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: Textual Conquests
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.
for Sauron: “Fib” – Caranthir
His eyes were the deep brown-amber of a wolf’s, and he was sturdy-built and dark as many of Ulfang’s people were, yet they did not know him.
“I am Loga, my lord Caranthir! I am kin to Uldor, by his third wife, Hwitbléd, who died in the West crossing. Ask him, he will tell you it is true.”
And Uldor, at a glance, gave nod. “It is so. We were parted for many years, and I felt I did not know him. But in truth, we are kin. I am pleased he has rejoined us, for he has given me… good council.” The Easterling’s face set in a stoic mask as he spoke.
The man Loga made a slight bow to the one he’d named as sire, then another to the elfin prince his folk were sworn to. “I did not think that a mighty lord of the West would notice one such as I, a low-born vassal who only wishes to serve him and fight against the Dark Foe! Surely, my lord, most shrewd and sagacious son of Fëanor, you need not waste your time questioning me?”
Fib, to Melkor :]
“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.
Peace Offerings
Howwww are we going to consolidate/link this into one long readable format WHO CARES LET’S TORTURE ELVES
“I would have you follow me, elf king.“ The voice purred, trailing a touch like heavy smoke under Thranduil’s raised chin. ”Into the shadows, that you may see me better.“
”Oh, but these chains are a gift!“ The Shadow laughed— and at his bidding they slid down from the ceiling like serpents, looping one loose coil after another around the wrists and ankles of their prey. But they did not clasp, or tighten. Not yet. It was still only an invitation, the acceptance of which would mean true victory.
"Not only for my pleasure, but as a kindness, fey king. For you. Don’t you wish for me to be kind? How will you look your subjects in the eyes, knowing that you stood willingly for all that I will do to you? Would you not rather surrender? Peaceful in the knowledge that there was nothing you could have done to stop me?”
Ah, what a steady voice… chill and deceptive as thin lake ice. Were there hairline cracks to exploit? Or was it only the slope of a glacier, miles deep? Both could melt, of course, in the heat of a mountain.
The shade of him slid, rather than paced, behind the elven king, traveling undetectably beneath and around his pale limbs. From shadow to flesh again, he moved, and the scalding heat of his palms came to rest on the elf’s narrow, naked hips.
“Keep still for me,” he dropped each cold word into leaf tipped ears; “if you will not be bound."
The first lash fell and snapped warm across the elf’s backside. Then another atop the first— and another, and another; on each side a red welt blossomed, flourishing across the flesh as blood rose and purpled the surface of that bone white body.
How long had it been, since he’d practiced this art? How long since he’d had the luxury to toy with the alchemy of nerves, turn pain into pleasure, and back again? Any orc could flay the skin. He was a craftsman. A thin switch of darkness whipped and cracked just above tender flesh; blood welled and ran in hot stripes down Thranduil’s shoulders, pooled in the small of his back, dripped curving between his legs.
”Do not move. Do not so much as sway.“ He commanded, knowing that the quarry must move, must sway; watched as the throat rose and jaw tensed, teeth bared in the unlight. And when, at last, the king did flinch— as bright stings became the heavy thud of leather, then gold-tipped braids, and at last, a cruel, long-handled rod— he stopped.
He rested knuckles by the elf’s cheek, stroked him, pet his hair. Then the back of his hand whistled in the air, and sent the elf to the floor. But he did not stay there; he was lifted, dragged by unembodied force, and thrown with welted back against the wall, feet kicking to find the ground with stretched toes.
”Already, disobedience. And it was such a simple order.“ The Shadow sighed, heavy with mock disappointment. ”Obey this, then: Make no sound. Not the slightest breath. Not one cry for mercy.“
The sparkling eyes followed him in the darkness, the red mouth agape as the breast heaved. Such keen understanding there— pleading. Irresistible.
The Shadow allowed himself a moment in which to simply inhale the bouquet of salt and silver and ecstatic dread. He licked the blood that had fallen forward of Thranduil’s shoulders, tongued it from sternum to its source at the nape of his neck— there he bit, setting his teeth in muscle, as his ruined remembrance of a body pressed, unarmored, to the king’s. He squeezed the stretched drum of the elf’s stomach, crushing into it to feel the hard stone he’d placed there, burning beautiful and defiled.
