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Chapter Text

Gusts of Wind

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Desire follows the glance, pleasure follows desire

Prelude – Boreas

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One of the nobles from the neighboring lands is engaging Ingwë in conversation, a distraction from what originally he was doing for quite a while already, he finds; distracting him from what he often does when he thinks no one watches (and therefore fools himself). From the corner of his eye he sees the smile on the Vala’s face flashing; bright, brilliant and dangerous at the same time.  A light flush staining Manwë’s cheeks from the abundance of ambrosia flowing freely tonight.

Although propriety dictates to focus on matters of state, on words of war and taxes, Ingwë finds himself more and more unable to, when too familiar laughter rings in his ears. Right then, there is no option for him than grin and bear the conversation. All of a sudden his robes are too restricting, too hot, the pants he wears underneath become too uncomfortable; if he only could sit down. There, at least, he could shift in his seat discreetly to conceal the embarrassment between his legs. These thoughts are for naught as such an opportunity doesn’t present itself.
Instead, he hopes that they all stand too close to each other for someone to notice and everyone will blame the pearls of sweat upon his brow on the wine.

A decent excuse.

Behind his back he wipes his damp hands against the fabric of the formal robes – the lightest of blues, adorned with elaborate patterns of golden thread meandering along its sleeves, brushing against the marble floor with every step he takes through Ilmarin’s vast halls. Sincere interest of the one he speaks to flitters through the air, and as well as he can, he tries to answer. Naturally, as it is in his forgiving nature, Ingwë is even feeling apologetic for being so distracted by something that isn’t even his concern. Dreams and idle fantasies, preferentially dreamt when nobody is ever watching, are kept close to his heart.

‘Easier said than done,’ thinks Ingwë, not for the first time tonight. It seems as if no force can wake him from dreaming now. Perhaps he shouldn’t be touching the draught not made for humble elves? But then, what options to refuse did he have when the one who is known as King of All among his people and dearest to them, Ingwë specifically, offered the glass himself with his most dazzling smile. There was none and he knows it well – at least not without causing a major affront and injure the one so dear to his heart.

With the first opportunity presenting itself, Ingwë excuses himself nonchalantly from the cumbersome conversation, giving a brief nod of courtesy before he turns away – not before daring a final look over his shoulder. Like a snake, he winds through the crowd until a breeze of fresh air fills his lungs and the pleasant chill of the night embraces him.

At last, he is freed from prying eyes.

The sky just begins to shed the world in darkness.  In the far distance above the horizon he sees the first faint twinkles of Varda’s magnificent creations blinking. Upon their generosity and expanses, his people dwell at Oiolossë’s slopes; deep understanding and appreciation guide their symbiosis, and throughout the years, friendship between the Valar and the Elves blossomed. Both Manwë and Varda are fonts of the unique skill in lore Ingwë’s people developed, and often the Elves sat by their feet whilst the gods listened to poetry and song.

With an exaggerated sigh, Ingwë leans against the balustrade, watching the world disappear in darkness as slowly his body relaxes. For how long he lingers there, he doesn’t exactly know; were it a few moments, minutes or even hours? The stars might give him an answer, if he could find the strength to open his closed eyes again. In the distance he still hears the laughter of the guests, and clanging glasses, joyful merriment he exchanged for serene solitude. Of late, and despite being satisfied with his life, he often thinks he has traded personal happiness for hundreds of years of solitude. Sometimes, when bright sunshine cascades into his house, he catches himself dreaming – of a wife, of little children of his own. Sometimes, when pale moonlight streams into his house, he dreams of a different relationship entirely. Sometimes, then, he feels as if cold winds from the north wrap their fingers around his throat and choke him breathless, and hastily, he discards all his fantasies.

Solitude and loneliness are what originally brought him outside, Ingwë tells himself.  Chased from the feast, which is hosted for reasons he doesn’t know.  It is unusual for the Valar to invite to such a gathering for idle, even though, Ingwë has never asked, perhaps, he better should.
When his nerves and burning cheeks have calmed down at last; and therefore Ingwë feels confident enough to return to Ilmarin’s domed hall to mingle among the others, he opens his eyes and turns around.

*

Chapter Text

Chapter 02 – Zephyrus

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As Ingwë turns around, the wind plays about his heated body, ruffling the golden curls of his hair until at last the breeze is running down his arms, fierce but soft and gentle, maddening in its intensity. Almost like a lover’s caress, he idly thinks, those touches he misses for too long.

Whilst looking up, he sees Manwë watching him a few steps away, smirking at him in a strange way the Vala seldom does. ‘A pity.’ The words float through his mind, as he recalls a meeting between them long ago. It is a beautiful, entrancing sight, one that suits the Vala so well, Ingwë
continues his musings, before he catches himself staring and looks down again. In the twilight of the night, an odd mélange of shame and astonishment flitters across Ingwë’s face.

“Well met.” The Vala’s voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but it makes Ingwë jump out of his daze nevertheless. He hadn’t realized that originally he was being followed, he doesn’t know how long he’s being watched, and worse: he doesn’t know why Manwë followed him in the first place. Propriety dictates him to speak and despite the fact that his people are famous for their strength in words, syllables falling from their lips like pearls drop from the string, words fail Ingwë now. In search for a humble gesture, now that the delusion of solitude is unmasked, Ingwë fumbles with his hands, eying the shining jewels adorning the Vala’s bare feet.

“My apologies,” at last Ingwë offers with shaking breath, not quite knowing for what exactly he apologizes for – there are too many options. As if Ingwë’s thoughts are read Manwë asks, the curious smile persisting.

“What for?” His voice is strong and regal, perfectly matching the fána he chose to wear tonight. Taut muscles flexing beneath the rich finesse of his robes, taller than he usually shows himself among the Firstborn. Twined streaks of silver wrap about his neck, with cascades of sapphires and diamonds falling down from delicate lugs at the hollow of his throat. A marvelous piece of craftsmanship, thinks Ingwë to distract himself, when it is the Vala’s throat, which actually catches his attention.

Ingwë is at a loss of what to say, not for the first time tonight. The truth? Hardly. “For taking my leave without being granted permission.” It is the safe choice, the easiest and most convenient option, a humble excuse. And, most importantly: it isn’t a lie, either, not exactly at least.

“Odd, is it not?” Manwë asks rhetorically as he gestures Ingwë to follow him. “Since long, you are free to wander in my halls and gardens as it pleases you with today no exception. Since when have you began to ask for my permission upon your whereabouts?  I must have forgotten.”

Everything the Vala says it’s true, Ingwë has to admit with gnawing teeth as they walk past the gushing fountains back to whence they came.

Ingwë’s absence, which must have been longer than he originally thought it was, had brought forth yet another consequence: the great hall is, apart from bustling servants in ivory gowns, empty. Rather to himself Ingwë mumbles, eyes wide in astonishment. “But there was cheerful laughter still to be heard a moment ago?”

Despite his doubts, Ingwë follows Manwë’s lead back inside. The sight of half-empty glasses standing on each table, together with remains of food and puddles of spilled wine on the floor, greets him. There were hundreds, if not more, guests present when he decided to leave – servants, elves of different tribes, Valar and Maia he never had before the chance to look upon, fair and threating at the same time in their appearance. Some Maiar, those especially keen of gossip and laughter, close friends to Manwë’s loyal herald, were frequent guests in his lord’s halls, praising his generosity, whilst others preferred to keep to themselves. Strange folk, thought Ingwë more than once. To those hiding in their vast halls, Valar and Maiar alike, Manwë occasionally traveled even if communicating by thoughts alone is common among their kind.

A silent laugh tears Ingwë out of his thoughts. “Indeed there was – in your head.” Just that Manwë did not add ‘foolish boy’ is all. As without intermission, he continues, Ingwë’s heart sinks. “You heard what you wished to perceive, Ingwë; an illusion, which now is scattering, sounds being perhaps placed into your mind, not being your own.”

Threads of fear and unease begins to ricochet up his spine. Despite their friendship, and the persisting smile on Manwë’s lips, the Vala’s power is palpable, like a halo surrounding, shielding him. Ingwë takes a deep breath to steel himself against what might follow – a litany of disapproval, he supposed – at best – being dismissed; or worse: being exiled. There is no doubt that, despite Manwë’s fair disguise, the silken finesses he wears, and friendly smile, he is capable of inflicting consequences more terrifying than anything Ingwë has ever seen. Like a raging storm his wrath can be, it is said among the Eldar (on the quiet), fierce and consuming, although not unforgiving. Why the notion of consuming rage inflames conflicted thoughts anew, Ingwë doesn’t exactly know.

In an act of silent submission, paired with shame, Ingwë directs his eyes to the floor. “Offending you was never my intention. I shall take my leave as all the others did.”

The lightest of touches dances across the back of his hand, as Manwë asks in a tone Ingwë interprets as mock sincerity. “Who speaks of offence, my child?” The touch, certainly meant as a gesture of reassurance, only makes everything worse.

Only on the rarest of occasions, Manwë uses such endearments for the Eldar, and it should indeed startle Ingwë, warn him perhaps – or at least make him questioning the choice of the Vala’s words – but it doesn’t. Not now, when he tries to engrave the sensation the Vala’s fingers against his skin, into his mind where its beauty shall forever remain.

They leave the bustling servants in the great hall to themselves, meandering side by side through the long corridors of Ilmarin, the place which has become a second home to Ingwë. In the monotonous cadence of their steps on silvery tiles his mind loses itself, floating around thoughts
which are too many to be controlled. From eagle-shaped torch holders golden light spills down, catching itself in the diamonds intricately woven into Manwë’s flowing hair in a way that momentarily, Ingwë’s thoughts are focused. If reasonably so, he even doubts himself.

After a pause of silence stretching too long, he tilts his head to the side, daring to look at Manwë’s face again. “What then, my lord?” asks Ingwë, when actually all he desires to know is: ‘I shall not leave?’, the phrase he doesn’t dare to speak.  It almost is as if a flicker of delight
floats through the Vala’s eyes when the last words are out of Ingwë’s mouth.

Without answering the original question, with an aura of strange indifference, Manwë falls into a monologue, the richness of his voice enthralling Ingwë to an extent that he misses more than half of what Manwë speaks of. “Has it never occurred to you to ask for the reason of tonight’s
gathering?”

‘What?’ In a spark of indecency he nearly blurts, mentally cringing at his lack of ability to form coherent sentences right then. Standing so close to Manwë that he feels the warmth escaping the body which is nothing more than a shell (not for the first time he dares to speculate if it does react to
touches like his body does), takes him a while to rephrase the words more appropriately before he truthfully answers. “It has, my lord.” Then he hesitates, searching for any sign of disapproval, before he continues. “It is – well – it is not my place to inquire, to question your motives, and
therefore I didn’t ask.”

A nod of approval follows. “Indeed it is not.” Though spoken firmly and with determination, the words are not said in admonishment. Instead white teeth are showing behind slightly parted lips. “Nevertheless – perhaps – I shall enlighten you as you have a tendency to never ask.”

Dizziness threatens to overwhelm Ingwë then, and he feels himself swaying against the Vala’s body as they walk. Vast statues made out of the finest marble to be found in the Blessed Realm, blinding white with thin veins of gold, which are now illuminated by golden flames and pale moonlight streaming through the windows above, line the hallway they are walking through. From countless visits Ingwë knows exactly where they are heading to; for the why, however, he has no answer yet.

Just before the ivory door, where carven images of grand eagles soaring through the wafting clouds gate the way to Manwë’s throne room they stop, and intensely Manwë looks at him, at last offering an explanation about his mysterious remarks. “The feast was given to honor the friendship between thy people and myself, Ingwë.”

In an ungraceful motion, Ingwë’s mouth drops open. It is the first time tonight Manwë is using his name, he sparsely does, sadly; the way it falls from the Vala’s lips never fails to leave him
yearning.

“I desire to speak with thee.” The Vala’s glance, questioning and strangely intimidate, rests heavily upon him, and again, he feels his feet swaying.

“Aren’t you speaking to me right now, my lord?” Ingwë’s response is half a question, half a snide remark, an attempt to conceal his nervousness.

A delicate eyebrow rises and Ingwë immediately regrets the choice of his words. Sometimes, the longer their friendship persists, he tends to forget whom he’s speaking to – and always feels conflicted afterwards. To lose the Vala’s friendship, even to irritate him at the slightest, is Ingwë’s largest fear.

When too long the questioning gaze lingers, Ingwë finds himself unable to hold it anymore, and tries to look away. To no avail, and entirely in vain, as the Vala’s index finger beneath his chin now prevents it. “You shall learn the difference soon enough,” says Manwë, not without a humorous note when nervous grasps, caused by the persisting touch, pull at Ingwë’s nerves. “Come.”

Just before the heavy door is opened by two sparely dressed servants from inside, Ingwë makes a vague noise of agreement.

*

Chapter Text

Yes, I am cruel—since you take so much delight in that word - and am I not entitled to be so?

Leopold von Sacher-Masoch – Venus in Furs

Chapter 03 – Notos

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The idea of the great Fëanáro being released from Námo’s halls and walking these lands again seems to be less surreal than this! Ingwë cannot believe what he sees; bustling servants tending to Manwë’s every need are not unfamiliar to him, but servants wearing nothing more than a silver cloth around their waist are a strange novelty. For seconds, just before the Vala’s brilliant smile flashes yet again into his direction, he even doubts that anything of it is real, being caught between sleep and wakefulness. Of late he often had dreams that are so real; so vivid; so incredibly intense.

With a fair amount of hesitation Ingwë steps through the heavy doors, following Manwë who already stands a few meters away from him in the middle of the hall.

From the exciting murmur flitting through air it is obvious, although quite surprising, to where all the missing guests had gone.  However, the reason why they have gathered here is veiled. Ingwë doesn’t even have the glimpse of an idea.

Cautiously he tilts his head, looking over his shoulder to the back of the room. Maiar, Valar, and various Elves, almost fifty people stand there, looking equally curious at him. Ingwion, his beloved son is among them, head tilted to the side, as he always does when he’s searching for an answer.

 ‘Neither do I,’ whispers Ingwë back, a matching quizzical look splayed across his face.

 Ingwion might have just followed the crowd; for the rest of the audience, especially those smirking Maiar, Ingwë is not so entirely certain. Hushed whispers on the flitter quietly through the air, spoken in a language sounding foreign yet beautiful to Ingwë’s ears.

There’s said to be a language solely spoken by the Ainur – soft and so utmost intense at the same time, filling the air like tingling bells stirring in the breeze; a language resembling the cadence of the first music sung before ought else was made. Until then, Ingwë had never heard it. He still doesn’t hear it, not quite, nevertheless he catches his mind wandering off in a direction he doesn’t approve of when standing with all eyes upon him.

In his dreams, silver sheets of the finest fabric are wrapped about his body as delicate fingertips crawl across his chest, stirring him awake early in the morning with the first sunrays streaming through the windows; he sees himself smiling just before he’s being kissed upside down, and words he doesn’t understand dance through the air.

The Vala’s voice thundering in his head throws Ingwë out of his fantasies. “Later.”  It is hard to pin his thoughts down right then.

Everything around him falls quiet, though Ingwë is quite certain the word is meant for him alone. He feels so lost where he stands in the middle of

Manwë’s throne hall, hands twitching at his side, because he doesn’t know what to do, or what is expected of him.

Throughout all the centuries, long gone by, he frequently stood before Manwë in Ilmarin’s domed hall, becoming quite familiar with the strange ways that were the Valar’s own; these incredible creatures who love best the pale twilight of the moon and stars, the wanderings beneath open sky on bare feet. When he was young he had often dreamt to join them, never imagining that much later he indeed would. Sometimes, Ingwë even dares to assume he knows how their mind works, at least a little, still nothing of that knowledge helps him now. Embarrassed he looks away.

Seconds turn into minutes, minutes trickling by in silence; the phenomenon that time passed differently in Manwë’s halls is nothing new. Seconds stretch like minutes, and hours easily become days. At the beginning Ingwë was scared as all the others, these days he usually doesn’t realize it anymore. Somebody clearing his throat behind forces Ingwë’s eyes upwards again, landing directly on Manwë’s back. The feast had demanded for kingly extravagances on Manwë’s side; he was meant to impress, is still meant to impress the crowd with rich robes and lavish jewelry, Ingwë muses, eyes glued to the Vala’s back. On nearly silent footsteps, robes gathering on the ground around his bare feet, Manwë pads down the hall towards his throne, the most splendid extravagance Ilmarin’s halls has to offer. It is a monster hewn out of ivory marble, placed upon a dais of matching stone. Left and right, just there where Manwë’s shoulders are when he sits, it is adorned with the spread wings of an eagle, the details so rich that every feather is visible to the eye.

However, it’s not the throne that catches his attention right now but the silver-blue robes falling from Manwë’s shoulders all of a sudden. Gasps of awe reach Ingwë’s ear, his own mingling with them. Beneath the stately attire Manwë wears a translucent, iridescent robe (one of the sort that hardly deserved the word robe; of the sort Ingwë never thought the Vala would own, least alone wear in his sacred halls) that sparkles in the low light as if diamonds are woven right into the fabric. The problem with it, its beauty aside: it leaves exactly nothing to the imagination. Not the twitch in Manwë’s shoulders, not those alluringly flexing muscles of his back. And both to Ingwë’s delight and shame, not even his well-shaped behind.

The obscene sway is a mesmerizing sight, one to behold and to be cherished late at night in solitude when nobody can read the treacherous language of his body. With Manwë turning around as if he deliberately moves in slow motion, the sounds of astonishment rise to waves of outright shock, and the crowd does rightly so. It is one of those sights he would cover Ingwion’s eyes if his son were younger.

With utter grace, Manwë sinks into his throne, crossing his legs in a delicate manner for which Ingwë is eternally grateful for; the glimpse he just saw will hunt his thoughts long enough.

For the first time, the Vala speaks. “Although the better part of valor is discretion, I do not necessarily approve in its entirety,” Manwë says, resting one arm on the armrests while he tips his chin with fingers of the other hand. There’s absolutely nothing sexual to this gesture, Ingwë keeps telling himself, yet he cannot help to feel differently.

Ingwë still stands somewhere in the middle of the hall, trapped between the mumbling crowd and the Elder King himself. He feels highly conflicted about each, sending shivers of unease down his spine.

Is he supposed to do anything, and if yes: what?

Should he speak?

The smile Manwë gives him is hard to read: encouraging to some extent, yet filled with a strange notion Ingwë doubts he ever saw.

Ingwë’s mouth twists into a grimace. “My lord?” he asks cautiously.

Something is different today. Something simply does appear to be not right, and therefore he inquires further, even more cautiously. “What is the meaning of all this?” With all eyes directed on him, he feels like the child he isn’t any more since thousands of years. He had always hated to be the center of any attention.

Manwë catches Ingwë’s eye and beckons him with an idle sweep of his finger, a gestured command. Ingwë hesitates, unused to being addressed like this at all, until Manwë demands, “Come forth,” and so Ingwë does on shaking legs.

Taking a deep breath, he wanders towards the ivory throne, further away from the staring crowd, until he stands right before the dais. There is no reason to be nervous, Ingwë keeps telling himself, in futile hope to resonate the maelstrom tolling in his head.

 Needless to say that the fact that his nervousness seems to bring great delight to Manwë only makes it worse. “The matter at hand is an easy one, Ingwë,” Manwë tells him, smiling at him in such an odd yet charming way.

 Ingwë doesn’t quite understand. Not the words, nor the smile. “For how many years I am a true and loyal servant to you?” He inquires, his voice wavering from how Manwë’s gaze burns upon his face, how it bores right into his soul.

 “This is true.” Manwë’s smile is breathtaking in its intensity, robbing Ingwë of his breath. “All these years you were the most loyal servant a lord can wish for,” he adds, voice booming with appreciation.

(Thankfully, the pained look on Eönwë’s face upon the remark goes unnoticed.)

Ingwë quirks an eyebrow. “Then I do not understand my lord?” It’s nothing more than a whisper, only meant for them alone.

 The smile dissipates from Manwë’s face which becomes more serious all of a sudden. “The act of fealty you once swore to me shall be renewed.”

 At that moment the hall goes silent.

Although it had been so many eons ago, Ingwë still remembers the day as if it was only yesterday; gold and silver mingled high up in the sky at the dawning of a new age, a world uncorrupted and peaceful. Now, the trees emanating the precious light are long dead; so many who had wandered these lands abide their judgment in Námo’s halls. Yet Ingwë remains – unharmed, entirely untouched by vile threats at the slopes of Taniquetil, with his people being safe. There is no better life for him than this, he thinks to himself, and then smiles. The strife for glory, of lands he could call his own – the pursuit of happiness as once it was called by those who had rebelled is such a foreign concept to Ingwë; he simply cannot understand what had driven his kin from the lands he so much loves. Between floating amidst memories, still being at a loss about the present, Ingwë sinks down on one knee right before the Vala’s throne. “I swear to–“

“No oath shall be sworn in these lands ever again,” Manwë thunders, so intense that Ingwë thinks he would stumble backwards from the strength of the voice alone. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it again, being at a loss of what to say. He’s not alone in this as all around them fall silent, even the faintest whispers subsiding at last, “nor should you never agree to anything before you have not heard the full extent of it. It might be unwise,” Manwë adds mysteriously as Ingwë’s pleasant memories scatter and fly away.

Out of reflex he finds himself nodding like a scolded child, gaze cast downwards all the while. “Yes,” he forces out at last.

“Do not avert your eyes when you speak to me,” Manwë demands, a sharp edge to his voice, adding, “nor ever look away when I speak with you.”

Again, Ingwë nods, before he directs his gaze obediently upwards, a strange shiver of excitement coursing through him; he never thought it possible, not even in his wildest dreams, but Eru dear: the way the Vala looks at him, intense and demanding, the way he speaks, no orders him, sets the tiny hairs on his neck on edge.

