Canon compliant AU. Fits with the Mellow Soulmate AU I guess. Elrond reflects upon his life as it comes to a close. All Sindarin names here, even for the Fëanorions, except Gil-Galad is referred to by Ereinion. This story is connected to a multitude of others, including the Cleansed arc ("Cleansed", "Life", "Scowl", "Winter", "Choke", "Color", "Isolation" and "Untouchable", not necessarily in that order), as well as "Stop Time", "Shining", "Repeat", "Panic" and "Memorial" among a few others. Too many. Takes place in pieces scattered everywhere from First Age to early Fourth Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or The Lord of the Rings
Pairings: Elrond x Celebrían, Elladan x Fem Maeglin
Characters: Elrond, Elros, Elwing, Eärendil, Maedhros, Maglor, Gil-Galad, Celebrían, Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir, Lómiel (Fem Maeglin), Sauron (mentions Aragorn and Eldarion in a certain way)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, canon character death, implied rape and assault, mentions Third Kinslaying, war and violence, fading, self-hatred and survivor's guilt, crying, kissing, etc...
Song: When You're Gone
Words: 2,415
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goodbye (noun): a concluding remark or gesture at parting; a taking of leave
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/goodbye
The shoreline was finally coming into view after weeks of nothing but waves upon the endless horizon. Truly, the sands were quite golden in the fading light of day, something ethereal and otherworldly. Something plainly not of the realm of mortal creatures as it gleamed and glimmered, pearl dust awash with the waves and the wreaths of writhing sea foam. And then, appearing from the hazy mist of the ocean, was the port. White and towering as some ancient city of alabaster and sapphire, its white-washed spires and arches rising to welcome the newcomers.
To welcome them home. At last.
And Elrond stood upon the deck, hand clenched tight upon the white railing, gazing in anticipation of the end. In anticipation of happiness after so many years...
---
He said goodbye, but Elrond did not remember. There was the vague image of a man, tall with a crooked smile and stubble upon his cheeks, a golden mane spilling around his face as he lifted his twin sons--one in each arm--so that he might press kisses to their cheeks and listen to their giggles.
Skinny little arms tangled about the man's neck, clinging tightly. "Ada..." He did not want his father to go. He never did.
"Worry not. I shall return." The powerful embrace was so warm and comforting. So secure. And Elrond whimpered when it released its hold upon him, when he was lowered back down to the ground and left shivering, suddenly bereft. With that feeling he could not name niggling in the back of his brain.
So young had Elrond been that, at the time, he had not recognized it. That faint twinge of dread.
"I love you. Be good for your nana..." He began to walk toward his ship, stepping upward until his form appeared upon the bow, hair scattered with the cold wind. His hand rose, waving at the little ones.
His eyes had been different that time.
Always, he came back. But that time, he didn't.
---
She said not so much as a goodbye. There had been no time for such trivial words when screams wormed their way through the open doorway and the cracked windows, sending shivers through the frightened twins. Instead, she hugged them close and pressed them tightly into the closet together, and Elrond could recall only the blurry images of his brother and of shadows within. Of the bright light glowing from the crack at the foot of the door.
"Stay quiet and do not come out. I will come and find you."
The pillared shadows of her feet outside their hiding place disappeared. And he could hear her footsteps as she ran across the room. As she left them behind.
The feeling was back. The feeling Elrond remembered. The cold chill crawling up his spine when he watched their father walk away for the last time.
He wanted to call her back. To scream and cry and demand that she hold them tight and never dare to leave them behind. To make certain that that ugly and unwanted feeling stabbing needles into his heart was false. That history was not repeating.
But he stayed quiet and cuddled close to Elros instead. Waited silently for her return.
Waited silently and hoped and hoped to hear her voice...
But, when again feet broke the static line of the light crawling beneath the door, it was not his mother standing upon the other side. It never was again.
---
Maglor was the foster father. The one who smiled and sang them lullabies when they cried and had nightmares in the early hours of the morning. Elrond always recalled his touch as something gentle and feathery skimming across his skin, as if the supposedly cold-blooded murderer were afraid to press too hard with the tips of his fingers. As if he were afraid they would disappear, shatter into mist and be sucked away in the light.
Maedhros was the protector. He was distant and his eyes were very dark. Frightening and threatening. But for all his uninviting appearance and personality, ever did he offer comfort and guidance when most the fosterlings needed calm and soothing words of wisdom. And, sometimes, Elrond thought that the redheaded prince of tragedy loved them and cherished them just as much as did his brother, though rarely did he show his affections.
One could not have asked for better parents.
But the twins' tenure as the fosterlings of Maedhros and Maglor had ended. The younger of the brothers hugged them tightly and kissed their foreheads in farewell, a gleam in his eyes so sorrowful that one could not look upon it for long. Already, the rims were reddened and swollen with tears that refused to fall.
The older brother did not touch them or kiss them. Never had he been a demonstrative man. But his eyes were soft with worry and grief when he looked upon them.
"Be safe, little ones," he told them only.
It was ironic and heartbreaking. For that feeling was ever-present, and Elrond was old enough to know what it meant to feel this dread and longing. Old enough to know that they would never see these two brothers again. Old enough to know this was goodbye forever.
That knowledge made Elrond ache as he walked away. And he would never tell anyone but Elros that, later that night, he cried and wished...
Wished he had never left them behind...
---
Never had he truly been alone.
Elros had always been by his side. Always. They had shared a womb and a cradle. Shared their mattresses and their blankets and their parents and their adventures. Shared their triumphs and their joys and their sorrows and their secrets. Rarely could one be found without the other, for they were bound as close as two separate souls could be.
But that was about to end.
And he would not cry.
Not at the wedding of his brother, who looked so happy with his mortal spouse upon his arm and his mortal friends crowded about passing around drink and laughter. Not when Elros turned to him, grinning--and was it his imagination, or was that face more weathered than he remembered?--and looked so contented and proud. As though he had found his place in the world. As though this were exactly where he belonged.
And that place was not at Elrond's side.
"I should be going now, brother."
"Leaving already?" Elros slapped his shoulder in a friendly greeting, but between them lay something awkward and unspoken. Elrond forced a smile, and though perhaps it appeared more as a grimace.
"Ah, I will depart in the morning. Surely, Ereinion will be wanting his councilor back as soon as possible." It was an excuse, and a poor one at that. But a poor one would do just as well as a subtle and manipulative one. They knew each other too well for silent words to be hidden. For intentions left unsaid to be misunderstood.
"I shall see you another time then." Elros patted his shoulder and retreated to his wife's side. Elrond headed for the door. Neither dared look at one another, lest they acknowledge the lie.
The younger brother fled. In the morning he departed Númenor. And he never did go back.
---
There was no real goodbye for his best friend and king. Just the knowledge that they may not leave the field of battle alive. That they may have to stand by and watch the other perish in violence and bloodshed. And Elrond had believed himself prepared. He had seen comrades die in the midst of madness and chaos before. Held his hands over their gaping wounds and comforted them in their last moments of agony and struggle.
But nothing could have prepared him...
For the way that body spun around, eyes searching until they clashed--
Until Ereinion was staring straight at him, wide-eyed with knowledge, lips parted and dark hair flying about his smudged and sweaty face. Aeglos tumbled from his fingers, and the clang of it hitting stone resounded through the air like an electric current.
No more than a step did Elrond take before the light blinded him. He lifted a hand and blocked his eyes from the garish rays, crying out at the wave of hideous, blackening heat that raked its claws over his exposed skin and left him glistered.
Silence fell. Even the din of battle had faded out.
When he blinked his eyes open to find everything between himself and his best friend's murderer was empty space. Devoid and scorched to the last particle. Erased.
There was nothing but ash to mark the passing of his king. Of his best friend and confident. Of his last rock of stability in his crumbling world. Nothing at all.
How his knees kept him upright, Elrond would never know. In that moment, had the enemy struck out in violence, he would have been obliterated. For he could do nothing but stare at that emptiness where Ereinion had stood no more than ten seconds before.
Where there was nothing...
Nothing at all...
---
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, a gleam of silvery hope rising from the blackened ruins of the life he had once called his own. And she was the most wondrous thing to ever happen to him in his long life of watching those he loved come and go as fleetingly and devastatingly as mortal men.
But she was a constant, he had thought. Never would she leave his side, nor he depart from hers.
Never would they be parted.
And yet here they stood, her gaunt and blanched face half-hidden beneath a hood of velvet, her once-silver hair now white and wispy against the translucent membrane of her skin. Eyes once such a healthy, lively blue were paler than the tint of ice upon water. And no smile marked her lips as she looked at him, her lover and husband.
She looked at him as though she were seeing through him to somewhere else. Somewhere that was real. Somewhere where this hell was the dream. The nightmare.
"This is farewell." Elrond reached out and lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her cold knuckles and squeezed so tenderly, worried he might bruise or break her frail body with his strength. "But we shall be reunited."
It was then that she looked. Eyes focused but so distant and empty.
"I love you," he added, almost desperately, pressing a second kiss to her hand. "And I shall miss you dearly."
Her eyes lowered as she released his hand without a word of acknowledgement or love or devotion. As she walked away with her guard and was lifted upon a horse. As she was carried over the Bruinen and out of the Valley and out of his life.
And all he could do was watch until she was gone. Until he could not see her distant form. Until he could not feel her presence against his soul. Until his Celebrían was out of reach entirely.
That night, he cried for the first time since losing Elros. But only once. Still there were preparations to be made and a house to be run. Paperwork to be completed and trading agreements to be finalized. Patients to be healed and children to be cared for. There was still life. And there was not a moment to be wasted.
---
But it was hardest saying goodbye to his sons and his daughter.
One, he would never see again. He hugged Arwen tightly and felt the tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he took in her sight and her spirit. A woman, glowing radiantly with happiness and already pregnant with her first child. Ready to live her life to the very end as a mortal and pass beyond the edges of the world with her husband.
At least he knew Aragorn would make her happy and keep her safe. Felt it with burning surety in the marrow of his bones.
And then there were his sons, one smiling and one frowning.
Elladan he was certain he would see again one day, for his heir had chosen the path of the Firstborn and not the Aftercomers. The oldest twin stepped out of his father's embrace and pulled his wife close so that they stood together as one, their burdens lifted from their shoulders beneath the other's magnetic pull and tender caresses. So in love and so ready to live. They would keep Imladris as home, and one day they would come over the sea with the remaining elves, back to Elrond's embrace.
