Canon compliant AU. Their love was without foundation, a fire eating away at a wooden building until naught but scorched earth remained. And, without fuel, that fire had finally gone out. Quenya name used for Fëanor (Fëanáro). This is basically part of the arc dealing with "Vital", "Puzzle", "On My Mind", "Tactile", "Muse" and "Burn". Mostly "Burn" to be honest. They're kind of companion pieces. Takes place at Formenos before the Darkening of Valinor.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Fëanor x Nerdanel
Characters: Fëanor, Nerdanel (mentions the Fëanorions, Finwë and Míriel)
Warning: canon compliant AU, dysfunctional relationships, sexual undertones, obsessive behaviors, depression and crying
Note about the song: I am calling it Aftermath because it doesn't really have a name. It's done by a no-name composer for a BBC special, and its the background music for a video clip. So there's dialogue. But I love the music. So just listen.
Song: Aftermath
Words: 1,253
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space (noun): a limited extent in one, two, or three dimensions; the distance from other people or things that a person needs in order to remain comfortable; a boundless three-dimensional extent in which objects and events occur and have relative position and direction
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/space
She thought he didn't notice the changes. But little escaped the sight of Fëanáro.
Closely, he watched her, his wife. Followed her with his eyes as she rose wild-haired and dark-eyed each morning, her feet near to dragging across the floor as she traversed the cushioned rug to reach her vanity. Watched the way her eyes flickered toward the mirror whilst she brushed her dulled hair and away at the flicker of his eyes drawing near, as though the reflection were obscene or frightening. Observed her downcast eyes as they sat alone at the breakfast table and hour later, positioned at opposite ends of a structure made for a family of nine.
No longer would he even bother to say anything. Any words that escaped his lips would inevitably be shoved away with a dainty affirmative or denial without elaboration or consideration. Met with coldness.
She would then escape his presence--as though breathing the same air as he was actually painfully burning her inner throat and expanding lungs--and hide away in her studio, spending day after day sculpting as though her very life depended upon the movement of her hands and the distraction of her mind. Sometimes he would hide just beyond the doorway, peering in from around the frame or through the crack of the half-closed door, watching her in her masterful glory and crumbling descent. Waiting for something. Some sign of the woman he recalled in his memories, hot-tempered and vivacious.
But all she ever did was stare into space, her body running on automatic.
None of the fire within her that had once so left him enamored--that so incited his passions in those young days of bliss--seemed to be left. Nothing at all. Except space.
Lying between them as a chasm. Too wide to cross and too deep to climb.
And he could not deny that it was, in part, his own fault. Fëanáro could not blame Nerdanel for her withdrawal or her anxiety. He could not fault her for wilting beneath his crushing personality, writhing helplessly beneath the heat of his spirit.
Could not deny that he was not the ideal spouse. Not the man he should have been.
Now they barely interacted other than to lie side by side in the dark and breathe.
Without the vivid wildfire of sexual attraction to burn away the problems that had always lingered underneath the heated kisses and fiery touches, they seemed only to pull farther and farther apart, their bond stretching until its thread was at breaking tension. All those whispered entreaties and softly sighed words of caution and advice that always Fëanáro had brushed aside with naught but the throaty gasp of her name and the touch of his hand upon her bare skin, they all came back as phantoms in the night, their weight pulling them in opposite directions with cruel force.
Whispering. And yet for all that they told him he was foolish, Fëanáro dared not admit folly. Dared not reach out and grasp her hand.
Perhaps it was pride. Or perhaps he was not certain who she even was.
His wife and lover. The mother of his children.
An artist. Wise beyond her years. Filled with passion. But nonetheless someone he barely knew at all. The lady of his house, the mistress keeping his life, and yet...
And yet the call of his own craftsmanship pulled and tugged and twisted. The treachery of his half-brothers ripped through any thoughts of settling peacefully in the country, darkening his mind with hate and envy. The obsessive need to be near to his father--the man who had raised him; the only person who undeniably and unconditionally cared for him--and to touch the light that was all he remembered of his mother.
To create and immortalize those sweet memories... his sweet muse fulfilled...
Everything seemed determined to pull him away from her. And, without children to care for--to father and mother--Nerdanel would not reach out and risk his burn, not even in desperation. Perhaps she did not wish to.
And there he stood for the briefest moment in time, staring at her back as she worked. The smooth motions of her hands upon clay, applying pressure to compress the malleable substance into desired shape and form, curving gracefully with ease. The fall of her hair, fire woven into the finest of silken threads and braided against the slender curve of her spine and the dip between her breast and hip upon her right. The tilt of her head as she hummed in consideration, such a familiar and foreign expression accenting her jaw and the pale expanse of her throat.
She did not even notice him.
And again he was tempted. Tempted to move forth and touch her. Kiss her and demand her attention. Take them to the bedchambers and--
But in the end nothing would have changed. In the morning her eyes would still be distant and empty, unloving and uncaring. Still so very tired and disheartened as she glanced discretely into the mirror, capturing his image into her mind and looking away, as though she could hardly bear the sight.
Even as he watched, she paused. Her fingertips rested momentarily against the creation, hands trembling ever so faintly.
Until they pressed against the shape that he could not make out, crushing it into pulp. Into a deformed ball of crushed muse and dream. The strange woman that was his wife dug her fingers into the clay, her head falling forward to rest upon her hands.
And her shoulders trembled. From the distance between them, he could hear the faint trill of her cries.
It was then that he should have reached out. Not in lust. Not in pride. But in the purest form of affection and comfort. As one friend to another, a confident and protector and a willing shoulder. A safe haven within which she could hide her deepest worries, her most tender vulnerabilities, and feel secure in his keeping.
In unconditional love.
But the space sat heavy and thick between them. Fëanáro was her lover and husband. Her lord and the father of her children. The man with whom she reached the towering heights of pleasure and yet could not speak to or embrace tightly. Could not hold close for no reason other than to languish in the togetherness and comfort of being wrapped in his warm being. There was always that niggling fear and hesitation and resentment of the heat and the wildness.
Instead of drawing closer, of taking her into his arms and rocking her sorrows and terrors away to the low hum of his voice in a childhood lullaby, he backed away from her image. Turned upon his heel and faced the opposite direction, unwilling to stand immobile and watch her weeping alone and in private but equally unable to close the distance between them, that lingering silence that never seemed to cease its screaming and thrashing.
And then he walked away. From her. From them. Not daring to look back.
Giving up. For the first time.
It ended like he always knew it would end. Alone and in silence. Two pieces that had never quite fit together finally cracking and falling apart.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Morgue
Modern AU. Welcome to an entirely new variety of creepy. I haven't created a "mortal" name for Aegnor yet, so he is not referred to by a name at all in the story. Just assume he has one. Also, reappearance of our newest OFC friend Sarah. Hope you don't mind. And look, plot is being born! Isn't that just disturbing? This is a continuation (and not of the funny variety) of "Machine". Takes place in modern day somewhere.
PS: I know nothing about morgues. All of this was cooked up in my sleep-deprived brain, so forgive any inaccuracies in supposed realism.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but some of this shit is definitely mine
Pairings: past Aegnor x Andreth
Characters: Aegnor, Sarah (mentions Andreth and other random humans)
Warning: non-canon compliant, OFC warning, canon character death, obsessive behaviors/OCD, obsession with death/dead people, suicidal thoughts, rather disturbing and ambiguous content
Song: Imitation Black
Words: 1,438
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morgue (noun): a place where the bodies of dead persons are kept temporarily pending identification or release for burial or autopsy
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/morgue
Why he was allowing this foolishness, Aegnor could not have said.
It wasn't love or friendship. It wasn't even affection.
Maybe it was loneliness or boredom that urged him to once more entangle himself into the realm of mortality after thousands of years of floating in its midst like a ghost. Millennia spent glancing at each face knowing he would never see it a second time, because it belonged to a mortal man or woman, humans who would pass beyond the edges of the world in but a handful of years. Beyond his sight and beyond his reach.
Truly, he envied them. Dying once had given him no rest. No cadence to the harmony of suffering.
He learned not to involve himself with mortals. Not to get attached. Not to reach out and touch their lives. Never to allow himself to love them, for they were fleeting blooms, dying upon the first frost of winter never to be resurrected. Dead.
And yet there was that woman. That annoying, infuriating, stubborn to pigheadedness woman who would not leave him alone.
"Would it kill you to have friends?"
She had no idea.
"So, this is where you work."
Both disgusted and confused did she sound as she took in the sight laid bare before her gaze. Admittedly, the corner building was small and nondescript, rather dreary and disconsolate with its gray walls and lack of windows. But then, few had reason to be cheery in a building full of corpses.
It was a morgue, after all.
"You said you wanted to know," he grumbled.
"I was expecting... Well, I wasn't expecting this." Her hands flailed toward the door and the neat, bland sign above. "I thought, you know, that you would be an athletic trainer or lifeguard or something! But you actually... you actually work in a building that keeps tabs on dead bodies?"
Of course she would find it unsettling. Even more so if she knew that he enjoyed it.
"Are you going to come inside or not?"
Most humans were uncomfortable at the thought of spending time around rotting corpses in a dim room smelling heavily of formaldehyde and bodily fluids. Sarah was no different. Inside, she crept upon tiptoe as if any sound might wake the dead hiding--at least to her vivid imagination--behind every door and corner they passed as they traversed the short hallways, heading back toward the offices.
Bypassing the room where the dead were kept, each locked away in their own cabinet awaiting a trip to the examination table or their final journey to their resting places for all eternity. The itch to go inside was nearly overwhelming, nearly causing Aegnor's sure steps to falter.
But he resisted. Led his companion instead to his small cube-like office packed tightly in the back of the building. Bare and militarized with only the necessities--pens, a stapler, a computer and a locked desk drawer. Not a paper loose. Not an object out of place. It sat before him so beautifully, the image of an office that belonged to no one. The image of an office that had never even been occupied.
"Do you always keep everything so... clean?" The word came out lilted, as if she had meant to say something stronger and ruder. Aegnor would not have minded.
