Undome

[Maglor]

He came for him in the morning, or at least Maglor had judged it morning, from the time he had been taken, and brought here, but here there was no light.... only dark.
He thought he had sounded the depths of dispair the night before, when he had seen the titanic walls and spikes of Barad Dur rising into the fume-red sky, black upon grey. He felt almost physically battered by the nature of it; the huge, iron black slabs of windowless stone, lightless, unyeilding, fortress of a Power.
He had been thrown into some subterranean room and left until now. And he had waited, and come to the certitude that the terrors and grief he had endured were but a shelf on a long way down and the bottom was invisible yet in the darkness, but waiting. he was going there.
And at that moment He was there, he had come and Maglor felt his mind begin to peel open like a fruit, fighting against it , and then was stricken with the ease with which he was exposed. He was in his fortess, he was his. He would be smashed on the anvil of Saurons hate.
He had vowed to utter no word or plea.
From before time he had come, servant to one yet greater, and the endless years had only served to refine the cruelty which was within him and this tall Noldo, although worn from millenia of grief, was of those he hated, and he was beautiful as all the Eldar were, on whom lay Saurons hatred. Facing hate, and a blank, obliterating power, Maglor saw that his physical shape had been made huge, eyes burning like dry ice, but also fair, for once Sauron had been so. Maglor met the eyes with his own silver ones, blazing.
' You will have nothing of me that you do not take!
And in that foul place a fire and beauty blazed like Light unleashed, white with courage and fierce clarity.
But this was the stronghold of the Dark,the deepest place of his power and he said ' but I will take everything. And then he changed shape, to become... his father.
You sent the mind away, they said, when tortured, or raped, you send the mind, after a while into another place, far from where pain is.As far as you can , to love, the memory of it, a spar for clinging to.
But Maglor could not, for everywhere he went Sauron was there, here was no escape in love, even so far back in childhood - for Sauron became every-one, his six brothers, his mother...
Everything. He was taking everything.... it went on so long that time unhinged among the pain, the probing of his deepest mental places as if with a trowel, effortlessly. He knew he went mad, but he said nothing, He was sure he said nothing.
And then, when it was over, he was in another room, no cell, but well furnished, rich black and red silks, a window - barred - which showed fiery red sky. Some-one was bathing him, drawing silk sheets over him, forcing a rich red wine to his lips. Not Sauron - he felt, unless he had again changed shape. This one looked like a Noldor, luminously blue eyes, blue-black soft, thick curls of hair, strange tattoos swirled over golden skin.
' Makalaure, come back. ' His voice too had been beautiful, speaking in Quenya, a tongue he himself had not spoken in so very long. The man - although he was not, Maglor's shattered mind did sense that - ran slender fingers over bruised flesh, although most of the pain was internal.
' Elves heal fast, Makalaure ' The one called Saeren had said, and indeed they did, they had to, because of what they were , made to endure as long as the world. And Saeren spoke to him, as the days went past.
And after that it was very bad.
Sauron had not been able to break him with violence, or with cruelty - so now he handed it over to his son, who was far more subtle, far more dangerous.
He exuded a dark magnetic force like the pull of some giant planet, a sensual eroticism, which he used to far more affect than brutality , and he used that to twist Maglor into desiring the very thing he hated, the skilled torturer and the tortured, bonded together by pain, a pain which Saeren twisted into terrible pleasure. Maglor willed to die, - but could not - he remained there and was left, as the armies of the Last Alliance made war on the Dagorlad, for ten years. Until Sauron himself came forth - and Isildur cut the one ring from his hand.
Maglor came to himself lying in rubble, beside a sink of polluted water, hearing clear Elven voices.
Elves from Imladris were searching for survivors, and finding him, they carried him back to their encampment.
It was Elrond who knew him, and Glorfindel, for in the First Age, when Maedhros and Maglor had, to claim the last two Silmarils, swept down on the havens of Sirion and slain their kindred, they had captured the young Elrond and Elros, - but Maglor had come to love the children as his own, and treated them so.
He heard Elrond asking what had happened, but could not speak - he was dumb until they reached Imladris, when Elrond went into his mind - and then he had to be restrained for fear of the violence he would do to himself. His body was strong, and soon regained its native strength, but his mind was damaged. And even now, three thousand years later , as he dwelled in Imladris, he would start out of sleep, cold and shaking, blasted with self loathing and horror.

