A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

---

11

Maitimo draws, struggles, and yields.

---

Thick black lines swept over rough paper in clean curves. Charcoal blackened fingers smudged the lines into a blur, movement captured in the stillness. Muscled forms hinted at in minimal strokes, a black-haired figure astride an equally black horse, hair flying in the freedom of an open plain.

“Who is this?” a soft voice asked, standing above him, behind the couch Maitimo had curled up on. So absorbed was he in his sketches, he had failed to hear Mairon’s approach.

Maitimo looked up at Mairon, who was holding out another sketch to show Maitimo what he had found. Maitimo’s stomach dropped, dread making his limbs heavy. Findekáno’s lovely, smiling face stared out of the page, caught in a moment of carefree laughter. An indulgence of sentimentality, a dangerous risk.

“A cousin,” Maitimo muttered, reaching for the sketch, but Mairon lifted it out of reach, peering at it.

“He’s quite comely. You’re a skilled artist, Nelyafinwë.”

Maitimo’s lips lifted, a half smile of acknowledgment. “Charcoal is not my preferred medium, but I make do with what I have.”

Mairon arched a golden eyebrow, still inspecting the sketch of Findekáno as he walked around to the front of the couch. “And ‘making do’ includes taking paper out of my desk?”

“You’ve left very little to occupy me with,” Maitimo retorted smoothly. “I am not an old hound, content to sleep by the fire for cycles on end. I need something to occupy my mind, or at the very least my hands.”

“You are certainly not old, little Ñoldóran.” Mairon laughed, lazily handing Maitimo the portrait between two fingers. Maitimo took it with a feeling of relief as he collected the papers into a neater pile, burying Findekáno’s happy face between a landscape of the Pelóri and an imagined still life of Finwë’s crown surrounded by five round fruits and a multitude of flowers – fifteen of them, in two groups of four and one of seven. The sketch of the horse and rider went on top, and the entire pile deposited on the table, next to the arantyalmë set.

Mairon sounded honestly curious as he asked, “What is your preferred medium, then?”

“Thread. I embroidered, primarily, but I was known to dabble in weaving and nalbinding. I also painted.”

“Why past tense?”

Maitimo shrugged and held out his hands, fingers spread, offering them for inspection. “Angband has not been kind to my hands.” His fingers, once long and straight and graceful, bore the marks of burns and cuts and breaks that had not healed cleanly. They ached, occasionally, when the wind blew in through the fireplace from the north.

“With time and patience, skills once thought lost may return,” Mairon said softly, distantly. “I have been neglectful of this aspect of your care. It may take a few cycles, but I will bring you what you need.”

Maitimo tucked away that mournful look for later consideration, and merely nodded. “Thank you, my Lord.”

A pause. Maitimo met Mairon’s eyes, and what he saw made him want to flinch.

“Come, Ñoldóran. It’s time, I deem.”

Maitimo breathed through the dread that suddenly radiated through his chest, eyes dropping to the pile of sketches. He half-wished he had left the sketch of his beloved on top, to give him strength. But the same half, protective of the memory of happier times, knew thinking of him now would sully every recollection of happiness they had shared.

Not with what was to come.

Mairon held out his blessing-burnt hands. Maitimo stared at them for a beat too long.

“It will be easier on both of us, I dare say, if you do not resist me,” Mairon reached out, caressing Maitimo’s cheek before tangling his fingers in Maitimo’s unbraided hair. “You swore to bear my children, Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran, to blend the line of Tata with that of Eru, in exchange for all the indulgences I can offer you. Remember?”

Maitimo nodded slightly, and Mairon’s fingers tightened in his hair, making him gasp out, “I do.”

“Good.” Mairon’s smile turned predatory, all teeth and no humor. “Then let us begin.”

The kiss, when it came, was hard, cool, possessive. Mairon’s tongue slipped between Maitimo’s teeth, overwhelming him with the smell of hot metal and the chill of a mountain’s peak, his neck held in place with a grip of iron. Maitimo tried to hold still, to allow the violation, but his body recoiled from the intrusion without conscious thought.

Mairon reared back, open palm connecting with Maitimo’s jaw with a stinging slap. Hot copper spread over his tongue, where teeth had cut into his cheek. Maitimo snarled, teeth bared, as Mairon’s hand forced his neck to bend at an unnatural angle.

“Yield,” Mairon growled.