About his oldest son, Elrond was not worried. If anything, he was relieved and grateful to see at least one of his beloved twins pull himself up from the quicksand of shadow and vengeance.
But Elrohir was an uncertainty. Distant and dark were his eyes, as ever they had been since the departure of his mother to the Undying Lands. As they exchanged their farewells, Elrond feared terribly that his youngest son might chose a path apart from his brother only as an escape from facing his fears and letting go of the distant past. Might evict himself from their family out of penitence and misguided self-hatred if only to keep himself from moving on. To keep himself from living.
When he embraced the younger, Elrond hugged tighter and stifled the urge to sob all the harder.
"Please, be safe," he pleaded softly. "And be happy."
Whatever you choose, please be happy. And never regret.
---
After so many years of goodbyes, Elrond was ready...
Looking upon the approaching docks, his heart leapt into his throat, throbbing insistently. A slender figure was waiting, hood pulled down to reveal a familiar face with eyes only a shade paler than the midday sky and hair spun from the finest mithril. And she was smiling as she moved closer, stepping out onto the dock and gliding toward the ship finally making land.
He moved in tandem, hand sliding along the railing, toward her. Pulled by her own personal brand of gravity. By the need to take in her scent and feel her skin and kiss her lips...
And hear her voice speaking his name...
Elrond was ready for the end to begin in a welcome home and a sweet "I missed you".
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Wow, long story. Sorry it took so long to edit this mess. I didn't intend for it to become such a monster, but as usual it ran away with me. It helps that I've no homework in the way tonight, though, as I have tomorrow and Wednesday off. Quite a relief, to be honest. And it allows me to think about something other than physics and organic chemistry.
In any case, all of the events are technically "canonical" except the presence of Maeglin's reborn girl-form. I didn't stick Galadriel and Celeborn in there, though. Oh well. I just thought, of all the characters I can think of, there aren't many who had to say as many goodbyes as Elrond. In fact, I think only some of the Fëanorions can equal the amount of tragedy that Elrond gets shoved through, Maglor in particular. And, though I would love for Elrond and Maglor to cross paths again, I decided against it.
It's just more bittersweet and satisfying this way.
As for the song, I just happen to really like it. When You're Gone is one of my favorite songs by Avril Lavigne, especially of her more melancholy and meaningful pieces (as opposed to Sk8ter Boi and Girlfriend, which are just dancing music, let's be honest here, though they have their moments I guess). I've loved this song since... ah... probably around ninth grade. So for a while. And it hasn't managed to get old yet.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Good Riddance
Mellow Soulmate AU. The situation in Nargothrond comes to a bitter close. Depending on the POV. Quenya names used (Curufin = Curufinwë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Finrod = Artafindë, Orodreth = Artaresto). Continuation of the Nargothrond arc, "Whispered", "Hidden", "Evidence", etc... but also related to "Remain", "Snore", "Collide", "Obvious" and "Cut". Amongst others. Anyway, takes place in Nargothrond in the year of Beren's quest.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: b/g Finrod x Curufin
Characters: Orodreth, Curufin, Celegorm (mentions Finrod a lot)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, non-canon pairings, slash pairings, betrayal and adultery, canon character deaths, vindictiveness
Words: 1,240
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good riddance (phrase): said to express relief at being free of a troublesome or unwanted person or thing
https://www.google.com/#q=good+riddance+meaning
They did not know he was there, watching. Or maybe they did and they simply did not care.
He would not expect much from a pair of murderous traitors.
"I do not understand why you are so upset, Curufinwë." As usual, Turkafinwë's voice was low and rasping, faintly tinted with amusement and disdain. Toward the news of Artafindë's death, he was colder than the Helcaraxë.
"He was our cousin and our friend. Is that not enough reason to be upset?"
Unlike Turkafinwë, Curufinwë sounded strained, his voice rough and shuddering with distraught emotion. Artaresto could not see his angular face, half-hidden as it was within the dim lighting of the room, but he could see the trembling of his hands as they clenched taut in the fabric of his tunic. Could see the way teeth bit cruelly at his lower lip.
The brothers faced off against one another. "He was your lover, but he was my enemy," the older grumbled. "Artafindë was foolish and reckless and too soft for his own good. He was not strong enough to hold himself tall in a world of grays. We needn't have a king who has not the strength to protect and support his people in their darkest hours, and the only reason you wished for him to survive and give up his farce of a noble quest was because you needed him."
Accusation at its most blatant. Curufinwë turned away as if in shame, dark hair falling into his face and over his shoulders, hiding him nearly completely from view. And he said nothing.
In Artaresto's breast, resentment bubbled. If any reconciliation had been possible, it would have been at the cost of the younger brother's pride in openly admitting his love for Artafindë. In openly admitting some sort of commitment and respect, some sort of need and belief in honor and nobility of royal blood. And yet, though clearly Curufinwë cared, he stood by and said nothing in the face of his older sibling's disrespect and disregard. Like a puppet, a sycophant too frightened to speak out for fear of rebuke.
And then, as silken and slippery as a serpent, Turkafinwë approached his younger brother, wrapping long arms around the slightly smaller form and cradling close. Offering feigned comfort and sympathy in the face of open distraught. "But you do not need him. We do not need him. His people do not need him. And for his loss, we have gained..."
"Why would you say something like that?" Infuriated silver eyes flashed in the dark. "He loved you, Turkafinwë. Considered you as a brother."
The older brother sighed and shook his head as if in regret. But Artaresto knew there was no regret to be found in such a twisted and unpleasant creature with such an empty and shriveled heart. "Because it is true. Artafindë was weak and spineless. Good riddance."
And Artaresto felt his blood boil at the same moment he watched Curufinwë's head dropped down to rest upon the older elf's shoulder. As his shoulders began to tremble and quake as his breaths hiccupped and gasped.
As he searched out comfort with his lover's murderer...
How dare they speak of him so! How dare he mourn for my brother...
And Turkafinwë was smiling. Cruel. Cold. Vicious.
Satisfied.
How dare they believe they have won...
---
The new king looked down at them from the throne and felt his skin prickle uncomfortably, like spider legs crawling up and down bare flesh. Everything about them left a bad feeling, dirty and tainted, in the very air. He did not even want to look at them.
But they were here. And, hopefully, he would never need look upon their faces again.
Curufinwë's eyes were downcast, firmly focused upon the toes of his worn leather boots as he frowned, his visage the very reflection of his sire in a low mood. But Turkafinwë was smiling broadly and spine-chillingly as ever, just a hint of tooth showing from between bloodless lips. A monster if ever there had been one within a cage of startling beauty.
"You have called for us, my king."
It took every ounce of self-control Artaresto possessed not to curl his lip upwards in revulsion at their sight. But he still looked down upon them, as the highest of nobility looks at a flee-bitten, ragged and homeless vagabond that might sully his gloves if they shook hands. He did not bother to hide his hatred from them or from his subjects, whose mouths frothed equally with thirst for blood and vengeance for their beloved ruler now dead.
Because of them.
He did not even bother to disguise his glare.
"I did, indeed, Turkafinwë, Curufinwë, my cousins." How it reviles me to even name you as kin.
"And what is it you want from us?" Turkafinwë asked, and his voice was mocking...
Rude... Cocky... Arrogant...
Everything about Turkafinwë ruffled Artaresto's metaphorical feathers in the wrong direction. Had he been a less-civilized and more violent creature, he might have tried to strangle the silver-haired man with his bare hands right here and now for such a slight. But Artaresto was not a violent creature and had taken an oath never to harm with his own two hands unless absolutely necessary, and he would not break such a promise for the sake of these two traitors.
He had something much better in mind.
"I want you to leave this city before the night is out. Were I less of a weak-willed, honorable man, I would let my guards slaughter you like the swine you are and leave your bodies to rot in the forest for your treachery. But I would not sully my hands or the hands of my people so with your blackened blood..."
A smile bent his lips, entirely cruel and unpleasant. A satisfied reflection, resonating disturbingly...
"Thus, I would demand that you never return to Nargothrond. Neither bread nor rest will you be granted within the fences of my realm, so I speak as King of Nargothrond."
Shocked were the younger brother's eyes. Hurt, even, for a moment, before everything disappeared once more. But no pity did Artaresto feel in his heart, for he knew with whom Curufinwë's loyalty would always lie, for whom he would sell his honor and his soul for mere grains of sand in the recesses of time. No matter how the second brother might have cared for Artafindë--if at all, he had, for all their friendship and lover's bond--he was loyal absolutely to Turkafinwë.
And Turkafinwë was laughing softly before the words had even fully departed the new king's lips.
"Let it be so!" The laughter rose and rose, echoing through the halls and over the heads of the subjects, who shrank back in fright and discomfort. In wariness at the display of madness, dangerous and wild.
And then the laughter slowly faded into silence, and Turkafinwë turned away, Curufinwë at his side with a cruel smirk perched upon the lips that had last night been swollen from biting and dipped in the saltwater of tears. Looking up that face now, there was no sorrow to be seen.
Be it a mask or the truth, it mattered not. Artaresto knew the truth.
His people had no need for such emotionless, reckless and sinful betrayers.
Good riddance...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So, this is pretty much the end of this particular arc for now, at least until post-Orodreth's death. Poor baby, he still has no idea what's going on with Curufin and he still doesn't understand Celegorm and he still has no idea what was going on his Finrod's head before he died. Poor clueless baby. We'll see if the future holds anything for him... I was thinking Lothlorien, but I'm not certain...
There is Haldir, after all... Orodreth was supposed to have a kid named Haldir...
More m!preg... yummy huh?
Anyway, the song is Requiem of a Spinning World sung by a couple of the Vocaloids (don't remember which ones). For some reason, though, I really like the song despite the fact that sometimes I'm not very fond of their totally fake voices. As for the lyrics, some of it applies and some of it doesn't, and it varies person-to-person. Just enjoy the music. :3
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: b/g Finrod x Curufin
Characters: Orodreth, Curufin, Celegorm (mentions Finrod a lot)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, non-canon pairings, slash pairings, betrayal and adultery, canon character deaths, vindictiveness
Words: 1,240
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good riddance (phrase): said to express relief at being free of a troublesome or unwanted person or thing
https://www.google.com/#q=good+riddance+meaning
They did not know he was there, watching. Or maybe they did and they simply did not care.
