tw: torture – MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive

The touch of his hand, of his blade (you haven’t deserved his hand yet), is light, barely more than a sudden caress, yet it leaves behind a trail of excruciating pain, yet another line of agony etched over your skin. If the pain weren’t so strong you might even be able to appreciate the elegance of the design that has bloomed over the days, covering your entire torso. He let you know that, times and again, the silk of a poisonous calm barely hiding his savage pleasure; like a spider in her web.

((Under the cut for violence/gore/sadism))

He wants to answer. He wants to say I remember these cuts. He wants to say I remember how your body twisted beneath my knife, how your neck bent back as you screamed. But the elf’s hand is closed around his windpipe, and while he does not need to breathe to stay alive, he needs air to speak. The muscles in his throat clench uselessly under the vice of Maehdros’s palm, producing only the weak, wet clicks of one choking.

And he is excited. Because the pain is terrible, but worse would have been disregard– if this stone-faced, savage elf had ignored him, let the memories of his torture fade to distant hurt, forgotten the name behind his scars, his name– that would have broken his heart.

Every time the knife enters him he makes sure to watch his face; he is fascinated by the tension in the elf’s jaw, the hard curve of his lips, the way his nostrils constrict when he inhales sharply, drunk with cruelty.
He has so often been on the other side of the blade, watching with pleasure every twitch, every grinding of clenched teeth, every whimper; he knows he is meant to savor the irony of it. Every flourish of the knife is a love note from an avid pupil.

In the pause between cuts there is the hope of a release that does not come; that a part of him hopes will never come until Maedhros is finished, and they understand each other fully. He hopes. He wants to ask do you love me the way I loved you, when I pressed the brand to your thigh, when I looked into your eyes and broke the bones in your hand, one by one? Am I as beautiful as you were?

But his lungs are empty, and there is too much blood in his mouth to speak.

doegred:

misbehavingmaiar:

[snip starter]

In the beginning, his Father forged the body he wore in the same molten furnace as the works of the Earth; he’d awoken knowing perfect affinity with each material Sang by Aulë, his own essence replete with their power. It was an act of desperate futility to bind any Maia with mere metal, but especially him– especially Sauron.
He’d begun to melt the chains as soon as they’d been hurled around him, almost without a thought. How does a foe I thought so keen of mind resort to this? His stern face wore only puzzlement as he summoned his red hammer to his hand, pulling it into being out of his own flesh– then the noise began, and his Noldor enemy sprung into practiced action.

His hammer resists him. There is no magic, no Ainur presence besides himself, but something holds the weapon in the air as firmly as the fist of Tulkas, and his arms strain to bring it even an inch forwards. Red-gold eyes widen. The hammer bends– wilting as if in great heat. It disobeys his will and its solidity dispenses back into liquid potential, coating his skin, but he cannot reabsorb it. His own flesh buzzes with horrendous sound that is more than sound; the pressure without origin twists his feet from under him and he falls sideways into the wall just as surely as if the room had changed its axis. Maedhros looks at him with eyes narrowed in mad, victorious joy– the force that can incapacitate a Maia has no effect on him; he is its master.

He is frightened. He can hear the song of planets whispering from the disks of metal on the floor and ceiling, but he has never heard this arrangement before. It feels like something he should know, something the matter of his body should hold understanding of, something his Father made. It is new to him who helped shaped everything that is. He is frightened.

All the power in his muscles will not budge them from their fixed point, the coiling remains of his weapon, and the contorted lattice of metal that were the treacherous chains bind him as surely as shackles, dancing in strange liquid patterns on his skin. He can turn, but not move, twist around only to be repelled, as if the force had some malignant logic behind it. Water flows over the metal and over him, unsettlingly warm and smelling of hot metal. It drips from his face and beard the same temperature as blood, carrying his sweat with it. He does not hear what his enemy says, he does not see the runed ceramic knife until it is under his chin, tracing his sternum.

“What have you done– what is this? What have you done??” Are all the response he can give to prelude to torture, numb to any threat but the invisible hand that holds him improbably captive.

