Textual Conquests – Page 5 – MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive

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

misbehavingmaiar:

doegred-main:

misbehavingmaiar:

doegred-main:

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

“Get. Out!”

The maia watched Maedhros maneuver his clothes with a mixture of curiosity and admiration, but made no comment. For a moment it appeared as though he would disdain this offered garment as well, but he thought better of it— there was something perversely delightful about wearing the robe offered to you by an enemy.

It was by no means the right size for Sauron’s shoulders or arms; he made a marginal effort of tying it closed at the front (a strangely quaint gesture for one so massive), and let it hang almost entirely open at the chest. He looked down at himself, then back up at his unwilling host. “Will this do, master Noldo?”

By his look, it would not do, but Sauron ignored it blithely and continued into the waiting chamber, where he made a point of picking up and examining a selection of Maedhros’s books.

The Noldo moved quickly with apparent efficiency, trying only partially to hide how every muscle in his body was ready to spring into action. He never let the Maia out of his sight. Even as he opened the door to his chamber and brusquely walked to the desk. There he took one chair apart from the others, the one he had hidden his dagger under the cushion of, and leaned on it wituout sitting, looking coldly toward the Maia, his hand near the pommel of his dagger.

From the beetroot the aroma of whatever oil Thauron had used still wafted into the room, incredibly strong given the few drops he’d poured.

Trying to ignore the considerable portion of the Maia’s fàna left uncovered Maedhos looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t, Thauron. But this is hardly the point. You are not welcome here” The Noldo forced his tone into a semblance of calm.

“Oh I’m well aware of that, to be sure.” Sauron thumbed through the pages of a tome on geology, only half interested. “But you see, in our large and impermeable fortress (with which you are acquainted), opportunities to discuss matters of construction or theory are a rare gift… I find I have no one with whom I to bandy ideas with, no one to offer me revisions or suggestions; no second mind whose perceptions might build new, unthought of bridges between disparate concepts…"

The maia gave a short huff, and shut the book in his hand with a snap. “So, I have made a risky, ill-advised, and as you say, wholly unwelcome, trip across enemy lines to ask an elf how he might reproduce the fluid mechanics of a wave using rigid, inflexible materials. I am building… or I wish to build, a series of devices that mimic organic movements, but as these devices have absolutely no practical function or military application—” and here Sauron began pacing to relieve the pent up aggravation of some past argument, ”—I have had few enough moments to concentrate on their equations myself, and no one, NO ONE with whom to share my progress! Believe me when I say I would not have come here were I not clawing the walls of my workshop with frustration.” He stopped, tilting his head at his unwilling host, skeptical.

"Surely that isn’t comfortable, sitting on your dagger like that?"

As the Maia flipped through his book Maedhros covertly let the towel on his arm fall over the cushion on the back of his chair, using it as a cover to slip his hand underneath it and discretely slid his dagger out of its hiding place. Likely the other would know about it, still it didn’t hurt to try being discreet. Keeping his hand still under the towel and resting over the back of the chair Maedhros listened to the Maia, his expression a careful mask of untrusting watchful calm, only the intensity of his gaze to betray far more feeling than any other detail of his expression

At the last question he arched one eyebrow, a barely visible ice-cold smile appearing on his lips as he answered curtly. “My dagger is perfectly comfortable where it is. Thauron.”

Still, despite knowing who was before him, despite the hate, even despite the hard won knowledge of what could lie in wait behind every syllable when one was faced with this Maia Maedhros felt a part of him itching to talk. It had been so long since he had had contact with anyone capable to speak about such things with cognition of cause. Immediately thoughts of elastic materials, sound waves, viscoelasticity and the two waves light carried started to flood his mind. The real problem would not be wave propagation, but reproducing turbulence. Maybe the crystals inside a solid could be made to… A light pulse of pain from his shoulder had the Noldo blink and come back to himself. He gritted his teeth.

"It is quite peculiar, Thauron, that you would try to insult my intelligence while pretending to flatter it.” Maedhros spoke slowly, careful to keep his tone the coldest and calmest he could, which, thanks to the temptation to talk and the realisation his mind had wandered wasn’t much. Besides his dripping hair were almost sure to have him ache before the day was over.“Those tricks of yours I, sadly, know well."Straightening his back the Fëanorion let his hand, and the knife, slide in a position where they would be unhindered in their motion. "But, even supposing me utterly unfamiliar with resonance or aeroelastic flutter, and you well intentioned.” The Fëanorion’s gaze made clear what he thought about this hypothesis.
“Even in that case, why should I wish to make you, of all beings, less frustrated?”
Moving slowly the Noldo widened his stance, readying himself to react.

”…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 but 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.

{if it’s not too late, because why not} To the Bloated, Gloating, Corpse-Munching Foe of the World. Look to the red hill. Try me. Wishing you a Swift and Agonising Demise, the Lord of Dor Cuarthól.

turambar-masterofdoom:

misbehavingmaiar:

misbehavingmaiar:

“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."

The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur.

"I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.

=

Raza watched the bandit’s outburst as a fox might, sizing up a dog on a chain whose bite is just out of reach. As Turin caught the fist that would have further flattened the youth’s pug nose, the merriment in Raza’s eyes only grew.

“Oh ho ho ho, a ballsy one! Terrific!” They clapped, biting their lip with a grin that only widened as the accusations flew. Soon they were giggling with mirth just as if the whole seething band of outlaws were a circus for their amusement.

“How gallant!” Raza sighed happily. “Though, I’ve heard you laid a few pelts before this lot, and were made their leader! A blond pelt at that!”

They stood awkwardly, tender on one foot, and swung the work of the last few minutes off one finger: a crown woven of the little red flowers that covered the hill top.

"It was worth the trip just to see you in the flesh, handsome Wolf… Even if your friends are rude and I’m out a coin." Raza tossed the crown at Turin, with a kiss blown behind it. "May you live a long, long life, Dread Helm."

The youth laughed cheerily, and turned to go.

Túrin’s eyes snapped to Andróg’s, and an instantaneous understanding was met. Their eyes in turn snapped to their companions, and the latter two, moving with predatory speed, sprang forward and seized the interloper. One slipped in front to obstruct their passage, the other came behind and seized both skinny arms, twisting them up behind their back with terribly well-practiced ferocity.

Túrin stepped forward and took the frontmost outlaw’s place. His eyes were cold, and his stance betrayed a deadly power barely held in check.

"Who are you?”

Raza gave a broken yelp as all the air left their lungs, tugged backwards by four strong arms backed by vicious intent.