He would not expect much from a pair of murderous traitors.
"I do not understand why you are so upset, Curufinwë." As usual, Turkafinwë's voice was low and rasping, faintly tinted with amusement and disdain. Toward the news of Artafindë's death, he was colder than the Helcaraxë.
"He was our cousin and our friend. Is that not enough reason to be upset?"
Unlike Turkafinwë, Curufinwë sounded strained, his voice rough and shuddering with distraught emotion. Artaresto could not see his angular face, half-hidden as it was within the dim lighting of the room, but he could see the trembling of his hands as they clenched taut in the fabric of his tunic. Could see the way teeth bit cruelly at his lower lip.
The brothers faced off against one another. "He was your lover, but he was my enemy," the older grumbled. "Artafindë was foolish and reckless and too soft for his own good. He was not strong enough to hold himself tall in a world of grays. We needn't have a king who has not the strength to protect and support his people in their darkest hours, and the only reason you wished for him to survive and give up his farce of a noble quest was because you needed him."
Accusation at its most blatant. Curufinwë turned away as if in shame, dark hair falling into his face and over his shoulders, hiding him nearly completely from view. And he said nothing.
In Artaresto's breast, resentment bubbled. If any reconciliation had been possible, it would have been at the cost of the younger brother's pride in openly admitting his love for Artafindë. In openly admitting some sort of commitment and respect, some sort of need and belief in honor and nobility of royal blood. And yet, though clearly Curufinwë cared, he stood by and said nothing in the face of his older sibling's disrespect and disregard. Like a puppet, a sycophant too frightened to speak out for fear of rebuke.
And then, as silken and slippery as a serpent, Turkafinwë approached his younger brother, wrapping long arms around the slightly smaller form and cradling close. Offering feigned comfort and sympathy in the face of open distraught. "But you do not need him. We do not need him. His people do not need him. And for his loss, we have gained..."
"Why would you say something like that?" Infuriated silver eyes flashed in the dark. "He loved you, Turkafinwë. Considered you as a brother."
The older brother sighed and shook his head as if in regret. But Artaresto knew there was no regret to be found in such a twisted and unpleasant creature with such an empty and shriveled heart. "Because it is true. Artafindë was weak and spineless. Good riddance."
And Artaresto felt his blood boil at the same moment he watched Curufinwë's head dropped down to rest upon the older elf's shoulder. As his shoulders began to tremble and quake as his breaths hiccupped and gasped.
As he searched out comfort with his lover's murderer...
How dare they speak of him so! How dare he mourn for my brother...
And Turkafinwë was smiling. Cruel. Cold. Vicious.
Satisfied.
How dare they believe they have won...
---
The new king looked down at them from the throne and felt his skin prickle uncomfortably, like spider legs crawling up and down bare flesh. Everything about them left a bad feeling, dirty and tainted, in the very air. He did not even want to look at them.
But they were here. And, hopefully, he would never need look upon their faces again.
Curufinwë's eyes were downcast, firmly focused upon the toes of his worn leather boots as he frowned, his visage the very reflection of his sire in a low mood. But Turkafinwë was smiling broadly and spine-chillingly as ever, just a hint of tooth showing from between bloodless lips. A monster if ever there had been one within a cage of startling beauty.
"You have called for us, my king."
It took every ounce of self-control Artaresto possessed not to curl his lip upwards in revulsion at their sight. But he still looked down upon them, as the highest of nobility looks at a flee-bitten, ragged and homeless vagabond that might sully his gloves if they shook hands. He did not bother to hide his hatred from them or from his subjects, whose mouths frothed equally with thirst for blood and vengeance for their beloved ruler now dead.
Because of them.
He did not even bother to disguise his glare.
"I did, indeed, Turkafinwë, Curufinwë, my cousins." How it reviles me to even name you as kin.
"And what is it you want from us?" Turkafinwë asked, and his voice was mocking...
Rude... Cocky... Arrogant...
Everything about Turkafinwë ruffled Artaresto's metaphorical feathers in the wrong direction. Had he been a less-civilized and more violent creature, he might have tried to strangle the silver-haired man with his bare hands right here and now for such a slight. But Artaresto was not a violent creature and had taken an oath never to harm with his own two hands unless absolutely necessary, and he would not break such a promise for the sake of these two traitors.
He had something much better in mind.
"I want you to leave this city before the night is out. Were I less of a weak-willed, honorable man, I would let my guards slaughter you like the swine you are and leave your bodies to rot in the forest for your treachery. But I would not sully my hands or the hands of my people so with your blackened blood..."
A smile bent his lips, entirely cruel and unpleasant. A satisfied reflection, resonating disturbingly...
"Thus, I would demand that you never return to Nargothrond. Neither bread nor rest will you be granted within the fences of my realm, so I speak as King of Nargothrond."
Shocked were the younger brother's eyes. Hurt, even, for a moment, before everything disappeared once more. But no pity did Artaresto feel in his heart, for he knew with whom Curufinwë's loyalty would always lie, for whom he would sell his honor and his soul for mere grains of sand in the recesses of time. No matter how the second brother might have cared for Artafindë--if at all, he had, for all their friendship and lover's bond--he was loyal absolutely to Turkafinwë.
And Turkafinwë was laughing softly before the words had even fully departed the new king's lips.
"Let it be so!" The laughter rose and rose, echoing through the halls and over the heads of the subjects, who shrank back in fright and discomfort. In wariness at the display of madness, dangerous and wild.
And then the laughter slowly faded into silence, and Turkafinwë turned away, Curufinwë at his side with a cruel smirk perched upon the lips that had last night been swollen from biting and dipped in the saltwater of tears. Looking up that face now, there was no sorrow to be seen.
Be it a mask or the truth, it mattered not. Artaresto knew the truth.
His people had no need for such emotionless, reckless and sinful betrayers.
Good riddance...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So, this is pretty much the end of this particular arc for now, at least until post-Orodreth's death. Poor baby, he still has no idea what's going on with Curufin and he still doesn't understand Celegorm and he still has no idea what was going on his Finrod's head before he died. Poor clueless baby. We'll see if the future holds anything for him... I was thinking Lothlorien, but I'm not certain...
There is Haldir, after all... Orodreth was supposed to have a kid named Haldir...
More m!preg... yummy huh?
Anyway, the song is Requiem of a Spinning World sung by a couple of the Vocaloids (don't remember which ones). For some reason, though, I really like the song despite the fact that sometimes I'm not very fond of their totally fake voices. As for the lyrics, some of it applies and some of it doesn't, and it varies person-to-person. Just enjoy the music. :3
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Contagious
Canon-compliant AU. Turgon reflects on his wife and daughter and their similarities. Surprisingly, he isn't angsting the entire time. Quenya names used (Turgon = Turukáno, Idril = Itarillë, Glorfindel = Laurefindil, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë). This is vaguely related to anything wherein Turgon and Elenwë are a pairing ("Breeze", "Tight", "Objective", that sort of stuff). And yes, Glorfindel is Elenwë's brother--maybe even her twin. Takes place in Gondolin in the first age (I would assume anyway).
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Turgon x Elenwë (past and pre)
Characters: Turgon, Idril, Elenwë, Glorfindel (mentions all the Finwions, Anairë, Fingolfin and Fingon in particular)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, canon relationships, crushes, canon character death and nostalgia, a little angst and a lot of fluff
Song: Passion
Words: 1,110
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
contagious (adjective): communicable by touching: catching; bearing contagion; exciting similar emotions or conduct in others
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/contagious
Itarillë had her mother's smile. Undeniably.
Of course, she also looked very much like Elenwë. Like mother like daughter. Had the same golden hair and soft, delicate fingers from her softhearted Vanyarin bloodline. Had the same blue eyes, crystallized droplets of the sky fallen to earth, wreathed by pale lashes.
Yet he could not help but notice something more of his wife in their child. Notice that, when she spun around--barefooted in the gardens in her flowing, pale gowns--and spotted him standing behind her, a wide grin formed upon her young, soft face. A smile so beloved and so painfully familiar beneath the golden flow of curls and reflected in deep blue eyes.
A little reflection of a past bygone...
---
As a child, Turukáno had never been particularly happy.
In fact, he had been a rather stern-faced and serious child. Everyone said so. With a father heavily entrenched in politics and family disagreements. With an older brother concerned with living up to their sire's standards and reputation. With a mother who smiled and doted and fawned but could never play with him or understand him.
Was it any surprise that he spent most of his time alone?
Was it any surprise that he was not particularly joyous?
Most of the time, he was simply lonely. But, of course, he never said much of anything to his parents or to his brother. Not to his cousins who oft visited but never stayed for long. Certainly not to his aunts or uncles or grandfather.
Not to anyone.
Until the day she came along. A day that he knew, even then, he would be unable to forget for as long as he breathed and thought and dreamed.
In the gardens of the palace, he sat minding his own business, reading in the afternoon light beneath a conveniently shady tree, enjoying the temperate weather and wondering how much longer his father planned to make them stay here in mind-numbing boredom. When his meetings and gatherings and council sessions would be finished so that they might go home to their townhouse in Tirion.
It was then that they appeared.
"Why are you hiding back here?"
Looking up and up and up, his eyes were filled with a sheen of gold. The reflection of Laurelin burning into his eyes off of two identical pairs of silken curls.
Two figures stood over him. A boy and a girl with gold hair and blue eyes, clearly brother and sister. Their faces were curious and questioning as they leaned over him, half-blocking the brilliance of the light, their dark outlines blurred at the edges.
Turukáno did not know what to even say to them, these strangely friendly children. None of the courtiers' children ever dared speak to him, let alone ask him questions so rudely.
They sat watching one another in complete silence. Until the girl-child crouched beside him in the grass, her skirts spreading in a pool of soft blue around her. Leaning over, her hair spilled against his arm as her huge blue eyes took in the words spread across the pages of his novel.
"Reading is fun and all, but it is an excellent day for playing in the gardens..."
And then she smiled at him, her pink lips stretching and dimples forming. Something about it was just so lovely, outshining easily the Trees and the stars and the holy visages of the Valar all combined into one. It left him with a curling feeling of warmth bubbling up beneath his ribs, climbing its way out of his throat in an intelligible sound of half-confused wonder.
