Summary: After having been taken to Númenor as a prisoner, Mairon decides to bring down the people who took him captive and sets into motion a plan to manipulate the king, Ar-Pharazôn, and bring him under his influence.
Minors DNI | 18+
This can be found on AO3
A/n: This is my first story featuring this paring. Cirilla, thank you for your art! I hope you like this!
At the appointed hour for their departure to the palace, Ar-Pharazôn took the fetters that bound his captive to his steed into his hand and inspected them keenly. The chain was somewhat short in length and slender, but it was wrought of gold and ornately carved. It was also a testament to the skill of Númenor’s people, their power, and their wealth. And it had held, despite the great distance they had already travelled and despite the power of the being it restrained.
Ar-Pharazôn swiftly glanced at the one who had named himself Zigûr after he gave himself over to them. He was lovelier than the fairest of even the elves, with skin the colour of golden sand, hair that gleamed in the sun like copper that had been polished to a high sheen, and eyes that blazed like bright flames on a dark and cloud-filled night. Robes of coal-black silk and cloth of silver garbed his earthly form, and the sight of him standing so, humble and contrite, pleased him in ways he could not describe.
“He shall be my greatest conquest,” he uttered to his general, “after the complete and utter subjugation of the Great Lands, of course.” He turned to address his warriors. “Come, sons of Númenor! Let us tarry no longer! Feasting and merrymaking and splendid rewards wait!”
A great host of men armoured in mail and heavy grey plate hammered their spears against their shields in thunderous approval. The clangour they created was only eclipsed by the deafening cheer they let out, again and again, with each step their king took toward his mount and his saddle. Ar-Pharazôn welled with immense pride. Another jewel had been added to his crown, and that jewel had come in the surrender of Mordor and its liege lord, the one who dared to call himself King of Kings and Lord of the World. Now all that remained was spreading Númenor’s, and more importantly his, influence throughout the four corners of the Great Lands, and his dream of achieving a greatness that would be spoken of undiminished throughout the ages would be complete. Perhaps his prisoner would aid him in this. He was one of the Ainur, after all, and had not yet been stripped of all his divine gifts.
Ar-Pharazôn mounted his horse and urged it forward in a slow trot.
More cheers rose in the distance to greet him as he rode the wide road that climbed the steep hill upon which Armenelos had been built. It had been the same when they had gathered in Rómenna and the many settlements they passed in between, with men and women arrayed in their finest silks and jewels gathering before their doors and upon their terraces to shout out their praise and their felicitations and to rain down showers of sweet-smelling petals upon the king and the column of men that had followed him. Ar-Pharazôn relished it. Many had doubted him and his ability to bring Mairon to heel. Many had doubted him and his ability to rule. Some had named him usurper. Some had questioned him in many ways and his vision for both himself and the realm. And now, with one of the Holy Ones no less shackled and forced to walk behind him on foot, he had succeeded in silencing them all.
Perhaps not all of them, Ar-Pharazôn thought, but the chief of them will bite their tongues from here on out.
“See here, good people!” He shouted, gesturing to his prisoner, as they marched beneath the arched gate to the city. “See for yourselves what the might of your king and your own courage could achieve! See the rare and precious prize I present to you all!”
How the people stamped their feet and roared! Mairon listened to them, his contempt thick and growing with each moment that passed. It had humiliated him beyond measure to have to surrender to creatures with short lives and frail vessels that could have been torn asunder by those mightier than they, and it had pricked his pride to know that there was little else he could do but pretend to be a spirit of lesser power and importance, place himself at the feet of a mortal king, and allow himself to be paraded before the unworthy eyes of others like a common trophy gained after a round of games.
He let his gaze wander even as his bare feet padded silently and without discomfort over smooth stone.
