Tag: edited and cleaned up

misbehavingmaiar:

• 10th Person gets: to kill my muse

((Warning: Character Death, Gore, Violence)) 

If he had not been driven by the madness of grief, and that inner spark that in dying stirs an inferno, the high king would have not ridden to the iron gates. 

He was ready to die then, raising his lance to do battle with the mountain of fire itself; for who could win a duel with a hurricane, a tide of molten sludge that devoured the plains to the horizon?
Nolofinwe struck his pommel against his shield in a fury, calling out the hateful one that had brought down inferno, rained choking ash on his people, who had destroyed and murdered so many beloved things.
The high king called him coward and lord of slaves, and there were tears in his eyes, for these were the words his brother had used, before he too had thrown himself against these gates to perish in flame. 

One could not kill a Vala, undoing a power of the earth… and as hell itself cracked open and a shadow fell across the field where elf and stag stood ready, he knew exactly how foolhardy his honorable charge had been. 

But Nolofinwe did not plan to enter Mandos empty-handed in deeds. He knew something of the creature he was to fight: That sudden tempest of flame had cost the Vala dearly, as had all their efforts to evade capture, and build up this monstrous volcanic prison.
The Mighty Arising was a black candle that burned too fiercely; choosing a finite body in order to enter the world of flesh, and squandering themselves within it.

 Nolofinwe lowered the visor of his silver helm.

The Vala’s face was horrible and vast, eyes glowing, shadows streaming from their hair and the stalagmites that rose off their shoulders. On their head sat a fence of broadswords, lit with the three stolen gems. The work of his brother, roughly in the crude iron, glittering. 

“How stupid you are.“ The foe crackled. ”Does that crown make you long for death? I will have killed THREE Noldor kings before this day is out!“ 

"We shall see.” Nolofinwe replied briefly, and set his lance. 

The Vala’s grin split wide and sharp and his uniform darkness shot out like a spear, striking the earth with the force of a battering ram, leaving a smoking crater in its wake. Rochallor, far nimbler than any horse, sprung out of harm’s way and danced lightly on the shivering earth.
The black appendage withdrew and rejoined its host, recoiling to strike again. 

His foe’s size made them slow, and though each blow sent great tremors through the ground and surely would have splintered even the Noldo’s clever armor, none found its mark. The elf’s steed drove closer and closer, evading the disastrous hammer until the Vala’s swings were quite ineffectual— over the drumming of hooves and the blood rushing in his ears, Nolofinwe could hear Melkor’s bitten curses. 

The Vala spun and swatted at the high king’s mount, spitting in frustration and rage, like a cat chasing its tail. 

At last, the moment came when Rochallor’s circuit brought the massive clawed foot of the foe in reach, and Nolofinwe’s lance drove home. 

Melkor howled the tendons of their heel were pierced through; ichor flowed into the pits the deadly hammer had made. 

“Damn you! I’ll kill you, I’ll crush you to death, you disgusting rodent! How dare you!” The Vala’s roar echoed as they rocked precariously on their injured foot. 

Sharp claws darted out with a wildcat snarl, but Rochallor jumped clear and sped behind the mighty enemy, out of reach. Nolofinwe drew his sword, a sliver of moonlight in the shadow of death. Using the dripping wound as his target, he charged again, hacking at the spurting heel until its godly flesh parted.
Again, the Vala’s size made their movements too slow— each jerking footfall took long seconds to make contact with the earth, and before they could escape the biting onslaught, their right leg could no longer support its vast weight. 

—And Melkor fell; blood pooling, shrieking to the foul sky.
Nolofinwe rounded his steed once more and withdrew his helm. Was it his imagination, or was his foe shrinking? The towering shadow seemed less a mountain and more a hill now, bent and clutching its ruined ankle. 

The moment of scrutiny cost him the upper hand; Melkor howled and raked the ground with burnt talons, sending a cascade of scorched earth at king and stag. Rochallor stumbled, hailed with stones and ash, nearly bucking his rider— when they recovered, Melkor had regained their feet, limping tenderly on one heel only. 

“Vermin—” They seethed, raising a clot of shadow above their head and swinging it forward with all their might.

And this time, Rochallor did fall; Nolofinwe tumbled, flying through the air as the ground seemed to trade places with the sky. Dust obscured all. The high king felt pain ripping a bright tear under his armor. There was no time to assess what had broken. He found his stag rolling to his knees some ways off, antlered head flailing to regain balance.

He could hear but not see his foe moving again; the giant’s steps like thunder drawing nearer as he limped forward and regained his mount, knowing he could not spare the second it would take to glance behind him… 

The dust cloud was swept away by a wedge of displaced air as the Hammer of the Underworld fell behind Nolofinwe with a howling crash, eclipsing totally the place he had stood a moment earlier. The great stag bellowed in fright— it was the first time Nolofinwe had ever heard the mighty war-steed cry out. Rochallor skipped, bucking uncharacteristically in panic, before finding his stride again. 

They were too close and not close enough— the dark hammer darted more warily now, and quicker. They could not get in range of the enemy again so easily.

The elf could hear his mount panting, see sweat frothing white against his hide. Reigning in, Nolofinwe leaned over the saddle.

“Easy, sir. One last charge. They’ve only got one good leg, you’ve got four.” 

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