"Better,” Manwë affirms, adding at least some sort of explanation, “despite the fact that you have served me well throughout all the years in one way or another, at least a hundred more ways to serve exist.  If we agree upon this, the oath of long forgotten days shall today be renewed and altered.” All the while Ingwë stares at him with bewilderment and fascination alike. “I seek you to pay homage to your rightful king –” he says, a deliberate pause following to let the words sink in, “with your hands and lips and all else you are able to give.”

Ingwë’s mouth drops open. He is outrightly shocked and intrigued all the same.  The words, accompanied by a sly smirk, leave nothing to the imagination; the arising murmur affirms as much. Granted, he had always been attracted to Manwë in one way, or another. Originally intrigued by his kindness, and the support he offered to him and his people, much later by the fána he chose to wear; by the way he spoke when they were alone with each other. Ingwë had long ago resigned to pursue his dreams, even if that does not necessarily imply that he didn’t dream whilst being alone. Nevertheless does in his mind, amidst the filth he harbors there, live the perfect allusion of love and happiness on. To his highly romanticized thoughts, Manwë’s implications are highly contradicting, yet no less arousing.

With an idle sweep of his hand against Ingwë’s cheek Manwë continues, letting his eyes drift towards the crowd.  “Once before we were accused of favoring thralldom, in a speech unrightfully uttered. A speech filled with hatred and blasphemous accusations, as thralls never existed in these lands – and shall never exist as long as the world remains. That is what I thought back then, foolishly, I daresay. As the world itself changes and falls apart, and with it those living on it, why not let the strange moralities scatter? I, Manwë King of Arda, and not of Aman only, shall take back what once I have proclaimed for all of you to bear witness.” The hall goes from quiet to deadly still. “Thralldom shall not be unknown in these lands hence forth, if it is based upon mutual agreement –” Yet another deliberate pause follows. “And you Ingwë, shall be my own.”

Excited murmur and gasps of shock reach Ingwë’s ear but he’s deaf to everything not said by Manwë, trembling on his knees. Though brothels and whores are unknown in the Undying Lands, Ingwë has heard from those returning from Námo’s halls that such things exist in the land he never saw. There are supposed to be no boundaries on the distant shores it appeared. Despite his curiosity he always feels conflicted; he feels all the more conflicted now. How should he not? Though disguised in fair words, the request itself is plainly spoken: Ingwë is supposed to become the Vala’s whore.

“It is against the law,” a voice dances through the hall.

How Manwë’s expression transforms is mesmerizing to watch; his eyes, a second ago a piercing blue, shift towards the threatening grey of the sky right before a thunderstorm, dark and raging. A different kind of beauty, Ingwë thinks, before he catches himself staring yet again. “The king is law, and I am king of these lands. Your opinion on this matter hardly matters,” the Vala declares for all to hear. Although he is not addressed, the intensity of Manwë’s voice hits him physically like a punch across his face.

The hall goes deadly silent once more, without a single whisper hushing across the marble tiles.

“You shall tend to my every need should you accept what I am asking of you,” Manwë explains, drinking in the sight of Ingwë on his knees before him. Judging from the appreciation that hushes across his face, the sight must be an intriguing one indeed. Never before has Ingwë seen that expression on Manwë’s face; it wasn’t ordinary appreciation, because he is well used to it by now. It’s fierce, and hungry, burning directly on his exposed skin. “What are your thoughts?”

Sanity bids him to run, yet Ingwë isn’t running.

Instead he listens to the voice in his mind, which must be Morgoth’s own. ‘You are a fool, Ingwë, the greatest fool of all. How many centuries have you spent dreaming about what you should never desire?’

Many.

And although the idea of such a relationship does not necessarily matche with his own fantasies, thinking about everything it means is strangely arousing. Ingwë stays in quiet contemplation for a moment, not even daring to breathe too loudly. There are too many thoughts on his mind to appreciate the unfiltered silence; too many eyes burning into his back to pretend that they are alone. As if that would spark an answer to the question that still hangs in the air.

Absently, Ingwë draws in a deep breath before he speaks. “And,” despite knowledge he should not even dare to ask, Ingwë begins cautiously, his voice shaking both from fear and arousal, he brings himself to ask: “What if I do not enjoy certain things?” Never before have words seemed to come so slow to him.

Fingers decorated with precious gems sweep over Ingwë’s face, from his cheekbone towards his lips, oddly gently. Ingwë catches himself how he leans into the touch. “In time, you will learn to enjoy certain things, as you prefer to phrase it. You will learn to enjoy it for the simple reason to please me. No doubt, I am cruel, I will be cruel – since you take so much delight in that word though it won’t come across your lips. Am I not entitled to be so?”

 The combination of words and touches knock the breath from Ingwë’s lungs, sparking a tremor which shakes his body from head to toe.

“My lord?” Ingwë tries in his helpless misery. How is he supposed to think amidst floating in the sensation the touch leaves behind?

 “Do not seek to flatter me with idle words.” The fact of the simplicity of the options – aye or nay – makes Ingwë wary. True enough, the request is simple, and then it is not. A decision – one or the other – would change his life forever. What is worse, he keeps wondering, as Manwë’s fingers dance across his face like feathers; there is much too lose, and so much more to gain. Swaying on his knees upon the sensuality of the touch, the feeling of warm skin against his own, Ingwë finds his mind caged in a maelstrom of scenarios.

What do the Vala’s words truly imply, and more: could he, proud and noble, surrender?

Obey every order he’d receive?

After a few moments of lingering against Ingwë’s cheek, Manwë’s fingers dare to move again, brushing against Ingwë’s lips for a second. It is enough to feel the texture of them, warm and rich, nearly as if on purpose he lets Ingwë feel all this.

In response, his eyes wander from Manwë’s hand along his arm towards his face, drinking in the beauty laid out before him.

It is truly everything he ever wanted, Ingwë begins to realize.

Without even thinking what he does he parts his lips as Manwë’s finger outlines the curve of his lips, tongue darting out to brush against the Vala’s fingertip. A salty taste lingers on his tongue, all the more as Ingwë sucks one digit carefully into his mouth.

A nod of approval follows Ingwë’s action before Manwë silently begins to explain. “Cruelty can be so many things, Ingwë. It is an artwork of different shades and subtle nuances, delicately hinted at times when on others it is plain and outright. However, in all its intensity, it must never be confused with gruesomeness in all its shades.” Ingwë’s eyes go wide in shock, and upon this, the Vala immediately reacts. “Do not make assumptions that you know are untrue; I am demanding, yes. Perhaps relentless, and I expect your outmost loyalty. Without doubt you shall suffer from my hand, and mine alone. Nevertheless a time shall come when you will understand how exquisite cruelty can be, and to what unknown heights it may lead. What I will never be, not once, is malicious. No harm of the permanent sort shall avail you under my protection. You are my guest,” he continues, toying with one of the stones of his necklace with the fingers of the hand which isn’t busy exploring Ingwë’s mouth. “And guests are still holy in these lands.”

Ingwë stares at him in bewilderment. He can’t believe what Manwë is saying; he can’t believe what he himself is doing, no, what actually both are doing with such an audience. Two fingers are in Ingwë’s mouth now, hooked obscenely on his tongue for a moment before they explore the walls of his mouth, and in response he obediently sucks at them. It is strange, Ingwë thinks, how something so humiliating can be so arousing at the same time, because this it is; his body reacts fiercely to the strange sort of caress.

Kindness sweeps across the Vala’s face. “Let me rephrase it then: I will offer you my hospitality, the very best of it. My table, my bed, and my body are yours to enjoy.” A deliberate pause follows, long enough for the words to linger on Ingwë’s mind, brief enough not to make him speak. “Under my specific terms, naturally.”

Out of nowhere, a moan falls from Ingwë’s lips. He stares straight into Manwë’s darkened eyes, storm-clouds gathering there yet again, admires the calm serenity of his enjoyment. Ingwë feels as if he could come just from being on his knees on the Vala’s feet, sucking his finger in such an obscene way. He never thought he could enjoy such things, still doubts it, although he clearly does. Just then Manwë’s fingers slip from between Ingwë’s lips, a loss almost, an empty feeling he contemplates, watching strands of saliva connecting his mouth with the Vala’s fingertips.

The rules are clearly laid out for Ingwë. He goes over them again and again in his head; the palace Manwë resides in is lavish, almost decadent in comparison to his humble mansion at Taniquetil’s slopes, he keeps telling himself. As if it is the food and the palace that makes him nervous, he thinks, eyes still lingering on Manwë’s face. The request is a simple one, especially for somebody who has dreamt so long to lie in his lord’s arms (bed Ingwë still doesn’t dare to think).

Why isn’t ordinary affection enough to be shared between them (well, he doesn’t even know if anything akin to affection has a place in what Manwë asks of him)?

Why can’t it be as it has always been in his dreams?

Ingwë’s vision doubles from the effort of kneeling, two conflicting images trying to resolve somewhere in his mind. Manwë watches him apprehensively, tilting his head further back as he traces his finger, slick and wet with saliva, along Ingwë’s mouth. Ingwë is not watching him, then – he stares at him; ashamed, yes. Frightened? Rather not.

At last he comes to a conclusion; from where exactly the words begin to form, Ingwë will never be able to tell afterwards. After kissing the blue sapphire on Manwë’s hand they spill across his lips before Ingwë even knows they do. “I shall serve my lord in any way he commands me.” His breathing slows and he gazes up at Manwë under his long lashes, watching the Vala bend down towards him. “I shall be faithful and loyal as long as the world remains.”

“I thought as much,” says Manwë, closing the distance between them to catch Ingwë’s lips in a kiss, tilting his chin until he is satisfied with the angle. Much to Ingwë’s surprise the kiss is soft and affectionate, filled with so many unsaid promises that Ingwë trembles yet again and closes his eyes upon the sensation it elicits.

How many nights had he lain awake, dreaming to be kissed by Manwë in such a sensual way?

How often had he touched himself to exactly this?

The Vala’s tongue brushes against his lips, seeking entrance, with Ingwë’s mouth yielding immediately to the touch. The fullness of Manwë’s lips against his own sparks a sensation dearly missed, something which Ingwë easily can get used to, and does. Provoked by the sensation that comes with it, Ingwë even dares to reach out, letting his hand fall on Manwë’s knee, nevertheless too shy to actually let his fingers wander.

The moment only lasts briefly until the softness is gone all of a sudden, with Manwë declaring, “Undress.”

Gasps of shock and words of disbelief flitter through the air, whilst one corner of Manwë’s lip turns in a smile.

“What?” Ingwë stammers, regretting his choice immediately. By all means, his lord cannot be serious.

“You will not disobey me already?” Admonishment burns in the Vala’s eyes like venom

No, he isn’t. Ingwë sags. He takes a deep breath, deflated, before he finds courage to speak, hands beginning to undo the laces of his robes. “I never would betray thee,” he says, voice shaking. It is true; he had never betrayed Manwë before and never will.

“You’d do wisely so,” The Vala smiles, perhaps an empty gesture barely noticeable to most but an attempt of kindness, nonetheless. “Turn around, let them see that your words are more than a false promise.”

Shame tints Ingwë’s cheeks scarlet, still he rises to his feet and does as bidden, agonizingly slow. Neither dignity nor pride have a place in this new life, a life he had chosen without being forced to agree.

He could have said no, could say no still perhaps, but did he wanted to?

What is a moment of humiliation against all the wonders he might discover after that?

The faster he becomes used to these strange ways, the better, Ingwë tells himself, because the faster it would stop the hurt. With these thoughts on his mind he turns around, facing the crowd but avoiding their faces, closing his eyes to the swelling murmur.

The public display only lasts a second. “Enough,” Manwë says, wrapping his arm around Ingwë’s waist, turning him around again. Without being told, Ingwë resumes his kneeling place again, and the hall falls silent.

An appreciative nod follows, and unseen by Ingwë, Manwë gestures with his hand towards where the Maiar stand.

Eönwë steps forth from the crowd until he stands behind Ingwë, announcing: “As you wished my lord.”

Ingwë tenses out of surprise, glad that he at least recognized the Maia’s voice. Without explaining himself, Eönwë lifts Ingwë’s golden hair upwards so that his throat is revealed, and briefly Ingwë contemplates if he should look over his shoulder to see what exactly Eönwë is doing. He decides against it, wondering what this is all about; neither Eönwë nor Manwë offer him an explanation for that behavior. He is not exactly surprised by it as he has long given up to question what happens tonight.  With a long exhale of breath he closes his eyes despite have been told not to. For once, Manwë lets him.

He feels Eönwë’s warm fingers brush against his neck more intensely than before, followed by something cold, which makes his eyes snap open again. Judging from Manwë’s smirk he had expected this, and therefore had remained silent before. Ingwë dares to look down at himself; it’s a golden collar around his throat, with tiny plates falling across his collarbone, across his back, too. Unsurprisingly it is beautiful judging from the brief glimpse he catches. No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, the metal still feels cold against his heated skin, heavy and strangely intense around his neck, vibrating and singing in strange languages, as if a secret spell is woven into the tiny plates.

The chain in Manwë’s hands, twined rings of gold and silver, over a meter long offers some surprise when Ingwë looks up again, because he is beyond certain it wasn’t there before. One end of it is already attached to the strange bracelet the Vala wears around his right wrist, a piece of jewelry he has never noticed Manwë wearing (which is odd, because he always takes great delight to observe the intricate bracelets and rings). Manwë idly twists the fastening in his fingers back and forth before he attaches it to the ring on the necklaces side. Terror sizes Ingwë anew. A visible seal for their act of fealty, he all but thinks, and well: it represents it perfectly.

Disbelievingly Ingwë lifts his hand, letting his fingers wander across the necklace towards the fastening of the chain. At first he tries carefully to open it, and if that doesn’t work, he tries a little harder. Nevertheless, it won’t give in to the press of his fingers.

Manwë’s hand closes over Ingwë’s own, his fingers slipping towards the fastening and like magic it opens. “How?” he mumbles.

An indulgent smile sweeps across the Vala’s face. “The metal responds to my will alone.” The ‘as will you’ remains unsaid, though Ingwë is quite certain this is exactly what Manwë thinks. It thrills him and scares him alike, wondering what would come next. Well, some faint idea already lingers in his mind, and judging from the position he is in, it wouldn’t be entirely absurd.

Ingwë’s thoughts must be so obvious to interpret, judging from the words that follow: “Sharp wits are arousing, without doubt,” Manwë says, beckoning Ingwë even closer, spreading his legs wide apart until Ingwë perfectly fits between them, “so I am pleased to announce that you are correct in assuming you shall pay homage with that indulgent mouth of yours.”

Ingwë swallows, then obeys, with a visible shiver coursing through him as he tries to shun the crowd from his mind, focusing on Manwë’s eyes instead. Embolden by the anticipation he sees in them, silver stars amidst a sea of blue, he places both of his hands on each of Manwë’s thighs, etching between the Vala’s legs until their skin touches, lips only inches apart from what he had never even dared to imagine to see.

He has never done this before, has never knelt in front of a body this way, shamefully embarrassed by so many eyes burning into his back; at least he does not have to look them in their faces.

When earlier that day Ingwë had marveled at the glorious fána of the Vala, the increased height, he hadn’t taken into assumption that other parts of him might reflect the strength. The body before him seems wrong: too big, too powerful. And oddly it is exactly what he had always wanted, changed just in tiny nuances, Ingwë begins to realize.

A hand reaches below and cards through Ingwë’s golden hair, tugging slightly until he looks up at Manwë again. As if guided by a silent command he keens and straightens himself up. He finds himself helpless, unable to do anything except surrender to the Vala’s hands; if he could only ignore the burning stares. A voice in his head begins to form, silent at first, but soon becoming louder: ‘Let them stare and marvel at what they shall never have.’ It is accompanied by a kiss against his brow, which only lingered for a moment, a form of silent encouragement to finally put his hands and mouth to use.

It is true. Ingwë should not care about those hushed whispers. He shouldn’t care about anything at all anymore when his dream of old is finally about to be full-filled. Aye, in slight variation to his original version, yet it is not far from it.

Reluctance still yanks on Ingwë so firmly that he thinks it would rip him in two; he takes a heavy breath, steeling himself to ignore everything that might happen around him. With trembling hands he leans forward, the translucent gown brushing against his fingertips so softly that it almost hurts.

How often has he wondered if the Vala’s skin is warm and smooth?

How often has he asked if those creatures are capable to feel the way he does?

The answer to his questions – yes and yes – lies right before him, and at last he unties the knot which keeps the translucent fabric together. Ingwë steadies himself with a deep breath, bringing his lips against the head of the Vala’s cock, eyes switching between what lies before him and the Vala’s eyes back and forth. Manwë smiles at him, encouraging this time, a smile filled yet again with unspoken promises. He skims his hand down Ingwë’s cheek, his index finger about to touch the corner of his lips, so sensual that Ingwë feels as if his skin is set aflame. There is no turning back now, not after admitting to himself how he actually craved the Vala’s body, and with that in mind he bridges the final distance. Lowering his head down, Ingwë flickers his tongue over the head of the Vala’s cock, kissing it the way he would kiss Manwë’s mouth; careful and lovingly.

Just after experimenting with gentle licks and hesitant brushes of his lips to test how it feels like, he hears Manwë speaking again. “You are not here to tease,” he scolds him, not harsh or unforgiving, yet assuming enough to let the blood freeze in Ingwë’s body.

How should he know what is expected of him when Manwë never told him?

How should he know what to do when he has never done this before?

He takes a deep breath yet again, trying to control his swarming thoughts and focus on the task laid out before him.

What does he like it himself? How exactly would he like it?

Instead of teasing licks he wraps his lips around the Vala’s cock, tongue flat against it, and tries to sink down just a little bit further, his eyes directed upwards all the while. This time, Manwë looks pleased with him, and in return that sparks Ingwë’s boldness to fulfill the Vala’s perhaps deepest desire.

Ingwë soon establishes a continuous rhythm of sucking and licking, trying to go deeper with every time he withdraws. Pressing his tongue up against it, he hums, tuneless, just to let Manwë feel the vibration of it. He’s instantly rewarded: a twitch against the walls of his mouth, beautiful appreciation flitting across the Vala’s face.

Manwë’s knuckles are turning white from clutching the arm rests of his throne, Ingwë observes, and he can’t help but smirk when it is so obvious how Manwë struggles to control himself.

Ingwë hollows his cheeks in retaliation, sucking in a way that he’s now sure Manwë feels and enjoys it; saviors it to the last. He doesn’t care anymore about the obscene noises that come with it; nor about the dignity that dissolves further. In fact, quite the contrary is the case: he even tries to coax out at least a single sound out of the Vala’s throat, wondering how it would sound like, even if the tangled hands in his hair are praise enough.

Although Manwë let’s Ingwë dictate the pace he goes down, it’s foolish to assume that he is in control of the situation when it is so obvious that he’s not. A breath caught too long and Ingwë can feel the fingers in his hair tense, encouraging him to resume his actions; and so he does. From time to time he feels the Vala’s hand caressing his cheek or his throat, feels it twitch against his skin as he increases the efforts of his mouth. Only when Manwë leans down to him he stops momentarily.

“You are mine,” Manwë says, so quietly against Ingwë’s ear that it is only for him to hear, then trailing his lips along the side of Ingwë’s throat, before he bites down, making Ingwë cry out around his cock. The awkward spasm of Ingwë’s body as a reaction to this nearly sends his head down only deeper. He struggles not to cough and splutter, and somehow he manages to find his rhythm again, with Manwë remaining still this time.

The itching and burning of his knees becomes merely a secondary thing, something he only notices faintly every now and then. Ingwë’s fingers still lie splayed across the Vala’s thighs, from time to times tensing when he sinks down too deep in offering this obscene act of fealty. Yet it is the said obscenity that makes his stomach flutter. He continues alternating between feverishly sucking the Vala’s cock from every possible angle and teasing laps, to periodically wondering if Manwë has ever done something alike before. He genuinely doubts it.

The collar around his is neck forgotten, the audience he’s having, too, though they aren’t exceptionally quiet. Nothing of it matters anymore to Ingwë, not when he’s doing something so right.

The sight presented before him is one to behold; despite his lack of experience somehow he just knows how to make the Vala fall apart with his mouth, because finally Ingwë can indeed draw out a physical reaction from the Vala that is more than snow-white knuckles.

Manwë’s back slumps against the back rest, lips parted and eyes dark, and this sends a soaring feeling through his body in response. Ingwë coughs, licking his lips, and looks up, showered by the silent praise, and in return pride spread across his face. The warmth of his mouth and the firm strokes of his hand combined are apparently sufficient enough to make the mighty lord of the Vala tremble; make him slump against his throne in pleasure, hair gleaming in the flickering light, a look on his face that nearly makes Ingwë come. He certainly is the most beautiful and sensual creature Ingwë has ever seen.

This wasn’t meant to be so arousing for him, he wonders. He isn’t even being touched?

From out of nowhere strong arms drag him upwards, pull him right into the Vala’s lap. Manwë’s body is warm against Ingwë’s own, and when he’s being kissed, hard and rough, claimed in the sense of the word, he knows he’s lost to him for all eternity.

“My lord?” he chokes out, breathless and startled.

Manwë deliberately ignores him, looking over Ingwë’s shoulder towards where the guests still stand. “Get thee gone. This is not for any of you to see,” he says harshly, every word accurately punctuated in a way that doesn’t leave the smallest space for disobedience. The sound of shuffling footsteps reaches Ingwë’s ears, who is thankful that at last the performance is over.

Apparently it isn’t, as Manwë adds, even harsher than before, “All of you. You are included by my words, Námo, although I am no stranger to the delight you take in watching. If you are so enticed by elvish thralls, the choice you have among the dead surpasses my wildest dreams.”

A gnawing sound reaches Ingwë’s ear, followed by the subsiding sound of footsteps.

At last they are alone.

*

Chapter Text

*

Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. 
Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.

― Donna Tartt, The Secret History

Chapter 04 – Eurus

*

As much as Ingwë had loathed the company of their spectators, now that they are alone in the vast hall threads of nervousness run through him anew. Silence of an uncomfortable sort falls like a silver curtain. Not that Ingwë himself is uncomfortable in the Vala’s lap; quite the contrary. The throne itself, the sign of the Vala’s might and valor, sets the tiny hair on his neck on edge. Ingwë, still trying to comprehend the surrealism of the entire situation, aroused and overly sensitive from the first kiss they shared, lingers on the words that repeated themselves in his mind.