If she had seen the inside of his apartment, she probably would have accused him of being a machine.
"Some people do not enjoy wallowing in their own messes," he commented instead of telling her exactly why he meticulously rearranged "his" belongings in such a strange manner. "It is perfectly normal for humans to develop personal routines."
"This isn't routine. This is creepy." Her fingers ran over the tiny window's sill and across the tops of the file cabinets as if searching for dust. But she would find none; he had dusted just yesterday evening. "Normal people don't sterilize their offices. Isn't this a bit excessive?"
When one was as obsessed with death as he, nothing was beyond the scope of soothing the burning ache. Working in a morgue to be close to still bodies. Cleaning every surface to the point of spotlessness to remove prints and oils. Carefully arranging each room so that no sign of an occupant remained behind when he walked away and turned out the lights.
Staring off into space and ignoring the world, eating and drinking only as a function of necessity. Avoiding all human interaction--after all, who talked to dead men?--and locking himself away in this fortress of cadavers and chemicals.
Caressing almost lovingly the gray, slack faces. Running his fingers over chests that no longer rose and fell. Checking for a pulse that would never pound again.
Envy and fascination. Longing and bitterness. Agonizing wistfulness.
Definitely obsession.
After all, who but an obsessed man lived his life in a morgue full of dead memories and dead dreams, wishing he could curl up like these lucky corpses and rot away? Wishing he could pass to where they passed...
To where she--
But no mortal could understand this. "Well, is your curiosity satisfied?" he asked quietly.
"I guess..." Her hands fell to her sides and her eyes narrowed. They searched over all the surfaces, across the hardwood desk and the file cabinets arranged side-by-side in a row. Staring briefly at the chair straightened at a perfect ninety-degree angle to face the blank computer screen where it sat perfectly at the center of the desktop. He measured it every day just to be certain of its accuracy and precision.
And then her eyes roved back to him. "But why here? Isn't there anything else you want to do?"
No.
"I like my job."
"Hanging out with dead guys."
"If you wish to put it so tastelessly, then yes. I enjoy the company of the dead."
It is the closest I will ever get to becoming one of them. After all, a bullet or a knife or a cup of poison would only send me to the Halls of the Waiting. To rebirth. To suffering and loneliness and gray. Such is the blessing and curse of being of the Firstborn. Of Eä wholly and completely.
He just wanted to see her again. To reach out and touch her face.
To feel her hair run through his fingers and watch her dark brows crinkle with warmth and laughter. To trace against her white skin with his fingertips and brush her eyes closed with the pads of each digit, soothing away her worries.
To hold her again against him... forever...
"Are you... I mean... Are you okay?"
Aegnor had not even noticed how he stared blankly at the far wall. How long had he been staring, thinking about her?
Again and again and again...
"Fine," he snapped, crossing his arms. Not bothering to explain. "Let us depart."
For no mortal, even this strangely accepting and naturally curious creature pestering him incessantly, could understand how he felt. The Secondborn feared death, ran from it in terror and fought against its iron grip to their very last drop of blood and very last gulp of air, clawing and thrashing and screaming for freedom. For what they perceived as a gift more tempting, more succulent.
They did not understand the greatness of the gift that they had been given. The gift he so very much coveted and desired.
But would never possess. No matter how much he might pretend.
Aegnor did not desire to be alive.
And yet the very source of all his suffering--attachment to a person dying slowly each day and hour and minute, who might be killed in an accident this very day or die abed in eighty years--stood beside him. Affirming that he breathed sweet air every moment. Reminding that he could still reach out and touch the living. Cruelly reiterating that he was not dead.
Why he allowed himself to even speak with her, he could scarcely understand.
Maybe it was purely mutual curiosity that allowed him to tolerate her presence. Or maybe it was the need to drive her away through strangeness or fear of his senility. To garner the final affirmation from the one person who had noticed his existence amongst the tangle of individual lives flooding the streets of the city.
After all, who could possibly love a dead man walking?
Scoffing, he led her away.
This foolishness would not last long. In the end, she would be just the same as the rest.
PS: I know nothing about morgues. All of this was cooked up in my sleep-deprived brain, so forgive any inaccuracies in supposed realism.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but some of this shit is definitely mine
Pairings: past Aegnor x Andreth
Characters: Aegnor, Sarah (mentions Andreth and other random humans)
Warning: non-canon compliant, OFC warning, canon character death, obsessive behaviors/OCD, obsession with death/dead people, suicidal thoughts, rather disturbing and ambiguous content
Song: Imitation Black
Words: 1,438
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morgue (noun): a place where the bodies of dead persons are kept temporarily pending identification or release for burial or autopsy
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/morgue
Why he was allowing this foolishness, Aegnor could not have said.
It wasn't love or friendship. It wasn't even affection.
Maybe it was loneliness or boredom that urged him to once more entangle himself into the realm of mortality after thousands of years of floating in its midst like a ghost. Millennia spent glancing at each face knowing he would never see it a second time, because it belonged to a mortal man or woman, humans who would pass beyond the edges of the world in but a handful of years. Beyond his sight and beyond his reach.
Truly, he envied them. Dying once had given him no rest. No cadence to the harmony of suffering.
He learned not to involve himself with mortals. Not to get attached. Not to reach out and touch their lives. Never to allow himself to love them, for they were fleeting blooms, dying upon the first frost of winter never to be resurrected. Dead.
And yet there was that woman. That annoying, infuriating, stubborn to pigheadedness woman who would not leave him alone.
"Would it kill you to have friends?"
She had no idea.
"So, this is where you work."
Both disgusted and confused did she sound as she took in the sight laid bare before her gaze. Admittedly, the corner building was small and nondescript, rather dreary and disconsolate with its gray walls and lack of windows. But then, few had reason to be cheery in a building full of corpses.
It was a morgue, after all.
"You said you wanted to know," he grumbled.
"I was expecting... Well, I wasn't expecting this." Her hands flailed toward the door and the neat, bland sign above. "I thought, you know, that you would be an athletic trainer or lifeguard or something! But you actually... you actually work in a building that keeps tabs on dead bodies?"
Of course she would find it unsettling. Even more so if she knew that he enjoyed it.
"Are you going to come inside or not?"
Most humans were uncomfortable at the thought of spending time around rotting corpses in a dim room smelling heavily of formaldehyde and bodily fluids. Sarah was no different. Inside, she crept upon tiptoe as if any sound might wake the dead hiding--at least to her vivid imagination--behind every door and corner they passed as they traversed the short hallways, heading back toward the offices.
Bypassing the room where the dead were kept, each locked away in their own cabinet awaiting a trip to the examination table or their final journey to their resting places for all eternity. The itch to go inside was nearly overwhelming, nearly causing Aegnor's sure steps to falter.
But he resisted. Led his companion instead to his small cube-like office packed tightly in the back of the building. Bare and militarized with only the necessities--pens, a stapler, a computer and a locked desk drawer. Not a paper loose. Not an object out of place. It sat before him so beautifully, the image of an office that belonged to no one. The image of an office that had never even been occupied.
"Do you always keep everything so... clean?" The word came out lilted, as if she had meant to say something stronger and ruder. Aegnor would not have minded.
If she had seen the inside of his apartment, she probably would have accused him of being a machine.
"Some people do not enjoy wallowing in their own messes," he commented instead of telling her exactly why he meticulously rearranged "his" belongings in such a strange manner. "It is perfectly normal for humans to develop personal routines."
"This isn't routine. This is creepy." Her fingers ran over the tiny window's sill and across the tops of the file cabinets as if searching for dust. But she would find none; he had dusted just yesterday evening. "Normal people don't sterilize their offices. Isn't this a bit excessive?"
When one was as obsessed with death as he, nothing was beyond the scope of soothing the burning ache. Working in a morgue to be close to still bodies. Cleaning every surface to the point of spotlessness to remove prints and oils. Carefully arranging each room so that no sign of an occupant remained behind when he walked away and turned out the lights.
Staring off into space and ignoring the world, eating and drinking only as a function of necessity. Avoiding all human interaction--after all, who talked to dead men?--and locking himself away in this fortress of cadavers and chemicals.
Caressing almost lovingly the gray, slack faces. Running his fingers over chests that no longer rose and fell. Checking for a pulse that would never pound again.
Envy and fascination. Longing and bitterness. Agonizing wistfulness.
Definitely obsession.
After all, who but an obsessed man lived his life in a morgue full of dead memories and dead dreams, wishing he could curl up like these lucky corpses and rot away? Wishing he could pass to where they passed...
To where she--
But no mortal could understand this. "Well, is your curiosity satisfied?" he asked quietly.
"I guess..." Her hands fell to her sides and her eyes narrowed. They searched over all the surfaces, across the hardwood desk and the file cabinets arranged side-by-side in a row. Staring briefly at the chair straightened at a perfect ninety-degree angle to face the blank computer screen where it sat perfectly at the center of the desktop. He measured it every day just to be certain of its accuracy and precision.
And then her eyes roved back to him. "But why here? Isn't there anything else you want to do?"
No.
"I like my job."
"Hanging out with dead guys."
"If you wish to put it so tastelessly, then yes. I enjoy the company of the dead."
It is the closest I will ever get to becoming one of them. After all, a bullet or a knife or a cup of poison would only send me to the Halls of the Waiting. To rebirth. To suffering and loneliness and gray. Such is the blessing and curse of being of the Firstborn. Of Eä wholly and completely.
He just wanted to see her again. To reach out and touch her face.
To feel her hair run through his fingers and watch her dark brows crinkle with warmth and laughter. To trace against her white skin with his fingertips and brush her eyes closed with the pads of each digit, soothing away her worries.
To hold her again against him... forever...
"Are you... I mean... Are you okay?"
Aegnor had not even noticed how he stared blankly at the far wall. How long had he been staring, thinking about her?
Again and again and again...
"Fine," he snapped, crossing his arms. Not bothering to explain. "Let us depart."
For no mortal, even this strangely accepting and naturally curious creature pestering him incessantly, could understand how he felt. The Secondborn feared death, ran from it in terror and fought against its iron grip to their very last drop of blood and very last gulp of air, clawing and thrashing and screaming for freedom. For what they perceived as a gift more tempting, more succulent.
