valiantfindekano – MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive

doegred:

misbehavingmaiar:

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.

fiindekano:

misbehavingmaiar:

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

valiantfindekano:

misbehavingmaiar:

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.”