‘Thralldom shall not be unknown in these lands henceforth, if it is based on mutual agreement, and you, Ingwë, shall be my own.’

He had given his consent to this, to all of it, including the performance in front of spectators, yet he does not know how far he is willing, or rather able, to go? Ingwë feels his mind go astray, trying to answer the question to which he would never have an answer.

Manwë tsks in disapproval. “As if I would ever share such precious moments with ungrateful visitors, things that I have desired for so long in secret,” he says, almost to himself, swiping a golden lock out of Ingwë’s face, so affectionately that it warms Ingwë’s heart. Yet at the same time he must not be lulled into false security – the audience had been his protecting shield, without Ingwë even realizing it.

Now they are alone, and he truly is at the Vala’s will and mercy.

“Let us go somewhere else,” Manwë then says, his fingertips never leaving Ingwë’s skin, “this hall is hardly fitting for what I have in mind for the rest of the night.”

The Vala’s words and touch spark a firework of emotions on Ingwë’s skin. Ingwë briefly considers asking what exactly that would be. He decides against it. Instead, he is forced to follow Manwë’s fluid movement from the throne until his shaking feet meet the cold stone. He takes a step backwards, realizing all too soon that his radius is extremely limited with the chain still attached to his collar.

Like a dog on the leash, Ingwë involuntarily thinks, feeling the Vala’s stare crawling over every inch of his skin.

There is nothing he can do: not fight, or struggle – he cannot even run. ‘Alas,’ Ingwë thinks not without a certain unease. He feels strangely exposed. With quick fingers Manwë veils his form with the translucent robe again, tying the fastenings together over his chest, whilst Ingwë still stands there, naked and shivering, yet his skin so hot as if a thousand little fires were burning on it.

He is fiercely, grotesquely beautiful.

Dangerous.

Magnificent.

That is the word Ingwë had searched for this whole night. Ingwë tries to hold the Vala’s gaze steadfastly, watching blue flames burning in Manwë’s starlit eyes. He cannot, despite his longing. Amidst all of Manwë’s powers, Ingwë feels himself shrink so that in embarrassment he lowers his gaze towards the ground.

“No.” A simple word, accompanied by a pressing finger beneath Ingwë’s chin, gentle yet at the same time with a demanding force, makes him easily understand that looking to the floor is not tolerated. “Why would you hide your beauty from my gaze?”

Ingwë gasps, the sensation of Manwë’s finger and then his lips against his mouth bright and overpowering, the hand around his waist which draws his body flush against the Vala pulling him deeper into the maelstrom of emotions. He drowns in it, and some of his insecurity dissolves. With delight Ingwë notices the heat that escapes the Vala’s body before all thoughts are sucked from his mind. That body is feral and incredibly beautiful, manifesting all the strength his lord calls his own.

As their lips part, Ingwë notices a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Those blushes of embarrassment are charming; I could well get used to them,” says Manwë, smiling down at him. The realization that comes with it is striking, although Ingwë cannot comprehend why all of a sudden he understands – and knows. For the first time he understands that there is more to each word the Vala says. The true implication is: ‘and as I could well get used to them, the prospect of what other reactions I can draw from your body enthralls me; the way you would moan and writhe and cry out my name with eyes aflame and cheeks glowing scarlet.’

Ingwë blushes all the more, fighting the urge to lower his gaze once again. This time he does not and so they simply look at each other for a moment, before Ingwë hears Manwë say, “Very well,” taking a few steps away from Ingwë. In his wake, Ingwë follows: it’s the only option he has unless he desires to be choked.

Hardly a choice.

In what he perceives as his not-so-glorious nudity, Ingwë obeys the Vala’s silent command and follows him on shaking feet. Truly the dog on the leash – it frightens and arouses him alike, and that is what troubles him. His body’s response forces his mind to obey.

On their way out of the hall, all of a sudden Manwë stops, bending down to retrieve Ingwë’s robes and placing them carefully on his shoulders. Ingwë shivers at such unexpected but welcome affection, smiling to himself. Manwë’s fingertips linger longer on his skin than it is truly necessary, gentle at first but soon growing bolder, questing and exploring, just as if Ingwë’s skin belongs to him.

Conjoined.  

It’s not far from the truth, the cold metal of the chain is a constant reminder with every step he is forced to take. Nevertheless, Ingwë relishes touch, even as the Vala’s fingers trail down his spine, begging him to stop walking and ushering him forward at the same time. As Manwë’s hand touches the small of his back, dipping lower towards his buttock without hesitation, Ingwë inhales sharply.  He is quite certain that Manwë notices, but for once he does not scold his reaction, he merely continues. And gods forbid – after the initial shock the touch enthralls Ingwë, and so much more. Instead of strange and wrong the touch feels perfectly right.

Ingwë lets his gaze roam through the hall as they walk side-by-side. A door that Ingwë had never noticed comes into his vision. It leads from the domed hall in which Manwë holds his regal audiences into a torch-lit corridor, and from there into yet another, as if behind the great hall of Ilmarin lay an endless labyrinth. Surely his mind must trick him, as the temperature seems to drop by several degrees, the air feeling all of a sudden chill against his heated skin. Before tonight, Ingwë had thought he knows Ilmarin’s lofty halls.

A mistake, one of many wrong assumptions without doubt.

He had never ventured to this part of the palace. Somehow he even doubts that many know of it. Ingwë’s gaze catches lofty stairways, its railings adorned with silver flowers. They follow one of the stairways upwards, Ingwë’s arm now carefully placed around the Vala’s waist, until they stand in yet another corridor.

A maze – truly.

However, this corridor is different to Ingwë’s eyes: instead of torchlight, candle light illuminates the night. Silver eagles with diamond-studded eyes, with white candles set between their silver claws spill flickering light into the corridor and dancing shadows against the creamy bricks of the wall.

It’s beautiful, an artwork hidden behind closed doors. But is that not often the great tragedy of art? To be hidden from prying eyes, veiled in darkness?

Is that his fate?

He chases the thought as quickly as it came away. It must not be so.

The golden glow catches in Manwë’s robes, sparkling like dust of diamond, innocent and fragile. That he is neither, Ingwë has long understood. Still Ingwë watches him with a smile, drinking in the beauty so unlike his own as he begins to analyze the Vala’s face as he would analyze a costly scroll. He probably should feel something other than what he feels now, when Manwë ushers him forward. Horrified and repulsed, perhaps, frightened? He does not feel any of it, only warmth and happiness. Without question, he obeys.

From where exactly the thought of finding himself pinned against the wall, arms pressed high up over his head with the Vala’s lips glued to his throat comes, Ingwë has no idea, nor is he given the chance to linger long on the little fantasy, as soon a marble door blocks their way. There is no keyhole, no handle; there is no need, as by Manwë’s will alone it cracks open.

Ingwë tilts his head and stares at him in bewilderment at the manifestation what powers his lord truly holds.

Manwë bites his lip, his eyes alight with mirth. “Precautions,” is all the explanation Manwë offers.

“What for?”

Ingwë’s question is met with silence.

In the same moment the door closes after them, Ingwë’s heartbeat begins to race.

*

At first, the room is dark, at least to Ingwë’s eyes, still adjusted to the torch light of the never-ending corridors, but then it’s not.

Moonlight slips in through the thin slit between the curtains at either side of the hall, catching in the Vala’s flimsy gown. It almost is as if the light derives from Manwë himself, his body faintly glowing as if Telperion’s long lost silver beams are coming to life anew.

In fascination, Ingwë stares, his eyes shifting back and forth between Manwë’s face and the unveiling darkness. The sheer beauty of the moment overwhelms him, as more and more details spring to life: mesmerizing patterns in the white walls reveal themselves, blossoming flowers and twining vines, glowing in the same surreal way as the Vala himself. His gaze wanders along the patterns before he frees it, turning back to Manwë’s face.

The light highlights his noble cheekbones, his skin as fair as porcelain, a being so powerful and mighty that Ingwë still can’t believe he has agreed to their very special pact. He is breathtakingly beautiful in his threatening glory, power tangible in every fiber of his being and once more, Ingwë feels humble besides him.

What originally Ingwë has perceived as a single room clearly is not, revealed to him by the light that grows bright and brighter still. The patterned walls are not solid walls exactly but thin demising half-translucent walls, offering views into the adjusting rooms. They are made from a strange sort of metal, blinding white and so richly wrought that he had mistaken it for marble.   Ingwë catches only mere glimpses of what lies beyond, and wonders about the true purpose of the maze. Architecture has always piqued his curiosity so that under normal circumstances he would be drawn to the fascinating patterns, run his fingers over the cold stone. As it is, he does not.

Apparently surprises lurk behind every corner, every wall and Ingwë is curious what truly lies beyond. He feels the press of hands against his hips and Manwë’s chest against his back just before soft lips brush against his neck.

“There is always more than what first meets the eye. By now you should have some experience of that if I am not mistaken?” The soft chuckle is like music to Ingwë’s ears, like chiming bells stirring the calm air of the morning. “If you desire, I shall offer you a glimpse of what lies beyond.”

Ingwë looks over his shoulder, confirming his interest. “My lord, I do,” he says with shaking voice. His speech falters as he witnesses the torrent of the raging sea in the Vala’s eyes.

Once there was a time when Ingwë thought he was expert at interpreting his lord’s glances; right now, he fails, at a loss for what to say.

“So these are your chambers?” Ingwë hears himself asking as he is ushered forward, drinking in the details of the room.

Manwë nods. “A part of them, yes. The ones I had especially made long ago, when first I laid my eyes upon a young elf, barely grown but already graced with a beauty even the gods could not withstand. We may seem indifferent, those who stand above you in rank. Let me tell you it is not so. Even then, you corrupted my imagination and inflamed my blood.” (*ViF)

At that notion, astonishment flits across Ingwë’s face.

“Truly?” he breathes, leaning his body against the Vala’s own.

He had not understood it right then, all the eons ago when first they met under the light long lost to the world. Of course he had not, being still a sapling on this earth, staring as servant in the bright blue eyes of his lord, the greatest and mightiest ever known.

Their first meeting, alone and secluded in Manwë’s private gardens,  had been filled with nervousness on Ingwë’s side, tension hanging in the air so thick and heavy that his breath had been robbed from him. At the same time a strange warmth had flooded him then, stirring and coiling and kicking in his stomach like a child in a mother’s womb, a reaction of his body he had never felt in that intensity since

From that day, Ingwë had always been attracted to the Vala, and though he knew it was inappropriate, he had done nothing to stave off the imagination that came with it. Yet until now, the truth had been a mystery to him. Now he saw that subtle bonds had been formed then, woven over the course of a lifetime like a spider’s net. This was fated, even then, although not fate in its usual sense. From there, their relationship had developed into genuine friendship transcending rank and social class.

‘You never said a word,’ thinks Ingwë, pained, forgetting for the moment that his mind is laid bare.

A sigh disrupts the silence. “You had your life yet to live, Ingwë, and although you might blame me now for all the things I did not do, believe me: you would have blamed me if I acted upon my desire. Pardon me, if I phrase it bluntly: I need a man grown, experienced and strong, not a spark, green beyond measure behind his pointy ears, to indulge in these games I intend to play with you. It is no lie that for long I have desired to see you writhing beneath me, to hear your groans and wails.

“I never could – at least not in the way I desire, yet I heard your desire. And here, hidden from the senses of my ever-watchful brethren, my fantasies began to soar. I must admit that I did not venture here too often, afraid to lose my mind to what I could not have, but whenever my yearning felt unbearable, the tension too strong and heavy, I gave in. Most often it was right after you had left these halls, going back to your home and your people. And then I dreamt.

Ingwë interrupts him. “About what?”

Manwë narrows his eyes in irritation. “You asked, so I will tell you. Of whipping and devouring you. Of having you begging,” he says, his calm façade unchanged.

Such brutal honesty is entirely new to Ingwë, who blushes furiously, feeling his cock growing from the words alone.  

It is not fair.

But then, what does it matter when simple words can rouse him so?

Manwë is the first to speak again, a sharp edge to his voice. “There will be time aplenty later to linger on the beauty laid out before you. You were so curious a moment ago what else these halls have to offer: come and see.”

On trembling feet Ingwë follows blindly, uncertain if he truly wishes to know. Curiosity and pride has led to many a downfall since the world was made – the great Fëanáro: dead. Ñolofinwë: dead. Their sons abiding judgment in Námo’s halls. They and so many more whose pride and ambitions had driven them from these shores.  

“It is true, Ingwë,” Manwë affirms, placing a hand on the small of Ingwë’s back, “Pride always comes before the fall, and although you have not wronged me, fall you shall.” His voice was incredibly attractive, so sensual that a chill touches Ingwë’s skin. “As I told you before: Sharp wits and a challenge are what my desires are made of.”

Out of nowhere candles spring to life, lifting the veil of darkness from the maze of alcoves and secluded rooms, mingling and dancing with streaks of moonlight.

Gold and silver. Not so unlike ourselves.

A beautiful thought, without doubt, a thought that does not last.

Ingwë is outright shocked as an assortment of tools and devices hanging from the wall is revealed to his gaze in the moonlight. His gaze falls on strange objects, some made out of silver, some of gold, leather and polished wood – no matter where he looks, he cannot escape the silent threats. For a brief, appalling moment Ingwë feels like he might actually cry – until he feels a chaste press of lips against the crown of his head.

Ingwë clenches his jaw, taking a moment to compose himself. “What is ..” he asks, falling silent as from out of nowhere, his words from earlier that day repeat themselves.

‘In time, you will learn to enjoy certain things, as you prefer to phrase it. You will learn to enjoy it for the simple reason that it pleases me. Have no doubt, I am cruel, I will be cruel – since you take so much delight in that word though it won’t cross your lips. Am I not entitled to be so?’

Strong arms embrace Ingwë and in Manwë’s hold he shivers. “Take your time – to choose,” the edge to the Vala’s voice is close to arrogance.

As Ingwë’s gaze studies one object after the other, disbelief coiling and flaring, Ingwë cannot stop thinking about the way Manwë’s eyes had gone dark with desire as he had spoken, foreshadowing the same frantic excitement he had seen just a moment ago. Back then, in his infamous naiveté, Ingwë had not believed his words: Manwë had always appeared to be more kind than cruel, understanding, gentle and forgiving.

And yet, a hoard of cruel objects for raw discipline he names his own.  

The multi-plaited whips and riding crops Ingwë can at least identify as what they are with a dreadful shudder –  for what they could be used outside the stables; the rest, though? He could not. Many of the objects look so strange and gruesome and so entirely out of place that Ingwë has not the slightest idea for what they are for.

He ignores those, gaze glued to the myriad of whips.

Would Manwë truly discipline him like an unwilling mare?

No.

Well…

He looks over his shoulder, seeing Manwë’s eyes shine with mischief.

Yes.

Ingwë doesn’t dare to think any further, scared of what fantasies his mind could weave.

“Pick one for the night yet to come –” Manwë says, the instruction followed by a deliberate pause, a tightening grip around Ingwë’s waist, “and one for the morning after.”

Frustration and fear rings in Ingwë’s voice. “You can’t –”

Manwë’s words are ice-cold, mood darkening. “I can. And I will. Choose wisely.”

Alas. Ingwë sighs deeply.

His eyes wander along the endless row of silver hooks from which the objects dangled, stepping forward as far as the chain allows to pick the first item whilst Manwë watches him curiously. The metal feels cold against his skin, and in that moment Ingwë doubts that the object is as innocent as he had originally thought. Two golden clasps, barely the size of the tip of his thumb, sit in the Vala’s palm, harmless, at least in comparison to the leathered paddles.

If Manwë thinks it a wise choice, Ingwë cannot tell, thoughts occupied of what to choose for the morning after. Phalluses, some as thick as his forearm, stand on a little table just below the dangling riding crops. Certainly not. Instead he extends his hand towards a string of silver spheres, resembling a string of pearls. Five spheres are connected with a thin silver wire, the diameter of each sphere growing.  

A chuckle, faint and serene, tickles Ingwë’s ear. He knows immediately his choice this time is not wise, all the more so as he looks into Manwë’s eyes. They appear gold in the light of the candles, like licking flames with dancing stars. “This one?” asks Manwë, accepting the object from Ingwë’s hand. “Tomorrow we shall see if you will regret your choice.”

“Why?” Ingwë dares to ask.

Manwë’s answer is quiet as a summer’s wind. “Always so curious. I like it. You will find out the answer soon enough.” Any further information is withheld from Ingwë, and instead, he beckons him to follow. “Come.”

And so Ingwë ventures farther into the lion’s den, or perhaps the eagle’s nest. As he follows Manwë’s striding steps further into the labyrinth, Ingwë keeps wondering who else had been granted permission to see this giant maze.

“You are the first.” Manwë tells him, confirming what Ingwë had thought.

A sigh of annoyance escapes Ingwë’s mouth before he can prevent it. “Stop penetrating my mind.”

Manwë comes to a halt all of a sudden, tilting his head to one side. He does not look angry at the slightest, Ingwë notices with relief, rather regarding Ingwë with a strange sort of curiosity. “Conceal your thoughts, then.”

Easier said than done. He was but a humble elf lord with little power, no match for the one he had pledged his loyalty to.

Of Manwë it is said that he sees further than all other eyes, through mist, and through darkness, and over the leagues of the sea. (*) Yet another tale is told by those who long left these shores. That he has no thought for his own honor, implying that he does not have honor at all.

*

From the gallery of objects, as Ingwë names that part of Manwë’s rooms, he is led through another candle-lit corridor, questing further into the very heart of Ilmarin; the part that is hidden from the world outside by magical doors and woven spells.

‘Your home for all the ages to come’, a voice tells Ingwë and he is so shocked that he almost falls over his feet. He tries to focus on his surroundings then, ignoring whatever magic that is.  

Whilst the entire palace, even the gallery of torture instruments, resembles the blinding white clouds in all their innocent purity, the corridor through which Ingwë is led is pitch-black, bathed in a golden glow by the flickering candle light. The chambers are open to each other, no doors bar the corridors, simply leading into another room, and then another.

What greets Ingwë’s eyes now robs him off his breath and makes him halt, even though it means the collar cuts into his throat. It is Manwë’s sanctuary, the heart of the entire palace, private and secluded, and yet there Ingwë stands, drinking in the overpowering sight.

In futile hope Ingwë breathes out, “Wait,” surprised when indeed the Vala does.

Manwë turns around to look at Ingwë. “Beautiful, is it not?” he asks, letting one finger run smoothly along Ingwë’s jawline.

Indeed it is. “Yes.”

What is more beautiful still, is the touch against his skin, which is gone before Ingwë truly notices.

The size of the room is massive, at least twice the size of Manwë’s throne room, framed by walls that are made of pitch-black stone, polished and thus different to those in the corridor. It fills Ingwë with a certain unease that he tries to ignore. Gold and silver ornaments adorn the stone, intricate patterns that repeat themselves, alternating with torch holders in the shape of eagles. From each beak, flames spill into the darkness, painting the room in a surreal golden light. Yet there is more: a few meters away stands a trickling fountain, filling the chamber with its rippling sound. It is hewn from the same black stone as the walls, with an octagonal basin at the ground. From the middle of the shallow pool a sculpture rises, holding another, smaller basin, round this time. In its middle, a bubbling disrupts the calm water, sending wave after wave against the basin’s edges, so that constantly the water trickles down from the top basin. Apart from the black stone it is not so unlike the alabaster fountains to be found in Manwë’s private gardens.  

Ingwë takes a step further, lifting his hand to touch the stone, and takes a closer look. It is cool to his touch, strangely smooth and traversed by thin silver threads. There is only one material that looks like this, but surely Manwë would not build parts of his palace with it?

Disbelief begins to spread across Ingwë’s face. “Onyx,” he whispers, being quite certain that it must be so. Ingwë knows the semiprecious stone only from childhood tales.

“It is said that –” he says, voice wavering. To think about those wretched halls is enough to make him tremble.

Manwë waves his hand dismissively, interrupting Ingwë with a sharp edge to his voice. “That my brother’s Halls are made of that material? We all know the tale. Although it is rather truth than tale.”

Ingwë shakes his head, snatching away his hand as if the stone would burn his palm. “Why would you use the stone associated with death?”

There is a long silence, one of the sort that makes Ingwë uncomfortable, until at last the Vala explains cryptically, “Death is life and life is death, it is as simple as that.” That sometimes Manwë’s words are riddles isn’t new to Ingwë, yet he had thought that they are past such games by now; he had hoped at least. And indeed they are, playing a different sort of game entirely. “No better material is made to muffle sounds and cries of anguish.”

Ingwë’s heart drops and nervousness rises as he begins to understand. Neither sunshine nor the faint silver streaks of the moon exist here. Without the torches and candles the room would be pitch-black like a starless night, a night that would never end.

Although Ingwë’s discomfort must be plainly visible, the Vala merely shrugs his shoulders. “Worry not, not everything is black,” explains Manwë, pointing towards a door which apparently leads to yet another chamber. “Beyond that door daylights awaits you, the open sky with gentle winds and warming sunshine.”

A poor consolation. “So you would have me scream in anguish and despair, muffling my cries so that nobody would ever hear me?” It is impossible to keep the terror from his voice.

Manwë tilts Ingwë’s face upwards with a finger under his chin and leans down, kissing him gently. “Of course I would. Your cries are mine and mine alone to enjoy.” A pause, another kiss. “Not that anybody would ever find you here.”

Ingwë tries to pull back as if awoken from a reverie the moment the Vala speaks his dreadful musing out aloud.

Manwë allows it, regarding him entirely unimpressed. “As you will.”

From the tone alone it is evident that perhaps his reaction had been unwise. He hates himself for it; hates that he does not know how to act around Manwë anymore, what to say and do. Why had he agreed to such foolishness in the first place?

He should have known.

Could have known.

