Note: Easterling cultural stuff; much of it I have developed as head-canon from reading the Dark Prince AU and all its substituents. In case you wondered or felt in any way insulted (which I hope no one does).
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none (but implied non-con Uldor x Caranthir)
Characters: Uldor, Sauron, Caranthir (mentions Morgoth, Fëanor, Maedhros and Ulfang)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, alternate motivations, heavy sexual undertones, pre-slash?, premediated rape (not yet carried out), slavery, rude language, betrayal, war
Song: Winter
Words: 1,448
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
contempt (noun): the act of despising: the state of mind of one who despises: disdain; lack of respect or reverence for something
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/contempt
It was a mutual sort of hatred.
Eyes as green as summers on the northern plains ringed with dark lashes, eyes that belonged on an odalisque for the jewel-like beauty, would narrow in the purest form of spite. Waiting and watching for even the tiniest mistake, the smallest sort of disdain, the most minute deviation from devotion to the cause.
"I've never met an honorable Man. Stupid animals, all of them. Beasts to be led to slaughter."
It was their little game. Dancing around one another. Both holding the other in utter and complete disdain. Imparting words whispered just within hearing.
Uldor rather believed Lord Caranthir enjoyed it.
"They will be waves of fools sacrificed on the altar of victory. They must be good for that at least."
Enjoyed lording over all the men of Uldor's tribe and over the other tribes come from the far east, enjoyed looking down that long, perfect nose at all of them and scoffing at their barbaric dress and their untrimmed beards. As if that smooth, pale woman's face were so superior to weathered skin and covered chins. As if that slender body better suited for bedchambers than war was the pinnacle of a warrior's strength. As if those waves of dark hair braided with such precision weren't meant to be grasped and held.
"Worthless. Useless. Mortal."
Hatred was too light a word to describe the feeling that churned sickeningly in Uldor's gut at the very sight of his "superior". A mere word from those lips, and he wanted to strangle screams out of them instead, wanted to rub that beautiful face in the dirt and tell the scum exactly what Uldor thought of his orders and his training. Wanted to make that bitch sorry.
"My master said that thou hadst requested a... renegotiation."
Purred and sultry was the voice of the golden-haired vision that haunted the Dark Lord's shadow. But Uldor was not a fool. Even in Lord Caranthir, he could sense the inherent purity, along with the imagined superiority. This creature, on the other hand, was like a jeweled dagger dipped in slow-acting poison. One wrong move on one side of the fence that was the life of a turncoat might earn him a snapped neck or sword to the gut from the followers of Lord Maedhros. One wrong move on the other side, however, would earn him a fate worse than he could imagine in the dungeons and torture chambers of Angband. Uldor knew which side held his true loyalty.
No, he would not play games with Lord Mairon, not games like those he played with the foolish white demons. Not when he knew that those manicured hands, seemingly soft and pampered like those of a lady wife, were hands that knew the art of torture and death better than did any man walking upon the earth.
"As you already are aware, I am certain, my father, our chieftain, has recently passed."
"So I heard." Lord Mairon sat cross-legged before him, golden curls spilling about him as the finest of silks. They would have been the envy of any woman. But the eyes on that perfect face were those of a devil. "I would suppose his death changes the circumstances of the alliance."
"Not by much." It was a dangerous game. Uldor knew he couldn't back out of the deal struck with the Dark Lord. To do so would be to invite destruction upon his head, upon all of their heads. But the thought of emeralds set in a face that made his blood boil kept his lips moving, kept his fidgeting hands tangled in his beard, kept the flames stoked until it pumped wildly through his veins. "I would not say that our allegiance to your cause has flagged, Lord Mairon. Nevertheless, I would be willing to put forth more effort on behalf of your master... for a small price."
Perfect lips curled into a catlike smile, and Uldor felt sweat build on his nape when he looked into those eyes. For all the amiable facade, the truth was written in depths of fire so hot it could scorch with a mere glance. "A small price, thou sayest?"
"Just a trinket," Uldor continued. "A certain thorn in my side."
All-knowing. All-seeing. Terrifying. "Morifinwë Carnistir, fourth son of Fëanáro. Is that what thou dost desire? He is rather beautiful."