There was much to be seen in this city that the minstrels and poets venerated in tale and in song. Towers of blinding white marble rose high above him, casting long shadows beneath the noonday sun. There were other structures to be seen as well: meeting places and sprawling manses and arenas and bathhouses, their golden roofs and translucent windows glittering brilliantly in the light. Trees and flowering bushes grew in vast, open spaces, and the sweet, rhythmic sounds of birds singing and fountains with water gently bubbling and dripping over into the basins beneath them invaded his senses.
Mairon loathed it all. And he envied also, when he perceived how the Valar, the very beings who stood against him and his master and those like them, blessed such a weak people and gifted them with so many bounties. He saw how they did not interfere even as those same people used such gifts for less than lofty purposes, and he thought it most unfair. Perhaps there was a way to bring them low, destroy them the way they thought to destroy him, and show the Valar their faith in the Aftercomers had been sorely misplaced. But there would be time enough for that. Opportunities would soon present themselves. Until then, he decided, he would grit his teeth and wait.
Ar-Pharazôn led the procession without ceasing right up the steps to the King’s Court. He reined his horse to a stop beneath the shade of Nimloth and dismounted with ease. A steward rushed forward to greet him. A second steward rushed to take the reins he held out. They bowed deeply.
“Is everything prepared?” Ar-Pharazôn asked, peeling off his gloves. “Is the feast ready to commence?”
“Everything is as ready as it could be,” the steward who came to greet him said. “The great hall is already full of nobles and well-wishers alike, and the cooks have outdone themselves for the feast. You will be pleased, I think, my king.”
“Good. Good.” Ar-Pharazôn tucked his gloves into his sword belt. He looked at his general, a man who had left his place in the column to speak with him. “Free him from the saddle,” he said, “but do not remove his shackles. I will lead him into the hall.”
“Is that wise, my king?” The general, a man already ripe in his years, said gravely. He gave Mairon a discreet look and shuddered. “He says he is a lesser spirit of the Ainur, but I mistrust his claim. There is a certain aspect in his air that gives me pause. And he still possesses his power. He could turn on you. On all of us.”
“Zigûr is what he claims to be,” Ar-Pharazôn returned. But after having considered his general’s warning, he shouted, “Are you what you claim to be, my lord Zigûr? Will you give us trouble? Or will you conduct yourself peaceably now and later, while you are at the feast?”
Mairon straightened himself. He renewed his lie, though each word felt like a blade thrust to the heart. “I am what I said I was—a lesser spirit among the Most High, and inconsequential when compared to them. Furthermore, I gave you my word, oh true king of kings,” he went on, as respectfully as he could manage, “when I threw down my sword. You will have no trouble with me.”
Ar-Pharazôn quietly told the general to carry out what was asked of him. “See how he submits,” he then crowed for all his men to hear. “I confess, my lord Zigûr, that I find myself surprised. Are the exalted ones so easily unmanned that they give up all sense of majesty and might when in the presence of a mortal army and its equally mortal king?”
Someone sniggered. Others joined them. The sound made Mairon wroth. One day, he swore to himself, I will crack open your very bones like they were nothing more than the dry twigs I once crushed beneath my boots. But when he spoke aloud, he merely said, “Our powers are not infinite, and even we see the wisdom in suing for peace when no other way is left open to us. Now enough of such talk, oh true king of kings. The others wait for us, and you most of all.”
Ar-Pharazôn beamed. “Indeed,” he said, accepting the chain that was loosened and pressed into his outstretched hand. “Come, my lord Zigûr. It is time I presented you to the court.”
Mairon seethed and balled his hands into fists when the king tugged on his shackles and pulled him closer.
“Walk beside me, Zigûr,” Ar-Pharazôn commanded, though not ungently, “and let the others have a better look at you. It is proper, I think, for the king to enter with his conquest by his side.”
“Yes, oh king of kings.”
