Hi! My name is Írissiel, she/her. 22. I follow from @dyke-terra.
In case it isn't blindingly obvious from my writing, which I'm not going to lie, I was sure it was, I'm the dirty liberal Zionist they all warned you of. My main story is an incredibly thinly veiled allegory for the historical material conditions that led to the rise of Jewish nationalism to begin with, except with a wish fulfillment ending where everyone gets along and there's no >80 year conflict.
I want peace. I want everyone who has a reason to call that land their home to be able to live there safely and peacefully, and I include my people in that. If you think that sentence makes me a monster, then maybe you should start by looking in the mirror.
That aside! The fun stuff.
we'll be fine (even though we might cross the line) - Master Post
Dubiously canon scenes from my ongoing Vampire the Masquerade chronicle.
between knights & knives - Master Post
Cape whump series. Living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpers.
Homecoming (The Long Way Around) - Master Post
Main project!
Original story starring elf protagonists. Very loosely inspired by the history of antisemitism. Requests and asks welcome/encouraged!
In the aftermath of the Revkian Emperor's death, the empire splits into three factions, one for each of the emperor's two sons and one following a notable general.
Main TWs: Slavery, fantasy racism (modeled after antisemitism specifically but directed towards elves), a whole lot of misogynistic language, so much sexual abuse.
Protagonists include:
Morwë - Broken/conditioned whumpee. Somewhere between 100 and 200. An elf from a clan that's been enslaved by the Revkian Empire since before he was born. Conscripted into the military and branded using dark magic that makes him incapable of actively going against said empire at 60, he's had a rough go of it. Of course, now the empire is split into three parts, who is he obligated to be loyal to? Aside from his beloved captain, who's been captured by what he sees as usurpers. Possibly a reincarnation of Itarata's dead sister. Playlist.
Captain Mikhail: Caretaker/whumper turned whumpee. In his fifties but looks and acts much younger thanks to his bond with Morwë. A human captain in the Revkian Empire, responsible for managing Morwë. A manipulative bastard who flaunted his control over his fort's elven slave one too many times, and now his jealous fellow soldiers are eager to make him pay.
Itarata: Defiant whumpee. Around 900 years old. A leader of the Orontdrim, a tribal nation of free elves living in the mountains on the periphery of the border of the Revkian Empire. Captured by those very same "usurpers." Playlist.
Esteldur: Caretaker. Around 900 years old. A very confused Orontdrim who's doing his best to take care of an incredibly traumatized Morwë as he sets out to rescue his oldest friend. Playlist.
There's also now a "sidestory" centered around Prince Ilmatar of Minyas, the first city of elves, and his life after the city's fall. Said sidestory is now like half the length of the series, so I'm not sure how long I can keep calling it a side story.
Current primary inspiration are @ashintheairlikesnow and @there-will-always-be-blood!
I am nervous to post this because its a preview from the book i’ve been working on for half my life, so its very personal to me!! The characters are my oc’s from my book TSATS. They are also the characters in my PFP!
Tw: age regression, pregnancy, loss of autonomy, mind control, slavery, memory loss /brain damage
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If Trillion was going to keep Renay under the trance for the rest of the journey home he would have to monitor her physical needs himself. He didn’t even think she knew what her own needs were at this point. Her brain was too scrambled to even communicate with him. She also showed no signs of being able to walk on her own, or even have the strength to hold onto him while they were riding. It was like she had regressed to being a baby. She looked helpless, sitting in the moss with her eyes half closed, swollen stomach, and her arms slumped to her sides, like a broken doll.
Trillion kneeled down, and put a hand on Renay’s head, letting his magic wash over her body as he casted a connection spell onto her. A spell that would let him monitor her physical needs, and feel them secondary to his own. The iron collar on her neck made things more difficult, and caused a sharp pain in Trillions head, but he tried to push past that to focus on the rest of her body. His breath hitched as everything hit him all at once - her malnutrition, hunger, thirst, pregnancy, weak limbs, and worst of all the iron shackle. His brows knit together and he turned the intensity down with his magic, so that he felt everything as more of a dull ache. The iron around her neck was the only thing he couldn’t refuse the intensity of, and it sapped his energy, making everything feel like he was trudging through mud.
Any resentment the prince had felt towards his sister in the past was nothing compared to this. She really was made to be a thorn in his side. He wanted to hate her for putting him through this, but he wouldn’t be here if he did. If he could pinpoint his feelings, even with the mix of her own pulsing through him, it would have to be pure exhaustion.
He sighed heavily, and pulled her onto his back, wrapping her up in a sling with his cloak so that she was pressed up against his body. This would be easier than carrying her in his arms, and trying to maneuver the horse at the same time. The iron collar dug between his shoulder blades, burning him through the fabric, causing his expression to pinch uncomfortably. The pain from that alone was enough to make him break out into a sweat.
Renay felt warm, and comfortable coddled up against him even with the collar on, which was a blessing for him so he wouldn’t have to feel her discomfort alongside his own. She relaxed against his back, and almost felt a sense of safety with the help of the trance she was under, giving her a false sense of security. This put his mind at ease, even if he was bitter that he had to suffer on her behalf.
Her body was light, and it didn’t take long for Trillion to find his footing on the uneven ground when he stood up with her. He got on his horse, and situated himself for the long ride ahead of them. He didn’t plan on stopping until they absolutely needed to. All three of them were fed, watered, and somewhat rested so they could trudge on through the forest for at least half the day; or until Sillo refused to keep carrying them.
