He stares at him, uncomprehending, an uncertain smile in place as the lit scrollwork brightens under Melkor's gaze.
"Why, is it not clear? It ..."
The second he focuses his full attention on it, his smile wipes. His touches and closeness to his master are forgotten as something unhinges in a white panic, though Sauron remains very still and very silent, and for all intents and purposes he forgets entirely what is occurring beyond an assault on his very core.
Their wills have gone, I cannot call them. I cannot feel any of them. The Ring is mere metal! This cannot be. It is mine. It is mine!
He grows hotter by the moment, anguish and fury bridling. Snatching himself away from the figure before him, he seethes and ignites in the large outer corridor, hands as claws as his spirit swells and pushes against the constraints put upon it. Madness beckons him back into its breast.
"No! No!" Raging, his voice thickens with the echo of his new position, and there is no longer sweet Mairon whimpering and clawing at his powerful, beloved Vala — a Maia so changed as to live as a Dark Lord compared to Curumo and Olorin's haggard, stunted little forms in the Second Age.
The air blisters with heat that would incinerate any mere immortal, any onlooking Eldar would be ash.
"Ｙｏｕ ｄａｒｅ ｓｕｌｌｙ Ｍｅ! ＹＯＵ ＤＡＲＥ!"
It is no mere tantrum, no lieutenant thrashing in battle. An Eye of flame scalds his form as he tries to return to it, blood dripping down his cheeks; fangs gnash toward the paltry ceiling. If I were myself this castle would be laid waste. The great Eye wreathed in flame flickers hither and thither, locking onto an indistinct direction as his power bristles, boiling against its bound limit to press against the Unseelie monarchs' private Void. The floor around the Lord of Mordor bubbles like living lava, black as pitch, and he throws his whole livid spirit into clawing at Powers that remain out of reach.
Come out.
"Ｉ ＳＥＥ ＹＯＵ."
And then, at the height of his frothing, flaming fury, an invisible weight, thick yet fleeting in an eyeblink, bats him across the corridor. Marble shatters, glass bursts, and Sauron crumples in a heap; bone and blood, flesh and hair.
no subject
"Why, is it not clear? It ..."
The second he focuses his full attention on it, his smile wipes. His touches and closeness to his master are forgotten as something unhinges in a white panic, though Sauron remains very still and very silent, and for all intents and purposes he forgets entirely what is occurring beyond an assault on his very core.
Their wills have gone, I cannot call them. I cannot feel any of them. The Ring is mere metal! This cannot be. It is mine. It is mine!
He grows hotter by the moment, anguish and fury bridling. Snatching himself away from the figure before him, he seethes and ignites in the large outer corridor, hands as claws as his spirit swells and pushes against the constraints put upon it. Madness beckons him back into its breast.
"No! No!" Raging, his voice thickens with the echo of his new position, and there is no longer sweet Mairon whimpering and clawing at his powerful, beloved Vala — a Maia so changed as to live as a Dark Lord compared to Curumo and Olorin's haggard, stunted little forms in the Second Age.
The air blisters with heat that would incinerate any mere immortal, any onlooking Eldar would be ash.
"Ｙｏｕ ｄａｒｅ ｓｕｌｌｙ Ｍｅ! ＹＯＵ ＤＡＲＥ!"
It is no mere tantrum, no lieutenant thrashing in battle. An Eye of flame scalds his form as he tries to return to it, blood dripping down his cheeks; fangs gnash toward the paltry ceiling. If I were myself this castle would be laid waste. The great Eye wreathed in flame flickers hither and thither, locking onto an indistinct direction as his power bristles, boiling against its bound limit to press against the Unseelie monarchs' private Void. The floor around the Lord of Mordor bubbles like living lava, black as pitch, and he throws his whole livid spirit into clawing at Powers that remain out of reach.
Come out.
"Ｉ ＳＥＥ ＹＯＵ."
And then, at the height of his frothing, flaming fury, an invisible weight, thick yet fleeting in an eyeblink, bats him across the corridor. Marble shatters, glass bursts, and Sauron crumples in a heap; bone and blood, flesh and hair.
He does not move in the lingering smoke.