Just say yes.

Maitimo closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, to relax into the hold. The ache in his neck eased, slightly, and he could feel Mairon’s eyes on him, waiting to see if Maitimo would tense again, would try to fight his advances.

“I yield,” Maitimo whispered, eyes still closed, an echo of all the games of arantyalmë he had lost, that he would continue to lose. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Mairon hummed, a smile audible in his voice. “Better.”

The second kiss was easier. Mairon licked into his mouth, again, and Maitimo’s only resistance was in the way his hands tightened into fists, clutching the skirts of his robe until his hands hurt. The hot-metal tang of Mairon mixed with the copper of his bloody mouth in a nauseating assault on his senses. So caught up in trying to stay still, he barely noticed Mairon’s free hand working to free the buttons of his robe.

Maitimo caught Mairon’s wrist, pulling him gently away. When Mairon broke off the kiss, mouth already twisted in frustration, Maitimo shook his head, heedless of the tug on his hair. “Please, let me, my Lord. It’ll be quicker.”

Maitimo made efficient work of the buttons and shrugged out of his overrobe, leaving him in his plain white shirt and loose pants. Mairon looked on, indulgent, hand still in Maitimo’s hair. He seemed content to leave it there, to use his hair to keep him in place, to remind him of his place, of his agreement, to direct his movements.

It was an intimacy Maitimo had so rarely allowed of others in the days before the Trees fell, reserved almost entirely for his beloved, and only occasionally his parents or brothers. But Mairon seemed not to care at all. Had, in fact, slowly made Maitimo numb to his touch with the constant caressing, petting, and tugging over the time he had spent in Mairon’s company. The Noldor were prudish about their hair, Maitimo knew, compared to other groups of Quendi. Held it, culturally, more erotic than it probably actually was.

He’d be lying, if he said he wasn’t already hard, had been since the slap.

He’d be truthful, if he said he hated that.

“May I?” Maitimo reached for the lacing at Mairon’s side that held his black surcoat tight against his fana. This one was devoid of smooth obsidian or glittering jet, rich instead with goldwork embroidery that coiled over itself, snakes chasing each other across the hems and cuffs. Mairon nodded, a slow smile building.

Maitimo loosened the knot, slowly pulling the tension of the lacing tie loose where it spiraled up Mairon’s ribs. Still sitting on the couch, Maitimo had a decent vantage of the way Mairon’s erection pushed at the fabric.

He could have let his hands drift, to tease, to stroke and fondle. If this was any other person, in any other situation, he might have. Certainly, if it had been his beloved, he would have. As it was, he let his hands fall to his lap, and waited.

Mairon loosened his grip on Maitimo’s hair, stroking his thumb over the curve of his ear. “Good. Thank you, dearest.” The endearment made Maitimo’s free ear flick back in annoyance, and Mairon huffed a small laugh. “Your choice, on your back or on your knees.”

Maitimo blinked, made a snap decision. “Back.”

Mairon took a step away, tugging at Maitimo’s hair, leading him off the couch to kneel on the plush carpet, then laid him on the floor in the space between the couch and the low table. It was easy, too easy, to just follow the tugging, to reduce the pain, to get it over with. Mairon finally released his hair, and shoved at the table, giving them some more room.

A leather boot nudged at his bare foot. “Pants, Nelyafinwë,” Mairon said, even as he slipped out of the surcoat.

He couldn’t do it. His hands were shaking too much. A single layer of fabric, once taken for granted, now the only thing between him and his ruin. He tried, oh how he tried, to steady his breath, to still his hands, to comply. His heartbeat, too rapid, refused to calm. Fear demanded action, demanded violence, demanded something besides laying down and letting the world have its way with his flesh.

Mairon loomed, watching, frown marring his perfect features. “Nelyafinwë,” he said, a thousand warnings in his tone.

Maitimo grimaced. Closed his eyes. Tried again, but his fingers did not cooperate, couldn’t get adequate grip on the laces to pull them loose. Shook his head, the barest motion of denial.

“Please, please, my Lord,” Maitimo whispered, begged with the ease of the thrall who would do and say anything to avoid the lash. “F-for-forgive me, please–”

His begging subsided with the touch of cold fingers against his mouth. “Hush, Nelyafinwë.” Mairon murmured, as he eased the pants off Maitimo’s hips himself. “You are forgiven. This time. The next, I may not be so generous. Do you understand me?”

