They return in swarms from the caves at the peaks of Thangorodrim, their arrival marked by a cacophany of high-pitched sounds that carry for leagues about the mountain.
Mairon finds them fascinating. Melkor does not.
“How great can they be if they cannot even use their eyes?”
Evenly: “They were made to see by hearing.”
Melkor scowls. “They are blind.”
He watches his Master’s retreating back with no small amount of melancholy. Melkor does not see, or hear. He knows only what he wants, what is his.
She knows the movements the way a fish knows the sea (knows how to swim before it can breathe) and drives back another of the manticores that surround them. He pushes her behind him, despite her argument that he’s bleeding and injured and she’s at least got Needle and he should let her handle it.
The gashes on his chest are gone and the song falls liquid from his lips. A raging storm, crashing waves-- a blast of fire that scorches the hall, drives them away, howling and crying.
“..This isn’t working.” He frowns. ”Do we have to learn?”
“..It would not be proper otherwise.”
Later, as they watch the others, Kili scowls.
“I don’t think I like having to be proper. It’s very boring.”
Legolas looks over at him and smiles. “Nor I, Master Dwarf.”
He tugs on Kili’s arm and pulls him away into a spinning whirl, quite unlike the calm and measured steps around them. But he’s laughing now, and Kili’s laughing, and somewhere in the room Thranduil has his head in his hands and is laughing to himself as well.
"Was he pleased?" One of the acolytes asks in a hush. "You're not.." Makes a gesture. Averts his gaze. "I wondered if the sacrifice had pleased him so well."
It'd taken hours before he could walk without limping.
"You know our god," Mairon responds quietly as if sharing a secret, smile on his lips. "He is a flame."
The acolyte understands. He should. AM is like a wildfire, and what pleases the fire is not what they give, but what it takes. The destruction it causes. Whether they try to please him or not.
They met before the move. Back when they were younger, apprentices, Osse a fisherman's boy and Mairon the student of a crafter. They kept in touch still after it, meeting in the marketplace and after classes.
(Orphaned by war and death, sick mothers, and a line of only children. Osse's father is always out on his boat.)
He was an artisan before, plying wires and bending metal into plates and droplets. Gold leaves and jewel-settings, elaborate adornments. Osse ran the fishmonger's stall, young as he was, with a lass he'd lived next to and grew up with. (Uinen, he said she was. Sounded like the sea.) There was no easy wealth, and wearing glamour has done more ill than good in the past, even in a prosperous city as this.
Mairon is only half surprised, then, that Osse does not recognize him at first, bound and dragged through the encampment, no doubt catching only a fleeting glimpse through the flaps of his tent.
He sits now as an aristocratic prisoner sits, cross-legged on furs and turning stones in his hands. He slouches just slightly when Osse is pushed in, waits until the guards exit the tent to reach out and straighten the (former) captain's hair, strands of copper between lightly tanned fingers. Lets a sigh hiss between his teeth when Osse pulls him close, hands curled over the back of his neck, lips hot on his own.
Osse's fingers are dirt-crusted against the gleam of gold in black of Mairon's hair, dangling from his ears, his neck, shifting and jingling with every movement of his head. He preens under the touch like a bird.
"..It doesn't look half bad on you," Osse says with a stilted grin. Mairon can't help but laugh softly, relieved, and kisses him again.
(For every light there is a dark; and for dark, there is some small bit of hope.)
"Let go." Melkor's words are a stuttered, desperately heated groan against his throat, hands gripping at his shoulder and hip with vice-like claws. The scent of blood in the air comes from more than just the torn flesh between Mairon's teeth. "Let go, Mairon."
He does as commanded, spine curling in on itself until the pistoning of Melkor's hips halt and heat blooms within and without, wet and slick in the space between them. It sounds like an earthquake, volcanic and terrible and bone-tremoring (if he had bones; and if he did they would be liquid by now, liquid and malleable and pliable), and his own indescribably muffled cry echoes in more than just his head.
