Month: March 2015

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

“I was not aware that Arafinwë was a jewel smith…” He was not aware that Arafinwë was anything except alive, truth be told. “How exquisite.” Saying this, the Vala trapped Findarato’s hand in his claws gently and pulled it forward, almost as if he planned on kissing it as a courtier might. 

Turning on the elf’s slender finger the ring glinted in the treelight, its glow reflected in the mirror of Melkor’s eyes. He leaned closer still, inhaling through his somewhat bat-like nose and flicking the air with a forked tongue, humming thoughtfully. 

Not magical at all! Just a pretty trinket. And yet… there were the threads, curling loose now, but that someday would grow taught, and find their way into the tapestries of fate. How interesting… He’d remember that. 

“This is very fine craftsmanship… the gold was hardly touched; fresh out of the earth from a source near the Pelorí Ridge, by the taste of it.” He lingered before releasing the elf’s hand, appreciating for a moment the fluttering pulse under royal skin. 

Melkor tapped a claw against his lips with the air of one imparting a secret, flaming tendrils coiling like giddy serpents down his back. ”Gold was some of my best work, you know. Aulë would claim he wrought it himself, of course, but the truth is it was I who Sang the Notes of gold long ere he hammered the first atoms into place!” the Vala laughed, hard and gleaming. ”…Ah, but that’s all past; petty sibling rivalries… In any case, I remain inordinately fond of the material. Even the color alone pleases me.” He smiled, taking quick but appreciative assessment of the Noldo’s splendorous attire and his bright hair, the envy of any Vanya. 

“Why serpents, do you think?” He asked, resting chin on knuckles. 

Findaráto’s stomach turned at the first touch of Melkor’s claws to his skin and his neck felt hot again, and now his forehead, and now just above his upper lip. Sweating, he realized, and though there was no heat in the air, he felt burned. Smelled, for a moment, smoke and he concentrated his own breathing and increased heart rate to keep from wrenching his hand back. Somewhere, deep in his rolling stomach, was something hard and steady, a hatred and grudge he’d no reason to hold except that he knew he should.

It frightened him. This touch frightened him and when his hand was released, he held it close to himself protectively, as it if it had been stung by some insect. He rubbed his thumb over his ring as though to clean it and when the Vala smiled, the hatred flared into resentment.

And yet.

And yet. There was a power in that touch, however brief, that was beyond his comprehension and a strength in his words that was heady. There might be pride in this – why should a Vala come speak to him and not one of his uncles, his cousins, his own sister? Findaráto was not blind to his own talents; he knew he was a force in court and in song, he knew that when he spoke, people listened. He knew he was the eldest son of his house, a scion of kings, that people had whispered about the mingling of three bloods, but it was the Third House, he was of, and no one looked at his father the way they did Fëanáro or Nolofinwë.

But Melkor was here, asking about his ring, talking to him about craftsmanship, when everyone new it was Fëanáro and Curufinwë who were the grandest smiths in the family. So Findaráto held his back straight and his head high (showing off his hair when a part of him wanted to cover it; he’d caught that glance, he knew what the color of it meant) as he answered. “Serpents know when to extricate themselves from unsuitable circumstances.” Even be it their own skin and Findaráto took a step back so that Melkor could not mistake his meaning.

The Vala’s voice deepened in laughter. “And are you planning on slithering away from this unsuitable circumstance?” A membrane flicked sideways over his eyes in a reptilian wink. “I understand. I know my own reputation. I know what I am to you.”  He allowed himself a sigh, short and disappointed. “Even the son of Arafinwë, wisest and most gentle, cannot stand in the shadow of the convicted without growing cold." 

How troublesome! How flighty were the Eldar! Every time he thought he’d coaxed one into conversation they soon skittered away in fear, or else turned their backs on him in cold disdain. 
It came as no surprise, of course. He knew it was too soon to expect even the youngest elves, born in Aman, to be at ease in his presence. Spy on them, walk amongst them, pay them for their time on behalf of his "master”; but never converse with them– the time it took to plant the seed of some minor influence was often all the time he was granted. Not that it mattered….

I do not need their company. I have no desire to befriend the vermin that usurped my father’s love, and turned my kin against me! I only wish to gain their trust so I may learn how best to ruin them.

That thought had kept him warm for centuries– Revenge, vague and far-distant, made it possible to suffer the humiliation of his servitude to Tulkas, to share this over-bright island surrounded by enemies who hated and distrusted him, so far isolated from his works, his children; the servants and lovers he’d made his home with. It was the lie of his good behavior that had made it all bearable; but its comfort was wearing thin. 

…I do not want their company… but theirs is the only company to be had on this contemptible rock, and I can’t have it! The flames around his shoulders leapt and crackled before he could restrain them. 

The prince was easing away from him like a frightened deer, and he had nothing on hand to lure him back, save more words. Quickly the Vala went gliding down the steps ahead of him, a ribbon of black and gold that coiled and reshaped itself back to back with Findarato, feeling the brush of his proud mane just tickle him in the rush of displaced air. 

“Serpents, too, prefer the warmth of light and safe surroundings… They are indeed wise creatures; the wisest of them live extraordinarily long lives, hidden away in the safety of their burrows. They take no risks.” He raised a pensive claw. “They are not known for their bravery, snakes… nor their daring. Not very heroic animals; perhaps that is why I do not see them emblazoned on more Noldor trinkets. Still, who are we to judge? The oldest of them we shall never see, twined about the roots of the earth, deathless and heedless of what we hot-blooded fools do above.” Melkor grinned over his shoulder, shark-toothed, watching the threads extending from the elf’s spirit quiver as if plucked. “You’d make an excellent snake, I think… but wonder if the resemblance is only skin-deep? Time will tell, I suppose."