The voice in Ingwë’s head is sharper than a blade. ‘Why, you ask? Because you had been desperate for that sort of my attention all these years.’

Manwë gestures towards the bed that is twice the size of Ingwë’s own, standing high on a dais of glittering gold. Five steps, hewn into the stone, lead upwards to the foot of the bed, which is covered with black fabric. Silk, most likely, assumes Ingwë, the most costly fabric to be found.  The headboard is a golden panel upon which an eagle sits, spreading his massive wings from one side to the other. His gaze drifts to bars and dangling chains as Manwë’s voice cuts through Ingwë’s thoughts. “You can admire the architecture when you are on your back,” he says, smirking in a way Ingwë has never seen before as he unclasps the fastening of the chain at his bracelet, which now dangles loose on Ingwë’s collar. “Go, prepare yourself for me.”

Ingwë catches his breath, then gasps. “I thought you would –”

The Vala’s smile fades, his face flashing between a hundred different emotions, of which one of them are good. “Since when are lords responsible for drudgeries?”

Defiance sparks inside of Ingwë. “I am a lord myself,” he sneers, lacing his words with spiteful mockery, “o Lord of Winds.”

Amidst the loud applause of his heart at his ridiculous bravery, shrieks of fear begin to mingle as the Vala’s gaze meets his own.

A mistake, clearly. One Ingwë already regrets.

Before he is offered the chance to think again or apologize for his insolence, the back of the Vala’s hands flies towards his cheek, making his skin sting like a thousand needless. At least it was the hand which is not adorned with precious gems. Nonetheless his entire body trembles, though rather from emotional than physical hurt. He had never thought it possible that Manwë, gentle, fair, and noble, known for his kindness, was willing to use physical chastisement to make a point.  

Laughter, fey and mocking flitters through the silence. “An easy task to strip you off your titles,” Manwë muses, carding his hands through his silver hair, “or I could alter it to, perhaps: my whore.”

This time, Ingwë bites back the snide remark, lifting his hand to touch the burning skin of his cheek.

Manwë says “No matter if friend or thrall, I shall not tolerate such insolence from your lips again.”

A fit of boldness arises anew. “Or?”

In a wide gesture, Manwë’s hand points towards the far end of the room, where Ingwë’s gaze falls upon golden bars, surpassing his own height by roughly half a meter. Leather cords and silver chains dangle, a fearful sight that makes his stomach constrict heavily.

Once more, Manwë’s voice cuts through the tense air like a blade. “Do not assume – ever – that these are useless decoration.”

Ingwë lowers his face, trying to mask the tears prickling the corners of his eyes. “You would chain me? Treat me like a common convict?”

Upon that the Vala laughs without malice or mockery and Ingwë forces himself to look up again. “Oh no – I would never permit such vile creatures into my sacred halls, least alone foul my fingers with their blood.” Manwë makes a face, and now it is Ingwë’s turn to dare a laugh. Right then, something inside of him changes, chasing away the last sparks of defiance. He doesn’t understand it – not why or how it happens, but he accepts it. “Such treatment is reserved for the most cherished of guests, although it appears that even such need a reminder about my powers over life and death. But now enough of such idle sentiments. Why are you so hesitant towards what you have craved for years?”

How Ingwë manages to force the shaking breath from his lungs, eliminates the unpleasant burn he could never tell afterwards. “I am not,” he answers, surprised by his own words and the steadiness of his voice, pushing the robe off his shoulders.

“Allow me to make amends?” And there Ingwë stands, hands twitching at his sides and bare vulnerability drawn across his face.

With bright curiosity Manwë regards him.

Not quite that, though. He devours him with his burning stare. Uncertainly, not knowing what boundaries are set between them, Ingwë takes the Vala’s hand into his own, and brings it to his lips. He kisses the back with half-lidded eyes, the palm and then his lord’s wrist, eyes now directed upwards in silent obedience.

What is a burning cheek compared to such encouraging smiles?

Sometimes, when they have met, Manwë had touched Ingwë accidentally, and it had affected Ingwë so profoundly that at times, it had scared him, suffocating his very being. It had seemed a waking dream, as if trapped in a web of magic the Vala had woven around him. Now, he understands it was not so – it had been his own desires calling out to him; the same desire that now sparks. The wrist against his lips is not enough. His hand itches to touch and feel the heated skin beneath his palm. Without thinking twice – or asking – his free hand slips beneath Manwë’s translucent robes, fingertips exploring his stomach and chest in the same way he had always touched himself. Never have the Valar heeded the calls of war, yet the body he is touching is the one of a warrior; sinew, hard muscles rippling beneath the misleading porcelain complexion.  

For a few tantalizing moments Manwë allows it. “As pleasurable as your idea of making amends may be, I long for a different sort of entertainment.”

He disentangles himself from Ingwë, turning on his heel in silence. Ingwë watches him walk over towards a large arm chair with a little table standing next to it, upon which he places the objects Ingwë had previously chosen. Wordlessly he pours himself a goblet of wine and sits, eyebrows drawn in impatience.

Ingwë keeps council with himself, standing as if he is rooted to the ground, yet defiantly meets Manwë’s stare to an almost improper degree.

“Ingwë.” Slight annoyance laces Manwë’s voice as he watches Ingwë over the rim of his cup. “If I recall correctly, your exact words were: ‘I shall serve my lord in every way he commands’, yet here we are again –” A deliberate pause follows, in which impatience gives way to amusement. Ingwë does not understand, not until the Vala says, “Or is it something else entirely you seek? Is it truly necessary to command you? Is that it what you are waiting for, what you expect me to do?”

Ingwë plays with his fingers before his stomach, holding his breath. He doesn’t know what he is waiting for, or what to expect – the strategic intent entirely lost to him. The situation is bizarre, surpassing anything he has ever experienced. Although many answers flit through his mind, he feels paralyzed, unable to make a decision which feels right.

He cannot.

And yet Ingwë’s treacherous memory calls forth the way the Vala had looked at him, sitting on his mighty throne, as if Ingwë had hung the very stars in the night sky. Still, his mind fights against accepting his fate, whilst his body is not so uncertain. Flames of excitement are churning in his guts, giving into the sweet voice of temptation that calls to him. “Yes.”

Goblet almost raised to his lips, Manwë smiles, beckoning Ingwë to step forward with glances alone. “Kiss me,” he says, drinking, “and afterwards prepare yourself.”

He takes a step, and then another, until he stands right before the Vala. A tremor shakes Ingwë’s body as he stares, and stares – and stares, watching black whirlwinds dancing through the Vala’s eyes. When at last he leans in, hands landing on Manwë’s shoulders before their lips even touch, he does it without haste or hesitation. And then their lips brush together and Manwë’s hand finds its way to the back of Ingwë’s head, his rising need tangible in the way he pulls him closer. Ingwë allows it and embraces it, for the simple reason that he wants it.  As he had pledged his fealty to his lord, he surrenders now his mind and body.

The Vala does not need to be told twice. As greedy birds devour the new-sown corn, Manwë devours his mouth and with it Ingwë’s mind.

Burning.

Consuming.

Divine.

The realization is striking. As much as Ingwë craves all else, what excites him most is the imbalance of power between them, the possessiveness in the way Manwë touches him.

Could their relationship have become truly be so perverse?

And more importantly: could he be truly drawn to such perversion?

The answer to his question, Ingwë finds in Manwë’s eyes. He withdraws for a second, just enough to catch a glimpse of the storm raging there, telling him more he had ever needed to know. Goose-flesh spreads along his skin as he closes his eyes, relishing in the way the Vala cups his face, tongue sweeping along Ingwë’s lips.

‘Kiss me. And afterwards prepare yourself for me.’

Ingwë wishes he could stay like this forever, sinking right into the Vala’s lap.

‘Prepare yourself for me.’

With reluctance, he untangles himself from the Manwë’s grip.

Manwë tsks in disapproval. “Later. Perhaps.”

“Aye my lord,” Ingwë hears himself say, walking over towards the large bed where his true challenge lies. He climbs the steps on silent feet, glancing over his shoulder to find Manwë’s eyes glued to his body, telling him to proceed. And so Ingwë does, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Like this?”

The Vala merely nods.

When at last he lays down, his golden hair spills down on finest silk, pitch-black with just a few silver highlights woven into it that shine in the low light. The fabric feels soft and smooth and cool against his heated skin. Now that he lies there, sprawled across his stomach in such an obscene way, all self-assuredness dissolves to naught. Ingwë feels overexposed, in a way he has never been before. It’s embarrassing and part of him wants to fight it, though there’s a rush of excitement too, even anticipation shivering through him.

So Ingwë lets his eyes wander towards the large eagle at the headboard, wrought from silver with sapphire inlays as its eyes, severing as perfect distraction. The creature’s wings spread so that they span the entire length of it, its tips connecting with the golden panel. Although not on his back, he indeed is admiring the architecture and under other circumstances he would have laughed.

The details are striking, and hard to ignore together with all the little information Manwë had scattered throughout the night. Seen from below the eagle’s head is looming dangerously over Ingwë’s own, its beak, pointed and sharp, seeming ready to hack Ingwë’s eyes right out of his face.

A silent warning, without doubt.

The bird is devouring him with piercing eyes, the same way as Manwë had done, and still does. Yet there is still more to it, Ingwë realizes: at each wingtip a silver lug is to be found, in the same way as between each claw.

Ingwë gasps, unsure if it is loud enough for Manwë to hear.

All of a sudden the phrase spread-eagled received an entirely different meaning and Ingwë is not quite certain if he had ever wished to know. Yet it fits well to the glimpse of the Vala’s desires that Ingwë had been granted to see, and although it is quite evident it would be him being tied to it in such a way, a different image altogether flitters through his mind: of silver braids and silvery skin against dark silks; of his own lips devouring what never would be his to devour. Nevertheless his mind drifts towards the imagery with such frenzy, somersaulting around each daring image so that soon he feels a fierce blush creeps over his face.

Manwë’s voice pierces through Ingwë’s thoughts. “Is it curiosity I see shining from your eyes?” he asks.

Lusting for such powers an elvish mind cannot reach would be daring. Oddly, and despite his compromising position, Ingwë had never felt more daring. “Indeed.”

The Vala rubs his chin, shooting the two objects a brief glance. “Let me guess, then. It is rather an unbefitting curiosity I dare to assume?” Silence reigns, only disrupted by Manwë’s gentle laugh. “I thought as much.”

Tense as a bowstring Ingwë awaits the chastisement that never comes. Instead, Manwë instructs him. “Within the drawer of the nightstand left to you a bottle of oil can be found.”

Being at a loss of what else to do, Ingwë rolls to his side and retrieves a little bottle made from glass with silver ornaments. The cork sits tightly on the flask, presenting quite a struggle for Ingwë’s shaking hands and twitching fingers. He’s nervous, without doubt, lacking much experience in such matters and the burning stare does not make it better.

When it comes open at last, Ingwë pours a copious amount of the slippery liquid over his fingers, careful not to spill it on the bedspread.

Arms folded in front of his chest, Manwë speaks to him rather impatiently, “I am waiting.”

With a sharp intake of breath Ingwë lays back on the bed, slightly diagonal, his legs spread and bent. Heat prickles up the nape of his neck and he feels daring as he hesitantly reaches below with his slippery hands.

He doesn’t like to be presented in such a way, but to be fair: he chose to present himself in such a shameless way, collared and exposed to the Vala’s gaze. Nobody had ever told Ingwë to position himself like this – he simply had assumed that this was expected of him and judging from the Vala’s appreciative nod it’s not far from the truth.

Slowly, Ingwë begins with the task at hand, circling the tip of his index finger around his entrance, reverent and teasing, before he pushes inside. The feeling is a strange one, not entirely uncomfortable but not truly pleasant, either.

Strange and awkward.

Perhaps, if he was alone he would take all the time in the world to tease and to explore; to familiarize himself with the strange sensations. He knows that such hesitation will be unwelcome.   

The finger slides fully inside with less effort than Ingwë had expected, and to his surprise, without pain singing along his nerves. He forces himself to stop trembling, to relax and accept that he is being watched. And as he does, his initial thoughts come back to him one by one. He wonders how often the Vala had fantasized about this scenario, laying him down on black silks; if he had touched himself whilst doing so – or had used those strange objects. The last notion makes his cock grow hard, twitching against his stomach.

No.

Ingwë tries to go slow, tries to force the images out of his head, guided by the fear of finding release when he should not. It’s all in vain. Manwë’s voice, rough with sex and desire, tells him how incredibly wanton he looks, and automatically Ingwë lifts his head, shifting his attention towards where the Vala sits. .

What he sees robs him of his breath, and he freezes, finger still buried inside of him. Ingwë clearly is not the only one who looks incredibly wanton. Silver hair frames Manwë’s face, in which brows are furrowed and eyes are dark, almost gleaming surreally in the low light. But that is not exactly what makes him feel as if he is close to fainting. It is the rhythmic motion of the Vala’s hand, doing what Ingwë thought the Valar would never do. In a solid and rhythmic motion Manwë strokes himself. Right then his mind becomes an incomprehensible maze with twisting side-ways of alternating images of what it would be like to have Manwë touching him between his cheeks, or touch him in return. The rhythm of the Vala’s hand never falters, the strokes are firm and sure, those of the sort Ingwë desires to be bestowed upon his own cock.

It is so different from everything he had imagined, no matter how artfully framed his fantasies had been. Transfixed, Ingwë watches Manwë’s features transform to pleasure and lust, shifting like a thin gown in the wind.

“As you watch, do not forget the task appointed to you.”

Unsurprisingly, the Vala’s words are true, because indeed Ingwë’s fingers lie idly against his cleft. “Oh.”

But then, how is he supposed not to watch, to stare, when the King of All looks like this? Incarnated Temptation and threatening beauty – yet so much more.

A swath of cloth barely draped across his flawless chest, which barely covers the flexing and tensing muscles, meddling with strands of silver hair. Every move and touch he bestows upon himself is well-calculated, and, of course he’s well-aware how insane the watching would drive Ingwë.  

Manwë lifts his glass to his lips. “Tell me,” he says, making a strange groaning sound that goes straight to Ingwë’s erection. “Does this enthrall you?”

Of course it does. What else does Manwë expect?

If this is a test of wills, Ingwë has already lost the needless game.

Of course, Manwë doesn’t play fair.

Perhaps this had been a foolish hope on Ingwë’s side from the beginning.

But had it truly been a hope, though, Ingwë had to ask himself, and more importantly does he care?

Had he ever cared?

Hushed whispers late at night had told him that gods are never fair, least alone their games. Ingwë knows, had known it all his life and in contrast to all the others, who at a consequence have left the Blessed Land for their forlorn quest – cursed and forsaken – he had always accepted the way it was.

And he accepts it now, resuming preparing himself for what is to come.

“Pardon me,” Ingwë mumbles, voice breaking on a gasp of pleasure.

Despite the rather uncomfortable position that comes with it, Ingwë never takes his eyes of Manwë, even if it means to suffer in blissful agony upon what he sees: jeweled fingers that are running lazily along the Vala’s cock, his lips slightly parted. Never had Ingwë imagined that those otherworldly beings would succumb to carnal pleasures – yet here he is, watching, staring, leering.  

Never before has Ingwë seen such expressive eyes as the Vala’s, challenging him now in silence – a challenge Ingwë boldly accepts by smiling back at him. Coy and seductive, so unlike himself and in the wake of it, his hesitation crumbles to dust and ashes.

If it is entertainment the Vala desires, he should have it by all means.

A slight shift of Ingwë’s thighs, a little rise of his buttocks is most likely enough to give Manwë an even better view. Biting his lower lip, Ingwë pushes a second finger into his body, not with ease but still easy enough not to roll his eyes upon the strange feeling. Despite his vow not to look away, Ingwë does, afraid to succumb to his own needs if he dares to watch a little longer.  

There is a long silence while Ingwë looks thoughtfully at the sparks chasing each other on the ceiling, until a sound of appreciation breaks the silence and Ingwë looks again.

“Do you notice?” Delight flitters across Manwë’s face, an unnatural light glowing in his eyes, threatening in its otherworldly beauty. “The determination to please me already suffuses your whole being and guides your actions. I am pleased.”

Mouth hanging open, there is nothing Ingwë can say against that, because it simply is true. That manipulation, the game with his doubts and desires throughout the entire night has involuntary led to such reaction, Ingwë doesn’t comprehend. Instead he relishes the praise tumbling from the Vala’s lips, so much that his hand stutters to a stop for a split second before he resumes preparing himself, brows furrowed in concentration.

It is of little help.

Because: what he sees in all its obscenity robs him of his breath, of all his sanity, too. Manwë’s lips, just a little parted, the a faint blush high on those sharp cheekbones, jeweled hands lasciviously stroking what Ingwë so much desires to touch. To Ingwë, it nearly feels as if his eyes on him spurs Manwë on, as the strokes become hard and faster with every second that passes.

Watching.

Staring.

Leering.

It nearly is enough to make Ingwë come, he’s close, so very close already in his obscene display of submission, guiding his fingers into his body back and forth. He is curling his fingers, trying to reach the spot he had only heard of as he fervently tries to reach his climax. He even manages to find it, almost pushing him beyond the imaginable. He is touching himself there again. And again. But he cannot succeed in coming.

Magic.

Sorcery.

Breathing hard, Ingwë looks at Manwë, both startled and annoyed. The response is clearly not what Ingwë had wished for, because the Vala merely laughs, confirming Ingwë’s initial thoughts. “No matter how hard you try, your efforts are in vain, my dearest. Your will is mine, remember? And my will is that you shall come by my hands alone – the moment I tire of you.”

A cruelty worse than chains, without doubt, one Ingwë had never thought Manwë capable of. As if Ingwë isn’t watching him, shocked, as if nothing is amiss at all he continues to stroke himself. Bottom lip caught between his lips he thrusts into his fist, cock hard and so massive in size that Ingwë can’t imagine that it could ever work – two fingers feel as if they are all he can take.

‘I like my pleasure slaves well trained and efficient.’ As if he had truly said the words, Manwë smiles at Ingwë, though his lips have never moved.

Ingwë stares, dumbfounded, mouth going dry. ‘What sorcery is this?’ he thinks, not for the first time tonight. Has it been that, all the years when late at night faint whispers have spoken to him?

A spark of defiance ignites upon such unfair cruelty. “Then touch me,” Ingwë demands, reconsidering his choice of words briefly after. “– please,” he adds, trying to keep his voice even, refusing to let his treasonous feelings show through.

With curiosity and a smile, Manwë regards him, leaning back into the chair. “Patience is a cherished virtue,” he explains entirely unimpressed, “Go on.”

Ingwë makes all haste to do so, twisting and curling two fingers inside of him, pushing in and out until he can’t hold the moan anymore. The third one though takes a lot of effort, though, forcing more than silent gasps from his mouth. Nevertheless he continues, fighting against all sorts of discomfort the slippery fingers provoke, fighting against the whimpers, too.

Each time he lifts his head he finds the Vala taking such great delight in watching him writhe, and struggle, and moan, because this is what Ingwë does. Not on purpose, though – well, perhaps a little, because it thrills him no end to watch what responses he can draw with his performance from the Vala’s body. Although he’d been asked for patience he is more impatient than he perhaps ever was before. If he only knew what thoughts were playing on the Vala’s incomprehensible mind.

Thus Ingwë declares at last, eyes falling shut: “I .. I .. think I am ready for you, my lord.” Even as he say it, Ingwë doubts that it is true with all his heart. A fierce longing to feel the Vala’s lips against his own has brought him here.

Confirmation of Ingwë’s doubts comes swiftly. “I doubt it.”

Nonetheless, Manwë rises from his seat gracefully. In the wake of the movement, the translucent robes fall carelessly onto the ground, Ingwë’s eyes are drinking in the beauty of the Vala’s body, its strength and visible arousal. Upon watching, Ingwë feels the heat rise into his cheeks and sink into his groin, provoking him to sit upright.

With unknown gracefulness Manwë ascends the stairs and there’s nothing else Ingwë can do than stare, watching silver hair spill across his shoulders like molten metal. He comes to stand at the edge of the bed, eyes crawling across Ingwë’s skin, telling him ‘mine, and mine alone’ without the use of words. Manwë bends down a little, a jewel-adorned finger brushing against Ingwë’s neck lightly, so that in response Ingwë shifts into the touch, begging him to continue.

Almost predictably, Manwë does not. Instead, his hand grips Ingwë’s chin tightly, pulling him close until their lips are only a breath apart. And then, the world around Ingwë goes blank as he’s swallowed by raging waves and tempestuous thunder when their lips meet.

The kiss is like a promise, like salvation, like the breath of life inhaled anew. Ingwë feels himself floating in a world where silver and gold twine with each other; a world he had only dared to dream. Consumed by burning desire Ingwë kisses back for the first time, his arms flying around the Vala’s neck. All doubts and worries forgotten for the moment, when only their intimate caress matters.

And then, much to Ingwë’s dismay the moment is gone, vanishing like the banks of fog with the first rays of the sun.

Ingwë blinks, shifting backwards so that Manwë could find space between his still parted legs. However, he does not, merely extending a slick hand to Ingwë, who does not understand the world anymore. “I thought you .. you’d take me?” he asks, genuine surprise lacing his words.

Manwë’s smile is generous and filled with praise, all the more as Ingwë takes his hand into his own, lowering his lips to it. He is surprised by his own reaction to lick the stains of precome away, a reaction that comes so naturally to him that it is terrifying.

At last, Manwë answers him, “I have every intention to.”

‘Then why don’t you?’ Ingwë furrows his brow, waiting for Manwë to continue, but Manwë says nothing else for a while.

It is Ingwë, shivering despite the warmth of the air, who breaks the silence. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain it then,” says Manwë with a voice cold as ice, stern and regal and so terribly unfitting any intimacy, powerful enough to quench all burning fires. “Not only can your backside be properly fucked, but that indulgent mouth of yours, too. And when I am done I shall take what you suggested.

Ingwë yelps, out of shock and pure horror. Unimpressed by Ingwë’s bewilderment, Manwë continues. “You see? You are already offering quite freely what you never thought you would to anyone. Beautiful, is it not, how easily your mind is corrupted?”

