The prince’s hand scrambled for the hilt of his sword, but Sauron’s found the back of his head faster.
He drew back a fistful of black hair and gold ribbons, lifting the elf off the ground and pulling him back prone on his knees.
“I said I would still your tongue.“
…
When he had been alerted of the possible hostile presence Maedhros had gathered his personal guard, a small company of knights and left Himring, leaving word to organise a larger force and have it ready to march out, should his signal come.
The Noldo Lord guided his men, some carrying the weighted nets used for greater beasts, making them proceed silently, unwilling to immediately reveal their presence to a possible enemy while trying to assess the situation.
As they went he took the time to muse, it was odd how for the second time in a row, something had seemed to surface in a place completely devoid of traps. Maybe the time had come to take a second look at some workers.
Vàsa had hardly changed her position when the sounds of battle reached their ears, a familiar cry making Maedhros tap the sides of his mare with his heels, while gesturing for his troop to hasten.
Realising time was of the essence the Noldo Lord had his rearguard sound the horns to summon the battalion while, accompanied by Dimhelesin and few others he reached a terrain.
Down, in a small vale between two hills, a thinning company of Noldor wearing his cousin’s colours was fighting against a small battalion of orcs.
Yet what Immediately caught his eye was the shadow lingering on the top of the hill overlooking the battlefield.
Maedhros signaled for the rest of his men to continue a full frontal assault the very moment the shadow morphed into an ogrish creature descending upon the troop.
"The priority is the prince, enemy has heavy armour, use slingshots or aim for the junctures. Give the prince time.”
Gorthaur had made his move.
The familiar feeling of cold dread and elation surrounded him as a small company separated from the main body and approached Sauron from behind at the same time that most of the troop charged from ahead. Dimhelesin rode by his side, shield at the ready.
They were luckily far enough to allow their horses to keep their footing as the monster slammed into the ground, yet the sight of black hair between grey armoured fingers made his attention focus on a single point as he fought to keep rage under control.
It was not yet the time.
At his silent signal, as his cavalry broke the ring of wolves in front of Sauron the men with him drew slingshots and a flurry of lead projectiles fell with incredible force on the Maia’s armour.
Wanting to give the best possibility to escape the enemy’s grasp to his cousin Maedhros let his anger bleed from him, like a cloud of fire and smoke that surrounded his body and his spear as it flew right into the shoulder juncture of the arm the monster was using to hold Fingon’s head.
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? 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 howled 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 shouted 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.
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