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The walls whisper their welcome, murmur it softly into the echo of his steps, a greeting that reverberates through the emptiness of the halls, indefinitely reflected. It’s the lullaby of ancient stone and lurking shadows closing around him, an enchantment designed to lead him astray and drag him deeper into the embrace of the ruins. But the spell glances off him like water drips off a bird’s plumage. It has no effect, not on him, who is a child of Gundabad, who grew up in the belly of mountains, to whom the dark is but an old friend. How could he be afraid of shadows and rocks? So he strides freely into their midst, with no fear in his heart but the anxiety of lovers.
He’s been here before, within these towers that loom into the sky over Mirkwood like dragon teeth. He remembers it as if it were yesterday. He remembers the floor under his knees, cold as ice and shining like black water, and the weight of magic heavy on his shoulders. He remembers how he wrapped his fingers around His hand in veneration, and how, when he pressed his lips against it in an oath of allegiance, something sparked inside him, something that did not compare to anything he’d ever known.
Before that day he had not even imagined kissing a hand but then, it seemed perfectly normal. More than normal perhaps. Like destiny, like a promise of fate. He has dreamt of it ever since, longed for a taste of the skin that was so delectable to his touch, so cool under his lips. And many a night he woke, startled and confused, from dreams of bare flesh and eyes burning bright with desire, and his hand, as if of its own accord, wandered down between his legs, finding himself hard and ready. It never took more than a few strokes to undo him. That and the mental picture of a hand.
He imagined kissing it, nipping it tenderly with his lips, laving it with his tongue, just like a dog would lick its master’s hand, greedy for its taste and full of silent admiration. His mouth would settle against the wrist and sucking at the pulse beneath the tender skin, he would thrust into his own fist, rough and desperate, until he came, spilling himself in hot, pearly strands.
It’s the lure of the flesh that has brought him here in the dead of night, that made him climb the Hill of Sorcery to seek an audience with the master of these halls, to strike another deal. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to end this folly and the heartache, and - above all - appease the hunger burning in his guts. So he finds his way through the spectres and shades to the very spot he has knelt before, a thousand times in his dreams, and again bends the knee to His presence.
Nervousness like he has never known pools in his stomach as he waits for Him to appear. Cold and fluttering it mingles with the heat of his desire and anticipation creeps over his pale skin raising goose bumps in its wake.
You came back to me, the voice hums in his head, low and gentle, like a breeze that sweeps through the crumbling walls and when he raises his head, he can see the figure, outlined against the darkness, even darker than the darkest of shadows. The Necromancer.
The Sorcerer steps forward, into the moonlight, and the night uncoils around him, it flakes off in veils of black, revealing the skin underneath, lily-white and exquisite like petals. Smooth and unmarked it’s even whiter than his own and he is as pale as linen.
Do you like what you see? the Necromancer asks him, again in mere thoughts, and instead of an answer he lowers his gaze, suddenly ashamed of himself, mouth dry as dust.
The picture flashes up in his mind at the same time. He sees himself through the other’s eyes, a massive bulk of a man, sees how the muscles tighten under the skin, thick ropes of strength, of power. He is a warrior, a leader, a king, kneeling before this wizard, ready, eager even to kiss His feet.
Through the reflection he catches a glimpse of his heart, consumed by feverish need and glowing with hope, an open book to be read and devoured. So, this is the moment of truth, he thinks and stillness falls around him. It’s the calm before a battle, the quiet before the storm. And then, finally, he feels His satisfied smile and the tension breaks and relief washes over him in a warm wave. He won’t be rejected.
How could I deny you when it is only natural that you are drawn to me? The voice is soothing, a caress of his quivering heart, hushing the turmoil in his mind. And then He is so close it makes his skin prickle and His hand, the hand he dreamt so much about, slips under his chin and tilts his head upwards.
He looks up into perfection, into eyes that are fierce as the sea and radiant with magic. He forgets about everything else and nearly is lost, and when He speaks, His voice is so much richer than he has ever imagined, so full of promise and praise.
