Commission for maire-annatari: The Last You Will Feel With That Hand— RivkaZ 2015
Well, this interrogation session with the Fëanorian prince has gone horribly wrong! But Lady Mairë (a feminine incarnation of Sauron) doesn’t mind very much given the circumstances. Breathing is optional for maiar, and the prisoner is rather fetching. She seems to be quite enjoying herself, actually…
SO MUCH RED HEAD IN ONE PICTURE
*pales, gripping the side of the tub, while breathing slowly through his nose*
“Get. Out!”
Suddenly the pressure of Sauron’s arm on his stump wasn’t there anymore, its loss quick enough to unbalance Maedhros and force him to compensate by pressing his right thigh against the Maias’ body. Thankfully the frenzy of the fight dulled every other feeling the sensation of his enemy’s naked skin against such a vulnerable part of his body gave him.
Desperately trying to move his arm and slide on the floor the Noldo attempted to prevent what he knew would be his opponent’s next move, even as a part of him knew it for a doomed effort.
Gritting his teeth he gave the knife a final twist, rotating it almost completely inside the flesh, making sure it would rip most of the muscle it was embedded in, weakening the limb further. A dark satisfaction cursing through his body at his enemy’s sounds of distress.
Then a spark of pain made the Noldo grunt as the tingling ache of pinched nerves spread like a line of fire from the inside of his elbow to the tip of his fingers, making his muscles spasm, go lax and then cramp in an unnatural position.
A half-shout of pain came rom his lips as his arm was twisted and slammed on the floor. The scars left by his father’s jewel becoming numb as his hand smarted.
Maedhros could feel desperation rise in his mind with every movement of the powerful body over him, like a black tide, ebbing and flowing in synchrony with the weight pinning him down. A trickle of blood fell from the Maia’s shoulder on the Fëanorion’s neck, making the sweetish reek of corruption become a mist that surrounded him burning the inside of his nose. The black liquid slid down further and mixed with the water dripped from his body on the marble floor, making it warmish and slick.
The Maia’s face came near to his enough that Maedhros could feel his hot breath on his cheeks and, from behind the wet strands of hair, could see his eyes burning.
He saw it thanks to the cold haze of the fight, the almost cranky frustration in the Maia’s gaze. A sneer twisted Maedhros’ lips. Once such a display of weakness might have given him a measure of satisfaction, yet now whatever he might have felt was drowned in an almost euphoric hate and despairing rage.
Refusing to let him win any ground the Noldo didn’t turn his head, looking him straight in the eyes as he twisted his muscles, trying to slide on the floor and make Sauron loose purchase, but the weight on his chest was unwavering. As an iron shackle.
Then the Maia sprung into action.
Maedhros had barely the time to begin turning his head before Sauron’s teeth sank into the flesh of his face. In an instant the smell of his own blood drowned even the Maia’s reek and the Fëanorion felt an ice cold spray fall from his lips and cheek as the skin burst under Sauron’s teeth. The arm falling heavy against his neck cut his breath almost completely. It was as if every pain had disappeared; Maedhros could feel the other’s tongue touching his skin and in the red glow cast by his hair the world started to become dark around the edges.
A guttural muffled scream of rage and hate tore from his chest. With a strength borne of despair the Noldo clasped the Maia’s hips between his thighs in an unyielding grip and, with an effort that made his sight go completely black he was able to arch his hips up from the floor in the same moment that his stump flew towards the Maia’s face, hitting it with all the strength he could muster in his right eye. He felt the protruding bone fit into the orbit and kept pushing as he suddenly twisted his hips left, using all of the strength left in his body in a last desperate attempt to reverse their positions.
The sharp, broken point slammed into the socket of his eye, pain bursting hot and red through his skull. Sauron screamed like a burnt jungle cat, rearing back with blood on his teeth. He recoiled off his opponent, not giving Maedhros time to gain advantage, even if the elf had not been choking for air. He could feel the knife still in the meat of his shoulder, stinging brine dripping from his eye.
Panting, the huge maia rolled to his feet, retreating. Tussles between lions seldom lasted this long when they had nothing to gain… It was not worth the injuries he could sustain to bring one elf to submission. This was not worth the grief.
He spat blood on the floor, growling as he wrenched the blade from his back. The wound shrank even as the steel left it.
“You will never—” he hissed, “—never have the satisfaction of meeting me again in the flesh, Lefthander. You will die in my shadow; my armies will march over your bones, and no one will live to mourn your nameless corpse.” The knife clattered to the floor as the Dark Lord turned his back.
