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There's something deeply satisfying about waking up in his comfortable bed, safe within the Embassy Headquarters, with a pretty Nord boy chained to his headboard. It reminds him of the war days, when there was ever so little oversight into what happened to human prisoners. He'd had fun back then, with the various soldiers he'd been made to interrogate. None of them were quite as pretty as his chosen little pet though, and it makes the mer guard him all the more jealously. He is no soldier, this one; despite having been taken in the battle for Fort Greenwall. He was listed in the roster as a healer, and when they met, he'd worn a blue priests' hood over his reinforced robes.
Rulindil knows not to flaunt his little prize. Stormcloak or not, it makes the humans uncomfortable to see one of their own as a prisoner; and he has orders not to worsen the relations between the Empire and Dominion in Skyrim. No one will question him for keeping an enemy soldier indefinitely though, and the first time someone brings it up, Rulindil plans to ask if they'd rather he execute the man. A backwards follower of Ulfric's ways would probably find that preferable to bedding an elf, but an Imperial would know better.
He's glad he woke early, because it gives him the opportunity to steal a few precious moments with his pet. He finds himself fascinated by the smooth, porcelain-white skin on the boy. He'd been told the man was from somewhere in the north of the province; where the humans are even more light than in other regions, due to the lack of sunlight hours. His hair is pale spun-gold, almost like an Altmer's hair; but his eyes are white and frigid blue like the ice on the fjords. Rulindil never ceases to admire the coloring. An inferior race though they may be, the Nords are beautiful, he thinks. At least when they're free of those rough mops of facial hair they call beards.
His pet is called Leif; pronounced just like 'leaf,' like the heavy-laden foliage of the blooming trees on Alinor. He's a rare, prized Nordic mage. Some of the finest human wizards in the past were Nords, like the arch-mage Shalidor — but fear and bad breeding has mostly destroyed the bloodlines with the power. It makes Leif all the more precious and coveted, and Rulindil is grateful to Elenwen for allowing him to take the boy as a personal trophy after his interrogation ended. This means he needs more strict security protocols, of course, but it's to be expected. All rewards come with sacrifices, after all.
He has the young man in magic-dampening shackles. They have to be strong to control the boy's power — as powerful as the kind the Dunmer used on beastfolk slaves before the uprisings. The boy had tried to overpower them, the first night he was chained to the bed. The shackles had burned his wrists quite badly, and seem to have discouraged future escape attempts. They're also quite convenient for helping to restrain the Nord; he can attach chains at a moment's notice, and have his pretty prize leashed to the bed, to the wall, hung from the ceiling... He looks beautiful anywhere. He also wears a collar, though it's more for physical restraint than magical deterrence — not to mention the extra element of humiliation. As pretty and talented as the boy is, he is still inferior, and must be taught proper respect for his betters.
Humiliation has been noted to be one of the only ways to truly break a Nord; they're simply too stubborn and hardy for their own good. Rulindil doesn't mind that. It gives him more time to play with Leif before praxis demands he reward the boy's eventual assimilation to the proper way of things. And he does scream ever so beautifully. It's as sweet to the mer's ears as the songs of the birds that are sacred to Auri-El.
Eventually, Rulindil sits up in bed, and casts a spark spell, letting the low-voltage crackle over his fingers. The call of his magic is familiar and comfortable, and he wakes Lief with a stroke of his electrified hand. The boy jerks in his shackles, screaming awake with the pain as he shakes against the pillows.
"Oh, do hush," Rulindil murmurs. "This isn't the worst you've had. It's not chain lightning, or thunderbolt."
The boy glares at him, panting, and jerks in the chains to get away from his wandering hand. He flinches, like he'll be shocked again, but Rulindil merely strokes his hair, running long, steady fingers through it. Nords are much like animals, he's found. They require a firm, but soothing hand. The iron fist in the velvet glove, if you will. Still, despite the consideration; Leif has pulled back as far as he can go, shaking like a reed as he's stroked. He's so pretty when he cries, and the mer would be lying to say he doesn't enjoy tormenting the boy.
