Distant Sounds of Grief and Pain

[morgoth]

CHARACTERS: Morgoth, Elrond, Thranduil, Galadriel, Nuada
LOCATION: Oxygen Gardens
WARNINGS: .... TBA!
SUMMARY: Morgoth and Elrond approach the private conference of Galadriel, Thranduil, and Nuada.
NOTES: To keep the thread rolling at a good pace, currently closed.


They arrive in the oxygen gardens in good time; for Melkor spends the great majority of his time trekking the halls, and has made himself familiar with the cleverer routes from place to place. His long, purposefully ground-eating stride forces Elrond to hurry to keep up, or be left behind... even despite his limp, which he makes no effort to disguise.

The chain rattles only very faintly as he walks; it is heavy enough not to move much where he has slung it over his shoulder. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty, as he heads immediately towards the area given over to Thranduil's court-- led there by cast-out tendrils of his own power, using the beacon of familiar spirits as his guide.

He unfurls his own presence as they approach; letting it form an invisible maelstrom about him. Like a pall of smoke engulfing stars, all the light seemed strange and dim around him. Choked out. At first glance, he looked neat and clean in his pressed jumpsuit, hair short and trimmed- a reflection of their modern environs, as if either they had adopted him, or he them...

But he prowls, like a beast, engages all his senses forward. Like a lion surging toward a ready kill, or a shark to the scent of blood. His black eyes reflected nothing but eager hunger.

He announces himself before any of the others can speak. "Ah! The dog has made it safely back to lick his master's hand, I see." His teeth flash whitely when he speaks, and are startlingly sharp. His eyes go from Nuada to Galadriel- and he marks her overlong- before turning to Thranduil.

"Your hound outmatches you," he informs, nose wrinkling in obvious disappointment and distaste.

Comments

[summerlord]

By the time they reach the gardens, Elrond's impassivity has given way to barely contained anxiety (and fear and rage, for that matter.) Morgoth's presence is increasingly oppressive and there is very little that Elrond can do to combat it. He's holding his sword by the sheath, hand white-knuckled and trembling.

There's a bruise forming on the side of his face; his jaw is clenched and his eyes narrowed. There's very little he can do, if he wants to survive long enough to be of some use.

He looks to Galadriel once, gaze somehow both hard and apologetic, then returns his gaze to Morgoth.

[elvenking]

What do you say when the ultimate power in the world, which is also the world's ultimate evil, speaks to you?

Thranduil remembers the days of Morgoth. He remembers them as a civilian, one of countless faces, a sea of refugees huddled on the Isle of Balar while dragons flew overhead. He had been powerless, waiting for the end of the world, not a soldier, not a captain, not a prince. Earendil had been all three, had rallied the forces of Aman to war and led them in battle and slain Ancalagon. And here is Earendil's son before them, mute and beaten, of the remaining elves in Middle-earth one of the mightiest, second only to Galadriel. In Elrond's veins is the blood of Thingol, mightiest of the Eldar save Fëanor only, and of Melian the Maia, and Lúthien who bewitched Morgoth to sleep. As kin he can claim Fingolfin who gave Morgoth his limp. Lady Galadriel is mightier still, with the light of the Trees of Valinor in her eyes and in her hair, and the power of the Vanyar of Aman is in her.

And Morgoth has chosen him to speak to.

This is going to summon Eric, and he knows it. He has to stay calm and dull the fear, or he will put another being in danger. He remembers the stories of this creature, though he never saw him in person before. He remembers that Fëanor slammed his doors in his face once, and the consequences of his defiance and hatred rang on for centuries. But to lie down and surrender and survive under Morgoth's rule would be worst of all.

"You have not tested me."

He's not going to ask how he found his voice. It comes when he needs it.

"Not in this place, where might is blunted and power is weak and only the mind remains intact. You had best be on your way. I will forgive your trespass if you cause no further harm to the passengers aboard this ship."

