A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 9- Daeron

TW/CW: the last bit of this chapter is very very graphic, and partly why the story is E-rated. If you want to skip that, skip the last bit (roughly from the point on where Daeron refuses to betray Lúthien to Sauron). I think you can guess what happens.

 

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Daeron felt he could not walk one more step, the muscles in his legs opposing his every movement. For five days and five nights, the orcs had dragged and pushed him onward, only allowing him a few sips of stale water from time to time. Even when the orcs had paused to rest, Daeron had not been allowed any time for recuperation, for they had tied him to a tree each time, in a way that ensured that no rest was possible. He was so very sick from the lack of sleep, huger and the repulsing stench of them. And from looking at them. The ugly had ever repulsed him- or rather, mutilations repulsed him. He had never even been able to bear to look upon an animal that had survived a fight or accident maimed.

He shuddered. There had been this horse, back in the old days in Eglador, a beautiful animal, ridden by one of the captains. Daeron had still been very young then, and had just reached out to stroke its nose when it had turned its head, and Daeron had realised with a gut-wrenching jolt of repulsion that it missed an eye. That image had ever haunted him, and he had stayed well clean of any horse until that particular one had died of old age.

Lúthien had noticed it, of course, like she had always noticed everything he had tried to hide from her. She had not shared his feelings on this particular subject, though, but found them mildly amusing at best, and exasperating at worst.

“You are like Ada.” she had sighed “He cannot stomach such things, either. Why does it so upset you, though? The missing eye does not seem to bother the horse at all, except that he spooks easier.”

That was true, of course. The lost eye did not seem to pose a particular grievance to the horse, and Daeron knew that this should be all that concerned him, but however much he tried to see things like that, it never worked. He could not shake off his repulsion. Lúthien’s words had brought consolation nonetheless, for he felt that if the King could be uneasy about missing eyes, so could he.

His thoughts were still firmly on Lúthien and times long gone when the orcs around Daeron halted. He looked up, and though he had before thought himself too exhausted to care about what happened next, terror made his heart falter the moment he laid eyes on the great door- the doors of Angband itself.

Few had ever left these brazen gates again after they had been lead through them, and for those that were ‘lucky’ enough to escape them, it was more often than not a crueler punishment than death. He wondered briefly what fate might await him, or to what purpose they had brought him here alive. He had wondered that the entire time. After all, he was only a minstrel, and had moreover carried out no-one’s errand but his own when he had been captured.
Oh, what folly it had been. Círdan had warned him, had he not, that travelling to Nargothrond all by himself was dangerous? That he should wait? But his heart had not warranted the wait, could not have borne to tarry any longer.

And really, non of that would ever have happened had he not been so foolish in the first place, had he not let Lúthien go on her errand by herself. She had been determined that this was to be her revenge, and her revenge alone, and he had wanted to honour her grief and the need to settle things for herself. Daeron had rued that decision almost at once, even before he had set off towards the Falas with most of the inhabitants of Menegroth, but by then it was too late.

Later, when news had reached them that Lúthien was safe with Finrod, he had again refrained from seeking her out. Cowardice, that was what it had been. He had never not loved her, his heart belonging to her ever since they had been children, but he had never been sure of her feelings, and scared to destroy what bond they had, had contented himself with being her best friend.

As the years of their separation had lengthened with nothing but greetings exchanged through messengers that travelled between Nargothrond and Eglarest, however, his longing for Lúthien had slowly started to overpower his fear of rejection, until it had finally reached a point where he could no longer ignore it. So he had set out at last to ask her hand- and had promptly ended up in the orcs’ clutches.

Daeron did not give himself into the delusion that he would see Lúthien again even for a moment. No, he would die here in Angband. If only they could have ended it on the road, have slain him quickly with an arrow or swift sword-strike. He feared the torture and mutilations that he would now surely face more than anything, and again wondered why they had been ordered to take him to Angband alive. Paralysed with fear as he was, he hardly noticed the orcs moving on into the fortress itself, and was only jerked back to awareness by a soft, melodic voice that spoke next to him.

“Ah, the piper.”

The figure the voice belonged to made Daeron gasp. Living with a Maia as their queen for millennia left Daeron with no doubt that the speaker was one as well, and one as stunningly beautiful as Melian, though in a much eerier way. He knew who this was, had heard his name whispered in terror and fear- Bauglir’s lieutenant who was said to be crueler than Bauglir himself.

Unperturbed by Daeron’s stare, the Maia strode lazily over to where Daeron was still held in bounds by the orcs, and tilted Daeron’s face upwards with one long slender finger.

“Gorthaur!” Daeron hissed, which made Sauron smile.

“Oh… why call me by such a fell name? You people are all so very hostile, it was the same with your king. Coming to think of it, you seem to have his impertinence as well. You see, he failed to show me the due respect as well, and I tell you now, it did not end particularly well for him.”

“I know that.” Daeron spat back.

He had no idea where courage came from all of a sudden, courage that would most certainly do him no good whatsoever, yet now that he was here, at the very heart of his deepest fears, now that he knew that there was no way to survive, he found that courage replaced his stunned panic, and so kept him on his feet, and his mind clear.

“Do you? Why, but that is very interesting. How did you come to know of his fate?”

Daeron only stared at Sauron defiantly. He would most certainly not say any more. He would not betray those he loved, not Círdan, not Lúthien, nor anyone else.

“He lay over there.”