“You are beautiful, child of Melkor. Every bit as strong, as grand as HE created you to be.”
Fingers trace his features and for a split second he sees them mirrored, ghosting over the Necromancer’s face: the feline nose, the pointy ears and the scars, all the scars. The illusion is gone in the blink of an eye but Azog understands the gesture of worship to his maker and he understands his own adoration to be only a pale imitation of the Necromancer’s love for Him Who Arises In Might. He feels the pain of being separated by worlds and ages, the never healing hole in His chest.
Still he is not prepared for His lips to descend upon his mouth, dry and cool at first, but rapidly warming. Then the slip of tongue against his sharp teeth, a little too ardent, as suddenly the sweet taste of iron and copper is filling his mouth. Azog tries to pull away, struggles to escape the blood lust that wells up from his belly, the hunger that will make him lose control. But the Necromancer is stronger, He holds the orc in place like a doll and kisses him like he’s never been kissed before, biting brutally until their blood mingles and their breath is shallow and ragged. It takes a while for the magic to take root deep in his core, a spell to dissolve his self restraint and to unleash the beast within him. Azog feels how the walls crumble and fall and it is regret that follows. Regret for all he will do…
The very moment the Sorcerer lets go of him, Azog moves. Catlike he jumps to his feet, taking the other man with him, shoving Him up against the next wall and pinning Him there with his weight. Smooth, hard muscle against lean, graceful limb, skin against skin, the drumbeat of hearts matched by the throb of arousal.
Finally the magic unfolds and the fire flares, burning bright and cold and consumptive inside him, a flame, ancient as Arda and voracious as time. It’s stirring, radiating from his body, searing the marble-white flesh his fingers dig into. Like the steel of his claw they clutch at the Necromancer’s lean limbs that tremble and shiver, leaving them red raw and bruised.
Oh how different this is from what he imagined! He dreamt of worshipping this body with devotion, with the reverence of a true lover. And all the while he would have prayed to His Lord for mercy and forgiveness, so He would not smite him for the boldness of touching His sacred flesh. Now he can barely withstand the temptation to simply take Him, to bury himself in His tight heat, to bite His lips to shreds and to claw at His skin till bruises bloom from his grasp like poisonous flowers. He yearns to desecrate this body, to defile and ruin Him, to lay claim on Him for He was meant to be his and his alone for all eternity.
Posing at the very edge of madness, Azog stills, unable to just give in to this urge. He is neither beast nor a mere tool of another’s will and may it be the Lord of Darkness himself who is to use him. He is inclined to run, flee from this dream ere it turns into a nightmare, yet he stands petrified, torn between his wish and its realisation.
A hand touches his left arm, long elegant fingers closing around it with such ease and strength; they betray the illusion of the Sorcerer’s fragile form. He is none to be easily broken.
“Please,” the Necromancer breathes, barely more audible than a heartbeat. One word that threatens to burst the dams of his resolve, break the chains of control. One word that signals consent. The Sorcerer knows what the Orc’s about to do and not only will He allow it, He even begs for it.
For a while Azog just looks at Him, at the razor-sharp cheekbones and the luscious curve of His mouth. He raises his hand to touch His beautiful face, and then, at last, he lowers his head to kiss him again. Very gently at first, only nipping until he can’t bear it anymore and he begins to lick and to bite at His lips. Eagerly they open and he lets himself be swallowed up by their sweetness. But even when he deepens the kiss, he finds no satisfaction. On the contrary, the hunger inside him grows, becomes fiercer, a violent void in his guts, that’s raving and screaming.
As he pulls back, breathless and tense, the Sorcerer laughs at him, ridicule sparkling in his blue eyes and something like triumph. Now that He’s got him where He wanted him to, there is nothing left of the humility and submission that made Him beg only moments before. Instead He is provoking him, trying to push him over the brink into madness…
And all of a sudden, despite the roaring need that’s clouding his thoughts, a strange sense of clarity overcomes him. Finally he begins to understand that this has been the Sorcerer’s plan all along: To torment him for nights and nights until he’d crawl back to Dol Guldur, desperate for His attention, eager to be His toy. For Him it is only a game and Azog does not like being played with.