At the prospect of it, Ingwë’s mouth goes dry. “But why?”

Manwë sighs, all trace of amusement gone. He obviously is annoyed, or at least pretending to be obviously annoyed, because the touch bestowed upon Ingwë’s shoulders speaks a different language altogether. “The matter at hand is an easy one, and my motives quite plain: your blissful agony can be prolonged so easily. I would be truly unwise not to take advantage of it, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ingwë is rendered speechless as the mixture of gentle hands that roam his skin and the commanding demeanor makes his stomach flutter in the most unnatural way. Bewilderment gives way to excitement upon these foul-mouthed words, and fear gives way to pleasure, at least until the chain is yet again reattached to Manwë’s bracelet. In the meanwhile he had already forgotten about the visible sign of their perverse act of fealty, embracing the little freedom he had been granted.

“Beautiful,” murmurs Manwë, a finger tracing Ingwë’s mouth. The touch is followed by instructions of how to proceed. “Lay down for me, and overstretch your neck so that your head falls slightly from the edge of the bed,” Manwë tells him, and so Ingwë does, fighting against the tremor of his body. When it is not entirely to the Vala’s satisfaction, his body, already at the verge of exhaustion, is adjusted. Briefly, just for the blink of an eye, Ingwë considers to voice his fears, but at the end he decides against it, afraid that he is being ignored. So there he lies, neck overstretched in a way that makes the collar bite into the soft skin of his throat, chafing and burning. Blood is pounding through Ingwë’s skull, the position far from comfortable; not for the first time tonight he is contemplating his choices, yet nevertheless he gazes up, looking shy but expectant.

“Beautiful,” the Vala says yet again, visibly pleased with his obscene work of art. It is an observation, nothing more. He lets his finger wander from Ingwë’s navel over his chest towards his closed mouth, tapping lightly against it. “Open it for me,” he demands in a low predatory whisper, and when Ingwë does not immediately, Manwë tugs at the chain, hard enough to make the collar bite Ingwë’s throat.

At last Ingwë obeys. His breath comes shaky when he inhales through his nose, opening his mouth to Manwë’s questing finger with apparently too much hesitation as he catches the admonishing glance.

He knows where this is going, sees it in the Vala’s dazzling smile, but he would be lying if he truly enjoys the prospect of it. He is frightened and his hesitation derives from the unknown, its threads weaving through his body, paralyzing and suffocating him like choking hands. Manwë stands over him in all his might like a conqueror – and it is not far from the truth.

Manwë shifts his weight forward, one hand stroking Ingwë’s hair, the other holding his cock at its base. “I will not kill you. Just keep your mouth open.”

‘If I do not, then would you kill me?’

So tenderly Manwë’s fingers sweep across Ingwë’s cheeks then, soothing and comforting, trying to lure him into false security and so exquisite is the sensation that comes from it. This time, Ingwë’s mind does not yield.  

‘No but you will impale me.’ Ingwë does not say that, closing his eyes despite knowing he should not the moment he feels the tip of the Vala’s cock against his lips. Surprisingly, it’s not followed by verbal chastisement and a moment later he knows why that is.  His eyes grow wide. Ingwë chokes at the intrusion as inch after inch Manwë’s cock slides inside his mouth.

“Good,” the Vala compliments him, “I want you to know who is taking that indulgent mouth of yours.”

A gurgling sound escapes Ingwë’s mouth and although his discomfort must be obvious even to one blind and deaf, the Vala does not relent. Quite the contrary is the case: his cock seems to grow further in Ingwë’s mouth, pushing further inch by inch. Fingers now tangled in Ingwë’s hair, tighten to the point of pain as he tries to flinch, increasing the effort to breathe by tenfold. He feels as if he’s strangled by Manwë’s hands, thumbs gripping his jaw whilst the rest of the hand holds his face, gagged by his erection. He writhes against the silks, fisting the blanket to divert his attention somewhere else as the Vala’s cock curves down into the tight channel of Ingwë’s throat.

It is of little help.

A thousand pains blur Ingwë’s vision, brightly burning sources of fire, each one fueling the other; from the effort to keep his mouth open; from the tight grip around his face; and worst of all from the Vala’s cock hitting the back of his throat.

No matter how often Manwë tells him to relax Ingwë simply can’t, sobs stealing their way out of his mouth.  

No matter how often Ingwë tries to let go of his fears he feels paralyzed, face burning brightly red.

Terror sizes him as the cock sinks into his mouth deep and deeper still, hands now flying against Manwë’s thighs in desperate struggle.

It is too much. Too big and very alarming.

“My lord, please,” his plea for mercy is nothing more than an obscene gurgling sound.

Ingwë’s eyes water in exertion as he splutters with distress and struggles to breathe through his nose, the threats of excitement he had previously felt dissolving to non-existence. In fact he shrinks in fear of his life.

“Your effort at rebuke is just and quite charming, yet entirely hopeless nonetheless,” Manwë says, pulling out of Ingwë’s mouth, strings of drool stretching between Ingwë’s lips and his erection. There are so many words Ingwë desires to say but he’s so occupied to catch his breath that his mouth is sealed anew before he can speak a single word. “A necessity to seal the pact of fealty you swore to me.”

Eyes going red, and saliva pouring copiously from his mouth, Ingwë tries to swallow down the Vala’s cock, wondering if Manwë derives as much pleasure from his silent tears as from the mouth that is wrapped around his cock.

Manwë lets his thumb stroke back and forth over Ingwë’s jaw, dropping his voice suggestively low. “So good for this,” he murmurs, hips thrusting just shallow enough to allow Ingwë to breathe and deep enough to cut it off.

Strategy.

It dawns on Ingwë then. Just as the Vala rules the lands with strategy and wisdom, with mercy no less, he now rules his body. Whenever Ingwë’s discomfort grows too large, soft murmurs are whispered to him, or gentle touches used. Despite the distress it causes Ingwë it is beautiful regardless, a different sort of beauty. One that does not quite match his own definition of it: he had always thought of it as soft and consolatory, warm and gentle, like a summer’s breeze playing about his hair. (*TSH)

What if it is not so?

What if the one-dimensionality of his mind had forced him to believe something that is not true?  

Accepting failure had never come easy to Ingwë, so thoughts like these are not entirely unknown to him. Why they come now to him, in a moment when his mind is thoroughly occupied controlling his breathing, he would never understand.

Deeper.

And deeper still.

Manwë’s hands have the steadiness of a jewel-smith and the creativity of an artist who is masterfully playing Ingwë’s body.  The sounds of their encounter begins to fill the room, Ingwë’s coughs and splutters, those obscene wet noises, combined with Manwë’s deep moans.

Ingwë feels his nose brush smooth skin, soft and hairless, so that he thinks that is it – that is as far as it goes. Not that he was able to take it though, gasping and coughing hard in the way it already is. And yet Manwë is still pushing. Saliva drools from the corners of his mouth, wet and sticky as Ingwë fights to breathe and tries to hinder his body from shaking. All in vain, he jerks as if he’s fighting for his life.

Scolding comes instantly in the tightening grip of the Vala’s hands around his throat, a bit tighter this time. Spluttering as suddenly Manwë withdraws, Ingwë’s awareness narrows down to breathing and the pulse racing through his aching body. He’s not granted much time to recover as all too quickly the thickness fills his mouth again, followed by hips that thrust forward and back. The speed and force of the Vala’s thrusts is at the brink of being unbearable, tears streaming down Ingwë’s cheeks. And yet: despite all the discomfort he endures, Ingwë reacts to the contact and the fire in his guts begins to burn anew.

With wide and watery eyes he tries to catch Manwë’s gaze, then, thrust after thrust, trying to establish an invisible connection between them. Why, he has no answer, only that he craves it. He is rewarded by stormy eyes, pitch-black like storm clouds against the sky as he truly begins to fuck Ingwë’s mouth, slow, so agonizingly slow. There is nothing in the world but the taste of him and the weight, a love so special that only few can fathom. To please the Vala, Ingwë’s lips stretch around the base of the erection, his jaw so wide that his teeth do not even graze, trembling.

Yet Manwë smiles at him, telling him without words how pleased he is, confirming verbally what Ingwë sees. Thus the Vala speaks, “Although conversing with you and the intellectual intimacy that comes with it is a most powerful aphrodisiac, I cannot deny the appeal of having your mouth tightly shut.”

A guttural grunt leaves Ingwë’s mouth. As much he wishes to reply, he finds himself unable to do so, mouth stuffed with the Vala’s erection.

It is beyond him how Manwë’s demeanor never falters; not when Ingwë used his mouth on him, not when Manwë is using his mouth. Not once does his speech waver, or his breath hitch as he goes on to tell Ingwë details he had never dared to imagine: “Perhaps you wonder how I know? You have often shared my table and my wine until night crept across these lands, and each time you excused yourself, telling yourself in silence it was not wise to overstay. You knew the lie and so did I. Although I told you I would retire for the night, I never did. Instead I came here, besotted and drunk from your words, enthralled by your appearance, with both my body and mind aching for your touch. Although my mind is graced with the ability to produce the most vivid imaginings, my own hand is a poor substitute of that mouth of yours.”

Strong hands wrap around his throat again, digging into his skin just above the collar. “For now, I am beyond the point where I care to chide you, so I will tolerate your gags and coughs, yet know that you shall learn to pleasure me in silent obedience.” Tears begin to well in Ingwë’s eyes. Not tears of pain or sadness, those tears are driven from his eyes by sheer exhaustion to keep his mouth open and the effort to please. “The best lesson is – you might have guessed already – repetition. Repetition until your mind has understood, dictating every fiber of your being to follow your command. Once, twice, perhaps a hundred times your jaw will ache from the effort to keep your teeth away, and as often your throat will be raw and sore, yet each time you will smile, pleased by the kiss bestowed upon your lips afterwards. ”

Manwë’s sapphire ring catches the flame of the candles as so tenderly he caresses Ingwë’s cheek, wet and sticky with drool, bulged by the cock in his mouth.

By then Ingwë is soaked in sweat, exertion gnawing at him, yet without ever being touched he feels his own erection lying heavily against his stomach.

It seems wrong. At the verge of exhaustion, being used – and abused – in such an obscene way, yet his treacherous body finds delight in being reduced to a thrall of the Vala’s desires?

It must not, cannot be so.

Yet it is.

His cock, hard and moist, craves for attention it shall certainly not receive.

So be it.

What use is it to pretend to struggle, to fight a battle he has lost long ago? A battle raging in his mind, sparked by what society thinks proper and decent, expecting a demeanor he simply does not feel? Why should he bother, when he had been told already that laws and propriety are defined differently in these halls?

Realization of all of this hits Ingwë like a slap across his face, followed by soaring arousal.

This is what Manwë had been trying to tell him the entire night. Snared in his coiling worries and doubts, he had not listened.

But now he listens: to Manwë’s shallow breathing, the obscene sounds tumbling from his own saliva-stained lips, the sweetest of voice ringing in his ears like chiming bells.

“You do so well,” Manwë tells him, tightening his grip around Ingwë’s face and pushing into him deeper than before. Ingwë’s throat contracts and he swallows around the Vala’s erection, his nose brushing against the soft pelvis. Till now hands had either rested at his side, fisting the silks or, at the beginning, had pushed against the Vala’s thighs in vain hope to hinder him from thrusting too deep into his mouth. Now, he is genuinely surprised by his own reaction, raising his arms so that he can reach behind to place his hands on Manwë’s buttocks. His head is still held in the correct position, but now Ingwë can at least relish the lie that he dictates the rhythm (which of course he does not).

Through watery eyes Ingwë looks Manwë right into the eyes, holding his gaze steadily, as time after time Manwë rolls his hips against his face.

So much he sees there: delight and arousal, praise and affection but most of all unconditional love.

It warms Ingwë’s heart, like smoldering embers burning deep inside him; like warm winds caressing his skin. No matter if his throat is dry, his mouth sore from the effort not to use his teeth. Happiness fills and floods him, drowning him in emotions he had never felt before.   

Rewarded by his lord’s hands, his temples bound with silver bands although they are invisible, at last Ingwë accepts his fate.

‘Serve and cherish.’

With effort he tries not to make any noise, not to gag or retch and much to his amazement he succeeds, at least not to gag, because he isn’t exactly silent. Wet sounds, obscene and depraved, fill the nightly air with moans slipping in between as pleasure grows and keeps growing still.

Soon, Ingwë tastes salty bitterness that should have warned him to start swallowing, because a word of warning is too much to ask. As it is, he does not heed, too occupied wandering the labyrinth of his mind, relishing the sensation submission brings him. Only when Manwë gasps over him, a sound Ingwë has never thought to hear, he understands. Too late, as realization hits him at the same time as warm liquid fills his mouth. Well, it could be worse, since Manwë could have come right over his burning face. Manwë's cock pulls out far enough that Ingwë can use his mouth to swallow. His face is securely gripped between strong hands so that swallowing is his only choice.

So that is what Ingwë does.

The taste in his mouth is a strange one; salty and bitter. There is too much fluid, so that Ingwë is afraid that it might come out through his nose. But the taste is Manwë’s and for Ingwë that is enough to let it happen, to even enjoy such depravity. Eyes partly closed he swallows until nothing to be swallowed is left, gripping Manwë’s buttocks all the while. With a heavy sigh the Vala pulls out of Ingwë’s mouth, taking a step backward.  

Chest heaving, Ingwë sits up.

“And with that, the oath between us is sealed until the world is remade,” Manwë says, his voice filled with so much affection and ringing praise that all of Ingwë’s distress dissolves to naught.

Not that Ingwë had ever doubted that it was. With an idle sweep of the back of his hand he cleaned his mouth before he speaks, unaware of the effect such a gesture might provoke. “So I promised to you, my lord,” he says, trying to catch his breath, “and I shall never question or break the vow I made for all to hear.”

The smile Manwë gives him is blinding in its radiance. “Much have I asked of you, and more you were willing to give.”

Ingwë is rewarded by Manwë grabbing his jaw tightly and pulling him into a kiss, soft and gentle at first, growing far more passionate, fueled by the Vala’s relentless need to consume, to take, to conquer what long was his.

A broken moan echoes against Ingwë’s lips, and hesitantly his own hands sneak around the Vala’s neck in tender caress. Of exactly such his fantasies had been made, fantasies that now spring to life as the gushing fountains high upon lofty Ilmarin. In his delirious state, mouth raw and sore, despite the humiliation he had just experienced, Ingwë feels like floating through an endless sea of clouds; warm and cared for, shielded and protected from all evil still persisting in the world across the sea.

Ingwë’s face feels hot to his own touch, burning, raw and sticky from the fluids which have been drying on his skin. He certainly must look debauched, smell like it too, so that shame begins to crawl across his skin.

Judging from the Vala’s bemused smile the blush is obvious. “Hush,” Manwë says then, gesturing Ingwë to move, “to me it matters not. Although nothing can tarnish your beauty, Ingwë, it is time to repay your kindness.”

Cross-legged, Manwë sits down on the bed behind Ingwë, his back leaning against the headboard.

The words send Ingwë’s mind reeling as he obeys the Vala’s gesture, shifting his body so that his head comes to rest in Manwë’s lap. Despite the fact that his body still feels as if set on fire, he shivers as bejeweled fingers sweep over his skin, outlining the features of his stained face.

Ingwë holds still, holds his breath and would have closed his eyes, too if he had not been ordered not to.

As it is, he does not. Does not dare to, his heart racing at the sudden and unexpected intimacy; at the tenderness of the touches bestowed upon him.

Tenderness had never played a part in Ingwë’s inexcusable fantasies, for those he had chastised himself all the years and now have come to life. He is so caught in the cloud of affection that he barely notices the withdrawing fingers and the soft sound of dripping water. When he finally does, Ingwë’s eyes automatically follow the sound until his gaze lands on a transparent bowl, filled with water. He could swear that it was not there a second ago. Surely it was not.

“Never underestimate the magic that lives in these halls, coiling and wandering like a great serpent.” Manwë wrings the cloth, wrapping it around his finger. It is cool and wet against the heated skin of Ingwë’s skin, smelling faintly like jasmine, and it leads to utter relaxation in the Vala’s hands. Manwë lets it sweep over Ingwë’s bruised lips; over his trembling jaw; over his partly-closed eyes in small little circles to wipe away the drying tears. Every now and then the chain, small rings fastened to one another, brushes against Ingwë’s skin, soft as a lover’s caress: smooth and warm, like a mother’s lullaby. And indeed he is lulled into slumber by such unexpected gentleness. This is a luxury Ingwë could easily get used to, weightless and tended to by somebody who is far nobler than himself.

Everything is laid bare – just as the chain connects their bodies, their minds connect in that moment, just for the blink of an eye.

It’s intense, it’s threatening too and it’s extremely beautiful, yet before Ingwë truly grasps the entirety of it, the moment is gone.

His eyes open, surprised to find Manwë looking at him intensely. “How?” he asks when in truth he means ‘why?’

The Vala understands him nonetheless. “As you may already suspect, I do not allow moments like these overly often. In fact I have not allowed it the past thousands of years. I am not used to kindness.”

With his thoughts alone, Ingwë tries to communicate. ‘Then why did you?’

“Why, you ask me? The answer is plain and simple: because I could not resist you.”

He’s stroking Ingwë’s face just as if he’s leaning in to kiss him, and he then does, silver hair tumbling over Ingwë’s face like a thin veil. He kisses him, but not with the demanding force Ingwë has expected, or with the possessiveness he had already come to love, but with gentleness and unconditional love.

Quick exhalation punctuates Ingwë’s breathing, as he kisses back with the same affection, eyes fully closed. He lifts his arms and brings his hands to the back of the Vala’s head so that he can pull him close against him.  His fingers tangle in the Vala’s hair, smooth as silk, and despite the awkward angle of their faces, Ingwë melts into the kiss.

“I could not resist you, nor can I resist you now.” At that, Ingwë looks up, losing himself in Manwë’s eyes.

*

Chapter Text

Chapter 05 - Music of the Night

*

Treacherous thoughts of affection swirl freely in Ingwë’s mind, of the sort he had given in to many a night, and he is close to doing so again, although he knows better.

The Vala’s eyes do not resemble calm waters, as he had often seen them before, but raging torrents – beautiful and dangerous in equal parts, fierce enough to drag him under and swallow him. It is an open secret that gentleness cannot – and will not prevail, that much Ingwë has learned tonight. He looks at Manwë for a long while, equally enthralled and repulsed, unsure what exactly is expected of him. In silence he hopes for the command that never comes, just as before the Vala had predicted he would.

At last Manwë has mercy on him, although Ingwë can speak no longer of mercy and kindness, as his gaze falls on the golden clasps he had chosen earlier, those objects he had entirely forgotten about. They sit like foreboding shadows in the Vala’s palm, sparkling and disguising themselves in pure innocence. Ingwë doesn’t even know how they are used, or rather, dares not to admit such unsettling thoughts.

Without being told to do so, he tries to lift his head out of the Vala’s lap to get a better view, only to be stopped immediately by a strong hand against his shoulder.

The intensity of Manwë’s voice as he tells him to lie still hits Ingwë physically like a slap across his face.

And so he does with a sigh, half-frustrated, half-annoyed, allowing himself thoughts that prove unwise.

When Manwë leans forward, silver hair trickling against Ingwë’s face, hands sweeping from the collar around Ingwë’s neck further down towards to rub and twist Ingwë’s nipples between his fingers, it dawns on Ingwë. The shock that follows must be evidently spread across his face.

A chuckle, vibrating dark and heavy against his forehead, confirms his suspicion and for a moment, Ingwë is tempted to writhe himself out of the position. Remembering his vows, and the affection he had felt before, prevents him though; and not for the first time tonight, his body betrays him.

Under the Vala’s ministrations, more than one part of him grows hard. “Such is the nature of desire, I have come to learn,” Ingwë hears Manwë say then, voice thick with amusement and delight.

In not entirely unpleasant defeat, Ingwë forces his body to lie still as soon, the touch becomes more demanding, teasing and pulling. In the end Ingwë finds himself actually arching into the touch.  

Manwë watches him avidly, undoubtedly reveling what reactions his fingers provoke. The Vala’s smile is there, growing and stretching across his face with the same rapidness as Ingwë’s desire grows. Eyes half-lidded, Ingwë surrenders to the most exquisite of touches.

Only then, with Ingwë being relaxed and somehow at ease with the situation one of the clamps finds its way towards Ingwë’s hardened nub where it is carefully secured with the little screw at its end. In contrast to the collar the metal of the claps does not feel cold against his skin, having sat in Manwë’s palms all the while and at first it isn’t exactly uncomfortable, just like the pinch of fingernails. Such a treacherous assumption to believe; white pain blurs Ingwë’s vision as the screw is fastened further, biting his flesh, certainly hard enough to draw blood. He struggles and squirms and whines in discomfort, trying to evade the burning agony.

With an iron grip, Manwë holds him in place. “I doubt that you would prefer the needled clasps, silver and studded with diamonds.” A pause follows, long enough to allow Ingwë’s thoughts to form, before Manwë adds: “Those would permanently mark you as mine.”

A shiver crawls down Ingwë’s spine.

By all that is dear to him. No.

Ingwë doesn’t say that. Doesn’t have to say it, because Manwë knows, sees the notion flare across his face. But obviously, the Vala sees also what Ingwë had hoped he would not; the twitch of Ingwë’s cock against his stomach.

A smile, followed by a kiss against Ingwë’s forehead. “Perhaps I should think on that matter?” The Vala muses indulgently, rubbing Ingwë’s jeweled nipple until he arches his back in response. “But not now, with such important matters at hand.”

Shame burns brightly upon Ingwë’s skin.

With quick hands Manwë attaches the other clasp to the, until then neglected nipple, even harder than the one before. Snarling waves of pain wash over Ingwë, drown him and choke him breathless. The agony spreads along his skin like the insatiable hunger of lambent flames; it burns him and it consumes him; it transforms him to somebody he had not been before.

‘The Vala’s whore.’