Wide-eyed, he looked upon her, this girl and her contagious smile. And the stern-faced second son of Nolofinwë felt his lips twitch up hesitantly at the corners. Bashfully.
"Yes, I suppose it is..."
Her giggles were prettier than the twittering of the birds and the operatic poetry of the courtiers. Prettier than his mother's soft laughter and his grandmother's faint chortles.
Prettier than anything.
"I am Elenwë, and this is my brother Laurefindil. We were wondering if you wanted to come and play with us. You just looked so lonely over here all by yourself on such a lovely day that we thought perhaps you would like some company."
Her hand reached out, curling around one of his own, tugging his fingers firmly from his book and easily hoisting him upwards. Normally, Turukáno would scowl and snipe at anyone who made him lose his page in a book, but even when the cover snapped shut and the novel tumbled its way to the grass he could not summon even a droplet of annoyance.
Not in the face of her welcome.
"I... Okay..."
As if he could say "no" with her tangible joy writhing in the air, embracing and engulfing him until it was on every side of his being. Of his physical body and his cold-as-ice spirit, melting...
It was just how she was. A ray of sunshine and heat and sweetness all intertwined into something that outweighed pure gold in value and that saturated more fully with warmth than even the strongest of fires in the spirit. And the young prince felt his heart flutter.
He had never had a friend like her before.
Elenwë...
---
But, rather than the usual flashbacks of blood and screams and suffering, it was a pleasant reflection of memory. Of sweeter times in brighter places. And though the grief never vanished from the aching emptiness where a chunk of his heart cleaved out by the death of his beloved wife, Turukáno did not at that moment feel the overwhelming resentment and heartbreak that usually accompanied thoughts of her face and form.
Not of her scream just before he heard the snap of her body against the jagged ice below. Not of her shocked eyes as she reached out to grasp him but was too far away, her fingers slipping upon his cloak. But rather her honest and kind character and her willingness to reach out and help others. Her ringing laughter echoing through the gardens and her warm fingers wrapped around his hand.
Itarillë had a contagious smile. Just like hers.
And the ever-present warmth that followed the sight of those cute dimples and the wide-eyed glimmer of blue eyes and the bell-like laughter... it was there. Not a ghost or a faint and faded memory. Tactile and wrapping him up in a blanket.
He received the hug from his daughter and felt the corners of his lips twitch upward.
The stern-faced king was smiling.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Surprisingly, I felt like writing something sweet today, not something completely angsty. I think it's because Death Note has been filling up my "depressingness" quota every day. Either that or making my "horror story" quota worse than it already is. In any case, this just sort of wrote itself and I actually rather like the way it turned out.
I think it's cute, and I don't think many things are cute. Anyway, Turgon strikes me as that dorky kid with the glasses who plays the recluse sitting in the corner and always looking too serious for his own good. Sorry if that's too stereotypical, but that's how I see his child-self. I see his adult self being an ever-so-slightly stuck-up and self-righteous guy with a stick up his butt. I mean, he has a good side, but I see the arrogant side as well. His wife, I feel, would counter that part of him, but since she's dead...
Anyway, the song definitely influenced this piece as well. Passion by Utada Hikaru (from Kingdom Hearts II) is one of my absolute favorite songs. I love all the version of it (have heard many, many of them) and it never manages to get old. Plus, it just as the not-quite-happy but not sad sparkle that borders on nostalgic reflection and it just makes me so happy. And it fit so perfectly with this piece that I had to use it.
So yeah, hope you enjoy. :3
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Turgon x Elenwë (past and pre)
Characters: Turgon, Idril, Elenwë, Glorfindel (mentions all the Finwions, Anairë, Fingolfin and Fingon in particular)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, canon relationships, crushes, canon character death and nostalgia, a little angst and a lot of fluff
Song: Passion
Words: 1,110
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
contagious (adjective): communicable by touching: catching; bearing contagion; exciting similar emotions or conduct in others
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/contagious
Itarillë had her mother's smile. Undeniably.
Of course, she also looked very much like Elenwë. Like mother like daughter. Had the same golden hair and soft, delicate fingers from her softhearted Vanyarin bloodline. Had the same blue eyes, crystallized droplets of the sky fallen to earth, wreathed by pale lashes.
Yet he could not help but notice something more of his wife in their child. Notice that, when she spun around--barefooted in the gardens in her flowing, pale gowns--and spotted him standing behind her, a wide grin formed upon her young, soft face. A smile so beloved and so painfully familiar beneath the golden flow of curls and reflected in deep blue eyes.
A little reflection of a past bygone...
---
As a child, Turukáno had never been particularly happy.
In fact, he had been a rather stern-faced and serious child. Everyone said so. With a father heavily entrenched in politics and family disagreements. With an older brother concerned with living up to their sire's standards and reputation. With a mother who smiled and doted and fawned but could never play with him or understand him.
Was it any surprise that he spent most of his time alone?
Was it any surprise that he was not particularly joyous?
Most of the time, he was simply lonely. But, of course, he never said much of anything to his parents or to his brother. Not to his cousins who oft visited but never stayed for long. Certainly not to his aunts or uncles or grandfather.
Not to anyone.
Until the day she came along. A day that he knew, even then, he would be unable to forget for as long as he breathed and thought and dreamed.
In the gardens of the palace, he sat minding his own business, reading in the afternoon light beneath a conveniently shady tree, enjoying the temperate weather and wondering how much longer his father planned to make them stay here in mind-numbing boredom. When his meetings and gatherings and council sessions would be finished so that they might go home to their townhouse in Tirion.
It was then that they appeared.
"Why are you hiding back here?"
Looking up and up and up, his eyes were filled with a sheen of gold. The reflection of Laurelin burning into his eyes off of two identical pairs of silken curls.
Two figures stood over him. A boy and a girl with gold hair and blue eyes, clearly brother and sister. Their faces were curious and questioning as they leaned over him, half-blocking the brilliance of the light, their dark outlines blurred at the edges.
Turukáno did not know what to even say to them, these strangely friendly children. None of the courtiers' children ever dared speak to him, let alone ask him questions so rudely.
They sat watching one another in complete silence. Until the girl-child crouched beside him in the grass, her skirts spreading in a pool of soft blue around her. Leaning over, her hair spilled against his arm as her huge blue eyes took in the words spread across the pages of his novel.
"Reading is fun and all, but it is an excellent day for playing in the gardens..."
And then she smiled at him, her pink lips stretching and dimples forming. Something about it was just so lovely, outshining easily the Trees and the stars and the holy visages of the Valar all combined into one. It left him with a curling feeling of warmth bubbling up beneath his ribs, climbing its way out of his throat in an intelligible sound of half-confused wonder.
Wide-eyed, he looked upon her, this girl and her contagious smile. And the stern-faced second son of Nolofinwë felt his lips twitch up hesitantly at the corners. Bashfully.
"Yes, I suppose it is..."
Her giggles were prettier than the twittering of the birds and the operatic poetry of the courtiers. Prettier than his mother's soft laughter and his grandmother's faint chortles.
Prettier than anything.
"I am Elenwë, and this is my brother Laurefindil. We were wondering if you wanted to come and play with us. You just looked so lonely over here all by yourself on such a lovely day that we thought perhaps you would like some company."
Her hand reached out, curling around one of his own, tugging his fingers firmly from his book and easily hoisting him upwards. Normally, Turukáno would scowl and snipe at anyone who made him lose his page in a book, but even when the cover snapped shut and the novel tumbled its way to the grass he could not summon even a droplet of annoyance.
Not in the face of her welcome.
"I... Okay..."
As if he could say "no" with her tangible joy writhing in the air, embracing and engulfing him until it was on every side of his being. Of his physical body and his cold-as-ice spirit, melting...
It was just how she was. A ray of sunshine and heat and sweetness all intertwined into something that outweighed pure gold in value and that saturated more fully with warmth than even the strongest of fires in the spirit. And the young prince felt his heart flutter.
He had never had a friend like her before.
Elenwë...
---
But, rather than the usual flashbacks of blood and screams and suffering, it was a pleasant reflection of memory. Of sweeter times in brighter places. And though the grief never vanished from the aching emptiness where a chunk of his heart cleaved out by the death of his beloved wife, Turukáno did not at that moment feel the overwhelming resentment and heartbreak that usually accompanied thoughts of her face and form.
Not of her scream just before he heard the snap of her body against the jagged ice below. Not of her shocked eyes as she reached out to grasp him but was too far away, her fingers slipping upon his cloak. But rather her honest and kind character and her willingness to reach out and help others. Her ringing laughter echoing through the gardens and her warm fingers wrapped around his hand.
Itarillë had a contagious smile. Just like hers.
And the ever-present warmth that followed the sight of those cute dimples and the wide-eyed glimmer of blue eyes and the bell-like laughter... it was there. Not a ghost or a faint and faded memory. Tactile and wrapping him up in a blanket.
He received the hug from his daughter and felt the corners of his lips twitch upward.
The stern-faced king was smiling.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Surprisingly, I felt like writing something sweet today, not something completely angsty. I think it's because Death Note has been filling up my "depressingness" quota every day. Either that or making my "horror story" quota worse than it already is. In any case, this just sort of wrote itself and I actually rather like the way it turned out.
I think it's cute, and I don't think many things are cute. Anyway, Turgon strikes me as that dorky kid with the glasses who plays the recluse sitting in the corner and always looking too serious for his own good. Sorry if that's too stereotypical, but that's how I see his child-self. I see his adult self being an ever-so-slightly stuck-up and self-righteous guy with a stick up his butt. I mean, he has a good side, but I see the arrogant side as well. His wife, I feel, would counter that part of him, but since she's dead...
Anyway, the song definitely influenced this piece as well. Passion by Utada Hikaru (from Kingdom Hearts II) is one of my absolute favorite songs. I love all the version of it (have heard many, many of them) and it never manages to get old. Plus, it just as the not-quite-happy but not sad sparkle that borders on nostalgic reflection and it just makes me so happy. And it fit so perfectly with this piece that I had to use it.
So yeah, hope you enjoy. :3
Friday, September 27, 2013
Nightmare
Mellow Soulmate AU. What do you do when you don't want to admit the ugly truth, even to yourself? Quenya name used for Celebrimbor (Telperinquar). This is a continuation of "Heat", and thus is related to the Lust arc (including "Lust", "Disaster", "Lies" etc...). As such, it takes place during the events of The Lord of the Rings at the very end of the Third Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Sauron x Celebrimbor
Characters: Celebrimor, Sauron (mentions orcs I think... of maybe not?)
