Curse of the Moriondor

by ifinkufreaky

Summary:

Adar is overcome with uncontrollable urges (again and again), and the full nature of Sauron's "gift" to him becomes clear.

Chapter 1: first taste

The first time he had a she-Elf as a prisoner, he didn’t know. He kept her tied in his tent to keep her away from mistreatment by his children; he understood their natures, at least. He was unaware of some of the lasting effects of his own.

He thought it was only fear, the way her eyes tracked him even when he was ignoring her. He had gotten little information of use from her first interrogation, but that was to be expected. Mairon had taught him what can be accomplished when you give a prisoner time to think, time to wonder. So he ate in silence, sharpened his weapons, and she watched him, oh how she watched.

She asked for the ropes to be loosened, so she might get life back into fingers that had gone numb in the bindings. Adar knew the power of giving the appearance of mercy to a captive, too. (He didn’t like remembering how he’d learned that.) He crouched beside her, leaning in close to reach her wrists, tied behind her back. Her eyes tracked the spill of his dark hair across his cheek. Her pulse fluttered at her neck, so quick.

“Be still,” he commanded, voice rough and low. Adar freed her hands, drawing them to the front of her body with the intention of rebinding her that way, more comfortably for the night. He was on guard for her to strike him, or try to run, but she remained still, so still, staring up at him out of her ethereal Elven face. Though he had come to hate the Elves, he still found them beautiful, even if—he cut off the thought, tore his eyes away from her glowing skin.

He found that his hands were rubbing hers, massaging sore wrists showing marks from the bondage. He grunted, disgusted with himself for the absent gesture of tenderness, and curtly wound the length of rope around them again. “Thank you,” she said, and the lilt of her voice, words spoken in his mother tongue, so sweet and polite, shook something deep in his chest.

He grunted again, and stood, turning away until he was sure he was in control of his face. He was glad they were alone together, though. His children did not need to see the effect the enemy was having on him.

He ended up giving her the rest of his meal, though he resisted her attempts to make conversation. Certainly that would only be a tactic, an attempt by the Elf to build sympathy and try to save herself from the worst of his cruelty. There had been times when he’d enjoyed playing with prisoners who made that attempt; tonight, with this she-Elf, he strangely did not feel confident he would have the upper hand.

Adar watched her, though, as she awkwardly handled the spoon feed herself with both wrists bound together. He knew she would be surprised by the spices the Uruk applied liberally to their cook-pots, and took pleasure in the way she coughed and sweated through the meal.

When it was time to sleep, her scent colored his dreams. He ran with her, laughing in the sun, he searched for her in dark forests and winding caves. He embraced her and throttled her, tore out her throat with his teeth. Each dream brought him more pleasure than the last.

Her face was haggard and uncertain when he caught her eye in the morning. He shrugged on his breastplate and decided she was ripe for another round of questioning as soon as he finished his morning rounds.

******

“Where are your forces camped. What are their numbers.” He repeated the questions while dragging the point of his dagger just beneath her collarbone, bringing it to rest at the center where the two elegant bones met. Her heart rate had spiked when he started threatening her with it, so perhaps this method would bear fruit. He angled the blade just above that joint, letting the steel press into the unprotected base of her throat.

Her eyes were riveted on his hand, wrapped around the hilt of the weapon. Her breath was coming in quick gasps, but she did not answer. Adar grabbed a fistful of her hair and tipped her head up so she would meet his eyes.

What he found in her face was not what he expected. Yes, there was fear, but there was excitement and surrender there that brought something beastly up from the depths of his tainted core. He changed tactics, discarding the knife and pushing her flat on her back.

He growled in her face, his hair falling in an intimate curtain that blocked the sight of the rest of the room. “You will tell me!”

His hands were on her shoulders, pushing her into the packed earth floor of his war tent. His knee had found its way between her legs, though he had not meant to deploy that sort of threat.

The she-Elf moaned, and squeezed her thighs around his knee.

Adar blinked, blood surging to his cock at that sensation, and suddenly what he wasn’t thinking about was all he could think about.

But he refused to be that sort of monster. He would not force a woman, even if she were the hated enemy who deserved any degradation he could give her. He forced himself to focus again on the interrogation. “You will tell me,” he repeated, in a more measured, quiet tone, “or I will start taking pieces off of your body.”

He intended to retrieve the knife, resume that line of threatening, but he found himself dipping to scrape his teeth across her throat instead. She moaned and bucked up against him, but he held her down as he lost himself in the taste of her skin and worked his teeth up the side of her neck. He reached her ear and captured that sensitive skin, causing her to make a sound that belied any pretense of this still being a torture session.

Adar pulled his head back to inspect her face. He was breathing as heavily as she was, and every part of him screamed to put his hands all over her, to strip her down and take her.

“Thirty warriors,” she gasped, focusing her eyes on his face like it took effort. “In a cave in the red cliff on the other side of the rise to the northeast.”

Adar clenched his teeth. He knew he should get up, send someone to check if her information was true.

He shifted his weight to stand, and her face turned desperate. “I told you what you wanted. Now finish what you started. Please.” She wrapped her legs around his waist.

He shouldn’t have trusted it, but he didn’t know yet. What this was. All he could think about was how much he wanted to rub his skin across hers. He groaned, pressing his aching cock into her body, and his brow against her own. “You want me?” he ground out, needing to hear it clearly, even if it made no sense.

“I want you,” she said, and pressed her lips against his own.

How long since Adar had been kissed? She undid him with that, any hesitation leaving him as her eager tongue slipped into his mouth, tasting like sunshine and forgotten dreams. He couldn’t be gentle, but she didn’t seem to mind. He ate at her mouth while grinding their bodies together, swallowed up her cry of protest when his breastplate smashed her bound hands against her ribs. He sucked at her lip before pulling away, separating their bodies just long enough to flip her arms above her head and out of his way. He wanted his armor off but that would take too much time. And he knew better than to untie her. This could still be a trick.

If it was, he would happily call her bluff.

He resumed devouring the skin of her neck and throat, while his hand crept down to slide between her legs. The bell-like noise she made when he touched her there was so beautiful that he lost all thoughts other than needing her to make it again and again. He ripped the clothes off her lower body just short of savagely, and she wrapped her knees around his head with answering enthusiasm.

The scent of her sex almost made the fearsome Lord Father swoon. He mouthed his way down her inner thigh and licked across the secret seam between her legs, moaning at the intoxicating flavor of her. The Elf’s hips rose to meet him. He growled and pinned them down. Her pleasure was evident and something about that nagged at him. He wasn’t supposed to be pleasing her, was he? But her taste, sweet mercy her taste was something he could not get enough of. His tongue found every fold and valley of her, plumbed her depths and sucked at the little spot that made her call out the most beautiful Elvish profanities.

When her legs had ceased shaking and her cries had turned to whimpers, Adar could hold back the pressure of his full desire no longer. He rose up over the mess he’d made of her, admiring spread legs and glistening thighs. His cock was so ready that he made himself moan just by taking it out of his trousers.

The Elf stared up at him, and Adar barely remembered himself long enough to check her face one more time, to make certain she wanted this. With swollen lips and dreamy eyes, she pleaded for him to take her, in whatever way he pleased.

He was too out of practice to slide into her without using his hands to guide himself in. He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly as he sank into her on the floor, overwhelmed at the long-forgotten sensation. She was exquisitely tight, yet slick, around him. His hips met hers but did not stay there; the urge to move, harder, faster, to rut into her freely overtook his senses. His arms clutched around her, his head buried against her neck.

She was making those noises again, this time more frantic, squeals that merged pleasure and pain. He loved that even more, and sank his teeth into her shoulder without relenting in his pace.

He had to be deeper. He braced himself on his knees and scooped her hips up into the air so he could put more of his body into the thrusting. She arched her back and wailed in pleasure, pitch going higher and higher until Adar was sure she had crested another ecstatic wave. He wanted to follow her into orgasmic bliss, but he did not want this to be over too quickly either.

He reached down for her bound wrists and looped them around the back of his neck. His thighs contracted powerfully as he stood, lifting her into the air without unsheathing himself, and pivoted to press her up against the sturdiest post holding up the ceiling of his tent. He fucked up into her, letting gravity help him get the depth he was craving.

Her arms crushed against his neck, her overwhelmed face inches from his own, still lovely in blissful torment. His pleasure was nearing its peak when he noticed the tent-post was rocking, shaking loose from its mooring in the earth. If he brought the tent down, his children were sure to come investigating. So with a snarl, Adar spun them away from their insufficient mooring and dropped his Elven prisoner into his bed.

He used the transition to change positions; as he moved to cover her again he scooped up one leg in his arm, forcing her wide for him as he pushed back into her swollen pussy. His balls tightened, release close now as she held his head close to her own. Perhaps she had no choice but to embrace him, with her hands bound behind his neck, but it felt like she meant it, clinging to him and panting into his ear. She was cursing in Elvish again, filthy phrases he hadn’t thought a High Elf would even know, and the sound of her dulcet tones speaking such depravity pushed him over the edge.

