Accent

Canon-compliant.  The battle of the songs of power in which Finrod is pwned.  Yeah, it's based off that tiny little puzzle piece of the Lay of Leithian that Christopher Tolkien has crammed into the Silmarillion.  Quenya names used (so Finrod = Findaráto).  This is just how I see the songs of power as "working" because it's not very clear in the book what exactly is going on.  Feel free to disagree.  Takes place in the year 465 FA.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion

Pairings: none (a couple implied)

Characters: Finrod, Sauron, Beren, the ten companions (mentions of Turgon, nameless exiles, the Fëanorions and dead Teleri)

Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, mass murder (semi-explicit), hallucinations?, imprisonment, implied slavery and torture

Song: Eternity Served Cold

Words: 1,604
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accent (transitive verb): to pronounce with accent: stress; to mark with a written or printed accent; to give prominence to; to indicate the importance of by centering attention on
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/accent

The shadowed tower of Tol-in-Gaurhoth loomed over their heads as a specter of ill will.  Even gazing upon what had once been his very own creation--a symbol of protection--now sent chills down Findaráto's spine.  Pungently, the smell of rot and death swept down the side of the isle and over their tiny company.

"Something is not right."

The company halted, and Findaráto gazed upon the terrible sight again, though he longed to look away.  And in the corners of his mind, he heard the very thing he had been dreading.  Like slimy fingers running over his bare flesh, tainted power teased and prodded at the gates that enclosed the fortress of his thoughts, seeking the smallest vulnerability.

"Do not think yourself invincible, trespasser."

They had been discovered.

The swell of evil melody came down upon them from the tower, slamming into them with the force of a hurricane, and all the malice to be gathered from within those high walls of hopelessness and death, the breeding ground for filth, bit at their heels, threatened to tear them limb from limb.  A song of power from the lips of one of the maiar, dark though he might be, was a treacherous weapon.

For the sharpest chords were struck fierce, resonating through Findaráto's mind as twisted images.

Images of his companions slaughtered, lying at his feet.  And whose hand wielded the dreaded blade but his own trembling fist, white-knuckled and strained taut about the hilt of his sword?  Terrible glazed eyes watched him from uncovered, frozen faces, their last sight one of betrayal as he tore them asunder.

"Why have you done this to us?" they asked silently from dull bodies, bodies empty of a spirit's fire. "Why have you turned against us when we have sworn loyalty unto only you?"

And their blood drenched his body like a hot cloak, soaked through his threadbare travelling garb, covering his golden hair until it ran like silken fire, splattering vibrant patterns across his pale skin.  The thick copper taste settled in the back of his throat and bubbled until he thirsted for its tang.

Long-fingered hands wrapped around his wrists, drawing him back against a solid body, turning him towards an unseen face. "Is this what you look like, my beloved little trespasser?  Look into my eyes."

To look would mean death.  To look was to be uncovered before those eyes forged of the earth's molten core and a potent firestorm of hatred.  To look was to be burned to a cinder, all chance of escape lost as his mind fell into the abyss presented before him, surrendered and prostrated.

And his companions needed him.  His Oath demanded fulfillment.  At his side, Beren shivered and looked lost in the darkness, so full of young life and love, about to be dragged into the pits of hell itself, about to be stripped of all that which Findaráto swore he would do anything to protect.  Though he knew not this boy, he knew the child's valiant heart.

And of that he sang.

And of other things, each accent singing above the tide of harmony a sharpened spear driving back the oncoming siege of a white fortress standing strong against the waves of clinging gloom.  Of gates swinging shut, locked tight to hold the enemy at bay, and of his companions safely tucked within by the hearth's dancing fire, warm with health and camaraderie and hope.

Their lips were sewn shut with invisible threads and their eyes glowed with lively spirit.  He was welcomed amongst them, clean and pure of sin, his hands bare and limp at his sides.

And in the deepest corner of his fortress, of the Minas Tirith that he remembered, he tucked away their names, written with intangible ink and hot blood, so that they would never see the light of fire-eyes, so that only sunlight might breach their treasure and reveal the identities of those within.

When those eyes finally looked into his, they saw naught but a monstrous, twisted face staring back, fanged teeth bared against the onslaught of hatred and fury swift to follow.

The notes rang bitter.  They cut across Findaráto's soul like a Balrog's lash, but he did not dare back down.  The air about them was thick, tension building to breaking.  Hoarse though his voice might be, Findaráto could do naught but let the clear melody blaze forth in a crescendo of sunlight cutting through gloom, blinding his foe to their passage.

Because they were fleeing.  The ground was uneven, traps laid in waiting, metal jaws itching to sink their razor-sharp teeth into an unwary leg, to drag some poor soul down onto the smoldering earth and leave them whimpering and writhing in agony and fright.

