torture cw – MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive

“A question for the both of you really, because I enjoy our pleasant casual chats. Do you have any form of favorite form of torture? I must admit that the brazen bull can be quite amusing”

The bull? No, too impersonal for me… As a form of ritual execution, perhaps, but not for torture.

As to my favorite method, I suppose it depends on what my goal is. Is it a threat to others? A corrective punishment for willful thralls? A means of gaining information? Perhaps personal satisfaction?

I am not a torturer by trade; it is a relatively new craft I’ve had to learn since joining Melkor, one I’ve come to appreciate– though if I am honest with myself, I may have had the aptitude for it long before I came to Angband; I simply never had cause or desire to exercise that potential while serving Aulë. It was only a small push, to think of living things as objects upon which I could exert my craft. Indeed, it did not take much creativity to turn the tools of my old trade into tools of the new. One can use a hammer, chisel, tongs, and hot iron for more than just metalwork.

In many ways, I view it as an extension of my occupation as a smith, or rather, it’s reversal. It is a very intimate and somatic form of deconstruction.

…I don’t wish to romanticize the practice too much; it’s a simple thing to hurt people, to use pain to force one’s will on another. But there are more and less artful ways of going about it; one must consider it a tool to achieve a particular end, and keep the desired result in mind while working towards it. It is essential to consider the particular weaknesses and values of one’s victim, to think of each as a unique project. Otherwise it is simple butchery, and nothing more.

The Quendi, now… I can say with certainty that I take a personal interest the Quendi. They pose a most engrossing challenge– they can endure much more, for far longer, than any other creature, and yet, their spirits can shake free of their body if the torment to their psyche is too great. One must be delicate. It takes time to create a masterpiece, the ones whose taming is so thorough they can be released back to into the world and yet remain yours, always returning to their cage. I appear to have gotten a taste for it over the centuries; I am embarrassed to admit, there are certain elves I would pay dearly to get on my table, that I’ve passed hours imagining how to disassemble most intimately. A few of my… earlier projects got away from me, and the desire to get them back still feels like a hot coal in my breast.

I am getting carried away. As I said before, torture is not something I intend to hold aloft as a true art form– It is a practical tool with a practical purpose, and the fantasy of it is seldom its truth. But still. The power it gives you over creatures of flesh and blood is rather intoxicating, isn’t it? If that prospect held no allure for me, I would not be where I am today.

I am not proud of everything I have become since I left Aulë, but I suppose there’s no use in denying what I am. I’ve earned the names I’ve been given.

misbehavingmaiar:

So… who else has a folder just for reference photos of people hanging by one hand/wrist, just curious

What’s fun about Maedhros reference pictures, in my experience, is that they tend to come from one of two places– extreme fitness forums, where you can find people lifting themselves by one hand, but not hanging limply; or from BDSM sites, where you can find people hanging, but by both wrists because suspension bondage people would never let you hang by one wrist because that’s stupid and crazy and you’ll hurt yourself.

mairon & tyelpe – “it’s so many miles and so long since i’ve met you / don’t even know what i’ll find when i get to you”

moringottos:

they go, we go, I want you to know
what I did, I did

—

maybe something will break.

maybe loosely curled fingers will drop the hammer, the chisel, the knives the lies the chains.

(maybe he can go back and never open the gates–but he knows, he knows he would every time)

there’s still good in you, he tells himself it’s in the hesitation, the way fingers linger on the next knife, reluctant. there’s still good in you, and he counts the seconds in rattled, ragged breaths thinking just one more moment and maybe they can still put this behind them somehow.

there’s still good in you, he thinks wildly, desperately, pleading as those too-familiar fingers curl around the hilt of the knife.

Sauron, do you not like talking about Tyelpe? Surely, you don’t regret what happened? Do you?(I mean two things he seems reluctant to speak of his Tyelpe and Melkor but hey maybe that’s just me?))

OF COURSE I REGRET WHAT HAPPENED.

We could have made something together, if he’d waited, if he’d trusted me–!

*bites down hard and hisses through teeth*

…No. I do not like speaking of Celebrimbor. I take no pleasure in reliving a moment that was both my greatest triumph and my greatest failure. I wove a lie so convincing I began to believe it myself, and when the web burned I burned with it.

Do not force me to speak of this again, or I will stitch your tongue to the roof of your craven mouth.

Sauron you’ve tortured two of Feanor’s descendants. How well do they scream?

Your question confuses me.

The sons and grandsons of Fëanor are known for bearing their pain with remarkable stoicism. But they scream just as “well” as anyone, past a point.

I recall that Maedhros began with fire, spite, and insults, and ended with empty eyes and shaking. Tyelpë… was very quiet, even while he wept.

ashandbrine:

misbehavingmaiar:

There was no shuffle of feet to announce his entrance, no entourage of Orcish guards to mark the arrival of an officer. When he came, he merely appeared, stepping from the lamp-black shadows into the furnace light of the volcanic cell.