Could you write a story where a king who outlawed magical beings (like fae, elves, sorcerers, etc Bc they’ve tried to kill him multiple times ) has a trial for a young magical creature found in his lands, but the creature isn’t evil, didn’t even KNOW they were trespassing, and is terrified they’re gonna be executed or tortured or something. But the king doesn’t hurt it, since the magical being didn’t mean any harm? Could turn into found family or he just lets it go or something
Love ur writing!!
A Benignant Mischief
@annablogsposts THIS ASK HAS CONSUMED MY EVERY WAKING THOUGHT SINCE I GOT IT! IN THE MIDST OF FEBUWHUMP NO DOUBT! THE GALL, THE NERVE!!!! I must say, this idea has taken hold of a good chunk of my brain and I have just been obsessed with Cosimo and Henrik (who will be introduced in part two), I hope you love them as much as I do. There is far more than this part written, but I had to divide it up to get some of it published so you didn't think it was just collecting dust in my inbox.
Thank you so much for this ask, it has rekindled an obsession with writing plot that isn't exclusively whump?! If that makes sense. I hope you enjoy it!
*~*~*~*~*
Cosimo ran through the forest with a sharp urgency, an unconscious boy cradled close to his chest as he went. The rain pattered down on his head as he ran, bare feet clawing at the ground to keep his grip. To an onlooker he could have been running on plain terrain instead over the wiry and rough forest, leaves slick with water; as if he were one with the Earth; knew every root, every nettle and broken tree bows that he hopped over with graceful ease.
His sharp eyes searched the forest frantically, pleading for a shelter to open up to them. Ahead was a wooden fence, tree branches crisscrossing before him like a blockade. Cosimo bowed his head and turned to the side, curling his upper body around the smaller one in his arms. Branches snapped and scratched at him as he pushed his way through with a determined resolve.
When he finally emerged from the branches, he found what he knew would be waiting for him. A small burrow made in a circle of trees, an opening in the trunk of a thick elfbow tree, the size of three fully grown oaks. A shelter mercifully presenting itself. Cosimo let out a soft sigh and whispered a soft thank you to the forest for providing.
His limbs grew heavier and heavier the closer he got to rest, but he walked on, slower now but just as strong as he was when he set out from court. He lay the boy in his arms down on a bed of leaves for the moment under the shelter of the elfbow. Cosimo touched the trunk as he entered, his heart feeling full as he did.
“Thank you protecting us,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to the entrance. Then he pressed his knuckles against the unconscious boy’s forehead, letting out a soft sigh. He was okay. Not as hot as he was before. Cosimo would gather food and herbs tomorrow to help the fever, but at least he was stable for now.
Cosimo took off his pack that he had hastily gathered from home. Two blankets, two pillows, a canteen of water, a hunting knife — just the essentials.
“The very bare necessities, Cosimo,” Cosimo chastised himself with a sigh, running a hand through his soaked hair flicking the rain from it. Cosimo put a pillow under the boy’s head and wrapped him in a blanket to keep him warm. Cosimo sat with back against the trunk of the tree, arms wrapped around his knees that he hugged to his chest and just watched the rain patted down on leaves outside the elfbow. The gloomy grey of the evening bled into a darker, broodier grey but the rain let up before night fell with its coat of deep purples and midnight blues.
Cosimo didn’t know at what point he fell asleep, but he woke to footsteps cracking the leaves beneath its feet and he was immediately alert. His hand shot and grabbed the hunting knife, unsheathing it and lunging forward teeth bared.
He came face to snout with a fox that was frozen in place, brown eyes meeting Cosimo’s with a slightly dazed and stunned glimmer to them. Cosimo let out a breath that reflected on the air with a rolling wave of smoke, before settling back into the nook-like shelter of the elfbow. The fox didn’t retreat, instead he sniffed the air and timidly took a step towards Cosimo and the unconscious boy beside him.
Cosimo inclined his head slightly and the fox entered the elfbow with all the inquisitiveness of a cat trying to sniff out the source of fish. The fox turned his head to the boy, and glancing back at Cosimo quickly for permission he curled up on the unconscious boy’s chest. Curling into a little ball on top of him, deep brown eyes meeting Cosimo’s again before closing half-lidded.
Emotion clogged Cosimo’s throat as he reached out to pet the fox, allowing the animal to sniff his hand before allowing the affection.
“See?” Cosimo whispered to the air. “You’re not nobody. You’re like me.”
Cosimo didn’t sleep exactly, but he at least got some semblance of rest before Dawn broke and he woke with it. He looked down at the sleeping boy, who was still asleep, the fox now curled up to the boy’s side. Cosimo reached his hand out and brushed the boy’s hair back from his forehead to feel it.
He was warm, not too hot. Maybe the fever had passed with the rain? Cosimo didn’t know enough about it, but he knew the rejuvenation powers of rain that came with him so he suspected maybe it could be the saviour of the boy too.
Cosimo drank some water from the canteen before grabbing the empty rucksack he took with him and slinging it over his shoulder across his body. He took the water and the hunting knife and set off about the day. When he exited the elfbow the sun was only starting to rise, birds heralding the morning.
Cosimo looked back to the sleeping boy and the fox. He pressed his hand to the tree and leaned his forehead into the back of his palm.
Protect them, please. I’ll return with food.
Cosimo felt the rush of feeling that flooded him when he felt around nature. Then he turned and walked out of the small clearing and into the embrace of the forest again. He remembered hearing running water when he was running with the boy, the sound distinct from the patter of the rain.