But their feet were as a bird's, never brushing the ground.  Ahead of them, there was light.  The birds were singing in the trees as their naked, wooden limbs suddenly unfurled into evergreen life, soft melodies filling the air, cloying blossoms sweetening the earth and chasing away the heady odor of rotting flesh and spilled blood.

The cry of the sea, an old friend whom he trusted, lifted its voice to his cause.  The crashing of waves echoed in their ears as golden light fell down upon them.  Mist hazed the land as they left the tangle of forest, and salt burned in their noses.  Beneath their feet, smooth beaches stretched endlessly, safe havens against any shadow, pearly in the waxing day.

Home.  Alqualondë laid her gentle gaze upon a son of her heart and embraced the companions tight to her white breast.

But the melody floundered, for the gleaming eyes of his enemy canted and that smirk filled with triumph.  Findaráto's throat burned.

Because when he looked down, there was blood in the sand.  The iridescent glimmer mixed with rubies, hot to the touch.

"Foolish, to bring us here, child."

Accent--striking fear into the centermost point of the elf's body, slipping through corporeal flesh and bone to vulnerability beneath when he looked upon familiar docks and their familiar white ships, elegant necks curving gracefully into the black sky.  Hands left prints of crimson in carefully carved feathers.  At his feet, the pearls turned to empty eyes, the rubies to droplets of innocent blood.  Carnage beyond imagining, yet all too real.  Memories, not nightmares.

"Look what your kin have wrought."

Accent--colder than Findaráto had ever imagined in its fey, glittering pitch, the sound of cracking ice beneath tenuous, unsteady feet.  Bitter wind snapped and snarled on his bare flesh, dragged back his silken hair until it was full of knots and struck his neck as the tails of a whip, leaving reddened wheals.  But that was not worse than the bone-deep chill.  Not worse than the orphans hiding beneath empty cloaks alone in the snow.  Not worse than his best friend, his dear cousin, sitting on bended knees before the abyss, staring down at where the world had disappeared into cracks of white, not even a sound to mark its dismantling.

"Look what they have done to you, through hatred and betrayal and fire."

Accent--so hot that he thought it would melt his soul and turn his body to ash.  The white ships were burning, and above them the Spirit of Fire was grinning in satisfaction, white teeth bared as an animal's snarl, six sons at his heels with their blazing eyes and haunting visages smirking with glee.  His ears rang with screams and howls, rattling his fragile spirit within the cage of its raiment until his knees trembled.

The earth beneath him shook with the cry of thousands of lost souls, their stark eyes boring into his body and their dirt-encrusted hands dragging at his ankles, pulling him down, down, down...

Climax.  And then silence.  His knees crumpled and hit dark marble, hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth floor.

Cold fingers tucked under his chin, lifting until he met the molten eyes and the beautiful face marred with a smile that would send all the armies of Angband fleeing to hide beyond their master's mountainous form.  Instinctual fear churned in his belly even at the gentle touch on his cheek, the soft caresses through his hair.

"I have found you, my lovely little trespasser," Sauron spoke.  Findaráto was naked beneath that gaze, disguise undone, and his companions beyond were bound in chain and shuddering from cold on the floor.

"Now," he said, with a voice that could seduce the most straight-laced maiden and melt even the coldest of hearts, "Tell me your name, child."

It was the final chord, ever so soft and yet so coercive and incisive in its subtle power, the last jab of the sword in the gut of his surrendered, bloodied body on the muddy battleground.  Yet, in his breast, the fire was not yet extinguished.  In his mind, his Oath still coiled like a serpent waiting to leap forth and sink poisoned fangs into his honor.

He squared his jaw and stared into those eyes without flinching. "No."

And when they were cast into darkness, he could not help but feel that it was not Sauron who had struck the final, most powerful chord, a last ringing accent to corrode chains of despair latching their naked bodies to the filthy dungeon walls.

Because his companions remained as silent as that endless darkness and spoke naught unto death.  Loyalty was still in their hearts.
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And thus concludes my personal interpretation of the battle of the songs of power in which Finrod loses heroically but somehow manages to win in the end despite his misfortune.  As lovely as the excerpt of the Lay of Leithian presented in the Silmarillion is, I feel the need to point out how vague it is.  I like details, in case you haven't yet noticed.  Besides, this was a lot of fun.  Can you not tell how ecstatic my inner music nerd was?  I mean, they just handed me a prompt with a direct musical connotation on a silver platter!

My friend Martha (who I do believe I have mentioned before) sent me the link to this song that I would never, ever, ever have clicked on without prompting, mostly because I am not into Homestuck and don't have the time to start (and play the catch-up game).  Thus, I present Eternity Served Cold from the album Cherubim, which came out on the 14th of March this year.  Awesome.  You should check it out.

Finally, a funny little picture that I found on dA a while back: Songs of Power (the Modern!AU) by ~Dreams-of-Arda on dA (who happens to be the Finrod of our beloved icon family).  I love the idea of this and would totally draw it myself, except that I'm not that great at drawing people.  I'll just stick to my abstract art.