Month: March 2015

sharpglance:

misbehavingmaiar:

sharpglance:

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.”

The elf swallowed so thickly that he was certain Sauron behind him could feel it through his hand. A horrifying realization froze his body and though he was sweating, he suddenly felt as though he’d been doused into a river whose source was the snowmelt from the Eastern mountains. Maeglin shivered and clenched his teeth to prevent them from chattering.

A small sound leapt from his throat, which was now bared with his head pulled back. It was a whimper, an ugly, ungraceful sound that openly declared his fright and alarm. Maeglin felt shame tear down his fragile walls of bravado. Without that, he felt weak and powerless.

It was unwise to doubt the threat that came before whatever promise of reward, but to pass along this information would mean endangering his mother’s brother’s beloved valley… He hadn’t thought this entirely through, or considered everything…

“R-reward? B-but…” Mouth dry, Maeglin licked his lips before continuing. He needed time to think this over-! 

“G-give me some time to consider, at least…”

Melkor made a blithe, untroubled gesture with one gauntleted hand, laughing sweetly. 

“Of course, of course! Take all the time you need. Lieutenant–”

And the Umaia, whose hard fingers threatened to choke the boy whose throat had uttered such a tantalizing noise of distress, straightened in answer. 

“–Please take our guest to the Realgar Hall, and bind him over a geyser vent. Let him consider his options while the flesh of his hands boils off the bone. And Beloved, make sure that he is comfortable! I don’t want to rush his decision." 

*looms over bath* I won’t tell if you won’t. ~Sauron

doegred-main:

misbehavingmaiar:

doegred-main:

*pales, gripping the side of the tub, while breathing slowly through his nose*

“Get. Out!”

“…Because you are an anomaly here. Because you too have no others to share the cathedral of your mind with, and pursuits that you have had to put aside in favor of war. It is tiring…”  The maia’s yellow eyes creased with something like sympathy. Neither the dagger nor the tightly wound stance of the Fëanorian giant seemed to worry him, naked though he was. 

"Wouldn’t it be satisfying just to experiment and build again? Ainu and Eld, teaching, expanding, learning? Just as Aulë might have done—" 

Then he swallowed, gaze turning suddenly to a distant point on the floor; finding himself exposed more thoroughly than just in skin. 

"You are right of course. This was a truly farcical error…” He chuckled, mirthless. “I suppose we ought fight, then. Just for the sake of propriety.”  
 
He shrugged off the ill-fitting robe and struck a wrestling stance. 

Maedhros forced himself not to feel anything, tried to at least. Because no matter how honeyed his words may seem, what offer they brought, what kind of strange sense they made. This was a trap and Thauron would use every single crease in his resolve to destroy what was left of him. He could not allow himself the foolishness to think otherwise. A younger, more stupid self might have believed no harm could come from a moment of leniency and some math. But now every single word conjured in his mind the words written on the old history book probably still opened on his desk. More painful than any scar.
The thought of Tyelpe made the Fëanorion’s eyes burn with hate. Still, being old also meant learning that the world was far more complex than you thought and each battle had its way to be fought, if you wished to win it. And the way this battle should be fought..
Maedhros steeled himself against the need to flinch at his enemy’s sudden movement or pale at his nudity. He managed one.
The way this battle should be fought, if he wanted its outcome to fit his desires, was not this. He lowered his left arm, the blade of the knife drawing a shining shadow on the wall.

His face briefly distorting in a grimace the Noldo inhaled through his nose, repeating himself that he would have his vengeance. It felt like a lullaby, a lullaby for a monstrous infant whose weight, sweet as only a newborn’s can be, he could sense curling inside his chest, carried nearer to his heart than any of his brothers had ever been. 

It was sudden, from anger his expression became one of polite, if darkly amused, calm. Rising to his full height the Fëanorion stepped away from behind the chair, never loosing sight of the Maia, his motions so studiedly relaxed they almost made the naked blade in his hand look harmless as light glided on its surface.