The dense woods were not nearly as imposing as they were the night before, when Cosimo’s thoughts were on finding shelter and nothing else. There should be some mushrooms nearby he could roast, maybe some berry bushes if he was lucky and water. Not enough to feed them properly, but to sustain them? It would be enough.
Cosimo found the stream under a thicket of leaves. It was slightly lower than the ground that Cosimo was on, so he simply extended a leg and slid down the bank to the stream, opening his canteen as he went. His feet settled into the damp earth, and he crouched down to refill the canteen. Not before drinking the last of the remaining water.
He heard a huff from his left so Cosimo glanced towards the sound and saw a horse lapping up water from the stream. Cosimo froze like the fox had the night before, before kicking himself into action. He sprung up, canteen forgotten in the stream and bolted back up the bank, his fingers clawing into the clay.
He scrambled to the top and was met with a pair of legs. There was a flash and a pressure on his chest and Cosimo was airborne, gravity grabbing at him and bringing him down hard into the outer bank of the stream. Cosimo let out a gasp of air on impact but quickly sprung to his feet and turned to hop the stream to the other side.
A hand grabbed him by the strap of his rucksack, and he was yanked backwards. “Hey! Wait!” Cosimo cried, bringing an elbow back sharply and his head back too. He slipped under the strap of his bag and grabbed the hunting knife and hopped the stream with ease. He didn’t look back.
Humans were bad. They killed people like him, there shouldn’t even be any for miles around!
Cosimo climbed up the opposite bank of earth with deft speed and hoisted himself to the other side, knife ready in one hand, the sheath in his other with one thought and one thought only — to go back to the boy in the elfbow.
He didn’t account for more soldiers to be on the other side of the stream. Cosimo froze again when he was first recognised by another man. They were all fully grown humans. Cosimo had yet to pass his fifteenth year, at least he had a slight boost in height, but he was too skinny to fight.
There wasn’t time to think before a hand was bunched in his shirt again. Cosimo whirled on his heel, slashing out blindly with the knife. The blade cut into the soldier’s cheek Cosimo realised with wide eyes, and the Soldier let him go. Cosimo fell to the side at the sudden lack of force holding him, but quickly got his bearings again and ran to the right of the soldier’s camp.
An arrow whizzed by his ear, startling him and Cosimo lunged to the left only to be caught with a kick to his leg. Cosimo stumbled but remained standing, turning to his new attacker baring his teeth only to get a punch to the face. Cosimo’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fell, stiff as an oak onto the forest floor.
A boot stomped down onto Cosimo’s wrist wielding the knife and Cosimo cried out, reaching over with his free hand to paw at the boot but it wouldn’t budge. A knee to the chest followed and Cosimo cried out, trying to wiggle himself free but the human was too heavy. Whether his weight was from his diet or the weight of the uniform of metal that the man wore Cosimo didn’t know.
“Well, well, well,” the human man remarked. Cosimo swallowed the lump in his throat, struggling to free himself from the man’s pin. “You’re only a baby, aren’t you?”
Cosimo bared his teeth in response. They were so close to where Cosimo had left the boy and the fox, and he prayed that the elfbow would protect them from the soldiers.
“Let go of me,” Cosimo demanded, eyes blazing up at the man. The man smiled, something wicked twinkling in his eyes.
“Have you run away from home? You do know what we do to your people in these parts, don’t you?”
Cosimo let out a cry of frustration at trying and failing pathetically to free himself from the man’s grip.
“Please,” Cosimo said. “I don’t mean you any harm. I was just coming for water.”
“Won’t do harm my arse,” the soldier that Cosimo cut ground out, fury winding his features tight. Cosimo didn’t see him lift his leg, but his head whipped to the side with the impact. Cosimo righted his head too early as the man he injured stomped a foot down on Cosimo’s face.
Cosimo heard the bones in his nose crack inside his head while he screamed out loud, a quiet whimper following after his scream died in his throat.
“Hey!” The soldier pinning Cosimo growled. “You can’t kill it. They must be brought to court before their execution.”
Execution?
Cosimo’s struggles to break free renewed at the thoughts of the soldiers taking him away from the boy. “No! No, you can’t! I can’t leave the forest, please!”
The man above him tilted his lips down into a frown. “Sorry kid. Orders are orders, we have to bring ya in.”
“Don’t talk to it like it’s a child,” the angry soldier scolded. The man on top of him reached over and plucked the knife from Cosimo’s grip. Cosimo let out a soft whine at the object of his defence leaving his grasp.
“Just get the irons and let me deal with h—” the man above him said, then corrected himself, glancing down at Cosimo with a frown. “It.”
The angry man stormed off out of sight. Cosimo just stared above at the man still pining him to the forest floor.
“Please…” Cosimo tried. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Like I said kid,” said the man. “There has to be a trial in front of the king.”
Cosimo’s eyes widened significantly. There wasn’t a king for miles around court… how far had Cosimo travelled, and in what direction? The question lingered on his tongue, and he wanted to voice it, but thought better of asking the enemy… or even worse, letting them know just how clueless Cosimo really was.
The man stared down at Cosimo with a stern glance. “I’m going to get you to sit up, if you try to escape, we will catch you, and the other soldiers will hurt you again. Do you understand?”
Cosimo nodded. He hated himself for it, but he had to listen to this man. He seemed to be the only one who didn’t want him dead at that moment. The angry soldier returned with two bands of metal attached together with a thick link of metal between them.
