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Chains Of Steel And Shadow	By : Rainchilde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 3081 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Chains Of Steel And Shadow
- 1
Chains Of Steel And Shadow

By Rainchilde (rainchilde_lotr@hotmail.com)

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Morgoth/Maedhros, hints of Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: Graphic rape

Summary: Morgoth once held Maedhros son of Feanor prisoner. Do you honestly think nothing happened...?

Disclaimer: All are Tolkien's, though I think (were he still alive) he'd rather I didn't do this.

Feedback: Oh gosh yes. I'm such a whore. :)

Archival: Please, but you must let me know because I want to provide an HTML copy.

Author's Note: At first this was supposed to be one piece. Then it became three. Then it became six. And somewhere along the way it went from being a simple darkfic (if there's any such beast) to being...well, I almost hesitate to even call it "rapefic." "Violationfic," perhaps. It's about sex, yes, but more to the point it's about power and cruelty and evil that taints everything it touches. I think I scared myself here. *pats the Feanorian apologetically*

Dedication: k yok you, Alex, for being strong of stomach and kind of opinion. I should also note that some of the visuals in this story were inspired by the incomparable Hope Hoover. I must insist that you go to her website (http://www.geocities.com/tolkienartarchive) and check out these two gorgeous pieces of artwork:
http://www.geocities.com/tolkienartarchive/tolkienartelf7.html
...and I know she had another one, hmmm...

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"But the sons of Feanor [refused to bargain for their brother's life, for they] knew that Morgoth would betray them, and would not release Maedhros, whatsoever they might do; and they were constrained also by their oath, and might not for any cause forsake the war against the Enemy. Therefore Morgoth took Maedhros and hung him from the face of a precipice upon Thangorodrim, and he was caught to the rock by the wrist of his right hand in a band of steel."

-- "Of The Return Of The Noldor," The Silmarillion

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Part One

The first time, he said no.

Screamed it, actually. Shouted defiance into the dark god's face, his eyes blazing with the unquenchable fire that was his birthright. He hurt, and he was cold, and he was hungry, but he was the eldest son of Feanor and he would never break. Never.

The second time, he said no.

Days had passed since the first visit. His trapped right arm had gone numb and his stomach was one great cramped knot of emptiness. If not for the icy rain which lashed the cliffs of Thangorodrim late in the night, he might have perished of thirst by now...but he had not, and he would not yield. He said as much to his tormentor, and his words shook as he spoke, but his jaw was set and his gaze was iron. He would not yield.

The third time, he said no.

Another day and night were gone. His shoulder was now in constant agony and his belly cowered flat against his spine. It had not rained the night before; though part of him appreciated not having to shiver wet in the wind, the rest cried out soundlessly for water... But again he said no, though his voice was low and cracked and all the hate boiling in his heart could not express itself though the weak hiss that was all his throat could provide.

The fourth time, he said nothing at all.

He wanted to. He did. But the enemy stood between his helpless body and the biting wind, and he was so empty and cold that even this small respite was enough to stay his tongue. The sooner he said "no," the sooner he would be abandoned to the elements...and what else did he have?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

The fire in his eyes had sunk to a low ebb; he could not even summon enough strength to growl as a hand slid under his chin and forced it up, forced him to look at his tormentor. His gut twisted at the touch. Though that hand felt like flesh and blood, he knew it was not -- even as he knew that the face before him, that beautiful angelic face, was merely a mask over the yawning void of greed and hate that was Morgoth.

"Have you nothing to say to me?" the Vala rumbled. His voice, too, was perfect. If Maedhros had been attracted to his own gender, he would have been overwhelmed; as it was, he was merely disturbed. What game was the Lord of Lies playing? Did he believe that a Noldorin prince could be fooled by such a shallow false...a...and one not even to his taste, at that?

He tried to shake his head. There was only one thing to say, and he had not the strength to say it.

Morgoth was silent, waiting, a cruel mockery of saintly patience. They were a study in contrasts: the dark god standing confidently in his strength, all satiny skin and handsome muscles and long glossy-black hair streaming in the wind; his elf hostage hanging limply from one arm, shackled to the cliff-face, sun-burned and wind-torn and dirty. Flame-red locks hung tangled and limp over his lowered left shoulder. Maedhros had been beautiful when he had been captured; now he was but a shadow of the proud princeling who'd led his kin across the sea for vengeance...

Suddenly he was almost warm, for the first time in uncounted days, as a shadow fell across him. He shrank back against the jagged stone. Morgoth was close now, almost close enough to touch, and the thought of touching that false flesh made him want to scream.

Yet that was exactly what the god wanted. Maedhros knew this, because he had said "no" the last three times.

Again he tried to refuse, and again the words died unborn. Even as his mind whirled with rage and terror, his weather-beaten body merely yearned for what scant protection the god's body provided. The wind had faded, and the cold was less severe. More than seemed natural, in fact...

And he was right.

"You do not refuse me outright, and so I give you this." Morgoth spread his hands, and the wind was gone entirely. Maedhros felt oddly numb in the sudden stillness. "A gift of good faith. Accept me, and I will be even more merciful."

"Why?" Maedhros found his voice at last, a low angry rasp. "You tricked me. You kidnapped me under a flag of parley. You hold me hostage when you know my brothers will never grant your demands. You bind me here, you starve me, you gloat over me, and now you think I will let you keep me alive...?!"

He let his head sag back against the rocks, his gaze remote. "I will not. I will be free of you soon. I choose to fade away. That is your Father's gift to my kind, and that you cannot take from me."

Morgoth laughed, and the merry sound fell like a rain of glass shards amid the stones of Thangorodrim.

"You bluff, little prince," he said, almost gently. "Only one of your kind has ever taken that path, and that with the aid of my brother Irmo. Even if the Master of Visions were to hear your plea -- and he might, for he is so soft-hearted -- what do you think awaits you in the world beyond?"