“WHAT?” Their pale legs left the ground as they were lifted, kicking and failing, by two of the larger bandits. “GET OFF, YOU—!! DON’T. TOUCH. ME! FILTH! PISSANTS! HOW DARE YOU?"
The squalling creature was subdued at the cost of a few bruises and one bloody bite-wound, but was soon held in place, head pulled back by the hair, forcing them to look directly into the eyes of the outlaw leader, whose flint-hard eyes bore down on them like Death itself.

Raza’s narrow chest heaved and quivered; at first it seemed, of course, from terror, and then—

Laughter burst out of them; loud, unrestrained cackling that brought a bright flush to their dappled cheeks.

"Incredible! I didn’t think you’d actually dare!"

Gold Threads

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."

{if it’s not too late, because why not} To the Bloated, Gloating, Corpse-Munching Foe of the World. Look to the red hill. Try me. Wishing you a Swift and Agonising Demise, the Lord of Dor Cuarthól.

turambar-masterofdoom:

misbehavingmaiar:

misbehavingmaiar:

“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."

The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur.

"I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.

=

“Dull!” The waif stuck out their tongue quite rudely. “Nothing at all? You’re robbing me of half my wages, sir! Bandit indeed!” They rolled their head back on their shoulders. “‘Course I’m familiar with them! They’re lot are the only ones out here with anything to pay with! The Straw-Heads sure aren’t worth more than the gold on their scalps… Won’t you at least tell the Dark Lord what you’d do to him, if he were here?“ Raza looked about at the tightening guard of rough men, all armed, all scarred from lives hard lived… ignoring this entirely, Raza made as if to shoo them away like stray children.

"Go on, leave some room! I came to see the lord of the hill here— the Head Wolf, not a pack of flyblown serfs. Get!” Making pleading eyes at Turin, the youth pouted. “Make them go away? They stink of piss and I only wanted to talk to you!”

“You’re a fine one to talk of stink!” Andróg, at Túrin’s left shoulder, spat on the earth and glowered at Raza. “You take money from the hands of orcs and traitors and dare to name us filth!”

Túrin’s arm snapped out, viper quick, and caught the fist that would otherwise have collided with Raza’s face.

"If you wish to speak, watch your tongue. You do not wander into the den of wolves, glorify those who hunt them, lay before them the pelts of their slaughtered kin and still expect a warm reception.” Túrin’s grey eyes were dark with supressed rage. “Say what you wish to say, and we shall part ways with no further upset.”

Raza watched the bandit’s outburst as a fox might, sizing up a dog on a chain whose bite is just out of reach. As Turin caught the fist that would have further flattened the youth’s pug nose, the merriment in Raza’s eyes only grew.

“Oh ho ho ho, a ballsy one! Terrific!” They clapped, biting their lip with a grin that only widened as the accusations flew. Soon they were giggling with mirth just as if the whole seething band of outlaws were a circus for their amusement.

“How gallant!” Raza sighed happily. “Though, I’ve heard you laid a few pelts before this lot, and were made their leader! A blond pelt at that!”

They stood awkwardly, tender on one foot, and swung the work of the last few minutes off one finger: a crown woven of the little red flowers that covered the hill top.

"It was worth the trip just to see you in the flesh, handsome Wolf… Even if your friends are rude and I’m out a coin." Raza tossed the crown at Turin, with a kiss blown behind it. "May you live a long, long life, Dread Helm."

The youth laughed cheerily, and turned to go.

Gold Threads

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

It was not often he had the opportunity to travel unattended through the cities of the Eldar; less often still that he had no errand set for him while he was there. A Vala, even diminished and in chains as he was, would find it difficult to go unnoticed about the Eruhini, and so, on this rare afternoon where he had been given leave to wander (for recent good behavior had won him a long leash), Melkor shed his golden flesh and walked unclad amidst the populace of Tirion. Free to slip unseen and unheard amidst the Noldor, he savored the chance to spy and collect news and gossip that were not meant for his ears.

Delicious…

It felt extraordinary to be unfettered again after so long! And yet, even now, there was a part of his spirit that felt as though it were lost at sea, missing an anchor, keenly desiring sensations to ground it… This worried Melkor, but it was not a matter he had time to spare attention to that day. Blissfully spreading himself over and through the unaware populace, he sampled the conversations of a hundred or more merchants and scholars and craftsmen, sifting through their various emotions and unguarded thoughts, panning for any gleaming nuggets of scandal or discontentment.

He reconvened himself, disgruntled. Only dull, trivial indiscretions, minor acts of selfishness. How boring…

The cloud of Melkor readied himself to take a plunge back into the crowd, when a shiver ran through his incorporeal spirit, like a plucked strand of spider-silk that makes the whole web tremble. Below (so to speak, for he was everywhere), sitting on the mighty steps of the Great Library of Tirion, were to young men in heavy discussion. One fair, one dark and tall. Both sons of sons of Finwë, he scented— and something… something more. A thread ran between the two of them, and alarmingly, through him; the Vala disincarnate and the elven princes. From his vantage point, Melkor could see that the thread ran far, far into the future of that Age. There was a darkness at the end of it.

He found himself afraid, unwilling to come closer. He did not wish to come nearer to the youths, even to spy on them… And yet— was this not exactly the sort of thing he ought to investigate?

The darker, taller elf moved off, bidding his friend farewell. Turgon the Vala heard, and of the one left sunning himself on the library steps, Ingoldo. So— now two more branches of the mighty Finwëan tree had faces as well as names…

His fear lifted somewhat… the blond one smelled of mixed bloodlines, rich and strong, seasalt and iron and gold. The Doom that hung about this one had not yet spun itself from fibers of potential to a single thread… at least, not one that pierced him through the core. Certainly, he was the most interesting opportunity the day had presented yet.

Melkor unfurled himself just out of sight, farther up the marble stairs. With a subtle chime of metal shackles and a flutter of dark cloth, he approached, clearing his throat softly.

“Greetings, Artafindë. Pardon me, but I can’t help but notice what a lovely ring you’re wearing. I’m very fond of serpents myself, but I don’t see them much depicted in Noldor craft. May I see it more closely?"

It was just after his cousin had left (and earlier than he said he would, the dolt) that Findaráto felt some sort agitation at the back of his neck, no, deeper, as if his spirit might itch. An irritation of some sort and uncomfortable warm one and he set his palm to the nape of his neck as he looked about. It had been long since he had felt that, what his sister had once described to be, so seriously for her age and her words so foreboding for one who was barely old enough to sit on a horse, as a warning. A warning of something he couldn’t quite comprehend.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen and he didn’t wish to become a sight himself by twisting around in search so he slipped a slim book of poetry from his sleeve and shifted so that the warmth of Laurelin’s light might overcome the agitated heat.

