#ilmatar

[elfwhump]

so is ilmatar's mom like, alive?

I originally planned on her being dead, but there hasn’t been the best opportunity to confirm that for sure on screen and now you say this, I’m thinking maybe she’s not. We’ll see! Might be fun to have her show up.

[elfwhump]

homecoming (the long way around) - masterpost new day will rise This one's real far ahead on the timeline, and I might end up going back and decanonizing it if we get closer and things don't end up working out, but. Some feelings. This is, minimum, 20-30 years down the line from chasing the first time?

Peace.

It seems inconceivable. After the past few decades. Beyond that — after the past millennia. Itarata was there for the signing of the treaty, stood by Ilmatar’s side ready for it to turn into an ambush despite weeks of negotiation, and somehow, he still isn’t sure he believes it.

It’s not perfect. It could never be. Being in Minyas again after all these years doesn’t feel like coming home, even if it is, for the first time in centuries, in at least partially elven hands. The place he loved burned a long time ago, and what the humans built in its skeleton isn’t the same. All the various waves of humans brought their own architectures and their own styles.

It’s hard not to see the bits and pieces of the city of his childhood that poke through as the “real” Minyas, as if the past several centuries don’t matter. As if what’s been built over it is parasitic, disgusting, and in need of removal. He can’t help his sympathy for the emotions behind his rogue troops, no matter how heinous their actions might’ve been.

But tearing what’s been built since won’t bring the past back. Whether they like it or not, they’re stuck with their new neighbors and their strangeness.

Itarata stands on the balcony outside the dance floor, leaving his people and theirs to celebrate the success. He looks up at the sky, instead of at the city, hoping to find something familiar there instead. It doesn’t help the feeling of incompleteness that wars with relief in his chest.

There are still Móladar out there. They might’ve forced the new Revkian Empress to free those Móladar serving her military or living in the osterincar, but with Revkia in the state it’s in, she wouldn’t be able to force private slave owners to free their property even if she was willing to. The liberation has been slightly more complete within the Kokavim’s ranks, but Itarata would be deluding himself if he didn’t think any of the humans got away with their prisoners.

Not to mention, the rest of the world. Will this strange new state be able to hold, in the onslaught that’s sure to follow?

“Enjoying the view?” Ilmatar asks, and Itarata spins around, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest before he fully processes the voice. “Steady, commander.”

“Apologies,” Itarata says. His hand had instinctively gone for where his sword usually is, and he’s sure the other nér noticed. Ilmatar doesn’t comment on it, though, so Itarata exhales, letting the tension exit his body. “And— I think so.”

“Dwelling on the past or the future?” Ilmatar asks, crossing his arms as he goes to lean against the balcony too. He wears indigo robes in the cut popular with the Kokavim, the silver embroidery clearly detailed by an elven seamstress. The blue dye is so dark it’s almost black, especially in this light. His white hair stands out against the darkness of the night and the fabric.

“Both,” Itarata admits, looking away from his soon to be former king. “You?”

“Same,” Ilmatar sighs. “It’s hard to be happy, knowing how much we’ve lost in getting here.”

“And that it’s temporary.”

“So optimistic,” Ilmatar laughs, tilting his head.

“All things are,” Itarata says with a shrug.

They stand there in silence for a moment before Ilmatar asks, “Have you made up your mind yet?”

Itarata nods, but he doesn’t speak yet.

“And?”

“I’m going back.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Ilmatar replies, shaking his head slightly. He masks his disappointment, but Itarata can tell it’s still there. Ilmatar starts again, before trailing off. “Still…”

“Not right away,” Itarata offers, though he knows it’s cold comfort. “There’s more work to be done.”

“Isn’t there always?”

“We’d get bored otherwise.”

“True enough.”

They stand there in silence for a while longer. Itarata looks back over his shoulder into the large room, the globes of magical light illuminating his friends, allies, and former enemies alike. Angiel is surrounded by a group of mixed humans and elves, and she’s gesturing wildly, clearly telling some story. Esteldur and Anarissë are speaking with a couple of humans, in a more restrained manner. Cíndion is sipping wine by himself.