He needs to learn his place, after all.
"Come now, you know better than this," He croons, and pets the boy until he stops shaking. "You know not to cringe from your master."
He watches as the Nord stills his breathing, working to relax his body, mentally overpowering the animal fear response in a way that Rulindil never expected from a human.
"Good boy," he praises. "So you can control yourself."
As a reward, he unhooks the shackles from the bed frame, and lets Leif collapse onto the bed. It must have been painful to sleep that way, Rulindil thinks, with a faint stirring in his nethers; and he examines his handiwork of the night before. He'd caught the boy trying to talk to the servants, to garner sympathy from his kinsmen. The way they looked at him ranged from helpless and downcast, to outright condemnation; and it was probably more of a punishment than the whipping he got later. Still, Rulindil would be remiss in his duties if he didn't administrer correction; and like his job in the interrogation cells, he enjoyed it quite a lot.
"Darre," the boy had begged, using an Altmeris word he'd picked up from the other mer at the embassy, and from Rulindil's own conversations. "Please, darre; mercy,"
"Oh, darling," he'd replied, amused. "This is mercy. Being taught the proper way of things is the only mercy you deserve. Praxis is merciful."
After a long moment of admiration for his work, Rulindil leaves the bed, and returns with a weak healing salve for the many lashes. It's not like a health or regeneration potion, not enough to heal the boy in any significant way. But it will stop infection, and ease the pain some. Most importantly, it shows that Rulindil does indeed know mercy, even for lesser races. Leif screams when the mer begins to rub salve into his wounds. He muffles it into the pillows, but his shoulders tense with pain, until the mixture starts to dull it some. The little human sobs silently into the pillows while Rulindil rubs him down, and as always, it makes him swell beneath his robes.
Without warning, and with hands slick from ointment; Rulindil slips a long, slender finger between the lad's cheeks, easily pressing into him. The way is made smooth by last night's spend and this morning's salve. Leif jerks, tightening hard, and the mer punishes him by letting out another little lick of electricity inside. The Nord seizes up and spasms, but when the shock has run its course, he relaxes around Rulindil, who praises him with a firm, petting hand at the nape of his neck.
"There you go, darling boy. Relax for me," he soothes, the way one might soothe a frightened gryphon back home. "There you go, Leif. Relax, and it will hurt less."
He moves the boy — so light after his prior stay in the dungeons — and adjusts him to his hands and knees on the bed, arse up and legs spread for the mer to use.
"Please," he whispers, muffled by the pillow. "Please don't do this."
"Now now, dear boy," Rulindil tsks, clicking his tongue. "It's going to happen, whether you make it easy for me, or not."
He lets out a little hiccuping sob that only adds to the ache between the Altmer's legs.
"I'll be gracious and give you a choice, Leif."
It's a common strategy for breaking prisoners; whether housed in a dripping stone cell, or a fine suite in the Embassy. Make the prisoner believe they have some agency over the torture, some control over their miserable little lives.
"I can use some magic to help your muscles relax, and reduce the pain when I take you. I can also let you struggle and try in vain to fight me. It will undoubtedly hurt more, and I will be much less forgiving afterwards."
The Nord goes still, like a rabbit facing a hawk, and swallows hard.
"...The spell," he says quietly.
He's rewarded with a hard smack across his arse with an electrified hand, and when the writhing stops, Rulindil continues.
"Try again, boy. You know better than that."
"Please, ceruval," he murmurs, using the honorific he was taught. "Please use the spell."
"That's better," the mer praises, and casts the spell, practically coating the lad's skin with a green-tinted shimmer that dissolves into his flesh until no sign remains. Rulindil tests him with a finger again, and hums in pleasure when the boy's walls relax around the intrusion.
"Does that hurt?" He asks, and Leif shakes his head before correcting himself.
"No, ceruval."