There is something singing in Maedhros’ blood, louder and louder with every step he takes towards the warped form of his captive.
It is something far more than the static hum of electricity running through coils of copper and inside the frozen conductors that should not even be conductors at all.
It is something visceral, that reaches deep enough to touch bone and make his chest hum like the strings of a harp at every heartbeat.

Keep reading

When the Noldo’s knife carves a precise triangle into his chest, his attention is bent entirely in frantic anticipation of an answer that never comes. Maedhros is toying with him. The chilling light catches the elf’s eyes like poison… He will not reveal the secret of this prison yet, there is too much satisfaction to be had in making his captive wait. Sauron knows this– this is his game, though he has never played this side of the board before.

But as the circuit is completed, white fire sears him where flesh makes contact with iron, and his mind goes blank.

Metal has never betrayed him this way before.
The shock of it draws a belated howl from him; it is as if his body is refusing to acknowledge the bite of a loyal hound until its fangs were bloodied thrice over. His delayed screams surprise even him.

Once, long ago, the maia had felt the gaze of Namo pass over his spirit. It had been cold and hollow, its pull unforgiving. Just beyond the agony of this strange electric fire, he could feel that same chill tug beneath the heat– it feels like dissolution. It feels like the nearest he can come to death.

The interior of his fana twists and pulls violently in opposing directions, his very atoms seem to wish to fly apart, and it is all he can do to hold the repelling forces together with brute strength of will. It is a small blessing that his jaw locks, for otherwise he would find himself begging through the roar of pain.
When he has fought in the past it was to maintain advantage; now, all thought is consumed by the urgent need to survive, to hang on, to regain control.

His eyes and flesh glow with the magnitude of this singular effort, unable to maintain the semblance of humanity any longer. Flakes of black oxide and ash peel off his molten skin. The harder he pulls himself in, the hotter the fire within him grows, and the whiter the heat of his frame…

When the core of him burns yellow-white as a furnace, he can feel the terrible power of Maedhros’s machine begin to slip. It gives him enough leverage to wrench himself off the wall, and with a drunken lurch, he takes a threatening step towards his gaoler.

“Pers… perseverance.” He hisses, smoke rising from his mouth and body. Waves of heat distort his vision, but he can see well enough to lunge.

doegred-main:

Inspired by this post and misbehavingmaiar’s head canon.

There is a strange flash in Maedhros’ eyes, something oddly similar to deep satisfaction when the Maia before him, instead of trying to break his shackles turns into a shiny fluid that bubbles and… In a sudden movement the Noldo throws his sword away, behind a door that his herald promptly closes. Barely a spark of pain appearing in his expression as his right shoulder hits the ground, his left hand flies toward a switch. The movement clearly rehearsed. A flicker of his fingers and the noise of running water filling the cellar is joined by a strange high pitched buzz.
Maedhros’s laughter is low, throaty and deeply satisfied as the shiny metallic fluid the Maia’s limbs have become twists and turns, splitting in beams that are violently pulled by an unseen force towards the enormous four metallic disks affixed to the floor and ceiling linked together in a toroidal shape. Now, along the mouldy smell of wet earth a pungent ozone scent fills the room.
“Do you like this Thauron?” Only now Sauron notices it: there is not a single piece of metal on the Noldo’s body, his armour replaced by a leather cuirass, strings and buttons instead of clasps..
With slow elegance, contrasting with the breathless tone of his voice, Maedhros refuses his herald’s help and rises to his feet, his eyes shining with satisfaction as he lets them roam over the trapped Maia.
“I studied so long how to make this work.” There is something almost dreamy in his tone.
It is only after a minute of contemplation that the Noldo is finally able to look away. Lightly licking his lips he directs his gaze to a small table covered by a rag. His eyes seem to burn like gray pools of molten aluminium. Turning his back to the prisoner, in a gesture of confidence so unlike himself, he walks toward it, his hand delicately lifting the cloth before the Noldo spares a sideway glance towards his captive. His tone now amicable, almost conversational. “You know: the trickiest part was figuring out the cooling system for the magnets.”
A sickeningly sweet smile twists Maedhros’ lips as he faces his guest again. His hand now grasps what looks like a small spear, its blade shining a glossy white in the unsteady light of a Fëanorian lamp.
Ceramic, a blade of ceramic with a long wooden handle.
“Besides I wanted to make sure I could cool you too, in case you tried to raise the heat. You know..”
The Noldo lightly rotates his shoulders, as if getting ready to exert himself. Suddenly a line of tengwar starts shining on the blade in his hand. His voice is almost a murmur as Maedhros comes nearer the Maia.
“It would be such a shame to make this too brief..”