Although it is obvious how pleased Manwë is, he does not speak a single word of praise. Acknowledgement comes in the form of kisses against Ingwë’s collarbone, followed by little bites that add to the web of scratches and marks Ingwë already bears.

From out of nowhere a second chain, as finely crafted as the one connecting Ingwë’s collar to Manwë’s hand, appears. For a brief moment his thoughts must have gone astray, thinks Ingwë, watching the jewelry dangle before his eyes. He does not comprehend. So Ingwë overstretches his neck a little, as much as the collar allows him, to catch the Vala’s gaze.

‘What is it for?’ Ingwë’s unsettled eyes ask the question plainly.

Manwë blinks in amusement, giving Ingwë a considering look. “I like your curiosity.”

And then, the voice in Ingwë’s head begins to speak again. Carefully he listens, ensnared and enthralled by the softness of it. ‘In truth I like many things. Your curiosity; your unrivaled beauty; your body and every pleasure it will grant me. Without tears you will obey me, and each tear will prolong your agony by a tenfold. The seasons will come and go, the icy gusts of winter will give way to summer again before a new winter announces itself. You shall name thoughts your own that startle you – thoughts that will scare you, yet you will always return to my arms and bed. Willingly you will endure everything I am able – and willing to grant you and in thralldom you shall thrive.’

Ingwë’s eyes are glued to the Vala’s unmoving lips.

‘Marks inflicted by my own hands and lips you shall bear, and you shall wear them proudly; like the most precious of jewels – for all to see. Around us, the world itself will slowly change and fall apart, and with it those who still live, in pain and agony and in happiness. It has already begun, you know it as much as I; it had begun the day when kin took arms up again kin, a deed that shall never be forgotten, yet it cannot be undone, none of it. Moralities have scattered and have given way to depravity, in lands dark as the night itself. Yet here in the halls, love and affection shall always endure and prosper until the end of days has come.’

A single word, spoken out aloud, cuts through the haze of Ingwë’s thoughts. “Move,” Manwë demands, encouraging Ingwë with his hands. Patience is a cherished virtue, something the Vala has mastered to perfection in the past thousands of years. Strange, to see such impatience reign his very being now.

Out of reflex Ingwë finds himself nodding like a scolded child before he lifts his body out of the Vala’s lap, a strange vertigo making his vision swim. He sits back on his heels, realizing that the second chain had been pulled through the clasps attached to his nipples whilst his mind was listening to the strange words. Its ends now swing back and forth against his stomach, tickling him in a way that makes Ingwë involuntarily smile. 

“Almost,” says the Vala, rising in the same way as Ingwë had done so that he is behind him now, skin pressed flushed against skin, arms tightly wrapping round his waist and chin resting against Ingwë’s shoulder in such loving affection.

A lover’s caress. Or it is for the blink of an eye, because then Manwë shifts. It is warmth Ingwë feels then; protection and delight of the sort he still is a stranger to – and a distinct hardness pressing against his buttocks.

It leaves little room for speculation.

Ingwë knows it, craves it – and equally fears it. Questing fingers dip lower down Ingwë’s stomach until they stroke his erection gently with the chain attached to Manwë’s bracelet following the motion, resulting in Ingwë’s head falling against the Vala’s shoulder. A silent invitation, one that Manwë indulgently accepts. His lips are upon Ingwë’s throat, just there where the collar gives way to skin, kissing along it with tantalizing gentleness. From there they venture towards his ear, nibbling and breathing over the wet spots until Ingwë shivers in its wake.

Just then the Vala demands whispering yet with an authority that leaves no space for disobedience, “Get on your hands and knees for me.”

Blood rushes to Ingwë’s cheeks as he struggles to hastily obey. Each movement is assisted by the Vala’s pressing hand against his back until Ingwë is in the most compromising position he had ever experienced.

Fragile and vulnerable.

Exposed.

A slave to the Vala’s will.

Apparently Manwë is not quite content with what he sees. With another press against the small of Ingwë’s back he guides Ingwë’s upper body lower, so his buttocks rise high into the air under the ever watchful eyes of the golden eagle. The sensation that comes with the movement, Ingwë has not expected, gasping, not quite ready for it. The weight of the chain between the claps pulls at his abused nipples, resulting in a sharp pain that numbs all his other senses. He doesn’t notice that the Vala slicks himself, not before the smell of scented oil tickles his nose; what brings him back to reality though, is the fact that his thighs are forcibly spread apart so that the Vala can comfortably settle between them.

With gentle fingers Manwë traces Ingwë’s spine, letting his fingernails scratch every once in a while until gooseflesh spreads across Ingwë's entire body. From there his hands wander below, wandering from Ingwë’s navel upwards until they reach the clasps. The touch is too gentle to bite – yet – but hard enough to send jolts of sensation through him. A sensation that does not last long, as automatically Ingwë’s body obeys the order of Manwë’s hands. The chain, still attached to the clasps is raised, brushing against Ingwë’s face before it is pulled through the massive ring in the eagle’s beak where it is fastened.

“Yes,” he hears Manwë say behind him, and then again, adoring and entirely pleased, just in the way a painter admires his newest masterpiece. Manwë’s voice is thick with delight, of the sort Ingwë doesn’t quite comprehend – is that how the Vala sees him truly?

As a piece of art to be marveled at, crafted by his own hands?

And what is the purpose of that?

Ingwë shoots Manwë a questioning glance over his shoulder.

The smirk he sees merely grows with every word the Vala says. “You will learn its purpose soon enough; a marvelous exercise in self-control,” Manwë whispers, strange and foreboding words that ring in Ingwë’s ears, yet despite the repulsion and dread Ingwë feels in its wake he cannot look away.

He is no stranger to the Valar’s riddles, not to Manwë’s nor to all the rest of them, having found them always quite unnerving. Yet that night, he had come to loathe the unclear behavior all the more, as now he is directly affected.

“Careful now,” warns Manwë, kissing Ingwë’s back right between the shoulder blades.

A spark of defiance kindles itself. “Or what?” snarls Ingwë, still watching Manwë’s face, glowing in the light of the candles, glorious and authoritative. 

The Vala’s gaze wanders from Ingwë towards the tip of the eagle wings, towards where Ingwë’s own gaze follows. “Well,” Manwë says, shrugging indifferently as if he had nothing to do with all of this, “immobilizing your arms would make this little game an even greater delight. Perhaps I should rethink my kindness?”

Only then does Ingwë understand the true purpose of the chain pulled through the golden claps; each time his composure falters – and falter it will, of that Ingwë harbors no doubt – the chain will tear at his nipples and a thousand pains, sharp and hot and biting, will come with it.

The spark of defiance transforms into a burning fire of rage. Narrowing his eyes, Ingwë glares, in a way that he knows is unwise; but in a way he cannot prevent. “You are too cruel to be called kind.”

Far too rapid to understand and think to react, Manwë’s hands are beneath Ingwë, pulling his arms so violently away that Ingwë’s body falls face forward into the silken sheets, as far as the chain would allow it. A second of terrible silence follows the Vala’s cruel deed before cries of anguish upon such harsh punishment bleed from Ingwë’s lips. Vision white with pain, Ingwë scrambles upwards, or tries to at least, in order to remove the strain that bites into his nipples. To simply make it stop hurting, as slowly his cries begin to trail away to sobs.  

“Hardly,” Manwë answers Ingwë’s original remark then, listening to the sound of Ingwë gasping for air. “I am too kind to be cruel.”

The pain still chokes Ingwë breathless, tears streaming down his burning face. “Why?” Ingwë all but cries, head buried between his arms to hide his pain-stricken features from the Vala’s gaze.

“Diverting pain can be beneficial sometimes.” The cold nonchalance of Manwë’s answer, pitiless and cruel, forces new tears from Ingwë’s eyes. A thousand curses gather on his tongue, of which none he speaks, feeling his legs nudged further apart by Manwë’s own thighs.

“Wider.”

This time reluctance doesn’t win.

Ingwë knows what awaits him, knew it all along. And if he is honest he had even yearned for it –and perhaps still does? He doesn’t know for certain as his sense of dignity fights with the strange excitement that again begins to crawl up his spine, despite pain still singing along his nerves.

Already his sense of dignity has been drowned out by his want for Manwë, in the moment when he’d opened up his mouth for him, kneeling and degraded. So with arced back Ingwë shifts his legs back and forth, obeying the Vala’s demand until he thinks his compromising position suitable.

Well – apparently, his definition of ‘wide’ varies more than a little from the Vala’s own.

When before the press of thighs against his own had been a persuasive nudge into the right direction it’s not any longer; Ingwë’s muscles and tendons strain under a painful assault as his thighs are spread further apart.

A hand is gone from his buttocks all of a sudden and cold liquid trickles into his cleft. What catches his attention though is the obscene noise of slick skin against skin. Though not exactly wanting it, Ingwë flinches from mere imagination as much as the trapped position allows him. Above and behind him, the Vala revels in sick delight, the chain that connects them brushing across Ingwë’s back.

Exposed.

Shame.

Lust and degeneration.

Words he isn’t all too familiar with flitter through his mind, his back bowed as if he’s doing an inverted bridge, reluctant to venture too far forward so that the chain won’t tear at his nipples.

The Vala hushes him like a frightened child. Ingwë would have laughed if his thoughts weren’t diverted by the head of Manwë’s cock rubbing between his buttocks. With a sharp intake of breath, eyes closed, Ingwë braces himself.  

As Manwë’s cock presses at last against his opening – and further inside without much hesitation – Ingwë yelps upon the sudden intrusion, feeling blood rush into his face. Although he tries to be silent, small whimpers tumble from his lips, bleeding into the silence of the night.

No pain could be any worse than what he had felt just a second ago, he tells himself; lies to himself.

Could not.

Must not.

For a moment, Manwë stills. “Say no more.” Gentleness in the sense of susurrating murmurs sweeps over Ingwë’s body, luring him into false security and although he deciphers the lie easily, for a moment he revels in the sensuality of the Vala’s voice and his touch with eyes closed. He had struggled a lot with his own three fingers, small in size, in comparison to what forces its way into him. Yet again, Manwë moves. Ingwë sighs, and moans and cries, all at the same time as the thick head of the Vala’s cock slides inside of him and an iron grip forces his hips to stillness.

All of Ingwë’s nerves protest against the invasion, pain echoing around in his body back and forth, without feeling even a glimpse of pleasure. Manwë pushes a little further, harder, and though he is careful, his iron grip never loosens. Ingwë gasps and yelps, not knowing if such noises only add to the delight the Vala feels. Manwë obviously takes great delight in what he is doing

Mentally, Ingwë braces himself for it, tries to accept it. He tries to keep still, to succumb to the pleasures that still are not his own for the simple reason that he wishes to please.

Before long Ingwë’s blood turns into ice.

Till now, Manwë had knelt behind him with both knees caught between Ingwë’s legs and every now and then, he would lean forward so that silver hair smoothly cascaded down Ingwë’s back. In his pain, at least the position had somehow offered comfort to Ingwë; and now it is gone. Without announcing it, Manwë had risen to one knee, with one leg being outside Ingwë’s own, trapping Ingwë further in his helpless position. He’s feeling like a mounted horse, and although he doesn’t dare look, he knows he must look like an animal being mated on lush green grass.

It is the ultimate degradation.

He gasps – and then he screams. He can feel it tear at his throat, ripping at his lungs with such an intensity he had never felt before. And in its wake he feels his body struggle and flinch and crawl forward on all fours, evading the Vala’s hard press into him before he’s driven backwards by yet another pain, sharp and hot and aching. 

“No.” A mistake, clearly, as first he feels his hair pulled so that his head snaps upwards and shortly after he feels an iron grip around his hips making any other attempts useless. He can’t move, and even if he tried to the nipple clasps would keep him exactly where he is. Parts of him want to fight being manhandled so, the same parts which want to make him snarl as he had done once before, whilst another voice in his head tells him to give in and surrender.

His choice is the latter.

“So good. So good for me,” the Vala murmurs.

The words ring in Ingwë’s ears like mockery.

A rush of excitement, as so exquisitely Manwë kisses his ear then.

A rush of terror, as the kiss is followed by a bite.

Another kiss.

Ingwë is drowning in conflicted emotions.

“Never doubt that I do restrain myself for you, Ingwë,” and as if to make a point, for a second Manwë’s lets go of his self-control, pushing much farther inside than before. A burning pain spreads through Ingwë’s innards and forces him to sway, with the result that the clasps bite into his flesh.

‘A marvelous experiment in self-control.’

Self-control which isn’t left on Ingwë’s side, as he struggles at the verge of exhaustion.

A press of hips. A scream. A yelp for air. A kiss.

Senses numbed by pain, Ingwë is back to pleading; for what exactly he doesn’t know.

The alternation of bliss and torture is what kills him, because amidst pain and agony desire begins to blossom. Desire that transforms to pleasure.

Smooth hands that ghost along his thighs and scratching fingernail in their wake; biting teeth and soothing lips. He’s lost and worse: he doesn’t know what to do, how to respond – if he’s even meant to do anything else than staying still to be subject to the Vala’s pleasure, reduced to what Ingwë doesn’t even dare to speak out in this thoughts.

It is the ultimate degradation, yet more degrading is that he’s still fully hard.

No gentle rubbing against the small of his back could help, nor the burning pain of his nipples, he still feels as if he is torn apart with each inch that slides inside of him, yet each whine seemed to go straight to the Vala’s cock and that Ingwë hates.

A deep blush colors Ingwë’s cheeks, shame and exertion mingling all too vividly. He knows what awaits him, dreads and fears it, as nothing would ever be the same afterwards. Surrendering his mouth is not quite the same as being touched – there, being fucked – soon.

Of so many things Ingwë thinks then; of the never-ending surf against the sandy beaches not far from there; of sunshine warming his body, soft and embracing. Of all the words he had wished Manwë would speak to him – those that never come; of the intimacy he craves and doesn’t dare to ask for.

“Little have you accomplished,” Manwë tells him, and further Ingwë’s spirit sink. He feels as if he cannot take anymore already. “There will come a time in which you will be able to take me fully.”

The remark makes the blood freeze in Ingwë’s veins as he knows exactly what that means; it’s a prospect he doesn’t like to think about, choking him breathless.

Only once, the day the great Fëanáro, ever rebellious and snarling, was brought before the Valar at the gates of Valmar to hear his judgment, he had seen his lord in all his might; larger and more threatening than all the years before, and ever after. Although Manwë had stood silently in the Ring of Doom as Námo proclaimed the banishment of the rebellious Noldor, he had not been less threatening. Strange images swirl in front of Ingwë’s eyes, from the exact perspective as he had stood there, watching with his mouth wide open. That alone though, wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. Often he thinks of times long forgotten and even as a small boy, Ingwë was intrigued by the Valar as no other. But from there his thoughts turn into a direction Ingwë doesn’t fully approve; he still sees the Valar sitting in their thrones hewn of shining stones; he sees himself, too, tiny against the Vala’s impressive form and wonders who had sown such fantasies in his mind.

It repulses Ingwë.

And yet it intrigues him, in a way that tints his cheeks crimson.

And with the thoughts beginning to manifest in Ingwë’s head, adjusting itself just as his own body does in the Vala’s lap in his soaring fantasy, the collar begins to vibrate as if magic lives inside the shining metal.

“Quite interesting,” Manwë says, covering Ingwë’s form with his own so that silver strands trickle against Ingwë’s throat. “The places where your fantasies begin to venture of their own accord. Would you call despoiling such holiness appropriate?”

‘Says you, of all people.’ Ingwë doesn’t say this.

A press. Another roll of hips, a wicked form of encouragement, before Ingwë stammers. “I …” Even then, he foolishly had thought to keep his thoughts to himself when so obviously all secrecy is robbed of him.

“You?” repeats Manwë, although Ingwë cannot see him, he knows he is smiling in a way he longs to see. When no answer comes, Manwë adds, “I am listening.”

A sigh.

The answer doesn’t come swiftly. “No, it is not,” at last Ingwë stammers because what he had imagined is hardly appropriate, and now that he thinks again about it, it is not only the collar around his throat that vibrates. His voice is nothing more than a breathless whisper as if choking hands are trying to cut off his words. “An apology for such inappropriate thoughts is perhaps due,” admits Ingwë, shooting Manwë a glance across his shoulder that isn’t all too innocent, “But I think you are intrigued.”

With fondness Ingwë’s smile is returned. “Indeed your assumption is correct. I won’t deny it.”

Another sigh. And then a scream, much louder than all that had ripped from his throat, forcing Ingwë’s face into the sheets.

Just as Ingwë tries to draw in a deep breath, he splutters and chokes upon a new wave of pain surging through his body. Inside of him, it feels as if the Vala’s erection grows larger and larger still; towards enormous. Horrified, Ingwë’s head shoots to the side so that he can look right into the Vala’s face yet again

Manwë merely shrugs his shoulders, chuckling. “I advise you caution for what you wish. It may be granted.”

Too much.

Too large.

No reassuring words will ever be able to help. Not that Manwë offers much reassurance; not at all.

What Ingwë had suspected is confirmed by a brief glimpse across his shoulder. A smile, far too self-indulgent, beneath the eyes a little flushed skin. Beautiful, if he could only concentrate on it. The stretch burns its way through Ingwë’s innards, coils in his stomach and crawls along his spine. Now Manwë can delight in watching the performance he perhaps had dreamt about all along, the exquisite pleasure of watching Ingwë struggle, chained and fucked.  The thought prompts panted words Ingwë had not expected to speak. “Enjoying yourself?”

The quirked eyebrows Ingwë had so often observed in council, then Manwë answers. “Even now, with discomfort dictating your very thoughts, you care about your lord’s well-being,” Manwë tells him, obviously amused, “I feel flattered, and in fact I am enjoying myself. Watching you struggle and writhe is an aesthetic pleasure uncompared.”

In ridiculous triumph, Ingwë smiles.

Being the cause of such delight fills him with a strange sense of honor, despite all the agony he already has been forced to endure, and all the different nuances of pain that still await him. Face buried in the crook of Ingwë’s neck, cheek against the collar that now lies perfectly still against his throat, Manwë’s body is pressed flush against Ingwë’s back, close enough to feel his body shaking in this new situation as he pushes further inside. For Ingwë it makes everything worse; not only must he hold his own weight, he must support the Vala’s, too, because in his frenzy Manwë cannot be bothered to support most of his weight.

Tales Ingwë had heard, those secret whispers on the quiet, had told him that sexual pleasures always brought great delight even to those on the receiving end, and he begins to wonder if those were lies.

Ingwë’s brow furrows in concentration and beads of sweat dampen the strands of golden hair anew, as he struggles not to tumble over, knowing well what pain would come with it.

Forearms placed onto the bed with his forehead touching the sheets in between, Ingwë tries to balance his body in a way that no strain lies upon the chain connecting his nipples with the eagle’s beak but every now and then, when the Vala withdraws and pushes in again, his thrusts becoming too erratic, Ingwë's chest falls and a thousand pains shoot through his body. It is the cruelest sort of torture because he’s entirely responsible for it himself. If he can manage not to sway, no pain is inflicted upon him. Exertion soon takes its toll and Ingwë sways forward until pain sings along his nerves. 

He wants to be still.

Summons all his power to be still.

Ingwë’s hands claw at the sheets, hips twisting downwards until Manwë grabs a fist of golden hair, pulling Ingwë back into position.

He tries better this time. Harder. And fails.

And fails all over again with every inch of cock pushed inside of him.

When it is done, tears have wetted the fabric below him and constantly the chain rips at his nipples in the only position Ingwë thinks he would be able to keep.

Ingwë should be sickened to the core to be manhandled so; by the press of large hands against the small of his back; by the distinct press of thighs against his own; he certainly shouldn’t be enthralled by a lust that hardly is his own. Yet there he is, caught in the maelstrom of conflicted emotions with warmth blossoming in his heart. Ingwë’s skin tingles by the gentlest of touches as Manwë allows him a few moments to recover, cock pulsating against Ingwë’s innards in a way that desire indeed begins to spark. If he could only lean in …

The laugh that follows Ingwë’s thoughts is cruel. Almost. Cruel enough for the one Ingwë had always loved, whose attention he craved.

With a last lingering look over Ingwë’s body, Manwë holds perfectly still before he begins to rock his hips against Ingwë, slow and deliberate, as if to prove a point of his never-ending patience. The thrusts are shallow at first, almost like the gentle sway of trees in the wind, the feeling strange and new, yet not exactly uncomfortable. It was the calm before the storm, Ingwë had to find out soon enough; the gentle rocking of hips is soon exchanged by a demanding rhythm, hard and fast, and very uncomfortable for Ingwë, who struggles desperately not to tumble over.  He tries to align his breathing in the rhythm of the waves, having found out that he struggles less if he exhales at the moment Manwë thrusts into him. He is successful, at least as long the Vala does not touch his nipples, which occasionally he does; pinching, rolling them between his fingers until Ingwë’s moans trail away to sobs, accompanied by sharp prickles along his skin. Without doubt such sounds must ring like the sweetest music in Manwë’s ears because after that, Ingwë is barely granted a moment to recover as repeatedly he is caressed like this, Manwë’s body draped across Ingwë’s smaller form.

It is cruel.

Torturous.

And then it is not. At the same time it is sensual to the utmost to be devoured like this.

He resists the urge to look back, to look over his shoulder, afraid to see such openly displayed desire on Manwë’s face, the darkness in his eyes.

Lost in his musings, Ingwë doesn’t realize that Manwë’s hand begin to wander, not until he grabs Ingwë’s jaw, almost painful pulling him into a deep kiss that speaks of lust and desire – and claim.

He had surrendered to the kiss with eyes closed but then, as the kiss is broken, Ingwë dares to look. Assured, the Eldar King had always been beautiful, yet to Ingwë he has never been more beautiful than in that moment. Tiny beads of sweat adorned the forehead, and silver hair is carelessly tangled, eyes pitch-black just like the onyx walls guarding this sanctuary – even then, in such a state, the regal authority never dissipates. With a good amount of shame Ingwë has to admit that exactly that goes straight to his cock.