This part of negotiation is a bit like when a cat arches its back and its hair stands on end. Of course Morgoth will cause further harm, and of course Thranduil will not forgive his last hurts. None of that is the point. He has to make an impression. He has to place himself as the one with the power to forgive or dispense justice.

[inafadingcrown]

The Darkness that accompanies Morgoth is old and more familiar to Galadriel than she'd like it to be. It's a terror from her past- something that makes her feel quite small and not at all the power that she has since grown to be. But it angers her too and she draws strength and defiance from that anger.

She is not simply Artanis, daughter of Arafinwë (though there is strength in that too; Elrond is not the only one among them who can claim Fingolfin as kin). She is Galadriel, the Lady of Light. She was a pupil of Melian. She is a force to be reckoned with and she will look it, even if it is not she who is being addressed. So she stands straighter under his gaze, drawing herself up to her full height, meeting his Darkness with her Light.

For Elrond, she spares a quick glance of both concern and understanding and, though she says nothing, she knows he will understand. It's alright; she would have done the same.

[disfavour]

Nuada is in the unique situation of not giving a damn for Morgoth's reputation, not beyond taking immense issue with the fact the Beast has decided to entertain a resurgence of his own habits aboard this ship, against his Elven cousins. Thranduil's tone is brave and Galadriel is an immovable force, but Nuada is not a diplomat at heart. A soldier, yes.

Steel sings sharply across the last of Thranduil's words as if automatically taking them as an order. Nuada's curved blade is gripped in his left hand while the silver lance, his namesake, is deftly snatched and elongated with a hiss to form a barrier between Morgoth and those at the prince's back. Elrond is not forsaken. A handful of scenarios run through Nuada's head as to how to distract Morgoth, if necessary, and give the lord time to get away from his side. Everything hinges on negotiations that Nuada would rather sign in blood and anger, his hatred a burning coal in bright golden eyes.

Weapons out, he does nothing more but stand ready, frozen to attention.

[morgoth]

The movement, the hiss of bared blades, does nothing to distract his sudden assessment of Thranduil. He has already bested the blade and its bearer; and the others in his slim party are familiar enemies that hold no fear for him.

"Are you eager to be tested?" He purrs lowly to Thranduil, voice gone all to velvet softness, eyes alight with challenge. His power is roiling now, eddying in the air about him so thickly it might be only moments away from visibly disturbing the air. He opens his hand between them... and curls the fingers into his palm. Inviting.

It is an open invitation he leaves in the air; Thranduil is a sapling among established oaks, choked for light under their dense canopy and sheltering presence of his companions. He is the least of the company he keeps. And Melkor looks instead to the shining light of Galadriel near his side, gaze drawn as she stiffens and straightens. It is a rapt attention, eyes slightly wider, nostrils flaring. He looks as if he wants nothing more but to devour her, in a mess of light and flesh and bone and blood.

"Your forgiveness, like your presumed power, is nothing to me." he says to Thranduil, watching her still. Only slowly does his attention return to the king. The heaviness of it upon him is stifling, and Melkor steps forward, looming somehow larger-than-life. His power crackles, as if his very steps might strike sparks. "I bid you now to recall with whom, and with what you speak."

"To recall how much of the world you walked upon, small as an insect within its vastness, was fashioned by my will. To recall how long I drank the blood of your kin, when first they woke to the endless night. If I willed your dog--" Here he gestures with one hand to Nuada, "To be dead, I would have gutted him rather than let him hang upon his own weapon. If I had willed your servant," and with the other hand he indicated Elrond, "To be dead, I would still be devouring his flesh where I found him. Even the Lady has walked the halls unmolested, though her power is a beacon to me, a light that has endured long, and hate flows as black and vast as an ocean between us." His eyes gleamed with that perverse hunger again. "And our paths have come very close in the dark."