In the beginning, his Father forged the body he wore in the same molten furnace as the works of the Earth; he’d awoken knowing perfect affinity with each material Sang by Aulë, his own essence replete with their power. It was an act of desperate futility to bind any Maia with mere metal, but especially him– especially Sauron.
He’d begun to melt the chains as soon as they’d been hurled around him, almost without a thought. How does a foe I thought so keen of mind resort to this? His stern face wore only puzzlement as he summoned his red hammer to his hand, pulling it into being out of his own flesh– then the noise began, and his Noldor enemy sprung into practiced action.

His hammer resists him. There is no magic, no Ainur presence besides himself, but something holds the weapon in the air as firmly as the fist of Tulkas, and his arms strain to bring it even an inch forwards. Red-gold eyes widen. The hammer bends– wilting as if in great heat. It disobeys his will and its solidity dispenses back into liquid potential, coating his skin, but he cannot reabsorb it. His own flesh buzzes with horrendous sound that is more than sound; the pressure without origin twists his feet from under him and he falls sideways into the wall just as surely as if the room had changed its axis. Maedhros looks at him with eyes narrowed in mad, victorious joy– the force that can incapacitate a Maia has no effect on him; he is its master.

He is frightened. He can hear the song of planets whispering from the disks of metal on the floor and ceiling, but he has never heard this arrangement before. It feels like something he should know, something the matter of his body should hold understanding of, something his Father made. It is new to him who helped shaped everything that is. He is frightened.

All the power in his muscles will not budge them from their fixed point, the coiling remains of his weapon, and the contorted lattice of metal that were the treacherous chains bind him as surely as shackles, dancing in strange liquid patterns on his skin. He can turn, but not move, twist around only to be repelled, as if the force had some malignant logic behind it. Water flows over the metal and over him, unsettlingly warm and smelling of hot metal. It drips from his face and beard the same temperature as blood, carrying his sweat with it. He does not hear what his enemy says, he does not see the runed ceramic knife until it is under his chin, tracing his sternum.

“What have you done– what is this? What have you done??” Are all the response he can give to prelude to torture, numb to any threat but the invisible hand that holds him improbably captive.

wesleyart:

Commission for maire-annatari: The Last You Will Feel With That Hand— RivkaZ 2015

Well, this interrogation session with the Fëanorian prince has gone horribly wrong! But Lady Mairë (a feminine incarnation of Sauron) doesn’t mind very much given the circumstances. Breathing is optional for maiar, and the prisoner is rather fetching. She seems to be quite enjoying herself, actually…

SO MUCH RED HEAD IN ONE PICTURE

sharpglance:

misbehavingmaiar:

sharpglance:

Hope fluttered in his chest, and for a moment the intense desire to vomit all of the bile in his stomach lessened (it would be yellow; it wouldn’t be the first time emptying his belly on the ground in front of him, and thankfully it wasn’t in front of the Ainur).

There was no time to congratulate himself internally for his cleverness. The threat that Morgoth made, hopefully made casually but he had no desire to find out, made his heart stop as his mind imagined rather gruesomely that claw puncturing fabric and skin and bone. The elf’s mouth gaped as he shuddered again at the thought – if he wasn’t careful, it may be a likely end.

He didn’t miss Morgoth’s observation – how could he know how young he was? Though I may be fully grown, how can he perceive that I am one of the youngest in Gondolin? Maeglin swallowed back the welling of fresh saliva in his mouth so that he could answer clearly. Feeling successful thus far, he knew he had to continue convincingly, and that Morgoth followed the intended line of questioning gave him enough hope to inject confidence into his voice.

