Narn o Nimfin Pedlhûth
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-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
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Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,738
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Narn o Nimfin Pedlhûth: Eria-ren Anor
Narn o Nimfin Pedlhûth: Eria-ren Anor
History of Whitelock Spell-Speaker: Rising Sun
Author: The Greenleaf (Megumi Takahashii)
Rating: PG-13 (Eria-ren Anor)
----------
"Nana? Im tural tíralye, nana! Nana, tua nin! Nana!"
( Mother? I can't see you, mother! Mother, help me! Mother! )
---
"Echadha daur, im brethil le!"
( Make it stop, I beg you!)
---
/Im ná martion... Na tûr im lothron rado, annanin guruthos, a ned guruthos echadnin lain./
( I am doomed... By what power I may find, give me death, and in death make me free. )
---
It was moderately cold year-round, but during the long winter months survival was exceptionally difficult. Sensible families living in the harsh northlands would huddle by their fires, wrapped in warm cloaks and blankets, their feet shod in soft leather boots. Mugs of mead would be passed among the men, while the women cooked feasts of meat from their sons' kills, potatoes brought up from the more hospitable lands of the south, cheese aged for months, and newly baked bread, crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and hot enough to burn the tongue.
Some families, if they were rich enough, would purchase slaves to do their cooking. The women would supervise, but do no work themselves. Punishments for improper actions were dealt out as needed, and any caught slacking were encouraged towards greater efforts with leather flails of a whip. The slaves who worked in the kitchens were always filthy, covered in grease and smoke, and often they bore fresh welts, earned by trying to steal a mere mouthful of food to supplement their own meager diet.
He envied them. The tall slave stood on the tips of his toes and pressed his face against the glass window, a window only a rich family would have owned. The slave unconsciously tugged his ragged cloak closer about himself and shifted his bare feet in the ankle-deep snow. The kitchen slaves were at least warm, and sometimes they were given the remnants of their master's meal. The slave looked down at his own slender frame and gently poked his chest. One, two, three, four, and so on... with ginger prodding he counted his ribs.
A pale hand was raised to touch a face made gaunt with over one thousand years of work and strain. It was pretty enough to look at, the slave supposed, though he wouldn't go so far as to call himself beautiful. Sharp grey eyes, perhaps a bit too large, perhaps not, were situated at the top of an aristocratic nose. Perfect lips, pink and full, were slightly chapped by the cold and wind, but otherwise appeared normal. The slave's entire face was made rosy by the cold, the flush especially noticeable on the high cheekbones and the tips of pointed ears.
It was, the slave decided, his hair that was his strangest feature. The majority of it was jet black, common enough among his people, or so his mother had told him. However, one large lock of the silken strands, just over his left eye, seemed never to have been colored. It was as white as the snow the slave stood in, and it had been so since his birth. He dimly remembered his mother having the same white streak, though he could have been mistaken.
"Erfaen," a sharp voice snapped, and the slave stumbled. He looked around frantically and saw his master's eldest son, a tall lad with red hair and more muscles than brains. Erfaen flinched, as much at the appearance of the human as at the utterance of the name. He knew what it meant; "white one," a defiling of his native tongue concocted for him by his masters of generations. In the societies of the northlands, only very young children wore white. Very young children and women. Erfaen forced himself into a deep bow, surreptitiously drawing his cloak tighter about himself.
"Greetings, son of Gaersereg," he said softly, averting his eyes as was proper. "How may I serve you?"
The man sneered, before he lunged at Erfaen and seized the front of his cloak. A swift, sharp tug tore the tattered cloth apart, and Iôngaersereg shoved Erfaen down into the cold snow. He was soon on top of the slender creature, his foul breath burning the cold-numbed skin.
"My father grows weary of your insolence, Erfaen," he hissed, and he emphasized every word with a shake or squeeze of Erfaen's body. "He hungers this night, for he has been at war, and I find you loitering out here instead of bringing in wood for the fires."
Erfaen shrunk at that statement; it was true, and he knew it. This count of disobedience would bring a strong beating, and Erfaen was still sore from the last one. Iôngaersereg smirked as the slave cowered; he rose smoothly and dealt the firm stomach a mighty kick with his booted foot. The air left Erfaen's body with a whoosh, and he huddled there in the snow, attempting to regain his breath. Iôngaersereg's cruel smile grew wider.
