Three mornings later, Fëanor woke with a start - another nightmare, reliving the burning of the ships, then the Balrog ambush and his own death in flames. It seemed that no matter what, he couldn't escape the past.
Or its consequences. Fëanor decided to let Maglor sleep and handle the distress himself, and went out to take a walk through the gardens and watch the sunrise, much as he was not a morning person and would have gladly returned to sleep were it not for the nightmare. As he sat on a rock and watched the pastel clouds over the ocean, the wind in his hair, suddenly a white raven flew overhead and something hit him in the face, then dropped to the ground beside him. A scroll, sealed with wax.
Finarfin's seal. And one of Finarfin's messenger birds. Fëanor considered for a brief moment letting Maglor open it, but his curiosity won out and he opened it himself, with intent to share the news. The message was in Finarfin's careful, elegant hand.
To Fëanáro and Kanafinwë,
Ñolofinwë has asked me to inform you that his son Turukáno and daughter-in-law Elenwë are expecting their second child. There will be a celebration in a fortnight's time, but it has been requested by both Ñolofinwë and Turukáno that Fëanor not attend until and unless Fëanor and Ñolofinwë have reconciled, for the well-being and safety of everyone in attendance.
I urge you, Fëanáro, to consider this not merely for your brother's sake, but for the forgiveness of your nephew and niece-in-law. Turukáno understands you were mad with grief and is willing to show compassion, but you must prove you have changed.
Love to you both,
Arafinwë
Fëanor found himself reflexively crumpling the scroll, his fist shaking as he held it, almost burning in his hand. His heart pounded in his ears, his mouth dry as his mind's eye replayed Fingolfin's rejection after their father's death... defending himself and his sons against the Teleri... burning the ships... finding out in Mandos who had died on the Helcaraxë because of his impulsive rage. Of course, Elenwë was re-embodied, but Fëanor was sure she remembered her death the way he remembered his. It hurt to know Turgon and Elenwë were willing to forgive him, after everything.
And yet, that forgiveness was contingent on him... groveling to Fingolfin.
It was bad enough that his re-embodiment had been contingent upon him publicly apologizing to Manwë for his rebellion - something he had only done for the sake of his sons, not wanting them to be hurt with the void of a missing father. In his heart of hearts, he still wasn't sorry, and he felt Manwë should have been the one to apologize to him, but he kept that thought to himself and was allowed to live his second chance at life in peace.
This, however, was adding insult to injury. It said a lot about how Fëanor felt about the rift with his brother-lover that he could endure an apology to Manwë - who he still felt was an incompetent, untrustworthy piece of shit - but could not and would not endure an apology to Fingolfin... or at least, being the first to make it. While Fëanor knew not to put the blame on the battle with the Teleri and the loss of life incurred by the loss of ships, on his brother, he nonetheless wondered how things would have been different if Fingolfin had not refused him after Finwë's murder - the last time they had made love had been just before the Darkening and Fingolfin was convinced their forbidden love was cursed. Now their love was no longer forbidden by the Laws, but Fingolfin was still unwilling to take the first step of reconciliation. That fell on him.
And it made him angry.
Fëanor was tired of being angry. He was tired of having a reputation for being angry - even when he was a young ellon, and Rúmil had called him "a sullen, sulky brat". He too wanted some peace and quiet in his life, and yet it seemed like everybody was entitled to it but him, and he had to grovel for his.
Fëanor looked at the crumpled scroll in his palm. He thought about pitching it off the cliff into the waves. He decided that was a bad idea - it was, after all, addressed to Maglor as well as him, and Maglor had a right to know what it said even though Fëanor was sure Maglor would try to convince him to apologize to Fingolfin as "the right thing to do".
Fëanor took the scroll inside. He considered going to the forge to make something for Elenwë - a tangible apology for her, and his sincere well-wishes. And then he decided against it, thinking of the Silmarils. His greatest work... which brought about his greatest failure. Losing everything, and everyone, that he loved. He didn't know if Turgon would be offended at his wife receiving jewelry from one whose jewels had become a plague.
