Work Text:
There, in the darkened theater, Sauron replies in kind. In the voice of his metal strings are the voices of all new things, the iron carriages and long black trains. Its strength is overbearing; in Sauron’s hands rises volatile steam and the passenger plane.
Finrod’s drapery glows in the toplight, scattering as his hands dance over his weapon of choice. What else besides a guitar sings with the voice of all elvenkind? Neither maiden nor lord, but the people, bright and rich and verdant in range. Finrod lets the instrument lead, lets steel turn to gold under his fingers as a jewelsmith folds wire about stone, bright and clear and clean. Some part of it speaks like the old steel guitars used to do, like it can talk back in kind, and as Finrod’s time comes to an end, he sees Sauron’s head begin to bow.
Now Sauron is the supplicant before the throne. Finrod’s minor chord hangs heavy in the air as Sauron lays his guitar at Finrod’s feet.
It’s a friendly challenge, or so it will appear on the audience’s screens, but something makes Finrod’s pat on Sauron shoulder feel a bit cold. Perhaps it’s the otherworldly fury to Sauron’s eye, or perhaps it’s the cool edge to Finrod’s tortoiseshell pick that he lets press against the harshness of collarbone.
Funny, isn’t it, how Finrod could’ve sworn they’ve done this before.
Funny, isn’t it, that that’s the kind of warning Finrod has learned to ignore.