"My father and I may grow old, but you are ever-young, elf. Soon enough will come the day that you are passed from my father to me, and then to those who follow in my family. Perhaps my father's fault is that he treats you too kindly. When you come into my hands, you shall learn the true meaning of complete and utter obedience and submission to your betters." Iôngaersereg lunged forward then and dragged Erfaen to his feet. The slave struggled as a forceful mouth was mashed against his, and his efforts to free himself earned him a forceful bite to his lower lip. Sharp teeth sank through the soft flesh, and Erfaen's hand flew involuntarily to his face as Iôngaersereg pulled away. Fresh blood spilled from the wound and stained Erfaen's pale skin. Iôngaersereg smiled benignly, dipped his fingers into the warm fluid, and forced them into Erfaen's mouth.
"However," the human mused, "if you do as I say, I see no reason to tell my father of your insolence."
The slave obediently sucked the blood away, for he knew from experience that what was inevitably going to happen as a result of this encounter would pale in comparison to the punishment he would receive if he chose to refuse. Erfaen dared not break contact with his master's hand, even as the human's greater weight forced him onto his back in the frigid snow. Then Iôngaersereg pulled his fingers abruptly out of the slave's mouth and struck the slight creature across the face.
"When you come into my hands, little Erfaen," he growled, seizing the colorless lock of hair and pulling until the slave cried out loudly, "you shall come to learn the true meaning of pain."
---
He couldn't even distinguish light from dark, except that one caused pain to his eyes while the other didn't. Erfaen groaned in a raspy voice, but when even that tiny movement made his throat seem to light on fire, he instead lay in cold silence.
Cold. It was cold and wet, Erfaen finally registered, and he struggled to regain his feet. Suddenly the world defied a well-known universal law and began to spin around him; his stomach clenched violently, and within seconds the remains of his pitiful noontide meal was steaming on the ground, melting the snow around and under them. The acids from Erfaen's stomach aggravated his throat beyond measure, and he gave a hoarse cry as he nearly collapsed facedown into his own vomit.
"Elmîrion... Garo, nîn er-mell." ( Elmîrion... Hold, my dear one. ) Warm hands and arms suddenly wrapped themselves around Erfaen's shivering body, and his mouth was gently wiped with the corner of a rough tunic. The elf opened his eyes long enough to see who was treating him so kindly, before he clenched them shut from the pain of the light. Then he was being drawn to his feet and helped carefully across a snowfield. He stumbled once or twice, and when his helper saw that the slender feet were numb with the cold, he picked the elf up and carried him for the rest of the distance.
When the warmth first hit Erfaen's cold skin, it was so hot that it burned. As he became accustomed to it, however, it soothed his aches and pains, and he was able to open his eyes fully. He glanced at his surroundings; he was no longer in the blinding light of the outdoors, but in a rough cabin of wood, with hides wedged tightly into the larger cracks between the boards. Small cracks were filled with mud, the result being a relatively secure building, with very few places for the wind to find its way inside. A small fire burned in a ring of stones at the center, and by that fire sat two other elves, each in a rough tunic of homespun wool, their feet shod in wrapped leather boots.
'Brethil? Lithuiel? Where is this place?' Erfaen questioned, lapsing into a tongue taught him by his mother, before her death, and by the two who now stood before him. Brethil, the male who had carried him to the shelter, gently bathed the crusted blood from Erfaen's face.
'This is where a few of Gaersereg's slaves are quartered, those whom he finds to be of particular use and wishes to keep at least moderately healthy. Currently, only Lithuiel and myself are here, but..." Brethil shrugged, and turned his attention to a cut on Erfaen's arm. "The number changes almost constantly. Some die, some fall from favor, others move up in the ranks. We brought you here because it is quiet. They will not miss you for a few hours, while you rest.'
Lithuiel, a blonde elf female, moved forward and offered Erfaen a bowl of meat broth. 'It is not much, my little Elmîrion,' she apologized, 'but it will make you feel better and help you to rest.' The smell from the bowl was irresistible to Erfaen, and he took it with thanks, downing the contents in record speed. No sooner had he finished it than it seemed as if a warm blanket was settling over him. Erfaen didn't even bother to fight the closing of his eyelids, and the words he heard as he passed into sleep had no meaning for him.