Mairon mastered his anger and kept silent as they walked shoulder to shoulder down a winding pillared corridor and into a vast chamber. Patience, proper courtesies, and rational thought always served him better than the wanton anger that had often consumed the others, and he believed they would serve him even in this instance. And there was much for him to see in here, too. The great hall was draped for the occasion with banners of blue and silver that fell from the coffered ceiling in streams of silk, and reclining benches of all shapes and sizes crowded the floor, leaving only just enough room for dancing. Men and women of high birth rested on them or spread out all across the hall, talking and laughing quietly in groups of twos and threes while they ate and nursed their cups of wine. Servants drifted among them, bearing gilded pitchers and heaping platters, while minstrels kept to the shadows and played their harps and their lutes, their pipes and their trumpets and their viols. Mairon took a deep breath and found his mouth watering at the flavourful scents that rose up to greet him. But he could not savour what he discovered in peace. Loud and spontaneous applause rippled through the air, disturbing him, when attendants who were clearly children ran ahead of him and the king, strewing fresh petals for them to tread as they made their way to the raised dais at the far end. It had been erected by the foot of the throne, and it was not wholly unoccupied. A woman sat by the left of the seat of the king. Mairon studied her, startled by how much she resembled the one who took him captive.
“She is my kinswoman and my queen, Tar-Míriel,” Ar-Pharazôn leaned in and whispered after having noticed his interest. “She is Ar-Zimraphel now, but do not let her hear it. She loathes being called so.” He loosened his tongue, thinking no harm would come from it. Mairon was his prisoner, after all. “The sceptre should have gone to her; that was, and is, the law, but I took it for myself and took her to wife. Frigid creature! She lies upon the bed like a cold, lifeless fish whenever I go to her to claim my rights as a husband. But that does not matter. I have others, ever ready and ever eager to accept me.”
“This is tolerated?” Mairon said, feigning curiosity. This could be the way, he thought, to destroy these people. By taking advantage of the weaknesses and passions of their king.
“It is, yes. I am a king. And a king must take his pleasure as and how he sees fit. The change is quite refreshing, if I do say so myself, like a fine sweet after an uncommonly bitter tonic. A pity, truly. She is most lovely to behold.”
Ar-Pharazôn was correct on that score. Tar-Míriel was indeed lovely to behold, and she was as fair as her kinsman and king. Her skin was a rich fawn like his, flawless and smooth, and it drew the eye of all who saw her. The braids of her hair were thick and black, and they fell down beyond her waist like dark coils of rope. Gold flashed at her tresses, her throat, and her brow, and the blue of her robes was so dark it almost looked black, as if she were in mourning. Still, it did not lessen her beauty; rather, it enhanced it and made her look almost ethereal.
“She is your kinswoman?” Mairon questioned, his curiosity now genuinely piqued. Even among the Edain, it was forbidden for those bound by blood to a certain degree to wed. “How is this so?”
“Her sire and my own were brothers by blood. She was forbidden to me. Now she is mine. And there is naught she could do to change her fate.”
Mairon nodded and accompanied Ar-Pharazôn to his place at the dais. Tar-Míriel did not even deign to rise. She stayed as she was, as still as a statue, while Ar-Pharazôn walked past her. And Ar-Pharazôn did not move to sit at first. He cleared his throat and drew the attention of the others to him.
“Friends!” He began. “Kinsmen! Allies! We are all gathered here to celebrate a day of days. I stand here before you, not just as your king, but as your fellow countryman. The prisoner you see with me is one of the Most High. He threatened us and insulted us by presuming to place himself above us, and yet here he stands beside me, bound in a golden chain, and mine to do with as I wish. How the mighty have indeed fallen, eh?” He paused for a moment, delighting in the laughs he heard, and continued. “I would not, however, have succeeded in this matter had it not been for your support and, of course, the uncommon bravery of your sons. To them I owe a great debt.”
