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The rabbit did not run.
Findekáno remembers it well. Large hands on soft brown fur. Nervous eyes, a tiny, quivering body folding in on itself. Life beating hard in its throat, bleeding into the dark, hungry earth.
“If you had killed it faster, it would not have been so frightened.”
The words of his father, honest, but not unkind.
Findekáno did not know how awfully loud rabbits could scream.
***
The day the message comes is one of strange restlessness, the corridors of the summer palace abuzz with quarrelsome words and impatient footsteps. It is well past noon when Findekáno and Maitimo manage to escape the sweltering atmosphere to swim in one of the many lakes that glitter like jewels amidst the rolling hills. Even the cool touch of the water fails to soothe Findekáno, and when his cousin lays him out in the tender grass, he captures Russandol’s lips with an uncontrollable urgency. Strange also is their love-making, slow but tense, a bowstring drawn taut with nowhere to aim. Maitimo’s eyes are serious, pensive, as if he was trying to discern the answer to some unasked question. When he presses his fingers into Findekáno’s mouth, the world expands and expands until Findekáno feels boundless, his mind at once flowing river, wild boar, treelit fruit ripening. The space between his hips burns and aches sweetly, a low thrumming of desire created and fulfilled, long after they are done.
It is Írissë who brings the message. His little sister, her eyes ever quick to follow, a knowing smile on her lips. Word has come from Lord Tulkas, she says, not quite hiding her trepidation. Findekáno has been accepted amidst Astaldo’s acolytes. Finally. In a burst of hot joy, he drags her into a half-dance, laughing and laughing even as she mutters in protest. Ever since Maitimo started his apprenticeship with Manwë has Findekáno burned with the need not to follow his path, but to carve his own. Valiant, he is called, yet he has only sparred with friends, boisterous neri performing athletic feats as a pleasant pastime. Never has his fist known enemy flesh, and oh, how he relishes in the stories of old, starlit horror on Cuiviénen’s shores, an ancient evil hunted down and shackled with firm hand. Does peace, after all, not come from righteous war? Can valour ever exist without a threat, and is his title not meaningless as long as he has not felt, deep in his flesh, the truth of real combat? So Findekáno laughs and dances and ignores Írissë’s frown. Her time will come soon enough.
“I would have you be careful,” Maitimo says as he prepares to leave, and the uncertainty in his gaze gives Findekáno pause.
“I rather intend to be carefree,” he smiles, for he will not let his cousin ruin this day. Will not let anyone keep him from experiencing what he has ever craved: the fight, the fire, the feral delight of bone slamming into skin. The tension of it, the sweet pain of surrender, the hazy rush of victory.
And the fear.
***
They do not gather at the house of Tulkas, under the watch of its imposing bronze tower. The Vala dispenses his teachings in the wild forest, much like Oromë, his secrets not meant for anyone but initiates. At night, the fires roar and the grease drips from the meat and swift-footed Nessa ever brings more wine. Most of the others have dwelt here for some time, dark-haired Ñoldor and fair Vanyar mingling with the occasional pearl-adorned Teler. Their teeth gleam when they laugh, as Tulkas also laughs, seated amidst them, formidable in size and strength. Later that night, as he lies agitated under soft silvery light, Findekáno can still feel that laughter meandering inside his guts, thundering through his veins, the memory of the Vala’s hand on his shoulder. The trees whisper and whisper and his head spins and spins until sleep at last claims him. He awakens with the bitter taste of wine in his mouth and a faint tremor in his limbs. When he goes to bathe, he is not surprised to see his shoulder has bruised, red and purple, faith etched into his skin.
Three days. Three days from now, he will be properly initiated. Findekáno wrestles and wrestles until his joints ache and his throat burns. Findekáno jumps and fires arrows and runs and runs, barefoot as they all are, and a savage joy sets his heart aflame, a fierce pride as he slips into a world of heated combat and raucous camaraderie, the pleasant tension of rivalry driving him to new heights. Findekáno fights and feasts and sings and ever does he find the golden Vala’s sky-bright eyes upon him, ever does he notice how something lies in wait behind that wondrous smile. Careful, Maitimo told him. How he wishes his lover could see him now. His faith strong, his heart true, his mind open. Three days. Findekáno waits.