“What makes you a truly remarkable liar, Thauron” Keeping his tone conversationally benign Maerdhros took a few steps sideways, away from the naked Ainu. “is how tightly intertwined with truth your lies are. It is marvelous how honestly dishonest you can be. Had I met you in my youth I would have almost admired you.” Offering a knife-sharp smile he lightly shook his head, his expression falsely benign. “And, what is even more remarkable is how much of a compulsion destroying has become to you. I’d wager you are like the scorpion of the old tale. You would end up doing harm to your surroundings even if it meant you’d drown.”

Fixing his gaze on the other’s eyes Maedhros’s voice changed, becoming flat as his expression went back to a blank mask. “I do not wish to fight you. Leave.”

Sauron’s slitted pupils flared; the muscles in his face twitched into a snarl, but it was suppressed in short order. 

Whatever warmth or provocative flirtation had been in his demeanor froze and died, leaving cruelty in its wake. 

”…Leave, stay; fight, don’t fight… Since you can’t seem to make up your mind at all this evening, I’m afraid I’m going to have to do it for you.“ 

And with that, he sprung– two coiled steps that moved a wall of heavy muscle at an unthinkable rate, shoulder pivoting to collide with the Noldo, knocking him to the floor while iron-hard forearms grappled and pinned his taller opponent, heedless of the knife between them.  

Gold Threads

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

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 are 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 I wonder if the resemblance is only skin-deep? Time will tell, I suppose." 

Findaráto hissed in a breath as the flames rose about the Vala and he could see them as if from a distance, huge and enveloping and destructive, a blight upon somewhere once good and green- but he blinked and they shrunk, entirely manageable if threatening in their own way. He could feel the heat of them on his face. 

But then gone again, and this time utterly, as Melkor dissolved and disappeared, flashing by like a spot in one’s vision after gazing too long at something bright. Something not meant to be looked at all and he might have whirled around to watch him leave if he hadn’t sensed him, then, again, directly at his back. Findaráto held himself perfectly still, forgetting, for a moment, even to breath, though he couldn’t say what instinct it was that kept him so frozen. There was a great power at his back and by all rights he should be driven to move and indeed something in him cried out again in warning.

Do not let him get so close.

And he might have stepped away, despite his urge to keep still, might have whirled around and backed up, might have found any excuse to leave. Might have – if Melkor, he who held so many in awe and had once held so many in thrall, had not called him a coward. So sweetly and Findaráto could hear the smile in his voice, but he had grown up in court (grown up with Curufinwë) and he heard what was veiled in those words. His father had picked for himself and his house an animal unsuitable, Melkor said, one without the courage and innovation for which the House of Finwë and the Noldorin host were known. And he, the son of Arafinwë was heir to this legacy?

Well Melkor may be Vala, but he was wrong. There was strength in flexibility and Findaráto knew well how often it took courage to remain still and quiet when others demanded you act, act so often against your convictions. And his father, wisest indeed, knew it to be so.

(And yet – what were snakes, moored to the earth and frozen in the sun, next to blazing stars?)

No. Findaráto would not prove him right. If Melkor doubted his bravery, doubted the very heat of his blood, he would not flee his presence but stay where he was and turn to face him.

The elf and the Vala turned together at the same moment to face one another, and quite by accident Melkor found himself nose to nose with the scowling Arafinwëan prince. 

He could taste the difference in the air as he took a breath, sucking the changed particles over the roof of his mouth; sweat dried and blood cooled, resolve crystalizing like tempered metal. It added a distinct ferrousness to the lingering scent of soft gold, making it less appetizing. 

Melkor blinked first. 

"Have I caused you offense?” His tone was sanguine. “I meant the comparison as a compliment. As I said– I’m quite fond of serpents." 

JUST IN CASE tumblr ate my messages to you (as it does with many of my messages): I wanted to tell you that your lava-haired Sauron is superb and your Angband SketchUp model is 110% inspiring

/)////(  eeek ❤

Cirdan’s beard

mapsburgh:

Tolkien is clear that while most Elves grew no facial hair, Cirdan the Shipwright had a beard. But he tells us little more than that the beard existed — we get (so far as I know) no explanation of its origin. Which means this is a topic for rampant speculative headcanons!