"You rallied many, to hunt me not long ago; to spare you more searching, I have come to you." He bares his teeth like a challenged beast. "Charging you to do the work you sent others to attempt. Or, if peace is what you prefer- to issue you warning." But the wildness that has been a stamp upon him so far, like a window into the nature of chaos, dims. Ebbs away like a receding tide, leaving something old and grim in its wake, bare as old bones left upon the shore.

"That any violence you or acquaintance of yours visits upon me or mine here shall be returned tenfold, to discourage it; until no tale of sorrow or ruin here will exist tantamount to that, if it is a path you undertake for yourselves." He is in deadly earnest; and his gaze breaks from that of the king to look instead upon the others gathered, each in turn.

"Though once I hunted you and your kind in great hate, and malice... this is not Arda."

There is an overlong moment in the pause after that, a sense of breathlessness; as if the words have pained him unexpectedly to say. But it is only half a second, easily missed, and he breezes on with quickly regained evenness, dark eyes glittering with feral cunning.

"Entertaining the old hate, the old mode of conduct, will serve none of us here. Leave me in peace and I shall warrant you the same. We have an enemy in common that deserves far more of my attention, and I would rather not be distracted in my work against it."

[summerlord]

Elrond watches it all closely, willing the anger that's taken hold of him to settle so that he can do what he does best: watch. Learn. Keep learning, because, as of now, he's found out something quite useful about Morgoth and it might serve to keep them alive long enough to establish some sort of plan of action. Nuada, while his reaction is certainly understandable, might give Morgoth exactly what he wants.

Then Elrond nearly does just that as soon as Morgoth refers to him as Thranduil's servant. For a moment, white-hot rage flashes through him and there is nothing more he'd like to do than unsheathe his own blade. (A moment, though, and a moment only, before he sets his jaw and returns to himself.) He is no meek servant... but it is probably best that Morgoth keep those delusions well and whole for now.

He takes a breath and turns his attention to Thranduil. He dares not speak -- either in another's mind or aloud -- but he does make a short, quiet gesture: fingers spread, palm out and downward.

Do not posture. Play his game. Retreat for now.

[elvenking]

That Morgoth underestimates Elrond is good. He catches the lord's gesture with the corner of his eye, though he does not turn his eyes to him. Very well. If Morgoth will not be too afraid to act, then let him underestimate his other opponents as well.

"You speak words of wisdom. This is not Arda. Your pardon, my lord, if it seemed to you that I sought a war between us. It is the last thing I want.

"Very well. If you enter the gardens unbidden or attack another passenger unprovoked, you may consider our truce dissolved. Otherwise you will be left alone and undisturbed."

Let Morgoth think him a weak king. Whatever illusions his enemy embraces he will turn to his advantage.

[inafadingcrown]

Galadriel understands what is going on here, of course, and she knows that it is their safest bet at the moment. It still sets her teeth on edge.

Some part of her still wants to speak words of defiance, to draw her own blade and show him just what she thinks of his insults and his threats. Were she younger, she might have done just that, but the years have made her wiser, more cautious. She swallows her pride and remains silent.

But her eyes still burn with a cold and ancient hate.

[disfavour]

Any violence, he thinks, ought to be swift and to the mark.

Eyes narrowing when referred to as Thranduil's dog, Nuada remains still as stone and focused on Morgoth.

There will be no truce. None that you uphold.

Even assuming the creature is capable of keeping his word without somehow finding a loophole ... to let it wander free and roam the corridors? What of the blood on the floor when they first fought? Was Morgoth innocent of that, too? No, there will be no truce; to be taunted by a horror from the past and to agree to its terms is no better than submitting to its will. For his own reasons, lesser than those held by Galadriel, Elrond and Thranduil, he would have the satisfaction of carving Morgoth's head from his shoulders.

It is only his pledge to serve the Elvenking that holds Nuada in place, bristling as he honours it.

[morgoth]

Morgoth waved a hand, as if to dissipate Thranduil's words like smoke.