It worked for a moment, or so. It was Amarië’s poetry he was reading and if he could not concentrate on the words, his thoughts strayed only to what she might have looked at composing it. After all, there was no Turukáno to tease him, call him lovesick, so perhaps there was some gain to his loss.

But it was only a moment. He felt something behind him before heard the voice, felt something heavy as if even from a distance it might cross his shoulders and bend his back. And while even in the Blessed Realm Findaráto had known fear, a dread that had visited at night and in kennels, it had never settled over until now with such form. He turned around and drew himself to his feet just as the Vala greeted him.

He wanted to run.

Of course, he did not. Whatever tales of Cuivienen his cousins and friends told around campfires in the woods, tales of horrors and disappearances and devourings, it was not for him to question the judgement (mercy) of the Valar. Compassionate Nienna had made her plea and here was the result. Findaráto would not do his family shame, neither by showing fear nor insult. He was a prince of the Third House and a grandson of kings; he would not quake.

Still, he wondered, what was the etiquette here? By what honorific should he call this power, how deeply should he bow – if at all? He settled on a deep one but no title, nor name, at all. Something in him balked at calling this one ‘lord.’

"If I may,” he said quietly as he rose, his voice steady even with his nerves (and meeting his eyes was as difficult as touching flame), “it is Findaráto.” Only his lord uncle Fëanáro called him that, with what Findaráto had to expect was some sort of spite, if not aimed exactly at he himself, and at times Curufinwë when he wished to throw barbs. Why Melkor should say his name thus, he did not know and he drew his hand closer to himself at the question, as if to protect it.

But to refuse might be to insult and so he held his hand out, slowly, gingerly, but steadily so. He was a prince of the Third House and a grandson of kings; he would not quake. There was no power, Findaráto felt, suddenly and fiercely, not even within Melkor, that might convince him to hand over his ring.

It was not to be offered to him.

“Ah, forgive me. I have only heard the name spoken by others… High Prince Fëanáro, for one.”
He slid the name easily into the conversation as though placing a card onto a gaming table.

“Lord Findaráto it is then— and I do apologize if I have disturbed you…” slit pupils followed the hesitation and withdrawal of the prince’s hand. He could almost hear the bristling of hairs on the elf’s neck, smell the first hot sheen of sweat blooming on his skin. This conversation (and his chance to scrutinize) would not last long, if the prince were given cause to bolt.

Melkor exhaled a laugh, and tucked a curling hair behind his ear. The gesture provided a small distraction while he willed himself imperceptibly shorter, softer around the edges; he withdrew the thorns he favored to nubs, reduced the gleam of his red eyes to something closer to dark amber, less startling to the senses. Full lips became a shield, disguising the tugging hiss of shark-ridged teeth. Long sleeves draped to cover the signs of his imprisonment.

“I meant no offense. I was only curious. I often find myself curious about beautiful things… There are so many these days, all of them new to me. A feast for starving eyes!” He raised a hand, close palmed, almost shyly close to his chest. “If you will not show the ring to me, perhaps you could tell me who made it, that I may offer my compliments?"

Of course, his uncle, always his uncle, and what had Fëanáro to do with Melkor that he would pick up on his naming habits? And what had they discussed that he himself would come up in conversation? An uncomfortable sort of thrill shuddered its way down his spine and Findaráto looked away, down the steps, hoping that, perhaps, Turukáno had forgotten something, or maybe that some other friend would be making his way to the library.

But no one, in fact, looked overly familiar and the people he did see seemed somehow farther away than they ought to be. Something about them out of focus next to the Vala before him. The Vala before him who seemed somehow… changed, though he couldn’t identify exactly how. Somewhat diminished, perhaps, but he would be hesitant to assert it.

And it did nothing for the warning in his mind and in his heart. “Of course not,” he said quickly, because he was not so arrogant as to believe Melkor would have any reason to offer him offense in the first place. He stretched out his hand again (it would not be said that he hid it) so that he might see the ring. It was, after all, a lovely piece.

"My lord father crafted it,” he answered, and tilted his chin up just slightly. “It was his before it was mine."

Snakes are the wisest of animals, his father had told him once. They know when to change their circumstances, their homes, their own skin when it no longer fits them.

"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.

{if it’s not too late, because why not} To the Bloated, Gloating, Corpse-Munching Foe of the World. Look to the red hill. Try me. Wishing you a Swift and Agonising Demise, the Lord of Dor Cuarthól.

turambar-masterofdoom:

misbehavingmaiar:

misbehavingmaiar:

“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."

The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur.

"I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.

=

“Fine. Call me Raza, then.” The stranger planted themselves on the red-flowered grass and proceeded to pluck petals off their stems.

“The Dread Helm thinks I’m of no small significance! Haha! Raza, King of the North I’ll be!" They laughed merrily, voice raspy and indeterminately pitched. "Relax, handsome Wolf. What could I do to you?” They gestured to their bony frame.

The hungry looking creature returned to scrutinizing the tall man, lip bitten with crooked teeth.

“What reply will you give, my lord? I will give it to some Easterling, who will give it to some orc, who will no doubt take it and bring to Dark Foe himself, and I will leave with a coin in my pocket. What will you say to him?” Raza kicked their freckled feet with unashamed eagerness.

The mood among the Gaurwaith had turned tense as the lieutenants caught on to the increasingly bleak air about their captain. There was no trace of any friendliness in his bearing now, only a pointed concentration.

“You seem remarkably sure of yourself, speaking of Easterlings and orcs.”

He moved his hand imperceptibly, and his three companions began to move, spreading into loose line before the stranger, all now alert and listening intently.

“The Enemy knows all I have to say to him, and now I have his reply. There will be no further correspondence between us, save what it spelled out in orcish corpses.”

“Dull!” The waif stuck out their tongue quite rudely. “Nothing at all? You’re robbing me of half my wages, sir! Bandit indeed!” They rolled their head back on their shoulders. “‘Course I’m familiar with them! They’re lot are the only ones out here with anything to pay with! The Straw-Heads sure aren’t worth more than the gold on their scalps… Won’t you at least tell the Dark Lord what you’d do to him, if he were here?” Raza looked about at the tightening guard of rough men, all armed, all scarred from lives hard lived… ignoring this entirely, Raza made as if to shoo them away like stray children.