Between the king’s damp thighs he pried, wrested apart the legs, and set himself between them, he the hammer and the wall his anvil.
He let the horror of his flesh, the wreckage of a once magnificent vessel, pick up the work of the lash, both gruesome and stirring. Gentleness mixed with ugliness; cadaverous lips pressed to bruises, sinewed hands soothed and stroked what was sore or taut and shaking. White hair he tugged and kissed, into ears he fed whispered reassurances. "All that you desire, I could give you."
When he deemed the tension of fear to have lessened, he turned the elf by his shoulders, pressing his face to the wall and ducking low past his thighs. Now level with the wine-stained, welted ass, the Shadow unfurled a long coil of tongue between the elf’s cheeks. He lapped the sensitive furrows there, probed the entrance with his tongue to wet it, within and without. When he deemed it ready, dripping with the slime of his mouth, he began to stuff the length of his cock within by unhurried inches, until their bodies were flush together, and the king squirmed beneath him.
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.
Arms and the Boy
You? Your hands are soft as butter! The Vala longed to say, but instead he smiled and made a most courteous display of spreading his arms. “I can think of nothing more fitting than to have the item made by one bearing my Lord Tulkas’s moniker! Thank you, your highness.”
Artistic advice… fah. Hammer it out of dung in the shape of a wilting prick for all I care. “The Champion of the Valar should have some noble, mighty creature as his door handle— perhaps a lion, or a boar? Your assistance will not be forgotten, I promise you!"
Melkor outstretched a golden claw and placed it on the prince’s shoulder carefully, inclining his head close to brushing Findekáno’s ear. “Honor may compensate the spirit, dear prince, but never filled anyone’s purse. If there is any little favor you need done, only ask it of me. I do still have some influence in the world.”
The answering grin on Findekáno’s face must have spread as wide as Melkor’s arms. His offer had not been turned down!
But his purse, as it happened, was filled with trinkets—keepsakes from friends, interesting items plucked from the places he visited. Some of these things he’d pass on to his friends and family, or discard them when he no longer found them inspiring.
Melkor most likely was not intending to give him trinkets.
"What are you offering me, exactly?” Findekáno asked, making no effort to mirror the subtlety the Vala showed him. He did glance down at the hand at his shoulder, though. If he had somehow been in doubt as to what he spoke to, the difference between that golden limb and a soft Eldarin finger would have been a sharp reminder of its origins. Those hands could raise mountains as easily as they could tap his arm, a thought which was both awe-inspiring and frightening.
Fear was not an emotion Findekáno was used to, but it had a certain appeal. “I can think of nothing I could not get myself, or that would be refused to me if I asked for it,” he continued. Nothing except for particular circumstances surrounding a romantic entanglement, but not even a Vala could help disentangle that particular set of troubles, and perhaps it was better that none of them try.
“Truly, I would ask for nothing more than the honour itself,” the prince repeated, looking up with his most wide-eyed, innocent expression.
“Ah, dear prince! You truly live a blessed life!” Melkor curled a smile, patting Findekano’s shoulder. "You may indeed be free of wants for the moment… But in my experience, one can never tell what one desires, until one lays eyes on them for the first time…“ He winked. "Perhaps you will think of some favor to ask of me, when the day comes that the object of your yearning is beyond your royal grasp.”
The Vala would not so easily let the prince write him out of this transaction as a mere messenger. If Tulkas’s errand boy he must be, then no opportunity would be wasted to put down roots in garden of Eldar politics.
He did not very much care what the prince’s wish might be, on some unforeseeable day in the future; a door opened, a meeting arranged, a distracted uncle at a specific hour, a lock of rosewood red hair– he doubted that it would be of great consequence. Whatever it was, he planned in all earnestness to fulfill it to the letter. No genie’s tricks; his price for favors now was not a lump sum, but an accruing one, payed slowly in trust and familiarity.
“I will take this news to Lord Tulkas at once. If it pleases you, let us meet tomorrow at your forge to discuss the finer details of the device. I am sure the Champion will be very pleased with our arrangement.” He made a low bow, foxfur curls falling between the golden thorns on his shoulders. “Good day, your highness. My Father and Siblings keep you well.”
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