“You.” The somber voice curled with disdain. “You’re the one He wanted so badly?” Sauron came forward, thrusting a hand between the bars of the cell to clamp the elf’s bruised jaw between his fingers. He seemed to be appraising a cut of meat, finding it inadequate. “So many sent to die, for this? You look nothing like him.” This was not addressed to Maedhros, and the lieutenant did not bother to clarify who or what he meant as he relinquished his grasp.

“Such a waste.”

The great maia’s back was turned as he examined structures obscured by the darkness of the chamber. Soft metallic sounds echoed amidst the rumbling of the subterranean pit; quiet clinks and clacks of some device turned in the hand, the creak and slither of leather, chilling in their ambiguity. A spray of distant magma illuminated briefly the walls lined with what seemed workman’s tools; racks and rows of hanging instruments, long empty tables, vials and troughs of liquid. He hummed a low note of satisfaction, selecting at last a tool that met with his approval.

“You are… Maedhros. First and eldest of the sons of Fëanor. Yes?” The maia asked, unhurried. He knelt, huge and graceful, before the iron cage, red-gold eyes searching out the prisoner’s. “I am Sauron, first lieutenant and forgemaster of Angband. My Master has given you to me for the purposes of breaking.” He unfurled the whip that had been coiled lazily in his hands, all black braid with many silver-tipped tails. “If you choose to be forthcoming with information that is useful to my Master, we may forgo many painful formalities, but not all. I myself hold no personal grudge against you… if it were in my power to break Lord Melkor’s fascination with those of your house, I would happily do so. To me, you are an enemy soldier, an irritant, worthy of no more attention or special effort than any other. But to my Master…”
The maia blinked slowly, lips touched with an expression of irony; “To my Master, you a most sought and toothsome prize.”

As he spoke, he unlocked the mechanism keeping shut the cage, springing it open. He looked not at all distressed that his prisoner might escape. With one hand he pulled the captive’s chain, forcing him out of the cell at the behest of his neck.

“I do as my Master bids– happily, unhesitatingly, exhaustively. And what He bids is that you shall have the memory of Him burned onto you forever, that His unsatisfied desires, His wrath, shall find satisfaction.”

Sauron tilted his head, eyes flashing in the gloom like an animal’s. “You are to be your father’s whipping boy, Noldo. You can thank Fëanor for what you will endure here; it was he my Master wanted, but He has you instead.”

Awareness had not been born
until the other’s voice has burst into existence. Maedhros was
startled though all he did to show it was a mere widening of his
eyes. No, he wast still and silent as the other grasped his face.
There was no room to flee his foul touch and flinching would have
only served to hurt the weak remains of his pride. (He had a feeling
it wouldn’t remain in tact soon so he clung to it like he had once
clung to Nerdanel’s skirts under a different name.)

His eyes did not lift, did
not take in the room around him at the brief glint of light. It hurt
his eyes after hours spent in darkness more so than the other’s
bruising touch. He did not answer, did not not speak in a long time
nor showed interest in Sauron’s words. He half sought out something
to spite the other, to throw him into a rage that would crush him.
Maedhros had no desire to live if it meant being used as a banner of
betrayal. Nay- he would rather have his throat slit now and be
haunted in Mando’s halls by all who he had killed on the path to get
here.

In turn, he almost welcomed
the sound of the whip unfurling-
he would deserve such things
after all. How much
blood had he spilled in Alqualondë?

He made to wet his lips though his tongue was dry and finally lifted his gaze as the
cell door was opened. He gingerly took a breath of what would be his
last moment of peace then locked his muscles, resisting as a collar
‘round his neck was pulled, his body soon following against his want.

Maedhros wanted to snarl,
to claim- Feanor has already done the damage you can not deal. What
was a whip, what was pain? His own father had led them away from home
permanently. Their own father had decided not to turn back ships
for their loyal love one who would follow them. His own father had
set their youngest brother ablaze, his pyre burning around him as he
choked to death on the ash he would become.

Instead he smiled, weary
and bitter “- Do your best then, for a dog gets no satisfaction
unless they earn their master’s affections. I am gladdened by the
sight of the pet and not the owner. Tell me, how sharp are your
teeth?” Kill me, kill me.

The maia laughed, the echo of it reverberating throughout the cavern. His lips pulled back, revealing vicious and curving fangs.

“Very,” he grinned. “But you’ll not tempt me into killing you just yet, Noldo. Not so early in our acquaintance.” The prisoner’s mind slipped open to him, unguarded as it was in a moment of nihilism and despair; he’d heard a whisper of his name on a prayer, begging for death, and that was all he needed to cross the threshold.

So deep was the mire of that mind, the bitterness it held pulled inward all hope and drowned it preemptively in uncaring death. Yet at the center of that sand-trap of apathy lay what remained of a beautiful thing; a bright red-winged bird of free spirit and song, buried deep in the tar.

And that was all he saw before the doors closed on him.

“Sad little thing, aren’t you? Giving in so soon.” He slid a hand through the Noldo’s rust red hair; a mockery of comfort. “Tell me, who was the master who withheld their affection from you, pup? Could it be you’re still following their command, o oft-kicked hound?” He clucked his tongue. “One wonders why.”