“You like what you see,” remarks Manwë with an indulgent smile.

Holding the Vala’s gaze, Ingwë replies. “So do you.”

He knows they would be never equals, yet for a moments he gives into the beauty of the thought that they are and this is nothing more than a game for their mutual enjoyment. But then, without the true power imbalance, would it be still the same?

Hardly.

As if to prove a point, Manwë taps against the small of Ingwë’s back with his fingertips to command him lower. With a jolt, Ingwë lowers his chest immediately, surprised that such a small gesture is enough to make him obey.

As the thrusts become harder yet again Ingwë’s body feels like a rock fighting against the foaming shore with raging currents billow around him, dragging him under and sweeping him away into the endless sea of waves.

He drowns.

And then he floats in a strange sea of pain and bliss.

One wave after the other comes in the form of thrusts, hard and unforgiving and with each wave, a thousand little pains run along Ingwë’s body, quenching each spark of pleasure he had dared to feel. There is nothing Ingwë can do against it. Flinching and quivering only makes everything worse, he had learned soon enough, as each time the chain relentlessly tears at his sore nipples, biting and pinching, so all he can do is force his body to absolute stillness. That is easier thought of than done.

If Ingwë had hoped for assistance, he had hoped for naught because instead of supporting Ingwë’s own weight, Manwë does quite the contrary. His finger dig into his hips, hard enough to bruise and to force tears out of his eyes. Yet then again, pleasure begins to blossom amidst all discomfort with an intensity stronger than before.

A thrust, and then another, that touches something inside of Ingwë in the most exquisite way. Pleasure forces a moan form his lips, the first one that night, before he jolts forward and anguish gathers on his lips as the clasps tear at his abused flesh. 

Damn it.

Damn him – and then not.

A word, and Manwë would stop.

Surely.

Again, and again, Ingwë feeds himself the notion he dearly hopes is true as he gives in to be devoured in such an obscene way with hips swaying and arms burning from exertion and eyes squeezed shut. Ingwë’s body is nothing more than a doll in Manwë’s unrelenting grip, pitching forward – right into the chain – with each thrust.

But then, he moans shamelessly as he is held down like this, almost desperate to be claimed like this.

For so many years Ingwë had craved love and affection from his lord’s hands and then had sold his soul and life to him.

‘The Vala’s whore.’ He had agreed to it, aye, Ingwë could not deny it, yet still he craves more, so much more, not knowing what else his lord is willing to give after he had taken his pleasure from him.

Lifting his burning face out of the sheet and looking over his shoulder, Ingwë doesn’t see sick enjoyment in the Vala’s face, but the perfectly mastered façade of utter control scattered into a thousand pieces, revealing what only few ever saw.

The voice in Ingwë’s head is ragged. ‘False. No-one.’

Shoulders trembling, Ingwë drinks in the sight. With Manwë’s mouth standing wide ajar and eyes half-closed and brows furrowed he fucks him, reveling in the delight Ingwë’s body brings him, a body that is entirely at his command. It is a sight that makes Ingwë forget all the agony for a while, a sight he would not forget today, nor any day after. It’s beautiful, and it’s glorious and most of all it’s arousing beyond measure.

‘You know… I could take you on the floor, taking you until your knees are scrubbed raw. Or with spectators. There are many who would be curious to watch; I could do all of that, and you would not refuse me.’

Ingwë hates to admit it, but Manwë is right. It’s so shameless how easily Ingwë’s body betrays him; so shameless how he tries to grind his cock against the sheets he can’t reach; the worst though is the way he feels Manwë’s lips form into a smile against his shoulder. He can hardly support himself with his elbows and forearms anymore, feeling his stretched muscles growing sore under the constant strain of his position, yet Ingwë knows he would try to hold the position for many hours if asked.

Against his ear, Manwë chuckles. “Sooner or later defeat, and with it the most carnal needs always win.” His laugh rumbles from his chest, vibrating against Ingwë’s skin, blossoming in his chest. However, Ingwë’s silent plea for the attention he so desperately craves is ignored.

Pride flares in Ingwë’s eyes yet the words are out of his mouth before he even realizes it.

Catching his breath Ingwë says, hears it trailing into a sob.  “Manwë. My lord, please,” he whimpers – and then shouts it, screams it in the rhythm the Vala thrusts into him and oddly it helps to ease his pain as the clamps bite his flesh.

Manwë’s breathing is erratic. “Please what?”

It is not annoyance Ingwë hears, but struggle to keep the last remains of composure – the greatest compliment of all. “Touch me.”

Feigning compassion, Manwë brings his hand below Ingwë’s body, stroking his cock for a second before he withdraws it again. “Like this?” he asks, voice hoarse.

In his agony and frustration, Ingwë groans, feeling as if he lost all his senses from the briefest of touch. From where such boldness arises, Ingwë wouldn’t be able to tell afterwards, as something primal reared up inside him and as predicted the most carnal of needs spring to life. Balancing himself on one hand he forced his arm behind and griped Manwë’s hand, guiding it away from his hips towards his cock in desperation.

Much to his surprise the Vala obeys his physical request. “But do not blame me afterwards.”

Why would he, Ingwë wonders, before he embraces the sensation Manwë’s rubbing hand brings him.

Ingwë’s pain is kept mostly at bay then, soothed into submission by such skilled hands, which constantly move up and down so that before long, Ingwë feels his orgasm approach. That at least isn’t new territory he wanders in.

Somewhere in the wake of it, his eyes must have slid close simply because he begins to see things that certainly are not there; burning fires and stars, silver and golden, against the black night sky. He is so close to reach his peak, his body shuddering in the same rhythm as Manwë fucks – and strokes him; he is shaking as sensation rages through every fiber of his being, biting his lips to reach what he craves so badly – and nothing happens.

‘Do not blame me afterwards.’ The demon in Ingwë’s head speaks again, and only then he fully comprehends the treachery, eyes snapping open.

In annoyance Ingwë glances across his shoulder. “Why?” he sounds uncertain rather than accusing – not daring to let his anger shine through.

“A simple game of minds,” says Manwë, whose rhythm never falters. “It is easy enough to control your body in a way that prevents you finding release, not matter what you think and how desperately you crave it.”

Sadness speaks from Ingwë’s words. “Why would you?”

“For your own good.” Falsehood clothed in sweet disguise, Ingwë knows it well. ‘For my own entertainment.’ Is the correct answer, with confirmation coming shortly after.

The digging of nails into his hips only intensifies with each word thought but not spoken. “Beating you into submission is lovely but hardly the same as having you beg for something that only intensifies your agony.” In that moment, Ingwë wishes to wrap his hands around the Vala’s throat, to choke him breathless simply to make him shut up.

“Perhaps I should reconsider my choices?” the Vala muses, thrusting harder into Ingwë than before so that all he can do is tumble over to evade the wave of pain that comes with it, whining and spluttering, “such subtle treason of the most hurtful sort. I had not expected such of you, Ingwë; of you least of all.”

That it is nothing more than a trick, Ingwë knows with blinding certainty. Nevertheless he begins to feel apologetic for the thoughts he had harbored – for all of them. Even under normal circumstances they would never be equals in such games, in moments like these, chained and manhandled, with their positions so clearly manifested, an entire world separates them.

“Pardon me.”

Manwë returns his attention to Ingwë’s nipples again, pinching them until Ingwë adds what surely he must have missed before. “My lord.”

Seconds turn into minutes and all too easily minutes stretch into eternity as Ingwë fights; against the pain; against the deliberate slaps against his buttocks; the Vala’s cock inside of him and once more, he curses the fact that time passes differently in Manwë’s halls. It is such a sensory overload of feelings and emotions Ingwë had never known before, a battle he can never win, no matter how much he bucks and struggles. For Manwë it is an easy task to hold him down with one hand at the small of Ingwë’s back and the other tangled in Ingwë’s hair, preventing him burying his face in the bed. By then the sheet is damp from both tears and drool. Somewhere beneath the agony pleasure erupts, exactly then as a distinct spot is hit and Manwë’s hand reaches down to stroke him. It is such a sensual pleasure, snarling and hissing like an angry dog that fights against the chains. It’s darker than everything he had ever succumbed to, fierce and intense – consuming just like the Vala’s might.

Whines trail into sobs as Ingwë gives in – totally and unconditionally – broken; raw; (ab)used.

Sensations come and go, coiling tight before they dissolve into nothing, before it all starts anew, growing, intensifying until Ingwë feels he will faint from the ruthless assault. All his dreams begin to play before Ingwë’s closed eyes, and at all the love he sees there, Ingwë is close to crying. That – being on all fours is not exactly what Ingwë wants, although to please his lord surely sparks his own lust one way or another, much to his own amazement. But there is more to it, so much more. These feelings speak to him then, louder than ever and impossible to silence.

*

Slowly but deliberately Ingwë’s head slowly turns to the side.

‘All you ever have to do, is plead.’

Although Manwë isn’t speaking, Ingwë sees the muscles in his jaw tighten before something softens in the edge of his eyes and his lips spread into a smile. Pride flares ever so slightly somewhere deep inside, a notion Ingwë cannot bring himself to care and somehow he is awestruck by the Vala’s visible reaction, by the gentleness of it.

And then there is silence.

“Please,” Panting for breath Ingwë whispers in desperation, the words sounding strange to his own ears, face almost buried in the pillow again. “I want to see you, want to touch and feel you. Kiss you – if you would allow it.” Nothing on earth could have stopped Ingwë to speak those words of his true desires

Acknowledgement shines from the Vala’s eyes. “How should I refuse such genuine demands?”

Startled, Ingwë gasps.

One arm wrapped around Ingwë’s waist in support, Manwë unfastens the chain at the eagle’s beak with the other hand. When Ingwë lowers his chest onto the silken sheets he lets go of him and pulls out.

Ingwë had doubted that his plea would be heard, least alone granted and all the more he wishes to fulfill each and every promise he had made that night. Little wonder that he loves  Manwë so, craves him so desperately – needs him in a way he had never needed anyone ever before in all his vulnerability.

The realization is striking.

Each muscle aching and thighs burning from exhaustion Ingwë scrambles upwards, half crawling towards Manwë who now sits on the bed cross legged, his erection glistening wet. Filled with a strange combination of shame and dread upon the size of it, Ingwë looks hurriedly away.

Their eyes meet as Manwë beckons Ingwë forward to sit in his lap.

There is no pride nor malice in the Vala’s eyes, but love and affection, as Manwë lies down under the eagle’s watchful eyes, a serene smile upon his lips. It is the softness that ensnares Ingwë; the kindness that had lain hidden beneath a layer of cold steel before. With an effort he heaves himself into the Vala’s lap, sitting astride of him and ignoring the electrifying sensation as their erections touch as he bends down to kiss the Vala.

What happens now, surpasses Ingwë’s wildest dreams. Everything before had been demanding: hard, fast and rough. Ingwë the subject to the Vala’s will, his lust, whilst Ingwë’s own desires had been merely a secondary thing, not worthy to be taken care of. Reduced to an object serving its master’s will. Nothing of that persists now, dissolved to nonexistence.

With his features soft and relaxed, Manwë retrieves out of nowhere two silken bands that now are in his hands, smiling at Ingwë with strange encouragement. Ingwë does not understand the implication right away.

Without saying a single word, Manwë spreads his arms like massive wings, muscles flexing in the wake of it, towards the headboard and all Ingwë can do is watch him dumb-folded to the extent that nervousness begins to spread through his body.

He cannot.

Must not.

“Are you certain?” stammers Ingwë then, mouth standing wide ajar in surprise and shock.

“Indeed I am,” says Manwë, holding his hands and the silken ropes towards Ingwë. “Was that not what you had thought about earlier tonight?”

Embarrassment begins to blossom on Ingwë’s cheeks. “Yes,” he admits.

The smile Manwë gives him is knowing. “If you desire so still, bind my hands to the eagle’s claws, its beak. I trust you.”

Blue eyes met Ingwë’s own as he declines the offer. “No.”

He is surprised by the certainty in his voice, not quite matching how he truly feels. The prospect is tempting without doubt, especially as Ingwë does not believe that such an opportunity will be granted often.

But then, despite the appeal of it, it is quite the opposite of what Ingwë wishes for, had perhaps wished for all his life. “I want you to touch me,” he says, shifting his body over the Vala’s until Manwë’s erection brushes between his cheeks, “to see your face; your eyes and smile.”

The ropes sail idly to the floor. “You desire a great many things, Ingwë.”

For a second hesitation wins on Ingwë’s side, hands falling to his side.

“Go on,” Manwë urges him. “Please.”

Ingwë feels his heart flutter from the word alone. The King of All never bends his will to anyone – and certainly never begs. Yet here they are. Ingwë unable to refuse him. And so he does: without breaking eye contact he rests a trembling hand on the Vala’s shoulder as he lifts himself above him, using his other hand to guide Manwë’s cock inside, ignoring the burning pain that comes with it. Being taken so roughly has certainly left its mark.

The second time, Ingwë pulls up a little bit more before lowering himself again, biting his lip to hold back the moan that threatens to escape, because now, that he can dictate the pace he is going, pain is easily transformed to pleasures he had never known.

There’s something else that adds to his excitement, though. Ingwë would be lying if he says he’s not intrigued by the fact that Manwë willingly gives up any semblance of control.

Perhaps this concession is just another piece of the game he is playing – most likely it is. Ingwë cannot bring himself to care, reveling in the exquisite beauty of the moment. He thrusts his hips forward slightly and is instantly rewarded by a hitching breath, perhaps never meant as encouragement, yet that is the exact feeling it provokes.

Encouragement. An exquisite praise and adoration of the most amazing sort with each and every emotion he harbors laid bare to Ingwë’s eyes.

Thighs burning already, Ingwë lifts his body again and again, rolls his hips and nearly tumbles over as the Vala rises to sit up.

Ingwë stares at him, chest pressed against the Vala’s own as massive arms wrap around his body like giant wings. Protecting him, soothing him.

“I –“ he begins, just to be silenced by the most sensual kiss, swallowed by the most wonderful intimacy that comes with this position. And all too easily Ingwë grows sentimental, his rhythm faltering with every kiss bestowed upon his skin, with every scratch of nails, barely hard enough to leave marks.

He tries to keep his composure, desperately tries to keep the movement of his body; he even tries to evade the sensation it brings each time his cock rubs against Manwë’s stomach simply to make the moment last.

He tries – and fails to meet the challenge presenting itself in Manwë’s eyes. Eyelashes dust against the Vala’s shoulder as Ingwë looks up, eyes half-lidded, enthralled by shared intimacy he hadn’t thought possible before. He slides his fingers lower, letting them brush against Manwë’s nipple who so vocally responds that Ingwë would do everything just to hear such a moan again.

Lips find their way to Ingwë’s throat, just below the ear, with teeth following shortly after.

The placement is deliberate.

“Is marking me part of the oath of fealty I swore?” Ingwë isn’t serious.

Manwë shakes his head, arching an ironic eyebrow as he speaks. “No. That was entirely self-indulgent. Although…  if I think about the notion a little longer, your thought certainly has its appeal. You wouldn’t be bothered by it, would you?” he breathes against the side of Ingwë’s throat, just above the spot where teeth marks will soon show.

Ingwë’s consent comes in silence, in the way of tilting his head further to the side, followed by a bite just above the collar around his throat, making Ingwë’s body jerk in response.

Sheen of sweat glistens on Ingwë’s body, exhaustion aching in every fiber of his being as he struggles to raise his hips, to keep the pace he had set, hands placed upon the Vala’s shoulders for support. No matter if Manwë holds him, supports him with an arm placed around his waist, Ingwë struggles against the exhaustion bidding him to give up. Promising himself by all that is dear to him, that he never will, biting his lip to distract himself from the pain, to force his body to keep going.

Out of nowhere music begins to play in his head, a tune Ingwë remembers well, having danced to it every so often when the world was still young and at peace. It is encouraging, just as Manwë’s lips against his collarbone are, and in the rhythm of it, Ingwë tries to rock his body back and forth, hands woven in Manwë’s silver strands. Caught in the motion, he does not notice as the Vala shifts his head ever so slightly, bending forward to kiss that nipple, with the golden clasps still attached; kissing him, and licking him so that Ingwë jolts in surprise.

Now, his point of view seems to shift: as just a second ago he had looked into the Vala’s eyes, he now sees himself in his desperate struggle: towards completion yet to endure. Head thrown back, throat exposed with shadows of the burning candles dancing across his skin and the Vala’s lips wrapped around his nipple. Amidst his golden skin marks begin to blossom, some faint, some already standing in full bloom like black roses. Back arched and thighs trembling, arms sneaked around the Vala’s neck, or into his hair, it is alternating. Golden hair falls down his shoulders, brushing against his skin with each move he makes, eyes clenched shut and then not.

Is that truly how he looks, how Manwë sees him?

Ingwë’s hair is disheveled, his lips bitten raw and bite marks spread across his skin – he looks tired, wasted, yet he looks gorgeous too. With a smile against the Vala’s lips Ingwë curls a hand around Manwë’s hip, skin warm and damp, digging in his fingernails a little until he’s rewarded with encouraging sounds.

In triumph, Ingwë smiles. Moments become a blurred fantasy of gold and silver and orange glow; of twined fingers and lips hot against each other. Flitters of hushed whispers, moans and silence piercing through it every now and then, hands holding him, catching him from falling.

He must be dreaming, Ingwë faintly muses, the Vala’s face caught between his fingers. All he feels, all he had ever felt seems to be multiplied by the intensity, all pain, all love all he had ever dreamed of.

It is the moment that matters and nothing more; not shame or decency, worries and doubts. Ingwë cares for none of it. All that matters is the height of pleasure, the reward he had almost reached five times tonight – the one he climbs now yet again with the last spark of his strength. Their foreheads touching, their kisses turning to small nips, disrupted each time by uneven breathing and the effort to simply sit upright. All possessiveness is gone, no game being played, no boundaries tested anymore, too tired and sated to fight or start anew. The moment is theirs, in all its intimacy and willingly Ingwë commits to it.

Without thinking – being unable to think – Ingwë presses a soft kiss to the Vala’s nose, the corner of his mouth, his forehead, feeling Manwë’s strong arms embrace him in return. Hands weave into each other’s hair, pulling but entirely differently than before.

It is the love Ingwë had always craved; the affection he had thought about in his dreams, never daring to hope that Manwë is capable to be like this. Aye, he’d always been kind to Ingwë, kind of an entirely different sort – and then he’d been too cruel to be kind. Right now in this moment he is none of those things.

With exquisite care Manwë brushes Ingwë’s hair out of his face, before he traces the line of Ingwë’s cheekbones with his fingers. It’s such a small, innocuous gesture adding to his heightened senses, yet to Ingwë, it means the world. All that could be heard in the moment they existed like this, melding together with eyes shut tight and sweat mixing on their bodies were susurrating whispers in words Ingwë could not understand.

Ingwë’s vision blurs, with colors dancing behind closed eyelids as if he sees the world through a kaleidoscope, blue and pink and golden, little freckles blending into what he saw. Odd, he may have thought a day ago, that he sees with close eyes; that he feels another’s love without touching; knows his words despite the fact that Manwë is not speaking – cannot speak with his lips attached to Ingwë’s own.

Lost in sensation, he wishes that moment would never end, and although he knows it will end, he knows with certainty that many of these moments will follow.

A faint chuckle, sublime and indulgent disrupts the silence. “Be careful for what you ask,” Manwë says, threading his fingers through Ingwë’s own

Ingwë opens his eyes, drinking in the sight of it; the picture of tousled silver hair, and glistening sweat. He would have chuckled, too, just as he had begged before, if he had the strength for it left. As it is he is content to let his forehead fall against the Vala’s own, succumbing to the emotions burning inside him: of love and affection, a need coiling so persistently in his stomach that it hurts in the literal sense of the word. He can’t last much longer. It is a sheer effort to sit on his burning thighs. Yet the moment is worth every second of suffering. The look Manwë gives him, in combination with the touch bestowed upon his skin – although he feels the urgent need to close his eyes, he revels in a sensation he had never felt before, and he forces himself to look. To watch in awe, his own desire reflected in the Vala’s eyes, a faint silver halo arising behind Manwë’s head.

When at last he reaches the peak he had been denied for so long, Ingwë’s body twitches and his lungs rattle as if the last breath of life is about to escape him.

It is not far from the truth. Most definitely it is the last breath of his old life, if he had not drawn it hours ago. Nails dig into Manwë’s shoulders, sobbing Manwë’s name into the crook of the Vala’s neck as Manwë strokes him until he feels something distinctly warm inside of his body. He had been there several times that night, at the verge of orgasm, almost afraid to hope for more after having been denied for long. In this moment everything is different and so he gives in, crying out with tears rolling freely down his cheeks.

His vision goes white, exhaustion and bliss demanding its toll from him, causing his legs to tremble and his body to shake. He collapses into the Vala’s embrace, sobbing into his arms like a helpless child. Throughout the night he had shed many a tear – of hope, of pain and fear, let alone shame. Yet now his eyes brim with tears of joy and happiness, going deeper than he had ever felt it before. In desperation Ingwë holds to him as the Vala whispers to him in that strange language of the Ainur, which sounds like tinkling bells, soft and intense at the same time with the cadence of the music that was song. The musk of the earth and the smell of the sea, the freshness of blowing winds and bodily musk filled Ingwë’s nose as if the entire world exists in that moment as hesitant sighs echo shuddering moans, falling from both their lips.

As consciousness returns, the Vala’s arms are still wrapped tightly about Ingwë’s shivering body, holding him close like a mother calms her child and if he allows the thought to sink in, it’s not so very far from it. With a content sigh, Ingwë lifts his head from the Vala’s chest, looking upwards.

Words, driven from his mouth by sentiment and fatigue tumble freely into the nightly air. “I thank you,” says Ingwë, wondering to what his own words truly translate.

“Sometimes love can be found in the most unlikely places,” Manwë tells him, placing a kiss upon Ingwë’s brow as he struggles against the sweet call of slumber. “Now rest, for your strength must prevail for all that must come.”