His world went white, muscles locking when he was as deep inside her as he could get, as wave after wave of ecstasy overtook him. It felt like it went on forever, this surge of pure bliss that he had denied himself for so long. Whyever would he have done so? The feel of her, the scent of her, the sounds she made as he buried himself in her . . .  in his final throes of pleasure he sank his teeth into that meaty place where her neck met her shoulder. He knew he was saying goodbye, even if he couldn’t remember why. He tasted blood and that soothed him, allowed him to slowly come back to himself.

Her arms were still around him, his cock still sunk deep into her as they both caught their breaths. Adar lifted his head, and they gazed at each other for a long moment, coming back to themselves. At the first hint of regret on her face, he pulled his head out from under her arms, sliding out of her with a long sigh and rocking back on his knees.

It was only when he saw his black seed oozing out of her that he realized what had happened, remembered things that he had spent centuries trying not to think of. Evidently his denial had been too successful, if he could forget about this—the full horror of what Mairon had done to him.

They had both wanted children, you see. And Mairon in his efficiency wanted them quickly, and as many as possible. A seductive, intoxicating magic was part of the corruption that made Adar what he was now. The Moriondor needed to breed for their master, without wasting time on the kind of love, trust, and bonding that Elves required in order to conceive. So he made it easy for them.

Adar had not known for certain how much of that black spell remained suffused in his being. What cause had he to be around she-Elves after he’d freed himself, and his progeny, from the Dark Lord? He had no way of knowing the effect he would have on them. And they on him.

He knew now. The she-Elf stirred, but did not move to cover herself from him, and did not pull away. Adar knew the infatuation he saw in her face was a lie, but there was no undoing it now. She refused to leave his bed, and he could not summon the strength to force her to.

She was with him for only a few days before she was rescued by her people. Adar and his children fought hard to keep her, but in the end she was whisked away by Elven warriors, riding deep into their city until she was beyond his reach. He wondered if she missed him. He felt her absence keenly, and resented that too. Above all, he cursed Mairon. Even after destroying his former master, he could not escape his most insidious torments.

 

The next time they held a she-Elf captive, Adar did not house her in his own tent.

He tried to keep his distance that time, patrolling every other part of the camp, keeping himself as busy as possible. He could smell her on the wind, though. Absentminded, his feet kept taking him in that direction. Try as he might to resist, he kept finding himself at the threshold of her prison, listening to his children questioning her, torturing her, until he snapped and sent them all out. He knew it wouldn’t be real, but he couldn’t help himself. And besides, she was an enemy. Only an Elf. How satisfying it would be to mistreat one, after how they’ve treated his kind… He shook his head. He had a choice, and he would not choose to be that monster. But still, he could not stop his feet from stepping across the threshold.

Chapter 2: stop me

He swam into her blurry vision like a dream, like the silver moon emerging from behind the darkest clouds. He spoke in the same black tongue as the Orcs surrounding her, the ones that had been making her suffer for days, but his voice had a different resonance that made something deep inside her thrum.

The pain they were inflicting stopped at his words. She was left to sag against her bonds, hanging from her arms in the dark little building they had hidden her in. Wherever she was, no one had ever responded to her screams.

The Orcs skittered out, now, flowing deferentially around the black figure with the moon-white face stalking inside. This must be the “Lord-Father” they had mentioned. Had threatened her with. Fear chilled her limbs, but she looked into his face bravely. Let him see she was not yet broken.

He stepped close, close enough to touch, and she sucked in a breath. Though his face was craggy and disfigured, he had the strong bones and pointed ears of an Elf. Moriondor, her mind whispered, one of her forefathers corrupted by the true enemy Morgoth. His scent hit her at the same moment as that realization – spicy, smoky, yet sweet in a way that made her exhausted body perk up in fascination.

He looked down his nose at her for a long time. He did not speak, did not move, but he was breathing just as fast as she. The pain in her body was a distant memory now, which was such a relief she almost smiled.

He reached up, slow and deliberate, and traced two fingers gently down the side of her face. They felt so good that she turned into them, nuzzling like she would if he were her lover and not a dark lord upon whose orders she had just been tortured. On whose orders, the torture had stopped… Confused, she searched his eyes for an explanation. But what she saw in his gaze only sent a wild rush of heat between her legs.

Take me, the words bubbled up behind her tongue, wild and hot and desperate. She did not give them voice. This was a spell, surely. Just a new type of torture she must resist.

The Lord Father nodded, still stone-faced. His gaze flicked down to her mouth. She felt her chin tip itself upward, ready to receive his kiss.

“What-?” she whispered, and he froze. He removed his hand from her face, pressed it against his own belly as he took a step back. Finally, real emotion flashed in his eyes – torment, and bone-deep sadness.

He left her prison without a word.

 

She was alone for a long time. The Orcs did not return and no torturing resumed, though she did catch sounds of them outside, guarding the crumbling stone building that formed her prison. When movement came once more at the threshold, it was him, eyes wide and wary this time, holding a waterskin and the bit of lembas bread that had been wrapped up in her pack when she was captured. There was a rotting table in the room, two paces away from her, and he set them there. He paused for a moment, as if gathering himself. Which made no sense; he had nothing to fear from her. What could she do to him, bound and helpless like this?

His eyes were cold again when he approached her with the water. She straightened, enough of her strength having returned for her to stand firm upon her feet though her arms were still spread wide and high by the chains. He lifted the skin to her lips. The cool water felt so good on her parched lips that she could not keep from making a small sound of pleasure. She wrapped her mouth around its spout and drank greedily.

Without warning he pulled it away, water spilling over her chin and neck with the suddenness. She gasped and opened her eyes. He was looking at her so intently, but she could not parse which emotions she was seeing behind his eyes. He reached up and wiped the water from her face with the side of one finger. Even a touch as slight as that sent a shiver through her body. Whatever this magic was, it was thick and ancient.

She watched his finger disappear into his mouth, sucking off whatever traces of her the water had drawn from her skin.

“Are you hungry, little one?” He spoke in Quenya, and his voice was like an ancient instrument that hadn’t been played for an Age, creaky but melodious.

She nodded, afraid to trust her own voice. Silently, he fetched the lembas bread. She watched him unwrap it, careful and slow, holding the loaf in his gauntleted hand while breaking off a corner with the bare one. His hand was the same corpselike grey as his face, but clean and strong-boned. His fingertips ended in claws, the nails thicker than they should be, though not all of them were sharp.

The Lord Father lifted the piece of bread to her face, but did not place it directly into her mouth. He waited for her to take it. Was this a test, or a trick?

“Did you poison it?” she challenged.

“Did I?” was his only answer. His hand was unwavering before her face, and he stared her down, waiting for her to choose.

She was too hungry. Her bottom lip slid across his thumb as she leaned forward and took the bite of bread from him. The lembas tasted normal, at least. Did her lip tingle oddly where it had touched him, or was it only her imagination? She was so aware of every small touch that had passed between them already. And she was all too aware that she would have no way to stop him, should he choose to touch more.

He held up another small piece between his fingers after she swallowed. It was only when she reached for it that she realized he was holding it a little further back than last time; she needed to stretch her neck before she could capture it. She scowled at him as she chewed it, but his aloof face was tinged only with a trace of amusement.

She refused to reach for the third piece, although she wanted it. Some bold energy seized her, led her to answer his teasing with her own. She simply opened her mouth and waited for him to place the morsel inside.

The Lord Father pressed the bread to her tongue, fingertips entering her mouth along with it. Her lips closed around them, the urge to taste his skin too strong. His smile strengthened, and his fingers twisted playfully in her mouth before he withdrew them.

She felt her cheeks grow hot while he watched her chew that next bite. What had come over her? The lembas was already renewing her body, but this feeling was more than just the relief of sustenance and strength returning.

Her captor's eyes flicked to her bonds. “Do you want to be unchained?”

“Does it matter what I want?” she answered bitterly.

The Lord Father ducked his head to look her squarely in the eyes. “It does.” The certainty in his words was almost a plea.

Her heart leapt to her throat, brimming with dangerous hope. “Then yes. I would like to come down from this wall,” she said with weary dignity.

He set the bread back on the table, and she noticed the hilt of a dagger sticking up from his waistband as he turned. She marked the location and angle. When he turned back around there was a key in his hand. He stood close while he reached up to the iron clamped around her wrist and fit the little key into the latch. He was more gentle than she expected; once the key turned he was grasping her forearm in support, holding the limb steady as exhausted muscles re-learned how to let that arm move again. Then he let go, almost reluctantly, and inspected her while she rebalanced her full weight on her own feet.

He stepped to the other wrist, about to release her fully. “You do not think I will run?” she asked, too honest.

“No,” was all he said. He cradled her arm as he released it, then drew her almost-numb hand to his chest.