“Go on, leave some room! I came to see the lord of the hill here– the Head Wolf, not a pack of flyblown serfs. Get!” Making pleading eyes at Turin, the youth pouted. “Make them go away? They stink of piss and I only wanted to talk to you!”

Of the written word

curufinwefeanaro:

misbehavingmaiar:

The Vala’s back stiffened.

Could he hold a quill? What sort of idiocy was this? A question barely fit to ask a child! Did the prince think he was some flightless bird? He had hands and fingers like anyone else, of course he could hold—

…but as he reached forward to clutch the feathered pen that was laid out for him, he hesitated. His first instinct was to grasp it in his fist, but that was clearly not correct. He’d seen elves writing before. Did they not pinch it awkwardly between three or four fingers? He scanned the plume for indentations and sought out a vision of its former use— memories hidden within its very structure. He saw where each finger must surely be placed, and tentatively, he put the feather between his claws. He said nothing, wearing a neutral expression as the prince spoke.

It was clear that Fëanor had been giving the matter of his lessons a great deal of thought. No surprise— if anyone was more renowned for their scrutiny and exactitude, they were not known in Aman.

Melkor’s ears twitched at one observation in particular; his ability to speak in any language of the Eruhíni was something he had never questioned, like his ability to Sing. But he questioned it now…

Fëanor spoke to him in a way no other elf dared; bluntly, without honorifics, with even a condescending tone, but his words today were not irksome. His concession that the Vala’s inability to read (perhaps could not even comprehend the very basis of the practice), was perhaps similar to his and the Eldar’s inability to sing Being out of Nothingness, was not condescending. It was merely true. And Melkor listened.

His shining claws trailed up the rachis of the quill thoughtfully, watching the barbs of the feather part and reform seamlessly with a pleasant, textured sound.

“Master Fëanáro… I cannot deny what you say. I never learned to speak. I never learned to do many things that come naturally to me…” He paused, twirling the quill in his hand, feeling its resistance to the movement.

“Speech… communication between two creatures of any kind, is seated in the higher functions of the mind and spirit. I am a Vala. We are comprised entirely of spirit, and existed before the conception of any Born thing. My understanding of words is therefore instinctual. But writing!” He huffed, eyes narrowing in his consideration; “Writing is communication in abstract— it goes from the mind of the ‘speaker’ into a mute and insensible form of matter, were its message is imparted to a second party without the two souls ever having to meet or stir the air with their thoughts!” He marveled, frustrated but curious.

Writing was like silent music; it was not something he, nor any Ainu, could have conceived of, for they had no need of it. As beings of spirit and energy it was difficult indeed NOT to communicate with each other; deception was a particularly rare and difficult art between Ainur… one he had mastered since his long imprisonment.

“Whatever instinct I have regarding spoken words can make no sense of your glyphs, these systems of symbols. You Eldar devised these things while I was… away from the world.” He swallowed, feeling bile rise.

…Like so many things, like the Trees, and like cities and commerce and cooking and clothing… In three ages, all had advanced and changed. Things that had been wild had been tamed, and grown wild again in a new ways— all while he’d been left to rot in the bottom of Mandos.

He could not stop a gust of super-heated breath from escaping between his teeth in a snort. The barbs of his feather quill curled black at the edges, smoking.

“…Tengwar, you call these glyphs?” He raised his brow, wrenching the train of his thought away from vile memories. “And I am to understand that they are your design alone, High Prince Curufinwë? …Do your talents know no bounds?” He smiled— with just a trace of ironic mischief.

Fëanáro glanced at the burning puff that blackened the quill; the Eldar had devised those things while Melkor was a prisoner of Mandos, and, had he been the one to sit upon the throne of Manwë, then Melkor would still be there. Instead the first of the Valar was sitting right in front of him, inside his father’s palace, calling him Master. Yet the thought momentarily slipped away as his mind concentrated on the books themselves, still spread on the wooden table, and possibly subject to the heated breath’s effect. The detail concerned him enough that his mind forcefully conveyed his worry with Ósanwë. It shut again into its privacy soon enough.

« If there are any bounds », he replied instead, « then one day I shall find them and try to overcome them. » He then stood up to pick a roll of parchment, which he placed at one extremity of the table. He brushed the metallic extremities with his fingertips. « However. The Tengwar are my design alone in how they function, in the way they represent sounds. But I based them upon these », he declared. With that, he filliped the parchment so that it unrolled itself, and it was long enough that it covered the entirety of the surface.

« These are the Sarati of Rúmil, one of our best loremasters. » He placed his palm upon the paper, spreading his fingers. The letters, all carefully written in a calligraphy that, to the trained eye, looked archaic, were many and extremely different from one another in more than one case. « The alphabet covers each possible sound that an Elda could ever articulate. Each one of the graphemes corresponds to a distinct phoneme. » Fëanáro raised his eyes and stared at the Vala. « Meaning that each one of these signs is the written representation of what our mouth pronounces. The Eldar have a long memory and I took some of the letters that were already known and transformed them into a group of interrelated signs. » Leaving the parchment were it was, he turned to sit again were he had been waiting for Melkor’s arrival.

He adjusted the many layers of his courtly robes and slightly raised his chin. « It is I who named my glyphs “Tengwar”. From all of these… », he raised a hand and moved it horizontally in the air, to indicate the entirety of the scroll, « to a system of thirty-two graphemes. The sound value of each Tengwa can be adapted according to the language, and thus the Teleri will not have to use completely different letters to write down their words. Not only it will not be required for two spirits to meet or open their minds in order to communicate, but they will not have to understand a wholly new alphabet and group of letters either. »

Fëanáro fell silent and narrowed his eyes, a kind of expression that anyone who knew him enough could recognise as the manifestation of intense focus upon his features. « You and your brethren are few and ever-aware of each other. You do not need to gather knowledge, nor do you need to share it with strangers whom you shall never meet in a way that they can comprehend immediately. You do not because you come from the primordial cradle of Eru, and you experience none of these difficulties. My question is whether you can grasp a concept that was born in minds alien to yours, a need that you never even conceived. If you believe you do, then I shall go on explaining why I devised the Tengwar as they are. »

The Vala sucked in a breath. –Fire–, or the idea of it, leapt from the mind of Fëanáro to his with a strong sense of warning, like a firm hand holding him back.

He had not expected that; he’d never had the mind of an elf touch his before. He had not know they could. For the most infinitesimal fraction of a second, he had a glimpse into the wheels and colorful fragments of the finest engineering brain the Noldor race had yet produced. It felt a bit like catching a glimpse of someone extremely beautiful undressing through an open window… Melkor felt a coppery blush spread hot across his face, realizing too late that he’d not heard a word that had been spoken for several seconds.

