all the horrors that I promised you I'd bring by queerofthedagger  

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all the horrors that I promised you I'd bring

Celegorm opens his eyes to a dark forest.

That is a surprise. Last he knew, he had been confined to Mandos’ halls; he had been there, in fact, for long enough that he struggles to recall a before, much less the idea of a possible after.

That is a lie. The thought of it manifests before he can stop it, comes with the memory of blood, of fire, of screaming children in a burning city, of his brother’s guts torn open, blood, blood, everywhere—

The forest sighs. It is no harmless sound. Celegorm rolls to his feet, notes that he is naked; thrills at the shiver that goes down his spine, and understands, at last, what this must be.

A dream. Product of his own mind, drifting through Mandos without purpose or submission, or a body to enact it on.

He smiles into the dark and follows the sound. It has been such a long time, since Celegorm had a chance to hunt.

The light in the forest shifts, waxes, wanes. His remaining senses sharpen, lead him after his target. He cannot tell how he knows it, how he follows; gets only drawn deeper, bare feet certain across tangled roots, across the soft, wet ground.

Then, the clearing; then, the white stag. It watches Celegorm with dark eyes, eyes he once knew, eyes he once—

He pounces, swallows the shout that wants to get out. The stag moves not until Celegorm is upon it, and then it seems to twist and morph at the impact, but not before Celegorm’s teeth sink into the thick muscle of its neck, lengthening, sharpening, tearing. Blood bursts across his tongue, hot and bitter and true, and for the first time in eternity, Celegorm surfaces from beneath still waters.

The dream twists. He slams into the forest ground, jaw unlocking. Chokes on the blood, and then on the hand around his throat, on the figure above him, on Oromë’s bright-golden eyes boring into him until it burns down to his bones.

A beat, two. Celegorm’s heart slams inside his chest, and he is not afraid, he is not, but he is aware of his nakedness, of his lack of a weapon, of how it has been long, so long—

“Run,” Oromë hisses, releasing him. The sudden absence of him lands like a punch. Then Celegorm laughs as one possessed, the sound hoarse and wretched, and does.

Immediately, now, the forest turns against him. Roots catching around his ankles, his hair tearing, branches hitting his face, his bare chest, his thighs. Ever, behind him, a low murmur, hot breath down his neck, and oh, Celegorm knows how a hunt goes. Knows when prey is toyed with, rather than pursued, and he should stop, he should, he should—

He is thrown to the ground once more, air slammed out of his lungs. A dream, he thinks wildly, it is all a dream. Oromë’s form is blurring where Celegorm catches sight of him, but where he presses up against Celegorm, he is all skin, all sharp, still-familiar angles.

“Did I not tell you to run?” Oromë says, his breath hot against Celegorm’s ear. There is no humour in it, no mercy; Celegorm is less surprised than perhaps he ought to be when he grows hard instantly, and still, loathing curses through him.

“Have you not learnt, yet, that I no longer take your orders?” he snarls back, twists, kicks, wills himself back on his knees and reverses their positions until it is Oromë sprawled beneath him.

Celegorm has no illusion that it is anything but an allowance, but it is his dream, and so he presses the god’s wrists against the forest floor, sits astride his thighs; takes in what has been memory for so long—dark skin, wild hair, blood-red markings across face, chest, stomach.

Oromë too is grown hard, his large cock lying on his hip. It is a dream, Celegorm thinks; there would be no consequence to indulgence. Against Oromë’s neck, there is the evidence of Celegorm’s own teeth, a puncture wound still oozing blood.

An allowance; a dream; Oromë twists and morphs until he is animal once more, fangs and claws and snarling fury, and slams Celegorm into the nearest tree.

A dream, he repeats, a dream, a dream, a dream. Pain still ricochets through his bones, his lungs struggling for air. Across the clearing, the wolf watches, teeth bared, growl low in his throat.

Celegorm runs. Oromë gives chase.

From somewhere, Celegorm manifests a knife. At the next turn, he melts into shadow; lets himself be overtaken and aims, laughing at the howl rattling the forest, when the blade sinks into an unguarded back.

Now it is the wolf who runs. Now it is Celegorm who moves like water, who runs until his limbs shake, until the fear almost, almost, almost turns into wild, visceral joy long unfelt. Who turns into a swarm of buzzing insects, into a fell cat, into a snake lunging until they are entangled, snarling forms dissolving into each other, claws catching, crawling beneath skin, infection festering in crimson-wide wounds.

From one panting breath to the next, the forest goes silent and empty, its absence like a blow. The shadows lengthen, thicken, turning into a tangible, weighty thing that shivers across Celegorm’s skin. It is silent, and he is alone. The hair on his body stands with dread and shivering anticipation.

He turns still. Against the back of his neck, he can feel hot breath; can feel the presence, wrapping itself around him, both home and threat.

“Do you think you can outrun me?”

Celegorm laughs, the sound bolder than he feels. He does not move. “Can you?”

A sigh, as if in fondness as old as the forest’s roots. Celegorm knows better, of course, and would have said so if a hand did not come to rest on his hip; to trace his stomach, muscles quivering, before dipping lower, lower, wrapping around his aching cock.