Itarata’s gaze stops on Morwë, who is talking with the man Itarata recognizes as the freshly elected Kokav representative. The younger nér is smiling, laughing at something the man said. He looks good. Happy. Nothing like the fragile slip of a nér, full of terror and desperation to please, that Itarata remembers from their first meeting. Itarata wasn’t exactly in the best shape then, either. He’s still far from all the way recovered from that, or what happened when Mikhail came back. But he’ll heal on his own time. He always does.

“Are you going to come inside and enjoy the celebration, at least?” Ilmatar asks.

“In a bit,” Itarata says. “Just… needed a second.”

“I understand,” Ilmatar says. He sighs. “I might have to come join you in the mountains in a few years. Even with the weight of command off my shoulders, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand being around here for that long.”

“Just make sure not to burn too many bridges on the way out,” Itarata says, with a hint of amusement. “We just reforged this nation, I want to make sure it stays in one piece for at least half a century.”

Ilmatar looks like he might laugh at that, but he doesn’t. He nods instead.

Itarata would like to believe this new era will last forever, but he’s too familiar with humans and even, to a lesser extent, elves to really buy that. Things change for better and for worse, no matter how hard they might fight to protect the good they’ve built. The branding magic is out there in the world— that’s something they won’t be able to change. “See you in the morning?” Ilmatar asks. “See you,” Itarata agrees, and Ilmatar takes a step back, before turning and heading back in doors. Itarata can’t help feeling like he’s been checked up on, but he guesses he doesn't mind that much. He sighs, looks out for a little longer, before he turns to follow Ilmatar. This is a good day. A complicated day, yes, and there will be dark ones down the line again, but for now… He can at least try to enjoy his own victory.

[elfwhump]

Shitty Ilmatar moodboard

[elfwhump]

Have a rare Ilmatar!

[elfwhump]

6 and 8? please?

6. Whumper, what's your favourite punishment or way to hurt whumpee? Whumpee, what's your least favourite? Pre-Civil War Morwë looks taken aback. He swallows nervously. "He doesn't-- what do you mean, punish me?"

Mikhail smirks. "I like the faces he makes when I threaten to leave him to the others. He gets so desperate to please when he thinks I'll abandon him, it's really pathetic."

"Oh, right," Morwë says. He shifts uncomfortably. "Like that. Um... yeah. I don't know. He chokes me sometimes, especially when he's mad at me? But it's always for a good reason, I'm sure of it. I really don't like the threats either..." Early Dovrat era "Well, Melech really liked to throw me into the dungeons and just leave me there," Ilmatar says, counting on a finger. "There was all the ra--" he winces in sudden pain before before up to rephrase. "The times he would fuck me. He drugged me with shit sometimes, but I don't know how much of that was supposed to be a punishment or just shit he thought would be fun. Kind of hard to find a line between the two." He thinks. "Levik? I have no idea what was what with him. I don't think he was really thinking about it in those terms. He got more violent and beat me harder if I tried to talk to him at all." "Dovrat... well, you can tell from the fact I'm not leaning back in this chair. He likes to slap, for lesser offenses. Between him and his brother... I don't know. The whipping was one and done with, but at least Melech would clean me up afterwards himself. I didn't hate getting the chance to talk with Akiva some, but there's something newly humiliating about this."

8. Have you ever lied to the other about anything? (Let's say whumpee won't get in trouble for this. Don't worry.) Pre-Civil War: Morwë looks to Mikhail nervously, who doesn't seem to be paying too much attention at the moment. He seems to be in a more relaxed mood, at the very least. "Oh, uh. I lie to him all the time," Morwë says with a laugh. Mikhail raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "I mean, I keep stuff the others do to me when he's not looking from him all the time. There's no reason to make him worry about me." Mikhail seems to half shrug, as if that's a passable response.

