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? Either. 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 roared 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 roared 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.
A number of things happened in the instants that followed. Fingon could feel Sauron’s hesitation, though as tempting as it was to struggle to free himself, he forced himself to hold still. Let the beast be distracted—he would not risk reminding him of his goal.
With his eyes clenched shut, he did not see the oncoming battery. Though they hit their mark true, a few bounced off Sauron’s armour, and Fingon winced as they struck him in turn. The few seconds after seemed to drag on beyond their span, and too clearly he felt the rush of air past his head that came with the oncoming spear. If it missed—if it failed to penetrate its intended target—
He hit the ground a moment later, air rushing from his lungs to leave him prone and winded. But—carefully, he attempted to move his tongue, and the last half-breath stored escaped him in a rush of relief. There was still blood in his mouth, his throat ached from his outcry, but at least he was still in one piece.
And that being so, he could not continue to lie here in a state of weakness. His scattered troops needed direction, and it was his responsibility to provide it. Forcing himself to inhale, Fingon staggered to his knees, then shakily planted one foot, realizing now what a toll the fight had taken on him, and he hastily threw a hand down too to stabilize himself. But it would be a great show of defiance now to call out orders, louder than that demon’s—
Something struck his back.
Beneath his shoulder-plate he could feel it piercing, driving through the exposed weak-point and into muscle, flesh, a sharp point touching bone. The impact knocked him forward, his wrist buckling beneath him, and with his eyes on the bloodied earth before him, all he managed to call was a weak plead to regroup; it was possible no one heard it.
No; this fight was in Maedhros’ hands now, and he could only hope he and his men had done enough to weaken Sauron and his wolf-guards. Their howling had at least subsided, and slowly Fingon lowered himself until he could brace his head against his forearm, clear of the churned and bloodstained ground.
Tag: fiindekano
fiindekano replied to your quote “Aw, nuts.”
there’s a more pleasant way of getting speared by maedhros of course but you’re just not that lucky, sauron
…And there’s a more pleasant way to be fingered by me, but you’ll not be party to that either, princess.
The prince made a mad dash forward, discarding his buckler in exchange for a second sword. The twin swords whirled, scissoring at his legs, seeking joints in his armor— quick as an oiled fox this Noldo was, trusting in the size of his opponent to make him slow and useless at such close range.
Sauron let loose a clipped snarl as the blades made a piercing jab at his feet. But he did not charge.
The colossal armored ogre retreated with surprisingly nimble crossing steps, keeping the elf at bay with sweeping short arcs of his hammer, which contracted in his hand, its handle shortening to the length of a mace. Enemy and ally alike made way for the dueling pair, giving the arcing double swords and swooping hammer a wide berth.
Horns sounded in the distance, making it clear that time was limited. As soon as he felt that Fingon had adjusted to the speed of his attacks and parries, Sauron lunged backward with a grunt, eclipsed the reddening sun with his hammer, and brought it cleaving down like a landslide. The battlefield rattled and heaved; horses stumbled and toppled backward, soldiers fell and rolled as the earth suddenly leapt out from under them. Only the wolves kept their feet— and Sauron, who lunged down, ready to close a gauntleted fist around the throat of his gold-ribboned foe.
Had he misjudged?! The hammer moved swiftly in Sauron’s hand, swinging closer to Fingon’s body than he would have guessed possible. Perhaps from a distance it had looked larger than it was, though there was no time to dwell on how such a mistake was possible—the prince’s undivided attention stayed on the fight, calculating his own strikes while anticipating his enemy’s response.
It was not an easy task, but not impossible either; for all his advantage in height and strength, Sauron’s blows were not decisive, and they did not meet their target. The fight had not been raging for long, either, and Fingon still had reserves of strength left in him.
Encouraged, he renewed his attack, finding it became easier to predict the fell captain’s blows. His own swords still rang as they collided with iron armour instead of flesh, but at least he began to notice which places Gorthaur tried to protect, suggesting where his next blows should fall.
Two things happened then. The sound of horns reached Fingon’s ears, bringing a further rush of confidence as he recognised the promise of reinforcements. But then Sauron moved, suddenly and powerfully, Fingon’s outstretched blade cleaving only air. Already imbalanced, it was all he could do to throw himself out of the way of the arcing hammer. The impact of the ground radiated up his arm and through his shoulder as he fell, and the breath flew from his lungs—but his hesitation lasted only a second.
If Sauron so much as touched him, he’d be dead—perhaps that was better than being submitted to capture and torment, but Fingon was hardly eager to meet his end, especially with support only moments away. Both swords had flown from his grasp in his fall, but he rolled aside once, twice, already seeking (albeit with blurring vision) his next weapon as he moved to stand.
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."
The vanguard of Maedhros sounded horns just beyond the ridge, but these were the moments in battle he lived for.
Armor plate scraped against tooth as he pried open the prince’s mouth, wedging thumb and forefinger within against protest, ready to rip out the offending muscle.
➹➹ love me
Reckless fool. Like his father, but less perilous. He will not live long enough to become a threat to me.
It is my foremost priority to see that he never lives to challenge my Master. I will personally ensure this upstart branch of the Finwëan tree is clipped before it bears fruit.
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