The understanding does not come at once, nothing like a lightning bolt in a clear sky. It seeps under his skin, hour by hour, the small thing he notices, until noticing is all he does. How a lithe nís has a limp, the second morning, and a nér’s lips are swollen and sore. How Tulkas disappears from the feast with several initiates close behind, their gait full of pride and anticipation. How, when weariness has them resting in the grass, oiled skin shining, the Vala touches them with familiarity, large hands soothing cramped muscles, full lips pressing breath back into heaving mouths.
Findekáno is not surprised. Perhaps he has always known, in some small, hidden pocket of his mind, how intimacy stripped bare is but another form of power. How love-making is a war of skin and will, a victory spelled out in garbled moans, a breaking, a remaking. Yet the knowledge does not protect him from the fear he once craved, an ice-cold spear stuck into his guts, incomprehensible, immovable. Findekáno wishes to serve Tulkas - has never wished anything more. Wishes to prove his valour, to earn it with dust in his mouth and blood on his fingers and sweat-stung, battered skin. Wishes to taste, in holy Aman, the forbidden tanginess of ruin.
All will be well, he knows, he knows. All will be well.
***
On the fourth eve, they strip him of the white garb of the initiates. Findekáno can smell the spiced wine on their breath, has come to long for the triumphant oblivion it offers. Not for him, though. Not tonight. They oil his skin and adorn his braids with a garland of myrtle and laurel. As he stands naked in the wrestling pit, the storm in his mind breaks and leaves him with unbearable clarity. The others watch from a distance, humming rhythmically, a chant as deep and devastating as a ground-shake.
But Tulkas does not come.
Hours upon hours Findekáno stands, nails driving into his palms, muscles clenching and unclenching, achingly aware of every passing moment. He stands until he can stand it no more, until a raw, primal cry escapes from his bone-dry throat, a provocation, a declaration of intent. Again and again he screams his challenge to the tall pine-trees and the treelit eyes of the initiates and the deer that follow Nessa as she pours more wine. The night twists like smoke before his eyes, every press of air against his skin too sharp, the scent of his own sweat no longer familiar but nauseating.
But Tulkas does not come.
At last, when Telperion’s light starts to wane and the never-ending chant has grated him down to the bone, something shifts in the shadows. Tulkas, ruddy cheeks and wild golden locks, approaches with the languor of a predator. He does not strip to wrestle. Does not even bother to cast his knife or bow aside, or to remove his boots. When they crash into each other, the handle of the knife pushes brutally into Findekáno’s ribs. He cries out, battle-rage rolling over him wave after wave as he escapes Tulkas’s long arms and launches a counter-attack. Even if he were to launch all his might against Tulkas, he could not win. If he is still standing, it is only because this is an initiation, a game of strength, his faith an uncharted territory waiting to be conquered.
So Findekáno fights. Fights and fights until the chant of the initiates comes alive under his skin, increasing his strength, lending speed to his exhausted feet. Fights, blood dripping from his lips, barely feeling the deep ache where blows have landed. Feigns falling to the ground only to rise up again, to score, with a victorious growl, his first real blow.
He does not see defeat coming. Cannot comprehend, thinking back, how he winds up face in the dust, arms twisted behind his back, strong fingers around his neck. How he loses control, every last shred of dignity, and bucks and kicks and Tulkas laughs and laughs and he feels it vibrating in his very bones, in his very core. How the night trembles before his eyes and he is battle-drunk but he screams when he feels the Vala’s thick, still-clothed member press against his naked ass. Screams when the chant rises higher, higher, a terrible sound, and he did not expect it to happen like this, did not want-
Tulkas’s fingers slide into him, one then two, and Findekáno clenches and curses but takes them in, looking up at the faces that have come closer to witness his defeat. For a moment, his faith falters, and he wonders. Wonders how anything born of goodness can feel so wrong, so painfully degrading. How it is possible that his cheeks are flooded with tears and he, Ñolofinwë’s firstborn, begs into the dust as those thick fingers thrust inside him.
