“…the Fëanorian lamps, which were crystals hung in a fine chain net, the crystals being ever shining with an inner blue radiance marvelous for finding ways in the darkness…”
OKAY but were the lamps a fine chain of luminous crystals hung in a net, or were they luminous crystals, hung in a fine chain net???
He’d watched and listened and waited to be addressed next – there was little else to do except hope that he would not be thrown to some predatory creature or to the whims of another. The words he had told his captors that he had to speak to their Lord had been conveyed – but altered in a sudden grip of fear that threatened to toss his stomach.
Maeglin glanced up from where he’d been pushed down to his knees, and met Morgoth’s eyes. That, he learned, was a mistake. There was more to fear under his gaze than any other’s he had ever seen. There had been stories, but seeing was believing – and now, he believed. The voice in his mind screamed to abandon the lie, which he had told himself was a valorous and cunning move at preserving the secrecy of Turgon’s beloved haven. But now it seemed a pathetic and misplaced attempt, one not worthy of putting any more effort into preserving.
His eyes quickly lowered from Morgoth’s, darting to Sauron before looking down again to his bound wrists. If he didn’t say something, then it might be assumed that he was lying. That was likely to prove dangerous – just as dangerous as trying to continue a lie that already was being questioned. The elf drew in a long, shuddering breath and felt his quivering shake loose a bead of sweat to roll down his temple and cheek, to his neck.
Life seemed much better than death – and proving himself useless to those who now held his life in their hands would likely be the quick path to that end, or some other dismal misery that would eventually end the same way. In his mind, Maeglin yearned for the fields and open skies of Gondolin and the caverns and slopes of the mountains and mines, rather than this place. There was so much he had wanted to see and do… which meant he had to tread carefully, for the sake of keeping his life and something of a future. The wisest course of action, Maeglin decided, was to divert the attention on some subtly similar point.
“You can decide all the plans you want now,” he began uncertainly, and with a tremble to his voice – he was aware that how he spoke now meant that he risked much to himself and to those still in the valley, “but even I know that there is something that prevents you from having already done to secure the entire country in your grasp.”
Breathing in, he waited for that half-second of telling reaction. Would they take it, or would he need to ply with words a little more? Anything but to die now…!
Morgoth was silent for a long moment, regarding the boy with a sideways, membranous wink. He missed nothing of the trembling, the damp brow, the words unsaid. It was a clever move, redirecting the line of questioning while neither could see the other’s hand.
What a cunning little rodent, the Vala thought, with something like fondness, or at least recognition. Terrified, but canny enough to play this game, though his life and freedom are at stake.
“And what is it exactly, that even babes in Gondolin know, is preventing the Dark Lord from taking all Beleriand, hm? What delays his conquest? Tell me, clever mole,” He jabbed a talon at the sable crest of Maeglin’s tabard, “or I shall bury you up to the neck in ash and let you bake as black as your standard."
Hope fluttered in his chest, and for a moment the intense desire to vomit all of the bile in his stomach lessened (it would be yellow; it wouldn’t be the first time emptying his belly on the ground in front of him, and thankfully it wasn’t in front of the Ainur).
There was no time to congratulate himself internally for his cleverness. The threat that Morgoth made, hopefully made casually but he had no desire to find out, made his heart stop as his mind imagined rather gruesomely that claw puncturing fabric and skin and bone. The elf’s mouth gaped as he shuddered again at the thought – if he wasn’t careful, it may be a likely end.
He didn’t miss Morgoth’s observation – how could he know how young he was? Though I may be fully grown, how can he perceive that I am one of the youngest in Gondolin? Maeglin swallowed back the welling of fresh saliva in his mouth so that he could answer clearly. Feeling successful thus far, he knew he had to continue convincingly, and that Morgoth followed the intended line of questioning gave him enough hope to inject confidence into his voice.
"A moment ago, you gave it away. Do you take the defensive or the offensive? You have no plan. From what I have been told about you and how your forces operate – you act when you have a plan. But you have none, and I would not need to be a close councilor to Turgon in order to know what I know."
Do not divulge that! he chided himself. Blinking, he continued on. No need to keep Morgoth waiting… “And what I know is that the Crissaegrim offer no path or pass into the valley. You have no plan because there is no way in.”
"And yet, does my good eye deceive me?” Melkor leaned forward mockingly, scrutinizing the young elf in the beam of his stare. “It seems to me there is at least a way out of the valley… or else have the Eldar learned to fly?"
Behind Maeglin, the Dark Lord’s lieutenant stirred unbidden, placing a heavy hand full of mute warning on the elf’s neck.