They did not understand the greatness of the gift that they had been given. The gift he so very much coveted and desired.
But would never possess. No matter how much he might pretend.
Aegnor did not desire to be alive.
And yet the very source of all his suffering--attachment to a person dying slowly each day and hour and minute, who might be killed in an accident this very day or die abed in eighty years--stood beside him. Affirming that he breathed sweet air every moment. Reminding that he could still reach out and touch the living. Cruelly reiterating that he was not dead.
Why he allowed himself to even speak with her, he could scarcely understand.
Maybe it was purely mutual curiosity that allowed him to tolerate her presence. Or maybe it was the need to drive her away through strangeness or fear of his senility. To garner the final affirmation from the one person who had noticed his existence amongst the tangle of individual lives flooding the streets of the city.
After all, who could possibly love a dead man walking?
Scoffing, he led her away.
This foolishness would not last long. In the end, she would be just the same as the rest.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Stars
Canon-compliant AU. The Awakening of the first elves in Cuiviénen. I would have made this longer, but I'm tired and still have crap to get done for tomorrow (technically today as I'm writing this). Ah well, heavy allusions to sex. Really, they wake up and meet naked, what can you expect? It's not like they have perceptions of it being "wrong" or "dirty". Anyway, otherwise it's just a rambling of sorts. Takes place in Cuiviénen in the Years of the Trees.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Imin x Iminyë (not going w/ the version where Ingwë is first)
Characters: Imin, Iminyë, trees, wind
Warning: canon-compliant AU, rambling dialogue, vague romance, sexual content (semi-explicit at most)
Song: Rising Dawn
Words: 967
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star (noun): a natural luminous body visible in the sky especially at night; a conventional figure with five or more points that represents a star; something resembling a star
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/star
The first time he opened his eyes, all he saw was darkness.
Saw darkness. Was embraced by chill. Felt the touch of softness against his skin. But against his back the earth was hard and uneven.
And then there was sound.
Above, his eyes drifted. To the dark limbs stretched overhead, overreaching arms groaning as they moved, a thousand leaves whispering in their tiny, crackling voices. Wide-eyed, he stared, watching the rustle move from one tree to the next, the tiny green wings dancing and speaking, calling and singing.
Follow... follow...
All around him, the world was a wonder. The grass was so soft that it tickled the bottom of his feet wherever they wandered, a million tiny fingers caressing. Sensations that left him reeling, curiously reaching down to scrape his fingers against the lush carpet only to find that the tips sank past the layer of green and into the dirt below, damp and musky.
This way... this way...
The rustling, beckoning returned, drew his eyes away from the strangeness of the ground upon which he traversed and back to the towering giants overshadowing his smaller frame. Carefully, he ran his fingers across their skin, reveling in the rough unevenness with which he touch was met.
Relishing in the shiver of the immobile creature, the purr of its voice against his ears.
Follow...
They led him toward somewhere. He could not have said where they might take them, nor where he was, nor what he was or what they were. Only that everything around him existed so frightfully tangibly. Every thought and feeling something new and foreign.
Even the one in the back of his throat. Tight and strangely achy. Uncomfortable.
But he pushed it away, allowed the strange creatures to lead him on. Until, ahead, his eyes perceived something new. Something bright.
Until the underbrush parted and the trees opened their arches into the dome of the sky.
He forgot all about the strange carpet below and the whispering voices above. All about the feeling of roughness and softness. All about the strange discomfort in his mouth and throat that had itched so vividly but a moment before.
Because there was light.
Splattered across the sky, dappling the darkness into an image that caught his breath and held it prisoner within his chest, expanded to aching and yet he could not bear to breathe it out and break the moment with a sigh. Could not bear to ruin the silent stillness as he beheld first the pinpricks overhead, watchful and spinning, weaving intricately into one another's paths and glistening.
The grass did not sparkle and the trees did not glimmer. But the night sky was speckled with light.
And his gaze fell then to the reflection upon the earth. As a mirror, it stretched on to the edges of his sight, unmoving and unbroken. Cautiously, entranced beyond thought, he moved toward the smooth ground and let his foot hover over its flat surface.
He made to step upon it and fell through it.
Noise and the thousand broken star-jewels that scattered into the air, sprinkling his body and falling back to the flat surface. Only no longer was it flat, but rippling outward from where he now stood, each wave cresting upon a flash of brightness nearly blinding his eyes.
Water. He knew not where the thought came from, instinctive though it was. Drink.
His hands cupped the liquid and lifted, watching it slip between his fingers, still silver-dappled. And then he raised it to his lips.
Coldness. Purity. Like drinking the heavens.
Until he drank his fill and the uncomfortable itch ceased. He then stood upon the bank, stepping out of the strange not-ground and back to the solidness his feet recognized as stability. Instead, he gazed back up at the sky, helpless to think of anything else.
Nothing he had yet seen had been so beautiful.
His fingers could not reach them, he soon discovered. They hovered not midair, but so far away that even upon the tips of his toes he could not feel them or brush them. Only behold them as they stared down upon the water and spangled their way across reality.
Stars.
They were the most beautiful thing he could imagine.
Until he saw her.
All pale skin, white and glowing. Silvery hair, molten rays of those tiny lights spun into silk. Wide eyes, reflecting a million droplets of light.
The newly-woken elf did not understand the need to approach her. He did not understand the heat that bloomed in his belly. He did not perceive anything but primal instinct as he wrapped himself around her, as she reciprocated in fascination. For he was enamored with her brilliance, with the softness of her flesh as he ran his hands across her body. With the sleekness of her curves and the trilling song of her gasps.
With the warmth of her inner fire.
She was a star.
It was all he knew to compare her to. All he could think of that could compare with her strangeness and glory and temptation.
Like touching one of those distant lights... Were they all so beautiful...?
Her warmth touched back, fingers sliding and hair tickling. And he was utterly lost, swallowed up into the starshine of her eyes and heat of her kisses. Until they came together, perceiving only that they were made as two pieces that fit, that burned to the brightness with which they were so captivated.
With the sky overhead and their tangled forms curled below, at the edge of the waters, the first elves were awakened. People of the Stars.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Imin x Iminyë (not going w/ the version where Ingwë is first)
Characters: Imin, Iminyë, trees, wind
Warning: canon-compliant AU, rambling dialogue, vague romance, sexual content (semi-explicit at most)
Song: Rising Dawn
Words: 967
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star (noun): a natural luminous body visible in the sky especially at night; a conventional figure with five or more points that represents a star; something resembling a star
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/star
The first time he opened his eyes, all he saw was darkness.
Saw darkness. Was embraced by chill. Felt the touch of softness against his skin. But against his back the earth was hard and uneven.
And then there was sound.
Above, his eyes drifted. To the dark limbs stretched overhead, overreaching arms groaning as they moved, a thousand leaves whispering in their tiny, crackling voices. Wide-eyed, he stared, watching the rustle move from one tree to the next, the tiny green wings dancing and speaking, calling and singing.
Follow... follow...
All around him, the world was a wonder. The grass was so soft that it tickled the bottom of his feet wherever they wandered, a million tiny fingers caressing. Sensations that left him reeling, curiously reaching down to scrape his fingers against the lush carpet only to find that the tips sank past the layer of green and into the dirt below, damp and musky.
This way... this way...
The rustling, beckoning returned, drew his eyes away from the strangeness of the ground upon which he traversed and back to the towering giants overshadowing his smaller frame. Carefully, he ran his fingers across their skin, reveling in the rough unevenness with which he touch was met.
Relishing in the shiver of the immobile creature, the purr of its voice against his ears.
Follow...
They led him toward somewhere. He could not have said where they might take them, nor where he was, nor what he was or what they were. Only that everything around him existed so frightfully tangibly. Every thought and feeling something new and foreign.
Even the one in the back of his throat. Tight and strangely achy. Uncomfortable.
But he pushed it away, allowed the strange creatures to lead him on. Until, ahead, his eyes perceived something new. Something bright.
Until the underbrush parted and the trees opened their arches into the dome of the sky.
He forgot all about the strange carpet below and the whispering voices above. All about the feeling of roughness and softness. All about the strange discomfort in his mouth and throat that had itched so vividly but a moment before.
Because there was light.
Splattered across the sky, dappling the darkness into an image that caught his breath and held it prisoner within his chest, expanded to aching and yet he could not bear to breathe it out and break the moment with a sigh. Could not bear to ruin the silent stillness as he beheld first the pinpricks overhead, watchful and spinning, weaving intricately into one another's paths and glistening.
The grass did not sparkle and the trees did not glimmer. But the night sky was speckled with light.
And his gaze fell then to the reflection upon the earth. As a mirror, it stretched on to the edges of his sight, unmoving and unbroken. Cautiously, entranced beyond thought, he moved toward the smooth ground and let his foot hover over its flat surface.
He made to step upon it and fell through it.
Noise and the thousand broken star-jewels that scattered into the air, sprinkling his body and falling back to the flat surface. Only no longer was it flat, but rippling outward from where he now stood, each wave cresting upon a flash of brightness nearly blinding his eyes.
Water. He knew not where the thought came from, instinctive though it was. Drink.
His hands cupped the liquid and lifted, watching it slip between his fingers, still silver-dappled. And then he raised it to his lips.
Coldness. Purity. Like drinking the heavens.
Until he drank his fill and the uncomfortable itch ceased. He then stood upon the bank, stepping out of the strange not-ground and back to the solidness his feet recognized as stability. Instead, he gazed back up at the sky, helpless to think of anything else.
Nothing he had yet seen had been so beautiful.
His fingers could not reach them, he soon discovered. They hovered not midair, but so far away that even upon the tips of his toes he could not feel them or brush them. Only behold them as they stared down upon the water and spangled their way across reality.
Stars.
They were the most beautiful thing he could imagine.
Until he saw her.
All pale skin, white and glowing. Silvery hair, molten rays of those tiny lights spun into silk. Wide eyes, reflecting a million droplets of light.