“What— what are they?” Cosimo asked, his voice cracking with fear. The soldier helped Cosimo to sit up which caused a wicked amount of pain in his nose to flare up and Cosimo grunted with the effort.
The man took the metal from the angry soldier and dismissed him with a wave. The other soldier didn’t want to listen but obeyed the man when he told him to go verbally.
The man opened the metal loop and showed it to Cosimo, saying with a reassuring smile: “They open like this, see?”
Cosimo leaned in closer to inspect the metal. “What do they do?” He asked, a little less scared at seeing them up close. The man lifted his hand and put the metal over his own wrist.
“They tighten over your wrist like this, see? They lock— well, they essentially keep your hands tied behind your back so you can’t hurt someone again.”
Not have use of his hands. Cosimo shook his head vehemently. “No. No. I won’t hurt anyone else; I promise. Don’t put them on me.”
The man’s smile faded back into a frown. “I’m sorry, but I have to. Please don’t fight me. I don’t want you getting hurt again.”
Cosimo was trembling in the man’s hands, but he nodded his consent for the man to grab Cosimo’s wrist. Cosimo screamed when the metal touched his wrist and bolted back away from the man.
“Wait! Please! Please! Wait! Ow, please! I won’t hurt anyone!” The man caught Cosimo’s ankle before he could get further away from him and dragged him back. “Please don’t. Please! I’ll be good.”
A shadow crossed the man’s face as he grabbed Cosimo’s arm and pulled it behind Cosimo’s back before locking the second cuff around Cosimo’s wrist.
Cosimo let out a hiss as the metal burned a circle around his wrists, tears coming to his eyes. “Please, I’m sorry. Take them off. I’m sorry. What— agh! What is it?!”
The man grabbed Cosimo’s arms to stop him struggling more and hurting himself. “Iron. It’s a metal that is poisonous to your kind.”
“Please,” Cosimo whispered, the plea coming out soft and childish, fat tears trailing down his cheeks. “Please take them off.”
“I can’t,” said the man. “I’m sorry,” and it sounded like he meant it. The man then got to his feet and waited patiently for Cosimo to do the same. Cosimo pushed himself up, his balance going off and he hissed as he moved his hands to catch himself. All they touched was iron and it burned. The man put a hand under Cosimo’s armpits once he saw the boy struggling and helped him into a standing position.
“Thank you,” Cosimo said, the words like ash on his tongue. Thanking humans now? What would court think of him? His mind trailed back to the boy in the elfbow and guilt flood his body as he was pushed forward gently by the man.
“Change of plan, boys. We are bringing this one back to the King.”
One of the other men stood up, his face the shape of a weasels; small wisps of hair clung to his upper lip and chin in what Cosimo could only assume was supposed to be a beard and a moustache. The soldier lifted his nose high in the air when he looked up at Cosimo, grinning up at him and revealing yellowing teeth.
“It’s not even fully grown,” said the soldier with a high-pitched voice. The nice man holding Cosimo scoffed and pushed Cosimo forward again.
“Either are you, McClagen.”
“Does it know that we kill things like that?” McClagen sneered. The man didn’t reply, but Cosimo’s fate weighed heavy on him, heavier than a cloak made of stone. He frowned as the nice man led him passed the other Soldiers readying to take off again.
Finn is an arsonist and exiled elf. Verne is a sorcerer. Practicing sorcery on humans is banned, but who’s going to care what happens to an elf? When Finn falls into Verne’s prison hands, every day is a new day in hell until other people begin to take notice of the screams echoing inside the sorcerer’s castle. If Finn thinks rock bottom is being Verne’s test subject, he’s dead wrong. It can and will get a lot worse.
Now, he’s no longer sure he wants to look at his own reflection.
— —
Captivity. Fantasy whump and an elf whumpee. Some truly nasty torture. A gradual breakdown and loss of self.
— —
(cws in the individual posts)
burning stuff
repercussions
What a Beautiful Day: The day starts out great and then gets so much worse. Finn meets Verne. Absolute chaos.
Fate Worse Than Death: Woohoo, pull out the pillory. Finn threatens to burn down the village. Thing cannot get worse for him. Sike.
Welcome Home: Local sorcerer lives in creepy castle with her dad (a skeleton). Has all sorts of fun things (lying) planned for Finn.
Bad Blood: Verne tries out her theory on Finn. Lots of screaming, lots of blood.
Flinching: There’s a metal table with restraints— oh god—
Not Actually Vivisection: but it’s awfully close
Sunlight and Skeletons: Nice try Finn, but you can't escape that easy
Table Turning: introducing a jerk and another jerk. yay.
tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @sunshiline-writes (lmk if you want to be added/ removed)
A whole species full of beings that have suffered a lot in a world out to get them.