"Make no mistake, little mole; you buy seconds of your life with this news. Tell me more. Tell me Turgon’s plan of attack, if indeed you are his close advisor.”
The hand on the boy’s neck moved to his hair, pulling it back taught with a snap.
“Tell me everything, and there may yet be some reward I could give you."
To my Master,
I miss you. How I have wandered, seeking places where the power still lingered in this world, gathering strength to wrap this missive in my will and cast it beyond the world.
For my powerful voice I was named — I only hope it is strong enough for this call to reach even beyond the Doors of Night.
I do not forget. I linger and wait for you. Until the end, I will wait for you.
To you in this casting-out of thought, hoping to reach you, I offer in the vessel of my will the sensations of this world, in hopes that their memory can even for a moment ease the emptiness.
I miss you. I love you. You are everything to me even now.
-Langon
A crack formed in the dry ice, silent in the Void.
For a moment, he could remember what cold felt like; standing at the top of the highest peak at precisely the altitude where blood would freeze, thin air broken by knife-whistling winds and the dark bowl of the sky spinning around him; all white, all frozen, all his.
And for a moment after that he recalled the thaw of rock, magma dripping tar-thick into the ocean, boiling and spitting steam plumes, white hot, far above.
What remained of him shivered, ribs filled with nothing, as the echoes of sensation rang fainter and fainter through his bones, in the dark, in the emptiness.
He did not know for how long his servants would continue to send their parcels of feeling and thought, knowing their only reward would be a mirage of hope, and unchanging silence.
There was nothing to mark the passage of time in the Void; he knew that ages would pass below and he would have no sense of it, and even maiar fade.
Whenever the messages stopped coming, it would be too soon.
…Does my brother even HAVE a bath? What would you bathe your royal bottom in, that would not sully your most pure and stinkless self?
“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."
The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur."I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.
=
The youth paused, grin frozen on their face as their eyes darted to one side in thought, as if they’d never thought to answer such questions before.
“…I come from nowhere and no one. I’m only a wild thing from the north. My name would mean little to you.” They skipped forward in the red-flowered grass, a little off kilter on one foot, as though mindful of an old injury. “As for the message, I only wanted to avoid a worse fate, and the chance to meet the Outlaw King seemed a treat to me."
They stopped, turning on their heels, hands clasped behind them girlishly. “I imagined you… blonder, from the tales.”
Túrin’s eyes narrowed at that answer. Suddenly, the strangeness of their guest’s looks began to amount to a deeper suspicion than he had previously thought to entertain.
"Even if a name has no meaning, its existence is a mark of trust, if nothing else. The north is no friendly place, and anyone out of it is of no small significance for that alone.”
“Fine. Call me Raza, then.” The stranger planted themselves on the red-flowered grass and proceeded to pluck petals off their stems.
“The Dread Helm thinks I’m of no small significance! Haha! Raza, King of the North I’ll be!" They laughed merrily, voice raspy and indeterminately pitched. "Relax, handsome Wolf. What could I do to you?” They gestured to their bony frame.
The hungry looking creature returned to scrutinizing the tall man, lip bitten with crooked teeth.
“What reply will you give, my lord? I will give it to some Easterling, who will give it to some orc, who will no doubt take it and bring to Dark Foe himself, and I will leave with a coin in my pocket. What will you say to him?” Raza kicked their freckled feet with unashamed eagerness.
sharpglance -> Melkor
inpainandregret -> Razarî
poppybrownlock -> Shadow + AU thread
turambar-masterofdoom -> Razarî/Melkor
curufinwefeanaro -> Nolofinwë + -> Melkor
findaratoldyouso -> Melkor Starter
miriel-therinde -> Melkor
…….
AM I FORGETTING ANYONE?? ;W;
“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."
The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur."I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.
=
(( //Ah yes, I see now I did I stupid thing with the calling you Turmabar/Master of Fate….XD let’s just pretend I called you “Master of Outlaws”, and Lord of Dor Cuarthol.))
“No trouble. I thought it rather a gift, to meet the Dread Helm, so famed for the destruction of his foes…” The youth tilted their head, green eyes flicking up and down Turin’s figure with unashamed interest— what sort of interest it was was difficult to surmise.
“Were you raised by bandits or by wild wolves? There are rumors of both. And is it true that you once chased a naked elf to his death over a cliff?” The fox-fur waif rocked upon their bare heels, grinning impishly. “What would you do to the Dark Lord, if he did come? Something gruesome, I hope… I’m sure you’re much, much mightier than High King Fingolfin was, when he went against the black foe.”