The newly-woken elf did not understand the need to approach her. He did not understand the heat that bloomed in his belly. He did not perceive anything but primal instinct as he wrapped himself around her, as she reciprocated in fascination. For he was enamored with her brilliance, with the softness of her flesh as he ran his hands across her body. With the sleekness of her curves and the trilling song of her gasps.
With the warmth of her inner fire.
She was a star.
It was all he knew to compare her to. All he could think of that could compare with her strangeness and glory and temptation.
Like touching one of those distant lights... Were they all so beautiful...?
Her warmth touched back, fingers sliding and hair tickling. And he was utterly lost, swallowed up into the starshine of her eyes and heat of her kisses. Until they came together, perceiving only that they were made as two pieces that fit, that burned to the brightness with which they were so captivated.
With the sky overhead and their tangled forms curled below, at the edge of the waters, the first elves were awakened. People of the Stars.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Celebration
Mellow Soulmate AU. What would you do if you had to learn to live again... twice? Quenya names used (Celebrimbor = Telperinquar, Maglor = Makalaurë, Curufin = Curufinwë). Ilession is my OMC and he's just there, as usual, from "Cry", "Aloof", "Worst Day", "Hero", "Morals" and "Gloves". This is also related to the Lust arc and the Grace arc. Takes place in Gondor at the end of the Third Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or The Lord of the Rings
Pairings: past Sauron x Celebrimbor
Characters: Celebrimbor, Ilession (OMC), random people (mentions Nerdanel, Fëanor, Curufin, Maglor, Sauron and other random elves)
Warning: non-canon compliant, slash, dub-con at best, mind-games, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, depression, suicidal thoughts, fading, family feels, espionage, war, some mild sexual stuff
Song: Silence
Words: 1,468
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celebration (noun): to perform (a sacrament or solemn ceremony) publicly and with appropriate rites; to honor (as a holiday) especially by solemn ceremonies or by refraining from ordinary business; to mark (as an anniversary) by festivities or other deviation from routine
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/celebration
If he had not felt so apathetic, Telperinquar might have bothered to be insulted.
Truly, though, he knew they did not understand. When they looked upon the ruins in the distance--upon the smoke rising and spewing forth into the lightening sky--they did not grieve. They did not shudder and wince. They did not feel the urge to curl up and hide their eyes, pretending everything was all a nightmare.
They felt none of that.
All around him, these humans and elves were drinking in revelry. Comrades in arms threw hands about each other shoulders and hung off one another's necks, laughing loudly at poor jokes and lewd comments. And the women sauntered between the half-drunken men, in too good a mood to do more than lightly scold at an insensitive, crude comment or swat gently at a wandering, encroaching hand.
Everyone was smiling, all of them mingling together into a mass of humanity, joyous and rising from the ashes of their despair and terror. Because they were alive.
Alive...
"Why do you hide here in the corner, cousin?"
The familiar voice, low and raspy, ripped apart from years of shouted across the din of battle and screaming at the feel of his master, was to his immediate right. Telperinquar's eyes drifted slowly from the swarm of people, reluctantly settling upon a face he was used to seeing only through the visor of a black helmet and meeting eyes he could remember only darkened with battle-rage and distant detachment.
And yet this creature was the reason he still lived. Lived. And the son of Curufinwë did not think he could bring himself to be grateful.
"You know why."
Ilession scoffed, but Telperinquar could read this man well enough to see the worry lingering just underneath that facade. No matter the horrible things the once-servant of Sauron and the former-spy of Gil-Galad had done in the service of his pair of masters, there was always that compassionate blood surging through veins as red and hot as any of their brethren. Above all the others of their family, this man had taken after Lady Nerdanel's softness and Makalaurë's infamous softhearted kindness.
And yet still he managed to be so very cruel. So very heartless.
With a long-drawn sigh, the dark-haired firstborn of Makalaurë sat beside him in the silent, shadowed little corner of the lively tavern. Telperinquar ignored his cousin's presence, instead going back to staring at the celebration before his eyes. The celebration that marked his second death.
"You cannot linger upon him forever."
As if he had a choice!
"What do you know about it?" he hissed beneath his breath. "There is a wide divide between master and lover. How could you understand!"
Those eyes were so blue. Such a rare color for a son of the Spirit of Fire, dampening the otherwise harsh brilliance beneath. "I did not claim to understand your pain." Though I would claim to have more than my fair share of my own to compare. "But you and I both know you cannot carry on like this forever."
We both know you will fade.
And Telperinquar was not dead-set against that fate. Slow and withering, but fast in comparison to millennia of remembering, slowly dissolving bit by bit a little more each day. Until there was nothing left at all except the pain and all the world disappeared.
At least if he faded he would be in the Halls. Locked away in madness, but allowed to forget should he choose. Allowed to hide away.
Allowed to pretend he had never ventured from the tapestry-papered hallways to begin with. That everything--from the moment he stepped beyond Mandos' gates to the moment he laid down and his mortal body ceased to draw breath a second time--was just a dream. A horrible nightmare. But one he had awakened from.
Here, he could not pretend to awaken. Could not pretend it was a dream.
"I will do as I please."
"And what about the rest of us?" A hand gripped tightly his forearm, the hold near-strangling about his wrist. "What about me? What about your mother and father? What about your nephew? Do none of us matter to you?"
Do you care for us less than him? Than a man who never even existed?
"Feel free to join the celebration!" Telperinquar snarled, though his voice lacked bite and harshness, instead coming out all too tired and disillusioned. "Feel free to make revelry of the destruction of my world! But ask me not to join!"
It was then that he would have walked away, gone back to his room in the healing houses and languished in silent agony. But the hand refused to release where it was shackled in place.
Refused to just let him die.
"You are not dead, cousin."
I might as well be.
Their eyes met again, and Telperinquar had not even the energy to bar his pain from the other's gaze. If anyone could be trusted with his vulnerability--with the knowledge that he had been caught between loving that monster and crawling away in fear, locked into a stalemate battle within his own mind--it would be this man. This man who knew all too well the war between right and wrong tearing apart one's thoughts.
"Please, just allow me to leave. Watching only makes me feel ill."
"No." Instead of loosening, the warrior's grip squeezed. Once upon a time, Telperinquar would have scoffed that he could withstand far more than such an infantile grip--he was a smith, after all, and his arms were powerful for all the work they did in the making of priceless treasures--but those days were long past. Now he was humiliated to whisper in admittance--if only within the boundaries of his private thoughts--that he could not have escaped even had he desired to fight.
Weak. Broken. Frail.
Shattered.
"This is a celebration of being alive." Ilession's voice strained, low and bubbling over in concern. Trembling with emotion. "These people, they lived. They can go to work again without fear of losing brothers and husbands and sons. They can go about their daily lives without imminent attack looming over their heads. And they can raise their children in a time of peace that they never knew.
"Think you not that they deserve their celebration?"
"They and I are not alike."
I have no mate with whom to create a family. No children to watch over. No wives or daughters or sons to care for.
Annatar had been his future. And Annatar was gone.
"You are," his cousin insisted. "Let his memory not haunt you, hanging over your lead like a gilded prison of dripping curls and molten eyes. Let his visage fade into the back of your memories where it belongs, perhaps a pleasant recollection, but naught more than that."
So easily it was said. But so hard it was to do. Telperinquar knew. He had been trying for as long as he had known of the betrayal. Trying and failing.
"I cannot."
"You can," the other insisted. "You have the Spirit of Fire in your veins. You can overcome an illusion, see straight through its foggy recesses. That much I believe. You are alive, Telperinquar."
Alive... Was he alive?
"Think on it." Finally, he was released, and yet Telperinquar's feet were hesitant to carry him away from this confrontation. Away from Ilession's pain-filled, miserable gaze, so filled with resigned sorrow and worry. Away from that face marked with scars and tinted with shadow.
Away from those words and their poison.
"This celebration is for us all. For myself--" Finally I am free of my master. "--and for you, though it does not seem it."
For you are free of this soul-sucking mockery of love.
No more could he take. The once-smith--the once-lover of the Dark Lord Sauron--fled back out into the night and dared not glance back. Dared not cease his brisk lope until he was safely tucked away within the four white-washed walls of his empty, prison-like cell of a bedchamber in the barren healing houses.
Dared not think too hard upon those words.
"This celebration is for us all... even you."
Upon the terrifying, tantalizing thought of keeping open his eyes and keeping strong his breath. Of burning forever and ever alone and pining for that which was beyond his reach.
Upon the thought that never would there be a new beginning. That those sweet and wondrous words were all naught but a lie.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or The Lord of the Rings
Pairings: past Sauron x Celebrimbor
Characters: Celebrimbor, Ilession (OMC), random people (mentions Nerdanel, Fëanor, Curufin, Maglor, Sauron and other random elves)
Warning: non-canon compliant, slash, dub-con at best, mind-games, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, depression, suicidal thoughts, fading, family feels, espionage, war, some mild sexual stuff
Song: Silence
Words: 1,468
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celebration (noun): to perform (a sacrament or solemn ceremony) publicly and with appropriate rites; to honor (as a holiday) especially by solemn ceremonies or by refraining from ordinary business; to mark (as an anniversary) by festivities or other deviation from routine
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/celebration
If he had not felt so apathetic, Telperinquar might have bothered to be insulted.
Truly, though, he knew they did not understand. When they looked upon the ruins in the distance--upon the smoke rising and spewing forth into the lightening sky--they did not grieve. They did not shudder and wince. They did not feel the urge to curl up and hide their eyes, pretending everything was all a nightmare.
They felt none of that.
All around him, these humans and elves were drinking in revelry. Comrades in arms threw hands about each other shoulders and hung off one another's necks, laughing loudly at poor jokes and lewd comments. And the women sauntered between the half-drunken men, in too good a mood to do more than lightly scold at an insensitive, crude comment or swat gently at a wandering, encroaching hand.
Everyone was smiling, all of them mingling together into a mass of humanity, joyous and rising from the ashes of their despair and terror. Because they were alive.
Alive...
"Why do you hide here in the corner, cousin?"