He needed to make something to try to distract himself, to try to cope with the constant ache that was missing Fingolfin. He thought about the blueberry pancakes Maglor had made for him, and decided to return the favor... this time making pancakes with the wild strawberries that grew in abundance on the island.
Maglor came in the kitchen just as the pancakes were nearly done. The way his face lit up almost lifted Fëanor out of the earlier darkness. Almost.
But then Maglor saw the crumpled scroll on the counter. Wordlessly, he uncrumpled it and read its contents, scowling, while Fëanor feigned nonchalance and put the stacks of finished pancakes on plates. Once Maglor was done reading, they took their meal in silence, and Fëanor knew Maglor was mentally weighing what he'd read.
The servants took care of the dishes, and Fëanor went back out to the gardens, needing to be alone - feeling ashamed. Yet, Maglor followed him out there a few moments later. They stood side by side, watching the waves, and at last Maglor put a hand on Fëanor's shoulder and just that gentle touch made Fëanor fall apart.
Maglor held him and let him cry. "I know."
Fëanor looked up. "Do you really?" He took a deep breath and let it out. "I don't want to apologize to him. I don't want to sound ungrateful for Turukáno and Elenwë being willing to forgive me after... everything. But he should be the one to apologize to me. And even if I were to apologize the way I 'apologized' to Manwë, just to keep the peace... I'm afraid of being hurt again, being rejected again. And I don't even know that I deserve Turukáno's forgiveness -"
Maglor put a finger to Fëanor's lips. But Fëanor pulled his head back and spoke the words that had been eating at him since his return. "Manwë should have left me in Mandos. He was an idiot. I don't belong here -"
"Stop that at once." Maglor's face was stern, and the silver fire of his eyes sent a frisson down Fëanor's spine.
Maglor took Fëanor's arm and practically dragged him back inside the villa. Fëanor expected Maglor to take him to the bedroom and perhaps hold him and let him cry some more, but instead they were heading in a different direction.
There was a dungeon at Finarfin's vacation home, just as there was in Finarfin's palace. Fëanor knew he should have expected it and he was surprised all the same. Maglor let go of him. "Undress, then kneel," he commanded.
Fëanor did as he was told. Once he was naked he knelt onto the cool floor and reverently bowed his head.
"When Arafinwë and his forces defeated Morgoth, Manwë told him that for his valor he could request three things. One of those was the return of his dead kin. Including you. It was not Manwë who decided to bring you back from Mandos, it was Ara himself. And it was a decision I agreed with, and continue to agree with." Maglor folded his arms. "Are you going to tell us that we were wrong? Are you going to insult us and tell us we were stupid?"
Fëanor's cheeks flushed. "Well, no..."
"You do deserve a second chance. Ara thinks so. I think so." Maglor came closer, took Fëanor's chin in his hand, and tilted Fëanor's face up, making Fëanor look into his eyes. Then he tenderly touched Fëanor's face. "I think you want to be our good boy. I think you want to earn being our good boy. Don't you?"
Fëanor nodded. His cock began to rise as his mind's eye replayed memories of submitting to Finarfin, long ago... and Fingolfin... and now Maglor.
Maglor placed a hand on Fëanor's head for a moment. "Stay," he said.
Fëanor stayed, continuing to kneel on the floor, naked, hard and aching, as Maglor stepped out. A few minutes later Maglor came back with a palantir. Fëanor glanced over and saw Finarfin appear in the glass, lazily stroking himself, and Fëanor couldn't help but smile a little.
Fëanor's smile faded when Maglor produced the collar and leash of diamonds and pearls that he had made long ago - that Fëanor had worn for Finarfin, and then Finarfin had given to Maglor while he was in Mandos and Maglor had become Finarfin's submissive. It felt somehow both wrong and right at once to accept the collar from Maglor.