Warning: non-canon compliant, embodied Sauron, dub-con semi-explicit sexual content, dub-con marriage implied, rape, torture and mutilation heavily implied, insanity (clearly)
Song: The World
Words: 1,163
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
nightmare (noun): an evil spirit formerly thought to oppress people during sleep; a frightening dream that usually awakens the sleeper; something (as an experience, situation, or object) having the monstrous character of a nightmare or producing a feeling of anxiety or terror
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/nightmare
Some days, it was difficult to tell which world was the real one and which one was the nightmare.
The endless days of staring off into the distance with nothing to do left him aimless and empty. The sky was always a thunderous gray, layered in a choking coating of ash as lightning rained down in white-hot branches from the heavens to scorch the already-blackened and cracked earth. There was no green here, only rivers vaguely muddy and poisoned cutting across barren rock, flowing down from the towering wall of mountains fencing in this hellish realm.
Off in the distance, there was the rising peak of the solitary volcano, constantly rumbling and spewing its filth into the sky, noxious and angry like a vent for all the earth's malice and hatred. With hazy eyes, Telperinquar watched its ebb and flow of liquid earth and fire, trying not to see...
Not to see those eyes in the depths. They burned so hot, branding his flesh again and again. Filled with such heartbreaking cruelty. Such harrowing, sadistic glee...
There, on his balcony, he would sit and watch the unchanging earth rocking. Waiting patiently until the end of the day--until the sun in the west dulled and all the world fell to black as pitch around him, drawing a curtain over his senses so that he could see not even his own slender digits right before his eyes.
He did not mind, though. Not truly. Better the blackness...
Than being able to see the truth.
And then he would retreat into his chambers. Would lie upon the silken sheets of his vast ocean of a bed and languish in the nude, relishing the softness running in heavy streams over the curves and smooth angles of his bare legs. Would wait patiently until he heard the door opening, the hinges creaking ever so slightly...
Like the doors of a cell swinging wide to the patter of booted feet upon ice cold, unforgiving stones. What came next was--
The fluttering of sultry eyes and the broad smile behind bloodless lips hiding deceptive fangs. Sickly pale flesh would near-glow against the dark background, the form gliding as a ghost silently across the room to settle upon the mattress beside him. To drape itself over his body. To embrace him close and wrap tense muscles about him as a mouth descended...
To bring him to bliss.
--was the screaming and the writhing and the blood splattered everywhere. A hand closing around his throat, cutting of the sweet tang of oxygen even as soft words of passion brushed against his skin in contradiction--
In the aftermath, he would be content. Would curl into that body and feel nothing but the heat and the tenderness and the languid jelly of his lax muscles trembling in his outstretched limbs. Beside him, that presence would linger, stroking clawed fingers through his messy hair and trailing them over the twitching, shivering layers of his bare skin.
Telperinquar would fall slowly into sleep and dream...
And there was nothing but pain. Pain as never he had experienced before. Looking up into those eyes, he saw not love and devotion within their tumbling waves of flame. Saw instead the ugly reality hidden behind the gold-plated veneer. Saw that rotted, wicked spirit sneering down at him in disdain...
"Tell me," that voice always demanded.
Always, he remained silent.
And always there came more and more pain. More and more blood. More and more broken, opened and torn wounds scattered across his body until no inch seemed untouched. Until his feet gave out with the agony and his wrists screamed from the strain and his fingers clawed at their bonds, trying so desperately to escape this nightmare...
And he would wake up. The process would begin again as he arose from bed and went to bathe. Spent his day pretending that all was right in the world. That the blackened plains were something beautiful instead of stripped and gory. That the mountains were walls to protect, rather than to detain. That the phantom who visited him at night was gentle as a crooning lullaby, something closer to his soul than a mere passing bedmate. That the other really cared...
That the iridescent glow of fire-opals set in gray-cracked alabaster softened upon his form in adoration...
When he knew very well that they narrowed in calculation and glowed with hunger so predatory it left him shuddering in the wake. Left his blood racing wildly with a shot of pure adrenaline at the sudden movement of scalding eyes. Left him watching as the one he loved--and despised--more than anything drew closer and closer and closer...
Knowing he would be betrayed... That everything was a lie...
Such a beautiful lie...
The lovely, rose-tinted nightmare he did not wish to awaken from. All around him, it settled so deceptively peacefully. Allowing him to look away from his disgusting reflection.
For what did the mirrored inversion offer him but suffering and lamentation? At least there was pleasure to be had in this delusion of love. At least there was sustenance upon which his spirit could thrive in such inhospitable conditions. Against all the odds.
The lover of the Dark Lord. The prisoner locked in the topmost spires of his hideous dark tower piercing open the smoggy, toxic sky. The captive kept only for the sexual satisfaction of a sadistic rapist...
"If only you had given me what I had desired..." Soft kisses. And the feeling of runes being carved as lines of acid into his back. "If only you would give in, I would not need to harm you..."
"You see, my love, you belong to me..."
But he pushed aside those dangerous, unbalancing thoughts. Did not allow them to linger and burn their twisting and knotted images into the back of his mind. Did not allow them to mar his idealistic perception of his glorious lover with the soft, luxurious pale hair. As he looked out across the blackened plains, shielded from the blinded stars, Telperinquar thought of nothing. Nothing at all except the next moment. Nothing at all except those fiery eyes. Nothing at all except the illusion.
Nothing at all. And certainly not of a trifling golden ring that rested about his trembling finger.
Still white-hot. When the metal cooled and his shaking hand dared pull it back from tender and violently stinging skin, a charred shadow of its width was left in its wake, branded into a permanent band that no amount of scrubbing or clawing could hope to remove. A vile brand.
This was all a dream. And he was not certain he ever wished to awaken.
Not to the other harsh reality.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Too tired, sick and drugged up to add much more to this. Forgive me if the logical train of thought dwindles as the story writes itself. It makes perfect sense to me, but meh~ Whatever interpretation works for you is good for me :3.
I just love this pairing. Love making Celebrimbor suffer (I have ideas now) and love Sauron's blatant evilness. He's not a nice guy just because he wants to get his dick up Celebrimbor's ass. However, he's also still abrasive enough to stay in character. Wouldn't want him shitting butterflies and raindows or anything, now would we?
The song is The World by Nightmare. The opening theme of Death Note. You can guess pretty easily what I've been watching all day from that, I should think. Anyway, I read the English translation of these lyrics and it just made me squeal and do a small happy-dance. I personally think the pair of them fit together rather well, but it is, of course, just my opinion. No need to listen to the crazy half-asleep chick.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Sauron x Celebrimbor
Characters: Celebrimor, Sauron (mentions orcs I think... of maybe not?)
Warning: non-canon compliant, embodied Sauron, dub-con semi-explicit sexual content, dub-con marriage implied, rape, torture and mutilation heavily implied, insanity (clearly)
Song: The World
Words: 1,163
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
nightmare (noun): an evil spirit formerly thought to oppress people during sleep; a frightening dream that usually awakens the sleeper; something (as an experience, situation, or object) having the monstrous character of a nightmare or producing a feeling of anxiety or terror
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/nightmare
Some days, it was difficult to tell which world was the real one and which one was the nightmare.
The endless days of staring off into the distance with nothing to do left him aimless and empty. The sky was always a thunderous gray, layered in a choking coating of ash as lightning rained down in white-hot branches from the heavens to scorch the already-blackened and cracked earth. There was no green here, only rivers vaguely muddy and poisoned cutting across barren rock, flowing down from the towering wall of mountains fencing in this hellish realm.
Off in the distance, there was the rising peak of the solitary volcano, constantly rumbling and spewing its filth into the sky, noxious and angry like a vent for all the earth's malice and hatred. With hazy eyes, Telperinquar watched its ebb and flow of liquid earth and fire, trying not to see...
Not to see those eyes in the depths. They burned so hot, branding his flesh again and again. Filled with such heartbreaking cruelty. Such harrowing, sadistic glee...
There, on his balcony, he would sit and watch the unchanging earth rocking. Waiting patiently until the end of the day--until the sun in the west dulled and all the world fell to black as pitch around him, drawing a curtain over his senses so that he could see not even his own slender digits right before his eyes.
He did not mind, though. Not truly. Better the blackness...
Than being able to see the truth.
And then he would retreat into his chambers. Would lie upon the silken sheets of his vast ocean of a bed and languish in the nude, relishing the softness running in heavy streams over the curves and smooth angles of his bare legs. Would wait patiently until he heard the door opening, the hinges creaking ever so slightly...
Like the doors of a cell swinging wide to the patter of booted feet upon ice cold, unforgiving stones. What came next was--
The fluttering of sultry eyes and the broad smile behind bloodless lips hiding deceptive fangs. Sickly pale flesh would near-glow against the dark background, the form gliding as a ghost silently across the room to settle upon the mattress beside him. To drape itself over his body. To embrace him close and wrap tense muscles about him as a mouth descended...
To bring him to bliss.
--was the screaming and the writhing and the blood splattered everywhere. A hand closing around his throat, cutting of the sweet tang of oxygen even as soft words of passion brushed against his skin in contradiction--
In the aftermath, he would be content. Would curl into that body and feel nothing but the heat and the tenderness and the languid jelly of his lax muscles trembling in his outstretched limbs. Beside him, that presence would linger, stroking clawed fingers through his messy hair and trailing them over the twitching, shivering layers of his bare skin.
Telperinquar would fall slowly into sleep and dream...
And there was nothing but pain. Pain as never he had experienced before. Looking up into those eyes, he saw not love and devotion within their tumbling waves of flame. Saw instead the ugly reality hidden behind the gold-plated veneer. Saw that rotted, wicked spirit sneering down at him in disdain...
"Tell me," that voice always demanded.
Always, he remained silent.
And always there came more and more pain. More and more blood. More and more broken, opened and torn wounds scattered across his body until no inch seemed untouched. Until his feet gave out with the agony and his wrists screamed from the strain and his fingers clawed at their bonds, trying so desperately to escape this nightmare...