He watched her face while she watched his hand, rubbing hers tenderly to coax back the strength and sensation into it. This wasn’t right, why was the dark lord of the Orcs caring for her? The reviving sensation in her extremities was a distracting onslaught of mostly-unpleasant sensations; she was overwhelmed for a moment with it, clenching and unclenching the hand that was not being tended to by strong, pale fingers. “Why-?” she finally choked out.

His hands stopped moving.

It was like the moment when he had fled earlier, and, shockingly, she did not want him to withdraw again. “Why be kind to me?” she rushed to clarify, more softly. She looked up at steely eyes that had begun to show that tormented edge again.

“I am not kind,” he replied. His thumb traced the back of her hand, a gesture so simple and yet so significant. They both watched their entwined hands as he silently turned hers over, palm-up, the claw on his thumb only faintly scraping along her skin. He bent his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. The skin was rough and reddened there from the shackles, and he licked his tongue gently, soothing, along the wounds.

Her body responded, too deeply to ignore. She let herself swoon forward, catching herself against his solid chest. He embraced her readily, pressing her hand up against his own scarred face and grasping her solidly around the waist.

Their faces were so close now. He was handsome, despite his pallor and the layers of scars twisting his flesh. Perhaps because of them. His body was as taught as a strung bow, but he remained motionless. Other than the continued stroking of his thumb across the back of her hand. He was waiting for something from her.

She took a deep breath and gave him what he wanted. Pressing her lips to his, she wrapped one arm around his neck and the other around his back. She kept the kiss firm, but chaste, and though the feel of his lips on her had her body buzzing, she managed to stay focused. Quick as she could, she drew the dagger from his belt and pressed it under his chin.

“You were right about me not running,” she said. “Because that would be foolish. But marching through your camp with this knife at your throat? That should get me safe passage out of here.”

He did not look afraid. In fact, his fingers were creeping along her body in slow, delicious, coaxing caresses about her waist and hips, and when she pressed the blade harder into his skin his pupils only dilated further.

She was breathing hard. “I mean it,” she warned, and stepped forward with the knife pressing into him, forcing him to step back along with her. The line of her body was pressed along his, and she clenched her jaw to stop herself from rubbing her aching core against his thigh. “If you won’t walk out of here with me, I’ll open your throat and find my own way out.”

He stopped retreating. She pushed against him but it was as if he was suddenly rooted to the earth. He looked down along the blade at her, appearing to be only fascinated to see what she would do next.

She drew the tip of the blade along the strong line of his jaw, angling it into the best position for one clean slice to cut off his ability to cry out and alert the guards as he died. The glimmer of the metal against the column of his throat slowed her intent, distracting her with the loveliness of the sight. All the raw power of him, under the control of her threat. “Kneel,” she commanded.

He collapsed before her easily, instantly, never breaking eye contact nor appearing the least bit ashamed.

Her command had separated their bodies, however, and she found that this did not please her. Every part of her that had lost his touch felt cold, bereft. She knew that the rational choice was to slash his throat and get on with her escape. Yet she lingered, captivated by this ancient former-Elf who seemed entirely unafraid to find himself under her power. Whatever this was, she did not want to walk away from it.

She played with the blade on his skin, dragging the moment out. His eyelids fluttered, his body positively thrumming under the pressure of anticipation, like he did not want it to stop either. She reached out to touch his face, still twisting the blade under his chin. She traced the pattern of scars on his cheek, as beautiful as they were hideous. She was leaning in close, and her words came out soft. “Why do you let me touch you like this?”

His answer was just as low and intimate. “You are the one holding the knife.”

“What would happen if I set it aside?”

“Find out,” he growled up at her.

That growl did something to her, equal parts menace and plea. He had unleashed her just moments ago; what would happen if she now unleashed him?

She kept the knife at his throat, though her grip on it felt weakened in the heart-pounding blur of competing impulses rushing through her mind. Run, a part of her shouted, but she got down on her knees instead, leveling their faces, and she leaned over the blade to press another kiss to his mouth.

He was wary, but his lips moved under hers this time, and her whole body began to tingle.

“You are playing with fire,” he broke the kiss to murmur, then captured her lips again, fiercer, more insistent. “What happened to cutting my throat and escaping?”

“I still might,” she tossed back, repositioning the blade to make sure he could still feel it, and laying her palm along his cheek with her other hand. “If you don’t do as I say.” It felt strange to be kissing him, like exploring a room she had been forbidden to enter. She felt prickly and exposed and exceptionally alive as she tasted the dark fruit of him. Knowing she was choosing, and choosing to do wrong.

His fingertips grazed up the sides of her body. She shouldn’t let him inside her guard like this, begin to lose the physical advantage, but she could not bring herself to order him to keep his hands to himself. He played at the gap between her jerkin and leggings, fingers finding their way down to bare skin.

Her heart was pounding. She had forgotten about that wicked gauntlet he wore, almost as dangerous in close quarters as the knife she held to his pulse point. He was now positioned to slide those razored fingers right under her ribs.

But he did not, and she did not push on her blade, and only their kiss deepened.

Time passed strangely in that kiss. She knew the Lord Father’s arms encircled her, knew that his hair was unexpectedly silken as she buried her fingers in it behind his ears. She did not know when she ended up flat on her back, his weight steady and solid on top of her. His knee was sliding between her thighs. The knife was still in her hand, still a warning between them.

His face dove to bury kisses in her neck. She felt his tongue lick out to taste her skin and she swooned, shifting to pull the knife away and give him better access to her body.

“If you knew what I wanted to do to you, you would not remove that blade.”

She paused, leaving its tip against his skin.

“My control is not infinite,” he continued, rasping the words against her throat as he nuzzled beneath her jaw. “Soon I will have none left. And you will need that knife to stop me.” He made a sound between a groan and a growl, and pressed his thigh higher between her legs. “If you desire me to stop.” He took the skin of her throat between his teeth, delicately. She felt his canines scrape along her windpipe. “And you should,” he continued, in that soft rasp. “Stop me.”

She did not want to. She knew she should, and she was even worried, but… “Will you hurt me?”

“Perhaps.”

She shivered, there on the floor beneath the Lord Father of the Uruk. Her fear seemed to excite him, although she caught a glimpse of the war behind his eyes. “Will you pleasure me?”

“Are you asking me to?”

“Yes.” It escaped her lips in a breathy whisper, a plea from a treasonous part of her rushing to outpace her better judgment.

He pulled her tunic up, exposing her belly with a scrape of metal along vulnerable skin. When he lifted his head from her neck, his face was pure predator, and when he slid down her body to bring his mouth to her newly-revealed flesh, she remembered that Orcs eat Elves.

The shuddering fear did not outweigh the rising, aching heat pulsing between her legs. She kept the knife in contact with his neck, even as he slid down the line of her body, mouthing across bare and sensitive skin. His hot tongue licked just below her bellybutton, the hard fingers of his gauntlet spanning one side of her ribcage. She heard herself panting like a wounded animal, apprehension and lust both so thick she was choking on the rush of feelings. Was she really about to … give herself to this Orc?

The hilt of the dagger was like a lifeline, reminding her of what control she still had. The fingers of his bare hand curled into her waistband, pulling her clothing out of the way of the greedy rush of his lips. He found the buckle of her belt and got to work on easing it open, blindly since he refused to remove his mouth from her skin.

Her stomach dropped as that last defense loosened. She ached for him to reach that secret place he was about to uncover, but … she pressed the knife’s edge harder into the side of his neck. “What have you done to me, Orc?”

He stopped. His hands, his lips, even his breathing. Then he released a great, growling sigh and let go of her body, lifting himself away from her and sitting back on his heels. If she wanted to keep the knife on his neck she would have to follow him up, but she hadn’t expected his sudden withdrawal and was left scrambling up on elbow and palm, keeping the knife pointed straight out in the air between them. He caught that wrist easily, twisting her arm away from threatening range. He was so fast. Had she ever truly been a threat to him?

He stared at her for a long moment, breath coming as quickly as hers. She swore that was shame burning in the twisted Elf’s eyes, and it made her feel ashamed too, clearing her head of whatever their bodies had been conspiring together to do.

He stood suddenly, easily, belying a strength well beyond an average Elf as his clamped hand on her wrist pulled her up to her feet as well. He marched her back to the wall, back to the dangling shackles. “No, wait,” she said, but he ignored her, wouldn’t even look at her as he set her arm back inside the wide ring of metal and snapped it shut on her.

Then he stepped away, to a mechanism further down the wall, and turned a crank that lengthened the chain attached to her arm, metal link clinking together until the slack hit the floor.

“Sleep, Elf,” he said as he walked past her and out the door.

 

She’d been the one to kiss him, he told himself that, even though Adar knew her desire was a lie and so what did it matter that she was free of her chains and it was her hand on the hilt of the knife? He couldn’t escape the guilt. No honor in fooling himself.