demons:
demons are most notably looked at as being evil and thus must be exterminated, lest they destroy humanity. This leads to any demons having to hide from humans so they aren’t immediately killed on sight
a world where laws don’t apply to demons so people can capture, kill, beat, torture, or sell demons as they please with no ramifications (given they can subjugate the demons enough to not hurt any humans)
demons being rounded up by humans and kept in captivity because they are too dangerous to be left in the wild
demons being beaten on the streets for no reason other than existing
demon hunters going after demons and torturing them or using them for experiments
people capturing demons to experiment with how to torture them and what works best on their species, trying all sorts of different methods
demons having to hide their demon features from humans
demons feeling bad because they are seen as evil and cruel abominations by everyone around them even if the particular demon feeling this way hasn’t done anything wrong
conditioning demons to act docile
vampires:
pretty much the same concept as the demons, so the prompts can be interchangeable
people being so afraid of the vampires that they launch an attack against them as soon as they see one
people stringing vampires up in the center of town and torturing them with silver, holy water, or waiting until the sun comes up to set an example of human strength against vampires or simply just to take out anger on them
vampires being intentionally deprived of blood but chained up and unable to get to any
vampires being restrained with silver
vampires being branded to show they are vampires
vampires being burnt with the sun
vampires being burnt or “purified” with holy water
people capturing vampires and forcing them to do demeaning things for blood, such as crawl across the floor after a beating towards a bowl of blood, only to kick the bowl and watch the vampire try to lick it off the floor
people taking advantage of vampires super-healing to beat and torture them beyond the extent of what a human could take
people beating, torturing, and starving the vampires to keep them subjugated and weak so they possess little to no threat to humans
keeping vampires as pets
elves:
seen as arrogant, humans want to bring them down and see the elves beneath their feet
elves being ostracized from all societies
elves being driven out of cities and forced to live in slums
elves being treated worse than anybody else and not given any kindness
elves being sold into slavery
elves being forced to work on dangerous sites or mines and exhaust themselves
elves being captured and put on display for their beauty
elves forced to live on the streets and aren’t even able to beg for food because nobody will spare them any
elves being beaten if they go into any areas with humans because the humans don’t want them there
elves hiding their pointed ears to try and pass as human so they can have a better life or at least be able to eat
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Winter Whumperland 2022 Day 11
Prompts: elf whump | strangulation | comfort: experiencing freedom for the first time
Rated: explicit
Warnings: rape/noncon, graphic depictions of violence, implied/referenced torture, slavery
Pairings: Dagur/Hiccup
Word Count: 1,907
Summary: Hiccup has been with the Berserker royal family all his life, but finally, Heather sets him free, unable to take watching his abuse any longer.
Haha! It’s severely underrated! It’s one of my whump interests that goes dormant for a long time because I see so little of it. But it currently owns my ass! I had one (1) request for elf whump and suddenly I’m cycling through every whumpy daydream for all the elf characters I’ve ever whumped! 😂
TW: threatened gang rape with a fade to black, threatened branding, fantasy racism, non con touching, references to past pogroms, de"humanizing" language/objectification., misogynistic language.
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Introducing Itarata (formerly free elf, defiant and unaging whumpee) and what he's been up to. (Namely, not having a good time.) Itarata POV.
Itarata promises himself that the humans that have him bound will not hear him scream.
They are nothing but children to him. He was here in this world before their grandparents’ grandparents were born, and he will be here when they are nothing but dust in the ground. There will come a time where he is the only living being to remember any of their names, or there would be that time if he intended on learning any of them.
The rage at the indignity of being bound in this way, with a collar of iron heavy around his throat connected by chains to the cuffs around his wrists behind his back with barely enough slack for him to lean forward or twist his head without choking himself and the cuffs around his ankles that keep threatening to trip him, burns so bright that he leaves no time for fear. Not to mention the chain that dangles loose from the collar, down in front of him, like a leash.
He is not the child he was when Mírwen was cut down, her first life ended before either of them had even reached adulthood. He is not the young adult that had to step up to lead his people when his parents faltered, so lost to their grief that they might have, through their inability to serve the roles they’d been appointed when what would become the Orontdrim had set out in their exile from Minyas, allowed their tribe to be destroyed before it had even begun. He is the nér that endured the Dark Days and built a haven with his sword and hammer alike.
He repeats these truths to himself with every step even as he hears the humans mocking him to each other. They mostly speak Revkian, some with thicker and more noticeable accents than others. He doesn’t allow himself to react to any of the taunts. Even if he acknowledged them as meaningful, he’d rather not let on that he knows their language.
He’s never traveled through a portal before, and the trip which is mundane for the Revkians leaves him dizzy and disoriented. It doesn’t help that one of them shoves him through it. He stumbles, instinctively going to put his hands forward, but he can’t with the chains. He grunts, narrowly managing to avoid being forced to his knees in the clearing. There’s a difference in altitude, between where he was and where he is now.
He doesn’t know how far a distance he’s traveled, but it can’t be that far. The scout-mage comes through the portal she’d opened last, sweating like it’s the height of summer rather than a crisp autumn day, but capable of standing on her own power. The clouds above them are different, having moved by at minimum, around a hundred miles, but it’s clearly the same weather system. They’ve gone from an enemy camp less than a day’s ride from Fendetaras, from the safe valley behind it that has been his home for all those years, to somewhere else, much higher in the Great Mountains.
He finds himself standing in front of a different mountain fortress, one that might be impressive to a human farm worker who’d never before traveled outside their family’s grounds, but to Itarata seems at best pedestrian. Ramshackle, even, with barely the occasional gesture to decoration. A stonemason and architect of the Orontdrim whose ages haven’t even reached triple digits could single-handedly build circles around this construction. It’s serviceable, but utterly boring. Somewhere the others will find him. His people will not abandon him. He has no doubts about this. It’s only a question of how long it will take and how merciful Itarata will be feeling when they do.
One of the soldiers on this side of the portal, one who must not have been at the attack, whistles at the sight of Itarata. Itarata snaps his head to face him, letting every iota of rage show in his gaze without caring about the strain it causes with the chains. The soldier almost takes a step back under the intensity of it. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Itarata, though, just breaks the eye contact. He sizes up Itarata’s body instead.