His hand buries itself in the thick black curls and yanks the wizard’s head backwards to expose His neck. Still He laughs.
“I know what you want me to do,” Azog snarls. “But that’s not who I am.”
The low rumble of his Orkish carries in the silence, on and on. Like his foot steps before it is reflected by the walls that dull the harshness of the words and turn it into a soothing chant. Azog listens to it till it fades, head cocked, and he smiles a weird little smile. Then he dips his head and whispers, “We will do this on my terms,” before his large, pink tongue traces the tendons of the Sorcerer’s neck. The body beneath him squirms, probably in anticipation of a bite, but it never comes. He just pins Him there, against the rough stone, and he takes his time to taste the vulnerable flesh, to savour its scent. He enjoys the tug of arousal in the pit of his stomach, forcing himself to take it slow.
The Sorcerer struggles half-heartedly against the massive frame that traps him but the Orc is sturdy as rock and all He achieves is to rub Himself against His captor like a warg bitch in heat. His movements only draw attention to the fact that there’s nothing that separates them now but the Orc’s leather kilt. The last remnants of night have melted away to leave Him bare and naked, pressed flush against the broad orcish chest.
“Is this how you played your game?” Azog breathes into His ear. He’s aware that he already knows that, somewhere deep down, but he does not want to go there, not now that he’s barely in control again. So he prefers to simply ask.
“You struggling until HE restrained you?”
The Necromancer nods, hardly concealing the wanton glitter in His eyes.
“And then you’d beg HIM to take you?”
Again this little nod and the briefest of pictures flashes up in his mind. Lean limbs wrapped in ropes of darkness and fire, spread-eagled and ready and beautiful to behold. Azog senses the flush of desire crawling over his skin at the image and the wizard laughs again.
“So,” the Orc inquires, fighting back a sudden flare of anger. Why did you choose me?”
Instead of an answer, another mental message bursts into his head, more powerful than any before. It’s the spitting image of himself, tall and terrible, eyes bright and cold, face covered in scars left by an eagle’s claw, his left hand burnt and blackened, the other one raw and grazed…
Azog stumbles backwards as comprehension strikes. “No,” he says. “This can’t be…”
The Necromancer detaches himself from the stone wall to follow him, the night looming behind His naked form, His arousal like a torch in the dark. “HE made you in HIS image.” He hisses, closing the distance between them. That’s why HE is inside you as if you were a mirror.
Azog feels the truth in the words, seeping into his head like poison and he wonders how much longer he can withstand the darkness. His resistance is already crumbling…
Fingers, nimble and strong, unclasp the buckle of his belt, stripping the leather kilt from him, and he allows them to, only too willingly. He enjoys their caress as they wander over his skin, tracing the scars and brushing his nipples, outlining the hard muscle of his stomach, before travelling lower. Azog gasps as they find his cock and enclose its length, cool and smooth as silk.
Don’t fight HIM, He croons in the Orc’s mind while His hand glides over his swollen flesh, again and again.
The tide of night is setting in and Azog is ready to lose himself in the sensations it washes ashore. He watches, mesmerised, how his cock is stroked by the Necromancer’s hand, how the glans, thick and pink, protrudes from His fist, only to vanish again in its gentle grasp. He does not move when the Sorcerer gets to His knees and lowers His mouth onto him, drowning him in His warmth, sucking his soul from him, with every bob of His head, every lick of His tongue. He cannot fight the blinding surge of passion anymore that’s seizing them, pulling them under and down into the chasm of time.
As his resistance fades, the dark begins to fester in his mind, and from the void beyond time and space, HE reaches out to him, Melkor HIMSELF, first of the Ainur.