So he can learn, the Altmer mage thinks to himself, and runs his free hand along the lad's back, pleased to see that though he cringes from the pain of having his lashes touched, he hasn't clamped down around the finger yet. One day, he'll train the boy to relax and clench at will, but that day is not today. Satisfied that he won't be made a liar by causing the boy undue pain, he prepares himself with some of the oil he keeps at hand near the bed. With the spell, the boy doesn't need stretching, or added slickness; he has only to lay there, and Rulindil slides in with the easy grace of victory.
Because it is a victory.
He has below him a Stormcloak mage, covered in Rulindil's scars and lashes, writhing on his cock with silent sobs. His pretty white skin is painted with the heavy strokes of a thalmor whip, and his arms and hips show lovely bruising. He's a mottled piece of art; red and blue fading into sickly yellow and purple, with scars of pale pink.
"Pretty, pretty thing," Rulindil murmurs, kissing the back of his neck as he sets a brisk pace. The boy's been so beautiful this morning, and he is trying. The Altmer mage can tell he's trying, responding to the instruction. It's enough to make him nearly mad with the need to drive his length into the boy, to claim him again from the inside.
"Big—" the lad whispers, half-sobbing; and though it can't hurt much, he squirms beautifully around the mer's cock.
"Flattering, darling," Rulindil purrs between thrusts. "But I've seen thicker. It's merely long, and that's different."
That pulls another nearly-hysterical sob from the boy and he clutches at the blankets with one hand; the other hand touching his lower stomach, as though he can feel how deep the High Elf has penetrated.
"D-d-deep then—" he gasps, and shakes when the Altmer rubs a place within him that makes him keen with pleasure.
"There you go," Rulindil croons, low in Leif's ear. "That's a good boy. You were made for this, darling lad."
Leif lets out another devastated moan, subconsciously moving his hips in search of friction. Rulindil is all too happy to provide it. He wraps one hand around Leif's cock, propping up his body with the other. He doesn't move his hand, just holds it there, firm around the boy's member; and his choice is paid off when the Nord bucks his hips without being asked. By fucking into Rulindil's hand, he's also fucking himself on the Justiciar's cock, and the mer can only laugh.
"Would you look at that... See what I mean, darling?" He whispers, lips brushing the soft hairs at the nape of the boy's neck. "You were made to serve one such as me. Your body responds, all on its own."
The boy trembles, white skin tinging red as he burns with humiliation. It's fascinating, and only the work of moments to get him to come — there's a sensitive spot below his glans that does it almost every time, and Rulindil knows the lad's body by heart. When he comes, it's gorgeous; body tensing and going still. His toes curl, and the freckles on his shoulders begin to blend in with the flushed redness of his skin as he clenches down around the cock inside of him. It's enough to make the mer approach a climax; but before he can, Rulindil pulls out, shooting off his spend over the boy's wrecked body. It completes the pretty picture, and leaves the Altmer mage feeling incredibly satisfied, as he watches his seed drip down the lad's rear, between his cheeks.
Leif shudders, trembling with disgust and pain, and he breaks into silent sobs again as Rulindil observes him. The mer steps away from the bed to get a damp cloth from the wash basin nearby, washing the human's spend from his hands as he does so. He cleans Leif off — more out of a sense of hygiene than any real kindness — and examines the boy. He's collapsed back onto his side, chest heaving from the emotional and physical exertion.
He still has some time before he has to get dressed, so Rulindil gets back onto the bed.He curls up behind the boy, petting his hair soothingly as he whispers meaningless things in Altmeris until the lad calms. When he thinks Leif is asleep, he rises, dresses, and prepares for his day's work at the Embassy.
As usual, this means torture, and he wears the robes that are already blood-stained, to avoid the hassle of ruining another set.
Leif is rather lucky, Rulindil decides. His meric captor spends most of his sadism at his job and has less to spare for minor transgressions at home. There are still things he does that baffle the Altmer though.
Once, he'd caught the boy praying to a tree.
He'd known the Nords were quite backwards, but at least the false god Talos had once had something resembling sapience. It was a simple ornamental cirabosra. So named because it had been especially bred to manifest beautifully pigmented leaves and blossoms; and to be small enough to keep in the kind of tiny provincial loft Rulindil is forced to contend with here. It's an exceptionally beautiful tree, and probably has a better pedigree than Leif, but he would hardly consider it worthy of worship, even by a Nord.