“Whyever must your kind cry so, upon first giving me use of your body?”
There is no malice in that deep voice, only the sweet satisfaction of triumph, the munificence of the victor towards the vanquished. A chance to speak, to give the pain a higher meaning, translate yielding flesh into devotion, intimacy as a lever for power. He is a prince of the Ñoldor, grandson of Finwë who fought beneath the stars, apprentice to the most fearsome of the Valar. This agony is his birthright.
“I did not think you would mind my tears, Lord Tulkas,” he chokes out as the Vala’s third finger breaches him, sending pain spiralling up his spine and down to his feet.
“I do not,” the great warrior laughs, “I merely marvel at this valiant acolyte of mine. Will you burn bright for me? Will you fight me, grandson of Finwë, and know in your flesh how even the strongest can be conquered, even the mightiest will be broken?”
When the Vala retreats his fingers and flips him over, bright eyes sparkling with ferocious joy, Findekáno’s strength almost leaves him. Face to the dust, who knows what images he could have managed to invoke, of Maitimo’s mouth and his strong legs and his pert cock - cowardice shielded behind lust. Now he can only watch as the Vala pulls his member out, the sheer size of it making Findekáno’s heart hammer and his fingers scramble for purchase in the hard, hard ground.
“Yet I shall not break you, tonight,” Tulkas promises, almost tenderly, pressing his thick cock-head to Findekáno’s slick entrance, “Not take without giving, my strength, my fire, my will.”
Findekáno swallows and stills; is this not the moment he has been waiting for? To receive some part of the divine within him, some spark to fan when the days of pearlescent perfection chafe at his ardour? And if some small, wayward part of him feels a measure of bitterness that it must happen so, it is swiftly silenced by the roar of his heart. The warm hands of the acolytes cradle his head, unwind his braids, one by one, until he lays bare and unadorned, sacrificial yet untamed.
“Astaldo,” he murmurs into the heavy air, “Give me your valiance.”
When the Vala pushes inside, Findekáno is prepared for the pain. Endures it with gritted teeth first, then with hitching breath and groans of discomfort. Maitimo is not small, but Tulkas is nearly twice as large, and despite the thorough preparation and abundant oil, Findekáno is hopelessly clenching and spasming around the intrusion. When the Vala laughs again, the resulting vibrations tear a startled moan from his throat, and suddenly he does not know whether he wants Tulkas to stop or to continue, continue, please continue. Silver light fades to black and he cannot feel his fingers anymore, though they must still be clutching at Tulkas’s shirt, cannot feel anything but that searing point of entry. The enormity of a Vala inside him steals the air from his lungs, engulfs his consciousness, threatens to shatter his very essence. He can feel the Music, neither sound nor sensation, but a living thing crawling inside his body, a comprehension of the world so alien it completely overwhelms his mind. Suddenly, he becomes achingly aware of how every one of his breaths is part of the fabric of Arda, how every particle of dust encrusted on his skin participates in a whole so vast he is forever lost. In the Music he finds that rolling laugh, finds it also in the thundering hooves of the horses and the silver-swift song of a blade and the perfect arc of a discus. Finds it in righteousness, in love steadfast, in light that banishes dark, in pleasure that surges and erases pain.
“Astaldo. Astaldo. Astaldo.”
So they chant, so they howl, and as Findekáno grows aware of the song once more, so does he return to the pitiful limits of his body. Sweat and dirt crust his skin, sting his eyes, but he no longer touches the ground - no, he is borne up by innumerable hands and held firm, head tilted back, throat bared in surrender, his limbs arranged around the looming form of Tulkas. The Vala has stilled, seated deep within him, and Findekáno feels a hot trickle of what must be blood run from his abused entrance to feed the hungry earth. Spread open and speared, he is the prey and the prize, the trophy shining with oil, both infinitely precious and humiliatingly small. And Findekáno remembers the darkness. Remembers the shining lake and the shining fear of Cuiviénen. The stillness when the trees suddenly twist and a terrible form snatches him and brings him to ruin.
