointment
(noun): the act or instance of disappointing; the state or emotion of
being disappointed; one that disappoints
It was, perhaps, less for the sake of bribery and more for
the sake of curiosity that Melkor ordered the oldest son of Fëanáro brought
before him alive rather than carved into pieces. Easily could he have
taken the corpse and claimed to hold a hostage in order to draw forth the other
sons left behind, for, whether the first son was in life or death, he had no
intention of returning him intact to his siblings. Truly, it was pointless to spare the energy
and the food and the chains to keep the elf.
But he told his servants he wanted the unfortunate creature
alive. And thusly they would bring to
him the redheaded firstborn or suffer the consequences.
In the eyes of Mairon, he could see the knowing gleam when
he spoke is orders aloud. His lieutenant knew his mind better than most,
suspected at the very least that, in the wake of the death of the father,
Melkor sought the same treasure within the son. Not, of course, that his
sly-tongued servant would ever admit to such knowledge, no more than he would
claim wholly the thoughts of treachery that constantly bubbled beneath his
accommodating smiles and the cruelty of his fiery eyes.
Nonetheless, it was there. Lingering in the very air
as Melkor awaited in anticipation the arrival of his consolation prize.
Much work he had put into the forging and caring of Fëanáro son of Finwë,
and he did not wish to see that hard work flushed away beneath the rain of failure
and ill-fortune now that victory was crawling closer to his grasp.
Even if it was just a piece of
that which he desired, gladly would he accept such a gift and sate the hunger
churning in the pits of his belly.
Well, he could imagine it. Never had he met in the
flesh any child of Fëanáro, but always he thought of them with their sire's
angular features and fey eyes, with the same arrogant cant to their thin lips
and the same swagger through their body. With the same white-hot glow
that shuddered and writhed as a living creature beneath their flesh.
That fire. That light!
All that which he longed to possess. Rare was it for Melkor to feel such wistful
longing for any object of a material nature, but something about the sire had
enraptured the vala, held his attention flawlessly.
Would not the son be the same?
Tall and formed beautifully as the amilessë would
suggest, with flames for hair to complement the burn of silvered eyes,
Silmarilli reflected from within the mirrored soul of a being of sin and
perfection and wonder. All that Melkor
could think to imagine was an elf of supreme make and stature with the same
hot-blooded hatred flowing as lava through blue veins, burning against the delicate
membrane of pale skin torn asunder all too easily. So much power in such a delicate
package. And it would be his.
For he had no intention of returning any spoils
conquered.
“They have arrived with the elf-spawn in tow,
Master.”
Soft and saccharine in obedience was the voice of
Mairon the Admirable. The traitor. Melkor spared barely a glance for his wayward
once-apprentice, the greatest failed work of his ancient hands. Instead, he turned toward the doors and
gripped taut the armrests of his great, dark throne. Under his skin, the excitement burned.
“Bring him forth.
My patience wears thin.”
And it was done.
First, he could see the red hair, felt the lust curl upwards viciously,
hissing and spitting venomously, the greatest of damnations. And then into his sight came the body, nearly
stripped of all covering, so pale and slender but as exquisitely formed as he
had imagined, putting to shame all whispered rumors and hushed retellings. The legs were longer than the sire’s, ankles
seemingly delicate and calves coiled with tight muscle, so deceptively fragile,
so easily broken in his fantasies of grabbing and squeezing to breaking like
dried tinder. And the bared upper body
screamed of work with the sword and the hammer, perfectly proportioned and
flexing with each strain against the iron chains binding slight wrists and the
curve of a throat he desired to feel struggle for breath beneath his fingers.
The elf was thrown down upon his knees in offering,
thrashing and snarling like a mad creature every centimeter of the way until he
rested at his new master’s feet.
Finally, the chain about that throat was pulled harshly, yanking the
head upwards so that the light of the Silmarilli might rest upon the face that
Melkor so hungered to see.
Only…
Only the angles were not quite right to his
piercing vision. Sharp enough in some places,
but much too soft in others. Brows that
should have been lowered and creased with fury were drawn up as if in
pain. The garish harshness that did the
vala recall in his waking dreams was vanquished, left behind, smeared into
shadowed smoothness and softness and kindness.
Eyes fluttered open, ringed with pale lashes, and
they were dark.
The gray was there, the flecks of silver and pale
blue and iron metal, but where was the fire? Where was the storm of volcanic hatred? Where was the ruthlessness, the hunger and
ambition and lust and need for power?
Resting in those pools, so open, was fear. They were too soft, too caring, pleading
beneath a thin, cracked façade of defiance.
Near to crying.
Never—never in a million years—would Fëanáro
have shown terror in the face of the enemy. Never.
None of the strength and brilliance he lusted for
could be found in this… this…
This disappointment.
Empty of the dancing flame that scorched even the
spirits of the greater beings of the earth and the sky, this pathetic elf was filled
instead with the coldness of chaotic fear and the ash of a weak will. Could the blood of the mother have diluted perfection
to this degree, sullied it to the point that it was so dulled, so
lackluster? So gentle?
For, within this elf, he sensed only a loving
spirit crying for its kin. No lust. No greed.
No anger. Within the mind he
could see images of sweet moments between spouses and tending to younger
siblings, not the cutthroat bitterness and the will to do anything to succeed that
had so entertained his palate in the father.
Within that spirit rested soothing water, an endless amount of patience
and determination, but not the will to dominate and take and destroy and
create.
Pale.
Empty. Trembling beneath the
weight of his gaze.
Only for a few moments did he stare at the newest
slave of Angband, crimson eyes slicing into all that the firstborn ever had
been and ever would be. And he judged the
creature…
Lacking.
“I have little use for this worthless thrall. Take him away and do what thou wilt with him,
Mairon, my dear. But do send a missive
to the second son, and tell him of the fate of his brother should his reply be unsatisfactory.”
A shudder wracked the perfect body before him,
horror splitting open the symmetrical beauty of that face when their eyes met
and understanding passed between the shattered spirit and the cruel smile upon
the master’s face. Melkor wanted at that
moment to shred open that form and tear apart the cage of those ribs, reach
inside and dig out the core of that spirit, if only so that he might crush it
within his palm for daring to be anything less than resplendent and wicked.
But he did not.
Let his servants play. Let them
have their fun.
And let this being serve his original purpose
faithfully unto his equally pitiful ending.
At least he would be useful for something. For a time, in any case.
The knowing eyes of Mairon slithered over his flesh
as the lieutenant passed with his newest charge, but Melkor did not look toward
his most powerful, treacherous servant as the golden being of fairness dragged
away a new plaything toward the torture chambers. The slime was lucky he had escaped so
quickly, or the vala might have taken pleasure in ripping open that body
instead, hearing that velvet voice scream unto the heavens for mercy that would
not come.
Maybe, then, he would not feel this maddening want
so keenly. Maybe, then, the scald of shame
would not be itching beneath his flesh. Maybe,
then, he would feel some small amount of satisfaction.
If only to combat the images of star-eyes laughing
in the back of his mind with sadistic glee at his defeat.
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