*pales, gripping the side of the tub, while breathing slowly through his nose*
“Get. Out!”
Sauron’s slitted pupils flared; the muscles in his face twitched into a snarl, but it was suppressed in short order.
Whatever warmth or provocative flirtation had been in his demeanor froze and died, leaving cruelty in its wake.
“…Leave, stay; fight, don’t fight… Since you can’t seem to make up your mind at all this evening, I’m afraid I’m going to have to do it for you."
And with that, he sprung— two coiled steps that moved a wall of heavy muscle at an unthinkable rate, shoulder pivoting to collide with the Noldo, knocking him to the floor while iron-hard forearms grappled and pinned his taller opponent, heedless of the knife between them.
The attack was hardly unexpected, Maedhros had sensed it approaching the very second his last words had left his lips. Maybe some part of him had been wishing for this. The Noldo steeled himself, more than against the savage violence which was to come, against his reaction to it.
Surreptitiously he took half a step back with his left leg, exposing his right side as the Maia talked. Despite knowing well any hope he may have to hold his own in this fight was linked to keeping his cool and use the Maia’s fury against him, despite his efforts to remain calm even in the air made heavy by the perfumed vapours of the bath and the sweetish smell of corruption that still haunted his darkest nightmares. Despite all this two different needs reverberated in Maedhros’s mind, strong enough to make his hands tremble, were he not to control them.
One was a savage glee, a frenzied need to fight to make Sauron pay for everything, to feel his blood, his pain, to make him scream; it was something that sang with his blood, that made every hair on his body stand. Yet another, a more rational part of his soul, told him how dangerous how unbalanced this fight would be, it recoiled at the idea of any physical contact without an armour to protect his body and more weapons.
Soon enough there was no more time to think. In two blindly fast steps the Maia charged him.No matter his attempt to follow the movement, the impact was devastatingly strong. Maedhros felt all air leave his lungs violently enough to burnt his throat as the other body slammed into his side. His, still wet, unbound, hair fell before his face hiding Sauron’s face and the pain of the impact on his right shoulder made his vision go black for a few seconds. In his mouth he could taste blood. Still his body seemed to remember how to act on its own, his mind almost cumbersome, the Noldo let himself fall, an agonised hiss ripping from his throat, and, using the momentum, sank his dagger to the hilt in the back of Sauron’s shoulder trying to hit the muscle and let gravity aid his knife cut down following the underside of the Maia’s arm, in an attempt to rip tendons and make his opponent’s right arm useless.
They crashed to the floor and its marble seemed almost hot as a wave of dizzying force reverberated through Maedhros’s back up to his skull, turning soon into white hot pain as a cold feeling slithered down his side. Another hiss escaped his lips yet, even before he was able to think straight again, the Noldo’s leg raised and he kneed the Maia on his right side twice with all his strength, feeling his rotule sink into the other’s body.Sauron’s grip was as strong as steel, the reek of his body suffocating and a part of Maedhros , even more than from the pain, felt like shuddering at the feel of his robe opening, leaving him vulnerable.
Still everything seemed to fall into second place before the desperate elation of the fight, as his breath became laboured and all his muscles twisted and tensed first left and then, suddenly right.He had only one hope right now: to force or trick the Maia to roll over and gain the upper position.
Steam issued from the wound before the parted flesh ran with hot red-black blood, and Sauron did indeed cry out in pain– a tight sound that quavered like a wire snapping– but he did not relinquish his grip.
The Noldo’s knee thudded dully against his side, finding it nearly unyielding as stone. But the elf’s twisting forced him to reassess his hold; with little enough purchase on the slick floor he nonetheless pressed forward with both legs, putting great weight on his pin-hold against Maedhros’s sternum, while his right hand snaked around the elf’s weapon arm, thumb applying pinpoint pressure on the inside of his elbow and slamming it against the ground.
His teeth bared white and snarling in Maedhros’s face, pointed long and feral, hot breaths ebbing between them with a deep, hungry growl.
The body of his opponent writhed long and lean and powerful like a great angered snake he had dared to wrestle, whose fangs had already tasted his back. If he hesitated too long, the elf’s height would give him enough leverage to maneuver away, and the torn muscles in his shoulder would not bear the strain of holding him down.
He had come with such hopeful, foolhardy intentions… Now here they were and his heart thundered with bright scarlet rage, absurdly close to a feeling of betrayal, even petulance– he did not know how to finish this fight, he had given the Noldo a victory even in starting it.