“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” one of the men who most definitely had been there says with a laugh as he steps out from the portal. Itarata had been unable to miss his name— Ivanov. He’d likely been the one to push Itarata, if Itarata has to guess. That Itarata is the “it” in question does not go over his head. “Move it, whore, you’re getting in the way.”
Whore is one of those words that doesn’t translate to Quenya particularly well. There is a word for someone who makes their skill at sex a trade, in the same way someone might be a smith or a weaver or a musician, but it lacks the derogatory connotations that humans apply to it. It’s not a word one would throw at a captured enemy. There is, he supposes, a word for one who cheats on their spouse.
He thinks nothing of the implication, his mind full with thoughts of vengeance.
Itarata refuses the order. They have dragged him this far, and they will have to drag him the rest of the way, regardless of how outnumbered he may be. Regardless of how many days, weeks, away his rescue may be.
“Are you stupid?” Ivanov says. “I said, move it.”
Despite his harsh words, he too withers under Itarata’s gaze, only able to bear the intensity of it for a moment. He can’t be older than twenty five.
Ivanov kicks him this time, square in the back. Itarata keeps quiet even as he stumbles forward, managing to stay standing even fettered as he is. Even as the pain in his chest from the bruised ribs burns.
“You’ll die for this,” Itarata tells him simply, letting his head go back to center and setting his focus to a point in the distance. He tells all of them. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. His rage is as cold as ice. Earlier in the day, before the chains, he’d attempted to offer mercy. He’d told them that if they’d release him, he would spare them. That offer had expired the moment they collared him, held him down against the dirt and chained him like a dog. “If you release me now, I will make it quick.”
Admittedly. That had been only in Quenya. Just as this is. That doesn’t mean that most of the soldiers don’t feel the weight of the thing that isn’t a threat but a promise.
Most of them. Not all of them.
Itarata hears the portal behind him shut as the scout-mage and the last of the soldiers step through into the clearing outside the borders of the fort. Though, he supposes, it’s less of a noise and more of a sudden absence of the noise from the other side. The birds are cut off mid song, leaving only the ones on this side.
His rage doesn’t leave him as he realizes his escape’s been cut off, and it’s not hopelessness that threatens to rise up in his chest. He already knew he was surrounded, that these chains would keep his escape from being that simple. But there’s something to the gap between the two places being opened and closed so casually that reminds him, although he is old, these people are heirs to
“Not quite as much of a coward as the old captain’s bitchboy, huh?” one of the men says, turning to look at a friend. Looking away only slightly lessens Itarata’s presence.
“Kind of freaky,” his friend says. “Seeing a dog like that acting like a person.”
The humiliation, Itarata tells himself, is on them. Any debasement he may suffer reflects only on the heads of those that would lessen themselves to commit it.
“Bet you Nikolai can fix him right up something good, though,” another one cuts in, then scowls. “Wish we coulda grabbed the bitchboy too. I would’ve loved to bend him over in front of Mikhail, finally take the wool from his eyes about how much of a slut that bastard really was. What do you think he was doing there?”
“Probably looking for its master. Poor puppy dog, lost without someone holding its leash. I bet the feral ones eat him alive.”
Itarata keeps his expression level. He’d caught glimpses of what he’d thought might’ve been a foreign elf in the fighting, tall as he’d been for a stranger. He’d almost convinced himself the nér had been a hallucination, a trick of his mind in the middle of a fight he hadn’t been ready for despite all his years. After all, the stranger nearly looked like Mírwen.
At least, he can only assume they’re talking about an elf. It’s the same language they’ve started using for him. Cruel, objectifying. Threatening all sorts of horrors that Itarata once hoped were gone from his life for good, only this time he won't be able to escape it. He clutches his fists tight enough that his knuckles turn white. Esteldur will take care of him...
That’s only one of the conversations happening around him— about him. He catches all of them, and he lets them fuel his rage instead of trying to ignore them. His trembles are of fury, not of terror. He will not let them see him hurt.
“Arrogant son of a bitch. I hope he was fucking worth it.” That soldier, Donavan, spits at him. Itarata doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I can’t wait to hear him begging.”
“Elf bitch thinks he’s too good for us.”
“Pretty mouth on that one, even nicer than Morwë’s. You think Nikolai will let us put him through the paces?”
“Please, it looks like it’ll bite your cock off.”
Morwë. That’s the name of the nér that was at the battle. A Mólado, based on the way they’re talking about him. Itarata’s more familiar than most Orontdrim with the system that the Revkians inherited and managed to make even more brutal. He itches to reach for the sword that’s been taken from him, with a hand that’s bound.
Patience, he reminds himself. He surrendered rather than allowing the fighting to continue for a reason. For several reasons— the faces of his fallen people burn in his mind. Recent losses. A pain he’s used to being a dull ache ignites fresh, and he buries it with fury.
He’s made compromises to keep his people safe before. He’s kept the true horrors of the Móladar from his people. It’s not a secret, exactly, as any of the Orontdrim is perfectly capable of venturing into the human world on their own or asking questions of those who have walked the Iron Path. But it’s a tactic assumption between all of them to not volunteer the information. After all, the ones who returned here are the ones who have given up on trying to free their cousins.
He knows it haunts Angiel. Not only what she saw but also that she was unable to dissuade people from following in her stead. So many of them have failed to return, and there are nights where he wonders if they’ve fallen to the blades of humans, been captured and turned into a part of the very system they’d set out to destroy, or if they’re still out there. Seeing the world, seeing its horrors and deciding they can do something about it, that they don’t have any choice.