And he would wake up. The process would begin again as he arose from bed and went to bathe. Spent his day pretending that all was right in the world. That the blackened plains were something beautiful instead of stripped and gory. That the mountains were walls to protect, rather than to detain. That the phantom who visited him at night was gentle as a crooning lullaby, something closer to his soul than a mere passing bedmate. That the other really cared...
That the iridescent glow of fire-opals set in gray-cracked alabaster softened upon his form in adoration...
When he knew very well that they narrowed in calculation and glowed with hunger so predatory it left him shuddering in the wake. Left his blood racing wildly with a shot of pure adrenaline at the sudden movement of scalding eyes. Left him watching as the one he loved--and despised--more than anything drew closer and closer and closer...
Knowing he would be betrayed... That everything was a lie...
Such a beautiful lie...
The lovely, rose-tinted nightmare he did not wish to awaken from. All around him, it settled so deceptively peacefully. Allowing him to look away from his disgusting reflection.
For what did the mirrored inversion offer him but suffering and lamentation? At least there was pleasure to be had in this delusion of love. At least there was sustenance upon which his spirit could thrive in such inhospitable conditions. Against all the odds.
The lover of the Dark Lord. The prisoner locked in the topmost spires of his hideous dark tower piercing open the smoggy, toxic sky. The captive kept only for the sexual satisfaction of a sadistic rapist...
"If only you had given me what I had desired..." Soft kisses. And the feeling of runes being carved as lines of acid into his back. "If only you would give in, I would not need to harm you..."
"You see, my love, you belong to me..."
But he pushed aside those dangerous, unbalancing thoughts. Did not allow them to linger and burn their twisting and knotted images into the back of his mind. Did not allow them to mar his idealistic perception of his glorious lover with the soft, luxurious pale hair. As he looked out across the blackened plains, shielded from the blinded stars, Telperinquar thought of nothing. Nothing at all except the next moment. Nothing at all except those fiery eyes. Nothing at all except the illusion.
Nothing at all. And certainly not of a trifling golden ring that rested about his trembling finger.
Still white-hot. When the metal cooled and his shaking hand dared pull it back from tender and violently stinging skin, a charred shadow of its width was left in its wake, branded into a permanent band that no amount of scrubbing or clawing could hope to remove. A vile brand.
This was all a dream. And he was not certain he ever wished to awaken.
Not to the other harsh reality.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Too tired, sick and drugged up to add much more to this. Forgive me if the logical train of thought dwindles as the story writes itself. It makes perfect sense to me, but meh~ Whatever interpretation works for you is good for me :3.
I just love this pairing. Love making Celebrimbor suffer (I have ideas now) and love Sauron's blatant evilness. He's not a nice guy just because he wants to get his dick up Celebrimbor's ass. However, he's also still abrasive enough to stay in character. Wouldn't want him shitting butterflies and raindows or anything, now would we?
The song is The World by Nightmare. The opening theme of Death Note. You can guess pretty easily what I've been watching all day from that, I should think. Anyway, I read the English translation of these lyrics and it just made me squeal and do a small happy-dance. I personally think the pair of them fit together rather well, but it is, of course, just my opinion. No need to listen to the crazy half-asleep chick.
Fall
Kneel AU. Or is it an AU? An angel fallen from grace. If you can even say he was an angel in the first place. Sauron = Mairon and Morgoth = Melkor. Basically, this is a piece connecting "Prowl", "Nullibiety", "Kneel" and "Lust" all together into one package centered around our favorite villain from LotR. Isn't it wonderful? Takes place in the Years of the Lamps, way back before the Spring of Arda was culled by Morgoth.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or any other Tolkien works (obviously)
Pairings: none
Characters: Sauron, Morgoth (mentions Eru, other Ainur and Aulë in particular)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, some religious-ish stuff and paraphrasing of Tolkien, torture (semi-explicit) and murder (also semi-explicit), obsession based off a phobia
Song: Hope Vol II
Words: 1,197
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
fall (verb): to descend freely by the force of gravity; to drop oneself to a lower position; to drop down wounded or dead; to suffer ruin, defeat, or failure; to commit an immoral act
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fall
In the beginning of all things, the Ainur were created by Eru Ilúvatar. Each had their own purpose, their own intimate theme, and they sang together in harmony, weaving their voices as elaborate works of art to please their Father upon his gilded throne in the Timeless Halls. And the Ainur were flawless beings without true physical form to mar and without knowledge of malice to smear across their purity.
Or so the story went.
But so seldom do plots run their course as planned.
The world was created from the Ilúvatar's great themes, a reflection of the vision that disillusioned those innocent beings, and the Ainur descended upon the Void and wove together the foundations of the earth that they had seen in the climax of their great music. Brought to bear the great oceans and rivers. Ripped open the eternal blackness of ever-night and created the wide sky. Painted upon the ground a thick carpet of green to soothe the feet and crafted great works each of his or her own hand to contribute to the perfect symmetry and beauty of their creation.
Mairon had been one of those Ainur.
Once, he had been an aimless spirit wandering the labyrinth of the Timeless Halls. He had been bored and floundering under the laxity and languishing. A creature in need of a purpose left purposeless and lamed with empty hands and an empty existence.
But then there had been the vision. The sight of something tangible and touchable and breakable. Something that could be molded. Something that could allow him to complete his purpose--the task for which he had first been sculpted of the matter of the outer universe.
That was why he had descended with them. No make something.
Something. Anything. If only to shape it in his image of beauty and perfection.
He had helped the Valar create their green world with their two pillars and giant lamps. Had labored hard and long beneath his master's watchful eye, learning and growing. Superficially content with his life, because was this not what he had desired? Was it not this reality that he had lusted after?
But the more time he spent in their paradise, the more he despised it deep within his core. Like a play scripted to the letter before it even began, time itself unfolded around him, dragging him along with its ebb and flow helplessly. Mountains were formed in elegant rows, fences of the great forests and plains. Oceans were planted, and their floors were perfect in shape and curve, creating a shoreline gently sloping in graceful designs. And Mairon remained the faithful servant Aulë, kindhearted and eager to help those in need of his services.
Ignoring his false reality. Living in the illusion...
Of perfection. The Valar were searching for perfection. And in their searching, everything seemed utterly wrong. For this place--the place that, in their vision, had been so strange and alive and exotic--it was not this bland disk of predictability. This world where everything functioned so harmoniously. With a schedule and a plan. Without dissonance or disagreement.
But he followed. Mairon was nothing if not loyal, and he did as his lord and teacher instructed him. And took pleasure in the learning. In making beautiful jewelry and trinkets, twisting them to fit his wild imagination. A mere catharsis for the disquiet in his breast, so that he might turn away from the feigned indoctrination.
Until he had come along.
Melkor, who offered something so radically different. So strange and unbelievable and wicked. But something Mairon so greatly desired.
A world where he could do as he pleased whenever he pleased without another's discretion or approval. A world where lines and shapes were not laid out in perfect patterns, could be altered with the flick of a wrist and a heavily-spoken word. A world where everything was not set in stone.
A world that he could shape and change to fit his mind's eye. In any way he wished.
It was that seductive image which led him here. To the fall.
And what a fall it was. From the pedestals of hypocrisy to the realm of reality. So beautiful. So freeing. Exhilarating.
Because the world was not perfect. And Mairon was not perfect. His resentment of his peers and his masters and their innate idiocy and idealism and egocentricity was unnatural. His lust for more than what he had been given, anything he could reach out and grasp and hold tightly, was a sin. And the fleeting moments when he looked up into another's eyes and felt pure malice seep from the very core of his spirit... they were like a curse and a blessing combined.
He was not like them.
Did not mindlessly follow. Did not let go of what he desired only because supposed morality and harmony stood in his path and told him to cease his efforts. Did not shy from claiming what he wanted, no matter the cost in morality and ideology.
The first time he held down another and tortured them to the brink of insanity was like bliss upon one's tongue, flowing over and over and over the edges of their chalice until they drowned in a glorious death and were reborn anew. Mairon felt his blood writhe within his veins with excitement and passion as he listened to the screams, watched the form twisting and speckled in crimson.
As he killed for the first time another being and watched their raiment cease to rise and fall in that never-ending rhythm. As he stared at their carcass and felt shame and pride war until the bubbling golden feeling of the afterglow arose to blanket his thoughts...
So beautiful, his creations...
None could stand in his way. He would simply not allow it. Mairon would claim what was his to take and damn those who decided to stand in his way and tell him he was wrong. He would have... would take... would relish...
But he wanted more... always wanted more...
Always wanted more power.
More and more and more...
Until it consumed his every waking moment. It was that which could offer him the path to his greatest desires and wishes. To the day when the world bent before him, humbled and reshaped and reformed.
And Melkor was the key to the locked door withholding that which he wanted--that power after which he so lusted and longed with wistful abandon. Thus, Mairon embraced the hidden little part of himself that ever had he kept tucked deep within the shadows--the part that lusted to rend and tear apart all who stood in his path to creating a world in the image of his own design and the part that hungered to escape this cage painted through the air to keep him inside--and smiled coldly in the face of right and wrong.
For what were they when compared to the lingering eternity of suffering in nothingness?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm really, really gone right now. Can't you tell? Normally I publish on the day of just to publish, but not today apparently. I completely forgot. Granted, I'm rather drugged up at the moment (have a fucking sinus infection that's killing my sleep) and really want to go to bed because it's making me woozy. So I'll try to be concise, ne~
Basically, it was meant to be Sauron's "fall from grace", so to speak. Whether he was "contaminated" by Morgoth's theme in the Timeless Halls or however you want to theorize, it just culminated into this thing. And my head is spinning too much to go into greater detail.
The song is only related because of one line, and if you can't guess which I am questioning your intelligence. Hope Vol II by Apocalyptica. I hate the non-vocal version, but the one with the vocals has always been a particular favorite of mine. And it's suitably minor-ish and creepy and has questionable imagery. I thought "why not?" and went with it.