The god smiled, and it was terrible to see. "Have you forgotten so soon? There is blood on your hands, the blood of your own kin. You are under a Doom set by no less than Namo lord of Mandos himself. You will find no welcome in the Halls of Waiting. You will be a lost spirit, a wraith, blown upon the soulwind from the Void...and you will be mine forever."

"That is a lie," Maedhros protested weakly. "He said...he said we could return. M-my father--"

Morgoth shrugged. "Is dead, and lost, never again to be seen in this world or the next. A tragedy. I wanted him for my own." Fingers meandered through Maedhros' tangled red mane, and the elf shuddered. "I suppose I shall have to suffice with his pretty eldest instead.

"Die when you wish. I shall be waiting."

He turned to leave and the wind rose in a pitiless howl, driving tears from Maedhros' eyes even as he squeezed them shut.

"No!" he cried out at last. And this was the same as the three previous times Morgoth had stood before him and asked for what he would not give.

Except this time, "no" was the beginning and not the end.

"No. D-do not leave. I will..." He swallowed hard. At least alive, he had a chance...

Even so, something in his heart broke when he heard his own voice plead, "Tell me what I must do."

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Part Two

"Tell me what I must do."

He heard himself say this, and he burned with shame. But...was it not better to live? Better to be alive than to be dead, and lost, and completely at the dark god's mercy...

The wind was gone again, and every nerve in his body screamed that he was not alone, but he did not open his eyes. Like a child, he briefly entertained the notion that if he could not see it, it could not see him and thus was not real...

He could not, however, close his ears. Through the pulse pounding in his head, he heard Morgoth speak:

"Ah, now that was not so difficult, was it?" Something toyed with a lock of his hair, and he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. "You are fragile, and I can be kind. All you need to do is this: call me by my rightful name."

What...? Maedhros gasped, realizing that he'd been holding his breath. Was this a trick? Morgoth was the Enemy, his very name an loathsome obscenity, but he'd had another name once. It seemed such a small thing. But names had power, in a way...and who knew what a god truly valued?

He dared to look up, at that heart-stoppingly handsome visage that made his skin crawl. Could the price be so easy? Perhaps he would survive this after all.

"You...want me to call you 'Melkor'? Is...is that all you want?"

"In part. Your tongue and your mind must agree. You will no longer use that insult Feanor bestowed upon me. You will not say it, and you will not think it. Ever again. Do you understand?"

The hand tightened in his hair, not allowing him to turn away. He tried to nod and could not. "I do," he replied instead, haltingly, hating this small betrayal -- for it had been Feanor who, in grief and rage over the murder of his own father Finwe, had first refused to ever again utter the god's true name. Yet it was only a small betrayal. Wasn't it? Yes. He could do this...

"Say it."

"M-Melkor."

The hand slid from his hair to caress his cheek, and suddenly the pain was gone. The hunger was gone. The cold, the damp, the sharp rocks...all seemed blissfully far, far away. But the voice...the voice whispered so close, hot breath slithering into his ear like a tongue:

"Very good, pet. That is all for now."

And then Maedhros was alone again.

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Whatever Mo-- Melkor had done to him lasted for a long euphoric hour or two. He slept, exhausted; when he awoke the pain was back, but his clamoring need for food had abated.

For now...

He shivered, wracked by doubts that the dark god had snaked into his mind like rot into an apple's core. And by the realization that, as day and night wheeled and the bone-deep ache of hunger crept back into the pit of his belly, he was almost looking forward to his captor's return. In retrospect, the brief taste of comfort was the worst thing that could have happened. His body now knew that salvation was only a humiliation away, and it was so very hard to resist...

Melkor returned with the setting sun, a shadow among shadows. Once again he stood over his prisoner, and this time he did not ask. He already had his answer. He was merely here to claim his prize.

"Look at me."

Maedhros bit his lip and considered disobeying, but then his head rose and his eyes rose and his gaze trailed up the lean bare torso past the planed chest to stare into the face of his captor. He said nothing. Then, on second thought, he grudgingly murmured, "Yes, Melkor?"

"Very good. You remembered. But that will not be enough. Not this time."

The elf wilted. He'd been right, then. Something worse...

"Worse?" Melkor asked lazily, scattering his thoughts like frightened sparrows. "Perhaps. That depends on perspective...and what do you see right now, from your perspective?"

"I see you," Maedhros replied. What else could he say?

"And what does this tell you? Come now! Manwe always said you were the smartest of the brood. Prove my toadying brother right. What do you see?"

"I see...I see a lie given shape," Maedhros spat, frustrated and confused. Truth was all he had. "I see a breathing puppet, a false form crafted to seem fair but to house a..." He faltered.

"To house Me?" Melkor smiled. "You are quite right. This is just...a shell. A costume." He musingly ran his hands over his own creamy skin, tracing the perfect muscles like a sculptor might stroke his masterpiece to assure that he'd missed no burrs or flaws. "Now, Maedhros--" the name, purred from that mouth, was corruption itself "--why would I create such a form? What use is it to one such as myself?"

Maedhros considered this, bemused. The shape before him was beautiful, yes, but it had no discernable purpose. It was tall and strong, but not supernaturally so; it had no wings, no claws, no fangs, no armor, nothing that he could see that made it useful to--

And then his gaze lowered, and he understood.

"It only has one use," he whispered.

"And that would be...?"

The elf shook his head dumbly. Melkor sighed. "You Noldorin. So courtly. So evasive. One must lead you to the water and push your head in before you understand that you are meant to drink. So be it."

The hand that stroked his hair now abruptly gripped it and twisted hard. The comforting warmth suddenly became a blaze of heat as the god stepped close. Too close -- with stone at his back and hair caught fast, Maedhros could not twist aside as the thick, heavy cock he had been trying to ignore was pressed to his lips.

