Of thy wonderful nightmare

      ‘I want to play a game with you, mortal.’ The Master’s lips slightly curved at these words. An odd choice for a playground, the Prince thought, unnerved, yet not allowing his face to betray his emotions. Not that this place, the torture chambers in the Barad-dur dungeons, was entirely unknown to him. He indulged himself with prisoners here more than once, more than twice. Blades, rakes, thongs, whips, acids, chains and fire: with all these toys his hand became acquainted. His Master, though, did not belong here, to this dirty place of pain and twisted base pleasure. So he thought. To counter all the Prince’s beliefs on that matter, the Master turned to the closet with tools that the torture master held for daily needs. One of its compartments hid within whips with different coloured handles and degrees of severity. Black served for everyday purposes for the weakest and softest of the prisoners, looking almost playful. Blue caused pain and would draw blood. Red would flay and rip skin to shreds. Purple executed captives, breaking their spines and bringing them death. Any of them would do, if wielded by thy hand. The Prince braced himself against any choice the Master would make. I would pay with my skin and more, if it delivers pleasure to thee. As the slender fingers of the Master groped for the red handle, the Prince took it for granted and not without anticipation, for he welcomed any form of the Master’s attention. He was struck with astonishment all the more as the Master turned around and handed the whip to him. For several moments his hands refused to obey him before he accepted the whip at last. I will not do this, he thought, dumbfounded. His wooden fingers clutched the handle as if he desired to crush it. ‘You will.’ The Master’s voice left the impact on his mind of that very whip he was holding. At this Master’s tone the Prince’s heart sank, abandoning all hope, and his skin tingled with cold sweat. This form of intimacy -- tearing apart the most immaculate, beautiful skin on Arda -- would not find place even in the wildest of his dreams in the night. As he stood, he imagined playing with that skin with a caress of his hands, his tongue or his lips. In the most passionate moments - with his teeth, not with the whip. Not with the red whip. To the Prince’s dismay, the Master cared not about those worries. At ease and without haste the Master removed his clothes, throwing it aside on the floor, and knelt before the Prince, his long light hair wiping the floor with the stains of gore. Gorgeous and stunning he is but how did it turn into a nightmare? the Prince mused as he observed the Master’s fragile constitution and the cold stone under the Master’s bare knees. Then his gaze lingered on the chain that hung from the ceiling the Master was holding to preserve the balance under blows. ‘I will help you. For you not to fall out of the rhythm or intensity. Follow. Repeat.’ Before the Prince could ask what rhythm he was supposed to follow, his mind burst in agony from a powerful searing mind lash. As a response to it his own arm arose and reflected the full power of the blow on the Master’s back. The tender skin tore at once and streams of blood ran down the Master’s back. The Master did not flinch, nor did he make a sound, his hands merely clutched the chain tighter. Another mental lash followed and as the Prince’s mind screamed in pain, his arm returned the blow with the whip. Blow... The pain in his head amplified tenfold. … Blow... He followed the steady merciless rhythm, unable to disobey. Blow... His pain grew and his mental torment became unbearable. His brain bled as did the back of his Master. … Blow...Twentieth? He lost count, his head burnt inside, and his vision dimmed. His skull was ready to crack. Blow… He lost the ability to mentally beg for it to end, for all thoughts had abandoned him. … Blow… Thirtieth? Fortieth? He surrendered to a madness of bloodlust and his arm was working recklessly, as if possessed by the otherworldly frenzy and the rage of pain. Blow… He had forgotten who he was and where he was, he merely whipped as if it became the only meaning of his life, unaware of anything, blind and mindless. And then it ceased. The pain that had become part of him, even him, retreated from his mind. With its withdrawal his arm fell and it took him all of his willpower not to fall with it, face forward. Panting, all in sweat and with his heart pounding against his chest, he glanced at the Master. After their game the Master’s back turned into an open wound with no spot left intact and under his knees a pool of blood spilt out. The Prince choked. The Master turned his head at him and smiled. The smile sent shivers down the Prince’s spine and his knees softened. ‘It did deliver pleasure to me. Your suffering. Your pain. Your agony. All delightful. We shall play again, mortal.’