'If they find out about him...'
'If they find out, then all is lost.'
----------
TBC...
History of Whitelock Spell-Speaker: Rising Sun
Author: The Greenleaf (Megumi Takahashii)
Rating: PG-13 (Eria-ren Anor)
----------
"Nana? Im tural tíralye, nana! Nana, tua nin! Nana!"
( Mother? I can't see you, mother! Mother, help me! Mother! )
---
"Echadha daur, im brethil le!"
( Make it stop, I beg you!)
---
/Im ná martion... Na tûr im lothron rado, annanin guruthos, a ned guruthos echadnin lain./
( I am doomed... By what power I may find, give me death, and in death make me free. )
---
It was moderately cold year-round, but during the long winter months survival was exceptionally difficult. Sensible families living in the harsh northlands would huddle by their fires, wrapped in warm cloaks and blankets, their feet shod in soft leather boots. Mugs of mead would be passed among the men, while the women cooked feasts of meat from their sons' kills, potatoes brought up from the more hospitable lands of the south, cheese aged for months, and newly baked bread, crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and hot enough to burn the tongue.
Some families, if they were rich enough, would purchase slaves to do their cooking. The women would supervise, but do no work themselves. Punishments for improper actions were dealt out as needed, and any caught slacking were encouraged towards greater efforts with leather flails of a whip. The slaves who worked in the kitchens were always filthy, covered in grease and smoke, and often they bore fresh welts, earned by trying to steal a mere mouthful of food to supplement their own meager diet.
He envied them. The tall slave stood on the tips of his toes and pressed his face against the glass window, a window only a rich family would have owned. The slave unconsciously tugged his ragged cloak closer about himself and shifted his bare feet in the ankle-deep snow. The kitchen slaves were at least warm, and sometimes they were given the remnants of their master's meal. The slave looked down at his own slender frame and gently poked his chest. One, two, three, four, and so on... with ginger prodding he counted his ribs.
A pale hand was raised to touch a face made gaunt with over one thousand years of work and strain. It was pretty enough to look at, the slave supposed, though he wouldn't go so far as to call himself beautiful. Sharp grey eyes, perhaps a bit too large, perhaps not, were situated at the top of an aristocratic nose. Perfect lips, pink and full, were slightly chapped by the cold and wind, but otherwise appeared normal. The slave's entire face was made rosy by the cold, the flush especially noticeable on the high cheekbones and the tips of pointed ears.
It was, the slave decided, his hair that was his strangest feature. The majority of it was jet black, common enough among his people, or so his mother had told him. However, one large lock of the silken strands, just over his left eye, seemed never to have been colored. It was as white as the snow the slave stood in, and it had been so since his birth. He dimly remembered his mother having the same white streak, though he could have been mistaken.
"Erfaen," a sharp voice snapped, and the slave stumbled. He looked around frantically and saw his master's eldest son, a tall lad with red hair and more muscles than brains. Erfaen flinched, as much at the appearance of the human as at the utterance of the name. He knew what it meant; "white one," a defiling of his native tongue concocted for him by his masters of generations. In the societies of the northlands, only very young children wore white. Very young children and women. Erfaen forced himself into a deep bow, surreptitiously drawing his cloak tighter about himself.
"Greetings, son of Gaersereg," he said softly, averting his eyes as was proper. "How may I serve you?"
The man sneered, before he lunged at Erfaen and seized the front of his cloak. A swift, sharp tug tore the tattered cloth apart, and Iôngaersereg shoved Erfaen down into the cold snow. He was soon on top of the slender creature, his foul breath burning the cold-numbed skin.
"My father grows weary of your insolence, Erfaen," he hissed, and he emphasized every word with a shake or squeeze of Erfaen's body. "He hungers this night, for he has been at war, and I find you loitering out here instead of bringing in wood for the fires."
Erfaen shrunk at that statement; it was true, and he knew it. This count of disobedience would bring a strong beating, and Erfaen was still sore from the last one. Iôngaersereg smirked as the slave cowered; he rose smoothly and dealt the firm stomach a mighty kick with his booted foot. The air left Erfaen's body with a whoosh, and he huddled there in the snow, attempting to regain his breath. Iôngaersereg's cruel smile grew wider.