The threats — promises — from these men wash over Itarata’s back. He forces them to drag him, or at the very least, he forces Ivanov to grab the chains and try to drag him. His strength is much more profound than that of the soldier, and his digging his heels in.
“Come on, you idiot. You’re the one that surrendered. Do you want us to open that portal and go back? Kill some more of your men?” Ivanov demands. Itarata hides his reaction to that. They can’t— a force of this size, mostly reservists who, if the talk of Mikhail is to be believed, was already split into multiple factions? There’s no way there’s any other mage-scouts here. They’ll have to at least wait until the morning. He adopts a posture of faux confusion, unwilling to reveal he’s fluent in their language. “Drag more of them here?”
“The poor thing doesn’t know what you’re saying, Ivanov,” one of his friends says, mockery clear in his tone, before looking around. “Any of you lot speak elf drivvle?”
Nobody nods.
“Mikhail might…” someone offers. “If the bitch taught him any.”
“Pft, Mikhail might be down bad for that slut, but he’s not gone that native,” another one retorts. “Besides, you really trust him to translate? Just beat the idiot into submission. Drag its unconscious body down to Nikolai, if it refuses to come with. Don’t need to worry about breaking it like we did with the skinny bitch, this one’s got some fight in it and some meat on its bones.”
He mentally retracts the second offer of mercy, the one for a quick death. He doesn’t consider himself particularly brutal, but the way they’re speaking of Morwë, of an elf he’s never even met, is enough to make him want to skin the lot of them, with the same practiced hand that he’s used on thousands, hundreds of thousands, of prey animals over the centuries. Except for these bastards, he wouldn’t give time the privilege of dying first.
He thinks nothing of himself. Of the fate that awaits him. He can’t acknowledge it. Not by the hand of humans. He is older than this empire, older than the Revkian tribes that founded it.
“You sure about that? It’s barely been reacting to what’s happened so far. Morwë must’ve been a defective model, that little shit would fold at a raised voice.”
“Fucker’s creepy. Maybe this was a shit idea,” the one who’d already suggested their attack had been a mistake chimes in.
“Should kill him and sell the body instead, save ourselves the hassle,” someone on the other side of the crowd adds. Itarata starts to parse the sheer number of them, and something resembling dread starts to build in his chest despite himself. Most of the attacking force has already returned to the castle with their loot in tow, but that still leaves dozens of them out here, surrounding him like a swarm. A few people start nodding along with that idea.
The one that’d said they couldn’t wait to hear him beg— a day that will never happen, in Itarata’s mind — steps forward, closer. “You’re letting him get in your heads. Fucker might be immortal, but he’ll still bleed.”
He steps so close, and Itarata can see he’s strong. There’s a difference in his uniform— an officer— but their internal hierarchy doesn’t mean much to Itarata. The only thing that means is that, unlike Ivanov, he’s actually well fed. He sizes up Itarata and he almost manages to hold his gaze. When he can’t, he grows angry instead of hesitating.
“You two,” he orders, pointing at two of the bigger and burlier men in the crowd. “Hold him up.” They each grab one of his shoulders. Itarata feels his heart try to jump into his chest, for the first time his shield of anger cracking. Itarata would try to muscle his way out of their grip, and in another place, he might’ve been able to. But he can’t position his feet effectively, with the cuffs. The officer slams his fist into Itarata’s gut— hard.
They’d stripped his armor from him already, leaving only his sheer silk shirt to protect him from the assault. If Itarata was standing under his own power, this blow would be enough to knock him into the dirt. Instead, the grip that contains him, traps him, keeps him standing. It hurts, especially with his injuries from earlier in the day, and he bites down on a scream. He will not give them the satisfaction. He breathes in as steadily as he can, with the wind knocked out of him.
He’s taken hits worse than this in the past month, in training with his people. If this is what they think will break him, they’ve got bad news coming their way.
“Kramar. Go tell Nikolai we’ve got a present for him soon.” The man that moves to follow the order looks at Itarata with something resembling pity, before running off. Once he’s satisfied that Kramar has in fact left, the officer leans forward. Itarata wonders if the officer had chosen this in order to allow him to look down at him. The man’s barely six feet, if that. Itarata’s got near two and a half feet on him, when unencumbered. “Hey. Elf boy. I know you’re pretending not to understand us.”
“What?” Itarata gets out, in a Revkian that’s only half a century or so dated, as he regains control over his breathing. It’s usually easier, but the hands on his back and on the chains binding them, let alone the officer’s breath on his face, are doing a number to his internal equilibrium. “How did you know?“
The officer smiles and several of the gathered soldiers break into laughter.
“It was a guess, before you’d just confirmed it for me,” the officer says. His voice seems almost sing songy, soft but cruel. He reaches a hand out to trace Itarata’s chin, and Itarata pulls back as far as he can, avoiding the touch, but one of the men holding him pushes his head forward, into the officer’s hand. Itarata feels like a fool. A beginner’s trick, one any child not even triple digits of age, could see through. And he’d fallen for it.
“Now. You’re already at our mercy. You will be going to see Nikolai. But whether that’ll be right now, willingly, or after everyone here, everyone that risked their lives and some who’d lost friends in the process, to get you have had their way with you right here and now, not even inside our walls… well, that’s up to you.”