The familiar voice, low and raspy, ripped apart from years of shouted across the din of battle and screaming at the feel of his master, was to his immediate right. Telperinquar's eyes drifted slowly from the swarm of people, reluctantly settling upon a face he was used to seeing only through the visor of a black helmet and meeting eyes he could remember only darkened with battle-rage and distant detachment.
And yet this creature was the reason he still lived. Lived. And the son of Curufinwë did not think he could bring himself to be grateful.
"You know why."
Ilession scoffed, but Telperinquar could read this man well enough to see the worry lingering just underneath that facade. No matter the horrible things the once-servant of Sauron and the former-spy of Gil-Galad had done in the service of his pair of masters, there was always that compassionate blood surging through veins as red and hot as any of their brethren. Above all the others of their family, this man had taken after Lady Nerdanel's softness and Makalaurë's infamous softhearted kindness.
And yet still he managed to be so very cruel. So very heartless.
With a long-drawn sigh, the dark-haired firstborn of Makalaurë sat beside him in the silent, shadowed little corner of the lively tavern. Telperinquar ignored his cousin's presence, instead going back to staring at the celebration before his eyes. The celebration that marked his second death.
"You cannot linger upon him forever."
As if he had a choice!
"What do you know about it?" he hissed beneath his breath. "There is a wide divide between master and lover. How could you understand!"
Those eyes were so blue. Such a rare color for a son of the Spirit of Fire, dampening the otherwise harsh brilliance beneath. "I did not claim to understand your pain." Though I would claim to have more than my fair share of my own to compare. "But you and I both know you cannot carry on like this forever."
We both know you will fade.
And Telperinquar was not dead-set against that fate. Slow and withering, but fast in comparison to millennia of remembering, slowly dissolving bit by bit a little more each day. Until there was nothing left at all except the pain and all the world disappeared.
At least if he faded he would be in the Halls. Locked away in madness, but allowed to forget should he choose. Allowed to hide away.
Allowed to pretend he had never ventured from the tapestry-papered hallways to begin with. That everything--from the moment he stepped beyond Mandos' gates to the moment he laid down and his mortal body ceased to draw breath a second time--was just a dream. A horrible nightmare. But one he had awakened from.
Here, he could not pretend to awaken. Could not pretend it was a dream.
"I will do as I please."
"And what about the rest of us?" A hand gripped tightly his forearm, the hold near-strangling about his wrist. "What about me? What about your mother and father? What about your nephew? Do none of us matter to you?"
Do you care for us less than him? Than a man who never even existed?
"Feel free to join the celebration!" Telperinquar snarled, though his voice lacked bite and harshness, instead coming out all too tired and disillusioned. "Feel free to make revelry of the destruction of my world! But ask me not to join!"
It was then that he would have walked away, gone back to his room in the healing houses and languished in silent agony. But the hand refused to release where it was shackled in place.
Refused to just let him die.
"You are not dead, cousin."
I might as well be.
Their eyes met again, and Telperinquar had not even the energy to bar his pain from the other's gaze. If anyone could be trusted with his vulnerability--with the knowledge that he had been caught between loving that monster and crawling away in fear, locked into a stalemate battle within his own mind--it would be this man. This man who knew all too well the war between right and wrong tearing apart one's thoughts.
"Please, just allow me to leave. Watching only makes me feel ill."
"No." Instead of loosening, the warrior's grip squeezed. Once upon a time, Telperinquar would have scoffed that he could withstand far more than such an infantile grip--he was a smith, after all, and his arms were powerful for all the work they did in the making of priceless treasures--but those days were long past. Now he was humiliated to whisper in admittance--if only within the boundaries of his private thoughts--that he could not have escaped even had he desired to fight.
Weak. Broken. Frail.
Shattered.
"This is a celebration of being alive." Ilession's voice strained, low and bubbling over in concern. Trembling with emotion. "These people, they lived. They can go to work again without fear of losing brothers and husbands and sons. They can go about their daily lives without imminent attack looming over their heads. And they can raise their children in a time of peace that they never knew.
"Think you not that they deserve their celebration?"
"They and I are not alike."
I have no mate with whom to create a family. No children to watch over. No wives or daughters or sons to care for.
Annatar had been his future. And Annatar was gone.
"You are," his cousin insisted. "Let his memory not haunt you, hanging over your lead like a gilded prison of dripping curls and molten eyes. Let his visage fade into the back of your memories where it belongs, perhaps a pleasant recollection, but naught more than that."
So easily it was said. But so hard it was to do. Telperinquar knew. He had been trying for as long as he had known of the betrayal. Trying and failing.
"I cannot."
"You can," the other insisted. "You have the Spirit of Fire in your veins. You can overcome an illusion, see straight through its foggy recesses. That much I believe. You are alive, Telperinquar."
Alive... Was he alive?
"Think on it." Finally, he was released, and yet Telperinquar's feet were hesitant to carry him away from this confrontation. Away from Ilession's pain-filled, miserable gaze, so filled with resigned sorrow and worry. Away from that face marked with scars and tinted with shadow.
Away from those words and their poison.
"This celebration is for us all. For myself--" Finally I am free of my master. "--and for you, though it does not seem it."
For you are free of this soul-sucking mockery of love.
No more could he take. The once-smith--the once-lover of the Dark Lord Sauron--fled back out into the night and dared not glance back. Dared not cease his brisk lope until he was safely tucked away within the four white-washed walls of his empty, prison-like cell of a bedchamber in the barren healing houses.
Dared not think too hard upon those words.
"This celebration is for us all... even you."
Upon the terrifying, tantalizing thought of keeping open his eyes and keeping strong his breath. Of burning forever and ever alone and pining for that which was beyond his reach.
Upon the thought that never would there be a new beginning. That those sweet and wondrous words were all naught but a lie.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Phoenix
Mellow Soulmate AU. The Spirit of Fire burned him down to the ground, but Amras has risen from his ashes. Sindarin names used. I didn't even edit this, so it's probably crappy and shorter than I intended, but I've got other shit to do, including sleep. Related to "Run", "Languid", "Bewitching", "Settle" and "Indirect". Basically just more relationship stuff. Entertaining but lacking in plot LOL. Takes place somewhere east of ME after the end of the Third Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Amras x Daeron
Characters: Daeron, Amras (mentions Lúthien and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, slash, rarepair, past filicide, mass murder, unrequited love, bisexuality, mental illness, obsessive behavior, possible insanity, depression
Song: No Way Back ~Out of My Way~
Words: 1,290
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phoenix (noun): a legendary bird which according to one account lived 500 years, burned itself to ashes on a pyre, and rose alive from the ashes to live another period; a person or thing likened to the phoenix
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/phoenix
Recovery was a long road.
More than most others, Daeron knew this to be true. His disastrous dance with unrequited love had left more than a few scars in its wake. And even thousands of years later he was not recovered. Not healed.
The thought of her still made him ache to his bones in miserable longing and bitter resentment. That she would choose a mortal man she barely knew over his friendship and adoration. That she would place her trust in a man who had done nothing but create trouble and hardship for her, who in the end killed her, over hundreds of years of close confidence in her best friend rankled him.
That, in the end, she had not trusted his motivations... That, in their last confrontation, she had called him a selfish traitor... That, when he had tried to assure her that--though he might be selfish--his intentions were for her own safety, she had thrown his devotion back in his face...
There were many other ways to shatter a man. But Daeron wondered if torture was crueler or kinder than the fate that she had gifted upon him with her last hissing words and her horrible, soul-shattering glares.
With her accusations.
Was it any wonder that he had left? In the face of her supposed miraculous tale of love and hardship overcome, he could not bear to watch. To see her happy with that man. To watch her start a family with someone else.
Even knowing was enough to leave him scarred. The knowledge that she never was his and never would be. That she never would love him the way he loved her.
That had been a very long time ago, and the echoes of that pain still left him wincing.
But he had a new life. Different and strange.
A new life. A new lover. A new family.
And the two jagged pieces of that which he held dearest now had begun as broken as he had been. Their lives had been but rubble, burned down to the ground, ashes gray and lifeless where there should have been greenery and liveliness and hope.
Compared to Amras, Daeron considered himself rather lucky.
No tales of unrequited love and romance lingered in his mate's past. And the scorches and burns of the damning tale of Daeron and Lúthien might as well have been rashes in comparison to the devastation that constantly haunted those verdant eyes. He could recall well the first time he had seen them, their grief and pain and shocked betrayal swirling under a sea of animalistic instinct. So incredibly beautiful and so maddeningly tempting, but still frightening and disheartening.
Bit by bit by bit, he drew as poison from a wound the truth behind the tragedy.
Betrayal was putting it lightly. The abandonment of kin left to die of the cold and of starvation still left Amras in shambles of rage and horror. The apathy and sadistic pleasure of his father's blazing eyes denying his arguments, refuting his calls to turn around, to reinstate honor and kinship.
The decision to take it into his own hands. And then the fire.
But what really destroyed the beautiful, innocent spirit that once Amras had been was not the terrifying experience of death by flame and water. It was not the knowledge that he had failed to help his kin, to save them from suffering and harm. It was not even the memories of blood-painted hands staining crimson the clear waters, the shedding of innocent lives in a sinful tirade that could never be taken back.
It had been looking up at the shore and seeing the glow of those eyes. And knowing that it was his father who had set alight his world and watched it burn.
Without a drop of remorse. Without a hint of regret.
Without so much as a particle of sorrow.
The Spirit of Fire had turned Amras' world into nothing but a pile of ashes. Mind in tattered scraps of cloth and torn flesh. Trust broken and strewn like rotting entrails across the ground. Innocence raped and stained into the purest of blacks, ragged and worn and soaked with the ink runes of damnation.
That was the man Daeron had first encountered. A creature of pure instinct and flight, desperate to escape any and all memory of the past. On the run from the truth of the world. Blind to all but surviving the next day--hour--minute--moment if only to survive in the wake of utter destruction. Of having every layer peeled back to the naked core. Of being ripped apart and bruised black and blue by cruel fists. Of being left behind in the wreckage of all the ideals and hopes and dreams to die slowly.