The lack of control made his rage seethe all the hotter. Unable to articulate more than a strangled "You–!”, the Maia lunged, clamping his jaws around the Noldo’s mouth, sinking teeth into his lips and cheek with suffocating force while his arm pressed down against the elf’s exposed throat.
The prince’s hand scrambled for the hilt of his sword, but Sauron’s found the back of his head faster.
He drew back a fistful of black hair and gold ribbons, lifting the elf off the ground and pulling him back prone on his knees.
“I said I would still your tongue.“
…
When he had been alerted of the possible hostile presence Maedhros had gathered his personal guard, a small company of knights and left Himring, leaving word to organise a larger force and have it ready to march out, should his signal come.
The Noldo Lord guided his men, some carrying the weighted nets used for greater beasts, making them proceed silently, unwilling to immediately reveal their presence to a possible enemy while trying to assess the situation.
As they went he took the time to muse, it was odd how for the second time in a row, something had seemed to surface in a place completely devoid of traps. Maybe the time had come to take a second look at some workers.
Vàsa had hardly changed her position when the sounds of battle reached their ears, a familiar cry making Maedhros tap the sides of his mare with his heels, while gesturing for his troop to hasten.
Realising time was of the essence the Noldo Lord had his rearguard sound the horns to summon the battalion while, accompanied by Dimhelesin and few others he reached a terrain.
Down, in a small vale between two hills, a thinning company of Noldor wearing his cousin’s colours was fighting against a small battalion of orcs.
Yet what Immediately caught his eye was the shadow lingering on the top of the hill overlooking the battlefield.
Maedhros signaled for the rest of his men to continue a full frontal assault the very moment the shadow morphed into an ogrish creature descending upon the troop.
"The priority is the prince, enemy has heavy armour, use slingshots or aim for the junctures. Give the prince time.”
Gorthaur had made his move.
The familiar feeling of cold dread and elation surrounded him as a small company separated from the main body and approached Sauron from behind at the same time that most of the troop charged from ahead. Dimhelesin rode by his side, shield at the ready.
They were luckily far enough to allow their horses to keep their footing as the monster slammed into the ground, yet the sight of black hair between grey armoured fingers made his attention focus on a single point as he fought to keep rage under control.
It was not yet the time.
At his silent signal, as his cavalry broke the ring of wolves in front of Sauron the men with him drew slingshots and a flurry of lead projectiles fell with incredible force on the Maia’s armour.
Wanting to give the best possibility to escape the enemy’s grasp to his cousin Maedhros let his anger bleed from him, like a cloud of fire and smoke that surrounded his body and his spear as it flew right into the shoulder juncture of the arm the monster was using to hold Fingon’s head.
Oh, but the prince’s scream was satisfying! A wet, raw-throated howl that tore out of his muddied face. Sauron grinned wide beneath his visor, scraping the fingers of his gauntlet past Fingon’s back teeth, ready to clamp down on the root of his tongue… Would he bleed out and choke to death on the field, or return to his fortress in mute humiliation? Each had its pleasing merits.
Sauron felt a sting at the base of his neck; the report from the shot rang loud as a canon in his ear– he grunted, twitching to one side.
A hail of metal pellets struck him like a swarm of biting insects, enraged and buzzing as they clattered against his armor. The stinging was hardly more than an irritation, and the sound was dreadful, but it was enough to make him stop, and turn his awful head.
Too late. The spear burst through his shoulder in a wall of red pain. Sauron let loose a stunned snarl, catching himself with a stumble as the bolt struck him off balance. The projectile’s point had cleared the leather joint of his armor with as much resistance as water; he could feel the tip of it make contact with the inside of his breastplate, having transfixed his shoulder.
That had been thrown with the precision of revenge.
The warlord’s breath howled in him like a furnace, dropping the prince, his previous quarry forgotten in rage. He could see the red-haired elf riding to meet him, cold eyed, foam at his horse’s bit. One handed he had made that shot, from horseback. There was only one on earth who’s hate could have honed an aim so sharp.
Anguished yelping from dying wolves told him it was time to retreat. The Noldor charged from higher ground, splitting his force in half.
There was no way to reach the spear lodged in his arm to pull it out– he would have to leave the field with the dart still protruding from him.
He shouted the Blacktongue orders– withdraw to safety, scatter and reconvene in the foothills. Yet, it would not do to seem daunted by pain before the orcs that served him. Reaching awkwardly behind him he snapped the shaft of the spear, and threw it, whirling with black blood, at the unhelmed prince.
Black smoke and wolves covered his retreat, wary of mounted Noldor and entangling nets.
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