"'Words of wisdom'? 'My lord'?" He wrinkled his nose, exhaling a deriding 'hah'! "Spare me this false face of congeniality. And you will bid nothing of me; I will come to the gardens, though only for necessity's sake, and only to the first level. I will provide you forewarning as a courtesy, and submit to being kept under guard for such errands."

He is turning on his heel, though, already dismissing those about him, pulling his communicator out of his pocket, depressing the button to halt the recording. "How does it feel, Thranduil, to be the first king in some thousands of years, to make treaty with Morgoth?" He says, as he glides smoothly away. "The last who tried was Maedhros, if I recall correctly. He had been very handsome, too."

He gives the communicator a little tilt, so they may see it better. "I will post the record of this, so that your allies are aware of our bargain."

[summerlord]

Despite Morgoth's cutting words, it seems as if Elrond's hope that this could end without further violence could be realized. He still tense, rigid, and hovering on the edge of an abyss of anger and fear -- and he might be for a little while yet -- but this first confrontation might not end in death.

It's a far sight better than what he was afraid might have come to pass in the hallway not long ago.

His hand -- the one not white-knuckling his own scabbard -- twitches at the casual mention of Maedhros. Thranduil will not take kindly to that comparison and Elrond does not take kindly to the slight against one he loves like family.

He steps to the side as Morgoth turns, leaving him a clear path back the way he came. Let their allies know of this meeting. Nothing needs hidden.

[elvenking]

"This is not a truce," Thranduil whispers the moment Morgoth is gone. "There is no truce he will keep, and we will keep no truce unless he keeps it. Whether we wait for him to make the first move or no, we must prepare for war. Elrond--are you hurt?"

[inafadingcrown]

Galadriel wastes no time; as soon as Morgoth leaves, she moves to Elrond's side, looking him over with the eyes of a healer.

"I nearly struck the first blow myself." She glances back at Thranduil and Nuada. "He has declared war already, with his mockery and with his threats, whatever else he may say. A beacon, he calls me..."

She was rattled by it, as much as she hates to admit it. As far as she was concerned, none of them were safe until he was dead.

[disfavour]

A glance is spared toward Elrond, who looks about as well as any of them feel. Galadriel, especially, appears more than unsettled by the encounter.

"Would you have me follow him?" asks Nuada, mostly side-long to Thranduil.

[summerlord]

Elrond cannot seem to relax his grip on the sword yet; the lines of his body are still tense. He glances at Thranduil. "This is no truce, but we are unprepared." His encounter in the hallway is enough proof of that. His gaze is drawn in the direction Morgoth had gone, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. For all that there are more stories than can be counted about Morgoth, they know very little about his actual personality -- beyond his being filled with hatred and malice. These last few minutes might give them some much-needed insight.

He turns his attention to Galadriel, knowing full well that she was rattled -- as much as or more so than he. "It would have been the second blow," he admits. (But he does not admit that he tried once or twice and was handily pinned.) "I am all right," he tells her, voice still hard. Not unhurt -- his neck is aching and his jaw is stiffening -- but standing. It's good enough and more than he expected.

[elvenking]

"No," Thranduil says to Nuada. "If he is a passenger here, then we will see him often enough at jumps." He's wondering about Kili now, and if that sleep spell on his pod is going to be enough. At least Legolas isn't trapped and helpless in one this time. "It is our move now. We won the Last Alliance because we had this very move we are granted now--time to prepare and gather our allies. That is what we must do now so that when he makes his misstep, we may strike."

He reaches for his sword to strap it around his waist. "I must give Tyke this news."

[inafadingcrown]

With Elrond's assurance, Galadriel takes a step back and focuses on composing herself. Now that the fear was slowly ebbing away, she was left with her wounded pride- pride and anger and no way to really vent them.

"And so it begins." There's a heaviness to her words, a sort of ominous finality in her tone.