He rose from the wide bed and poured wine, going to the balcony, swallowing a mouthful - dawn was coming - yet it brought him no joy. Nothing did any longer

[Saeren]

Saeren had long known the secret way into Imladris, prisoners had been captured before, of course, but this was something he knew by observation, not through the screamed words of a tortured elf. He had followed his twin here, a long time ago.
A sound joined the night silences, but this was not a silence, it was a flawless, beautiful harping, a voice which had entranced even the Valar in Aman, long ago, a voice which seemed to find its truest freedom only in song. Listening, Saeren smiled, a white, brief gleam in the dimness.

*I could never mistake that voice,* his words held laughter, his night-sighted eyes humour. * he could be most useful - and this time, I will have more time to break him to my will. We were rather interrupted by the Last Alliance, the last time he was in our hands. Besides.... he knows where he threw the Silmaril into the sea, .

Saeren moving like a shadow into shadow, reached the wall, jumped, landed like a cat , and disapeared into the garden . Scents of flowers surrounded him.
Light spilled out from a wide veranda, a dark shadow rose, stepping out, and Saeren watched, still as stone, as one of the external lamps caught the high boned face in all its beauty, , shone in eyes as silver as polished mithril, which somehow still showed ages of torment, of grief. Saeren wanted to snap him out of that self pity without driving him into fading . And the Feanoreans did not easily fade.
*I want you as you were Makalaure, with the fire burning, the last of the Sons of Feanor. Your potential is so vast and you do not even know it.*

[Maglor]

His head came up as if he sensed something out there , in the darkness,
There were those who believed that once evil had happened to one, then one drew evil again and again, - as an abused child, or woman did, that evil somehow knew a victim, and was attracted to such.
Maglor had indeed been a victim, but he did not carry that essence within him, he had been tormented, but not broken , but the torments had made him very sensitive to the Dark.
Which was why, in the spring, the year when the Ring had gone into Orodruin, and Sauron destroyed, Maglor did not feel the lightening of a weight, the promise of peace and rich times to come - he felt only dread lying at the bottom of his heart.
''Maglor, you must put this off now, '' Elrond had said to him. . And he had tried to, for Elrond was like a son to him, but he fooled no-one , he knew - and how could he give voice to the certainty that it was not over? Who would listen?
Only, had he said one thing, to Elrond.
''His son is not dead, I know this,'' and saw Elronds eyes go dark a moment.
So now, when he felt his skin prickle as if exposed to ice or great heat, and felt his heart stop and then thud again, he turned as if touched by something, raising his head. Not to flee. But to face it.

[Saeren]

'' Suilad, cun lend nin ' Saerens voice was velvet dark, it was a voice his father had once had, before he had fallen so far that all beauty departed from him. And perhaps he had resented having a son of such physical beauty and charm, and all his arts could not destroy it, much though he tried.
So he used him, hoping to see it twist, as his own did, but it not, perhaps Saerens mother , from beyond the Circles of the World, reached out to leave her son something of herself, before Sauron ruined and murdered her. '' of course you were right. You knew I lived, you know what I can do in time - but I am not Sauron , I have my own agenda. '' And he smiled, as if he were an expected guest, who did expect a warm welcome and hospitality.

[Maglor]

Once, Melkor, before Maglors father had named him Morgoth Black Foe of the world, had spoken, with seeming gentleness to Feanor at Formenos, in Aman, and had roused in the Noldor a fire fiercer than he knew, and an undying hatred, for Feanors eyes could strip all dissimulation from even that great Power and see his true heart.
Although Maglor was old, having lived twelve thousand years in Aman, and almost seven here on Middle Earth, age did not diminish strength in the Eldar , but suffering, weariness of spirit, could all take their toll, - the only reason Maglor had not faded, as the Eldar did, was that his fathers fire, as well as his mothers gentle spirit, burned in him, banked down, truly, but still there, under the embers of thousands of years.
As if oil had been thrown on a slumbering firebed, suddenly it exploded , flashed through him like an inferno, blazing his eyes into almost white heat. He threw himself at his enemy and they both hit the ground, hard, rolliing across the grass.