Mairon felt his anger rise anew when he heard himself being spoken of in such a poor fashion. Ar-Pharazôn was a wretched creature to insult him so. And the rewards he spoke of were the many treasures that he, Mairon, had been compelled to forfeit when he yielded. Nevertheless, he bit his tongue and kept his own counsel, for there was one treasure Ar-Pharazôn had not taken from him: a ring. When Mairon clasped his hands, he felt it brush against his palm, cool and made of unadorned yellow gold. The king knew nothing of its significance or the power it held, and Mairon was grateful for it. So much of him was tied to that ring, plain as it appeared to be. He could not afford to lose it.
Ar-Pharazôn went on speaking. “The rewards are going to be many. Not one among those who marched with me will be left wanting. But for now, let us eat and drink and not think of war and all the horrors that come with it. Let the feast begin!”
He reached for his cup, raised it to his lips, and drank deep. Others did the same. Then they all sat down—the king with his prisoner’s chain across his lap—and the feast began in earnest.
Mairon took his seat to the right of his captor just as servants dressed in simple but well-made blue woollen shifts entered bearing the first dish: a thick soup of crab and herbs served in bowls gilded in silver. He watched while the others took their spoons to eat it, then he picked his own and allowed himself to taste. It was well made and properly seasoned, and far superior to the fare he supped on in Mordor. Then he had another spoonful, and another. Before long, and despite some difficulty, his bowl was empty.
Tar-Míriel leaned forward. “I trust you will not grow too comfortable with this freedom you have been given, my lord,” she said in her rich voice. “When the feast is done, you will be moved to a cell deep beneath the palace. Is that not so, lord husband?”
“I have decided against it for the present,” Ar-Pharazôn said. He called for more wine. “Lord Zigûr has conducted himself well thus far. He will be treated according to the manner of his conduct. There will be no talk of dark cells within the bowels of the palace. Lord Zigûr will be held in comfortable confinement and given freedom to walk about our splendid home until I decide otherwise.”
“But my lord,” Tar-Míriel pleaded, “it is folly to allow one such as him to roam the palace unchecked. He poses a great danger to us. Truth be told, he should not have even been allowed to keep his head. I have told you of this already. Why will you not heed me?”
“Because I believe he could be of much use to me and this realm,” Ar-Pharazôn spat, angered. He glared at his queen, his amber eyes blazing with a fire of their own. “And I grow weary of your words of doom. If you do not have anything pleasing to say, then perhaps you should say nothing at all, like the way you do in the bedchamber.”
Tar-Míriel sighed, pushed back her chair, and stood with as much dignity as she could muster. “On your head be it then.” She left the dais with a dry swishing of her skirt.
“Pay no mind to her,” Ar-Pharazôn counselled, his voice thick with bitterness. “She has been this way ever since she was a child, for she was always favoured by her father and never challenged by anyone until I returned to the capital.”
“That may be so,” Mairon said, his gaze following the queen as she went from bench to bench and noble to noble, speaking to them and performing the courtesies expected of one in her position.
She appeared quite adept at her task, Mairon observed. Tar-Míriel flittered from one person to the next without complaint or displays of exasperation. She praised warriors for their bravery, offered compliments to a group of maidens over their skills of healing, and nodded solemnly whenever an elder stopped her with something they had to say. He saw how Ar-Pharazôn watched her and the way she was well received by those around her. He could not help but discern the flash of envy that marred the mortal king’s handsome countenance. Then it dawned on him after he considered all that he had heard and seen: Ar-Pharazôn had to risk life and limb to bring him, Mairon, back to his land as a prisoner in order to earn the high esteem of others, the kind his queen and kinswoman so effortlessly received. He smiled a secret smile and turned his attention to the carved saddle of lamb and roasted mushrooms that were placed before him. A weakness had been found, and one that was so easy to twist to his advantage. He would have to wait, of course, before he made use of such a weapon, but it was there for him to take all the same.
“You said I could be of much use to you, oh king of kings,” Mairon said, after having consumed a choice morsel of meat. “Pray tell me how I should be of service to you.”