Half-agape from the tight pain at from the back of his skull, he could not refuse the salty-smooth mouthful. Melkor was not gentle. He held his captive's head rock-steady as he thrust powerfully forward, forcing the unwilling jaw down, drawing back only to shove in deeper. Again. And again. And again...

Maedhros tried to scream, but he could barely make a sound around the hard shaft now pulsing in his mouth. And his terror merely pleased his tormentor. Melkor rumbled deep in his chest, braced his palm against the cliff face for leverage, and immediately set a hard driving pace. Every time his playtoy whimpered, he grunted with pleasure and pumped faster. Maedhros desperately strove to control his cries, but horror smothered his reason and he could not...

And just when he thought he might be able to numb himself to being so roughly used, his muffled wails ended with an abrupt wide-eyed wracking choke. Not satisfied with what he had already claimed, the god plunged the head of his cock into the very back of the elf's mouth...and, with a growl and a thrust, well beyond.

The prince wanted to throw up, but he had nothing, nothing...nothing except cold stones against his thin shaking shoulders, and the throbbing penis rammed down his throat, and the iron hand now gripping his chin at just the right angle so more could drive in, and more, and more! How much more could there be?! His world was narrowed down to this one thing, this one awful thing, and now he could not breathe. Was this how Melkor meant him to die? Degraded and used and callously throttled to death for his own perverse pleasure?!

Black was creeping in at the edges of his vision; if not for his right arm, still bound to the rock above his head, he would have collapsed. And yet he could not. He could not, and so he could not escape this foul sweaty thrusting violation...only suffer the taste and the width and the depth of it as his lungs begged for air.

Dimly, he thought perhaps this was for the best...surely Namo would not be so cruel as to turn him away after dying thus...

Just as his glazed eyes rolled back and began to slide shut, the fingers on his jaw tightened and gave him a hard shake. He looked up blearily, his view jolted rhythmically by the ruthless pounding...and he found the god regarding him almost paternally.

"If I'd merely wanted to take you, Maedhros, I could have done so days ago," he said with infinite patience, sounding far away yet as clear as an iron bell. "I will not let you die. You are mine, and I want you. All of you. Give yourself to me, and I will let you rest."

Cannot...die...? Maedhros realized, glimpsing depths he had not realized could exist, that the god was right. His empty lungs howled but his heart still beat strong. The comforting darkness hovered just out of reach. His fea fluttered frantically against his bones like a caged bird but could not fly free...

Give myself... How? He could not move. He could not speak. He had nothing to give.

Except...

Except what little dignity he had left.

Except that.

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At first Melkor idly wondered if he had spoken too late, if the elfling was too far gone to understand...then he smiled as he felt lips reluctantly tighten. Felt an awkward tongue struggle to lick the brutal shaft which pinned it flat. Felt his proud little possession sob softly, deep in his battered throat, as he cast away his pride of his own free will and strove to suck his rapist's cock as he would a lover's.

Ah! This moment had to be savored. Melkor slowed, forcing Maedhros to truly taste his meaty mouthful from tip to root, letting the sensation expand throughout his own exquisitely crafted body. The god was proud of his hasty work; hasty, for he had created this form in the scant days after taking Feanor's son captive. This shape, indeed, only had one purpose: to enjoy the long slow destruction of Finwe's heir.

No, Melkor never had any intention of bartering the red-haired prince back to his brothers, even if the Noldor had been less stiff-necked and agreed to his terms. This delight was too precious to lose...

The prince was slurping frantically now, as if convinced that he could end this quickly and be done. Melkor considered drawing the game out even longer, but then decided against it.

For now.

With a single negligent thought he let the pleasure hit its peak, flooding Maedhros' abused mouth with hot seed even as he slid his hand behind the boy's head and slammed in hard to spill the rest directly down his clenching throat. The elf weakly tried to thrash, but it was useless; he was pinned. Every half-drowned choke rippled pleasingly around the god's well-sunk organ, and evdespdespairing gurgle was sweet to his ears.

Yes. Very sweet indeed, and only the beginning. With the Silmarils in hand, the other Ainur in disarray, and Angband secure from all enemies, he had time to pursue more...earthy...sports.

Maedhros would be his for a very, very long time.

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Part Three

Melkor left Maedhros limp and half-conscious but alive, hanging from his chained wrist, his hunger once again banished to the fringes of need. Twice more the god came to that lonely cliff ledge, and twice more he shoved the elven prince against the unforgiving stones and callously claimed his throat for pleasure. Each time Melkor used him longer and rode him harder, reveling in the heady mixture of instinctive resistance and dazed obedience.

The fourth time, however, something was different...

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This was not living. But the alternative was worse.

Maedhros dully watched the sun set through a grimy matted curtain of his own crimson hair. He was crumpled on his knees, slumped uncaring; only his suspended arm kept him from curling into a fetal ball. Now that Melkor had the control he desired, his visits were punctual and predictable. He would arrive when the strange new golden light sank below the western mountains, and not one moment before that.

Melkor would not speak. He no longer cared to, or had to. He would merely take.

The elf swallowed carefully, trying to let the damage heal, but he was never allowed quite enough time. Almost enough, enough to be enainiaining, but not enough. He wondered how long he would be...entertaining. And what would happen after that. Could it be worse? He doubted it.

So all he had to do was to ruin the dark god's game. How?

Simple. If he no longer reacted, he would surely end his own appeal.

And then, perhaps, he would be allowed to die.

He sighed wearily, trying to ignore the resultant ripple of pain. It was a good idea in theory, but in practice? Impossible. He needed a steady, logical mind to succeed. He needed...he needed Fingon. Fingon would have known what to do.