My theory starts from the premise that Elves aren’t entirely smooth-faced. A little downy fuzz is typical, and some — especially older men — can grow a few long, scraggly whiskers. For the most part, this hair would be treated as an embarrassing thing to be shaved off, since it couldn’t grow into a full beard of mustache.

Dwarves, meanwhile, are bearded, with thick, bushy hair on the faces of all genders. We know that when Elves first met Dwarves, the encounter was not friendly. Thinking themselves to be the only sentient race, the Elves hunted the Dwarves for sport. Only later did they realize that the Dwarves were adopted Children of Iluvatar. The Dwarves’ beards are an obvious point of difference with the Elves, and likely became a focus of racial stereotyping and disparagement. Perhaps Elves became extra-scrupulous about shaving once they came into contact with Dwarves, to distance themselves from this lesser and uglier folk.

Now let’s turn to Cirdan. From his actions throughout Tolkien’s writings, he seems to be humble, patient, and accepting of others. He minds his own business, but is committed to helping others (whether it be repelling a coastal attack against Hithlum, accepting refugees from all over Beleriand into the Havens of Sirion, passing his ring to Gandalf, or waiting for the last ship before coming to Valinor). It’s hard to imagine Cirdan engaging in Dwarf-hunting. I would guess he found it childish and embarrassing at best when the Dwarves were regarded as animals, and shocking once he knew their real origin.

Cirdan lived far from any Dwarven realms at first, but I see him as desiring friendship and being fascinated by Dwarven culture. Cirdan was, after all, a craftsman — and so he may have engaged in that sort of mutual admiration that can spring up between artists working in wildly different media. And as part of that, he set to growing his beard out. We don’t need to postulate that he was especially hirsute in his natural state, since he could doubtless cook up some Elvish Rogaine for his face. This wouldn’t be done in a cultural appropriation sort of way, either. I can envision him having long discussions with Dwarf emissaries about beard care, and journeying to Nogrod or Belegost to have his braids done by the top Dwarven stylists.

All of this would have paid off well after the end of the First Age, when his home base shifted to Lindon, right at the doorstep of the Dwarvish realms of the Blue Mountains. His beard could then stand as a symbol of Elf-Dwarf friendship that was uncommon in other parts of Middle-earth.

dalishmarshmallow:

nubbsgalore:

jim and jamie dutcher (previously featured) lived for six years with a pack of wolves in the idaho wilderness of yellowstone. a constant but unobtrusive presence, they earned the trust of the wolves, and came to know them as complex, highly intelligent animals with distinct individual personalities.

they also saw the wolves to be caring, playful and above all devoted to family. “only a select few other species exhibit these same traits so clearly,” they note. “they are capable of not only emotion but also real compassion.”

they add, “it is an animal that cares for its sick and desperately needs to be part of something bigger than itself – the pack. the bond a wolf has to its pack is certainly as strong as the bond a human being has to his or her family.”

the dutchers also recount wolf behavior rarely documented: grief at the death of a pack mate; excitement over the birth of pups; and the shared role of raising young pack members.

ladyzolstice

Source: nubbsgalore

Ironically, you gave me some small glimmer of Faith back after I thought it lost to me forever. You, shining and powerful, were nothing but the leftovers of your kind, too unmatterful for them to care about your existance. So were we, of course, but that was comfort. Unwanted weeds like us could never take over the garden – but neither could a worm like you ever devour us whole. So thank you, Gorthaur, for your education, if nothing else.

The price you paid for the restoration of your Faith is alarmingly high, my lady. 

May it give you comfort in the days of wrath to come. 

? //For Thauron and Morgoth if you want to, but mainly Thauron

image

Had the Doom of the Noldor not been on you, I have no doubt you would have toppled us given sufficient time. No fortress can withstand siege forever, even one as vast as ours. Whether or not you would have found a way to banish a power of the world without the Aratar’s intervention is uncertain… but the war would have taken a much different turn, were Fate on your side. 

image

I myself wonder what the field would look like today had I known I would lose a Silmaril regardless of Fëanor’s actions…  Could I have negotiated a truce with you after all? Would the terms of your Oath have differed? 
What a lot of trouble I could have spared myself, if we two had learned somehow to live in mutual disregard… Would either of us have settled for a Beleriand divided? Even for the sake of survival? 

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