The youth’s final comment triggered a wave of cold amusement through the lieutenants. None of those assembled had a high opinion of elves, but of all the rumours that flew concerning them and their enigmatic captain, this was by far the most entertaining to them.
Túrin, however, remained unmoved, save a slight quirk of his upper lip. By a very generous margin, one might have called that an emaciated smile.
"I am honoured at your high opinion of me, stranger,” he said. “But I will only go far enough to say that there is truth among what you have heard of me. Specifics would do none of us any good. I think you, and whoever it is you have learned these opinions from, may guess very well my intent toward Melkor at the very least.”
A horn rang out in the hills, and Túrin fell silent for a while. When no further blasts followed, a merest flash of irritation crossed his face. The moment did not last long, though.
“What is your name? How came you to be a bearer of Melkor’s message?”
The youth paused, grin frozen on their face as their eyes darted to one side in contemplation, as though they’d never thought to answer such questions before.
“…I come from nowhere and no one. I’m only a wild thing from the north. My name would mean little to you.” They skipped forward in the red-flowered grass, a little off kilter on one foot, as though mindful of an old injury. “As for the message, I only wanted to avoid a worse fate, and the chance to meet the Outlaw King seemed a treat to me."
They stopped, turning on their heels, hands clasped behind them girlishly. “I imagined you… blonder, from the tales.”
If I had to design a Langon for my own purposes (probably just for outside of the RP world, because lbrh, heraldofmelkor’s Lagon is where it’s at, yo) I would make him the Spymaster of Angband.
Guys, did you know that just now, I came to the awful, gut-wrenching realization that I never finished The Children of Hurin????
…..I NEVER FUCKING FINISHED IT! I GOT A THIRD OF THE WAY IN AND PUT A BOOKMARK IN IT AND FOR SOME REASON MY BRAIN JUST FILLED IN THE BLANKS WITH THE SILMARILLION CHAPTER AND I FORGOT ALL ABOUT IT I AM THE LITERAL WORST SOMEONE TAKE AWAY MY TOLKIEN CARD OH MY GOD
“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."
The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur."I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.
Túrin eyed the child – was that the correct word? This person rather defied definition at a glance; male or female, adult or child. That they were even of his own people was about the furthest Túrin was willing to go with supposition.
Standing in the shadow of Amon Rudh, with three of his lieutenants at his back, he felt secure enough – but upon reading the note, he could not suppress a cold shudder of glee.
“You have done well to bring it,” he said. “I thank you for your trouble.”
(( //Ah yes, I see now I did I stupid thing with the calling you Turmabar/Master of Fate….XD let’s just pretend I called you “Master of Outlaws”, and Lord of Dor Cuarthol.))
“No trouble. I thought it rather a gift, to meet the Dread Helm, so famed for the destruction of his foes…” The youth tilted their head, green eyes flicking up and down Turin’s figure with unashamed interest— what sort of interest it was was difficult to surmise.
“Were you raised by bandits or by wild wolves? There are rumors of both. And is it true that you once chased a naked elf to his death over a cliff?” The fox-fur waif rocked upon their bare heels, grinning impishly. “What would you do to the Dark Lord, if he did come? Something gruesome, I hope… I’m sure you’re much, much mightier than High King Fingolfin was, when he went against the black foe.”
poppybrownlock-deactivated20150:
“But if you were given the chance, would you do such things again?” Poppy asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Who can be certain of anyone’s character? Certainty is an illusion. Trust is always a matter of faith.”
A whisper of a sigh ruffled the curls on Poppy’s head. “There is only one question that matters to me: do YOU trust me? And if you do not, Poppy, then why is it you continue to return to my side? Why do you ask me to confirm or deny your friends’ doubts?”
The Shadow peered down into the halfling’s eyes with empty hollows. “Do you, Poppy, believe I am not worthy of trust? Do you too begrudge me a new beginning?”
“I….” The halfling hesitated, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Did she trust him? Could she trust him? Somewhere deep down, Poppy very much wanted to. Despite the repeated, insistent warnings of her friends, he had never done anything to give her cause to doubt him, nor his motives.
“I very much want to trust you,” She admitted quietly, her gaze lowering to the floor. “You have never given me reason not to, not yet, at least.”
“I wish never to give you reason to doubt.” The Shadow smiled, such as it was able.
“My dear flower…” Fingers twined in her curling hair. “You cannot know how I treasure your innocence; I who am so acquainted with fear and the harvest of traitors. Your heart is a compass pointing to all things honest and kind–”
The Shadow broke off his words, as if he had over-spoken. The hand paused its stroking, coming forward to raise the halfling’s round little chin. “You and that compass are my best hope in this world. I would never harm you."
