A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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15

Maitimo gains some leverage.

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“There are, however, no matters which among the Eldar only a nér can think or do, or others with which only a nís is concerned.” (Laws and Customs of the Eldar)

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Deep in the vaults of Formenos, single minded in his intensity, Fëanáro barked out a terse “Again!” at each scenario that did not meet their objective. The piles of stones returned to their places, and seven commanders ran the the siege of Taniquetil again.

Failure was inexcusable, the pressure to succeed greatest on he who was eldest.

Again.

Sex was but a way to translate blood and bodies into motion, into meaning. 

Again.

Maitimo went to Mairon.

Again.

Maitimo submitted to Mairon. 

Again.

This was the battle to be won.

Again.

The safety he would gain was worth the suffering, the hissed breaths and pulled hair and strangled orgasms. 

Again.

Power grows from the shaft of a cock, after all, and Maitimo could still grasp at this meager source of power, take it inside himself, use it to his own ends once the deed was done.

Again. Again. Again.

Just say yes.

Again.

Something changed, in the doing. The drag on his nerves, that numbness slowly disappeared as time dragged on, making the intensity of sensation when Mairon took him all the stronger. It made it easier, this Oath-induced drive that bound them both to the purpose of blasphemous creation. It made him easy, pliant and willing and eager, even, to be bred. Like alcohol, the Oath he had sworn to Mairon made it easy, and Maitimo doubted he could go through with any of this without it. He needed it.

Findekáno had never made him feel this cock-drunk. Desire had been distant, in those Tree-lit days, slow to wake, and once woken, smoldered, and only ever for his husband. If it had been anyone else pursuing him as ardently, as fiercely, as boldly as Findekáno had, Maitimo would not have entertained the thought. They had been melotorni, heartfriends, trusted and loved before Findekáno proposed going further. Marriage, and thus copulation, had not interested him then. Findekáno had been special, a force all his own.

The why was outside of his purview – Mairon wanted a son for an unknown purpose; it wasn’t for Maitimo to question. The how was intimately known, had been pounded into him time and time again. And the when … it was only a matter of time before it actually worked. He needed only to endure.

His head buried in his arms, naked ass in the air, drunk on Mairon’s cock, Mairon Sang. Maitimo’s fëa twitched into the shape Mairon desired, and finally, finally stayed there.

A spark. Tiny. The barest hint of the presence of a fëa that was not his and certainly not Mairon’s ëala but something strange and different and distinct and very much alive.

Maitimo shook, the relief spreading like a wave throughout his body. He was exhausted. His own fëa relaxed back into the shape of himself, released from Mairon’s Song with a snap.

Mairon laughed, delighted, hand still cupped around Maitimo’s belly, as if he could reach in through the long-healed incision and caress the nascent child inside him. He drew back, petting Maitimo’s trembling thigh with a bit more force than he did to offer comfort, guiding him to lay on his side on the bed.

Maitimo peered up from under his lashes. He straightened out his legs, ignoring the click of a tendon in one of his knees, and rolled a little to rest on his back. Mairon had propped up one of Maitimo’s pillows and sat, lounging against the headboard, looking as satisfied and smug as a cat having stolen an entire mackerel from the Teleri markets. His golden locks were perfect as always, but despite this he looked debauched in just his shirt, cock still smeared with Maitimo’s fluids and his own spend.

“So.”

Maitimo took a steadying breath through his nose. Exhaled. The regret and misplaced guilt that usually threatened to overwhelm him was mercifully absent. Only giddy elation, and satisfaction.

He had gotten his leverage.

The child was a bargaining chip. It was what Mairon wanted most, but to get it, he had to give it to Maitimo. And now it was in Maitimo’s possession, to do with what he willed. Mairon had something to lose, something he desired, and to get it, he had to keep Maitimo safe, and happy, and above all, unharmed.

“So,” Maitimo said, letting a loose smile play on his lips. Not wholly genuine, but genuine enough to fool his captor. “What now?”