”…a system of thirty-two graphemes…“ Fëanáro continued, voice low and intense, the voice that could famously enthrall a lecture hall in total silence with only a breath, or a all the kingdom with a roar.

As much as it had been tantalizing to gain knowledge of something so pivotal and cryptic as the written word, the chance to have uninterrupted, private audiences with the High Prince had been many times as tempting. He could only imagine what had drawn down the Spirit of Fire from his high disdain of the Vala to have a seat at this table…
Perhaps as the ‘least of the dwellers in Aman’, he was simply the only one of his brethren available for use in this (slightly blasphemous) experiment.

What a strain Vairë must be under, winding our two threads together… Melkor reflected, eyes tracking the elegant, meaningless strokes of ink that flowed across the scroll. They may as well have been geese flying across the open sky, for all they resembled language.
Could he learn? Did a being with no set biology, no childhood, whose raison d’être had been set from the instant of their creation, have the capacity to change?

"Who, if not I, Master Fëanáro? When there was Nothing, I learned of all there could be. When there was only Harmony I wrought Dissonance; when the elements were separate, I broke and recombined them; for the sake of my siblings’ law, I have had to–” Lie “–learn to become other than what I was in order to live. If The Mighty Arising cannot comprehend something new and unthought of, then surely, it is beyond all Valar.” Melkor gleamed, long tendrils of fire curling into a smug halo.
But then, with the candid spirit of the meeting weighing upon him, the Vala paused, thorned shoulders rising in a contrite shrug.

“…That is, in any case, the only evidence I have to suggest that I can indeed learn of things beyond the continuum of my design. The truth is… I do not yet know.”

I wish to know… I am frightened NOT to know… the shadows of his mind whispered. What hope is there, if it is not possible to alter what was made?

“Please. Explain how you devised such things. I am listening.”

Gold Threads

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

It was not often he had the opportunity to travel unattended through the cities of the Eldar; less often still that he had no errand set for him while he was there. A Vala, even diminished and in chains as he was, would find it difficult to go unnoticed about the Eruhini, and so, on this rare afternoon where he had been given leave to wander (for recent good behavior had won him a long leash), Melkor shed his golden flesh and walked unclad amidst the populace of Tirion. Free to slip unseen and unheard amidst the Noldor, he savored the chance to spy and collect news and gossip that were not meant for his ears.

Delicious…

It felt extraordinary to be unfettered again after so long! And yet, even now, there was a part of his spirit that felt as though it were lost at sea, missing an anchor, keenly desiring sensations to ground it… This worried Melkor, but it was not a matter he had time to spare attention to that day. Blissfully spreading himself over and through the unaware populace, he sampled the conversations of a hundred or more merchants and scholars and craftsmen, sifting through their various emotions and unguarded thoughts, panning for any gleaming nuggets of scandal or discontentment.

He reconvened himself, disgruntled. Only dull, trivial indiscretions, minor acts of selfishness. How boring…

The cloud of Melkor readied himself to take a plunge back into the crowd, when a shiver ran through his incorporeal spirit, like a plucked strand of spider-silk that makes the whole web tremble. Below (so to speak, for he was everywhere), sitting on the mighty steps of the Great Library of Tirion, were to young men in heavy discussion. One fair, one dark and tall. Both sons of sons of Finwë, he scented— and something… something more. A thread ran between the two of them, and alarmingly, through him; the Vala disincarnate and the elven princes. From his vantage point, Melkor could see that the thread ran far, far into the future of that Age. There was a darkness at the end of it.

He found himself afraid, unwilling to come closer. He did not wish to come nearer to the youths, even to spy on them… And yet— was this not exactly the sort of thing he ought to investigate?

The darker, taller elf moved off, bidding his friend farewell. Turgon the Vala heard, and of the one left sunning himself on the library steps, Ingoldo. So— now two more branches of the mighty Finwëan tree had faces as well as names…

His fear lifted somewhat… the blond one smelled of mixed bloodlines, rich and strong, seasalt and iron and gold. The Doom that hung about this one had not yet spun itself from fibers of potential to a single thread… at least, not one that pierced him through the core. Certainly, he was the most interesting opportunity the day had presented yet.

Melkor unfurled himself just out of sight, farther up the marble stairs. With a subtle chime of metal shackles and a flutter of dark cloth, he approached, clearing his throat softly.

“Greetings, Artafindë. Pardon me, but I can’t help but notice what a lovely ring you’re wearing. I’m very fond of serpents myself, but I don’t see them much depicted in Noldor craft. May I see it more closely?"

It was just after his cousin had left (and earlier than he said he would, the dolt) that Findaráto felt some sort agitation at the back of his neck, no, deeper, as if his spirit might itch. An irritation of some sort and uncomfortable warm one and he set his palm to the nape of his neck as he looked about. It had been long since he had felt that, what his sister had once described to be, so seriously for her age and her words so foreboding for one who was barely old enough to sit on a horse, as a warning. A warning of something he couldn’t quite comprehend.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen and he didn’t wish to become a sight himself by twisting around in search so he slipped a slim book of poetry from his sleeve and shifted so that the warmth of Laurelin’s light might overcome the agitated heat.

It worked for a moment, or so. It was Amarië’s poetry he was reading and if he could not concentrate on the words, his thoughts strayed only to what she might have looked at composing it. After all, there was no Turukáno to tease him, call him lovesick, so perhaps there was some gain to his loss.

But it was only a moment. He felt something behind him before heard the voice, felt something heavy as if even from a distance it might cross his shoulders and bend his back. And while even in the Blessed Realm Findaráto had known fear, a dread that had visited at night and in kennels, it had never settled over until now with such form. He turned around and drew himself to his feet just as the Vala greeted him.

He wanted to run.

Of course, he did not. Whatever tales of Cuivienen his cousins and friends told around campfires in the woods, tales of horrors and disappearances and devourings, it was not for him to question the judgement (mercy) of the Valar. Compassionate Nienna had made her plea and here was the result. Findaráto would not do his family shame, neither by showing fear nor insult. He was a prince of the Third House and a grandson of kings; he would not quake.

Still, he wondered, what was the etiquette here? By what honorific should he call this power, how deeply should he bow – if at all? He settled on a deep one but no title, nor name, at all. Something in him balked at calling this one ‘lord.’