Looking at Amras now, one would never have guessed.
Those eyes were alight with that same unholy, entrancing fire. That smile could melt the minstrel's bones down into jelly with ease. And that handsome visage could effortlessly leave him struggling for air.
But Amras spoke. Intelligible. Gentle. Sweet.
It was rebirth. Whereas Daeron had slowly healed, patched up each and every wound until they were but ugly scars left in the wake, he knew this was Amras rising from the ashes. Becoming something new--something even more amazing and breathtaking--in the wake of ruin.
"It was never your fault. You did all you could do."
"It clearly was not enough."
The guilt was fading with each passing day.
"I loved him. I trusted him. And I believed in the benevolence of his heart and the steadfastness of his promises."
"I know... I know..."
"I swore his Oath..."
"I know..."
And though the memories did not fade away, acceptance eventually set in upon those dreadful, gaunt and pale features, filling out stretched cheekbones and adding a healthy flush to the gray glow of blanched skin. Eventually, lips that he had only ever beheld folded into a sneering scowl or screams of pain or pursed into apathy were curving upwards at the corners...
"You should smile more often."
"Do you think so?" Roguish and teasing. Flirting.
"Scoundrel."
And the fire that nearly had been extinguished was suddenly lit anew.
Of course, Amras would never forget. The remembrance would not go away. Much as Daeron could never forget the look of hatred and disdain upon the beloved features of the woman he would have once died for, Amras would never be able to throw away the image of his father's unforgiving features sentencing him to a lonely death. Turning him into little more than a sacrifice toward a greater goal, the removal of an infection that would have jeopardized plans long set in motion.
But that did not mean they could not be happy. That did not mean Amras could not become stronger. And for all his broken innocence and ruined trust, he had morphed into something a thousand times as wonderful.
Perfect imperfection. Glorious and vibrant wings of scarlet and gold spread across the sky. A phoenix in flight.
No more running away. No more denial. No more crushing defeat and failure.
Only freedom.
And when Daeron wrapped his arms around that tall frame and pressed his cheek to the warmth of a powerful shoulder, he could feel the strength of that spirit wrap around him. Heat the chill long taken up residence in his heart. Tease and coax forth new blooms of tenderness and trust and love.
From beneath the ashes, reborn.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Amras x Daeron
Characters: Daeron, Amras (mentions Lúthien and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, slash, rarepair, past filicide, mass murder, unrequited love, bisexuality, mental illness, obsessive behavior, possible insanity, depression
Song: No Way Back ~Out of My Way~
Words: 1,290
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
phoenix (noun): a legendary bird which according to one account lived 500 years, burned itself to ashes on a pyre, and rose alive from the ashes to live another period; a person or thing likened to the phoenix
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/phoenix
Recovery was a long road.
More than most others, Daeron knew this to be true. His disastrous dance with unrequited love had left more than a few scars in its wake. And even thousands of years later he was not recovered. Not healed.
The thought of her still made him ache to his bones in miserable longing and bitter resentment. That she would choose a mortal man she barely knew over his friendship and adoration. That she would place her trust in a man who had done nothing but create trouble and hardship for her, who in the end killed her, over hundreds of years of close confidence in her best friend rankled him.
That, in the end, she had not trusted his motivations... That, in their last confrontation, she had called him a selfish traitor... That, when he had tried to assure her that--though he might be selfish--his intentions were for her own safety, she had thrown his devotion back in his face...
There were many other ways to shatter a man. But Daeron wondered if torture was crueler or kinder than the fate that she had gifted upon him with her last hissing words and her horrible, soul-shattering glares.
With her accusations.
Was it any wonder that he had left? In the face of her supposed miraculous tale of love and hardship overcome, he could not bear to watch. To see her happy with that man. To watch her start a family with someone else.
Even knowing was enough to leave him scarred. The knowledge that she never was his and never would be. That she never would love him the way he loved her.
That had been a very long time ago, and the echoes of that pain still left him wincing.
But he had a new life. Different and strange.
A new life. A new lover. A new family.
And the two jagged pieces of that which he held dearest now had begun as broken as he had been. Their lives had been but rubble, burned down to the ground, ashes gray and lifeless where there should have been greenery and liveliness and hope.
Compared to Amras, Daeron considered himself rather lucky.
No tales of unrequited love and romance lingered in his mate's past. And the scorches and burns of the damning tale of Daeron and Lúthien might as well have been rashes in comparison to the devastation that constantly haunted those verdant eyes. He could recall well the first time he had seen them, their grief and pain and shocked betrayal swirling under a sea of animalistic instinct. So incredibly beautiful and so maddeningly tempting, but still frightening and disheartening.
Bit by bit by bit, he drew as poison from a wound the truth behind the tragedy.
Betrayal was putting it lightly. The abandonment of kin left to die of the cold and of starvation still left Amras in shambles of rage and horror. The apathy and sadistic pleasure of his father's blazing eyes denying his arguments, refuting his calls to turn around, to reinstate honor and kinship.
The decision to take it into his own hands. And then the fire.
But what really destroyed the beautiful, innocent spirit that once Amras had been was not the terrifying experience of death by flame and water. It was not the knowledge that he had failed to help his kin, to save them from suffering and harm. It was not even the memories of blood-painted hands staining crimson the clear waters, the shedding of innocent lives in a sinful tirade that could never be taken back.
It had been looking up at the shore and seeing the glow of those eyes. And knowing that it was his father who had set alight his world and watched it burn.
Without a drop of remorse. Without a hint of regret.
Without so much as a particle of sorrow.
The Spirit of Fire had turned Amras' world into nothing but a pile of ashes. Mind in tattered scraps of cloth and torn flesh. Trust broken and strewn like rotting entrails across the ground. Innocence raped and stained into the purest of blacks, ragged and worn and soaked with the ink runes of damnation.
That was the man Daeron had first encountered. A creature of pure instinct and flight, desperate to escape any and all memory of the past. On the run from the truth of the world. Blind to all but surviving the next day--hour--minute--moment if only to survive in the wake of utter destruction. Of having every layer peeled back to the naked core. Of being ripped apart and bruised black and blue by cruel fists. Of being left behind in the wreckage of all the ideals and hopes and dreams to die slowly.
Looking at Amras now, one would never have guessed.
Those eyes were alight with that same unholy, entrancing fire. That smile could melt the minstrel's bones down into jelly with ease. And that handsome visage could effortlessly leave him struggling for air.
But Amras spoke. Intelligible. Gentle. Sweet.
It was rebirth. Whereas Daeron had slowly healed, patched up each and every wound until they were but ugly scars left in the wake, he knew this was Amras rising from the ashes. Becoming something new--something even more amazing and breathtaking--in the wake of ruin.
"It was never your fault. You did all you could do."
"It clearly was not enough."
The guilt was fading with each passing day.
"I loved him. I trusted him. And I believed in the benevolence of his heart and the steadfastness of his promises."
"I know... I know..."
"I swore his Oath..."
"I know..."
And though the memories did not fade away, acceptance eventually set in upon those dreadful, gaunt and pale features, filling out stretched cheekbones and adding a healthy flush to the gray glow of blanched skin. Eventually, lips that he had only ever beheld folded into a sneering scowl or screams of pain or pursed into apathy were curving upwards at the corners...
"You should smile more often."
"Do you think so?" Roguish and teasing. Flirting.
"Scoundrel."
And the fire that nearly had been extinguished was suddenly lit anew.
Of course, Amras would never forget. The remembrance would not go away. Much as Daeron could never forget the look of hatred and disdain upon the beloved features of the woman he would have once died for, Amras would never be able to throw away the image of his father's unforgiving features sentencing him to a lonely death. Turning him into little more than a sacrifice toward a greater goal, the removal of an infection that would have jeopardized plans long set in motion.
But that did not mean they could not be happy. That did not mean Amras could not become stronger. And for all his broken innocence and ruined trust, he had morphed into something a thousand times as wonderful.
Perfect imperfection. Glorious and vibrant wings of scarlet and gold spread across the sky. A phoenix in flight.
No more running away. No more denial. No more crushing defeat and failure.
Only freedom.
And when Daeron wrapped his arms around that tall frame and pressed his cheek to the warmth of a powerful shoulder, he could feel the strength of that spirit wrap around him. Heat the chill long taken up residence in his heart. Tease and coax forth new blooms of tenderness and trust and love.
From beneath the ashes, reborn.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Desire
Defiant AU compliant. It all started out in envy and in wrath. Revenge and desire have always been his ultimate motivators. Quenya names used (Morgoth = Melkor, Eru = Ilúvatar (or Father (i.e. Creator)), Fëanor = Fëanáro Curufinwë). I have to say, the song today definitely heavily influenced the craziness and ugliness of this work. You'll know when you hear it. Takes place throughout the Years of the Trees and the First Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: (all one-sided) Morgoth x Varda, Morgoth x Fëanor, Morgoth x Angrod
Characters: Morgoth, Manwë, Varda, Fëanor, Angrod (mentions Eru prominently as well as Sauron)
Warning: non-canon compliant, just about ever ugly thing you can think of, non-con fantasies, slash, sexual slavery, slavery, world domination, torture, manipulation, mind-fucking, heavy on the sexuality, blatant references to sex and lust, revenge plot
Song: Dance with Asmodeus
Words: 2,268
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
desire (verb): to long or hope for: exhibit or feel desire for; to express a wish for: request
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/desire
The primordial desire.
Though he had never seen it with his bare eyes, it had always been his ultimate temptation. The one thing that he wanted above all else and the one thing that was wholly and completely beyond his reach.
The Flame Imperishable.
Of its glory he knew. Created by the hand of Ilúvatar. All the brilliance that would ever light the Void.
Was it any wonder that even a droplet of that light--that illusive creation beyond all imagining--drew him helplessly toward its glow as a tethered beast? It held him as a willing captive as he was dragged toward its breathtaking cage. Toward its inexplicable magic and incomprehensible perfection. Toward the source of his curiosity and amazement and wonder.
Toward the center of the universe. Toward the ability to create.
Was it any wonder that he tried to take it for his own?