“Look at you, little elf; still so eager for my touch.”

Celegorm snarls and twists around; finds shadow turning solid at the violence of his hands, and they scramble against each other, fight once more with sharp nails and unforgiving teeth until Oromë throws them both to the ground, Celegorm beneath him, and finally, finally holds him still.

Celegorm is so hard that it hurts, breath coming in harsh pants, and still, he glares up at what was once the centre of his worship. “If you think I will abase myself to you once more, you are sorely mistaken; how many centuries have you had to learn this?”

Oromë spreads Celegorm’s legs, settles between them. He is still shrouded in shadow, but his eyes burn bright, burn right through Celegorm, flaying away layer after layer of his fear. At the heart of it, there is only fury and want, is only the same poisonous amalgamation that Celegorm has been stewing in for just as long.

“You have sworn yourself to me,” Oromë says, his voice absolute. He wraps a hand around Celegorm’s cock, and Celegorm arches off the ground, cursing under his breath. His hands scramble for purchase, and the forest comes alive beneath him, vines wrapping around him, keeping him still. “Did you think it was an Oath as easily broken as the one you swore alongside your father and brothers?”

The words come with a mean twist of Oromë’s thumb over the head of Celegorm’s cock, rough and painful, over and over, and he struggles for coherence, for his strength, for the power of indifference he has convinced himself of for so long. Underneath, resentment burns like bees beneath his skin, and there might as well be for the twisted, contradicting sensation of it all.

A dream; it is just a dream. With more willpower than he has exerted for anything in a long time, Celegorm shakes his shackles off, pushes himself up; pushes Oromë off him, backwards, backwards, until he sits sprawled against an ancient tree, his stunning face open in surprise and something terribly close to pleasure.

Celegorm grits his teeth. It is on him to straddle Oromë’s thighs, to wrap his hand around the god’s throat and watch as his pupils blow wide at the blasphemous gesture.

“You may admonish and disapprove, may hold ancient foolishness for some kind of ransom over me, but the truth of it is,” Celegorm says, voice low and vicious as he wraps his hand around Oromë’s cock, “the truth of it is that you still, after all, have come for me.”

Oromë makes a sound low in his throat, hands coming to rest on Celegorm’s hips; fingers digging harshly enough, they will add to the litany of bruises, and oh, how Celegorm revels in it; how he revels in leaning forward, sinking his teeth into Oromë’s shoulder anew until copper bursts across his tongue.

“Always so bold, for someone of your deeds,” Oromë says, claws tearing open Celegorm’s back. “Do you think yourself so easily forgiven? Do you think your charade so easily believed, for someone who has been lingering in the halls for centuries? Are you not a coward at heart, Tyelkormo, considering how you avoided this?”

Celegorm snarls, fury blinding behind his eyes. He does not want to hear it; he does not want to hear it. He lines himself up where he is still in Oromë’s lap, and sinks down on his cock with no preparation, and little to ease the intrusion.

He curses, loud and foul, even as Oromë shakes beneath him. The stretch burns, splits him in two, and for long, blissful moments, there is only this—the pain, sharp and bright and real. Oromë’s hands on him, steady and familiar, his cock growing harder and wider inside Celegorm until the pain of it is all he feels. The forest is a horror around them, and yet not quite encroaching on whatever ruin they are making of each other, this time.

“It is a dream,” Celegorm pants, at last, when he can finally catch his breath once more. “It is a dream; it does not matter. None of it matters.”

He moves, then, despite the pain. Oromë wraps a hand around him once more, pulls him close, and for once, for once, Celegorm lets him. Lets himself fall into the pleasure of it, the want. Does not think how Oromë will be able to read it on him, to smell it, because it matters not. It is not real, it is not, it is not.

Pain turns into pleasure, the edges blurring. He buries his hands in Oromë’s wild hair, pulls his head back. Looks down at him with feverish eyes and snarls, “I do not regret it. I swore myself to you, and you abandoned me, and so, I do not regret it. Do you understand?”

Oromë hums, bright eyes boring into Celegorm. “And yet, you are here.”

“It is a dream.”

“And yet.”

“It is a dream.”

“I did not abandon you, Tyelkormo. Your oath holds.”

Celegorm shakes, his entire body convulsing. There is horror in the simplicity of the truth, and he cannot face it, will not. Bows his head to kiss Oromë, all teeth and blood and ancient vitriol, all age-old promises he dares not speak.

It is a dream, and so, for only a moment, he allows himself to fall, pain and want and memory an agonising blight within his blood.

Oromë bites his mouth, draws back; twists his fingers over the head of Celegorm’s cock, and, just as Celegorm is about to tip over the edge, puts his mouth right next to Celegorm’s ear.

Celegorm shudders at the hot breath, the animal smell. His cock jerks, balls tightening, and he is so close, so close—

“Wake up,” Oromë orders, voice ringing, indomitable and final.

A second of horror, a second of the world splitting, of realisation crashing over him, and—

And there, in the cold, dim grey of Mandos, Celegorm does.

Chapter End Notes

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