"If I may,” he said quietly as he rose, his voice steady even with his nerves (and meeting his eyes was as difficult as touching flame), “it is Findaráto.” Only his lord uncle Fëanáro called him that, with what Findaráto had to expect was some sort of spite, if not aimed exactly at he himself, and at times Curufinwë when he wished to throw barbs. Why Melkor should say his name thus, he did not know and he drew his hand closer to himself at the question, as if to protect it.

But to refuse might be to insult and so he held his hand out, slowly, gingerly, but steadily so. He was a prince of the Third House and a grandson of kings; he would not quake. There was no power, Findaráto felt, suddenly and fiercely, not even within Melkor, that might convince him to hand over his ring.

It was not to be offered to him.

“Ah, forgive me. I have only heard the name spoken by others… High Prince Fëanáro, for one.”
He slid the name easily into the conversation as though placing a card onto a gaming table.

“Lord Findaráto it is then– and I do apologize if I have disturbed you…” slit pupils followed the hesitation and withdrawal of the prince’s hand. He could almost hear the bristling of hairs on the elf’s neck, smell the first hot sheen of sweat blooming on his skin. This conversation (and his chance to scrutinize) would not last long, if the prince were given cause to bolt.

Melkor exhaled a laugh, and tucked a curling hair behind his ear. The gesture provided a small distraction while he willed himself imperceptibly shorter, softer around the edges; he withdrew the thorns he favored to nubs, reduced the gleam of his red eyes to something closer to dark amber, less startling to the senses. Full lips became a shield, disguising the tugging hiss of shark-ridged teeth. Long sleeves draped to cover the signs of his imprisonment.

“I meant no offense. I was only curious. I often find myself curious about beautiful things… There are so many these days, all of them new to me. A feast for starving eyes!” He raised a hand, close palmed, almost shyly close to his chest. “If you will not show the ring to me, perhaps you could tell me who made it, that I may offer my compliments?"

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

doegred-main:

misbehavingmaiar:

doegred-main:

doegred-main:

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

“Get. Out!”

At the sight of the oil phial Maedhros’ lips bent in a light grimace as colour drained once again from hims face and he slowly started rising to his feet, trying not to inhale the aroma wafting up from the water.

“How lucky am I to have your world!” Despite the near panic chocking him the Fëanorion managed to keep his voice calm but sharp. “Your questions may be asked elsewhere.” He went on as his tone became dry. “I do not want you in my private space and, if your goal was to have a conversation with me and not harassment you would not impose your presence when it is clearly unwelcome.”

"You cut me to the quick.” Sauron rose, dripping, and wrung out a twist of his hair. “Very well, where would you prefer we converse? The parlor? The library?”

He stepped out of the bath— making no move whatsoever to retrieve his garments.

There are battles you cannot win. That had been a hard-learnt lesson for Maedhros so the Noldo allowed himself to be glad of simply having the Maia out of his bath-tub. He walked to the pile of his discarded clothes and the bathrobe nearby careful not to ever let the Ainu out of his field of vision.

He did his best not to appear too awkward as he put the garment on. Thankfully, at least, the belt had a loop on its left side so the Fëanorion could fasten it on his own.

“There is another bathrobe on your left Thauron” Keeping his tone icy Maedhros told himself that, at least it was worth a try.

“Were I in my domains I would suggest the dungeon. Still Master Ciridan may not appreciate having you parade through his house. The room he’s kindly given me is on the other side of this door.”

That said he quickly grabbed a towel for his hair, sorely missing his old bath-robe with clasps that prevented it from opening.

The maia watched Maedhros maneuver his clothes with a mixture of curiosity and admiration, but made no comment. For a moment it appeared as though he would disdain this offered garment as well, but he thought better of it– there was something perversely delightful about wearing the robe offered to you by an enemy.

It was by no means the right size for Sauron’s shoulders or arms; he made a marginal effort of tying it closed at the front (a strangely quaint gesture for one so massive), and let it hang almost entirely open at the chest. He looked down at himself, then back up at his unwilling host. “Will this do, master Noldo?”

By his look, it would not do, but Sauron ignored it blithely and continued into the waiting chamber, where he made a point of picking up and examining a selection of Maedhros’s books.

Gold Threads

It was not often he had the opportunity to travel unattended through the cities of the Eldar; less often still that he had no errand set for him while he was there. A Vala, even diminished and in chains as he was, would find it difficult to go unnoticed about the Eruhini, and so, on this rare afternoon where he had been given leave to wander (for recent good behavior had won him a long leash), Melkor shed his golden flesh and walked unclad amidst the populace of Tirion. Free to slip unseen and unheard amidst the Noldor, he savored the chance to spy and collect news and gossip that were not meant for his ears.

Delicious…

It felt extraordinary to be unfettered again after so long! And yet, even now, there was a part of his spirit that felt as though it were lost at sea, missing an anchor, keenly desiring sensations to ground it… This worried Melkor, but it was not a matter he had time to spare attention to that day. Blissfully spreading himself over and through the unaware populace, he sampled the conversations of a hundred or more merchants and scholars and craftsmen, sifting through their various emotions and unguarded thoughts, panning for any gleaming nuggets of scandal or discontentment.

He reconvened himself, disgruntled. Only dull, trivial indiscretions, minor acts of selfishness. How boring…

The cloud of Melkor readied himself to take a plunge back into the crowd, when a shiver ran through his incorporeal spirit, like a plucked strand of spider-silk that makes the whole web tremble. Below (so to speak, for he was everywhere), sitting on the mighty steps of the Great Library of Tirion, were to young men in heavy discussion. One fair, one dark and tall. Both sons of sons of Finwë, he scented– and something… something more. A thread ran between the two of them, and alarmingly, through him; the Vala disincarnate and the elven princes. From his vantage point, Melkor could see that the thread ran far, far into the future of that Age. There was a darkness at the end of it.

He found himself afraid, unwilling to come closer. He did not wish to come nearer to the youths, even to spy on them… And yet– was this not exactly the sort of thing he ought to investigate?

The darker, taller elf moved off, bidding his friend farewell. Turgon the Vala heard, and of the one left sunning himself on the library steps, Ingoldo. So– now two more branches of the mighty Finwëan tree had faces as well as names…

His fear lifted somewhat… the blond one smelled of mixed bloodlines, rich and strong, seasalt and iron and gold. The Doom that hung about this one had not yet spun itself from fibers of potential to a single thread… at least, not one that pierced him through the core. Certainly, he was the most interesting opportunity the day had presented yet.