He smiled at the thought of his favorite half-cousin, his best friend...a ghost of a smile which immediately crumpled and fled. The best friend he'd abandoned in the icy north with the rest of his uncle's kin. Abandoned in a moment's ill-decision to pursue a mad quest for vengeance which, in the ehad had only led him here, to this rock. Alone and forsaken...

His head sagged and his eyes closed. Perhaps this was his punishment, then. His brothers would not save him -- he understood, for he was bound by the same oath and would have done the same even if it broke his heart -- but Fingon...? Fingolfin's eldest was solemn and sensible, yes, but also doggedly loyal and as stubborn as an oakroot. Nothing would have stopped him. Nothing.

Fingon would have rescued him.

Maedhros opened his eyes, suddenly still and clear with a rising idea. Perhaps, in a way, the memory of his dearest friend could save him yet. In a way...

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When Melkor arrived, Maedhros gulped down his loathing and simply obeyed. He did not let himself think...or, rather, he only let himself think of one thing. Of Fingon. He had never thought of another male in such a manner before, let alone his dearest companion, but no one would ever know...and if it saved him from this wretched half-existence, what harm were a few thoughts?

So while Maedhros gazed up at his tormentor as ordered, he strove to send his mind away to dwell on Fingon's handsome face instead. He imagined that the dark god's silky mane was a mass of dark tresses, rumpled and kinked from the plaits his best friend preferred to wear...feathers and bits of bright string dancing among those long plaits as he leaned over him with kind amber eyes, not the icy blue that bored down now...

It was hard at first, but his mind seized the alternative with pitiful zeal. He was startled at how easily this fantasy came to him, but he did not question his good fortune. By distancing himself from reality, he could control it. When the now-familiar cock sought his mouth, he impulsively leaned forward to accept it before Melkor could force it upon him. He banished his disgust and convinced himself of grass under his knees, and golden Telperion's light warm upon his back, and oh how Fingon's eyes would shine if he did this and then this...

Was it his imagination, or was Melkor not thrusting as hard as he usually did...?

No. He was not.

A tiny part of his mind that still clung to reality rejoiced...and then that last fragment dissolved and Maedhros was an ocean away in the green fields of Aman, his beloved friend bucking joyously into his devouring mouth, crying out with a soaring ecstasy that made his own heart beat high and fast in his chest...

Time passed -- how much, he neither knew nor cared. Then, abruptly, he was dragged back to Arda by a blow to the back of his skull and a tearing wrench at his shackled wrist. He'd been released, flung against the cliff-face like a discarded toy.

The elf strained weakly for air and found, to his relief, that he could finally close his mouth. He doubled over hard, retching, heaving up a flood of hot bitter semen amid the rocks. Despite this, he was rejoicing in his heart. He had escaped! What had happened, had happened, and he had not been there!

As he sucked in great grateful breaths and his cle cleared, he realized that he was the subject of intense silent regard. He did not look up. He merely panted, soiled and bowed in a carefully constructed haze of mindless humility, and he hoped Morgoth would leave now. The dark god had what he wanted, did he not? He could claim his prize any time he felt like it, and Maedhros would not protest. He had found a way out. He had won.

"On the contrary," Morgoth said softly, very softly, and his voice held all the lazy menace of a coiled snake. Maedhros went cold. In his desperate hope, he'd forgotten that it was impossible to hide his thoughts from the Vala. Or perhaps he'd hoped that his thoughts were below notice, now that he'd given him what he wanted. Either way, he'd been wrong. "You have handed me a great treasure."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the falling darkness.

At first Maedhros could not move. Could not understand what had just happened. Then, haltingly, numbly, he folded his knees against his chest and wrapped his free arm around them as the bitter chill crept back over his lonely ledge. What had he done? Where had he gone wrong?

He wracked his weary mind for answers but found none. Morgoth could discern his thoughts, yes, but he could neither invade nor alter them. He was safe.

Wasn't he...?

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Morgoth -- for yes, Maedhros was once more using that name in his mind -- did not return for many days. When he finally arrived his pet princeling was almost gone, unmoving, hanging from his chained wrist like a broken doll. His heart barely thudded beneath his staring ribs.

Maedhros did not remember much of this, only that for once he was not violated. Yearning towards oblivion, he became dimly aware of a shadow, of faint sonorous curses like distant thunder...and then a harsh hand suddenly burned like hot coals against his cheek.

Death's haven vanished like smoke.

A mewing moan of despair escaped from his throat as he felt life surge through his veins. He braced himself for the worst as the world swam back into focus...and, disorientingly, he found that he was already alone.

At first he did not understand, but as the hours passed and unwanted vestiges of his former strength crept back, it dawned on him. Morgoth did not want him dead. Morgoth wanted him to suffer -- in anticipation, in truth, and beyond. Morgoth wanted him to survive whatever was about to come.

Whatever was about to happen, it was going to be worse than anything yet.

And it was.

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Part Four

Maedhros did not mean to fall asleep, did not even think he could, but he did. He was jolted from a restless doze by the skin-prickling knowledge that his captor had returned. How long had Morgoth been standing there, patient as the cliff itself and more ancient, waiting for him to jerk awake with a startled cry?

He strove to control his hammering heart, to calm his frantic thoughts. He stared at the ground, breathing deeply, marshalling his frayed will. Escape would be easier this time, now that he knew he could do it. Already he could glimpse the light of the lost Trees behind his eyes, and hear his dream-lover's laughter. Let Morgoth take his body. His mind was free...

"Is it, now." The voice was different -- warmer, not so deep. Almost merry. "I am insulted, son of Feanor. I bring you a gift, one I spent many days preparing for you alone, and you have not even the good manners to look upon it...?" Morgoth's tone turned hard as diamond, lashing out like a whip. "Get. Up."