Biting his lip, Uldor tasted blood and reveled in its hot iron flavor. Would that it was his blood flowing so freely between the man's lips and down his throat. "I do not desire his beauty."
"Not his beauty, but his pride," Lord Mairon continued, head tilting to the side. "Wouldst thou believe me if I claimed to understand thy plight? Is it not maddening, that conceit, that arrogance? And what a rich wine t'would be, to have ash-filled eyes burn with desperation, to have a raw voice beg for mercy?"
He knows. He knows my heart and my mind. He knows everything. A sorcerer, dangerous and cunning. But on Uldor's side of the war. "What say you?" he ground out. For he did not want to continue this conversation. Did not want to admit to anything more than vengeance.
"For thy loyalty unto the end, I should think a mere noldo would be a small price to pay, should the plans proceed as foreseen." Lord Mairon did not touch the food offered by the slave who came within the tent's curtaining folds, but he did taste of the wine. If he weren't a venomous snake waiting to strike, his golden beauty would have been positively seductive as he leaned his head back and sighed, the bow of his lips opening in an expression that had Uldor's loins tightening. That had him thinking of a different perfect, white-skinned face with hair darker than night rather than as molten gold.
And then Lord Mairon stood, body stretching into an arch that did nothing to quell the growing heat or the rise of hatred that darkened Uldor's eyes and left his hands itching to clench around a swanlike throat and wring. All the while, those eyes were upon him, could see right through him.
"Thou shalt have thy thrall when all is said and done, kneeling at thy feet, licking thy toes in worship. Does that please thee, my friend?"
"It does," Uldor admitted. "Thank you for your time, Lord Mairon."
"It was a most profitable exchange. For both of us," the other replied, still smiling--sharper than any blade and more deadly than any toxin.
And Uldor should not have believed in his seemingly innocuous generosity for a moment.
But still in the pit of his stomach, he felt the churning, over and over until black smoke longed to spew forth in noxious waves to consume and rend and damn. All he could think of were those jewel-eyes and that smirking mouth and that velveteen voice hissing out orders and veiled insults with blatant pleasure. When he had that bitch at his feet, maybe he ought to cut that tongue out. A mouth could be used for other purposes, less defiant than speaking.
So great was the vision that overcame his senses that he did not rise alongside the golden companion to see him out of the tent, to watch the lieutenant slip away into the nighttime gloom. Instead, Uldor laid back on his cushion, satisfaction joining the mixture of white-hot and blackened emotions bubbling over in a tide of mouth-watering, addictive contempt.
Contempt left without satiation. For now.
But not for much longer. He would have the object of his hatred at his feet, pleading for his favor, gracing his bed, waiting upon him hand-and-foot.
But he hoped the ash that would appear in those eyes never fully put out the fire. It was no fun, after all, if the contempt that burned so fiercely in return, requited and desired, was snuffed out like a mere candle in the night.
Breaking Lord Caranthir would have been fun. But it was so much sweeter to know that, in the end, that bitch would lie at his feet as a chained pet and feel this same bubbling, churning disdain as Uldor, torturing the arrogant beauty brought low until he could not sleep and could not eat and could not think for the sheer potency of hatred and despair that would devour his existence. And he would suffer so gloriously.
And Uldor would come out as the superior. The victorious. The master.
And he would sit and watch. And enjoy.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ah, if you read "Kneel", you indeed know that Sauron understands better than he lets on to anyone. However, his contempt doesn't function in quite the same manner, and his ambitions and motivations are very different. But he knows people, and Uldor couldn't hide anything from a dark maia even if he tried. Not sure there's many people who can hide things from Sauron if he really wants to know, besides perhaps the Valar.
This whole thing was inspired by a picture that I believe I found in my sophomore year in high school (ages ago, jeez). It's not even a complete picture (the coloring is watery and fast and stuff), but it still gave the original idea, so... Caranthir & Uldor by Toriko. Don't even know why I remember it from so long ago, but I guess it just stuck.
And then there's the song. Winter from Hetalia, performed by Yasuhiro Takato. Actually, some of it's in Russian and some of it's in Japanese, but either way its got a unique flavor and I like it quite a lot. A good combination of heavy metal, symphony, opera and the talentless voice-actor thrown in the middle to give it the character card. Ah, but I love Russia so. He's my favorite Hetalia character by far.
No comments:
Post a Comment