Category: Tolkien-Universe
Rating: M
Couples: -
Warnings: AU, blood, mentions of torture, character death, Loss of bodily autonomy (no Non-con)
Chapter: 2
Copyright: Characters & places © By Tolkien Estate, Plot & OC´s © by me
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A sixth... he had a sixth of his wolves left, and for what?
"What now?" Thuringwethil was sitting cross-legged beside the wolves that were groom the two pups.
"Now... now I fullfill my promise." Did Fingolfin think un-repeatable feats were exclusive to people he liked!? Did he think Yavanna the only Ainur who'd pour her all into a craft she could never replicate!? He could thank some quick thinking on Draugluin's part that at least there were two of each gender that had made it out, so at least they could still breed. He probably could influence following pups enough that inbreeding would be kept to a minimum. He hoped... "Start heading south, the five of you, I will follow."
"Aside from that, anything in particular?" She nursed a cut on her arm, but it would not end her. She was too foul to fall to something as simple as blood-loss to be a threat.
"Find a nice local for a home." His own wound had already slagged closed as he shifted his fana. Fingolfin had not nearly done enough to make the damage permanent for any length of time. "Far south. I want it to take them years to even reach."
"Finarfin." He didn't even care that his mental voice had to hurt right now, casting his thoughts out viciously.
"Mairon." He found the elf had sequestered himself in some hidden room of Tol Sirion. "Mairon, I..."
"You are so lucky that I do not want to answer Morgoth's questions as to why you have the Silmarils in your stomach, otherwise I'd be making good on the threat I made to your brother and dragging you back to Angband faster than one can say 'poor life-choice'." He snarled, watching what was left of his leave the sheltered cove they'd gathered up.
"I..." The Valinorean Noldor-king hesitated briefly. "I am sorry... What will you do then?"
"I am still taking you." He could feel the other flinch at that statement, but he had promised Fingolfin he would. Just because the details could not happen, didn't mean the broad strokes would also not happen. "I refuse to let him think he can just do as he pleases against me. Clearly he has not learned anything from the Helcaraxë."
There came no answer, for a time.
"The Silmarils?" By some extra sense he could make out a hand digging into Finarfin's hip, there were the gems of his eldest sibling were still hidden.
"I will not risk harm by either Oath, have no worry." He bared his teeth. "I will personally deliver them to your darling nephews." He could feel the doubt at that, but they both knew the oath he had sworn had been well-crafted. Better crafted than his mastery over Tol Sirion, certainly. He could feel it being wrenched from him slowly but surely by both Arafinwean brats, at this distance and with the way he had been driven from it.
Well, they could take the isle... he'd just take the golden son of Finu in return. A fair bargain, where they'd certainly gain far more than he. Still, he'd have to act fast if he was to do so without being sensed before he'd even arrive.
He discarded the fana he had just laboriously fixed, flame and wrath shooting back to the island so fast eyes could not mark its' passage. The ósanwe-connection brought him to a high tower, perhaps the highest of the fortress.
"Not going to try and run or hide?" He manifested beside the standing form, which was leaning against one of the narrow windows.
"I think we can safely agree I know the lengths someone will go through for their crafts." Finarfin gestured out the window, to where they could just make out Barad Eithel in the distance. "For a given definition of crafts."
"Closer to children, actually." And he had felt them... felt all twenty of them die, felt the rage of the bitches at their pups' demises, the desperation of the studs... "Open your parent-bond." He could not get Fingolfin in the same way... but he could get the one that brought him here.
Blue eyes briefly met his, and he did not care what the elf saw in them, only cared that he nodded briefly.
He rammed his hand home, burning through fabric and flesh easily. "I hope your son thinks this worth it." The golden-haired descendant of Finu before him did not scream, but he could hear twin-voices being raised over the sizzle of flesh and blood. "This last connection to his father." He snarled it, ramming the body against the wall hard enough to rattle the shelves standing beside them.
"You..." The father of Finrod and Altariel managed to gasp, suddenly realizing it had never been specified how he'd be taken. Killing was also taking, after all.
The burning hand sunk a little deeper, and grew a little hotter.