He'd asked about it, as was his duty. It would be improper to leave such an oversight in his pet's training. The answer had been somewhat surprising.
"I am not worshipping the tree, ceruval," Leif had said; respectfully with eyes downcast. "My mother was a priestess of Kynareth. The tree reminds me of the Eldergleam, Kyne's sacred tree. It is said to be one of the oldest living things in Tamriel."
He looks aside, cheeks dusted with pink. It's a response unique to pale-skinned humans, and it makes Rulindil take notice every time.
"My lord. If I may request..."
He'd been met with a backhanded slap for his audacity, and his sharp little gasp in response is something Rulindil recalls often; usually with a hand on his cock.
"I will have no worship of a god of man under my roof. We may permit your heresies in the temples, but I will not have it here."
The boy had nodded, cheeks burning red; but Rulindil thought of it afterwards, and resolved to ask the boy about the significance of the god, to have something to think about during the dull moments at work.
"Boy," he says sharply, and Leif jolts up from his doze. "Tell me about this Kynareth."
He looks guarded at first, but sees the uncharacteristic softness in Rulindil's bronze eyes, and offers a shaky smile.
"My family name is Kyneswyrrd, milord. It means 'sword of Kynareth.'"
Rulindil has to try very hard not to laugh. It's obviously a Nordic corruption of the old dragonish words they'd undoubtedly used in the Merethic era, when all his kind were still slaves to dragons. Anyone who had studied the language would recognize "Kaan," the Nordic proto-goddess who was subsumed by the Breton and Cyrodilic Kynareth. He assumed 'wyrrd' was a corruption of werid, the dragonish word for praise. It might be translated as something like "Kyne be praised," so in the end, perhaps the boy was not so far off in his translation. Leif continues anyway, oblivious of his own linguistic mistakes.
"We lived in Kynesgrove, named for the goddess. My father worked the mines, and my mother was the local healer. I grew up going to the nearby sacred grove to pray; we were respectful, so the spriggans didn't hurt us. We took a yearly pilgrimage to Whiterun, to pray at the Gildergreen there, so when I saw your ornamental sapling..."
It becomes clear to Rulindil. It's not about gods and worship so much as keeping his family in his thoughts. To an Altmer, family is more important than anything; more important than one's own life. To be cast out from one's clan is like a death sentence, and the only life that can be had for a mer such as that is a mere shadow of a life. It's a concept the mer can grasp, and he begins to think. Finally, he speaks; attaching the boy's collar to the bed frame with a longer chain, to give him more room to get comfortable while his keeper is gone.
"Kynareth is not an acceptable deity to be worshiped in my home..." He sees the downcast but resigned look, and continues. "I am, however, led to believe that you Nords also worship Stendarr."
"Yes, ceruval," Leif says, and looks up with something curious and wary in his eyes.
"Stendarr is within our pantheon, and as the apologist of man, and the god of mercy, he is acceptable for men to worship. I shall see about having a small shrine purchased for your use."
There's a pause, and Rulindil wonders if he'll have to punish Leif for ungratefulness; when the lad looks up, meeting his eyes with a dazzling smile that takes the mer's breath away.
"Thank you, milord. I will forever be grateful for this boon."
Rulindil turns to leave, so that the man will not see his expression. He'll be thinking of that radiant, grateful smile for days...
"Yes, quite. See that you don't make me regret it."
And then he's out the door, and he can finally breathe again. His chest feels as though a new kind of tree has been planted within. It grows with the passing of time, and presses outward on his ribs and sternum, tickling his stomach with its falling leaves. He has never felt this way before; not for man, mer, or any other pleasure of the flesh. Not for lust or liquor, for sweet moon sugar or the savory fat of a lamb. It scares and confuses him, and he touches his chest, as if he can feel the tree that grows within his ribcage.
If he is not very cautious, the boy will kill him. Perhaps with a blade in the night, while Rulindil is still buried in his warmth. More likely, through the strange feelings he evokes.