Maedhros blinked. Stand...? He'd never been asked this, not when all the god wanted was to casually plant his jutting erection into his mouth!

The elf prince wasn't sure he could stand. Or, indeed, if he wanted. Then again, it no longer mattered if his body obeyed, did it? So, grimly, he hauled himself upright with the aid of stone and shackle.

Morgoth did not lift a finger to help him. He merely stood there, hands on hips, waiting. He waited until Maedhros was finally on his feet, his gaze still rooted to the stones underfoot, swaying like a newborn fawn with his good left hand clinging to the chain around his right wrist for support.

Only then did Morgoth make his move.

Maedhros flinched as the god glided forward to stretch full-length against him, sensuously, like a great sleek cat. A familiar thick rising hardness butted insistently between his thighs as teeth sampled his collarbone and one long black plait lifted playfully in the wind to dance across his--

Black.

Plait.

No.

An icy chill roared through his soul. The light and laughter which shone invitingly at the edge of his mind were suddenly as remote as the seven stars of Valacirya. Unable to stop himself, he lifted his suddenly too-heavy head to stare at Morgoth...

...and, instead, he saw Fingon.

Morgoth looked pleased with his own little joke. He leaned back, groin still fitted snugly to groin, to provide the elf with an unavoidable view of his new shape. It was a precise replica of the handsome son of Fingolfin, right down the tiny silver bell he wore in one ear -- a childhood gift from Aredhel, his little sister. A perfect mirror, down to the last detail.

But behind that warm amber gaze...

It was simply too wrong to accept. Maedhros' bruised mouth hung slightly agape at the sight, his grey eyes dilating with shock. An uncontrollable tremor shuddered his thin frame. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot! His mind yammered on the edge of madness, not sure what it was protesting, not sure what was about to happen, only knowing that it would shatter him!

But there was no escape. Pleased with his reaction, Morgoth was upon him again, mouth firmly covering his, tongue sliding between the elf's lips to twine hotly within. Although it was nowhere near the size of what the god usually thrust into his mouth, it was somehow far more obscene. More personal. The face...that beloved dark-gold gaze glittering with depraved evil...

...he could not bear this...

Maedhros tried to close his eyes. The kiss abruptly withdrew and light exploded behind his lashes as the god struck him hard across the cheek. A petty gesture from a hand that could lift and level mountains, perhaps, but it was nearly enough to break his neck.

Nearly. Not enough.

Oh sweet rethreth, not quite enough...

"You will not look away," Morgoth said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "You will not retreat. You will open yourself to me without resisting. Or..." His -- Fingon's -- lip curled cruelly in a way that made Maedhros want to vomit. "I shall be forced to become...creative. Who should visit you next, I wonder? Finwe? Pretty Maglorr per perhaps your father...yes, I believe I like that idea."

Maedhros convulsively swallowed a trickle of blood from his split lip and tried to shrink back, but there was nowhere to go...in body or in spirit. Frozen, he could only tremble as first one then the other nipple was pinched, driving sharp splintering needles of pain between his ribs. He thought his legs would fail him...then, just as he started to collapse, teeth savagely sank into one delicate nub.

He shot back upright with a shriek -- and a knee locked between his own, providing support and preventing any further respite. Morgoth's mouth and hands were all over him now, biting and bruising, discarding the few remaining scraps of his once-fine clothing. And always, always that rock-hard erection traced a slippery trail over his thighs, his stomach, his own utterly unaroused cock...

Morgoth noticed this and furrowed his borrowed brow in a mocking parody of disapproval. "I thought you liked this form," he said, as if genuinely hurt. "I would even say that you had deep feelings for him."

He darkened like a gathering storm. "What else am I to think when the last time I honored you with my attention, you chose to be with him rather than with me...?"

Maedhros said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

"I see. So be it. May as well let you have what you want, boy."

Terrified, Maedhros was unable to fight or even move as the god kicked his legs further apart then calmly caught his left knee and lifted his foot from the ground. The elf struggled briefly to balance -- then he yelped in shock as his other leg was yanked out from under him as well.

He fell -- his head glanced hard against the stone wall -- then his shoulder nearly ripped from its socket as his fall was arrested with an agonizing jerk.

The chain!

At least half of his weight now dangled from his manacled wrist. Shoulder throbbing, he dazedly held on with both hands though he could barely feel the right one any more. His legs were gripped fast...he could do nothing but cling to the cold steel, rough-forged edges biting into his fingers, as warm flesh parted his thighs and strong thumbs roughly pried him open and--

"Look at me," Morgoth growled, as he had before.

And, as before, Maedhros could not disobey.

Though somewhere deep inside his fea was fighting like a wild animal, he could not make a sound and he could not look away as his best friend, his dearest cousin, spread him with both hands and wedged that broad flared cock-head into place and slowly, savoringly, mercilessly forced it into his helpless body.

The pain was...it was...there was no word for it. Maedhros screamed so hard that something tore in his throat. He thrashed wildly and tried to kick free, knuckles turning white on the chain, but to no avail. Morgoth's fists clenched with more strength than the real Fingon had ever possessed, holding his captive steady as he inexorably pushed and pushed and pushed until every last thick inch was mounted fully within.

Maedhros could hear nothing but a dull roaring in his ears as the shock crashed through him. It was too big...it was too much...and yet it was inside him, burrowing, wrenching, swelling, tearing, a huge hot agonizing invasion that made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to be...

His suddenly nerveless fingers unlocked and slid from the chain. Before he could fall back against the cliffside (let it smash my skull this time, please, Iluvatar, grant me this one mercy) those inhumanly strong hands darted from his hips to catch him, and lift him, and embrace him close.

This was worse. This was much worse. Now his face was buried in those black braided tresses -- and oh Elbereth, they even smelled like Fingon, of cinnamon and fresh-carved wood -- and he had no choice but to twine his arms around those shoulders and rest his face against that neck, as he had in so many dreams over the days past.