It’s the picture of Him, on His knees, mouth stretched wide around the Orc’s girth and sea-blue eyes gazing up at him, that finally lets HIM in. It unlocks the doors to his soul and grants entrance to HIS Shadow. Azog senses how Melkor takes hold of him, how HIS spirit enters his body. It’s barely a premonition of HIS former power but enough to remember their game.
“Mairon,” he growls and the Necromancer shudders at the sound of His name, shudders at the memories it invokes and the secrets it holds.
A casual flick of a hand, and He is hauled back and hurled towards the wall like He weighed nothing. So hard the brittle stone cracks under the impact. The magic holds Him there for a moment, His toes dangling an inch above the ground and slowly, the triumph on His face turns into fear. Another wave of Azog’s hand and long strands of flame, fiery as a Balrog’s whip, coil and twist around the slender body. They burn and they sting as Mairon struggles against them.
Just like old times, Azog says in HIS voice and a twist contorts his lips, too wicked to be considered a smile. He leans into the Sorcerer who is bound and helpless now, a giant of muscle and strength. But that’s not what makes the Necromancer shiver. It’s his eyes, aglow with cold iron, that merciless gaze into His heart.
Be careful what you wish for, Mairon. You may have summoned me here, yet that’s where your powers end.
Azog licks his lips in a promise of pleasure and pain before he snaps his fingers. A gluey, viscid fluid appears on them, produced from thin air, dark red and thick as blood it drips down from their tips. The Necromancer’s eyes dart to the stained fingers then back to the Orc’s face who again smiles his wicked smile.
I won’t have you broken, Annatar. he says. Not before I’ve received your gift.
The ties of thought change, obeying the command of their master they sprawl Him out against the stone, making way for a hand to dip between His legs. Fingers nudge against His entrance, as sticky as they are impatient.
Shhhhhh. Azog whispers as he slowly spreads Him open, slicking the way with tiny thrusts of his large fingers. He’s not sure any more whether it’s Melkor or him speaking. Everything has become a blur and the only thing he’s still certain of is the throbbing of his cock, longing to be sheathed in tight flesh.
Yet he fights the impulse to just take Him and tear Him apart.
Instead he concentrates on the tendrils around the Sorcerer’s body, makes them rearrange themselves before he carefully hooks his left arm under one of His legs to gain better access, Mairon’s knee bent over his forearm, so they are entangled in a lover’s embrace, chest pressed against chest. Azog looks down at the Necromancer, at His midnight black hair and the eyes that shine with starlight. Nothing could be more enticing than this.
“Do it,” Mairon says and instead of an answer, Azog’s lips close over His sweet mouth, the thrust of his tongue mimicking his cockhead that, blunt and wide, pushes against the ring of muscles. He swallows the Sorcerer’s gasp when he slips into the well-prepared hole, deeper and deeper, until he is buried to the hilt in this heaven of narrow heat.
I almost forgot how good it feels, the Necromancer purrs in his mind and he can sense Him chuckle in small tremors of joy that caress his cock deep inside Him. There is a sudden lightness between them, a familiarity, he would never have thought possible and a golden warmth floods his chest, tingling down his spine.
Azog kisses Him again, sucking tenderly at His full lips as he slowly retreats, nearly pulls out of the Sorcerer’s body, only to plunge into Him again, the roll of his hips a welcomed friction on Mairon’s cock, that is trapped between their bodies. The Necromancer’s silent laughter wanes into low moans, then curses, at last another plea.
More he begs and Azog cannot help but comply. A beckoning of his hand, a clenching of fingers and the magical ropes tighten – they cut into skin and mar the flawless flesh and Mairon sighs with pain and with pleasure and some strange kind of relief. Azog can’t grasp what this is, what it means, but he does not care either. `t is what it is and he’ll do whatever it takes to please Him. His hand finds the Mairon’s jaw and he holds Him, kissing Him, soothing the pain, while their bodies find their rhythm, moving in unison towards absolute bliss.