“Hah! Stale news will buy you nothing. I know already where the hidden city lies; deep in the Echoriath.” Melkor ventured.
His spies had told him as much— strange tidings of men and dark elves riding to the Encircling Mountains, and never returning. He could say as much with certainty, but no more. He did not wish the elf to know that this intelligence was beyond pricing.
“But these other tidings you bring me… That Turgon is prepared for war, that men I knew not of escaped over the mountains, that hidden hosts prepare to rally and march again on Angband! This thing I did not know.” The dark lord hunched, resting chin on claw in pensive thought.
Had the Noldor not glutted themselves on defeat? The Union of Maedhros had been crushed beyond recovery; yet Gondolin stood, and the Vala’s foresight had warned him that doom would come from behind Turgon’s secret walls. Perhaps he should not have presumed that ALL the Noldor would run, licking their wounds and scattering southward.
Melkor looked to his lieutenant in silence, searching the maia’s expression; finding there wariness, but not outright distrust.
“If what you say is true, then the city cannot be gained by force, and we must gird ourselves yet again for a defensive war… We may yet have the element of surprise if we move quickly, but a direct attack is out of the question. Could we starve them out, do you think? Surround the city at a distance, burn fields, dam rivers— let the Noldor waste in hunger amidst unused war machines?”
“My lord, do not be so hasty to leap to battle on the untested words of a traitor.” Sauron cautioned. “If the boy is lying, we give the city time to rally in defense, and we stay our hand needlessly against a sleeping foe.”
“IF the boy is lying, he will regret he was not drowned at birth, won’t he, beloved?” Melkor turned his eyes to the captive Maeglin, harsh spotlights under which each shiver, each bead of sweat was illuminated.He’d watched and listened and waited to be addressed next – there was little else to do except hope that he would not be thrown to some predatory creature or to the whims of another. The words he had told his captors that he had to speak to their Lord had been conveyed – but altered in a sudden grip of fear that threatened to toss his stomach.
Maeglin glanced up from where he’d been pushed down to his knees, and met Morgoth’s eyes. That, he learned, was a mistake. There was more to fear under his gaze than any other’s he had ever seen. There had been stories, but seeing was believing – and now, he believed. The voice in his mind screamed to abandon the lie, which he had told himself was a valorous and cunning move at preserving the secrecy of Turgon’s beloved haven. But now it seemed a pathetic and misplaced attempt, one not worthy of putting any more effort into preserving.
His eyes quickly lowered from Morgoth’s, darting to Sauron before looking down again to his bound wrists. If he didn’t say something, then it might be assumed that he was lying. That was likely to prove dangerous – just as dangerous as trying to continue a lie that already was being questioned. The elf drew in a long, shuddering breath and felt his quivering shake loose a bead of sweat to roll down his temple and cheek, to his neck.
Life seemed much better than death – and proving himself useless to those who now held his life in their hands would likely be the quick path to that end, or some other dismal misery that would eventually end the same way. In his mind, Maeglin yearned for the fields and open skies of Gondolin and the caverns and slopes of the mountains and mines, rather than this place. There was so much he had wanted to see and do… which meant he had to tread carefully, for the sake of keeping his life and something of a future. The wisest course of action, Maeglin decided, was to divert the attention on some subtly similar point.
“You can decide all the plans you want now,” he began uncertainly, and with a tremble to his voice – he was aware that how he spoke now meant that he risked much to himself and to those still in the valley, “but even I know that there is something that prevents you from having already done to secure the entire country in your grasp.”
Breathing in, he waited for that half-second of telling reaction. Would they take it, or would he need to ply with words a little more? Anything but to die now…!
Morgoth was silent for a long moment, regarding the boy with a sideways, membranous wink. He missed nothing of the trembling, the damp brow, the words unsaid. It was a clever move, redirecting the line of questioning while neither could see the other’s hand.
What a cunning little rodent, the Vala thought, with something like fondness, or at least recognition. Terrified, but canny enough to play this game, though his life and freedom are at stake.
“And what is it exactly, that even babes in Gondolin know, is preventing the Dark Lord from taking all Beleriand, hm? What delays his conquest? Tell me, clever mole,” He jabbed a talon at the sable crest of Maeglin’s tabard, “or I shall bury you up to the neck in ash and let you bake as black as your standard."
Three Finwëans and a werewolf are my biggest fans.
What am I doing wrong?
poppybrownlock replied to your post “So”
D: *tucks firmly into bed* Stay. STaaaaaay. 😛
As my future furry-footed Dark Queen of Mordor commands U3U
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