Except his dreams had been safe and comforting. Not now. Not like this. Not naked and shaking and weeping, his legs wound around that graceful waist, his own weight impaling him upon a burning pillar of hard slick flesh. Not with his "lover's" hands pinning his writhing hips, plunging up into him with wanton abandon. Not with that merry laughter ringing out in delight when he could no longer contain his sobs.

He was lost. He held tight and wept soundlessly into that dark sweet-scented hair as he was lifted then forced down, over and over, bounced on the god's rampant erection like a grotesque parody of a child on its father's knee. He did not resist. He could not resist. It was futile. He could not flee into sweet fantasies of the friend he might have loved...not when the reality was licking foul obscenities into his ear.

Everything else was gone. No light, no hope, no escape. Only this: arms clasped tight around him, harsh panting breath against his neck, the humiliating squelch and slap as his body learned to accept this brutal penetration -- to accept -- no! He would never become accustomed to this, never--

"Mine."

Morgoth suddenly swayed half-back without pulling out, one hand catching Maedhros by the throat. For one fleeting moment the prince's heart leapt, thinking perhaps that this was the end, but it was not to be.

"Mine," the dark god repeated, malicious victory shining through Fingon's voice and Fingon's smile. He tugged the eldest son of Feanor close for a kiss, half-throttling him until he gave in and accepted the invading tongue. Thus Maedhros breathed in Morgoth's long groan of satisfaction as the Vala bucked beneath him one last time, nearly dislocating his captive's hips with the force of his final pleasure.

"Mine." Possessive, triumphant, and final, the word hissed directly into his unresisting mouth, into his lungs, into his very soul. Wet silky heat spurted deep within him, jet upon searing jet, and only then was Maedhros able to close his eyes and let darkness rise to claim him.

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Part Five

Time lost coherency after that; the sun overhead meant little, and the moon even less. He was used, and left dangling from his chain, then used again, and there was nothing he could do about it. He dared not allow himself even the smallest consoling thought, for fear that his captor would twist such bright things to his own dark ends...but sometimes his wayward mind wandered anyway, and he always -- always -- paid the price.

Once, for a brief moment, hope stirred in his heart. Through a haze he thought he heard distant elven trumpets and the clash of sword on shield, and he lifted his head and cried out with everything he had left...but the stones of Thangorodrim implacably swallowed his cracked pleas, and the echoes faded to nothing, and what remained of his heart crumbled to ashes.

Perhaps in reply to this unknown tumult, the pits of Angband began to churn out reeking clouds of oily black smoke which billowed down through valley and pass to befoul the lands below. Morgoth came to him in good spirits that evening...and stayed the entire night.

By morning, his plaything had forgotten his own name.

After that, time lost all meaning entirely. Days could have passed, or weeks, or years...there was no difference. Nothing existed but unreal disjointed flashes of torment, punctuated by deep burning pain and the distant sound of his own screams, until...

Until he heard it.

The music.

At first he thought his imagination was wandering again. He groaned weakly and tried to drag his mind back under control, because the music sounded like a harp, and that reminded him of Fingon, and if Morgoth discovered that he was dreaming of his cousin/friend... All anguish was more or less the same, now, but that had been the first and it was still, strangely, the worst. Which was why Morgoth gleefully revisited it upon him again, and again, and again...

But still he heard the faint, hesitant musice coe could not banish it. It would not go away until he managed to cover his ears...

...And thus, he suddenly realized, it had to be real.

Eyes still closed tight, he let his hand fall from one ear and slowly, very slowly lifted the other away from his suspended arm. The chain's length varied according to Morgoth's whim, as ever, and he'd been left hanging high above the ledgeer ter the last...visit. The wind aggravated the swollen pivot of his right shoulder as it keened through his matted locks, but for the first time he welcomed the gale because it bore a thread of music in its chill heart.

He listened for a moment, yearning...then he flinched away. No. It had to be a sick joke, a prelude to some bizarre new torture. Though it was impossible to imagine beauty in the same thought as the cruel dark lord, all Valar were songsmiths of the highest degree. The world itself had been born of their woven voices. Surely Morgoth could sing like an angel, if he so chose. This would be an easy trick for him.

And yet...perhaps not. Something deep within the elf's tattered soul knew that melody. More importantly, it recognized how badly the melody was being mangled on the accompanying harp.

If it was a trick, he decided with the first faint spark of spirit since Morgoth had first parted his knees and gouged away his last shred of innocence, it was a good one. Because only one person in the world knew that song and was such a terrible harpist besides...

His heart lurched at the dawning possibility. Impulsively, he tried to shout -- and found that he could not. He mouthed the name trembling on the tip of his tongue, only that, and still nothing came out. He could not speak. In fact, he could not remember the last time he'd spoken. He'd ceased pleading for the torture to end, long ago.

He slumped in his bonds, defeated. Hanging suspended as he was, there were no rocks he could dislodge, no loose stones he could rattle...nothing to tell where he was imprisoned. Like the trumpets and the sounds of battle, this too would fade away and abandon him to his long grey fate.

The song was almost over...the harp was beginning to falter, notes dropping by negligent handfuls as if the fingers no longer cared...

NO.

The prince's head snapped up and his eyes opened, and they were alight with one last desperate blaze of fire. No! He was...he...he was...

Yes. He was Maedhros, eldest son of Feanor, eldest son of Finwe, rightful lord of his people. Not a plaything, not a pet, not a toy -- a king. If this was his last chance, he had to seize it. Even if it was a trick, he had to take the risk. He had to!

But...he could not speak...

No matter.

Instead, he tilted back his head and, though bruised and torn and parched, he sang.

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It was useless. This was pointless. Why had he even bothered?