And as the desire in his belly coils and knots just like the fiery bonds entwine the Sorcerer’s delicate limbs and the passions twists His face into a frown of delight, around them, time rewinds. Stones and bricks ascend to their places, higher and higher they rise until the towers of Dol Guldur stand tall again, in all their glory, stronghold of Darkness in the Third Age. Faster and faster time lapses, backwards, ever backwards and the scenery shifts and they are back in the dungeons of Angband, down in the bottomless pits of the Iron Prison, in the sweetness of hell. The fires flicker and Mairon moans under the weight of the body that is pressing Him into cold stone, He whimpers from the burn of the shackles, pants from the relentless thrusts into His body.
Their journey takes them even further, beyond Utumno, to the very beginning. Azog sees the sparks that erupt from every sharp thrust of his cock, spreading from that secret spot through Marion’s body, travelling the ropes of thought that connect them even more intimately. They merge into one Being, into one mind. He understands now and he knows and he remembers. He is Azog and he is Melkor and in a way he is Mairon, too.
Remember when I forged you into my weapon, Azog whispers, breath hot as the maw of Mount Doom.
I bound you with darkness and flame, he breathes as he’s pushing into Him, his rhythm as steady as it is violent.
I tasted your blood and your sweat. His tongue runs over the sensitive skin of Mairons neck.
I ate your soul and your pain. Sharp teeth against tender flesh, mouth twisted into a wolfish grin.
I made you mine.
That’s when he bites down, hard, Orc fangs piercing the skin easily. The body in his arms stiffens and a strangled sound wrenches itself from His throat, raw and desperate, but the bonds hold Him there, on the verge of release. And Azog just laughs at the trembles of undissolved tension, a dark chuckle of playful cruelty.
You did not think I would make it that easy, did you?
Again he runs his large, rough tongue over the side of Mairon’s neck. It’s soothing and possessive and erotic and the taste of His blood is as intoxicating as the pleasure rippling through His body. Mairon’s slumped against him, eyes closed and cheeks flushed. He makes the sweetest of sounds, these small, whimpering noises of ecstasy, and Azog wants to kiss them from his perfect red lips.
His hand reaches down to tug at the ties that bind Mairon’s cock, mockingly, ludically, to evoke even prettier sounds. He enjoys how His body constricts around him and he gasps at the delight of it.
“Please,” the Necromancer whispers.
Not long now, he says as he sets a new pace, deeper and slower this time, careful to brush himself against all the right places. He wraps his hand around Mairon, stroking Him in the same rhythm, all the way up and all the way down, until His cock is red and dripping and His pleas reduced to incoherent babble. Azog is drunk on His moans and His scent. His mouth is ravenous, his cock greedy, he wants to claim and to own and it takes everything not to break Him, but to be patient, to wait for the tide to rise, for the surge of lust to carry them away. He follows the current of strokes and thrusts until Mairon is bucking and twitching and this time he allows Him to come, to spill His seed in a desperate splatter of salt and surrender over his hand, sticky and sweet and he knows that he owns Him then, down to the last fibre of His being. And only then, he lets go.
The orgasm is like thunder in his ears and lightning before his eyes. Blinding white the flames blaze around them as they tumble and fall.
Entwined they lie on the bare stone, gasping and spent, a tangle of limbs, thawed to seed, sweat and blood.
Minutes pass, then hours but they don’t move. Silent they rest in each others arms, not daring to talk nor think about what’s already slipping away. Then, as the night gives way to the morning, the spell begins to fade and Melkor’s spirit seeps from its vessel like the dark pales into dawn, Azog’s hand rises to tuck a strand of hair out of Mairon’s face, mimicking a moment aeons in the past. Its darkness seems suddenly harsh against the milky white of His skin.
“To keep the night at bay,” he murmurs and his thin lips twitch with amusement for he knows the phrase to be a protection spell, uttered countless times in vain against the rising power of Morgoth Bauglir.