Where then, could honor be found? All that Morgoth, that Mairon—no, Sauron—had left to him when they took his life, his body, and his mind was his sense of decency. And even that was a torture. If he had not his dignity, and some form of conscience remaining to him, he could embrace the monster they had made of him and be free of the agony of this shame.

Without it, he would not have nurtured generations of their soldiers. He was only left with the parts of himself that they could use. They had made a mockery of his urge to nurture, to care. But it was still there. Still him. He still had a choice.

Chapter 3: truths revealed

She woke beneath a blanket, torn and faded but warm. A rolled-up fur had been placed under her head as a pillow. And all her wounds were bandaged. How deeply had she slept? And how long?

 Her wrist was still shackled, but at least the Lord Father had left her with enough slack in the chain to lay down and rest. When she rolled to her side, a plate of food lay on the ground, just barely within her arm’s reach.

She wondered again if the offered sustenance was drugged. Was that the reason she had acted that way? Would he make her do those things again?

Heat rose in her cheeks at the memory. And in other places, too. She knew she should be ashamed of what had happened, what she’d done and allowed to be done, but though she did feel embarrassed she could not quite bring herself to regret it. The Lord Father of the Uruk fascinated her – the calm, still confidence of his presence, and the sadness lurking behind his eyes, so foreign to what she had expected of the enemy. And the wild, maddened desire with which he had looked at her, that was not a memory she could ignore either. No Elf had ever looked at her that way. It seemed there was more hidden within the darkness of Morgoth’s shadow than just cruelty and pain.

Her mind paced back through every moment of what had happened, every word, every glance, every touch. It became clear to her part-way through this review that the Orc Lord had been surprisingly honest with her, albeit in a distant and mysterious way, and that he had kept his promises to her. He had asked her to stop him. And when she did, he complied at once, although it was obviously a great effort to master himself.

No one came to interrogate her that day. No one entered at all, save a single, unassuming Orc that might have been female, who silently facilitated the tending of mundane, physical needs. She was grateful she had not been left to wallow in her own filth, but once again suspicious of the kindness. She did not want to allow any manipulations to get her to drop her guard. She had let it fall too far with the Lord Father already.

 

She was actually getting bored by the time she saw him again. It had been days of this benign neglect, and though his appearance was still alarming, she was almost glad for the next chapter of whatever-this-was to finally begin.

“Are all your needs being met?” he inquired, much too genially for the fearsome look of his warrior’s face, for the clink of her chain and the squalor of her prison.

She’d play along, of course. No reason to be the first one to drop civility if she did not yet understand what game they were playing. Her current state of (relative) comfort was surely only at his whim. She nodded graciously from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

The Lord Father took a seat on the bench, outside the range of her chain. “There are things I need to explain.” He sucked in a long, slow breath before speaking again. “Many, many years ago, at the dawn of another age, I was taken by Morgoth, along with twelve other Elves.”

“Moriondor,” she named him, and when he nodded gravely she continued. “Morgoth wished to create a people of his own, but did not have the power to spark life. He could only twist and corrupt it, and so created Orcs from Eru Iluvatar’s fair children. He bred an army of them.”

“So you’ve heard the story.” The Lord Father leaned forward, a strand of his hair falling across his face. “Do you know how he bred them, the Uruk?”

She opened her mouth, but halted in sudden embarrassment. She knew what breeding meant. And all the Orcs called him Father… “They really are your children,” she whispered.

He nodded again, with a faint smile that looked like pride. “And call us Uruk. ‘Orc’ is an ugly word.” The smile faded as he continued to speak. “It is hard to make captive Elves breed at the rate the Dark Lord required. Harder still, to get them to ignore monogamy, or to mate with monsters.”

A chill tingled through her.

“So he threaded temptation into the corruption of the Moriondor, bound us with a curse of lust that both compels and inspires.” Despite the blaze of shame in his eyes, he held her gaze intently. “So that we could most efficiently spawn his armies. Even with Morgoth defeated, even with Sauron gone, I am cursed with it still. Any She-Elf that gets near me is doomed to seduction. Immediate, and irresistible.”

Yes, that was what she was feeling. She shifted her hands in her lap, causing her chain to clink. “What happens to me now?”

He stood, towering over her position on the floor. “I stay away from you. As I always should have.” His feet did not move, however.

“That is not what I want,” she said.

“No?”

“Did you not say that it matters, what I want? You fascinate me, Lord. I do not wish to never see you again.” As she spoke the words she knew she meant them, that this was not just a ploy to keep herself from the whips and knives of his children.

His answering frown was stern. “That is the curse talking.”

Her brows creased. “How would you know?”

He took a challenging step closer. “How would you?”

They glared at each other for a long moment. She knew her chin was set stubbornly, in a way her mother had often called ‘petulant,’ but she lifted it higher, facing him down even though she was in chains at his feet. How dare he presume to know her mind. She could feel what the curse was doing. She also knew she would be captivated by this tortured, soulful former-Elf, regardless. He was tragic and noble and—

He swept down to one knee, bringing his face down to her level. “You cannot trust anything you think you are feeling when you are with me.” The blackness around his eyes was thicker than before, as if he’d been losing sleep these past few days. “You are bespelled. So it would be wrong for us to act on this. These false feelings.” His pupils were blowing wide and dark, his eyes traveling across he face.

She came up to her knees, bringing herself within arm’s reach of him now. “Wrong,” she echoed. Her lip quirked. “I want to be wrong.”

He made an exasperated noise, turning his head as if it took a gross muscular effort to force himself to stop looking at her. His long black hair tumbled around his face, and she reached up to brush it back, to draw his chin toward her again.

His eyes rolled back to meet hers, tormented. Her body was thrumming as she stroked his face. But she could see the Lord Father gathering himself, his iron will pulling him back from the wild energy sparking again between them.

He took her hands in his, gently pulling them away from his face. “What is your name,” he asked softly. He continued to hold both her hands pressed between his own.

“Fearil,” she said.

The corner of his lips turned up. “Bright Soul. It suits you.” He exhaled loudly. “Let us hope your fea is brilliant enough to keep us both from evil.”

“I do not know your name,” she said, grasping for anything to keep him this close.

His face steadied, like he was considering, and discarding, several answers. “I am called Adar. It is the only name left to me.”

“Adar,” she nodded, trying to think of it only as a name, and not a formal, antiquated way to address one’s father.

His eyes were fixed upon their hands, entwining together. His fingers rubbed little circles into the backs of hers.

“I cannot keep myself away,” he whispered. “You need to stop me.”

“I don’t want you to stay away.”

He growled softly, and his grip tightened on her fingers. “No? Even after what I almost did to you?” He leaned in closer, lips tracing her cheek as he spoke. “And that was when you were the one in control. You’re helpless now.” He drew his breath in sharply, a deep inhale against her skin as he pressed the bridge of his nose against the side of her face. “Tell me to go.”

Her body tingled all over. She leaned into him, refusing his words with a soft kiss to his temple.

She felt him shiver at the tender gesture. “Don’t,” he said, voice ragged. He squeezed his eyes hard, and when they opened they were blazing with cold fire. Gauntleted fingers wrapped around her neck. “Do not delude yourself into thinking I would be gentle, Elf. There is no love in the Moriondor.”

He was not squeezing her airway, nor pushing her onto her back to have his way with her. “You’re trying to scare me,” she guessed.

The claw on his thumb pressed into her lip, and he stared down his nose at her. “I have no need to try anything of the sort.” His other hand fisted in her hair. “It is only natural for an Elf to be afraid of me.” His weight bore down on her, but his grip kept her face twisted up and high. “I might do anything to you.”

The claws of his gauntlet slid into the neckline of her tunic, threatening to tear it.

“Beg me to stop.”

Heat rushed through her body, and he saw it bloom through her face; she could hide nothing from him while he was forcing her to look at him with his fist in her hair. She said nothing, and the claw began to rip.

The cloth of her shirt strained against her body, then gave way with a soft tearing noise that was the only sound in the room. Torn fabric slid along her pert and suddenly-aching nipples until she was naked from the waist up before him.

His eyes were still locked with hers, half-mad with threat and challenge, daring her to let this go on even as he demanded that she stop it. He dropped her ruined tunic to the ground. Then his claws traced her bare shoulder.

His eyes slid down her body, lids growing heavy with satisfaction at the sight of her in this state. She moved neither to show off nor to cover herself, transfixed into utter stillness by the look in his eyes.

“You still want my dirty Uruk hands on you?”

She leaned into him then, with a little moan that was pushed out of her throat by her swelling arousal. Adar dropped his grip on her hair so he could run his bare hand across the lushness of her skin, over her breasts and belly while his gauntlet clutched at her back, keeping her close, holding her up when she swayed under the sheer exhilaration of allowing her nakedness to be defiled.