Then Tulkas begins to move, and Findekáno breaks. He breaks around him, and under him, and through him. The hands around his limbs tighten, struggle to lift him up amidst the deep, rolling thrusts. The Vala’s face is painfully beautiful, his smile wild and wondrous and wrong, and when he changes his angle just so to hit that most pleasurable spot inside Findekáno, he thrashes and kicks against the hands holding him. He screams.
He thinks of the rabbit, its small body, its death, awful, awful. Pleasure blooms deep inside his groin and he surges forward to crash his mouth against the Vala’s, to taste him like forbidden wine, and into his mouth Tulkas hums a song that makes his veins shiver and his heart expand, and into Tulkas’s mouth he sings pride and resistance and silver and blue and Maitimo’s naked form and their intertwined hands and everything, everything-
When he spills, he does so convulsively, his vision distorting, raw cries of pain and pleasure torn from his throat as the Vala’s seed shoots inside him endlessly and swells his abdomen until he is so full he can almost feel it in his throat. Tulkas withdraws from him with a wet, obscene sound, and Findekáno can feel the hot seed dripping out of him, his distended guts helplessly clenching around nothing.
Yet even as he finally catches his breath, someone presses a cold, smooth object to his battered entrance and he hisses in confused need. Nessa’s smile is as sharp as her husband’s when she pushes the object inside of him, forcing him to keep the Vala’s seed inside. Findekáno keens and thrashes, throat too damaged to produce more than garbled, frantic, marred bits of song, as she takes his soft cock into her mouth and sucks, hard, her fingers digging into his flesh, pushing the object deep inside him until he shudders with an unexpected wave of pleasure, sharp and shattering. Eyes swollen, lips ruined, he watches as she rises and lets her husband kiss his taste off her mouth. She offers him wine, then, and he drinks deeply, greedily, and when the multiple hands finally release him, he kneels before Tulkas and sings his devotion in one shrill note that has the birds fly up from the trees and the other acolytes moan and claw at their breast.
“You belong to me now, grandson of Finwë.”
In a daze, he rises. In a daze, he watches himself as he throws his full weight against the Vala, and Tulkas—Tulkas stumbles, if only for a moment. Lips parted on a snarl, Findekáno deals blow after blow, his body singing even when his throat cannot anymore. They wrestle. He loses. Astaldo takes him. They wrestle. He loses. Astaldo remakes him. Until he can no longer rise, every inch of his skin alive with golden pleasure and glorious pain. Until he starts to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and cry.
***
“Finnó.”
The voice seems to come from very, very far away. He scrunches his nose and ignores it like one would an annoying fly. He was running, he remembers. He was flying. He was-
“Findekáno.”
He opens his eyes to Russandol’s unbound hair softly falling down on his face. He must have fallen asleep after they made love.
“I am here,” he murmurs, and wonders whether it is true.
When he came back from the forest, there was a new light in his eyes, a new speed to his step, a new strength to his arms. When he came back from the forest, he cried and screamed like a babe, and then had Maitimo make love to him fast and hard and rough and it was good, but it somehow was too much, and it somehow wasn’t enough.
Russandol hums softly and traces the edge of an already-fading scar on Findekáno’s thigh, his touch feather-light. He does not ask—and neither did Findekáno, when he saw the talon-marks on his lover’s back. They fall together as they did before, endlessly, devoid of any kind of shame. But Findekáno knows of horror, now. Has tasted the memories on Tulkas’s tongue, felt the fear and the humiliation, known a pleasure so vast and different that his skin feels too tight and his body too unreal upon remembering it. At night, Telperion’s silver finds him shivering, something stirring within him, ancient and unnamed. War will come, he knows.
He is not afraid.