Ar-Pharazôn reached for a mushroom. He chewed on it, licked the grease that had dripped onto his fingers, and said, “I wish to spread the power of Númenor to all corners of the Great Lands. I wish to build a legacy for myself that would be spoken of in awe and fear through the ages. I desire more power for myself—power that could never be questioned. I trust you understand this… you who held such ambitions for the Great Lands yourself.”
“I do indeed,” Mairon said with a nonchalant air. He drained his wine and pushed his plate away from him, a signal that he wished to be served the next course. “I will help you, oh king of kings, and I will help you find power and riches beyond imagining. Even more than that, I shall make you the greatest king to have ever lived.”
His words struck a chord. Ar-Pharazôn found himself awash with hope. He took care to conceal it, however. He did not want his prisoner to think him too desperate. “Do this for me, and you will find me a most munificent master.” He served Mairon more wine himself. “Now come, my lord Zigûr. Eat! Drink! Let us celebrate what could be the beginning of a most beneficial alliance.”
Mairon lifted his cup, pleased to see his efforts already bearing fruit. He sipped slowly, thinking he had not drunk anything finer since his days in Tol-Sirion. Then he put it away, for dancers swept into the hall in time with the music, their faces shielded with elaborate masks of filigreed gold and silver. The dancers were graceful and lithe, and they swirled and spun in flowing sheer robes that glittered with diamonds and rippled around their bodies like water. All who were present stopped what they were doing to watch.
“Do you dance, Zigûr?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.
“All Exalted Ones know the art of dancing, oh king of kings. Even the lowliest among us, such as myself, are skilled at this.”
“Then perhaps you could show us.”
Mairon raised his hands and nodded at the chain that Ar-Pharazôn kept on his lap even now. The shackles gave him just enough freedom to walk and eat and drink, but not enough freedom to dance without hindrance. Ar-Pharazôn made a disappointed sound and snapped his beringed fingers when the music died and the dancers halted for the change of themes. His general turned to look when he heard. He made haste to cut through the throng and come to his king’s side when he gestured for him to do so.
“Free him,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “I wish to see him dance.”
The general, despite his reservations, obeyed his king and retrieved a key hanging from the side of his belt. “Do not give us cause to regret this,” he said, crossing to Mairon.
Mairon got to his feet and held out his hands. “I will not,” he said sweetly. Then he sighed almost in gratitude when cold metal slipped off his skin and warm air danced over it.
On his instructions, only two musicians took up their instruments: a drum that beat out a deep, resonant sound and a flute that let out haunting airs. The dancers parted when he left the dais, so he could have the space they had once occupied to himself. Mairon thanked them, then took a moment to gather himself.
His dance began when the music did. He started sedately at first, but all eyes were fixed intently on him in any event, Ar-Pharazôn’s most of all. He watched, spellbound, as Mairon struck a stance, then swayed and whirled and leapt with a gracefulness no mortal ever possessed. He was certain he would never forget the gentle turn of the head, the sweep of lustrous hair that slid over to one shoulder, or how each movement slowly became more sensual, then palpably erotic. Mairon knew all too well the effect he had on them all. He also found himself reminded of a time when he danced in a dimly lit room for the amusement of just one lord, instead of many. He fixed his every intent on this thought and imagined himself in that very room even now, with just his beloved for an audience. The notion freed him in ways he could not have imagined, and his dance transformed from one of a simple physical act to one of pure ecstasy and joy. He laughed, his heart overflowing with a forgotten sense of happiness, and he drove himself to even greater heights with the movements of his earthly form. Then, when the music reached a crescendo, he spun and leapt one last time before falling gracefully to the marble tiles beneath him, his every sense alive as riotous applause erupted all around. When he looked up, he found Ar-Pharazôn standing and looking back at him, his eyes filled with something akin to lust. He buried his feeling of triumph and smiled, as if inviting the king into a world he had never discovered before. When Ar-Pharazôn swallowed and bade him to rise, Mairon did so and bowed.