[Saeren]

Saeren laughed, and at first, did not fight, he never did the expected thing, knowing it always threw people off balance, even when Maglor struck him, pain was something he was used to, and enjoyed - giving it, receiving it - he felt Maglors rage, and savoured it - he had known it was there, only he could really release it - only such collosal hatred.

Maglor had his shoulders pinned down, but by using a trace assertion of his power the strength of the Ainur, he used it only to lift his head and smile, with a wink, knowing it would fan that already incandescent rage , he did it to taunt, and shock and infuriate, he was a master player of mind-games and he knew how people worked. And he knew exactly what Maglor would read in that smile. Everything. Every moment of a time three thousand years ago.
Many people of cruelty, and * evil *, used it like a hammer, torturing, causing suffering , pain, with all the finnesse of a man chopping down a tree, Saeren had made it into an art-form

[Maglor]

Maglor felt the shock right through him, like a lightning strike, and like one, it threw him backwards, his horror, his sense of something so wrong, yet also so horrifyingly familiar, onto his feet, his hand going across his mouth, his eyes showing his desire to retch, his dark hair falling across his face, his chest rising and falling in quick breaths. The curse of the Eldar was their memories, of being able to recall things done in another age, as if they moved again, before their eyes, he remembered everything.
There was no escape from it , torture and pain could be endured and would be, but against what Tar had done there as no defense even for the strongest, because he knew people well, men women, elves, humans, and he knew that the body was a terrible traitor to the mind, that there were things any-one could do, with enough knowledge of the body, that no-one could fight against, which were set within people to allow for pleasure - all part of the long, eternal process which allowed people to come together in desire and love to create children, so that it could be - if all were well - not an animalistic act, but something to be enjoyed, Eru's gift, perhaps, to make the getting of children something beautiful. But there was the other side of the coin, the fact that there could be desire without love, that it could be used to prove to some-one that what they loathed and hated could be twisted into something that they wanted - if a man were skilled enough, he could make any woman want him, even while she would gladly see him dead - and if a man were truly skilled and without morals, or cruel enough, they could also do that to another man.
And that was the truest part of the torture, which many never understood, because that hate was then turned on oneself, in corrosive bitterness. And Maglor had known, always, that Tar only used that to prove a point, it was simply another form of power, there was nothing in the least effete about Tar, he could not be judged by any moral standard held by any culture in the world, for he operated outside any of them, no rules applied to him.

Maglor cried, in a voice which could have touched, shattered stone, as he never had in Barad Dur.
' What do you want with me?!

[Saeren]

Saeren threw back his head and laughed, a free laugh, truly appreciative, as he faced Maglor - they were of a a height, of the same build, broad shouldered and slim hipped, the same dark hair, they could almost have been brothers, and perhaps in some distant way, through Saerens mothers line and Maglors grandfathers, they might share blood .

'' What did I ever want of you? '' he asked equivocally, '' You will call me Lord, Maglor - one way or the other, '' then , turning without warning, without a change of tone, coming fast as a cobras strike: '' Where is the place where you threw the Silmaril, Makalaure . Something ties you to this place, to Middle Earth - it must be a torment. And you and I... we know all about torment, do we not? Something tethers your mind, your heart, your body , - so many things have changed, Maglor, since then, lands, rivers, even the patterns of the stars. But you linger when you might have peace. Is it not the Silmaril which binds you? '' For a moment, red fire shone in his eyes.

[Maglor]

Maglor did not know how much he resembled his father at that moment, seeming to grow taller, the fire unleashed, - even Saeren had not been born when Feanor died, it was said his likeness had never been seen on Middle earth since his death.

'' You will never be my lord, spawn of Sauron, '' his deep voice sounded as if it scraped over metal, dragged from his soul, every muscle ridged and hard, with the blaze of his anger, then, indeed, those last words did hit him from an unguarded angle , made him gasp. For a moment he could find no words, none which would express how he felt.