"I lie to myself a lot more," Morwë admits. "If I lie to him about something like, uh... being in the mood or whatever. It's because I'm lying to myself first. But, uh. What about you, sir?" Mikhail laughs, putting a hand on each of Morwë's shoulders and squeezes tight enough to hurt. Morwë whimpers at the pain. "Obviously," Mikhail says, with a lazy smile. "For his own good, of course. - Early in captivity, Melech era. "I can't," Ilmatar practically spits, looking up at the man holding his leash with disgust. "That doesn't mean you won't try," the Emperor says in a playful tone, as if this is all a big game between them. If it is, it's a rigged one. "I do always like the part where you can't keep yourself from begging me to stop." The Emperor ruffles Ilmatar's hair condescendingly, and the nér's face burns. "I hate you," Ilmatar says, scowling.

[elfwhump]

8 and 12?

Ooh. You didn't say who, so I'll go with Ilmatar and Emperor Melech, relatively early on.

8: Whumpee, what is the worst thing YOU'VE done, in your life? Whumper, do you agree?

Ilmatar is naked, with the exception of the collar at his throat. A gag hangs around his neck, taken off for the purpose of this interview. The collar's connected to a leash, which the Emperor holds in his hand, from where he sits on a throne above Ilmatar.

Ilmatar is sitting with his knees tucked into his chest.

"Traded my dignity for my people's safety." He scowls at you. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

The Emperor runs a hand through Ilmatar's hair, possessive, and Ilmatar tenses up. The Emperor chuckles at his slave's clear discomfort.

"Worst for him, maybe. I'm happy with how it's turned out."

12: What's something you want to ask the other? Answer each others question if you can.

"Why?" Ilmatar asks. He doesn't specify further. Why do this to him. Why incite the rebellion, when the elves were already his subjects.

The Emperor tilts his head to the side. "Because I can."

His hand combs the hair aside to rest on Ilmatar's neck instead and Ilmatar shudders, squeezing his eyes shut. "My turn," the Emperor says. "Do you miss your parents?"

"Is that a joke?" Ilmatar asks, practically spitting the words. "Of course I do. Master."

[elfwhump]

Ilmatar doodles from the sketchbook.

I should post more art of our guys!

[elfwhump]

homecoming (the long way around) - masterpost SIDE STORY: The Fall of Minyas a man on high, with the devil in his eye, 3/?

TW: Not much new. Ilmatar has just been (sexually) enslaved and is dealing.

Ilmatar starts to make plans.

The soldiers leave him alone in the emperor’s tent, outside the city’s walls, with food and water. They loosen the muzzle, letting it stay hung around Ilmatar’s neck instead of tight on his mouth. When they’re gone, he considers trying to take it all the way off, but he suspects the emperor wouldn’t be pleased to come back to the thing all the way off. This reprieve is probably to let him eat and drink.

Which he does. There’s no point in denying himself. He’s exhausted from the fighting and the brutality that follows, and the food and drink allows him to replenish his strength. Once he’s eaten his fill, satisfied his thirst to some extent, and allowed himself to rest in a position that’s not agonizing or humiliating, he starts to think. His earlier display, as shameful as it was, was clearly at least largely the result of physical needs being unmet.

His father is dead, his body desecrated, and his mother has likely faced the same fate, if not worse, but he is alive. And that means he is king. A defeated king, made a thrall for a human line, but king nonetheless and that comes with certain responsibilities. It means he has a duty. He can’t afford to fall apart.

The emperor’s tent within the Aukniak camp is — fine. He’ll grudgingly concede that human artisans aren’t completely hopeless. It’s a large enough space, and the fabric isn’t ugly. The fabric of the tent is a vibrant blue, with white trim, and the inside is covered with rugs and pillows. There’s blankets, which he pulls around himself to cover his bare chest. There’s a small table, almost a desk, with a chair behind it, and he wants to take the chair, once he’s ready to start planning, but the memory of being left chained by the side of a chair is fresh.

Ilmatar can’t be sure the emperor would be alright with his slave sitting in what’s clearly his chair. And the pain that flares up on his back is enough to make him retreat to the pillow pile to think instead. At least it’s soft.

There are maps of the area, labeled in the language he doesn’t understand, and his first thought when he studies those maps is that he . He can’t be dependent on the emperor for translation. He knows he’ll probably figure out a good bit just by listening, if he’s going to be stuck with the monster for a long period of time, but that will take ages, and he doesn’t have ages. His people don’t have ages.