“Your captive moves with bewitching grace, my king,” a noble who Mairon could not see, shouted. “I hope you will pardon me when I tell you that you would be a fool to let such skill go to waste.”
“I hold no ill will, my good lord,” Ar-Pharazôn answered, grinning. “And you are correct. I would indeed be a fool to let such skill go to waste. I think I should devise a better use for it… in a more private setting, of course, and in a way that will require no dance.”
“Mayhap this diversion will leave you exhausted as well.”
“I am hoping, my lord, that such will indeed be the case.”
Mairon stood where he was, unspeaking, but he listened to the whispers and laughter—the unbridled and the uncomfortable both—and, hidden beneath them all, the now-familiar dry swish of a silken skirt. Tar-Míriel departed the hall, unwilling to hear more of what her husband and king wished to do with his new chosen companion. Mairon did not concern himself with that, however, or the feelings of the queen. He almost had Ar-Pharazôn in his grasp, and he would not squander what he had already gained with meaningless sentiment over the wounded heart of a mortal or the disgust he found growing at the notion of a mortal taking him to bed.
“I assure you, oh king of kings, that your hope will not be a futile thing,” he said, earning scandalised gasps in return. “My kindred are skilled in many things, and not just in dance.”
“Then let us continue this discussion elsewhere,” Ar-Pharazôn said. He then addressed the others. “Please, carry on with the feast. Let not my departure signal an end to the festivities.”
The music recommenced, and Ar-Pharazôn left the dais with the golden chain in his hand. He called his steward to him. “Take Lord Zigûr to my chambers,” he instructed in a low voice. “See to it that he is properly undressed and shackled to my bed. I trust I do not need to tell you more?”
“You do not, my king,” the steward said, unbothered by the king’s wishes. It was plain that it was not the first instance Ar-Pharazôn had made such a request. He took the chain and turned to Mairon. “If you would follow me, my lord?”
“Of course,” Mairon replied, girding himself for what was to come. He let the steward guide him out of the hall and down yet another pillared corridor toward a squat tower that he supposed was set aside for the use of the king. At length, he looked at the one escorting him and said, “Do the king and queen share the same bed?”
“No, my lord,” the steward said. He glanced back the way they came. No one had followed them, and the king was still some distance behind. Despite this, he still lowered his voice. “They sleep in separate rooms. The king only calls on his queen in the hopes of fathering a child and heir on her, but the longer she remains childless, the rarer his visits get. There are those who say the king may one day put aside his marriage to her in order to wed another who could provide him with a hale and hearty successor.”
“I see,” Mairon hummed, as if disinterested. In truth, he suspected the steward of being fond of gossip. It was another weapon he could make use of when he had a need of it. He waited as the young man threw open heavy oaken doors, then walked behind him as he led him through an empty receiving hall and up a flight of steps, talking and asking questions all the while and satisfying himself with proof that the steward was indeed a gossip, and one he could use to his advantage. The chain used to bind him clinked as it dragged over marble, setting his teeth on edge. Still, he gathered his strength to him even as the steward opened another door. He had survived worthier foes; contending with Ar-Pharazôn would be a trifle in comparison.
He stepped over the lip into a vast and airy room.
There was a bed to be found in one corner, with a featherbed that was wide and soft and draped in dark, silken sheets. Windows opened to the east let in bright light, and a blustery wind brought with it the sweet fragrance of flowers blooming in the royal gardens. Candles stood tall in their golden stands, and the hearth was impeccably clean but had no kindling for a fire. Mairon did not tarry. He went about undressing himself while the steward went ahead to secure the chain around the high posts of the bed. The mortal flushed, his pale cheeks a fiery shade of red, when he finally turned around and found his master’s prize standing behind him, unclad and unashamed, his clothes all gathered in a neat pile by the table the king used when he dined alone or with a lover.