Melkor coaxes Mairon's aching jaw from his neck with reluctant groan, stealing iron-tanged kisses from painted lips. His lieutenant's hands slide down to grip the arms of the black throne for stability.
"..I am not kneeling on this thing again," Mairon says pointedly. Melkor laughs deep in his chest, and tightens the grip of his arms for a whispery moan.
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edgeofglory2013-10-17 10:12 pm
bats.
Mairon finds them fascinating. Melkor does not.
“How great can they be if they cannot even use their eyes?”
Evenly: “They were made to see by hearing.”
Melkor scowls. “They are blind.”
He watches his Master’s retreating back with no small amount of melancholy. Melkor does not see, or hear. He knows only what he wants, what is his.
He does not hear Arda.
(But he will have it all the same.)
arya, sauron. fish.
The gashes on his chest are gone and the song falls liquid from his lips. A raging storm, crashing waves-- a blast of fire that scorches the hall, drives them away, howling and crying.
Since when, Arya asks later.
Since always, he says. Like you.
kili, legolas. dancing.
“No! Like this.”
“..This isn’t working.” He frowns. ”Do we have to learn?”
“..It would not be proper otherwise.”
Later, as they watch the others, Kili scowls.
“I don’t think I like having to be proper. It’s very boring.”
Legolas looks over at him and smiles. “Nor I, Master Dwarf.”
He tugs on Kili’s arm and pulls him away into a spinning whirl, quite unlike the calm and measured steps around them. But he’s laughing now, and Kili’s laughing, and somewhere in the room Thranduil has his head in his hands and is laughing to himself as well.
am, mairon. fire.
It'd taken hours before he could walk without limping.
"You know our god," Mairon responds quietly as if sharing a secret, smile on his lips. "He is a flame."
The acolyte understands. He should. AM is like a wildfire, and what pleases the fire is not what they give, but what it takes. The destruction it causes. Whether they try to please him or not.
It burns inside. It always burns.
osse, mairon. (anything.) glitters.
(Orphaned by war and death, sick mothers, and a line of only children. Osse's father is always out on his boat.)
He was an artisan before, plying wires and bending metal into plates and droplets. Gold leaves and jewel-settings, elaborate adornments. Osse ran the fishmonger's stall, young as he was, with a lass he'd lived next to and grew up with. (Uinen, he said she was. Sounded like the sea.) There was no easy wealth, and wearing glamour has done more ill than good in the past, even in a prosperous city as this.
Mairon is only half surprised, then, that Osse does not recognize him at first, bound and dragged through the encampment, no doubt catching only a fleeting glimpse through the flaps of his tent.
He sits now as an aristocratic prisoner sits, cross-legged on furs and turning stones in his hands. He slouches just slightly when Osse is pushed in, waits until the guards exit the tent to reach out and straighten the (former) captain's hair, strands of copper between lightly tanned fingers. Lets a sigh hiss between his teeth when Osse pulls him close, hands curled over the back of his neck, lips hot on his own.
Osse's fingers are dirt-crusted against the gleam of gold in black of Mairon's hair, dangling from his ears, his neck, shifting and jingling with every movement of his head. He preens under the touch like a bird.
"..It doesn't look half bad on you," Osse says with a stilted grin. Mairon can't help but laugh softly, relieved, and kisses him again.
(For every light there is a dark; and for dark, there is some small bit of hope.)
melkor, mairon. letting go. nsfw.
He does as commanded, spine curling in on itself until the pistoning of Melkor's hips halt and heat blooms within and without, wet and slick in the space between them. It sounds like an earthquake, volcanic and terrible and bone-tremoring (if he had bones; and if he did they would be liquid by now, liquid and malleable and pliable), and his own indescribably muffled cry echoes in more than just his head.
Melkor coaxes Mairon's aching jaw from his neck with reluctant groan, stealing iron-tanged kisses from painted lips. His lieutenant's hands slide down to grip the arms of the black throne for stability.
"..I am not kneeling on this thing again," Mairon says pointedly. Melkor laughs deep in his chest, and tightens the grip of his arms for a whispery moan.