' ... It is gone! And they burned Morgoths hand black! You could never touch it! ' flashed from him, then, before he added, more quietly, as if to himself. '' It would not suffer me to touch it...''

[Saeren]

'' Nothing can destroy the Silmarils, Makalaure, ' Saeren had a voice of black silk and rich red wine, he looked up, the night air in his hair, watching the clouds part as if he had ordered them, but it was truly a change in the upper airs, as, on the horizon, Earendil blazed like a smaller sun, blue-white and radiant, in Vingilot, the Last Silmaril on his brow. '' there he runs, '' he whispered. '' And yours too, shines in the deeps, Maglor. Who knows, perhaps your sufferings have made you fit to hold it, now ''

[Maglor]

" And if not will you seek to ammend that? You believe only a broken reed can hold the Silmaril? '' he said through his teeth, '' You will not break me, I will not bow to thee, I will not say what you wish to hear me say! Begone, son of Sauron! '' Such a wrath and fire blazed from him then that gifted eyes could see it like a halo around him, a magnificence and denial that had been before Sauron in Barad Dur - but Sauron was easy to fight, his son was not.
'' You want my fathers jewel, find it yourself, and I pray it blinds thee and burns thee! Now get thee hence! ''

[Saeren]

Having acheived precisely what he had desired to achieve - as for the Silmaril, and the place where Maglor had hurled it into the sea, he could always get that from Maglors mind - Saeren smiled in open appreciation, nothing was more likely to give such a slumbering volcano as Maglor the energy to explode into life as this fury intertwined with hate and shame and pain, it was one of the few things that would rouse him.

'' Makalaure, when you ask so nicely, how can I refuse thee? '' he said, derving satisfaction from knowing such a reply would only stoke the flames higher. Morgoth, sent from Feanors house had left in flaming rage and shame - Tar was replaying that as he would have done it. A red fire shimmered over his body like rippling silk and he vanished - but he did not go far. he waited....

[Maglor]

Maglor only waited until he was vanished, before he dropped to his knees, not out of weakness, but unbearable relief, his fingers clenching into the cool grass, his thoughts boiling like a furious maestrom, made no sense even to himself.

Atar! Forgive me, what could I have done, what shame have I brought upon your name!
His brow misted with perspiration he bowed his head, his breathing tormented, his face, when he raised it, , marble-hard, with wrath, and pain. He came to his feet and strode into the house, rousing his sleeping servants.
'' Saddle the horses, bring the hawks, we go hunting, now! Yes it is night, but we go now! '' He had to leave, feel the clean air, have it try to cleanse away a terrible, burning private horror which truly nothing could ever wash away....and he thought with a sudden yearning of the cleansing fire of the Silmaril........
He knew where he had thrown it, so long ago, he could never forget that, But it could never be recovered.... never.

[Maglor]

One of the beaters halloed a warning. immediately, Maglor slipped of the falcons hood with his right hand, gave her a moment to adjust to her surroundings, then launched her,
She was long winged, a white Ger falcon called Tesuko, and she whooshed up into the sky, circling to her station six hundred feet above. Turning on the downwind pass, she saw the dogs sent in and the covey of pheasant scattered in a wild flurry of wing beatings.
She marked her prey - heeled over and stooped - closed her wings and dived relentlessly - her talons ready to hack.