Maitimo jerked a nod, shuddering on the exhale through his nose. “Yes, my Lord,” he mumbled against Mairon’s touch, forcing his hands down, flat against the carpet, the pile tickling the space between his spread and tense fingers. “I can do it. Forgive me.”

He heard rather than saw Mairon smile as he crooned from somewhere between his legs. “Good boy. My pretty little Ñoldóran.” Cold hands trailed up Maitimo’s bare thigh, down his neck, settled on his chest to hold him in place. Maitimo had no illusions of his ability to wrestle himself free; Mairon was strong, and determined, and Maitimo just had to take it or be punished.

He is being remarkably patient with me, Maitimo thought, in an analytical, detached, hysterical way. That almost makes it worse.

Two fingers plunged into the new cavity between his legs, scissoring him open in a motion remarkably like his own self-exploration some cycles ago. Maitimo clenched his jaw, clamped down on the unwanted and unexpected intrusion, hissed at the chill.

Just as quickly as Mairon’s fingers entered, they left, and were replaced with Mairon’s cock. He sheathed himself in Maitimo in an expertly fluid motion, and just like that, all the tension fled Maitimo’s hröa. Something unspeakably strange unfurled in his chest, spread through his flesh, suffused his bones. He relaxed. His mind went quiet, overwhelmed by sensation.

“There we go,” Mairon murmured quietly, gently. His free hand thumbed at Maitimo’s cheek. “That’s it. See, that isn’t so bad, is it?”

Maitimo relaxed into the touch, a quiet little moan escaping from his lips. He opened his eyes slightly, peering out from under his lashes. The light from the seemed to burn brighter, the carpet under his hands was softer, everything was slow and sweet and heightened.

Mairon started moving between his legs, and the sensation was strange, and unlike any other sexual experience he had had in the past. It was numb, dulled, a dragging pressure on nerves firing that had not quite finished integrating themselves into his mind. Maitimo found himself growing more vocal, breathing heavily around moans and gasps as Mairon leaned over his prize, kissed Maitimo, and Maitimo kissed him back, slow and sensual.

Maitimo let his hands wander up Mairon’s back, skimming the long shirt that Mairon still wore up to touch smooth skin. Acting out of pure instinct, following the motions and habits of the long years of pleasing his own husband, he brought his hands forward to thumb at Mairon’s chest. Soft breasts met his hands, filled them. Breasts like a girl’s, young and in the first flush of lust.

Mairon let out the most undignified squeak against Maitimo’s mouth when Maitimo pinched his nipples. He pulled back, wordlessly took Maitimo’s wrists off his tits and restrained them, holding them in one hand above Maitimo’s head, pinning him against the floor. “Don’t,” Mairon said firmly. “Not there. Never there.”

Maitimo nodded, and Mairon picked up the pace of his thrusts, rolling his hips forward, the inexorable tide battering the cliff side, until he stopped, shuddering slightly.

Mairon released Maitimo’s hands, dragged himself upright, still sheathed inside him. Maitimo watched, distantly curious as Mairon laid both hands over Maitimo’s lower abdomen and began to hum.

Maitimo could feel his fëa moving in response to Mairon’s tune. It became a living thing, malleable, twitching and jittering under his skin, coalescing in the space between his hips where there was … nothing.

The hummed Song commanded his fëa to latch onto something that just … wasn’t there.

Maitimo felt the edges of disappointment, of grief, start to rear in his mind, but then Mairon was pulling away, standing up with a face full of thunder and a voice full of frustration and fury.

And Maitimo, bereft of the fullness that had made him feel suddenly so complete, was left laying on the floor – his hair a wreck, his shirt tacky with sweat, his thighs sticky with fluids he couldn’t identify, still hard and wanton. He shook with residual fear and renewed self-disgust and utter confusion at what had just occurred. “What–”

“It doesn’t work if she’s not part of you, wholly and completely, body and spirit, Nelyafinwë!” Mairon growled, tying his own pants around his full, round hips. “You need to … fix this.” He waved a hand carelessly, gesturing at all of Maitimo. “All of this.”

Maitimo, skittish, startled, shaking, pushed himself up and away from the angry Maia until his back hit the couch seat behind him. Panting, bordering on hyperventilation, he wordlessly stared up at Mairon.

Mairon grabbed his surcoat and stalked out, not a hair out of place.