He reaches forward with the hand that’s not holding his jaw tight, groping at the space between Itarata’s legs before finding his flaccid cock and giving it a tight squeeze before letting go, like the meaning of his words wasn’t already down there.
Itarata doesn’t try to pull back this time, uncertain if that would count as an answer. It’s not out of surrender— he looks at the officer with the same resentment as ever. He has no intention of making this easier for the bastard. However, he’s an adult. He can face the fact that getting so thoroughly injured before they’ve even dragged him through the door won’t exactly be conducive to his escape plans.
The crowd titters, some of them drawing closer. He can see their faces, hungry, and for whatever reason, he remembers the pile of bodies he found Esteldur in, after the first pogrom, all those centuries ago. Buried underneath his father’s body, unable to even scream for fear of drawing attention to the humans that had cut so many of them down that it had necessitated a mass grave. They’d just been kids then. So young, only starting to conceive of the brutality of the world they loved so much.
“It depends,” Itarata says, his voice smooth as though he’s talking which type of tea he’d prefer. The response from the crowd is mixed. Some laugh, amused by his insistence on acting as he had any control here. Some seem to grow angry, scowling. He hears more than a few of them mutter about arrogance, which he thinks is rather rich coming from a bunch of upstarts that would barely qualify as prepubescent to him. It’s only arrogance if the pride is unearned.
“On?” someone from the crowd calls out, and Itarata doesn’t answer, looking pointedly at the officer instead.
“You heard the question, boy,” the officer says, and the absurdity of a human man calling him that makes rage rise in Itarata’s throat, sharp and acidic.
“On who this Nikolai is,” Itarata says, stating the obvious. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not exactly from around here.”
The snickers are subdued, but still present.
“Oh, that’s easy,” the officer says. “He’s the one that’ll be branding you.”
It’s like the world goes cold. Or maybe that’s just his blood turning to ice. Itarata replays the sentence in his mind, over and over again, searching for another interpretation. Replaying everything the soldiers had said. He’d expected the harassment— hell, his diplomatic meetings with the Revkians prior to this had been laced with similar threats barely masked as jokes, not that he'd let anyone know. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility that one or two of them might actually try it.
“No,” he says, the first hint of any emotion entering other than a sense of superiority and rage entering his voice.
Not despair. Not yet. But horror, definitely.
He thinks of all the words they’d used to describe the broken Moládrin nér. What they’d said they’d wanted to do to him.
“He’s going to need you still for the procedure,” the officer continues, a sharp smile covering his face. “So one way or another, we’ll be breaking you in. Could just carry you up to his quarters, hold you down when we get there and take advantage of you after, but I think we all want to see what you can do when there’s still some fight in you.”
Itarata could’ve tolerated this if it was just the threatened gang rape. Beyond that, even if they’d tried to sell him into slavery, he would endure. He would outlive them, and one day, he would think no more of them. Just like he endured the Dark Days, like he’s moved past them.
But a brand— that’s forever. Decades in the futures. Centuries. Millennia. For as old as he feels now, Itarata knows that the future is incalculably vast. Even past the end of this lifespan, if he’s slain in combat or brought down by some natural disaster, he will return with his memories of his current life locked behind a shroud of pain and his loyalties bound to whomever the brander wills it. If he’s lucky, that owner will be a mortal man and in a century, he’ll be able to walk mostly free. But what’s the point of binding an immortal slave to only one generation?
“No,” he says again, his composure cracking. He thinks of this Morwë, his appearance in the battle like a ghost.
“No isn’t exactly an option here, elf boy,” the officer says, tapping his finger against Itarata’s jaw impatiently.
“My name,” he says through a rage and building dread that he can no longer conceal. “Is Itarata.”
The officer pulls back his invasive touch, only to hit him. Backhanded. There’s nothing Itarata can do to defend himself, so he just takes it, face burning.
“Your name is whatever we decide it is, brat. Do you understand?”
Itarata laughs. Just a single “hah.” These men, insignificant, are used to dealing with the fallen Rethyar, beaten down by centuries of abuse. Depending on how old Morwë is, it’s entirely possible he’d never known Mithyas as it was in its glory days. But Itarata has known freedom, has known glory, in a way these men never will.
They will not make a thrall out of Itarata like they did him.
“You will die by my hand,” Itarata says, and this time, he knows they can understand him.
“C’mon, Cap,” one of the soldiers chipped in, clearly uncomfortable. Itarata would face him, if he wasn’t sure that the officer would drag his face back, and he doesn’t want to give up the staring contest. “How long are you gonna let him run that mouth before we’re allowed to shove something in it? The unlucky son of a bitch has made his choice.”
The officer doesn’t look away from Itarata, just grabbing the loose chain that dangles from the collar at his neck.
“Let’s bring him inside first. There’s better places to attach this to, and besides, I’m sure plenty of the others will want a turn. The whole base has been missing having Morwë around.” The officer pauses. “Make sure people know to expect a fight, though. We all learned a lesson today, that not all elves are as much of a pushover as he was.”
Elves? Pushovers? They really must only be familiar with the Móladar.
“Lotta good men died for that,” someone in the crowd scowls. “This bastard better make us some good money.”
“He’ll pay for himself several times over,” the officer replies, still intently focused on Itarata, the words clearly more meant for him than the critic. “I assure you.”
Itarata doesn’t listen to his words, instead returning to his promise to himself. It doesn’t matter if they’re planning on branding him or not— he will not break for them. They will not get a single scream from his lips. He’ll assure it.