Ilmatar doesn’t have much leverage here, admittedly. He’s been reduced to property — any attempt to consider plans of escape leave him screaming on the floor, and the consequences for attempting to assert his own personhood, even in the privacy of his brain, are worse. He’s been stuck to a mortal man and his heirs by a force that goes beyond this lifetime. 

But property doesn’t mean powerless. The emperor enjoys exerting control over him, to the extent that he’s willing to offer concessions so Ilmatar will do things willingly, rather than by choice. And true, those concessions aren’t exactly things that he’s eager to give, but— the emperor will take what he wants from Ilmatar regardless. And isn’t it better, to claim some degree of agency by offering himself up, body and soul, first? It’s a win-win scenario, really.

He doubts there’s any way to sway the man away from enslaving any more of his people. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes the conditions that led to the uprising were probably intentionally instituted in order to justify this very invasion. The man was far, far too eager for this to really be the inconvenience he made it out to be, and with Narissë…

The secret, that brands on elves not only don’t fade over time like they do on humans but that they can even last between their reincarnations, must’ve gotten out. It’s the only explanation for this. His mind briefly goes to the emperor telling him with such certainty that at least one of his father’s council has survived and starts to wonder.

It doesn’t matter how. It only matters that it has, and the emperor must’ve grown greedy at the thought of a whole host of immortal slaves. That fate, the one that his father was willing to do anything to avoid, is here, and his duty now is to soften it as much as he can. Save as many of his people as he can. Learning that language is a priority, yes, but not number one.

He’s pretty sure the exact details of the bindings will be different, between his and his people’s. The emperor made it very clear that Ilmatar was a special case. He suspects he’ll be taken back to the court as a token of the conquest— to be raped over and over again, until he’s broken. He wonders how long it will take for the emperor to grow bored of him, if he ever allows himself to shatter.

If he grows boring, then any hopes of shielding his people dissipates.

He cannot allow himself to break. The only way to prevent that is to bend.

The thought makes him sick, but he’s never had much pride to lose. If he’s to be the property of a human emperor — he’ll have to be the jewel in the monster’s crown. Pleasing him is a skill, like any other, and it’s one Ilmatar will have to master if he wants to protect his people. He’ll have to be willing, and if he can fake it well enough, eager. 

(He thinks of his earlier display, half crazed from thirst. Feels the almost comforting texture of leather around his neck. He wonders how hard it will be to pretend and loathes himself for it.)

He tells himself it’s his duty, to endure so his people don’t have to. He repeats that to himself like a mantra as he goes to take his pants off. They’re soiled anyway, stained with his own cum and piss. He didn’t realize he’d wet himself until he went to take off the offending article of clothing, and he’s not sure when it happened. Too many possibilities for him to guess. He takes his shoes and socks off too, leaving them by the door. The emperor hadn’t allowed him to grab his shirt from the floor, so that’s all that’s necessary for him to be completely exposed.

He tries to convince himself to adopt some sort of seductive pose, but the thought is almost laughable. He doesn’t even know what that would look like, from him. Kneeling? He has no idea how long it will be before the emperor returns. He’s under the impression it will probably be a while. So instead, he just curls up with the blanket on the pile of pillows. He justifies it to himself by saying it’s cold out here, even with the tent protecting him from the wind.

Ilmatar feels like a child, but from the way that the monster had been talking before, it sounds like his perpetual almost youthful appearance was part of the draw. So he guesses it’s not going to be a problem. He does his best to comb his hair, lying there, and he wishes he could wash. He sits there, trying to come up with plans, but he just doesn’t know enough. He’d trusted his father, trusted his father’s people.

His mind is going a million miles an hour, at war with the exhaustion in every inch of his body. He doesn’t want to fall asleep, not while the fate of so many of his people is still unknown. It’s a battle, between his need to stay awake in case the emperor returns and his vague awareness that it’ll be better for him to be well rested for whatever comes next.

Eventually, it’s not a logical argument that convinces him to sleep but just pure exhaustion. He’s just too tired not to. He's gotten the most important things done-- securing his people's burial rights and whatever's left of his dignity. He'll figure out the rest tomorrow.