As if he could read her mind, Adar kept taunting her, whispering vileness into her skin. “You like to be stripped and humbled for me, your sworn enemy? Are you really letting me plunder your fair Elven skin like this?” He caught her nipple between finger and thumb and squeezed, just shy of cruelly. “Just think how much worse it will get, if you don’t stop me now.”

Her only cries were those of pleasure. The chain clinked as she threw her arms around Adar’s neck, wanting him closer, wanting to wrap her entire body around his—

The Uruk Lord went still. Fearil got her legs around one powerful thigh, pressing into him with that spot between her legs that ached and burned for contact. She kissed the corner of his jaw and resisted a shiver when her bare breasts brushed the cold metal of his breastplate. She clutched at him, the chain trailing from her arm clanking into his armor loudly.

He flinched at the sound. The next thing she knew he had taken her firmly by the shoulders, separating their bodies and easing her down off his lap. “Not like this,” he murmured. “Not in chains. I won’t take a woman in chains.”

“I don’t mind—” she started, but cut herself off at the sound of her own words. She sounded desperate. Wholly without dignity. She did not sound like herself.

“Do you believe me now?” he asked thickly, and though she could feel the reluctance in his fingers, he let her go and rose to his feet. “I did not mean to get so carried away,” he said apologetically. The tone sounded strange coming from his rough voice. He fetched her blanket and threw it around her shoulders. “I will see that a new tunic is brought to you.”

“Adar,” she called, but he was already retreating. “Don’t—” Don’t leave, she stopped herself from saying. She couldn’t beg him like that, proud Elvish warrior that she was.

“We both need rest,” he said from the doorway. “Gather your strength. The temptation will not fade on the morrow.”

 

Adar stood outside the decrepit old hut that they had made into her prison, breathing heavily. He had dismissed the guard on the door when he’d arrived, not wanting anyone to overhear what he’d entered to say to the girl.

He’d deluded himself again, thinking he could come here and just talk. Now his cock was aching where it strained against his pants, his hands still tingling at the memory of her skin. It was all he could do right now to stop himself from turning around and rushing back in through that threshold. He knew she’d take him with open arms.

He bit his lip, shifting his weight and adjusting his pants. He wouldn’t go back in. He took one step toward the door, then forced himself to veer off to the side and keep walking, along the wall and around the corner. Now the building was between him and the camp. He leaned into the wall as soon as he was sure no one could observe him, and let out a heavy sigh. Just a moment to fall apart. Then he could step back out and be the Lord Father again.

 

Fearil listened to his steps, holding her breath when she realized they were not fading, he was not retreating. The side wall of her prison was made of wooden planks, poorly sealed and fallen into disrepair. It wouldn’t even be an obstacle if she weren’t chained to the back wall of the cottage, which was more sturdily built of stone.

She could see Adar’s outline against the light outside, between the horizontal gaps in that wall. He trudged closer to her, then leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh. She waited, and watched. She didn’t think he knew she could see he was there. She used the blanket to muffle her chain as she crept closer towards him.

He remained where he was, a dark silhouette against the fading light. He muttered something in Black Speech with the tone of a curse (but didn’t every one of their words have that tone) and fumbled with something at his belt. No, she realized as she heard it clink, it was the belt itself.

A pause, and then a groan, rich with satisfaction and longing. Was he—? She dared to creep a little closer, and found a crack through which she could see a pale flash of movement. His white hand, pumping up and down around a rod of something thicker and a shade darker.

Oh. Her eyes went wide, her face burned, but she did not look away. The heat between her legs, so recently frustrated, redoubled in response to the image. And the sounds, oh gods the sounds he made. Frantic, vocalized little breaths that made her own breathing quicken to keep pace with him. There was another crack, higher up, that showed her a glimpse of his lips, parted and panting.

He ran his gauntlet across his face and cursed again. Did it smell of her, she wondered? Could he smell her right now, her sex throbbing and weeping for him on the other side of the thin wall?

She pressed her own hand between her thighs, needing the contact to ground her while she listened to Adar’s voice go wilder, watched the glimpses she could catch of the firm and exacting way that he was handling himself.

It wasn’t enough. She shoved her hand inside her own pants, pressing her other palm across her mouth to stop herself from making any sounds that would give her away as an immediate wave of pleasure rolled through her. Her chain clinked.

Adar stopped.

Fearil didn’t think he could see through the wall the way she could, not with the angle of the light. He wouldn’t see her all but lying prostrate on the ground before him on the other side of those flimsy planks, drowning in her need for him.

She listened to him exhale and resume his frenzied activity. Surely he thought she had just been moving idly, and had no notion that he was out there. Fearil barely breathed around her own clamping hand as she resumed pleasuring herself, too, matching the cadence of his heavy strokes and labored, barely-vocalized grunts.

When he came, he did so in a low, heavy groan that seemed endless. It was long enough to trigger her own orgasm behind a silent scream, and still be going when she was able to hear again. She felt dizzy while she listened to him finish, but she dared not let herself pant and catch her breath.

Adar did, letting himself down easy before fastening his belt and stepping away with one last, regretful sigh.

Fearil watched the glisten of a thick fluid seeping to her side of the wall, through one of the loose seams in the planks. She cursed the chain that did not extend long enough to allow her to reach it. She could only imagine what its flavor might be like upon her tongue.

Chapter 4: flight

She couldn’t stay here. The situation was becoming ludicrous.

If the Elf was his prisoner, he should be having her questioned nightly. If she wouldn’t give them anything useful, or even if she did, his children would kill her, and throw her in the cookpot to strengthen their warriors.

If she was his lover, he should move her to his tent, fuck her until she couldn’t walk like he did with the last one. But he didn’t know then. Not until it was too late. Adar knew better now. He would not take advantage when this black magic suffusing him was only a lingering curse from his haunted past.

His Uruk never released Elven prisoners, but an exception had to be made. He could no longer bring himself to mistreat her, or let her be mistreated, not after the moments they had shared. So she had to go. They would move camp after she was away, minimize the information she’d be able to share with the rest of the Elves when she rejoined them. Once Fëaril got away from him, her head would clear and she would hate him for what he had subjected her to here, he was sure of it.

Vengeance from her people might be swift. But he would not take her life just to hide his mistake.

 

Apprehension drained the strength from her limbs as Fëaril was pulled to her feet and unlocked from her chain by two large Uruk, bristling with menace. A grey palm as big as her face clamped down on her shoulder, just above the thick, clumsy stitchwork mending her tunic where Adar had torn it. It had been returned to her, without comment, a few days ago.

The Uruk shoved her toward three more warriors who crowded the door, weapons drawn. Where was she being taken? And where was Adar?

Firelight flickered all around her as she was pushed through the doorway and out into the Uruk camp. The warriors ringed around her and shepherded her forward, between many tents busy with activity. It was a long walk, the camp larger than she had expected, and despite their initial ferocity, her escort made no move to injure her, and let her walk on her own.

Fëaril had not had time to observe the enemy camp when she was captured and brought in. Now, she paid attention. She would not deny that she was curious about Adar’s people. Voices filled the air around her, some in Black Speech, some speaking the Common Tongue – joking, instructing, bantering, speaking of mundanities like any band of traveling people might. She had just never thought of Orcs – Uruk – as people.

She was surprised to see children here, smaller Uruk with more juvenile features, and babies being bounced and soothed. She still could not tell the men from the women among the adults, but their young were seemingly the same as any children. When her squadron had come upon this band, they had assumed they were raiders, not families. In what other ways had they been mistaken?

 “Where are you taking me?” she finally found the courage to ask.

“It’s your lucky day,” was the only answer one of her guards gave, a thick-lipped fellow with an ugly scar in the place of one eye.

The tents were thinning out; Fëaril thought they must be approaching the edge of the camp. They were headed away from the base of the mountain that her erstwhile prison had nestled up against, toward the heart of the valley. The Uruk camp was shaded by giant pines; excellent cover for a force of their size. Or, now that she had seen more of them, perhaps not a force. A caravan?

Her breath caught when she saw Adar, standing beneath the trees out past the furthest tent. He was facing away from her but her very bones recognized his figure, still and straight and clad all in black despite the summer heat.

“Here she is, Lord Father,” the foremost of her guard announced, stepping away and revealing her to him.

It was dark beneath the pines, but when he turned a patch of moonlight lit up his scarred face all in silver. If an Orc could ever be called ethereal, it was he in that moment, a glimmer of his forgotten Elvish nature illuminated in the beams of Tilion’s light.

Fëaril felt the strangest urge to stumble forward and collapse into his arms. The curse, no doubt. From the way his lips parted as he regarded her from under his heavy brow, Adar was already feeling its effects too.

He lifted his arm into the space between them. Her travel pack dangled from gauntleted fingers. “Go,” he croaked.

Oh. She looked around to see that the warriors ringing her had fallen back. This was between her and the Lord Father.

She should be overjoyed. She should snatch the bundle and run. “You do not wish to keep me?” she asked instead.

“I do,” he stated, looming toward her just a fraction. “That is why you must go.”