"This belongs to you," Maglor said. "And you belong to me. And Ara." He clasped the collar around Fëanor's neck, clipped the leash through, and touched Fëanor's face. "You can make one to replace it, for when I submit to Ara again, and he makes us perform together for him. In the meantime..."
The thought of him and Maglor fucking for Finarfin's enjoyment made Fëanor's hole twitch, his cock throbbing urgently. It destroyed any lingering reservations he had about taking back the collar. He looked at Finarfin in the palantir and the smug, knowing smile Finarfin gave him as he stroked himself a little faster was almost his undoing.
"Now then..." Maglor tugged on the collar, pulling Fëanor up from the floor. Clad only in a black silk robe - tented from his erection - while Fëanor was nude, Maglor led Fëanor over to the rack of implements. Floggers, whips, canes. Fëanor's cock leapt and began dripping with pre-spend. Dripping onto the floor. Fëanor felt shameless, wanton, and they hadn't even begun.
Oh, how he loved that slutty feeling.
"Choose how you will begin the path of redemption," Maglor said.
Fëanor didn't hesitate. "I want the whip. And the cane."
Of these, he chose the most severe - the whip with nine knotted cords, and a long, thin cane with a twisted handle. It had been a long, long time since he'd been whipped or caned, and while he knew it was probably better to start small and work his way up to pain tolerance again, Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion never did anything halfway.
"Not more than five lashes with each," Finarfin warned from the palantir.
Fëanor shot him a look. "I can take ten -"
"You can take five." Finarfin gave him a look right back. Then he said to Maglor, "And give him something to bite down on. Warm him up with a few strokes of the flogger."
Maglor led Fëanor over to the diagonal cross. As Fëanor faced the wall, Maglor shackled his ankles, then his wrists. Fëanor took some deep breaths, knowing soon he would be in the most excruciating pain of his second life - and he couldn't wait.
Maglor held a stick to Fëanor's lips. Fëanor opened his mouth and bit down, the stick between his teeth, making his jaw ache a little. Of course, that was nothing compared to what was about to come. Fëanor's cock pulsed with anticipation.
Maglor walked back over to the rack of impact toys and came back with a leather flogger. Fëanor continued to breathe through his clenched teeth. And then he felt the flogger smack his left shoulder. Thudding into his bones, the sting searing across his back. Fëanor cried out around the stick in his mouth, his body shivering with pleasure-pain. The flogger struck his right shoulder and Fëanor cried out again, louder.
The flogger struck his upper back once, twice. The sweet sting radiated through his entire body, stiffening his cock. Then the flogger cracked against his left buttock, then his right. Fëanor whimpered, his hole twitching as the pain-pleasure shot up his spine and back down, winding through his legs. If he wasn't shackled to the cross he knew he would fall over.
It was already too much, and yet not enough.
Maglor put down the flogger and took the whip. He showed it to Fëanor. "Do you still want this?"
Fëanor nodded vehemently.
Maglor exhaled. Then the whip struck Fëanor's back. All nine cords of it, stinging, slashing. Fëanor felt it slicing his skin, the stinging pain going deeper, hotter. Fëanor sobbed and shuddered, the pain ringing through his entire body until it was the only thing that existed. Pain. Surrender.
Maglor's power.
The whip cracked against his back again. Fëanor screamed around the stick in his mouth, and still he endured. Just as Fëanor transmuted the silima, now his pain became pleasure. An offering to the men he loved. His body, the blood flowing down his back, as art. The sweet surrender of submission purifying his heart, shining like a living jewel.
The whip struck him a third time. Fëanor felt like he was floating, flying, even though the shackles held him fast. Each breath was like fire, making the urgent pain of his broken skin worse. Every beat of his heart was a fractal of color, of light, going deeper and deeper into surrendering to Maglor, going deeper and deeper into Maglor's Song.
The whip lashed him a fourth time, then a fifth. Fëanor screamed again, and sobbed, the pain more and more intense with each breath, each quiver. His entire body felt like it was burning again...
