- VALAR: utumno
- MELKOR: utumYES
Aahhh thank you so much! *blushes fiercely* I’m just glad you like my writing! And speaking of which, I hope you enjoy what came of your prompt! I’m not sure it was entirely what you were going for, but…This was super fun to write.
They would never know where Sauron found the spirit. They would never know what possessed him to keep the thing bound to his own soul, so that, so long as he lived, the thing would remain eternally fused with his very being. They would never know why a lord of werewolves would ever desire to bind his soul hers, for of old the two had been mortal enemies, though they served the same god.
The truth remained, however, that he had. And the truth remained that, when his physical body was destroyed upon the slopes of Orodruin and his soul forsook its corpse, Sauron’s soul purged itself.
And so it was that, as Sauron fell and his spirit fled, another spirit was released as well – a spirit of vengeance and of blood that now had true cause for wrath and hatred. Bound for so long as a slave to another the twisted Maia arose in wrath and glorious fury, dark as a night without stars, furious as a raging wildfire, but as silent as the eye of a hurricane.
Three there were beneath her – a Man, an Elf, and something not quite either one. The Man the Maia immediately disregarded, for Men, even in the glory of their youth, were weak and fragile – their bodies could not contain the fullness of a foreign spirit without tearing. The Elf the Maia considered for a long moment. He was old – older than the sun and the moon, and although he had never seen the Blessed Light, he was strong as the roots of the mountain, as wise as the depths of the sea. Yes, the Maia considered the Elf for a long moment, and she very nearly made her choice then and there.
But then the twining song of the third one’s soul – he who was neither Elf nor Man, but something in between – reached the Maia, and the Maia took pause, and regarded the not-Elf but not-Man. There was something in the third one’s blood – in the inaudible song his blood sang – that hearkened to the Maia and drew her gaze, reminding her of something…something…something long gone and longer forgotten.
And then she knew. She knew, with a blinding rush of vengeful joy and seething hatred, who it was that stood beneath her. And she knew, in the fullness of her triumph, that her time for revenge – and for power – had come.
Cousin, she whispered, and descended to twine about her Chosen’s shoulders, resting lightly along his back, atop his head, around his chest like a cloying, shrouding cloak. Cousin, dearest, it has been long since I felt a song as yours.
And there, for an instant, the grandchild of Lúthien stiffened, turning, sensing the presence of the spirit touching his own. For an instant, he glimpsed what it was that clung to his shoulders…
But it was already far too late.
With a brush against Elrond’s lips, as if leaving a feather-light kiss, Thuringwethil, lady of Vampires, slid into Elrond’s body and bound herself to his soul with chains of iron hate.
He lies there, struggling for breath, with Aeglos lying dead in his hand. He can feel the bones protruding through the mithril shirt, dripping and white, from the force of the last blow. Gasping…but he isn’t getting anything in. "So this is what death feels like," he thinks. "Interesting. I thought it would hurt more."
And then he feels the thundering shake of the pulverized shale beneath his broken back, the tremors arcing up and down his shattered spine. And he hears laughter as a massive shadow engulfs him, towering over him and bearing down upon him with its crushing weight. Laughter, and as he forces his eyes up, up, up, in one final act of defiance, he sees a wild, wicked grin filled with mis-matched fangs and eyes that gleam with a sullen flame.
The laughter…and then a scream, wild and terrified.
His hand twitches, fingers trying to curl around Aeglos’s broken shaft. He stutters, struggles, the instinct that races through his blood to protect, to save the one who’s screaming overwhelming aught else. He shouldn’t be screaming. “No, no, no, don’t scream. Don’t scream!!” he tries to shout. But his voice has been stripped away, and his lips will not even move.
He turns his head, fingers twitching, twitching, twitching around the broken shaft of his once-mighty spear. And he sees Elrond trying to drag himself up over the lip of the rock to which he had been thrown, with hands and arms torn, rivulets of blood still trickling from his nose and ears and mouth, drying droplets clinging to the corners of his eyes. And Elrond’s mouth is open, screaming that wild, pained scream, one hand reaching out, as if he can reach him and save him…
And then he sees a flash of light, of fire glinting off blackened blade…
The laughter. The scream.
And then darkness, and blessed, blessed, relief.
“NO, let me go back!” And he’s surging upwards, fighting against the strange pull he feels in his chest, and the even stranger feeling in his arms and legs and fingers. “No, I am not done yet! I am not done! LET ME GO BACK!”
But only silence answers his screams as they echo down darkened halls.
i’m still upset i don’t care if it’s my fault or what