“A moment ago, you gave it away. Do you take the defensive or the offensive? You have no plan. From what I have been told about you and how your forces operate – you act when you have a plan. But you have none, and I would not need to be a close councilor to Turgon in order to know what I know."

Do not divulge that! he chided himself. Blinking, he continued on. No need to keep Morgoth waiting… “And what I know is that the Crissaegrim offer no path or pass into the valley. You have no plan because there is no way in.”

"And yet, does my good eye deceive me?” Melkor leaned forward mockingly, scrutinizing the young elf in the beam of his stare. “It seems to me there is at least a way out of the valley… or else have the Eldar learned to fly?”

Behind Maeglin, the Dark Lord’s lieutenant stirred unbidden, placing a heavy hand full of mute warning on the elf’s neck.

"Make no mistake, little mole; you buy seconds of your life with this news. Tell me more. Tell me Turgon’s plan of attack, if indeed you are his close advisor.”

The hand on the boy’s neck moved to his hair, pulling it back taught with a snap.

"Tell me everything, and there may yet be some reward I could give you.”

The elf swallowed so thickly that he was certain Sauron behind him could feel it through his hand. A horrifying realization froze his body and though he was sweating, he suddenly felt as though he’d been doused into a river whose source was the snowmelt from the Eastern mountains. Maeglin shivered and clenched his teeth to prevent them from chattering.

A small sound leapt from his throat, which was now bared with his head pulled back. It was a whimper, an ugly, ungraceful sound that openly declared his fright and alarm. Maeglin felt shame tear down his fragile walls of bravado. Without that, he felt weak and powerless.

It was unwise to doubt the threat that came before whatever promise of reward, but to pass along this information would mean endangering his mother’s brother’s beloved valley… He hadn’t thought this entirely through, or considered everything…

“R-reward? B-but…” Mouth dry, Maeglin licked his lips before continuing. He needed time to think this over-!

“G-give me some time to consider, at least…”

Melkor made a blithe, untroubled gesture with one gauntleted hand, laughing sweetly.

“Of course, of course! Take all the time you need. Lieutenant–”

And the Umaia, whose hard fingers threatened to choke the boy whose throat had uttered such a tantalizing noise of distress, straightened in answer.

“–Please take our guest to the Realgar Hall, and bind him over a geyser vent. Let him consider his options while the flesh of his hands boils off the bone. And Beloved, make sure that he is comfortable! I don’t want to rush his decision."

Judas Cradle and Garrote //muse is going to regret the second, mum to enjoy it//

Judas Cradle: Would your muse rather suffer physically, or be humiliated?

While Sauron will occasionally allow himself to be humiliated for the sake of a Long Con (see: Numenor), I think he’d rather suffer physical pain than be humiliated. He had the chance to repent before Manwë, and for various reasons, he chose to stay in Middle Earth rather than submit to judgement.

Melkor, however, gets to do both kinds of suffering with alarming frequency! Evidence suggests that, unlike Sauron, Melkor would rather humiliate himself than suffer physically. He’s done his time in shackles, and he’d MUCH prefer to put his face in the dirt and grovel than have them put back on him for any reason. Also, given the fact that he is stuck in a body that is unhealing, he has to be careful how much physical damage he sustains.

Garrote: Your muse must kill someone. How do they do it?

Must kill someone? You make it sound like such a chore!

They are both fairly creative sadists, but Sauron is practical where Melkor is flippant. On the field, I imagine Sauron will go for an efficient, brutal killing stroke, unless there is a chance to do something truly gory and flamboyant that will lower morale of the enemy (see: burning people’s faces off, turning friends into battle standards). Otherwise, I think he finds a punishment that fits the crime, reserving especially poignant deaths for especially memorable or irritating foes.