Of course she would go. Just as soon as she could bear to tear her eyes from his glittering gaze, as intense as it had been the first night he entered her prison.

“Now,” he urged, “before I change my mind.” He wiggled the pack, visibly more full than it had been when she was captured. He had provisioned her for the road.

She took one step toward him, accepting the bag and brushing her fingers along his as she did. She did this on purpose, hoping to feel that intoxicating spark one more time. But the cold metal of his gauntlet apparently blocked the effect. “You do not worry what I might reveal to the Elves when I return?”

Adar scowled. “You have learned nothing of importance about us.”

His dismissive tone actually hurt her heart. It made it easier for her to step past him. Still, she couldn’t leave it like that. “I have learned that the Uruk are more than just brutes,” she tossed over her shoulder as she began the hike down out of the valley. “I will remember that.” Her voice softened. “I will remember you.” She hoped he did not hear that last admission. It was so strange, to be feeling loss just as she was regaining her freedom. She shook her head, telling herself this wave of regret was just an effect of the curse, too. Her strides picked up speed, and she refused to look back.

 

Adar watched her go, until her silver hair was lost in the thickening trees. He was glad a few of his children had remained nearby, watching him. It helped him keep control. That part of him that had been inserted by Morgoth, so intimately that it had become a second set of instincts that Adar could barely separate himself from, was screaming that she was his, and he was losing her. It was a wonder his legs did not shake. It was all he could do to stand and watch her go, and restrain himself from pursuit.

Glug stepped up beside him. “Are you certain this is right, Lord?”

Only with great difficulty could Adar tear his eyes from the spot where she had disappeared from view. He saw compassion, not insubordination in the Uruk’s eyes. Of all his children, Glug had the brightest soul. It was why Adar kept him so close. “No,” Adar ground out to his favorite son, “I wish I could feel certain in this moment. But I do not.”

 

Fëaril picked her way through the dark forest, uneasiness taking over any other concerns as she realized that while she may be free of imprisonment, she was still lost in an unfamiliar forest. At night. If Adar truly had done this for her own good, could he at least have given her a map?

For now she knew that as long as she followed the decline of the land, she would come out from between the mountains where the Uruk were hiding, but she had little idea which direction to turn next. And it was night; not the best time to be traveling through underbrush.

The moon illuminated her steps only in random spurts, and she found herself navigating by scurrying from one clearing to the next. She did not dare to linger while still close to the enemy camp just to wait for dawn.

There was a rustling behind her, which could have been the passage of some game animal. She tried not to read too much into it, instead pressing on toward the next patch of moonlight.

She trod faster when she heard it again, certain it was larger than she had first guessed. Woodcraft was never her strong suit, but she tried to remember everything that she could. How was one to protect oneself against a mountain lion, or a disgruntled bear? Or had the Orcs changed their minds; perhaps they had overruled Adar and were now coming to collect their prisoner back.

“Fëaril,” a low voice crooned into the night air. She almost did not recognize it, the tone so wild and tempting.

“Adar?” she called, whirling on her heels and peering into the darkness beyond her little circle of light.

 “Don’t slow down now, or I will catch you. Do not let me catch you.”

There was something different in his voice now, and Fëaril found it terrifying. He was still warning her off him, as he always had, but instead of sorrow and guilt his tone was laced with a manic sort of pleasure that implied he had finally given up on controlling himself. Was now enjoying the prospect of a chase. He might do anything if he caught her.

His voice echoed through the pines. “Run from me, Fëaril,” he called, and she did.

She ran with her hands out in front of her face, careening around trunks and desperately pushing away branches that reached out to entangle her. She didn’t know how far away he was, nor even where she was going. She only knew that she was prey now, and there was nothing to do but keep going.

“I almost have you, little deer,” came his voice from just beyond her shoulder.

She didn’t think. She only acted, and it wasn’t until later that she recognized that the action she had chosen was to slow her next step, and brace herself for the moment when he caught her arm and spun her against his chest.

He crushed her body against his, burying his nose in her hair. “I can’t let you go,” he groaned.

She should have fought him. In that moment, it was all she could do to catch her breath and stand there, transfixed, as his hands roamed hungry over her body, his lips muttering in Black Speech and spreading lover’s kisses all over her neck and chest. She didn’t want to run. She was glad he had given chase. Fëaril wanted this, more than she could ever recall wanting anything.

Out here in the woods, away from both their peoples, maybe they could forget about what it all means and just come together like the wild beasts of the forest. Nothing more complicated than indulging this white-hot desire.

Fëaril buried her hands in Adar’s hair and pulled his mouth up to meet her own. She wanted it to be sweet and savoring, like their first kisses while she had hold of that knife. But Adar still had the fire of the chase in his belly, and he devoured her with teeth and tongue. Once more, he introduced her to things the Elven realms had given her no conception of.

And she found that she liked them. She liked the way his demanding mouth sucked and ate at her, his hands gripping her so tight that his claiming was on the verge of pain. Fëaril had become a soldier because she enjoyed the rush of training, the contention of sparring with an equally-matched partner and the wild abandon of the battlefield. No one had ever hinted that it could be the same with a lover.

So Fëaril met his passion with her own, wrapping her leg around him to try and satisfy the throbbing ache of need he was igniting at the apex of her thighs. He actually growled into her mouth, and pushed into her so hard that she started to topple back. Adar scooped up her other leg and stepped forward, pressing her back into the solid trunk of a nearby tree.

The unexpected impact made her gasp, and Adar pulled his head back to inspect her, lucidity and concern struggling to fight past the cloud of his raging passion. But Fëaril knew by now that showing any sign of hesitation caused him to withdraw, and she did not want that on this night. She arched her back against the leverage of the tree, grinding her hips into his body, seeking that which she craved.

His eyes darkened and he gave it to her, adjusting her seat upon his hips so that the sensitive core of her could feel the ridge of his hardened length, straining against his trousers. They both hissed in pleasure at the contact. Adar shoved her more firmly against the tree, freeing his hands to grab at her clothes and find her bare skin. He held her up with his body, which was frustratingly coated in that metal breastplate that kept her from feeling him as fully as she wanted. While he devoured her neck and ripped at her tunic, Fëaril’s fingers scrambled at the edges of his armor, trying desperately to find where it was fastened.

So great was her need that she was panting, making frustrated little whimpers when she could find no way to get the offending metal off him. Her sounds must have once again triggered Adar’s concern that she might be protesting, because he froze, and then, maddeningly, pulled back and let her down onto her own two feet.

Fëaril snarled like a wildcat and did not let him withdraw. She seized the bottom of his breastplate with both hands and tugged upward. “Off,” she commanded, staring into his eyes with the intensity she had previously only ever found in battle.

Adar smiled then, a rich, dark smile that sent a thrill through Fëaril’s core with its unspoken promises. He pulled at the ties she had not been able to find and shrugged the broad metal off.

Instantly Fëaril as on him, fingers seeking flesh under the hem of his black shirt just as eagerly as he had been exploring hers. His skin felt as gnarled along his tight belly as it looked along his cheeks, but it was warm and strong with the powerful muscles beneath and Fëaril fell instantly in love with the unique contours beneath her hands.

Adar’s lips found hers, and she felt herself becoming lost once again in the dream of him. The sense that she was doing something “wrong” when she kissed him like this had faded into nothing but a heady spice that only increased her desire to lean into it. To fall prey to him.

He laid her down, almost gently, on the bed of pine needles coating the forest floor. He pressed his body into her and she enveloped him with all four of her limbs, welcoming, seeking. There was a new look on his face as he savored her exploration of his body with her own – a heartbreaking softening, faint but definitely there. Her hands cupped his face as she looked up at him, and he closed his eyes like it was almost too much to bear. His hips ground down on her, though, and Fëaril could feel the evidence of his eagerness for her.

She reached down the line of his body, seeking by instinct that which she had never experienced before but had always known, with the serene patience of her kind, that she would one day desire. Never had she thought that the cock destined for her hand would be that of an Uruk, of course, but there was no hesitation in her questing fingers as they slid beneath his trousers. Impossible as it may seem, Fearil was now certain that this Moriondo was her destiny.

Now Adar whimpered, as her fingertips found the weeping head of his member. He lifted his hips just enough to allow her access, letting her explore the delightfully smooth, spongy tip of him and the hardness at the core of the long, thick, throbbing shaft beyond. He was groaning, softly, right next to her ear, and holding himself so carefully still.

“You’ve never had a man before, have you,” he rasped into the silent night. There was an aching sorrow in his words, which puzzled her and tugged at her heart.

“Of course not,” she answered, turning her head to meet his eyes, seeking the reason that this did not seem to please him.

Adar was looking at her from under heavy brows, and she saw the long centuries of his painful life flashing behind his eyes. He had told her what the Moriondor were made for. She was nowhere near his first.

She felt a spike of embarrassment at the clumsy explorations of her fingers. “I-“ she gripped his shaft more firmly, squeezing him in her best guess of what he might enjoy. “I may need instruction, in what would please you. Is this alright?”