“If it would not offend, my lord,” he sputtered, “I will now secure you to your shackles.”
“Of course,” Mairon said, taking a perverse delight in his discomfort. He walked around him and took his expected place. The steward flushed again, but he completed his task and fastened the manacles around Mairon’s wrists. “Now you should go,” Mairon teased. “Unless, of course, it is your wish to see your king take me with your own eyes.”
The steward squeaked, turned around, and fled. Mairon laughed softly and tugged gently at his fetters. The chain had been wound tight, making it almost impossible for him to move, and its manacles had been clasped properly. If he had been as mortal as everyone else in the palace, he would not have been able to escape it. But he could, if he desired to do so. And he did not desire to do so. The hunger to bring down all those who dwelled on the island the Valar saw fit to give their forebearers had grown and proved itself stronger than his revulsion for what he would allow Ar-Pharazôn to do.
Ar-Pharazôn entered the room after having divested himself of his armour. “Ah, but you are a sight, my lord Zigûr,” he declared, his lust rising to more feverish heights when he discovered Mairon already naked and bound. “I shall enjoy this immensely.”
“As you should, oh king of kings,” Mairon said, his skin crawling when he heard the rustle of silk. Ar-Pharazôn was already undressing himself. It was a good thing, he told himself. The sooner their first encounter ended, the better it would be for him. “It is your right, after all. You are the king.”
“I am the king,” Ar-Pharazôn repeated, exhilarated with Mairon’s acceptance of him and by the prospect of bedding any one of the Ainur. Loremasters had spoken of such encounters only in hushed tones, and he, Ar-Pharazôn, was about to experience the joys of such a coupling for himself. “I am glad you see it that way.” He went to a chest of drawers, drew out a vial of oil from one of them, and unstoppered it. “Now, do not fret when you feel a coldness on your flesh. It is only myself preparing you for what I am about to do.”
Mairon stood stiff as a lance and closed his eyes when Ar-Pharazôn came to him and pressed a trembling hand to his side. He fought the urge to shiver as it travelled all the way up to his shoulders before it slid down to caress his buttocks and then went back up again. When it withdrew, he felt a sense of relief. That relief soon proved to be short-lived because Ar-Pharazôn touched him for a second time, this time with fingers slick with oil. He pushed one inside of him, then another. When he gently inserted a third and thrust, Mairon arched his back and moaned, unable to help himself. He loathed himself for it, and for giving his captor yet another undeserved victory over him.
“You are ready,” Ar-Pharazôn remarked, more for his benefit than for Mairon’s. He spilt a liberal helping of more oil onto his palm and smeared it over his cock to prepare himself. “As am I.” He set the vial down by his feet and straightened himself. “Please me well, Zigûr, and you will be given even greater freedoms than what you have now.”
“I will please you well, oh king of kings.”
Mairon shook when the king parted his arse with slippery hands and breached him without warning. Then he sighed in disappointment, for the sensations that tore through him were nothing like those that he experienced whenever he coupled with Melkor. Those that he experienced with the one he considered his spirit’s other half were potent and always took him to frenzied heights of maddening desire, while the ones he felt now were weak and pitiful imitations of the power that had once burnt him and threatened to strip him to the very essence of himself. And Melkor’s touch had been tender, ever worshipful. Ar-Pharazôn, on the other hand, showed himself to be grasping and desperate and greedy. He circled his arms around Mairon, holding him close, as he buried his face in the thick locks of fragrant hair and grunted each time he pulled back his hips and pushed them in. Mairon whimpered. He wanted it to end despite the slivers of pleasure he felt. He wanted to be free of the king even though he willingly agreed to lie with him. Everything about Ar-Pharazôn he found repugnant, from the rancid breath that fanned over his tresses to the clammy sweat that dripped onto his form. Then he felt it. Ar-Pharazôn trembled, suddenly overcome with his release. He groaned, long and deep, as his body pulsed, and he emptied himself of his spend.