Sauron casually waved his hand in the direction of a crude stone table that was clearly designed for the sole purpose to bind hostages onto it for torture. Daeron willed himself to keep his face even, to not let his terror show. To imagine King Elu on this table was… unthinkable.

“Very funny noises he made when we cut his fingers off, but do you think he would swallow his pride? But it mattered not. He served his purpose in the end, or would have, but for the folly of my orcs. One must forgive them, they are a simple people. Now, enough reminiscing. We have business still to address. Firstly, I will have that…” he tucked Daeron’s flute from his belt. “…and then you shall come with me!”

While he talked, he took the ropes that bound Daeron from the orc that had led him, which made Daeron’s heart race once more. End it swiftly, he pleaded in his mind, knowing it to be in vain. He would be tortured before he was finally allowed to go, just as King Elu had been, only that of his fate, no-one would be any the wiser. Still, inexplicably, that thought comforted him. The Fëar of the Eldar met in the Halls of Awaiting, they said. Would Elu welcome him there? He who would most certainly understand the pain and shame better than anyone else? Would he comfort him like he had done when Daeron had been a child and got hurt in a play with Lúthien, Galathil and Celeborn?

Sauron lead him through the dread passages of Angband, until they reached a heavy iron door. A lump grew in Daeron’s throat the moment Sauron pushed the door open, distracting him from his fear. So this was why Sauron had brought their conversation to his late king almost at once, Daeron had wondered about it. They had arranged King Elu’s armour, sword and crown almost as if they were gathering trophies, which, now that Daeron looked around, they most certainly did. There were other armours there, swords, shields, lances, all made not by Dwarven or Sindarin smiths, but in the alien ways of the Noldor. In a distant part of his mind, he took a moment to admire the finesse of their handiworks, but that thought was quelled quickly, for slowly but surely the pieces started to fall into place, solving the dread riddle of why Daeron lived still. Sauron must have learned that Daeron had not only been King Elu’s minstrel but also the loremaster of Eglador, and if Daeron’s fears were true, more still. Sauron wanted Lúthien, and sought to gain access to her through Daeron.

Before he could think any more about his predicament, he was kicked in the legs from behind, which made his knees buckle. The next moment, he felt a hand grasping his hair, Sauron’s fingernails scratching Daeron’s scalp as he forced his head back. Half a dozen orcs had entered the room with them, their stench filling Daeron’s nostrils, the hunger in their eyes evident. And they laughed in anticipation of what was to come.

“Now, let us place your pipe here too, shall we?”

Daeron did not answer, but only watched silently as Sauron tossed the flute onto King Elu’s folded mantel, where it landed with a dull thud. Tears stung his eyes, much as he tried to fight them, so as not to betray his feelings before his tormenters- his flute was his most priced possession, his way to express himself, almost a part of himself. For the briefest moment, Daeron wondered whether there was indeed a way out, if only he did as he was asked. But no. He was no fool, and knew that Evil knew no mercy. They would take what information he could give, and then kill him all the same, only maybe less painfully. Would he give in, he wondered, if they mutilated him like it was said they had mutilated the King?

“Now, listen closely. You can have your instrument back, and those trinkets, if they mean anything to you.”

“But first you tell us” one of the orcs rasped in, interrupting Sauron “Where’s that witch?”

Daeron loathed having his suspicions confirmed in such a brute way, but really, it was no surprise at all. And he also knew with utter certainty that he would not -regardless of what they inflicted upon him- betray her.

“No?” Sauron asked once more, when long moments of silence had spiralled between them “What a pity.”

And without further warning, one of the orcs grabbed Daeron by the neck, pushing his thumbs against his throat. The pain made him almost faint. He could feel and hear his larynx being crushed and thought for a moment that he would suffocate, but then the orc let go again, leaving Daeron gasping desperately for breath.

“Now?”

“No.” Daeron wheezed tonelessly, unable to produce a proper sound.

“Have it your way, then.”

He felt his head being forced even further back, and one of the orcs pouring a liquid into his mouth that made his lips and tongue burn and blister. Daeron would have screamed had he only been able to get out any sound. He had realised by now what they were aiming to do, taking his pipe, taking his voice… he just wanted it to end, but it was too late for that now. He would pay for his loyalty to Lúthien in the most horrible way.

“Now, I am told you invented letters of your own, have you not. I shall give you one last chance- write down your answers and I might show you mercy.”

Again, Daeron shook his head. Whatever they did to him, he would not betray Lúthien. Sauron let out a disgusted snort, nodding curtly at the orcs at the same time.

He watched as from afar as the orcs pulled his still bound hands out in front of him, and let a dirty axe swish down on them, hacking them cleanly off. The pain blinded Daeron, his surroundings swimming before his eyes. He wanted to cradle his wounded arms, but obviously could not, the sensation only adding to his utter agony.

“Oh dear…” he heard Sauron say from far away “… poor lad cannot pipe anymore now. What if we make him a new mouth, then?”

It was a relief to feel the sharp pain of the knife against his bruised throat as Sauron himself slit it. He welcomed the blood that poured out of him, taking his life with it. It was over now at last, and his heartbeats numbered, and with them the time Sauron had to torture him further.

“I did not betray you, Tinúviel.” he whispered in his mind even as his Fëa left his broken body, to flee into Námo’s waiting arms.

Many leagues away in Nargothrond, Lúthien awoke with a cry of despair.