Month: January 2015

fiindekano:

misbehavingmaiar:

Oh, but the prince’s scream was satisfying! A wet, raw-throated howl that tore out of his muddied face. Sauron grinned wide beneath his visor, scraping the fingers of his gauntlet past Fingon’s back teeth, ready to clamp down on the root of his tongue… Would he bleed out and choke to death on the field, or return to his fortress in mute humiliation? Either. Each had its pleasing merits. 

 Sauron felt a sting at the base of his neck; the report from the shot rang loud as a canon in his ear— he grunted, twitching to one side. 

A hail of metal pellets struck him like a swarm of biting insects, enraged and buzzing as they clattered against his armor.  The stinging was hardly more than an irritation, and the sound was dreadful, but it was enough to make him stop, and turn his awful head. 

Too late. The spear burst through his shoulder in a wall of red pain. Sauron let loose a stunned snarl, catching himself with a stumble as the bolt struck him off balance. The projectile’s point had cleared the leather joint of his armor with as much resistance as water; he could feel the tip of it make contact with the inside of his breastplate, having transfixed his shoulder.

That had been thrown with the precision of revenge.

The warlord’s breath roared in him like a furnace, dropping the prince,his previous quarry forgotten in rage. He could see the red-haired elf riding to meet him, cold eyed, foam at his horse’s bit. One handed he had made that shot, from horseback. There was only one on earth who’s hate could have honed an aim so sharp. 

Anguished yelping from dying wolves told him it was time to retreat. The Noldor charged from higher ground, splitting his force in half. 

There was no way to reach the spear lodged in his arm to pull it out— he would have to leave the field with the dart still protruding from him. 

He roared the Blacktongue orders— withdraw to safety, scatter and reconvene in the foothills. Yet, it would not do to seem daunted by pain before the orcs that served him; reaching awkwardly behind him he snapped the shaft of the spear, and threw it, whirling with black blood, at the unhelmed prince.

Black smoke and wolves covered his retreat, wary of mounted Noldor and entangling nets.  

A number of things happened in the instants that followed. Fingon could feel Sauron’s hesitation, though as tempting as it was to struggle to free himself, he forced himself to hold still. Let the beast be distracted—he would not risk reminding him of his goal.

With his eyes clenched shut, he did not see the oncoming battery. Though they hit their mark true, a few bounced off Sauron’s armour, and Fingon winced as they struck him in turn. The few seconds after seemed to drag on beyond their span, and too clearly he felt the rush of air past his head that came with the oncoming spear. If it missed—if it failed to penetrate its intended target—

He hit the ground a moment later, air rushing from his lungs to leave him prone and winded. But—carefully, he attempted to move his tongue, and the last half-breath stored escaped him in a rush of relief. There was still blood in his mouth, his throat ached from his outcry, but at least he was still in one piece.

And that being so, he could not continue to lie here in a state of weakness. His scattered troops needed direction, and it was his responsibility to provide it. Forcing himself to inhale, Fingon staggered to his knees, then shakily planted one foot, realizing now what a toll the fight had taken on him, and he hastily threw a hand down too to stabilize himself. But it would be a great show of defiance now to call out orders, louder than that demon’s— 

Something struck his back.

Beneath his shoulder-plate he could feel it piercing, driving through the exposed weak-point and into muscle, flesh, a sharp point touching bone. The impact knocked him forward, his wrist buckling beneath him, and with his eyes on the bloodied earth before him, all he managed to call was a weak plead to regroup; it was possible no one heard it.   

No; this fight was in Maedhros’ hands now, and he could only hope he and his men had done enough to weaken Sauron and his wolf-guards. Their howling had at least subsided, and slowly Fingon lowered himself until he could brace his head against his forearm, clear of the churned and bloodstained ground.