Melkor unfurled himself just out of sight, farther up the marble stairs. With a subtle chime of metal shackles and a flutter of dark cloth, he approached, clearing his throat softly.

“Greetings, Artafindë. Pardon me, but I can’t help but notice what a lovely ring you’re wearing. I’m very fond of serpents myself, but I don’t see them much depicted in Noldor craft. May I see it more closely?"

sharpglance:

misbehavingmaiar:

sharpglance:

He’d watched and listened and waited to be addressed next – there was little else to do except hope that he would not be thrown to some predatory creature or to the whims of another. The words he had told his captors that he had to speak to their Lord had been conveyed – but altered in a sudden grip of fear that threatened to toss his stomach.

Maeglin glanced up from where he’d been pushed down to his knees, and met Morgoth’s eyes. That, he learned, was a mistake. There was more to fear under his gaze than any other’s he had ever seen. There had been stories, but seeing was believing – and now, he believed. The voice in his mind screamed to abandon the lie, which he had told himself was a valorous and cunning move at preserving the secrecy of Turgon’s beloved haven. But now it seemed a pathetic and misplaced attempt, one not worthy of putting any more effort into preserving.

His eyes quickly lowered from Morgoth’s, darting to Sauron before looking down again to his bound wrists. If he didn’t say something, then it might be assumed that he was lying. That was likely to prove dangerous – just as dangerous as trying to continue a lie that already was being questioned. The elf drew in a long, shuddering breath and felt his quivering shake loose a bead of sweat to roll down his temple and cheek, to his neck.

Life seemed much better than death – and proving himself useless to those who now held his life in their hands would likely be the quick path to that end, or some other dismal misery that would eventually end the same way. In his mind, Maeglin yearned for the fields and open skies of Gondolin and the caverns and slopes of the mountains and mines, rather than this place. There was so much he had wanted to see and do… which meant he had to tread carefully, for the sake of keeping his life and something of a future. The wisest course of action, Maeglin decided, was to divert the attention on some subtly similar point.

“You can decide all the plans you want now,” he began uncertainly, and with a tremble to his voice – he was aware that how he spoke now meant that he risked much to himself and to those still in the valley, “but even I know that there is something that prevents you from having already done to secure the entire country in your grasp.”

Breathing in, he waited for that half-second of telling reaction. Would they take it, or would he need to ply with words a little more? Anything but to die now…!

Morgoth was silent for a long moment, regarding the boy with a sideways, membranous wink. He missed nothing of the trembling, the damp brow, the words unsaid. It was a clever move, redirecting the line of questioning while neither could see the other’s hand.

What a cunning little rodent, the Vala thought, with something like fondness, or at least recognition. Terrified, but canny enough to play this game, though his life and freedom are at stake.

“And what is it exactly, that even babes in Gondolin know, is preventing the Dark Lord from taking all Beleriand, hm? What delays his conquest? Tell me, clever mole,” He jabbed a talon at the sable crest of Maeglin’s tabard, “or I shall bury you up to the neck in ash and let you bake as black as your standard."

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."

{if it’s not too late, because why not} To the Bloated, Gloating, Corpse-Munching Foe of the World. Look to the red hill. Try me. Wishing you a Swift and Agonising Demise, the Lord of Dor Cuarthól.

turambar-masterofdoom:

misbehavingmaiar:

misbehavingmaiar:

“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."

The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur.

"I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.

=

The youth paused, grin frozen on their face as their eyes darted to one side in thought, as if they’d never thought to answer such questions before.

“…I come from nowhere and no one. I’m only a wild thing from the north. My name would mean little to you.” They skipped forward in the red-flowered grass, a little off kilter on one foot, as though mindful of an old injury. “As for the message, I only wanted to avoid a worse fate, and the chance to meet the Outlaw King seemed a treat to me."

They stopped, turning on their heels, hands clasped behind them girlishly. “I imagined you… blonder, from the tales.”

Túrin’s eyes narrowed at that answer. Suddenly, the strangeness of their guest’s looks began to amount to a deeper suspicion than he had previously thought to entertain.

"Even if a name has no meaning, its existence is a mark of trust, if nothing else. The north is no friendly place, and anyone out of it is of no small significance for that alone.”

“Fine. Call me Raza, then.” The stranger planted themselves on the red-flowered grass and proceeded to pluck petals off their stems.

“The Dread Helm thinks I’m of no small significance! Haha! Raza, King of the North I’ll be!" They laughed merrily, voice raspy and indeterminately pitched. "Relax, handsome Wolf. What could I do to you?” They gestured to their bony frame.

The hungry looking creature returned to scrutinizing the tall man, lip bitten with crooked teeth.

“What reply will you give, my lord? I will give it to some Easterling, who will give it to some orc, who will no doubt take it and bring to Dark Foe himself, and I will leave with a coin in my pocket. What will you say to him?” Raza kicked their freckled feet with unashamed eagerness.

{if it’s not too late, because why not} To the Bloated, Gloating, Corpse-Munching Foe of the World. Look to the red hill. Try me. Wishing you a Swift and Agonising Demise, the Lord of Dor Cuarthól.

turambar-masterofdoom:

misbehavingmaiar:

misbehavingmaiar:

“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."

The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur.

"I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.

=

(( //Ah yes, I see now I did I stupid thing with the calling you Turmabar/Master of Fate….XD let’s just pretend I called you “Master of Outlaws”, and Lord of Dor Cuarthol.))

“No trouble. I thought it rather a gift, to meet the Dread Helm, so famed for the destruction of his foes…” The youth tilted their head, green eyes flicking up and down Turin’s figure with unashamed interest— what sort of interest it was was difficult to surmise.

“Were you raised by bandits or by wild wolves? There are rumors of both. And is it true that you once chased a naked elf to his death over a cliff?” The fox-fur waif rocked upon their bare heels, grinning impishly. “What would you do to the Dark Lord, if he did come? Something gruesome, I hope… I’m sure you’re much, much mightier than High King Fingolfin was, when he went against the black foe.”

The youth’s final comment triggered a wave of cold amusement through the lieutenants. None of those assembled had a high opinion of elves, but of all the rumours that flew concerning them and their enigmatic captain, this was by far the most entertaining to them.

Túrin, however, remained unmoved, save a slight quirk of his upper lip. By a very generous margin, one might have called that an emaciated smile.

"I am honoured at your high opinion of me, stranger,” he said. “But I will only go far enough to say that there is truth among what you have heard of me. Specifics would do none of us any good. I think you, and whoever it is you have learned these opinions from, may guess very well my intent toward Melkor at the very least.”