She came hurtling down, but an old c/ock pheasant, twice her size , side slipped, and in panic, tore arrow straight for the safety of a copse of trees, two hundred paces away. Tesuko recovered, opening her wings, charging headlong after her quarry, gained altitude and then once more vertically above the old pheasant stooped, hacked viciously, and again missed, Maglor gave a shout of encouragement, eyes very bright.
With a frantic clatter of wings, the bird was streaking for the protection of the trees. the falcon, again whirling high above, came slashing down, but too late, the wily pheasant vanished. Careless of her own safety, the falcon crashed through the leaves and bushes, ferociously seeking her victim, then recovered and flashed into the open once more, shrieking with rage, to rush high over the copse.
The Elves watched, absorbed, as at that moment a covey of partridge was flushed and whirred away, staying close to the ground, seeking safety, darting this way and that, cunningly following the contours of the earth. Tesuko marked one, folded her wings and fell like a stone. this time she did not miss. One vicious hack of her hind talons as she passed broke the partridges back. the bird crashed to the ground in a bursting cloud of feathers. but instead of following her kill to the earth or binding it to her and landing with it, she soared screaming into the sky, soaring higher and ever higher.
' Lord, she will fly free, ' Maglors hunt master said, sadly, but the Noldo only smiled and shook his head, waiting.
Then the wily old c/ock pheasant casually broke from the trees to feed once more. And Tesuko stooped, plummeting from the heavens, a tiny, streamlined weapon of death, her claws ready for the coup de grace.
The pheasant died instantly, feathers bursting from him on impact, but she held on, falling with him to let go, wings slashing violently to brake at the very last second. then they closed and she settled on her kill.
She held it in her claws and began to pluck at it with her beak, prior to eating. But before she could eat Maglor rode up, and she stopped distracted, merciless eyes watching as he dismounted, her ears listening to his cooing praise of her skill and bravery, and then because she was hungry and he the giver of food, and also because he was patient and made no sudden movement , but knelt gently, she allowed him to come closer.
Maglor was complimenting her softly. he took out his hunting knife and split the pheasants head, to allow Tesuko to feed on the brains. As she began to feast on this tidbit, at his whim, he cut of the head and came effortlessly onto his fist, where she was accustomed to feed.
All the time he praised her and when she had finished stroked her gently. She bobbed and hissed her contentment, glad to be safely back on the fist once more, where she could eat, as she ever had since first taken from the nest. Because she had flown so well, Maglor decided to let her gorge and fly no more today. He gave her a small bird that he had already plucked and opened for her and when she was halfway through slipped back on her hood. The Elves watching gloried in her speed and the last beautiful kill, as they rode on, allowing their own bids to fly.
For a while, Maglor too had been taken into that, and away from the excoriating blaze within his soulwhich burned and ate like acid.

[Maglor]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The night wind rushed down Bruinen and the deep cloven valley, shredding Maglors black hair as he leaned on his balcony, the moon, gibbous and softly brilliant, hung in the sky like a coin , flower scents reached him, all here had been beauty and peace... but not now, not any longer...

The moon seemed to expand, become a sanguine, whirling thing.
He was tied to a wheel-like apparatus, lying prone, with hands and feet fiercely compressed by the torturers manacles,and he focusing , every more sharply, the pain that seemed to flood through every orifice of his body. The wheel turned, lowering him head first into the vat of orc-filth. Even though his tongue had been wedged open, he stopped his throat with his swollen tongue, staving off drowning, while fresh agony grew in his bursting lungs. Just as the symphony of pain seemed to reach its crescendo, he was forced to a further extreme by the thrust of his impalement. The sunburst. The release, the turn of the wheel into the air,. the humiliating ignominy as the combined ecstasy and anguish receded.
Stop, Maglors mind pleaded with him Don't..
Don't stop?
Saeren would cleanse him tenderly, laughing, his beautiful face hovering in torn scarlet mist, sometimes kissing his unbroken body.( and this was the worst of all and brought Maglor closest to crying out hate-love and defiance and thus to the brink of imbecility )
Scream, he was told gently, Saurons voice, Curse me aloud and it will be consummated
But he would not utter a sound , shutting eyes and mind and the knowledge of what inevitably came next.
Stop. Don't stop, let me die rather than feel, than know
Scream, only scream for an end

But he would not and the wheel, come full circle carried him down again into the feculent trough. His soul shrank, his identity hid away in the tiny mental sanctuary that remained buried in the contradictions of pleasure and pain, humiliation and rapture, love and hate,. he was being destroyed...created, demolished

Don't stop... torturer beloved...

Everything hid away, before Sauron, Sauron who tortured, Saeren who was gentle, the torture refined and different, dumb he was and unbroken until Sauron , disgusted, rummaged around in the sanctuary of his mind, finding that tiny, hidden centre of self, he could not break, and had not the time, for the armies of the Last Alliance gathered.

And so he was taken away from that room, and left alone with Saeren...