And no matter how many times he failed to reach, he would keep trying and trying and trying. It was the nature of the greatest of the Ainur, the firstborn son.
Melkor did not give up or give in, not in the face of fear or adversity. Perhaps he might fall, yet he would persevere beyond any who came after, getting back up again and again against the odds. No matter how many years he remained imprisoned. No matter how much he might need to lie. No matter how many poor souls he might need to manipulate.
No matter what he might need to sacrifice.
In the end, he would have what he desired. Even if he needed to wait for all the ages of the world to hold it within the palm of his hand.
He would wait.
---
His foolish brother released him from his confinement much sooner than the end of time.
How naive his dear brothers and sisters were--now and always would they stay. That Manwë believed him a changed man after a long imprisonment of brooding at the same four gray walls for thousands of years, languishing and planning and plotting... Melkor found such baseless and disgusting faith to be rather hilarious. Truly laugh-worthy.
"I believe in the good of your heart."
And I believe in the foolishness of your compassion.
Of course, he had smiled and nodded. Expressed his gratitude in a flurry of words expunging upon the virtuous nature of his brother's pity and trust. All the while thinking of the day this man would kneel, bound and humiliated, at his feet--a slave waiting upon his god like a good little pet, helpless and utterly subdued. All the while pondering the possibility of making his brother's wife his own--holding her upon his lap, running his hands over her bared starlit flesh until there was no doubt to whom she belonged.
As Manwë watched, he would take Varda there upon his throne.
Possess her light. The closest jewel he had yet seen to the Flame Imperishable. It seemed to shine through her face, as though its cold fire were perched upon the other side of a tinted sheet of glass, her transparent form but a cloak to disguise its heat and beauty.
He desired her as much as he feared her and hated her for possessing that while he wanted most. And he would have her and her light.
All in good time, she would be his.
But for now he accepted his punishment. Penitence through servitude to the community of elves writhing through the cities below. He would help them create wonders, teach them great secrets of the forge and wonders of knowledge they would scarcely comprehend. Treat them as his brothers and his children, as though they were dear to his heart. As though they were more than the cheapest and most expendable of brainless pawns.
He would design himself as their reverent older brother, their regent's flesh and blood, eager to see their society and their power flourish beneath his tutelage like newborn stars in their faraway cradling nebula of influence.
And, when the time came, he would betray them all.
And Melkor did not feel sorry. They were but an obstacle in his path. But a wall to be overcome. And what an easily scaled vertical drop they would be in comparison to his truest foe.
In comparison to Him.
---
It was during this punishment that he first encountered the second source of divine light.
At first he was shocked to find that this gem in the rough, this pleasant and unexpected surprise, was not an ainu. Melkor had not believed, until that moment, that there was any special wonder to be found in these flawed creations of his Father and Enemy. The Eldalië were as beautiful as any pearl or stone, as graceful as any archway carved of marble, their voices as soft and lyrical as those of the Ainur singing in the Timeless Halls.
But they were not perfect.
Flawed, they fought. They disagreed. They quarreled.
They hated. That insidious, addictive blackness ate away at their purity and innocence. Made them malleable and vulnerable.
Gave him a means with which to touch their cores and turn their thoughts to his purposes.
But this creature was the greatest--and most vulnerable--of them all.
Despite his brilliance. Looking into the eyes of Fëanáro Curufinwë was as looking into the eyes of the Father himself at times. And yet in that shard of the Flame Imperishable there was lacking the innate benevolence and love and condescension that so drove Melkor to distraction. In their place smoldered the sadistic glee, the powerful heat of ambition, the reckless will to sacrifice for a goal.
The creativity. The ingenuity. The unyielding need to bring forth newness--to create and mold and shape--that always had brought the greatest of the Ainur to his knees in envy and hate and entrancement.
Fëanáro was beautiful. And he already rested within the palm of Melkor's hands.
All it took was a few patronizing words and naked glances of lust and jealousy. The hate had been born so readily within the heart of his newest foe and obsession.
The hate... and the mistrust...
But not the mistrust of Melkor. The mere thought of it brought a smile to the lips of the Dark Lord.
No, it was a more poisonous mistrust, crouched in waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The perfect moment to kill.
The perfect moment to entrap this prince in his web of deceit. A web of which the elf would never escape.
---
And he had never regretted that decision, impulsive though it might have been, to antagonize the Crown Prince of the Noldor rather than befriend him. To take the path that, at first, seemed counter-intuitive and wasteful in the face of the possibility of cultivating bonds of "friendship".
But part of him recognized within this creature that which was within his own breast. No bonds of trust would Fëanáro ever forge, not truly.
But bonds of hate...
No, Melkor did not regret.
Most especially not after the revelation of the Silmarilli.
As glorious as their master. Outshining all but the Trees and the stars and the fragments of the Flame Imperishable itself. They were as were Fëanáro's eyes, and yet they were of a different make. Without the ambition and the cunning and the veins of darkness. They were of the purest light, untainted and untouched, droplets of that divine fire rained down from the heavens and captured within facets of adamant.
Melkor desired them immediately and desperately. As much as he had ever desired their master.
And that was when the game truly began.
The manipulation. The whispers. The rumors.
And never did his eyes leave that which he coveted. The image of that Crown Prince with his spirit of fire standing at the center of the room, three glowing jewels upon his brow. A prideful stallion waiting to be broken beneath the heaviness of his hands and the heat of his caresses.
The fantasy unfurled all too easily. Those stones would be perched upon his own brow, and wherever he went there would be that light raining down upon the world. Finally, he would possess pieces of that which the Father had always denied him even in the beginning. In defiance, he would look up at the sky and laugh in glee.
You cannot stop me. Not now. Not ever.
Nothing short of utter destruction could halt his forward momentum.
He would be the ruler of this realm, equal to Ilúvatar in all ways. A king. A god. And these pathetic creatures--the Valar and the Maiar and the Eldalië and the Men and all other creatures living upon these lands--they would prostrate themselves at his feet and lick his toes, begging for his favors and suffering at the whims of his wrath for their defiance.
And in their midst he could see them, those two that held his desire so easily and unwillingly.
Varda upon his right, her naked body open and her white-hot eyes glazed in lust as she panted and glowed, the nexus of the stars. Fëanáro upon his left, draped over his throne, so eager for his affections, all a contradiction of darkness and light.
He would have them both. He would have them all.
And he would be the King of Eä.
All he need do was carry out his plan. With the bait of the Silmarilli upon his crown and the door to his fortress hanging wide open in invitation, he would sit back and watch. And wait.
---
There was, however, a significant difference between the theoretical formation of plans and the experimental results of their genesis.
In other words, rarely did they follow their blueprints.
There was the loss of Fëanáro, but Melkor worried little. Still that spirit sat in the Halls of the Waiting. The Halls which would eventually he his to do with as he pleased. There would be nowhere within this physical realm that his spirit of fire could hide from his wrath and his desire.
It was a setback. But a minor one.
In the end, he would still succeed or be utterly destroyed trying.
But there were the perks. The little pleasant surprises. To this, Melkor would admit. They happened not often, but when they did he did not squander them, though they had not been calculated elements of his ultimate scheme.
It was, perhaps, for that reason that he did not utterly destroy the fragile mortal frame of the elf who had just dared to spit upon his face.
Instead, he held that body firmly in place with his broad hands capturing slender wrists and braced about a breakable throat. Examined from head to toe the sleek lines and angles honed through battle and training to near-perfection. Rarely had he beheld a creation so fine as this one, with a handsome face and luscious drapes of hair as molten gold spilling over alabaster stone.
And yet it was the eyes that captured his interest.
It was their light.
Defiance and hatred. Fear and bravery. Cunning and the iron will so rarely seen amongst these weak-willed and delicate beings.
Desire unfurled as heat in his belly.
No, this elf was not Fëanáro's overpowering flame, so brilliant it shone as a star all its own. No, this elf was not Varda, whose raiment barely concealed her core of fire burning white-hot.
But this sort of brilliance was no less enticing.
Perhaps that was why he released the slave rather than crushing him utterly, sent him away with the Lieutenant to be interrogated. But not tortured. Not raped. Not ruined.
Not broken.
For that privilege belonged only to Melkor. If that core were to be melted down and reforged into a new image, it would be by his hands that the sculpture would be crafted. Into his creation of lust and wildness and perfection, worshipful eyes and sinful lips and breathy words.
By his feet as a pet this newest chip of the Flame Imperishable would sit. Collared like a dog.
And just as obedient.
---
And even from the depths of the Void, Melkor sat in the endless blackness and laughed himself sick.
For they--his brethren and their simpering followers--were fools to believe him gone and defeated. They were fools to fancy themselves safeguarded from his wrath, protected from his return and guarded from his influence.
Free of his regard.
For still he watched them. His queen and his lover and his slave. Desired them with every ounce of his being, knew that when they all knelt at his side in supplication he would be complete. Would have collected as much of that light as he could embrace and would wield it to his heart's content until all about him the earth and the sky and the sea bent to his will.
Would hold his power over all the world and have them weep as he punished them for their sins. Would have them scream and writhe as he invaded their minds and rewired their reality.
Would have them call him "Master" as they fell, one-by-one, to his cause.
And then, when he shone with the Flame Imperishable and all living souls within the realm of Eä called him Lord of All Things, he would be his Father's equal.
Nay. He would be greater even than Ilúvatar Almighty.
And only then would he be content. Only then would all his desires be fulfilled.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: (all one-sided) Morgoth x Varda, Morgoth x Fëanor, Morgoth x Angrod
Characters: Morgoth, Manwë, Varda, Fëanor, Angrod (mentions Eru prominently as well as Sauron)
Warning: non-canon compliant, just about ever ugly thing you can think of, non-con fantasies, slash, sexual slavery, slavery, world domination, torture, manipulation, mind-fucking, heavy on the sexuality, blatant references to sex and lust, revenge plot
Song: Dance with Asmodeus
Words: 2,268
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
desire (verb): to long or hope for: exhibit or feel desire for; to express a wish for: request
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/desire
The primordial desire.
