#caution tape for '4004 words' instead of 100

[perlen-gold]

Come

It's my first time participating in @fall-for-tolkien's Scribbles & Drabbles I'm very happy (though slightly embarrassed on behalf of the word count) to have finished this for angbaddies lovely piece of art! Thank you very much for committing it @saintstars I was ever so happy to find a still unclaimed angbang piece!

Please, guys, check it out!!!

Am I utterly unfit to participate in anything with a deadline or word count restriction? Absolutely. Will I get better at this? Absolutely no. I'm afraid I'm too old for a fundamental change in my personality now.

Please, if you're not into angbang or reading my long stuff, consider checking out the other artist's and writer's lovely works related to this great event, I swear most of them are much shorter and less inordinate than this (I think).

Enough talk, if you're still here you had better run now!

“Come.”

They call me Great Death, the Constrainer. Black Foe of the World, Master of Lies. They say I am merciless and proud, atrocious, barbarous, brutal and ruthless, abominable and terrible to behold, wicked and vicious.

They are not wrong.

 “Come,” I whisper, my voice a phantom of its earth-cracking thunder tracing across his heated stone-skin.

I imagine him adorned lightly. Onyx-black, ink-soft lace balming his skin. A hue of jewelry, the rings he so likes, fragrant with flawless gold.

Undone, the scarlet-crimsoned whisper of his hair, embellishing the tickling bed sheets about him, breathing with a faint warm glow, loose, unbound, free.

Instead, iron and steel.

Rather, all I feel it is the blunt taste of metal humming beneath my fingertips. Winter-gray and silver-cool.

Never have I hissed at the melody of cutting cold as he, freezing snow and whirling ice. Now, as I envision him in soft-light fiber and warmth-glowing fabric, I nearly do.

Instead, I touch upon the spiral shell of Mairon’s armor, inch by inch.

Enough work.

I almost say it.

I feel Mairon tense the moment the words soar upon my tongue. I think his bruises, sprains and scars, so carefully withheld beneath his armor, coil.

My own injuries are throbbing as the mountain’s heart pulsates.

On the tip of my tongue I finger two different syllables, then. I taste them, long and probing. They are not familiar between my lips.

Instead, I murmur, “Come.”

Then try, taste, whisper.

“Please.”

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