And that is all.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or any other Tolkien works (obviously)
Pairings: none
Characters: Sauron, Morgoth (mentions Eru, other Ainur and Aulë in particular)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, some religious-ish stuff and paraphrasing of Tolkien, torture (semi-explicit) and murder (also semi-explicit), obsession based off a phobia
Song: Hope Vol II
Words: 1,197
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
fall (verb): to descend freely by the force of gravity; to drop oneself to a lower position; to drop down wounded or dead; to suffer ruin, defeat, or failure; to commit an immoral act
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fall
In the beginning of all things, the Ainur were created by Eru Ilúvatar. Each had their own purpose, their own intimate theme, and they sang together in harmony, weaving their voices as elaborate works of art to please their Father upon his gilded throne in the Timeless Halls. And the Ainur were flawless beings without true physical form to mar and without knowledge of malice to smear across their purity.
Or so the story went.
But so seldom do plots run their course as planned.
The world was created from the Ilúvatar's great themes, a reflection of the vision that disillusioned those innocent beings, and the Ainur descended upon the Void and wove together the foundations of the earth that they had seen in the climax of their great music. Brought to bear the great oceans and rivers. Ripped open the eternal blackness of ever-night and created the wide sky. Painted upon the ground a thick carpet of green to soothe the feet and crafted great works each of his or her own hand to contribute to the perfect symmetry and beauty of their creation.
Mairon had been one of those Ainur.
Once, he had been an aimless spirit wandering the labyrinth of the Timeless Halls. He had been bored and floundering under the laxity and languishing. A creature in need of a purpose left purposeless and lamed with empty hands and an empty existence.
But then there had been the vision. The sight of something tangible and touchable and breakable. Something that could be molded. Something that could allow him to complete his purpose--the task for which he had first been sculpted of the matter of the outer universe.
That was why he had descended with them. No make something.
Something. Anything. If only to shape it in his image of beauty and perfection.
He had helped the Valar create their green world with their two pillars and giant lamps. Had labored hard and long beneath his master's watchful eye, learning and growing. Superficially content with his life, because was this not what he had desired? Was it not this reality that he had lusted after?
But the more time he spent in their paradise, the more he despised it deep within his core. Like a play scripted to the letter before it even began, time itself unfolded around him, dragging him along with its ebb and flow helplessly. Mountains were formed in elegant rows, fences of the great forests and plains. Oceans were planted, and their floors were perfect in shape and curve, creating a shoreline gently sloping in graceful designs. And Mairon remained the faithful servant Aulë, kindhearted and eager to help those in need of his services.
Ignoring his false reality. Living in the illusion...
Of perfection. The Valar were searching for perfection. And in their searching, everything seemed utterly wrong. For this place--the place that, in their vision, had been so strange and alive and exotic--it was not this bland disk of predictability. This world where everything functioned so harmoniously. With a schedule and a plan. Without dissonance or disagreement.
But he followed. Mairon was nothing if not loyal, and he did as his lord and teacher instructed him. And took pleasure in the learning. In making beautiful jewelry and trinkets, twisting them to fit his wild imagination. A mere catharsis for the disquiet in his breast, so that he might turn away from the feigned indoctrination.
Until he had come along.
Melkor, who offered something so radically different. So strange and unbelievable and wicked. But something Mairon so greatly desired.
A world where he could do as he pleased whenever he pleased without another's discretion or approval. A world where lines and shapes were not laid out in perfect patterns, could be altered with the flick of a wrist and a heavily-spoken word. A world where everything was not set in stone.
A world that he could shape and change to fit his mind's eye. In any way he wished.
It was that seductive image which led him here. To the fall.
And what a fall it was. From the pedestals of hypocrisy to the realm of reality. So beautiful. So freeing. Exhilarating.
Because the world was not perfect. And Mairon was not perfect. His resentment of his peers and his masters and their innate idiocy and idealism and egocentricity was unnatural. His lust for more than what he had been given, anything he could reach out and grasp and hold tightly, was a sin. And the fleeting moments when he looked up into another's eyes and felt pure malice seep from the very core of his spirit... they were like a curse and a blessing combined.
He was not like them.
Did not mindlessly follow. Did not let go of what he desired only because supposed morality and harmony stood in his path and told him to cease his efforts. Did not shy from claiming what he wanted, no matter the cost in morality and ideology.
The first time he held down another and tortured them to the brink of insanity was like bliss upon one's tongue, flowing over and over and over the edges of their chalice until they drowned in a glorious death and were reborn anew. Mairon felt his blood writhe within his veins with excitement and passion as he listened to the screams, watched the form twisting and speckled in crimson.
As he killed for the first time another being and watched their raiment cease to rise and fall in that never-ending rhythm. As he stared at their carcass and felt shame and pride war until the bubbling golden feeling of the afterglow arose to blanket his thoughts...
So beautiful, his creations...
None could stand in his way. He would simply not allow it. Mairon would claim what was his to take and damn those who decided to stand in his way and tell him he was wrong. He would have... would take... would relish...
But he wanted more... always wanted more...
Always wanted more power.
More and more and more...
Until it consumed his every waking moment. It was that which could offer him the path to his greatest desires and wishes. To the day when the world bent before him, humbled and reshaped and reformed.
And Melkor was the key to the locked door withholding that which he wanted--that power after which he so lusted and longed with wistful abandon. Thus, Mairon embraced the hidden little part of himself that ever had he kept tucked deep within the shadows--the part that lusted to rend and tear apart all who stood in his path to creating a world in the image of his own design and the part that hungered to escape this cage painted through the air to keep him inside--and smiled coldly in the face of right and wrong.
For what were they when compared to the lingering eternity of suffering in nothingness?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm really, really gone right now. Can't you tell? Normally I publish on the day of just to publish, but not today apparently. I completely forgot. Granted, I'm rather drugged up at the moment (have a fucking sinus infection that's killing my sleep) and really want to go to bed because it's making me woozy. So I'll try to be concise, ne~
Basically, it was meant to be Sauron's "fall from grace", so to speak. Whether he was "contaminated" by Morgoth's theme in the Timeless Halls or however you want to theorize, it just culminated into this thing. And my head is spinning too much to go into greater detail.
The song is only related because of one line, and if you can't guess which I am questioning your intelligence. Hope Vol II by Apocalyptica. I hate the non-vocal version, but the one with the vocals has always been a particular favorite of mine. And it's suitably minor-ish and creepy and has questionable imagery. I thought "why not?" and went with it.
And that is all.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Veneer
Defiant AU or whatever. Can you imagine how difficult it would be to make Sauron actually like you? And yet, somehow, Angrod has managed the impossible. Quenya names used (Sauron = Mairon, Morgoth = Melkor, Angrod = Angaráto). This is, of course, part of the Defiant arc. It comes after "Flowers", around the same time as "Fight" I should think. This arc is creeping along, but it's still moving. And it's fun to write in any case. Takes place in Angband in the late First Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: one-sided Sauron x Angrod, implied Morgoth x Angrod
Characters: Sauron, Angrod, Morgoth (mentions Eru, the Balrogs and orcs in general)
Warning: non-canon compliant, non-canon character survival, implied rape, obsessive creepiness, heavy sexual undertones and implications, hints at torture and other unpleasant things
Song: Had Enough
Words: 1,187
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
veneer (noun): a thin sheet of a material; a protective or ornamental facing (as of brick or stone); a superficial or deceptively attractive appearance, display, or effect: facade, gloss
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/veneer
It was positively glorious.
Mairon would almost go so far as to say he had never been so attracted to any living creature before in all his long years of existence. As he watched carefully the interaction of the eager and seductive elven slave and his disgusting, disfigured "master", he felt his lower body bubbling with wicked heat. Felt it licking its way up his spine and down to his toes. Knew his eyes must be narrowed in calculative interest and desire.
For Angaráto Arafinwion was glorious.
It was not merely the physical beauty, though he would admit that the son of Vanyarin blood was indeed a fine specimen of elven grace and refinement, his anatomy so perfectly aligned and his muscles so wonderfully engraved into the pale alabaster of his flesh. But Mairon was of the Ainur, and he knew physical perfection backward and forward, inverted and twisted around, scar-less and flawless by nature but nevertheless so disenchanting. Did not find it any more attractive than the ugly, twisted visages of the orcs or the monstrous sneers of the inhuman Balrogs.
It wasn't the defiance either, though he had at first greatly admired the spirit of the downtrodden, chained prince brought low to kneel in the filth and lick the toes of his greatest enemy in supplication. Not oft came the day that someone spat in the face of the Dark Lord and lived to tell the tale, and Mairon had been grudgingly interested, even respectful.
Even less oft was it that a slave who entered the Dark Lord's bedchambers departed and survived the night of wracking agony sure to follow. In fact, it was a feat Mairon had never witnessed. Until now.
By some miracle, untold and unholy, Angaráto had lived. Had thrived. His flush was healthy and rosy, growing fuller by the day with purpose. His eyes were brightly lit with inner flame, red-hot iron and devious cunning. His body was torn open. Cut, bruised and abused nearly to breaking. And yet there was always a smile for the master whose cruel hand inflicted only punishment upon the fragile mortal cage.
Elves were delicate glass baubles. So difficult to craft, but so easy to shatter.
And yet this creature was reinforced.
Skin bared indecently and body ravaged with vicious bites and claw-marks. And yet he reached out eagerly to touch and kiss and stroke as a lover. Draped himself over the hulking, lamed form of skin-crawling black flesh with a sultry simmer to his crooked smirk. Leaned in to tease his breath over an ear with insidious whispers upon his heady voice, raw from screaming and crying in passion.
So well did the lovely creature play the ultimate game of life, death and sacrifice.
It was a veneer of devotion that was flawless. A work of art worthy of appreciation of the highest order. There was the tincture of cruelty mixed to perfect equilibrium with the extreme masochism and fanatical devotion of a servant giving all his spirit and soul to his master. All the treasures, slaves and material gifts in the world could not manipulate the Dark Lord as words from lips stained red from violent kisses and spilled blood, lips that once had spat upon his face in revulsion.
Beneath that facade, though, Mairon knew there was hatred of the purest form lurking. That the elf felt the same disgust slithering beneath the thin membrane of his raiment each day that did Mairon. And yet when the Lieutenant faltered beneath a branding touch or a stabbing word of his master, wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle or take a knife to the egotistical bastard's bared throat, the golden-haired slave just smiled and bent with the blow, seemingly unaffected in his permanent presence at the feet of his lord. An animal eager for punishment and reward at his master's discretion.
Reeling said master in further and further with that innocuous image. A spider dressed as a mouse, and its web lusting ambitiously after large and potentially dangerous prey.