Fingon sighed and lowered the harp, shaking his sore fingers as the last notes fell into the unnatural darkness below and were gone. Here, above the noisome vapors issuing from the Enemy's stronghold, the air was clear...but it did no good. His friend could be imprisoned anywhere -- locked in a cell miles underground, chained within the very throne room itself...or...

Or, most likely, he was dead.

Fingon sagged, pulling the harp into his lap and hugging it close, trying to choke down the bitter possibility at last. Perhaps his cousins were right. And his brothers. And his father. Maedhros, alive? In Morgoth's hands? After all this time? Impossible--

--wait.

A voice.

There was another voice...and it was singing. Singing the song he'd just been playing, and which he had chosen for good reason. Only three people in the world knew that song: Maglor (who had written it on a whim so very long ago), himself, and...

His amber eyes went wide. He was already on his feet, harp clattering to the stones on the lonely ridgetop. He didn't bother to retrieve it. Instead, he caught up the tune himself and sang for all he was worth, quiver swaying against his back and sword in hand as he followed the wavering notes. Up and around, higher and higher...a strange place to keep a prisoner, he thought, though perhaps a remote sheer hilltop was not such a bad place to--

He turned a corner, feet hunter-soundless on the slate debris, and stopped dead as he found that he hadn't so high to climb after all.

He looked, and he saw, and he wished that he hadn't. Unbidden, an appalled sob spilled from his throat at the sight of the pitifully thin figure dangling naked against the rock face above. The once-handsome crimson mane was filthy and matted; pale skin stretched over protruding bones, mottled with bruises both old and new. Some -- in particular, the ones on his hips and arms and throat -- were shaped like grasping hands. Worst of all were the smeared trails of dried blood meandering down his thighs...

Fingon swallowed down tears. This was worse than death. And close enough, it seemed; the red-haired head did not rise, and he could not see if the chest still rose and fell. If not for the song of a moment before, he would have thought him dead. But...

"Maedhros...?" Fingon called softly. No reply. He reached up to gently stroke one limp foot, then strained to brush the knee above it, and that was all he could reach. He cast about frantically for some way to climb the sheer face, but there was nothing -- no cracks, no ledges, no stones large enough to stand on.

He could touch him, but he could not free him.

"...really...you...?"

The voice was so faint Fingon thought he'd imagined it, but when he looked up he found weary grey eyes staring back down at him. He nodded hard, grasping his friend's ankle as if that could help in some way. "Of course I am. I could never just leave you here, now could I?"

"...left...you."

The bone-deep guilt in those soft, broken words was awful to hear. Fingon shook his head, even though there had been long terrible nights on the grinding ice of the Helcaraxe when he had--

No. That was in the past. It didn't matter.

"You were bound by that cursed family oath. It makes you a little crazy." He laughed, a short forced sound. "I forgave you long ago. That is what friends do."

"Friends..." Something flickered in those grey eyes. They lifted to gaze past Fingon's head; he glanced back warily but saw only the lowering sun. "Leave. He'll...be here. Soon. Night."

"Then I must fetch you down right away, eh?" Even as he spoke the words, however, Fingon knew that he could not. There was no way to reach the spike that held the chain fast to the cliff, thirty feet above; and, from what he could see, there was no way to climb down to it from the top, fifty feet above that. Perhaps with rope? Though his heart broke at the thought of leaving his friend here for another unspeakable night, he could return on the morrow...

His thoughts must have been clear as glass, because Maedhros was shaking his head in small painful jerks. "No. My mind...he'll know. Catch you. J-just...one thing. To do.

"Kill me."

"What...?" Fingon replied softly, shocked. "No! I can't..." The bow and quiver across his back suddenly weighed like an intolerable burden. "Maedhros, there has to be another..."

His voice died away. Maedhros said nothing. He didn't have to. After all, Fingon was the logical one. Once presented with the cold truth, his own mind was quick enough to inform him that there was no way out. If it was true, if Morgoth could pluck the knowledge of this visit from Maedhros' mind...

Fingon's hope fled in the face of cold realization. In coming here, he had doomed his dear friend. Maedhros would not survive the coming night at the god's hands. Or perhaps he would, and it would be better if he hadn't...

No. He could not leave him to face that.

Part of Fingon's heart still desperately sought another choice, another chance, but in truth he knew what had to be done. His bow was already strung and in his hands, and now he was reaching for an arrow. He'd shaped and fletched them himself. He wasn't much of a harpist, true, but before their exile the sons of Fingolfin had been counted among the best archers in Valinor. He would not miss. Maedhros knew that...which was why he had asked, damn him.

Fingon's hands shook slightly as he nocked arrow to bowstring. He feared he was already guilty of kinslaying -- his dreams were haunted by blood streaming down his hastily drawn sword at the haven of Alqualonde -- so this should be little more. It was mercy, not murder. Right?

And yet...

And yet for the first time in his life, he found himself praying to Manwe. It was a strange impulse; one did not pray to gods who walked the same streets and wandered the same forests. One did not need to pray to a god when one could simply climb the mountain slopes and speak to the god directly. However, the halls of Oiolosse upon the crown of white Taniquetil were now an ocean and a doom away, and he was all alone in the enemy's stronghold with a terrible task before him. In his grief, it merely seemed right to ask the lord of the wind and air to help guide his arrow true.

He did not expect a response. It was over. The sun was touching the western horizon. He could do no more. "Goodbye," he murmured as he drew the bow and aimed the arrow at Maedhros' heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part Six

Fingon was abruptly knocked flat by a storm of buffeting wind and beating wings. His arrow flew wild and was lost; his bow clattered over the edge of the narrow stone path, vanishing into the foul vapors below.

For a moment he knew only panic, hand flying to his sword...but this was no minion of the dark god. The great wings were feathered, and familiar. Like something he'd seen a thousand times before, only never so huge...