Though he had never seen it with his bare eyes, it had always been his ultimate temptation. The one thing that he wanted above all else and the one thing that was wholly and completely beyond his reach.
The Flame Imperishable.
Of its glory he knew. Created by the hand of Ilúvatar. All the brilliance that would ever light the Void.
Was it any wonder that even a droplet of that light--that illusive creation beyond all imagining--drew him helplessly toward its glow as a tethered beast? It held him as a willing captive as he was dragged toward its breathtaking cage. Toward its inexplicable magic and incomprehensible perfection. Toward the source of his curiosity and amazement and wonder.
Toward the center of the universe. Toward the ability to create.
Was it any wonder that he tried to take it for his own?
And no matter how many times he failed to reach, he would keep trying and trying and trying. It was the nature of the greatest of the Ainur, the firstborn son.
Melkor did not give up or give in, not in the face of fear or adversity. Perhaps he might fall, yet he would persevere beyond any who came after, getting back up again and again against the odds. No matter how many years he remained imprisoned. No matter how much he might need to lie. No matter how many poor souls he might need to manipulate.
No matter what he might need to sacrifice.
In the end, he would have what he desired. Even if he needed to wait for all the ages of the world to hold it within the palm of his hand.
He would wait.
---
His foolish brother released him from his confinement much sooner than the end of time.
How naive his dear brothers and sisters were--now and always would they stay. That Manwë believed him a changed man after a long imprisonment of brooding at the same four gray walls for thousands of years, languishing and planning and plotting... Melkor found such baseless and disgusting faith to be rather hilarious. Truly laugh-worthy.
"I believe in the good of your heart."
And I believe in the foolishness of your compassion.
Of course, he had smiled and nodded. Expressed his gratitude in a flurry of words expunging upon the virtuous nature of his brother's pity and trust. All the while thinking of the day this man would kneel, bound and humiliated, at his feet--a slave waiting upon his god like a good little pet, helpless and utterly subdued. All the while pondering the possibility of making his brother's wife his own--holding her upon his lap, running his hands over her bared starlit flesh until there was no doubt to whom she belonged.
As Manwë watched, he would take Varda there upon his throne.
Possess her light. The closest jewel he had yet seen to the Flame Imperishable. It seemed to shine through her face, as though its cold fire were perched upon the other side of a tinted sheet of glass, her transparent form but a cloak to disguise its heat and beauty.
He desired her as much as he feared her and hated her for possessing that while he wanted most. And he would have her and her light.
All in good time, she would be his.
But for now he accepted his punishment. Penitence through servitude to the community of elves writhing through the cities below. He would help them create wonders, teach them great secrets of the forge and wonders of knowledge they would scarcely comprehend. Treat them as his brothers and his children, as though they were dear to his heart. As though they were more than the cheapest and most expendable of brainless pawns.
He would design himself as their reverent older brother, their regent's flesh and blood, eager to see their society and their power flourish beneath his tutelage like newborn stars in their faraway cradling nebula of influence.
And, when the time came, he would betray them all.
And Melkor did not feel sorry. They were but an obstacle in his path. But a wall to be overcome. And what an easily scaled vertical drop they would be in comparison to his truest foe.
In comparison to Him.
---
It was during this punishment that he first encountered the second source of divine light.
At first he was shocked to find that this gem in the rough, this pleasant and unexpected surprise, was not an ainu. Melkor had not believed, until that moment, that there was any special wonder to be found in these flawed creations of his Father and Enemy. The Eldalië were as beautiful as any pearl or stone, as graceful as any archway carved of marble, their voices as soft and lyrical as those of the Ainur singing in the Timeless Halls.
But they were not perfect.
Flawed, they fought. They disagreed. They quarreled.
They hated. That insidious, addictive blackness ate away at their purity and innocence. Made them malleable and vulnerable.
Gave him a means with which to touch their cores and turn their thoughts to his purposes.
But this creature was the greatest--and most vulnerable--of them all.
Despite his brilliance. Looking into the eyes of Fëanáro Curufinwë was as looking into the eyes of the Father himself at times. And yet in that shard of the Flame Imperishable there was lacking the innate benevolence and love and condescension that so drove Melkor to distraction. In their place smoldered the sadistic glee, the powerful heat of ambition, the reckless will to sacrifice for a goal.
The creativity. The ingenuity. The unyielding need to bring forth newness--to create and mold and shape--that always had brought the greatest of the Ainur to his knees in envy and hate and entrancement.
Fëanáro was beautiful. And he already rested within the palm of Melkor's hands.
All it took was a few patronizing words and naked glances of lust and jealousy. The hate had been born so readily within the heart of his newest foe and obsession.
The hate... and the mistrust...
But not the mistrust of Melkor. The mere thought of it brought a smile to the lips of the Dark Lord.
No, it was a more poisonous mistrust, crouched in waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The perfect moment to kill.
The perfect moment to entrap this prince in his web of deceit. A web of which the elf would never escape.
---
And he had never regretted that decision, impulsive though it might have been, to antagonize the Crown Prince of the Noldor rather than befriend him. To take the path that, at first, seemed counter-intuitive and wasteful in the face of the possibility of cultivating bonds of "friendship".
But part of him recognized within this creature that which was within his own breast. No bonds of trust would Fëanáro ever forge, not truly.
But bonds of hate...
No, Melkor did not regret.
Most especially not after the revelation of the Silmarilli.
As glorious as their master. Outshining all but the Trees and the stars and the fragments of the Flame Imperishable itself. They were as were Fëanáro's eyes, and yet they were of a different make. Without the ambition and the cunning and the veins of darkness. They were of the purest light, untainted and untouched, droplets of that divine fire rained down from the heavens and captured within facets of adamant.
Melkor desired them immediately and desperately. As much as he had ever desired their master.
And that was when the game truly began.
The manipulation. The whispers. The rumors.
And never did his eyes leave that which he coveted. The image of that Crown Prince with his spirit of fire standing at the center of the room, three glowing jewels upon his brow. A prideful stallion waiting to be broken beneath the heaviness of his hands and the heat of his caresses.
The fantasy unfurled all too easily. Those stones would be perched upon his own brow, and wherever he went there would be that light raining down upon the world. Finally, he would possess pieces of that which the Father had always denied him even in the beginning. In defiance, he would look up at the sky and laugh in glee.
You cannot stop me. Not now. Not ever.
Nothing short of utter destruction could halt his forward momentum.
He would be the ruler of this realm, equal to Ilúvatar in all ways. A king. A god. And these pathetic creatures--the Valar and the Maiar and the Eldalië and the Men and all other creatures living upon these lands--they would prostrate themselves at his feet and lick his toes, begging for his favors and suffering at the whims of his wrath for their defiance.
And in their midst he could see them, those two that held his desire so easily and unwillingly.
Varda upon his right, her naked body open and her white-hot eyes glazed in lust as she panted and glowed, the nexus of the stars. Fëanáro upon his left, draped over his throne, so eager for his affections, all a contradiction of darkness and light.
He would have them both. He would have them all.
And he would be the King of Eä.
All he need do was carry out his plan. With the bait of the Silmarilli upon his crown and the door to his fortress hanging wide open in invitation, he would sit back and watch. And wait.
---
There was, however, a significant difference between the theoretical formation of plans and the experimental results of their genesis.
In other words, rarely did they follow their blueprints.
There was the loss of Fëanáro, but Melkor worried little. Still that spirit sat in the Halls of the Waiting. The Halls which would eventually he his to do with as he pleased. There would be nowhere within this physical realm that his spirit of fire could hide from his wrath and his desire.
It was a setback. But a minor one.
In the end, he would still succeed or be utterly destroyed trying.
But there were the perks. The little pleasant surprises. To this, Melkor would admit. They happened not often, but when they did he did not squander them, though they had not been calculated elements of his ultimate scheme.
It was, perhaps, for that reason that he did not utterly destroy the fragile mortal frame of the elf who had just dared to spit upon his face.
Instead, he held that body firmly in place with his broad hands capturing slender wrists and braced about a breakable throat. Examined from head to toe the sleek lines and angles honed through battle and training to near-perfection. Rarely had he beheld a creation so fine as this one, with a handsome face and luscious drapes of hair as molten gold spilling over alabaster stone.
And yet it was the eyes that captured his interest.
It was their light.
Defiance and hatred. Fear and bravery. Cunning and the iron will so rarely seen amongst these weak-willed and delicate beings.
Desire unfurled as heat in his belly.
No, this elf was not Fëanáro's overpowering flame, so brilliant it shone as a star all its own. No, this elf was not Varda, whose raiment barely concealed her core of fire burning white-hot.
But this sort of brilliance was no less enticing.
Perhaps that was why he released the slave rather than crushing him utterly, sent him away with the Lieutenant to be interrogated. But not tortured. Not raped. Not ruined.
Not broken.
For that privilege belonged only to Melkor. If that core were to be melted down and reforged into a new image, it would be by his hands that the sculpture would be crafted. Into his creation of lust and wildness and perfection, worshipful eyes and sinful lips and breathy words.
By his feet as a pet this newest chip of the Flame Imperishable would sit. Collared like a dog.
And just as obedient.
---
And even from the depths of the Void, Melkor sat in the endless blackness and laughed himself sick.
For they--his brethren and their simpering followers--were fools to believe him gone and defeated. They were fools to fancy themselves safeguarded from his wrath, protected from his return and guarded from his influence.
Free of his regard.
For still he watched them. His queen and his lover and his slave. Desired them with every ounce of his being, knew that when they all knelt at his side in supplication he would be complete. Would have collected as much of that light as he could embrace and would wield it to his heart's content until all about him the earth and the sky and the sea bent to his will.
Would hold his power over all the world and have them weep as he punished them for their sins. Would have them scream and writhe as he invaded their minds and rewired their reality.
Would have them call him "Master" as they fell, one-by-one, to his cause.
And then, when he shone with the Flame Imperishable and all living souls within the realm of Eä called him Lord of All Things, he would be his Father's equal.
Nay. He would be greater even than Ilúvatar Almighty.
And only then would he be content. Only then would all his desires be fulfilled.
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