Mairon smirked. “Now we wait. Patiently. Previous experiences suggest gestation of a permaia takes longer than that of a typical Elda son.”

“That, you may have warned me of! Is there anything else I should be aware of, my Lord?”

“When the hunger hits, let me know.” Mairon’s voice dropped, quiet, earnest. “This will not be easy for you, but I will do what I can. I can only hope that, despite everything, you can trust that of me.”

Maitimo nodded. “I do.”

He really did, was the thing. He trusted Mairon’s care, so long as it was in service to his aims. He certainly had goals far beyond the confines of these apartments – managing his husband, managing the other denizens of Angband, keeping the tense but ultimately peaceful relationship between Angband and Doriath and the nomadic Avari. Watching the Noldor.

But for the narrow confines of the situation that Maitimo found himself in, he did trust Mairon. Mairon had provided Maitimo with whatever he needed for the last four years, from food to clothes to entertainment to craft. Alone, yes, he had only Mairon for company, but he had had the chance to breathe, to heal, to process.

Many times he had wept for Ambarussa and Curufinwë’s burns. For the sundering from his mother, left behind in Aman with only bitter words of parting for solace. For the anger and the distance that separated him from his husband. For his father, the flames of balrogs and his own fëa licking greedy around his bones until he succumbed, consumed wholly and completely until only ash remained.

He would never be able to erase the screams of his family from his mind. His own suffering was immaterial in comparison.

And oh, how Fëanáro had howled.

Time had also given him time to plan. To analyze his strategy, to gather information.

If he ever was allowed to leave, the Noldor would be in a strong position to oppose Angband’s might.

If.

Maitimo sighed. Despite the fire burning steadily in the hearth, he shivered. Gathering himself, he rolled to his feet and padded over to his wardrobe. The black robe would suit, today. Anything to hide himself from Mairon’s continually leering eyes.

“Washing up?” Mairon asked, voice light and triumphant with his success.

Maitimo nodded, quirking his lips up into a smirk despite his annoyance. “You got slick in my hair, my Lord, after preparing me.” Mairon still loved to manhandle Maitimo by grabbing his hair, which fell to his mid-back by this point, wavy and luxurious and well-tended. Mairon had come to him soon after he had woken, so his hair fell loose and brazen around his bare torso, not a braid to be seen. He hadn’t had time to put it up.

“My apologies,” Mairon murmured, completely unrepentant. He stalked past Maitimo into the hallway, and Maitimo quickly heard the sound of rushing water, a bath being drawn.

Maitimo had hoped to bathe in solitude, but he would have company regardless, it seemed. He indulged in a heavy sigh that no doubt Mairon could hear through the walls, then padded after his captor to share in the creature comfort that was a hot bath.

He stopped in the doorway, realizing with a jerk he had never actually seen Mairon without his shirt on. Loose, untied, but never completely off. He knew why, had inadvertently groped the reasons why when their efforts had begun … but. It just hadn’t struck him as strange until now. It was just a quirk of Mairon’s, something to be accepted and not commented upon.

Mairon stood, back to Maitimo, exposing his bare and utterly smooth back to Maitimo’s inspection. He had regained, in the last few years, some of his height, and the planes of his fana were harsher. His hips had narrowed, his shoulders broadened, the muscles on his arms more defined.

Distinctly masculine, this fana had shifted back to be.

The sinking feeling of dissonance and … perhaps envy skittered over his mind, tugging tiny hooks into the mental image his had of himself and prying it back to reveal the truth of his own shape. The softness that had just barely begun to collect on his thighs. The softness of his skin, especially on his face. The way his nipples had changed, in color, shape, and sensitivity. Even the quality of his orgasms had shifted, a rolling wave as opposed to the swift sharpness of a virile thrust.

Something more feminine.

And his hröa would only change more, in the coming year. Or longer. He knew how Nerdanel’s shape had changed with each subsequent pregnancy, had seen each of his aunts shift with the arrival of a new cousin, had supported a multitude of friends and friends of friends as they joined the ranks of new parents. Would have, if Fëanáro and Finwë had asked him to find a bride ...