Angaráto hated the Dark Lord beneath that smile and those lust-driven, glazed eyes. Beneath those low and soothingly crooned words. Beneath the soft-spoken half-truths and white lies and the coy suggestions. Beneath the tender caresses and soft kisses and blood-drawing nails. Hated Melkor.
And yet still he had the Dark Lord--the most powerful being created by Eru in the days of old--eating out of the palm of his hand like a tamed lion. All the elf need do was sit upon the Dark Lord's lap, wrapping those toned arms delicately about that monstrous body, folding legs intimately about wide hips in offering, and the Dark Lord would eagerly give anything and everything he desired.
Had Mairon actually been loyal to his "master", he would have found such a display to be disgraceful and disturbing. But this... this show... this game... was amazing. Worthy of his attention. Worthy of his admiration.
Each day longer he watched the elf evolve into the perfect pet upon an iron and ebony stage, watched the same elf devolve into a cold-eyed and vengeful spirit behind the curtains, Mairon was more entranced. Wanted more and more to reach out in pleasure and not in pain...
To have that veneer turned upon him and not his master. To experience this recherche being to the fullest in the midst of ecstasy and agony, taste that aged wine upon his tongue no matter that it might be poisoned.
Glorious... absolutely glorious...
For elves were not meant to be so dark and stained and yet flourish as though beneath the sunlight and open sky. They were meant to be flowers that withered in the face of toxin, leaves crumpling and browning and falling to earth as their petals curled into fetal position and wept. They were not made for carnal satiation and torment and sin. They were not made for this blackest form of manipulation and seduction and blasphemy.
And yet so well did Angaráto play the part. The part of a flower burning red and black from shadow but growing only taller and hungrier, more eager for fresh meat to satiate its violent disposition. A flower that had learned to be ruthless, heartless and carnivorous.
Perhaps too well...
Ai! the beauty of corruption... The permeating stench... The intoxicating addiction...
So well did he play the game. By day the faithful dog and by night the backstabbing traitor. But Mairon felt his visceral innards coil tighter. Because, even with that thin layer, gilded and chained, to protect that tender, vulnerable flesh beneath, there was no kindness or weakness to be found under the shell. No delicate, broken creature. Only something reborn from the ashes of utter destruction, formed anew into a form unlike that which came before...
Angaráto could pretend all he wanted, but Mairon could smell it... was attracted with a sanity-defying pull...
To that scent of a kindred spirit.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yeah, not really sure where this one is going, but you know that my Sauron is a bit free with his affections. Which makes his thing with Celebrimbor later even sadder, right? But this isn't about them. It's about Angrod and his awesomeness in the eyes of evil bad guys. Anything to live another day, right? At least someone can appreciate the effort it takes, yeah?
I actually rather like this take on Sauron's general character. Evil, but capable of appreciation under the correct circumstances. He seems to find points of correlation with elves quite often, which is scary if you think about it too much, ne~ I really just enjoy writing him, though. And eager to continue Angrod's arc, since we now have an almost "ending" point from "Difficult".
The song is mostly just an impression. I don't even actually know what the lyrics are and don't particularly care. I just liked the way it sounded as I was writing the piece. Of course, there are three or four songs I'm constantly listening to and most of them just didn't fit, so I found one that did. :3. Had Enough by Breaking Benjamin just has the right texture.
And it made me happy. You know how it goes.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: one-sided Sauron x Angrod, implied Morgoth x Angrod
Characters: Sauron, Angrod, Morgoth (mentions Eru, the Balrogs and orcs in general)
Warning: non-canon compliant, non-canon character survival, implied rape, obsessive creepiness, heavy sexual undertones and implications, hints at torture and other unpleasant things
Song: Had Enough
Words: 1,187
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
veneer (noun): a thin sheet of a material; a protective or ornamental facing (as of brick or stone); a superficial or deceptively attractive appearance, display, or effect: facade, gloss
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/veneer
It was positively glorious.
Mairon would almost go so far as to say he had never been so attracted to any living creature before in all his long years of existence. As he watched carefully the interaction of the eager and seductive elven slave and his disgusting, disfigured "master", he felt his lower body bubbling with wicked heat. Felt it licking its way up his spine and down to his toes. Knew his eyes must be narrowed in calculative interest and desire.
For Angaráto Arafinwion was glorious.
It was not merely the physical beauty, though he would admit that the son of Vanyarin blood was indeed a fine specimen of elven grace and refinement, his anatomy so perfectly aligned and his muscles so wonderfully engraved into the pale alabaster of his flesh. But Mairon was of the Ainur, and he knew physical perfection backward and forward, inverted and twisted around, scar-less and flawless by nature but nevertheless so disenchanting. Did not find it any more attractive than the ugly, twisted visages of the orcs or the monstrous sneers of the inhuman Balrogs.
It wasn't the defiance either, though he had at first greatly admired the spirit of the downtrodden, chained prince brought low to kneel in the filth and lick the toes of his greatest enemy in supplication. Not oft came the day that someone spat in the face of the Dark Lord and lived to tell the tale, and Mairon had been grudgingly interested, even respectful.
Even less oft was it that a slave who entered the Dark Lord's bedchambers departed and survived the night of wracking agony sure to follow. In fact, it was a feat Mairon had never witnessed. Until now.
By some miracle, untold and unholy, Angaráto had lived. Had thrived. His flush was healthy and rosy, growing fuller by the day with purpose. His eyes were brightly lit with inner flame, red-hot iron and devious cunning. His body was torn open. Cut, bruised and abused nearly to breaking. And yet there was always a smile for the master whose cruel hand inflicted only punishment upon the fragile mortal cage.
Elves were delicate glass baubles. So difficult to craft, but so easy to shatter.
And yet this creature was reinforced.
Skin bared indecently and body ravaged with vicious bites and claw-marks. And yet he reached out eagerly to touch and kiss and stroke as a lover. Draped himself over the hulking, lamed form of skin-crawling black flesh with a sultry simmer to his crooked smirk. Leaned in to tease his breath over an ear with insidious whispers upon his heady voice, raw from screaming and crying in passion.
So well did the lovely creature play the ultimate game of life, death and sacrifice.
It was a veneer of devotion that was flawless. A work of art worthy of appreciation of the highest order. There was the tincture of cruelty mixed to perfect equilibrium with the extreme masochism and fanatical devotion of a servant giving all his spirit and soul to his master. All the treasures, slaves and material gifts in the world could not manipulate the Dark Lord as words from lips stained red from violent kisses and spilled blood, lips that once had spat upon his face in revulsion.
Beneath that facade, though, Mairon knew there was hatred of the purest form lurking. That the elf felt the same disgust slithering beneath the thin membrane of his raiment each day that did Mairon. And yet when the Lieutenant faltered beneath a branding touch or a stabbing word of his master, wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle or take a knife to the egotistical bastard's bared throat, the golden-haired slave just smiled and bent with the blow, seemingly unaffected in his permanent presence at the feet of his lord. An animal eager for punishment and reward at his master's discretion.
Reeling said master in further and further with that innocuous image. A spider dressed as a mouse, and its web lusting ambitiously after large and potentially dangerous prey.
Angaráto hated the Dark Lord beneath that smile and those lust-driven, glazed eyes. Beneath those low and soothingly crooned words. Beneath the soft-spoken half-truths and white lies and the coy suggestions. Beneath the tender caresses and soft kisses and blood-drawing nails. Hated Melkor.
And yet still he had the Dark Lord--the most powerful being created by Eru in the days of old--eating out of the palm of his hand like a tamed lion. All the elf need do was sit upon the Dark Lord's lap, wrapping those toned arms delicately about that monstrous body, folding legs intimately about wide hips in offering, and the Dark Lord would eagerly give anything and everything he desired.
Had Mairon actually been loyal to his "master", he would have found such a display to be disgraceful and disturbing. But this... this show... this game... was amazing. Worthy of his attention. Worthy of his admiration.
Each day longer he watched the elf evolve into the perfect pet upon an iron and ebony stage, watched the same elf devolve into a cold-eyed and vengeful spirit behind the curtains, Mairon was more entranced. Wanted more and more to reach out in pleasure and not in pain...
To have that veneer turned upon him and not his master. To experience this recherche being to the fullest in the midst of ecstasy and agony, taste that aged wine upon his tongue no matter that it might be poisoned.
Glorious... absolutely glorious...
For elves were not meant to be so dark and stained and yet flourish as though beneath the sunlight and open sky. They were meant to be flowers that withered in the face of toxin, leaves crumpling and browning and falling to earth as their petals curled into fetal position and wept. They were not made for carnal satiation and torment and sin. They were not made for this blackest form of manipulation and seduction and blasphemy.
And yet so well did Angaráto play the part. The part of a flower burning red and black from shadow but growing only taller and hungrier, more eager for fresh meat to satiate its violent disposition. A flower that had learned to be ruthless, heartless and carnivorous.
Perhaps too well...
Ai! the beauty of corruption... The permeating stench... The intoxicating addiction...
So well did he play the game. By day the faithful dog and by night the backstabbing traitor. But Mairon felt his visceral innards coil tighter. Because, even with that thin layer, gilded and chained, to protect that tender, vulnerable flesh beneath, there was no kindness or weakness to be found under the shell. No delicate, broken creature. Only something reborn from the ashes of utter destruction, formed anew into a form unlike that which came before...
Angaráto could pretend all he wanted, but Mairon could smell it... was attracted with a sanity-defying pull...
To that scent of a kindred spirit.
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Yeah, not really sure where this one is going, but you know that my Sauron is a bit free with his affections. Which makes his thing with Celebrimbor later even sadder, right? But this isn't about them. It's about Angrod and his awesomeness in the eyes of evil bad guys. Anything to live another day, right? At least someone can appreciate the effort it takes, yeah?
I actually rather like this take on Sauron's general character. Evil, but capable of appreciation under the correct circumstances. He seems to find points of correlation with elves quite often, which is scary if you think about it too much, ne~ I really just enjoy writing him, though. And eager to continue Angrod's arc, since we now have an almost "ending" point from "Difficult".
The song is mostly just an impression. I don't even actually know what the lyrics are and don't particularly care. I just liked the way it sounded as I was writing the piece. Of course, there are three or four songs I'm constantly listening to and most of them just didn't fit, so I found one that did. :3. Had Enough by Breaking Benjamin just has the right texture.
And it made me happy. You know how it goes.
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