"My father and I may grow old, but you are ever-young, elf. Soon enough will come the day that you are passed from my father to me, and then to those who follow in my family. Perhaps my father's fault is that he treats you too kindly. When you come into my hands, you shall learn the true meaning of complete and utter obedience and submission to your betters." Iôngaersereg lunged forward then and dragged Erfaen to his feet. The slave struggled as a forceful mouth was mashed against his, and his efforts to free himself earned him a forceful bite to his lower lip. Sharp teeth sank through the soft flesh, and Erfaen's hand flew involuntarily to his face as Iôngaersereg pulled away. Fresh blood spilled from the wound and stained Erfaen's pale skin. Iôngaersereg smiled benignly, dipped his fingers into the warm fluid, and forced them into Erfaen's mouth.
"However," the human mused, "if you do as I say, I see no reason to tell my father of your insolence."
The slave obediently sucked the blood away, for he knew from experience that what was inevitably going to happen as a result of this encounter would pale in comparison to the punishment he would receive if he chose to refuse. Erfaen dared not break contact with his master's hand, even as the human's greater weight forced him onto his back in the frigid snow. Then Iôngaersereg pulled his fingers abruptly out of the slave's mouth and struck the slight creature across the face.
"When you come into my hands, little Erfaen," he growled, seizing the colorless lock of hair and pulling until the slave cried out loudly, "you shall come to learn the true meaning of pain."
---
He couldn't even distinguish light from dark, except that one caused pain to his eyes while the other didn't. Erfaen groaned in a raspy voice, but when even that tiny movement made his throat seem to light on fire, he instead lay in cold silence.
Cold. It was cold and wet, Erfaen finally registered, and he struggled to regain his feet. Suddenly the world defied a well-known universal law and began to spin around him; his stomach clenched violently, and within seconds the remains of his pitiful noontide meal was steaming on the ground, melting the snow around and under them. The acids from Erfaen's stomach aggravated his throat beyond measure, and he gave a hoarse cry as he nearly collapsed facedown into his own vomit.
"Elmîrion... Garo, nîn er-mell." ( Elmîrion... Hold, my dear one. ) Warm hands and arms suddenly wrapped themselves around Erfaen's shivering body, and his mouth was gently wiped with the corner of a rough tunic. The elf opened his eyes long enough to see who was treating him so kindly, before he clenched them shut from the pain of the light. Then he was being drawn to his feet and helped carefully across a snowfield. He stumbled once or twice, and when his helper saw that the slender feet were numb with the cold, he picked the elf up and carried him for the rest of the distance.
When the warmth first hit Erfaen's cold skin, it was so hot that it burned. As he became accustomed to it, however, it soothed his aches and pains, and he was able to open his eyes fully. He glanced at his surroundings; he was no longer in the blinding light of the outdoors, but in a rough cabin of wood, with hides wedged tightly into the larger cracks between the boards. Small cracks were filled with mud, the result being a relatively secure building, with very few places for the wind to find its way inside. A small fire burned in a ring of stones at the center, and by that fire sat two other elves, each in a rough tunic of homespun wool, their feet shod in wrapped leather boots.
'Brethil? Lithuiel? Where is this place?' Erfaen questioned, lapsing into a tongue taught him by his mother, before her death, and by the two who now stood before him. Brethil, the male who had carried him to the shelter, gently bathed the crusted blood from Erfaen's face.
'This is where a few of Gaersereg's slaves are quartered, those whom he finds to be of particular use and wishes to keep at least moderately healthy. Currently, only Lithuiel and myself are here, but..." Brethil shrugged, and turned his attention to a cut on Erfaen's arm. "The number changes almost constantly. Some die, some fall from favor, others move up in the ranks. We brought you here because it is quiet. They will not miss you for a few hours, while you rest.'
Lithuiel, a blonde elf female, moved forward and offered Erfaen a bowl of meat broth. 'It is not much, my little Elmîrion,' she apologized, 'but it will make you feel better and help you to rest.' The smell from the bowl was irresistible to Erfaen, and he took it with thanks, downing the contents in record speed. No sooner had he finished it than it seemed as if a warm blanket was settling over him. Erfaen didn't even bother to fight the closing of his eyelids, and the words he heard as he passed into sleep had no meaning for him.
'If they find out about him...'
'If they find out, then all is lost.'
----------
TBC...