Mairon’s melodic voice broke through that line of thought. “Join me, dearest Nelyafinwë,” he said, glancing over his shoulder before clambering into the bath. It was large enough for four (though with Maitimo’s height, they’d still be quite close), the stone rim built up to about hip height on Mairon. Steam curled off the surface, caressing Mairon’s porcelain skin and teasing his hair as he sank beneath the surface.

Maitimo started, shaking off the bulk of the dissonance, though it prickled under his skin all the same.

They washed in silence. Mairon was seemingly content to let the quiet sit between them, still exuding an air of satisfaction, mixed with a certain level of distraction. He kept staring off into the middle distance, face twitching in the way some did while conversing in ósanwë. Maitimo kept waiting for Mairon to say something, anything, but nothing came.

“A question,” Maitimo asked into the tense silence, hair newly washed and de-tangled. He was finger-combing oil into it, eyes closed, letting the heat soak into his bones. The heat was a balm, to his knees and hips and his fëa.

Mairon hummed an acknowledgment. Maitimo could feel the weight of the Maia’s eyes on his skin; he could imagine them roving over his face, his hair.

Maitimo kept his voice low, even, controlled. “Do you hide your body because your Lord-husband has changed your fana, or merely because you honestly prefer fucking with your shirt on?”

This was a test. A test of Mairon’s patience, yes, but also how much Maitimo would be able to push, with his new condition. How much indulgence he could now demand without getting hurt. How much leverage he truly had. How much Mairon valued this child.

Maitimo opened his eyes to find Mairon’s face twisted in confusion.

“Explain what you mean,” Mairon said flatly. He leaned forward, tense.

Maitimo continued, heedless of Mairon’s tone and the posture that promised violence. “When I first came to Angband, your fana looked much as it does now. Flat chested. Tall. Masculine. But when you brought me out of the forges, you had lost some height. And that first time you took me, your chest was softer, like that of a nís. And you told me I was not to touch you there.”

“Again, I ask why you care about the condition of my fana, Nelyafinwë.”

“And again, I answer you. Academic interest. I never spent much time with Maiar in Tirion, and certainly not in such proximity or … intimacy. There is little enough to do here but observe you, and think.”

“Is this not common knowledge in the Blessed Realm?” Every time Mairon mentioned Aman, his lips twisted in a derisive sneer, and this was no exception.

Maitimo shrugged, used to this reaction. “A pattern may be observed without it being remarked upon. Many Maiar I had cause to know regularly kept themselves shapeless. Winds and clouds and light. But most kept their distance.” Huan, of course, was a different story entirely,

Mairon snorted, relaxing, one arm carelessly draped over the edge of the bath. Of course he would see himself superior in this matter, and Maitimo would stroke his ego as much as necessary. But despite his posture, his voice was tight. Uncomfortable. “To your question, it matters little.”

He frowned, fingers working a loose but serviceable braid into his hair with the ease of long practice. Loose enough to dry, but not tangle.

But Maitimo was Fëanáro’s son regardless of his shape; he couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Let me rephrase. Do you seek to shape me into your woman in a perverse parody of the way the Lord of Angband is shaping you into his wife?”

Maitimo watched the Maia blink, once, twice, before blurring into motion. Cold hands wrapped themselves around Maitimo’s throat and buried into the base of his braid. Mairon towered over him, water cascading down his bare fana, breathing heavily. Maitimo flailed, hands tugging at Mairon’s wrists. His lungs burned, forge-hot, as he tried and failed to catch a breath.

“Too bold, Nelyafinwë,” Mairon hissed, holding his head up by his hair, anger in every line of his fana. “Much too bold. There is no similarity in our situations. Your shape is what I tell you it is. Do not concern yourself with mine.”

Maitimo didn’t have a chance to answer before Mairon let go.

“And I am the Lord of Angband,” he spat. “This is my fortress, my army. Not his.”