...his soul felt like it was on fire. Everything was sensation, emotion. This dungeon was the forge of his spirit, being shaped under Maglor's touch and Finarfin's eyes. It was as close to perfection as Fëanor would ever get.
Maglor replaced the whip with the cane. Again, Fëanor consented even though he knew he couldn't take much more.
The cane struck his ass, and that hurt even more than the whip. Fëanor howled around the stick in his mouth, biting down. He felt the blood trickling, a sensation like fiery knives in his flesh. And still, he would endure this. He would be their good boy.
He would be their silima.
Maglor hit Fëanor's ass with the cane again. The room was spinning, and Fëanor closed his eyes and saw spinning fractals, more color, more light. The light of the Trees, sunset and starlight. Another lash, and another, and another. Fëanor wept, the pain breaking him, lancing the festering wounds of his fëa.
"Good boy," Maglor said as he unshackled Fëanor and led him away from the cross, to the table. "Good, good boy."
Fëanor lay on his stomach, facing the palantir, Finarfin continuing to stroke himself slowly. Maglor poured salve over Fëanor's back and ass, and Fëanor felt Maglor's hands grow warm and pulse, healing energy in his fingertips. Fëanor relaxed into Maglor's touch, spreading the salve over him, massaging, caressing. Soothing and arousing all at once.
"That's a good boy," Maglor purred. Fëanor sighed and flexed his fingers and toes. He felt like he was floating again.
"Such a good boy," Finarfin added.
Once Fëanor was all salved up, Maglor said, "Now I will kiss you better, Little One."
Fëanor smiled, his hole twitching in response. "Atya..."
Maglor began to kiss and lick at Fëanor's back. Fëanor had always been sensitive there, but he was even more sensitized after the intense pain - now the pleasure was just as intense as the pain had been, if not moreso. Maglor knew this, taking his time, loving every inch of Fëanor. When he got down to Fëanor's ass cheeks, he kissed, licked, and nibbled there too. Fëanor heard himself panting like he was in heat, his hole wanting attention from Maglor too.
After what felt like forever, Maglor finally lavished love on Fëanor's hole, licking around around the rim, then slowly inside him, while Fëanor writhed and whimpered and squealed, almost ashamed of himself for the undignified noises he was making... how desperate he was for Maglor's cock inside him. Especially when Maglor's tongue sped up, rubbing inside him fast and furious, teasing him to the brink yet keeping his release just out of reach.
"Please. Please, fuck me," Fëanor begged. "Fuck me, Atya..." The sight of Finarfin stroking his cock in the palantir wasn't helping. "Please. Please..."
Maglor teased Fëanor's hole with his clever, wicked tongue until Fëanor couldn't make words to beg anymore, only feral animal noises, gripping the corners of the table white-knuckled. Finarfin moved the palantir closer so Fëanor could get a bigger look at his cock, dripping pre-spend, veiny and flushed a deep red. Fëanor licked the palantir in frustration, wishing he could lick Finarfin's cock. Despite the way his body still ached from the whip and the cane, Fëanor rocked his hips, fucking himself on Maglor's tongue, whimpering urgently.
Maglor pulled back, and Fëanor gave a little sob of relief that Maglor was finally going to fuck him. Except... not just yet. Suddenly, Fëanor heard a wet rattling sound and Maglor breathing harder, and when Maglor moaned, Fëanor realized what he was doing.
"Are you stroking yourself?" Fëanor asked, even though he knew what the answer was.
Maglor responded with a louder moan, and the wet rattling sound was louder as well.
Fëanor bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and squealed. "Please. Please, Atya, please. Please, fuck me, I want your seed inside me, please..."
"Oh, I don't know. Wouldn't you rather be in Mandos? Only good boys get fucked, and if you think you're not good enough -"
"I'll be a good boy! I'll be your good boy, Atya, please, please, I will live for you, please, fuck me, please..."
Maglor just laughed at him and kept stroking, while Fëanor continued to beg - feeling like he was begging for his life, his balls tight and aching, his cock ready to explode.