A beak large enough to snap him in half touched his chest, and he froze. One golden eye the size of his head blinked inscrutably at him, and then the beak withdrew as if satisfied.

An eagle. It was an eagle as big as...as... He had nothing with which to compare it, and rightfully so. For though he had never seen one up close, he knew what it had to be. And who had sent it.

It appeared that Manwe still heeded the plight of the exiled Noldorin after all.

The eagle was ntaritaring up at the pitiful prisoner, head cocked to one side. It did not look pleased. Obviously reaching a decision, it mantled its flight feathers into place set settled down like a huge brooding hen. The image might have been humorous if not for the fierce glare it cast over at Fingon...

He understood. Rising and resheathing his half-drawn blade, the elf gingerly approached the majestic messenger and, even more gingerly, clambered up its side. It was strange to feel breath rising and falling under his feet as he stood atop its back, feet awkwardly braced in ankle-deep feathers--

The eagle rose, dagger-like claws scraping amid the rocks. Fingon swayed but stood fast -- it was not unlike walking amid high branches in the wind -- and then, oh, then he was close enough to Maedhros to reach out and gather him into his arms!

But he did not. Up close, Maedhros looked even more terrible than he had from below, and Fingon feared to cause him further pain. He allowed himself only to place a trembling caress on one gaunt cheek, and then he bent his attention upon the fetter that held the Feanorian bound.

He was losing count of how many times today his guts had clenched tight with bitter disappointment. The manacle was ugly but effective: there was no lock, no hinge, not even a seam. The chain was no better. Perhaps with a smith's tools, and a smith's knowledge...but he was no smith, and the sun was now half-gone in the west. When night fell...

He'd unthinkingly looped his arm under Maedhros' left shoulder, half-supporting his weight to slacken the chain so he could examine it. The prince chose this moment to resurface into disoriented half-consciousness, and found himself held in a too-familiar embrace. Sudden revulsion clamped an iron grip around his throat -- he cried out in fear and fought to tear loose.

Startled, Fingon almost lost his footing on the eagle's back -- but then he held fast, speaking quiet simple words of reassurance as he would to a child in the grip of a nightmare. And it worked. Maedhros went abruptly limp, clinging with his free arm. With a labored breath, he lifted his head to stare past his rescuer's shoulder, and the last rays of the setting sun reflected in his grey eyes like fire. His hand clutched violently, locking around Fingon's arm.

"Told you...he's coming...stupid..."

"I heard you. And I believed you. But it seems that Lord Manwe had a better idea." Fingon wanted to reassure his friend, but time was running out and there was only one way out of this. His heart wept at the thought -- his right hand, it's his right hand, his fighting hand, I can't do it -- but the other option was far worse...

As if reading his mind, Maedhros' fingers trailed down Fingon's side to curl loosely around the hilt of Fingon's sword. "Please," he whispered into his friend's ear. "Please...this. Quickly. Kill me...and go."

"I can't," Fingon replied quietly. "Forgive me."

He pushed the prince's fingers away and steeled his nerve and drew his sword ringing from its sheath. The last fiery gleam of daylight licked along the silver blade as it swung back, and then forward. A dull meaty thunk -- stone chips flew from the cliff-face -- a discordant jangle of loose chain--

Maedhros' breath whistled from his lungs as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He did not scream. He could not scream. It was too much. Silently, his eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped bonelessly into Fingon's arms.

Free.

Maimed, but free.

And the sun was gone.

With a defiant shriek, the eagle lifted its mighty wings to stir up a wind greater than that which moaned amidst the rocks of this accursed place. Fingon bit back a yell and sat down hard to curl around Maedhros' limp form, gripping handfuls of feathers as the great creature leaped from the ledge. Huge pinions spread, beat, and caught the air to lift into the sky, abandoning the dark land and the shadows which issued from its depths. Higher and higher, until the air grew thin; there, the eagle wheeled and set out towards Mithrim, where Finwe's descendents held an uneasy truce.

Fingon barely noticed. Once he felt certain that the eagle would not let them fall, he ripped part of his tunic loose and focused on binding Maedhros' right wrist, struggling to halt the bright blood which jetted from the severed stump with every heartbeat. He worked fast and he worked well, and he was able to staunch the flow...for now. Better healers would have to deal with the injury. He'd never seen nor heard of its like. It was a terrible thing...

But a necessary one, he reminded himself sternly as he gathered Maedhros' thin, clammy body into his lap and wrapped his cloak about him. Half-dried blood smeared onto his palms as he pulled those long legs in close, and he shuddered. He had never heard of any torment that could cause such injuries, and he feared to set his imagination loose on his suspicions.

He imagined he heard a distant roar of loss and dark rage, far behind and below, and part of him wondered if his own death was foretold in that terrible sound, but right now that meant little. All that mattered was that Maedhros survived a short while longer...thele'le's flight was divinely swift, so safety was but minutes away...

Gently, Fingon cradled his half-cousin's matted head against his shoulder and held him close, trying to share the heat of his own body. "You're safe. You're with me. I have you," he murmured, and he wondered at the convulsive quake that wracked the battered body. As if in...terror?

He didn't understand. He couldn't know that his earnest words of comfort -- so close, in the Quenya tongue, to the simple possessive "Mine" -- combined with the touch and scent of his long black braids would forever after strike ice into Maedhros' heart. And in the long years to come, no matter how close they became, Maedhros never told him why.

Never.

:finis:

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"Thorondor bore them back to Mithrim. There Maedhros was healed; for the fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed who were nurtured in Valinor. His body recovered from his torment and became hale, but the shadow of his pain was in his heart [ever after]..."

-- "Of The Return Of The Noldor," The Silmarillion

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Chains Of Steel And Shadow