*

Chapter Text

Chapter 06 - The Morning After

*

Morning comes in the sense of blinding sunshine so bright that Ingwë’s closed eyelids cannot prevent it from waking him.

Ingwë rubs his eyes, still closed in denial, thinking about the window-less room, dark and golden, he had stepped into last night. It is strangely odd to feel the warmth of sunshine upon his face when he knows daylight is banished from this place. Not for the first time since he had stepped into the Vala’s palace, Ingwë is gripped with a creeping unease.

Had he been carried away in his devastated state?

Such a ridiculous explanation is the only one that comes to Ingwë’s drowsy mind – how else should sunshine fall into these hidden rooms?

After the night, he had been exhausted as he had never been before in his life, wandering in a strange land between sleep and wakefulness even as Manwë still spoke to him.

Rolling over to his side, Ingwë finally opens his eyes, realizing that the eagle above him still watches him with unforgiving eyes. He had not thought that the sight of it would ever make his heart beat a little less fast, quite the contrary. But so it is. The room is the same where he had lain down to sleep, yet the lamps and candles which had been glowing golden when he had been on his hands and knees now emit a brilliant light like a thousand suns hung against the walls.

That is the first thing Ingwë notices, amazed at such magic.

The second thing he notices is the soreness of his body. Every fiber, every muscle and tendon hurts as if a thousand little needles are pierced right into his skin. The burning of his thighs from last night has faded to a numbness; the burn of his backside however is still there, and will be a constant reminder for many days.

Only then, as he rolls over, does Ingwë realize that the bed is empty. Rapidly his eyes flicker to each corner of the room, but no sign of Manwë to be found.  He is alone, with only the necklace with the attached chain keeping him company.

All drowsiness leaves Ingwë at once, his heartbeat becoming more rapid in an instant. With certain notes of unease he wonders what the meaning of all this is.

On any other occasion Ingwë perhaps would not have thought too much about it. But here, in the sacred halls of his lord where strange magic lives, such indifference is lost to him. He had anticipated lying back into the silks and watching Manwë’s beautiful face, with the golden glow dancing through his hair; he had foolishly thought to lay down his weary head upon the Vala’s chest, too; to feel Manwë’s fingers wander into his hair, stroking him gently. Part of him still hopes still for that, somewhere beneath the strange worry that chokes him and forces him out of the bed.

Ouch. Walking presents quite a painful challenge. 

On shaking feet, with a silken sheet wrapped around his waist, Ingwë leaves the room of onyx walls and pads aimlessly through the vast expanses of the chambers, afraid to venture to places that are not meant for him to see. Outside the onyx room, curtains flutter through open windows in the breeze and true sunshine falls into the room. It must be much later than Ingwë had thought, the sun high upon the sky tells him as much. He still is tired, exhausted, as if an army of Balrogs marches through his skull – wasted.

Never before had he set foot into these parts of Manwë’s palace and Ingwë doubts many other ever had. Biting his lower lips not to hiss from the pain he feels, Ingwë ventures further through the giant maze, curious what he would find around the next corner as many secrets seem to be hidden in these halls. The thought that the halls were made for him alone, specifically to serve one purpose, is horrifying to Ingwë; everything he lays his eyes upon has been constructed at the beginning of days and lay idle for thousands of years, awakening from its slumber the moment he had agreed to serve his lord in this particular way. Although he is free, in the sense that the chain is not connected to Manwë’s wrist, Ingwë is not foolish enough to believe he truly is; each mark upon his skin, each step reminds him painfully of his situation.

His aimless wandering leads him through hallways with high windows with cloud-like curtains; through small rooms and giant halls. He tries to touch what he thinks is fabric only to feel the material disappear to naught. In disbelief he shakes his head and continues his journey through the maze. To his left, a gurgling sound piques Ingwë’s attention, so that he walks towards it. No door bars the entrance to the room from where he suspects the sound had come from and therefore Ingwë steps inside.

A humid warmth greets him, and even before he truly sees what lays beyond the entrance, at the far end of the room that warmth draws his exhausted body further inside.

‘A bathroom,’ Ingwë thinks, delighted, as that is exactly what his abused body, still sticky from last night’s adventures, craves most without Ingwë having realized it before. Towels of silver fabric, alternating with ceiling-high mirrors frame the small corridor that leads towards the heart of it. Without thinking twice, Ingwë follows the sound of gurgling water and the smell of the salty breeze of the sea until he stands right before the gurgling bath, hewn directly into the stone, around which a hundred candles burn.

It is beautiful, just as everything else is in these halls. The walls are tiled in silver and light blue, alternating so that a mesmerizing pattern is formed. The pattern resembles the elegant ornaments of twining leaves he had seen before in Manwë’s halls, a motif to be found almost everywhere.

Ingwë lets his eyes wander: there, at the end of the pool the water bubbles from a little fountain directly into the tub producing the lovely soothing sounds.  His gaze sweeps over the tiny flasks of oils, over the neatly folded towels.

Ingwë discards the silk wrapped around his body and throws it carelessly into the corridor as the warm water lures him in. Lifting his leg to enter it, presents quite the struggle as every fiber of his body fights the movement, yet it is worth all the effort, he decides the moment warm water pools around his ankle.

Before long, Ingwë is soaking, dipping his head under to wash away the dried saliva caught in his hair. He rises a little so that he lies in the pool, golden hair floating around his head and every now and then tiny waves tickle his ears, provoked by his paddling hands. The mosaics, made of tiny tiles in silver, blue and white which make up the pool, depict scenes that somehow appear to be familiar to Ingwë and then not, as if he had seen them in a dream. 

Speckled shadows cast patterns across the silvery walls, sparkling like diamond dust every now and then – and across his bruised skin, too. Before coming here and sinking into the warm water, Ingwë had not realized how exhausted he truly was – mentally and physically – but most of all emotionally.

For the first time that morning Ingwë is glad that Manwë had granted him a few moments to recollect himself. Only the gushing and splashing of water interrupts the peaceful tranquility, soft and soothing sounds. Little wonder that Ingwë’s mind begins to wander; to everything that had happened in the darkest hours of the night, intensifying each time as almost automatically his fingers brush against his abused nipples, sending jolts of pleasure and pain through his body.

The pain would accompany him for many days that much is certain; each time that his robes will brush against it, all his senses will be set aflame with memories coming in the wake of it, impossible to be kept at bay. Not even in the comfort of the bath can he manage to forget.

With a sigh Ingwë thinks about his weekly agenda as king. And then, in the middle of the thought he stops, quite confused. It perhaps is a foolish notion to assume that after last night he would go about his daily business as usual, yet still he does. Routine had always been of strange comfort to Ingwë.  

As far as he remembers he doesn’t have meetings scheduled for tomorrow which is the most fortunate coincidence because he truly is – and looks – devastated. He has at least entire two days for recovery.

Two days – is not much, not even to Elves. He probably could just make up a little lie if questions should arise, Ingwë decides just before realization hits him like a slap across the face.

The day after tomorrow is the first mid-week day of the month and dread of an entirely different sort begins to fill him. It will chase him out of the luxury of being alone – or with the one who had inflicted those bruises to him. Worse, it will mean sitting through endless hours of discussion without being able to sit properly at all. Each time that his robes brush against his nipples, his cheeks will glow under Manwë’s scrutinizing gaze. Even before, Manwë had always watched him. So often, their eyes had met and Ingwë had hastily looked away in embarrassment. And so had Námo, most likely for entirely different reasons. Or perhaps not? Manwë's words in the domed hall implied thoughts that were impure to some degree.

No.

The thought of Námo watching him repulses him, and at the same time, Ingwë’s curiosity begins to blossom.

Although Ingwë had, in comparison to many others, unveiled many secrets of the Valar’s strange ways, their world and thoughts are still so unlike his own, incomprehensible quite often. Until last night, Ingwë had thought their needs entirely different to his own – what if it is not so? For all of them?

The next council would not be any different from those held before. Manwë will watch him and revel in the discomfort his affection the nights before had brought to Ingwë; with the knowledge what had happened between them, Ingwë will never be able to concentrate.

Ingwë sits up in the bath, steam emanating from his skin. The air, hot and humid, presses against his face, which is most certainly bright red. Despite his idleness he is breathing hard, still at the verge of exhaustion and although he deems it time to finally leave the warm water, he feels unable to. Instead he falls back into it, making the water splash and gurgle and accepts the warm and soothing embrace it offers.

Tomorrow can wait. Nothing awaits him today so what harm would come from lingering a little longer? With a content sigh he lifts one foot to the edge, carding both of his hands through his wet hair, down his ears and throat and the collar around it.

Damp hair, tousled with little knots, pools around his shoulders, clinging to Ingwë’s wet skin in a way too sensual for his own liking and although he soaks in the bath alone he begins to wish he was not. His thoughts are fueled by memories of how gently Manwë had cleaned his face after taking pleasure from his mouth, after having forced him to perform acts he had never dared to imagine, not even in secret.

Despite Ingwë’s soreness, his body springs to life below the surface and with it, fantasies of what else might await him in these halls begin to grow from memory.

A golden circlet, ornamented with three large sapphires sits high upon Ingwë’s brow, a well-cherished heirloom from his mother’s side that has often attracted admiration at court the years before. It must be a stately affair, a coronation or marriage between important houses, because apart from official matters Ingwë never wears his official crown. Yet what he sees – or rather imagines then, has little to do with the strict protocol of court. In his full attire, courtly robes and golden jewels dangling from his ears, he is bent across the golden table, right before his lord in a room Ingwë clearly identifies as the Vala’s private study.

In reality, gooseflesh spreads from his neck along his shoulders, leading Ingwë to shiver despite the warmth. In his fantasy, he sees his lord standing behind him with an indulgent smirk playing about his lips as he reaches for Ingwë’s robes and lifts them. Quite shocked, Ingwë realizes that he is not wearing anything at all beneath the golden fabric and just as last night, he feels equally repulsed and intrigued by it. The farther his thoughts venture towards such depraved territory, the more the collar around his throat begins to vibrate.

It is then that Ingwë finally begins to understand: without doubt the metal reacts to his impure thoughts. It remains quiet when he thinks about something else. It’s repulsive to have his thoughts so invaded and from below the water, Ingwë’s hands fly to his throat in futile attempt to rid himself from it.

What if it is whispering all his lust and fantasies to its master?

It must be so.

With a groan Ingwë rises from the steaming water, the peaceful atmosphere entirely ruined for him. From nearby he takes a towel and half-heartedly rubs himself dry before he steps out into the little corridor where the towels and mirrors hang, and also the discarded sheet had fallen carelessly onto the floor. Just as he’s about to pick it up, his gaze accidentally falls onto the mirror where he sees his lower body from the side, angry bruises blossoming right above his hip.

Towel in his hand and sheet on the floor forgotten, Ingwë turns around to observe his reflection in the mirror fully. At first he’s horrified by the sight of it, but then he’s not, something he can neither explain nor comprehend because he truly looks horrific.

His eyes unfocus a little as he continues to watch himself in the mirror, droplets of water still adorning his skin. The gold of its frame glints orange in the glow of the candles as does Ingwë’s skin, at least those parts where no dark and angry flowers blossom.

Scratches run along the front of his thighs down to his knees and the water droplets run along it. For moments, Ingwë’s gaze follows before he drinks in the sight of his body in its entirety. Bruised and broken, he thinks, as his fingertips follow the most prominent scratch towards his hips, right there where his skin glows a bright red from the unrelenting hold. So hard had Manwë gripped his hips as he drove into him that even now, Ingwë could feel and see the strength of it there, the outlines of the Vala’s fingers branded into his skin.

From his nipples he quickly looks away; the sight alone drives a thousand little needles right through his skin. He had seen what other objects hang in the gallery of dread, and by now he had obtained at least a little glimpse how many different kinds of pain existed in a world he had never known.

Ingwë has never fought a battle. At least not in the usual sense, yet he begins to wonder if the fear of being killed resembles in any kind to what he had felt last night? Why his thoughts venture into such strange territories he doesn’t know forcing the idea quickly from his mind.

It is wasted energy.

He looks just as he feels – exhausted, wasted – devastated, truth to be told. Nevertheless warmth fills him, a warmth of a strange sort as if embers burn inside of him, although beauty is not exactly what greets his eyes.

No robe, no matter how high-collared would ever be able to conceal the marks right above the collar which still is wrapped around his throat. Left and right they blossom, like spills of fresh blood in the first snow. Again, he wonders where such morbidity, so unlike him, comes from and if that should become a constant in his new life. Carefully, Ingwë lifts his finger towards the jewelry as if his skin would burn if he dares to touch the shining metal.

Ingwë looks horrible by each and every Elvish standard, and then strangely, he does not.

Carefully, he traces the outline of the collar where it meets the skin of his throat, almost bites into it depending on the angle of his neck. Until then, he hadn’t been granted to take a closer look on the jewelry that had sealed his fate.

Although he had never expected any less from his lord, Ingwë is amazed by the intricate craftsmanship and great detail. He isn’t all too familiar with forging and jewel crafting, yet he knows thousands of working hours must have been spend on the gift, worth more than everything he had ever owned. Honored and frightened alike Ingwë feels then, letting his fingers run over the metal, warm from the heat of his body. And all the while he keeps wondering who in Aman had crafted such masterpiece, now that the most talented smiths were gone for many ages.

And have returned.

No.

No!

With violence Ingwë discards the sickening thought of forced labor.

He has to, at least for the moment, because despite everything he still harbors love and affection for his estranged kin and wearing such jewelry would make him ultimately complicit. A partner in crime.  

Taking a step closer towards the mirror, enframed by golden ornaments in the shape of twining leaves, he tilts his head towards the side so that the red welts on his skin sit exactly above the edge of the collar. It reminds him of the rare roses that blossom in Irmo’s garden at its very end, crimson, almost black with marbled leaves of silver and gold, the same colors of which his jewelry is made. The part of it which wraps so smoothly around his throat is made of little plates, each one not larger than half an inch, alternating silver and gold, held together by tiny rings. It enwraps his throat completely with his laryngeal prominence being the limitation on its upper end. Without doubt it is beautiful, yet the true beauty of the collar unfolds on his shoulders and on his chest. From the lowest plates, strings of twisted gold fall across his collarbone like tiny ropes.

An allusion to the flaxen ropes he had seen hanging right next to the riding crops, Ingwë wonders. A foreboding to what would await him tonight – or tomorrow? Although the thought of being constrained by flaxen ropes still repulses him, beneath the surface other, more delicate emotions begin to simmer, with strange curiosity certainly among them.  

The golden strings are attached perfectly symmetrically to the collar, with the outer strings being the shortest; from there each golden string grows in size with the one right in the middle being the longest one, so that it resembles an inverse triangle, sort of, with a massive sapphire, as large as Ingwë’s thumb being the tip of the triangle. It strangely resembles the largest stone that is set into his crown, so that both jewelry fit well together.

In shock Ingwë snatches his hand away, feeling the metal magically vibrate against his skin. In its wake he curses his own filthy mind. He isn’t truly interested in being shared. But then, if he is not, why does his body react to such innocent thoughts? Why does he think something like this? Ridiculous, Ingwë judges his thoughts, but what if the collar truly transmits his thoughts immediately to its master, the one who wields it? Or worse: if its master whispers to it in secret and his thoughts are transferred right into Ingwë’s mind? And once thought, fantasized about such things, he has to indeed do it?

With a sigh, he forces such thoughts to the back of his head and instead he lets his gaze travel over all the bruises again; over the dark shadows beneath his eyes that were so uncommon – and despised among his kin.

Lost in his musings, Ingwë has not heard the approaching footsteps. And although he should be startled, and alarmed, to see Manwë in his full court attire, the winged crown included, Ingwë is not.

“Whatever we call beauty, we define for ourselves.” The echo of Manwë’s words weaves into Ingwë’s mind. They thunder and recoil; twist and soar. Said with much emotion – of the kind Ingwë had always dreamt of, but never truly hoped for, assisted and intensified by soft hands upon his hips, just there where they had rested the night before. However, they do not linger, but wrap around Ingwë’s body like giant eagle wings, warm and soft. Ingwë sighs softly, a sweet and breathy sound, feeling safe and secure as he had not felt in all the days since he had left his mother’s womb. Enfolded in tenderness, affection blossoms in Ingwë’s chest and before he realizes, his eyes fall close, giving in to the soft caresses.

“I must apologize for my absence,” says Manwë in a tone that makes Ingwë’s heart flutter, warm and soothing, like a distant lullaby carried towards him on the winds. “Important matters demanded my attention – no, nothing in the world is more important to me as you are, Ingwë Ingwërion, so worry not: you are directly affected.”

Ingwë tilts his head, establishing eye contact through the mirror to push the question lingering on his mind. He doesn’t comprehend the strange riddle presented to him. All too easily Ingwë could lose himself in the sensation that the breath, crawling along his naked skin, provokes, yet he had become cautious and forces himself not to sway.

“Curious? I would be, too,” says Manwë, a laughing edge to his voice as his hands wander down towards Ingwë’s semi-erect cock. “Because of the importance of the day, to celebrate fantasies that finally have come to life, I have shifted the council from the day after tomorrow to today and to my halls.”

The words in Ingwë’s head chase each other. “Today? Here?” he asks, shocked. He flinches in the Vala’s embrace.

An idle sweep of Manwë’s fingertips against his collarbone, a kiss to the side of his throat, and yet again Ingwë’s feels his knees grow weak. “Indeed,” whispers Manwë against Ingwë’s skin, and then, quite forthright he announces, “I cannot be bothered to leave these halls.”

The implication why is plainly obvious, assisted by the press of something hard against the small of Ingwë’s back, by kisses against his abused throat that soon evolve into bites.

Some sort of cruel mockery rings in every word the Vala says. “You seem disappointed?”

To his own surprise, he is not.

Ingwë shakes his head. Afraid and worried he might be, and  entirely not in a state to hold endless conversation with half of Aman’s most important people; Elves and Maiar and Valar, although the Valar’s  presence is often sparse. He dearly hopes today is no exception to this regularity because even now he remembers, actually feels, Námo’s burning gaze on his naked skin. “I – ,” begins Ingwë, before he stops, rendered speechless by words that all of a sudden fill his mind, accompanied by the same chuckle, faint and serene, that is all too real.

‘Tomorrow we shall see if you will regret your choice.’

“No,” Ingwë all but breathes. He had entirely forgotten that he had not only chosen the golden claps the night before, but also something for the morning.

‘Chose one for the night – and one for the morning after.’

Those had been the Vala’s words.

And as to prove a point, the string of silver spheres, five in total, connected to each other by thin silver wire, dangles right before Ingwë’s face. “You shall wear them, and proudly so.” A pause. A smile. “Whenever I demand it.”

Defiance sparks on Ingwë’s side as he finally comprehends the true extent of the implication. “You planned that meeting all along,” he accuses the Vala.

Now it is Manwë’s turn to shake his head. “Incorrect. I made my choice the moment you made yours,” he says, not entirely humorless.

Watching the icy flames in Manwë’s eyes in the reflection is not enough to erase his doubts, so Ingwë turns around in the Vala’s embrace and looks him right into the eyes.

Affirmation he sees there – and worse. A smirk, so filthy and telling, followed by a brief glimpse right into the Vala’s mind that makes him shudder. It is himself he sees there, squirming on his seat in Manwë’s official court room, cheeks burning. It is clear from the burning candles that it must be late at night already, so he must have spent long hours in such maddening discomfort.

“You cannot mean –“ he stutters, hands shaking against the Vala’s shoulders.

“No?” Manwë kisses Ingwë right on the lips, long enough to make him quiver, short enough not to rouse him. “Yet such is your fate. You shall wear the string of pearls inside of you, and each time you shift in your seat they will move; and each time they vibrate against your walls you will think of me – and whilst you do will watch me. Always.”

Ingwë swallows half the words he wishes to say. “I made my choice thinking –“

Manwë cuts Ingwë’s words off. “You thought wrongly then.”

There was nothing Ingwë could say in his defense. He had not been thinking then, it is true; he had been overwhelmed by emotions that coursed through him, having become strangely addicted to his own fate.

Taking obvious delight in his own words and in the fact that he again is stroking Ingwë, now fully hard, he continues. “Beneath your robes you will grow hard and aching, so that no coherent thought will form in your mind. A pity, truly, and most likely quite embarrassing for you. Many matters directly concern your people and can hardly be discussed by your faithful advisors as they require the approval of their king and so you must be present.”

Ingwë is close to crying, thinking about his sore backside.

“You will be watched and not by my eyes alone. Remember? Most attending court today were present last night when so wonderfully you have knelt before me. Quite certainly the question what has caused you such distraction will arise.”

A kiss upon Ingwë’s lips, another one that kissed away the tear from his glowing cheek and then the string of spheres is placed into Ingwë’s hand.

“You would not dare to refuse me?” It is not meant as a question.

Slowly, Ingwë shakes his head, looking to the ground, trying not to listen to the whispering voice in his head. ‘Before all eyes I could bend you across the grand table, fuck you in full court attire and yet within minutes you would be moaning despite all your shame.’

And then, shame burning brightly across his cheeks, he looks up.

“Good.” A strange nod of affirmation follows as obediently Ingwë directs his gaze upwards. “Disobedience does not suit you well,” the Vala says, and there it is yet again: the smile that speaks of admiration and affection, and most of all of unconditional love; the smile that robs Ingwë of his sanity.

With many doubts but without any regret Ingwë finds himself returning that smile weakly, as he brings the end of the chain dangling from his collar to Manwë’s arm. Surprise flitters across Ingwë’s face as suddenly the fastening reacts to his touch and yields to his trembling fingers as he reattaches it to the Vala’s bracelet.

Drawing in a deep breath, Ingwë hears himself asking with a confidence he had not expected, holding the Vala’s gaze steadfastly. “Would you at least assist me?”

Slowly and deliberately Manwë kisses him then. “I will. Now, and for all the years to come.”

Upon the kindness in the Vala’s voice Ingwë feels tears well up in his eyes – tears of a strange happiness that he now calls his own.

*

by Nixiegenesis