Adar groaned, squeezing his eyes shut under the intensification of her touch. “I do not deserve such innocence,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” she said, the only acknowledgment that he was the enemy which she would allow herself this night. “But I am giving myself to you anyway.”

He grasped her jaw, the cold metal tips of his gauntlet softly scraping her cheek. “It’s not real, Fëaril,” he said, urgency swelling, his eyes sharpening as he forced hers to meet his gaze. “It is only the lingering influence of Morgoth that makes you think you are mine.”

She tried to heed the wisdom in his words. But the sound of his low, rasping voice saying those last three words echoed in her mind, more tempting than sense, more true than the freedom she had been running toward. You are mine. You are mine.

She could not find any part of herself that cared to escape, to leave Adar’s arms and resume her old life. Her hand continued to move along his cock, and his face buried itself in her neck, nuzzling and pressing soft kisses into her skin even while he tried to convince her to reject him.

“I want you,” she insisted stubbornly.

Adar’s voice rumbled out of the space between her shoulder and neck, while his free hand traveled down the line of her body. “And I cannot keep myself from you any longer. I . . . will make it better for you than it was for me.”

His fingers danced between thighs already held open by his knee. No one had ever touched her there, but it was a welcome strangeness, blooming swiftly into heat and pleasure that had her arcing her hips up into his hand. Adar made a low, pleased groan at her reaction, then rolled off her just enough to slide her leggings down and bare her body to him.

His thumb slid down the seam between her legs, tenderly, steadily, working her open in several passes each subtly deeper than the last. He found her slick and used that gathering moisture to ease that thumb deeper between her folds, until he found something that made her gasp as heat bloomed through the center of her body. He made a pleased noise again and circled it with his thumb.

Fëaril had never felt anything so delicious. She let her legs fall open as she writhed under Adar’s touch, marveling at how much he could make her feel with just one finger. “Beautiful,” he crooned, and she opened her eyes to see him leaning over her, watching her face as her hair splayed out over ground beneath them. His eyes were dark with delight, but still touched with that sorrowful reserve that she wished she could wipe out of his countenance completely. “I will open you up as slowly as I am able.”

She gazed up at him as his hand left her, bringing his fingers up to his own mouth and sucking on two of them. They came back out glistening, and thus cleaned and wetted he set them at that soft and secret place between her legs and began to tease at her opening.

“Oh,” Fëaril exclaimed dreamily, welcoming yet slightly overwhelmed by the unfamiliar pressure. Adar leaned closer, wrapping her shoulder with his other hand in what was surely meant as a comforting gesture. The press of his metal fingertips made it only slightly less so. Fëaril realized that she liked the reminder of danger, though. Of how little she should trust him, even though she did. She did.

Adar pushed one finger inside her, with a moan as if it felt as good to him as it did to her. He pressed his forehead to hers as he slid deeper, and swallowed the noises she made with nipping, open-mouthed kisses. “So tight,” he moaned as he stretched her. “I do not see how I won’t ruin you.”

She shuddered a little as he started to ease another finger inside. It felt good, overwhelmingly so, but it was so much, and she had never felt anything at all within this part of her, deeper than her own curious and sometimes-lustful fingers had ever reached, and she felt full already even though she knew more was coming, had to be coming if she was to take that glorious cock of his like she had all-but begged for tonight.

The movement of Adar’s fingers slowed, pressure easing as he started kissing his way down her body. He wasn’t giving up, was he? Fearil started to sit up, ready to protest, but he hushed her with a firm caress and settled his body in between her legs.

Adar tucked his dark hair behind one ear and then leaned his face over her sex. His lidded eyes dropped as he gazed upon her nakedness, then he extended his tongue and descended to lap at her tenderest bits.

Fëaril was absolutely overcome at this new sensation. She did not know if all lovers did this, or only the depraved Moriondor, but it felt even better than his finger and she did not care at all if this was the proper Elven way to make love or not.

Her pleasure was rising, hot and thick and more overwhelming than she had ever felt upon her own fingers. She arched her hips, wanting more and less at the same time. His fingers began pumping inside her body again and she wailed. “Don’t stop,” she gasped immediately, still concerned he might mistake her passion for protest and walk away, as he had always done before.

But Adar did not slow, his tongue settling into a tantalizing rhythm on her pearl while his fingers coaxed her wider and wider. Fëaril grit her teeth, whimpering and all but crying at the intensity barreling through her core and up into her throat. She locked her legs around his head as she came, the pressure bursting through her long and loud.

Adar drove her through it, wave after wave of release bubbling out of her as his fingers and tongue continued on, relentless. She clutched at his hair, gasping and shaking, until finally, finally the passion in her body eased and Adar followed it down, slowing until he let his fingers slip softly out of her, the movements of his mouth against her body stilling into hot breath and tender kiss.

She settled, limbs entirely liquid in her spreading contentment, as Adar drew up onto his knees and leaned over her. His cock was bobbing, rock hard and straining for her, and his eyes were black with emotion. He hovered there above her, pausing long enough to betray his hesitation.

Fëaril was in bliss, but Adar’s lust was still tinged with sorrow, and guilt. His cock was bouncing in the air, the tip glistening wet, and as much as she ached to feel it inside her she knew it would break something in him, something that was already battered and torn, if she let him consummate their passion inside her body right now.

“Fëaril—” he said, and she sat up from where she lay on the ground, reaching for him.

She could do for Adar what he had just done for her. That would grant him a rest from their tormented passion, and perhaps spare him a portion of the guilt that she knew he felt every time he let himself touch her.

“I can’t—” he started, but swallowed his own protests when she bent her head, making it clear that she was no longer bidding for him to take in her the traditional way.

She wrapped her hand around his shaft, holding him steady while she extended her tongue to his glimmering tip. The taste was salty and not unpleasant, and when she flicked her tongue like he had done to her he groaned and grasped her shoulders. He helped her settle into a more comfortable position, then she began licking in earnest along his broad head.

She could hear Adar breathing heavily, and when she tipped her head up to look into his eyes she saw a tenderness threaded through their heat that she had never expected.

“I—” she swirled her tongue around his entire tip and he moaned loudly, cutting off what he was about to say.

“Is this right?” she asked. While she was copying what she had felt his tongue do to her, she sensed there might be more to it on such a differently-shaped organ.

“Yes,” he sighed, brows creasing, hands spasming on her shoulders as she continued to lick across his tip. “And…”

“What?” she asked with innocent curiosity, holding still so that he could collect himself enough to form words.

“You can rub the shaft,” he said, wrapping his bare hand around her own and guiding her to squeeze and pull in quick tugs. She remembered how she had seen his hand moving earlier, through the wall of her prison.

He must have been satisfied with her rhythm because he let her start moving on her own, bringing his hand to her head and threading long fingers through her hair. She brought her tongue back to his tip and was rewarded with a long hum and a caress at the back of her head.

After a few minutes of this treatment he added, in a breathy voice, “It feels good if you suck.”

Fëaril pulled his fat head in between her lips and did just as he asked. A wild moan escaped him, so she sucked harder, though after a while it was a surprising effort on her cheeks and she released him to look up once more at his face and catch her breath.

Adar looked down at her through lidded eyes. “You are doing gloriously. And … can you take it further down your throat?” he rasped.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh. Like this?” She opened wider and took him in until his spongy tip pressed against the roof of her mouth.

“Yes. Oh, yes. Just like that.” His fingertips came to her cheek, feeling himself pressing inside her lips. His gauntleted hand wrapped around the back of her head, urging her on.

Fëaril tried to take him deeper, but was frustrated to find that the back of her tongue got in the way before she had gotten even half of his length into her mouth. When she tried to force him past this barrier she felt like she might choke, and quickly pulled back before her throat started to gag.

“Easy, ilmarë,” he soothed. “You are doing so well.”

His voice was tight, and she could tell he was holding himself back so as not to overwhelm her. She found herself desperately wishing she could take more of him, even though he had just reassured her not to hurt herself. She wanted to bring him peace, not more torment… “Lie down,” she encouraged. Maybe it would be easier for him to relax that way.

She suspected that was gratitude she saw behind the fervor in his eyes as he lay down flat on his back beside her. His straining cock hovered above his scarred belly, so hard that it was parallel to his abdomen. Fëaril got to her knees and bent over him, taking him up in both hands so she could bring his tip into her mouth again.

She watched his head fall back, felt his whole body still against the ground and allow her to take control. Good. She wanted his lust, hot and desperate, and his pleasure, warm and deep, but even more than that she wanted his release, wanted him to let go of his heavy thoughts and heavy burdens and let her succor him.

She worried that the grip of her hands sliding up and down his shaft might start chafing him, and let the spit forming in her overstimulated mouth run down the length of him between her palms. It must have been the right thing to do, for Adar’s groans turned deeper, and his hips arched up into her grip.

