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The first time, Sharû saw the elven prince, he was fighting his captors who were trying to force him to his knees before the King. He was formidable, bleeding and bruised, but unbent. The tallest elf Sharû had ever seen, a light shining in his eyes that was brighter than the stars. A light that also shone from the jewels in the Kings new crown. He was achingly beautiful, a force of nature just like the balrogs holding him down. Sharû trembled at the thought of the havoc he could wreak if he tore himself free.
When he saw him next, the elf’s body was covered in scars and fresh wounds. The King had kept him for himself, but word was, he had tired of him and given him over to the Lieutenant for more serious questioning. Sharû tensed when the elf’s eyes fell on him. He might be stumbling and weak with pain, but there was still a steel in his eyes that told Sharû he was not beaten down. He did not look forward to guarding his cell. He wished he could go back to the mines, easy work, but the guard roster had brought him here at this time. He’d make the best of it, he always did.
Sharû had quietly stepped away from a game of dice. He’d realised a while ago that he could make himself if not invisible, at least unnoticed. So he’d simply left, when they game had been at its height. No one had remarked on it. If they noticed his absence, they’d probably think he’d went to find a different kind of entertainment. Guard duty in the dungeons was dull. Who would try to escape from here — or try to break someone out, for that matter? There was nothing to do but to sit around and drink and gamble. And sometimes have some sport with a prisoner, but that was not a pastime to Sharû’s taste, he’d realised. He did not have the stomach for torture. He liked it a bit rough, when he had a slave, sure, but this was different somehow. He played along, of course, but it gave him no pleasure.
Sharû stopped in front of the prince’s cell and watched him through the bars. He’d been put far away from any other prisoners, as if the Higher Ups feared what he might say to them. Maitimo was stricktly off limits to anyone but the Lieutenant and still Sharû found himself coming back here. He felt drawn to him. (Sometimes, alone in his cot, he dreamed of impossibly long, pale thighs spread wide, his fist tangled in fiery hair.) He was so different. He’d been in the land across the sea. He’d seen the Gods.
“I know you’re there.”
Sharû jumped at the rasped words. The elf’s eyes, pinpricks of light in the darkness, moved around, searching for him. Sharû moved deeper into the shadows of the tunnel, his heart was hammering in his chest. As if he was a beast, hunted by a predator. He slipped away silently.
Nelyafinwë sat up straighter, pain shooting through his muscles, when he heard the sound of breathing. It was him again. The orc (he was reasonably sure that it was always the same one, although he’d never shown himself) was watching him from the darkness. He never said or did anything, unlike the others who would wake him by rattling at the bars of his prison and tell him what they’d like to do to him — they never made good on their threats. Nelyafinwë guessed Sauron meant to keep him for himself. He was so tired and his fresh wounds hurt. He needed all the rest he could get and he knew he wouldn’t find it, as long as he felt eyes on himself.
“Leave me alone,” he hissed. “Go and stare at someone else!”
He heard shuffling and sighed in relief. He leaned back, trying to find a comfortable position, despite his bound hands, and closed his eyes. He’d barely dozed off, when flickering light danced over his closed eyelids. Nelyafinwë moved away from the door as far as he could when the orc opened the lock and stepped in. He said nothing, only put his lamp down and opened a leather bag. Nelyafinwë tensed, expecting something awful. He was so surprised at seeing the two cups and a bottle of what looked like beer when the orc filled it into the cups that he almost let the orc lift one of them to his lips.
No! It must be poisoned! He threw his head back and lifted his leg, kicking the cup from the orc’s hand. Nelyafinwë heard the orc curse at him through the rush in his ears. His leg was throbbing, he could feel blood run from a reopened wound and he was sure he’d torn something. He lay gasping, the room swimming before his eyes. His mouth felt dry, the smell of the beer reminding him of how long it had been that he’d drunk his fill.
The orc sighed and growled something under his breath while he pulled him into a sitting position again — Nelyafinwë’s body felt too weak to help or hinder him — then filled the second cup and took a sip from it.
“It’s not poisoned, you idiot! See?”
Nelyafinwë eyed the offered cup warily. “Why?” he croaked, longing for the cool liquid to run down his parched throat.
What did he want from him? No one was ever nice in Angband and if this orc was now, he must want to get something out of it. Was he bold enough to go against Sauron’s wishes? Was he trying to buy is compliance? Nelyafinwë bared his teeth and growled, clamping his legs together.
“I will not roll over for you,” he spat. Inside he was trembling. He knew how this would end, he could not win with his hands shackled behind his back and nowhere to run.
“That's not what I want! It's…” The orc looked over his back as if he expected someone to sneak up on them, then he crouched down and whispered into his ear. “Tell me of your home across the sea.”
Nelyafinwë stared at him, crazy laughter bubbling up in his throat. He was going mad, surely.
“Please?” There was a longing deep in the orc’s eyes and for the first time, Nelyafinwë could believe that these creatures had once been elves.
“Give me that drink,” he said.
Sharû knew, he’d get into so much trouble, if anyone found him here, but he didn’t care. He was enchanted by the prince’s tale of trees of light and a city on a hill, turned half to the sea and stars and half to the lighted lands. A tower tall and white. Gardens with flowers that never died.
He offered the elf another sip from his cup, his head was resting against Sharû’s shoulder. He’d been tense at first, when Sharû had sat down beside him, but the alcohol had loosened his muscles (and hopefully dulled his pain). And Sharû had not taken advantage. It had been in his mind, when he went to fetch the drink. If he did something dangerous, it might as well pay off. But he felt well compensated by the tale.
The elf had fallen silent.
“Why did you leave?” Sharû said, but got no answer.
He looked down on a sleeping face. Sharû gently laid him down and packed up his things. He could do nothing about the spilled drink and hoped no one would notice or care. He looked down once more on the sleeping elf, his face looked peaceful and Sharû was surprised to feel satisfied about that. He’d given him comfort and it felt good. Maybe he’d come back, sneak in some food, and hear more of the Blessed Realm.