But he was not done.
He took Mairon’s erection to hand and stroked it repeatedly until he heard a cry of pleasure, and warmth poured onto his hand. When it was over, he stopped moving, and went still.
It is done. Mairon took a breath to compose himself. It was now over. His body would soon be free of the king’s. He was also one step closer to achieving his goals. He let out another sigh of disappointment, a false one this time, as Ar-Pharazôn pulled out and released his hold on him. “Did I do well, oh king of kings?”
“You did very well,” Ar-Pharazôn panted, his chest still heaving from the exertion. His coupling with his prisoner went better than he ever dreamed. Satisfied, he added, “I will free you from your chain, and then I will have the servants bathe you and dress you in new raiment. You serve me now. It is proper that you look like you do.”
“Yes, oh king of kings,” Mairon said, eager for a few moments away from Ar-Pharazôn, to brood and to think. “And thank you.”
Story by @nightmares-2 / Nightmares_from_the_deep (Ao3)
Elrond often thinks of his childhood, mostly of his fostering in the care of Fëanor's eldest sons. he also thinks of what he had all lost, his mother, his father (whom he had never known, really), his brother, his foster fathers.. He does not think any could ever be returned.
or,
Maglor and Elrond´s reunion after many years apart, both have had a lot happen to them, and bear feelings that need to be sorted out.
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maedhros & Maglor, Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor, Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Elrond Peredhel & Gandalf
Characters: Elrond Peredhel, Celebrían (Tolkien), Maglor (Tolkien), Maedhros (mentioned) - Character, Elros (mentioned), Gandalf (Tolkien), Fellowship of the Ring Members (Tolkien), Thorin's Company, Lindir (Tolkien)
Tags: Found Family, Third Age of Arda (Tolkien), Grief/Mourning, Past Torture, not explicit but it is mentioned, Betaed, no blind forgiveness in this house, made for art #70, #70, Minor Character Death, it's Celebrían, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Reunions, How to deal with complicated relationships: a guide by Elrond Peredhel, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2025
Word Count: 6,190
Created for Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2025 - @tolkienrsb
Story by @abels-artworld ( @babybat98 ) / baby_bat_98 (Ao3)
A slave, broken and forgotten, and hopefully dead within the decade. That is what young Lindir believes to be his fate, when orcs burn his village to the ground and round the inhabitants up as prisoners.
What follows is a tale of family, of choice, and the song that unites us.
Written for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2025, for artwork 39
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Lindir & Maglor (Tolkien), Elrond Peredhel & Lindir, Elros Tar-Minyatur & Lindir, Lindir & Maedhros
Characters: Lindir (Tolkien), Maglor (Tolkien), Maedhros (Tolkien), Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond Peredhel, Original Elf Character(s)
Tags: First Age of Arda (Tolkien), Canon-Typical Violence, Enemy to Parent, Found Family, Found Family by Force, complicated family dynamics, avari vs sindar vs noldor culture, Young Elrond Peredhel, Young Elros Tar-Minyatur, Disabled Character, Permanent Injury, peredhel are weird, References to War of Wrath (Tolkien), Beleriand (Tolkien), artwork #39, violence as a trauma responce, minor familiar violence
Word Count: 34,541 - Chapters: 9
Created for Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2025 - @tolkienrsb
Reading Under the Flowers - Glorfindel and Erestor reading a book together (TRSB #121)
My first big embroidery project since getting Covid! And my first with a frame rather than a hoop! The piece is 8 1/2 inches by 11 inches and stitched with cotton DMC floss, single thread, on Kona cotton. I drew the picture, developed the shading and selected colors! Most of the piece was done with short and long stitch, but some of the outlines were done with stem stitch and the purple flowers are chain stitch!
I will have more and larger pictures HERE when the Tolkien Summer Reverse Bang collection opens on Sept. 6!
And please look forward to what is going to be a great story by Sullen_in_Love!