A horn rang out in the hills, and Túrin fell silent for a while. When no further blasts followed, a merest flash of irritation crossed his face. The moment did not last long, though.

“What is your name? How came you to be a bearer of Melkor’s message?”

The youth paused, grin frozen on their face as their eyes darted to one side in contemplation, as though they’d never thought to answer such questions before.

“…I come from nowhere and no one. I’m only a wild thing from the north. My name would mean little to you.” They skipped forward in the red-flowered grass, a little off kilter on one foot, as though mindful of an old injury. “As for the message, I only wanted to avoid a worse fate, and the chance to meet the Outlaw King seemed a treat to me."

They stopped, turning on their heels, hands clasped behind them girlishly. “I imagined you… blonder, from the tales.”

{if it’s not too late, because why not} To the Bloated, Gloating, Corpse-Munching Foe of the World. Look to the red hill. Try me. Wishing you a Swift and Agonising Demise, the Lord of Dor Cuarthól.

turambar-masterofdoom:

misbehavingmaiar:

“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."

The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur.

"I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.

Túrin eyed the child – was that the correct word? This person rather defied definition at a glance; male or female, adult or child. That they were even of his own people was about the furthest Túrin was willing to go with supposition.

Standing in the shadow of Amon Rudh, with three of his lieutenants at his back, he felt secure enough – but upon reading the note, he could not suppress a cold shudder of glee.

“You have done well to bring it,” he said. “I thank you for your trouble.”

(( //Ah yes, I see now I did I stupid thing with the calling you Turmabar/Master of Fate….XD let’s just pretend I called you “Master of Outlaws”, and Lord of Dor Cuarthol.))

“No trouble. I thought it rather a gift, to meet the Dread Helm, so famed for the destruction of his foes…” The youth tilted their head, green eyes flicking up and down Turin’s figure with unashamed interest— what sort of interest it was was difficult to surmise.

“Were you raised by bandits or by wild wolves? There are rumors of both. And is it true that you once chased a naked elf to his death over a cliff?” The fox-fur waif rocked upon their bare heels, grinning impishly. “What would you do to the Dark Lord, if he did come? Something gruesome, I hope… I’m sure you’re much, much mightier than High King Fingolfin was, when he went against the black foe.”

sharpglance:

misbehavingmaiar:

“Hah! Stale news will buy you nothing. I know already where the hidden city lies; deep in the Echoriath.” Melkor ventured.
His spies had told him as much— strange tidings of men and dark elves riding to the Encircling Mountains, and never returning. He could say as much with certainty, but no more. He did not wish the elf to know that this intelligence was beyond pricing.
“But these other tidings you bring me… That Turgon is prepared for war, that men I knew not of escaped over the mountains, that hidden hosts prepare to rally and march again on Angband! This thing I did not know.” The dark lord hunched, resting chin on claw in pensive thought.
Had the Noldor not glutted themselves on defeat? The Union of Maedhros had been crushed beyond recovery; yet Gondolin stood, and the Vala’s foresight had warned him that doom would come from behind Turgon’s secret walls. Perhaps he should not have presumed that ALL the Noldor would run, licking their wounds and scattering southward.
Melkor looked to his lieutenant in silence, searching the maia’s expression; finding there wariness, but not outright distrust.
“If what you say is true, then the city cannot be gained by force, and we must gird ourselves yet again for a defensive war… We may yet have the element of surprise if we move quickly, but a direct attack is out of the question. Could we starve them out, do you think? Surround the city at a distance, burn fields, dam rivers— let the Noldor waste in hunger amidst unused war machines?”
“My lord, do not be so hasty to leap to battle on the untested words of a traitor.” Sauron cautioned. “If the boy is lying, we give the city time to rally in defense, and we stay our hand needlessly against a sleeping foe.”
“IF the boy is lying, he will regret he was not drowned at birth, won’t he, beloved?” Melkor turned his eyes to the captive Maeglin, harsh spotlights under which each shiver, each bead of sweat was illuminated.

He’d watched and listened and waited to be addressed next – there was little else to do except hope that he would not be thrown to some predatory creature or to the whims of another. The words he had told his captors that he had to speak to their Lord had been conveyed – but altered in a sudden grip of fear that threatened to toss his stomach.

Maeglin glanced up from where he’d been pushed down to his knees, and met Morgoth’s eyes. That, he learned, was a mistake. There was more to fear under his gaze than any other’s he had ever seen. There had been stories, but seeing was believing – and now, he believed. The voice in his mind screamed to abandon the lie, which he had told himself was a valorous and cunning move at preserving the secrecy of Turgon’s beloved haven. But now it seemed a pathetic and misplaced attempt, one not worthy of putting any more effort into preserving.

His eyes quickly lowered from Morgoth’s, darting to Sauron before looking down again to his bound wrists. If he didn’t say something, then it might be assumed that he was lying. That was likely to prove dangerous – just as dangerous as trying to continue a lie that already was being questioned. The elf drew in a long, shuddering breath and felt his quivering shake loose a bead of sweat to roll down his temple and cheek, to his neck.

Life seemed much better than death – and proving himself useless to those who now held his life in their hands would likely be the quick path to that end, or some other dismal misery that would eventually end the same way. In his mind, Maeglin yearned for the fields and open skies of Gondolin and the caverns and slopes of the mountains and mines, rather than this place. There was so much he had wanted to see and do… which meant he had to tread carefully, for the sake of keeping his life and something of a future. The wisest course of action, Maeglin decided, was to divert the attention on some subtly similar point.

“You can decide all the plans you want now,” he began uncertainly, and with a tremble to his voice – he was aware that how he spoke now meant that he risked much to himself and to those still in the valley, “but even I know that there is something that prevents you from having already done to secure the entire country in your grasp.”

Breathing in, he waited for that half-second of telling reaction. Would they take it, or would he need to ply with words a little more? Anything but to die now…!

Morgoth was silent for a long moment, regarding the boy with a sideways, membranous wink. He missed nothing of the trembling, the damp brow, the words unsaid. It was a clever move, redirecting the line of questioning while neither could see the other’s hand.

What a cunning little rodent, the Vala thought, with something like fondness, or at least recognition. Terrified, but canny enough to play this game, though his life and freedom are at stake.

“And what is it exactly, that even babes in Gondolin know, is preventing the Dark Lord from taking all Beleriand, hm? What delays his conquest? Tell me, clever mole,” He jabbed a talon at the sable crest of Maeglin’s tabard, “or I shall bury you up to the neck in ash and let you bake as black as your standard."