If she couldn’t swallow the length of him down, at least she could use her hands to extend the illusion of depth. His moans spurred her on, satisfied and aching with longing at the same time. His hands scrabbled across the ground as she increased her speed. She was kneeling on the side of his gauntleted hand and felt a thrill of delight when his clawed fingers found her thigh and wrapped around with a possessive squeeze.

He grew somehow harder between her hands, and then the back of her throat filled with the hot rush of his seed. Not wanting to stop and not knowing what else to do, she swallowed it down while listening to the long, almost agonized sound that ground out of Adar’s ancient vocal cords as his release pulsed into her mouth.

Fëaril held on until he stopped moving, wanting to make his pleasure last as long as she could. She dreaded the part that had ended every one of their encounters before now, that moment when guilt flooded him and he pulled away from her. She didn’t know how to make him stay.

Adar took a long time to come down from his release, pulling in long, shuddering breaths and remaining flat on his back. Gently, Fëaril released his softening cock and slid her body up the line of his, laying her head upon his chest. She wrapped the Orc-lord in her arms and legs, willing him to stay still, to stay here with her.

She sighed when he brought his arm around her body, shifting here and there to let her settle in comfortably. They breathed together, silent in their embrace beneath the waving branches of the trees.

Adar broke the silence first. “You should go now,” he murmured. “As soon as I fall asleep. While this monstrous lust is sated.”

Her heart sunk at his words. She did not even have it in her to argue about her feelings again. Fëaril closed her eyes. Let her actions speak for her instead, when he found her still in his arms in the morning.

 

Notes:

Ilmarë = “starlight” in Quenya

Chapter 5: by the light of day

She was not beneath his arm when Adar awoke. Good girl, he told himself, even as he felt the hollow in his chest expand, dragging what little was left of his heart into the earth below him. He had started to let himself believe, last night. Right around the time she sucked his cock into her mouth, as deep as she could take it… it had felt like a gift, a true gift to him. Nothing like the selfish, desperate need to breed that the curse inspired in his partners. It had felt like Fëaril actually cared about him.

Old fool. Even after ages of pain, he was still letting himself get hurt. He closed his eyes, remaining flat on his back beneath the pines. He did not want to return to camp yet. Just for now, he just wanted to… remember. For a while.

The shifting wind brought her scent to him, like a ghost taunting him, he thought. But then he heard the crunch of feet and when he turned his head Fëaril was stepping up the rise with a canteen full of water. “Finally awake, sleepyhead?”

When was the last time anyone had addressed him so casually? Adar could respond with nothing but a chuckle, a low sound that ended in a bit of a cough as he regained his figurative balance. “You stayed.”

“I told you I would,” she said simply, tossing her hair and coming to stand beside him. He frowned, but before he could admonish her for her lack of self-preservation she added “Don’t bother arguing with me. I don’t care if you blame your curse. I know my own mind. I want to stay with you.”

She extended a hand, her finely-formed, long fingers so full of life and light. Adar’s heart ached at the offer. He did not deserve to take it.

Besides, he hated Elves. And he hated the part of himself that longed for her light. Yes, that was what he should focus on. He ignored her hand and pulled his ancient bones off the forest floor, pointing them in the direction of his camp. His people. His only priority. He set off toward home without looking at her again.

 

Fëaril did not know what she was feeling as the stony-faced Lord Father of the Uruk rose up without touching her, walked away without looking at her. He was her captor no longer, that was certain. She should be glad that this remnant of Morgoth’s evil had not wanted to keep her. But it hurt. It had hurt when sent her away from his camp, and it hurt even more now that she had opened her heart to him and he turned away.

“Did I mean nothing to you, then,” she called after him, and she saw him flinch. He did not stop walking, but she was certain her words had struck him. “You came back for me only because you were compelled by your curse?”

“Yes,” he barked, without turning back.

Her feet carried her after him, heedless of pride. “How far will you get before it makes you turn back to me again?”

“Hopefully, far enough for you to hide your trail better this time.”

“But I do not hope for that.”

He kept walking.

And so Fëaril did too.

It was at least a score of minutes before either of them spoke again, Adar trudging along deliberately while she trailed him with just as much determination. Adar turned his head only slightly, giving her just a glimpse of his strong profile though his eyes did not seek her face. "And what do you hope for, Elf?”

This would be the question that sorted the truth from the curse, wouldn’t it. She searched herself carefully, determined to give a thoughtful answer.

Her silence was too long for Adar, it seemed. “You cannot possibly want to stay with me. To live among the Uruk.”

“Why not?” Maybe she was stalling, taking the chance to avoid formulating her own answer. But she was curious to hear his answer.

He kept walking, powerful steps carrying him up the ridge ahead of them. “You think us beasts. Vermin to slaughter wherever we are found.”

“Is that why you are taking your people elsewhere?”

He did look at her, then, stopping near the crest of the ridge to gaze down at her. “What have you seen?” he asked gravely.

“Nothing of importance. Just as you said.” She crossed her arms around her middle, almost chilly under his cold gaze. “But I saw children. This is not a war band. Which means,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “that my King was wrong. I was wrong.”

Adar scoffed. “You, perhaps. But I doubt your superiors are under any illusions as to what they are doing when they hunt us down.”

“Then they are wrong,” Fëaril said. “They are the ones doing evil.”

Adar tilted his head, eyes locked onto hers intently now as his voice thickened with scorn. “Is it evil to exterminate evil beings, Fëaril? Your king would say it is not. That it is righteous, glorious even, to show no mercy to my children.”

What could she say? She had believed it too. Until very, very recently. Except, “You do not seem evil.”

He raised one thick eyebrow, glowering down at her from his grey and twisted face.

“I mean it.” She stepped forward up the hill, getting onto more level ground with him. “An evil person would not be so careful about me. About what I want, and what I do not.”

“We’ve been holding you prisoner for weeks. And torturing you.”

“Not since you…” she trailed off.

 His face somehow softened and stiffened at the same time.

“You have a conscience. A sense of honor. You are not evil.”

He held her eyes gravely, and allowed a little nod. “I do not believe I have ever heard an Elf admit that about me.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest, at the idea that he approved of her conclusion, that she had pleased him.

Still, he did not smile at her.  “I am still your enemy.”

 “That,” she replied, “is a vastly less insurmountable problem.” She held his eyes. Somehow this had become a contest between them, to try and prove their connection was real. Could be real.

“And my children? Do you no longer believe they are evil, either?”

“Not when they are guided by you.” Even if it was magic making her open up to the idea of trusting him, understanding him, was that understanding not genuine, once reached?

 The quirk of his mouth looked satisfied, approving even. He leaned in and rasped, “At least you are starting to see the truth. Although I do not trust your motives in speaking it.”

Before she could respond he was striding away, resuming his purposeful march back to camp. But something about his pace told her that he was no longer trying to leave her behind.

 

Adar felt something in his chest ease when they came back within sight of the camp, to find everything exactly as it should be. No enemies had found them. Yet. They should still be moving on. Soon.

But would he let Fëaril accompany them?

He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the thought of her. An impulse he had been holding back for over an hour. He could hear her back there, graceful as a deer but not wholly silent in the underbrush. He did not want to admit how warm her presence made him feel, moving along with him of her own volition. He did not want to be in love with an Elf, with her shining hair and supple skin.

It felt like a rejection of his own kind, although he had never sought a mate among the Uruk. He was one of them, and yet he was not. Their lives were so short – they grew up fast, maturing in just a few years, and perished before they could accumulate anything close to wisdom. Sauron was responsible for that, of course, their accelerated lifespan – his perfect army needed to be quickly self-replacing so he always had hordes of them available to overpower his immortal enemies. And the less their minds developed, the easier they were for him to control. Adar loved the Uruk, but he was too different from them to not feel . . . alone.

Sentinels on the fringe of the encampment bowed to him as he returned, then turned questioning eyes to the she-Elf behind him. They lifted their weapons and he growled at them, the sound bubbling out of him before he even realized. They pulled back, looking at him, their Father, in confusion and shame.

Adar scowled, mostly at himself, and barked, “She is not to be harmed.” He tried to force his face to soften, but he was too annoyed with her, and the position she was putting him in. “Should she choose to stay, she is under my protection.” He still refused to look at her. The guards nodded.

She trailed him all the way up to his tent. Though he could no longer hear her footsteps above the bustle of camp life, he could smell her. That intoxicating, maddening scent – it only angered him more during this moment. If she were to put herself within his reach right now, it would not end well for this innocent daughter of light. He was not in the mood to hold back his darker urges.

Adar pulled up the flap that served as the door to his personal chambers and set one foot inside the threshold. He turned, just his head, only far enough to look at her out of the corner of one eye. She positively shone in the fading daylight, capturing and amplifying Arien’s rays, damn her. She must have washed up at that river before returning to him this morning. “This is my personal tent. You are not to enter here. You think you want to live among us? Go find your place.”