Then a few moments later Fëanor heard that telltale hitch of breath and he knew Maglor was there. "Please, use me, fuck me, come inside me," Fëanor begged. He knew even if Maglor lasted only a few thrusts, it might be enough for him to come too, as far gone as he was.
Fëanor felt something hot splash his back. Then, groaning, Maglor staggered up to face Fëanor. Gripping his cock tight, his hand a blur, Maglor's seed splashed Fëanor's face. Fëanor held out his tongue and Maglor shot an arc of cream onto his tongue, then his knees buckled and he slid down to the floor, shaking and groaning as Fëanor lay there, even more sexually frustrated with Maglor's seed all over his back and face, tasting it on his tongue.
Finarfin stopped stroking himself - he was still hard and dripping pre-spend, he hadn't come yet - and he waited.
A few minutes later Maglor stood up again. "Please," Fëanor begged. "Please, please, fuck me, please, Atya, please..."
"Are you a good boy?"
"Yes."
"And you'll keep being a good boy, who does what Atya says?"
"Yes, yes..." In that moment Fëanor would have done anything.
Maglor's half-hard cock was in Fëanor's face. "Suck it and get it ready for you, slut."
Fëanor swallowed it down greedily, as much as he could fit in his mouth. He made obscene choking, gulping sounds as he bobbed his head, sucking hard and fast and hungry. Then Maglor yanked on a handful of his hair and rocked his hips, fucking Fëanor's mouth. Fëanor rubbed himself against the table - not enough to climax, frustrating himself even more. Losing himself in lust, worshiping Maglor's cock with his mouth, admiring the sight of Maglor's muscles rippling as he worked his body, the heat in Maglor's eyes as he claimed and conquered.
Finally Maglor pulled out of Fëanor's mouth, climbed on the table, poured oil down Fëanor's crack into his twitching hole, and the tip of his cock was at Fëanor's opening. "Please, Atya," Fëanor begged.
Maglor pushed inside, stretching and filling him, almost too intense. Maglor rested in him for a moment, then he began to thrust, grabbing Fëanor by the hair, pulling on it. "You don't get to come until I tell you to."
"Yes, Atya, yes!"
Maglor fucked him and fucked him, as Finarfin stroked himself frenziedly, watching them. Fëanor worked his hips, matching Maglor's rhythm, their hips slapping together. Finarfin's groans were almost as loud as Fëanor's cries and Maglor's moans and grunts. Maglor's cock rubbed that sweet spot inside him until Fëanor was shaking, begging "please Atya, let me come, let your good boy come," and still Maglor fucked him, pushing him past the breaking point, deeper, higher. Fëanor took all he had to give, needing to come and yet never wanting Maglor to stop. Wanting to keep being used, surrendering, offering himself. Loving and being loved.
And then, Maglor reached around, his hand on Fëanor's cock, stroking vigorously. Maglor fucked him faster, harder, taking Fëanor's breath away. It was the longest moment of Fëanor's life, holding back his orgasm, needing to give more, needing to take more, Maglor inside him, one flesh...
"Come, Little One."
"Atya!" Fëanor threw his head back. "Atya!" Then a wordless howl as the climax thundered through him, his seed pouring over Maglor's hand as his hole contracted, each pulse of pleasure like lightning, like fire, flame transmuted to Song.
Maglor and Finarfin groaned together and Fëanor watched Finarfin shoot ropes of cream onto the glass of the palantir as he felt Maglor spend inside him. Maglor gave a shuddery sigh, then Finarfin. Then Maglor moaned, "Little One."
"Atya," Fëanor breathed, smiling so hard his face hurt. He was spinning again. He could see the fractals. He was the fractals. Everything was light. Pure, beautiful light.
"Good boy." Maglor rested, his chest on Fëanor's back, his hand on Fëanor's head. "My good, good boy."
"What do good boys say, Fëanor?" Finarfin prompted.
"Thank you," Fëanor said. And then, "Thank you for bringing me back to life." He didn't just mean from Mandos. He felt truly alive again.
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