Melkor I think is more prone to casual murder and crimes against humanity when he’s bored or angry. He’s the more likely to behave like an enormous, shark-toothed toddler pulling the wings off of beetles and zapping ants with a magnifying glass for his own amusement, only to forget about them as soon as something else catches his attention. This can lead to prisoners being horribly mangled and then forgotten about, or just left waiting for the day he remembers they exist and hoping they die before then. He’s also not above snacking on people for fun, preferably whole and wriggling.
His method of dispatching foes won’t be premeditated, unless someone does something particularly attention-worthy, like refusing to tell him where Gondolin is. Then he’ll cook up something really interesting and hand-crafted to make that person miserable for as long as possible.

fiindekano:

misbehavingmaiar:

The prince made a mad dash forward, discarding his buckler in exchange for a second sword. The twin swords whirled, scissoring at his legs, seeking joints in his armor— quick as an oiled fox this Noldo was, trusting in the size of his opponent to make him slow and useless at such close range.

Sauron let loose a clipped snarl as the blades made a piercing jab at his feet. But he did not charge.

The colossal armored ogre retreated with surprisingly nimble crossing steps, keeping the elf at bay with sweeping short arcs of his hammer, which contracted in his hand, its handle shortening to the length of a mace. Enemy and ally alike made way for the dueling pair, giving the arcing double swords and swooping hammer a wide berth.

Horns sounded in the distance, making it clear that time was limited. As soon as he felt that Fingon had adjusted to the speed of his attacks and parries, Sauron lunged backward with a grunt, eclipsed the reddening sun with his hammer, and brought it cleaving down like a landslide. The battlefield rattled and heaved; horses stumbled and toppled backward, soldiers fell and rolled as the earth suddenly leapt out from under them. Only the wolves kept their feet— and Sauron, who lunged down, ready to close a gauntleted fist around the throat of his gold-ribboned foe.

Had he misjudged?! The hammer moved swiftly in Sauron’s hand, swinging closer to Fingon’s body than he would have guessed possible. Perhaps from a distance it had looked larger than it was, though there was no time to dwell on how such a mistake was possible—the prince’s undivided attention stayed on the fight, calculating his own strikes while anticipating his enemy’s response.

It was not an easy task, but not impossible either; for all his advantage in height and strength, Sauron’s blows were not decisive, and they did not meet their target. The fight had not been raging for long, either, and Fingon still had reserves of strength left in him.

Encouraged, he renewed his attack, finding it became easier to predict the fell captain’s blows. His own swords still rang as they collided with iron armour instead of flesh, but at least he began to notice which places Gorthaur tried to protect, suggesting where his next blows should fall.

Two things happened then. The sound of horns reached Fingon’s ears, bringing a further rush of confidence as he recognised the promise of reinforcements. But then Sauron moved, suddenly and powerfully, Fingon’s outstretched blade cleaving only air. Already imbalanced, it was all he could do to throw himself out of the way of the arcing hammer. The impact of the ground radiated up his arm and through his shoulder as he fell, and the breath flew from his lungs—but his hesitation lasted only a second.

If Sauron so much as touched him, he’d be dead—perhaps that was better than being submitted to capture and torment, but Fingon was hardly eager to meet his end, especially with support only moments away. Both swords had flown from his grasp in his fall, but he rolled aside once, twice, already seeking (albeit with blurring vision) his next weapon as he moved to stand.

The prince’s hand scrambled for the hilt of his sword, but Sauron’s found the back of his head faster.

He drew back a fistful of black hair and gold ribbons, lifting the elf off the ground and pulling him back prone on his knees.

“I said I would still your tongue."

The vanguard of Maedhros sounded horns just beyond the ridge, but these were the moments in battle he lived for.

Armor plate scraped against tooth as he pried open the prince’s mouth, wedging thumb and forefinger within against protest, ready to rip out the offending muscle.

“You are a sterling beauty! I know exactly how I would preserve you in my collection: drowned and frozen in a flawless coffin of ice; perfect and untroubled for all time.” ~Melkor

belenwen:

”I — … you have a collection?”

Oh, it is an enviable collection! Of only the most select faces– the elves who nature provided with such exquisite symmetry and sculpted features that they make me furious to look upon. Those I keep; either to watch them decay or to preserve them as trophies. You cannot know how it soothes one as marred as I, to have complete mastery over creatures made unfairly lovely.

…You’d make a charming addition.